#corpse husband x reader fluff

[thefanficmonster]

Vy, do you still write for Corpse Husband?? If so could you write about an neighbours to lovers?

Hi dear!

Thank you so much for the request! You know I love a good neighbors to lovers story 😉

Hope you enjoy ❤

Greetings From Next-Door

Corpse Husband x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Swearing?

Genre: Neighbors to Lovers, FLUFF, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: Corpse is probably the first and only person to receive a reverse noise complaint

It hasn't been a good morning for Corpse. It's barely been a morning, if we're being honest.

He woke up after three hours of restless sleep feeling more tired than he had felt before painstakingly drifting off at the crack of dawn. He had fifteen minutes of 'morning' to spare before noon rolled around and he dragged himself to the kitchen, swinging the fridge door open to a massive disappointment. Had the scene been a cartoon, a fly would've strayed its way out of the vacant fridge. Then again, using cartoon logic, Corpse could easily draw food to fill the fridge with.

But this is real life. And in real life food costs money that Corpse is strapped for. Grocery delivery is not a privilege he can rely on any longer, hasn't been for a few months even. So every couple weeks, like clockwork, comes the dreaded day calling for a grocery run. And it always starts the same: a vacant kitchen; an attempt to convince himself he doesn't need food to survive; a grumble from his empty stomach disagreeing with him; and finally - surrender.

That's how Corpse just barely managed to usher himself out the door. His all-black attire - accessorized with a black facemask and beanie over which he's also thrown the hood of his hoodie - makes him unassuming, mysterious and unapproachable all in tandem which is precisely the 'aesthetic' he goes for every time he steps foot outside the comfort and safety of his shoebox apartment.

Good thing his kitchen decided to be barren on such a shitty day - rain is pouring down in sheets, the dark clouds are so thick that time cannot be discerned by simply looking up at the sky - it's been the same shade of dark and depressing grey since 6 AM. And Corpse loves it. He just wishes he could have appreciated it from the warmth of his dry and quiet home instead of experiencing it head-on. Not to mention that he's soaked for the most part due to his aversion to umbrellas.

By the time he makes it home with two bags of groceries hooked in each of his hands he feels like he should be wringed out like a towel. The dark curls that are sticking out from beneath his beanie are damp and stuck to his forehead, the mask on his face is soaked and almost impossible to breathe through to the point where he finally bites the bullet and drags it down to beneath his chin. His shoes have a colony of fish living in each one and his groceries are swimming in their bags. But despite the massive inconvenience, his relief to finally be done with the task isn't dampened (pun semi-intended).

However, he's in for a mild infuriation when he approaches his apartment door, keys in hand, and sees a note stuck to the dark wood, the paper ominously contrasting against it.

For a moment, he believes the worst of it - an eviction notice. Is there a valid reason for him to be getting evicted? Absolutely not. Is the landlord and ass though? Absolutely, and Corpse knows the dude is no stranger to the distaste he harbors for him.

He's just about to completely ignore the note for the time being and push into the apartment in favor of drying off and organizing his groceries but an interesting detail jumps out at him from the white page as he goes to unlock the door.

The note is written in cursive in a glittery purple gel pen. Not really the font or format of an eviction notice or complaint, is it?

Corpse pushes the door open, setting the bags down in the foyer before stepping back out to retrieve the piece of paper and read it with far more curiosity than dread this time.

To his surprise and amusement, the note reads:

~ Dear neighbor, You don't know me and I don't know you. But that's irrelevant. I just know you have an amazing taste in music and whatever it is you're blaring in the middle of the night, I'd like you to play it louder so I can at least Shazam it because holy shit do I love it! Keep up the great DJing, neighbor!

PS: Sorry if the letter caused mild discomfort upon first sight. No complaints here! :) I hope the purple ink translated that ~

The relief that washes over him after the third time re-reading the note feels almost like a physical weight being removed from atop his chest and he can finally get his breathing in order. Which then turns into laughter, wholehearted cackling that has him leaning against the hallway wall, groceries all but momentarily forgotten by his feet.

Later that day, in the evening, he does indeed blast the music he typically listens to as motivation and inspiration for his own discography. Despite the blaring speakers, he still manages to hear the three distinct knocks on the wall connecting him to the next unit over. It brings a genuine smile to his face, knowing exactly what it means.

The roundabout way of their communication brings him great comfort. It makes him feel far less alone, the loneliness punctured by the knowledge that there is someone right next door who he managed to make smile if only even briefly.

Thing is, Corpse doesn't want it to end. He realizes that when he finds himself peeking out into the hallway of his building so he can check the other side of his front door for the potential new letter from his neighbor. The realization only sinks in further when he feels the flood of disappointment engulf him upon the sight of the letter-less door.

So, that seals the deal for him. He decides to take it upon himself to not let it end.

It takes him a long time to locate something to write on that isn't a napkin or a paper towel. Even longer to find a working pen. But once he does, he sits down at his computer desk to write a note of his own.

~ Dear Neighbor, Hope you enjoyed the concert last night. Not my typical style to blast music but how can I say no to the Neighborhood Watch. But hey, I don't mind whatsoever - it's the closest thing to a party I've had in years. Seeing as how we seem to share the same preference for music, here's a link to a curated playlist I've been adding to for almost a decade now. There's plenty of hidden gems in there I'm sure you'll enjoy. Feel free to be the one to blast the tunes this time

Greetings from next-door ~

He can't help but laugh to himself as he writes down the whole URL to his Spotify playlist, but even the ridiculousness of that doesn't seem to deter him from his mission.

The next morning, during a teetering predicament of standing on a stool trying to change the lightbulb in the hallway, Corpse hears a laugh echo out in the hallway right beside the door to his unit.

He hops down and takes a look outside the peephole to see what's going on and sure enough, it's his neighbor, having found the note he'd left taped to their door the night before.

He feels a genuine smile spread across his face, a certain warmth flooding his chest. He can still hardly believe he went out of his way to establish communication with a total stranger - something so out of his comfort zone it might as well be in the stratosphere - but that laugh makes it all so worth it.

And there indeed is a party that night as well, with songs he knows all too well blaring from the other side of the wall, loud enough to shake the building. And man, does he love it.

He'd never thought he'd come to think this one day, but he never wants to not have a party (like this one anyway) again.

[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

[phantasm-ae]

sliiiight part 3 of my cowgirl reader x ghost drabbles RAAAA. Hopee uu like itt

cw: afab cowgirl reader x ghost, sunshine x grumpy, fluff, clumsy reader

HEADCANON: You call mid-op to casually confess to maybe-murder??, barn arson, and.... God knows what. Ghost, ankle-deep in Moldovan mud and murder himself, handles it like any devoted husband would: swears in six languages, sends flowers, and brings home tactical gloves to match next time

PAIRING: Simon Ghost Riley x reader

It all started when a call comes through Ghost's private comms while he was ankle-deep in mud, halfway through a recon sweep in Moldova. Sweaty. Damp. All discomfort and focus. A shelling of mud or sand in his arse making him want to skin fingers raw to check, he's not even sure at this fucking point.

He’d just clocked movement in the treeline -- two hostiles, armed but twitchy -- when he hears the private callsign he gave you recited to him like a slow fuse burning straight to hell.

"Uhh... bravo-0-7... you have a transmission heading your way sir. Traffic from... Whiplash Wendy?"

Ghost freezes. Almost drops the fucking rifle. Mud squelching beneath his boots as his heartbeat ratchets up.

"Send traffic", he breathes out as he adjusts his scope, voice a bit shaky at the possible implications of you reaching him at a time like this. Thoughts immediately scanning through a myriad of scenarios where death, danger, or worse had somehow wandered onto their ranch like a goddamn stray cow with a grudge.

He knew it. He shouldn't have left. You never called mid-op unless something had gone sideways. Or up in flames. Or into a shallow grave.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He knew it. Some fucking wanker from AQ pinned probably pinned where you were and was lookin’ to make a name off of your corpse. You. Mrs. bloody fucking Riley -- wife of Ghost.

The fucking Ghost.

He’d made you a quiet promise the day he married you: no one touches you and lives to tell the tale. No one scares you. No one even tries. And if they do, he’d bury them so deep even God wouldn’t find the pieces.

But fuck fuck fuck here he was, half a world away, neck-deep in muck and militants, while some bastard -- some fucking bastard -- might’ve tested that vow.

His mind spat out suspects like shell casings: Was it that cartel runner with the limp who saw you once at the market and smiled too long? He’d let that go. He shouldn't have. Bleedin' Christ.

Maybe that ex-141 quartermaster, dishonorably discharged, who still sent you fucking letters. Shit.

Or that drifter who came up the trail last summer askin’ for water and “a place to rest.”

And Jesus -- what if it wasn’t personal at all? What if it was random? Some tweaker. Some punk kid with a knife and a death wish who didn’t know the ghost they were waking.

The treeline blurred in his scope. His breath hitched. One slip-up on his end -- one wrong read -- and your voice would be the last thing he ever heard.

The line crackles.

Then your voice comes through, sweet as peaches left too long in the sun. Bright as a brass bell and twice as alarming.

"Hey, sugarplum," you drawl, slow and syrupy like you’re reclining in a rocking chair with a lemonade instead of dropping life-altering news into his ear mid-recon. Ghost exhales slowly. Reeling it all in again like he didn't almost have a mini heart-attack a few seconds back.

Okay. That is not the voice of a woman under duress. That is the voice of a woman who has already done something, and... is already pleased about it.

"Baby”, he says cautiously, “you alright?"

"Course I am," you chirp. "Just wanted to give you a little heads up before the sheriff calls you. Or, uh… the news. Whichever gets to you first."

Huh....

He tightens his grip on the rifle. The target now long forgotten, because what the fuck did you just say?

“News?” he echoes flatly.

“Well, you remember that drifter who was hollerin’ at the goats yesterday? The one I told you gave me the creeps? Well, he came back ‘round and tried to open the barn door with a crowbar. While I was still in it. With Betsy.”

Ghost’s eye twitches.

“Is Betsy alright?” are you alright?!

“She’s fine,” you say. “Stepped on his foot real good, bless her. Anyway, I handled it. He, uh… may not be gettin’ up for a while.”

Silence. Then:

“…How long is a while.”

There’s a pause.

“You ever seen someone pass out and fall face-first into a puddle of hog slop?”

“Bloody fuckin' hell, woman.”

“I didn’t ask him to fall that way!” you argue, affronted. “Anyway, he’s takin’ a nap (coughs) dead — under the tarp behind the coop. I’ll deal with it after lunch. Made peach cobbler.”

Ghost makes a noise halfway between a groan and a plea to God. He feels twenty years older, still stuck in this goddamn Moldovan swamp while his chaotic ray of sunshine wife commits rural crimes like it’s a hobby.

“You buried another man on our property?”

“Technically he ain’t buried yet. He’s just… pre-buried. I still gotta hose off.”

“Sweets....”

“Don’t worry, I used the shovel with the grip tape so it didn’t slip this time.”

Soap’s voice cuts in faintly through the main channel. "Ghost, ye awright? Ye’ve been crouched there like a statue for five bloody minutes, mate. I’ve got eyes on two hostiles headin' yer way.”

He clicks over. “Yeah. Copy. Got distracted by… local wildlife.”

You come back on, casual as a cat in cream.

You sigh, light and dramatic. “ALSO! HIS BUDDIES ALSO CAME! Two fellas. Real rude. One tried to spit near the horses. The horses, Simon! And the other one called me a ‘skank in spurs.’ So naturally -- ”

"Sunshine,” he hissed, ducking low on instinct as a bullet suddenly whizzes through and almost scratches his nose, yet firing right back with a resounding ring. Not letting up until he knows the bloke by his periphery's brains and muscle splatter through the wood, oblivious to death watching from the brush. "This line is not for chitchat. I'm busy baby yeah? If nothin’s on fire or somethin’, we don’t call alright?

“Yeah no, I’m not.” A pause. “They are, though.”

Silence.

Ghost blinked slowly, as if trying to reload his entire brain.

“What.”

“The barn. Accidentally. Just a little. I tried to do a... cremation? The fire’s out now. I think.”

A beat.

“Where.”

"Left of the creek. Past the tree that looks like a donkey. Same spot as that drunk surveyor last winter."

He pinches the bridge of his nose, nearly knocking his headset askew. The other hostile tries to slip behind a log but he shoots him just enough to immobilize the poor lad. Not entirely painless if he chalks up the way the wheezing bastardwas screaming from the top of his lungs as he cradled his skewed leg. He doesn’t care anymore at this point.

“You can’t just call me on secure comms to confess to homicide.”

“Alleged homicide,” you chirp. “And it’s not a confession, it’s a courtesy. ‘Cause I love you.”

“Jesus Christ, birdie.”

Ghost exhales. He’s never loved anyone more. Or been more afraid.

“How deep?”

“Deep enough, lovebug. Ain’t my first rodeo.”

He rubs his temple. “You wear gloves this time?”

A pause. Then: “...Mostly.”

Ghost swears in six languages, then breathes through his nose. “I’m bringing you new gloves.”

“You’re an angel,” you purr. “Oh -- and maybe flowers, too? The daisies by the porch got trampled. And you know how I love our daisies, Si.”

“I wonder how that happened.”

You hum. “Might’ve been the shovel.

“And before you ask,” you add brightly before he could really ask, “I used the good shovel too! The one you gave me. The one you carved with that cute little skull-shaped motif and all the flowers and... so yeah. It gets through bone like butter.”

Ghost exhales like he’s aged fifteen years. He can hear Soap on the main comm trying to figure out if Ghost’s been compromised, but he doesn’t answer. Can’t.

“Love you!”

Ghost sighs long and low. “Love you too. We’ll talk about this. Again.”

“Oh! One more thing.”

“God help me”, he muttered softly under his breath so only he could hear. Stalking the marshy miry ground toward the sobbing man sprawled along the mud. Reaching into his boot for his knife and just stabbing his blade home with a practiced, merciless motion into the hostile's neck. Putting him out of his mercy.

“Could you bring home some of those little pickled onions I like? The fancy ones?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose through the mask again. Bits of reddened muscle and skin tainting the fabric, staining it dark where it presses against his face. “And new gloves?”

“And new gloves. I want them in purple, Si.”

Click.

The line dies. He stares into the forest for a long, long moment. Ghost shoulders his rifle, trudging forward through the muck. Teeth gritting in both irritation and.... ease. At least you were alright. Fucking hell. At least you were bleedin’ alright.

The hostiles have all been dealt with. Neutralized. Clean cut, precise, and poised just as always. Cold and exact. And and and —

You are safe at home. Probably all coddled up and warm. Peaceful and pretty. Yeah you were alright. You were fine. You’re still perfect.

But fuck was he still standing in the mud like a man whose soul just stepped out of his body.

Soap crackles in at that moment.

"Ghost? Ye still alive? Whit the fuck's a Whiplash Wendy?"

Ghost sighs.

"My wife."

“…huh?”

"Shut the fuck up."

He gets home three days later, dirt still under his nails and blood on his boots. The second he steps onto the porch, you're there though. Fuck what a bloody sight you were --so so beautiful and reverent like honeyed light, all barefoot, sun-kissed, and still a little too pleased with yourself. Soft and syrupy glowing hair all braided and mussed in some delicate last-minute hairdo.

In your hands: a glass of sweet tea. In his: a bouquet of daisies and a pack of reinforced tactical gloves. Yes. Fucking Purple.

He hands them to you without a word.

You beam, pluck a daisy, and tuck it behind his ear. Ghost lets you. Always will. Always would. Because he’s completely, devastatingly yours.

You tiptoe, kissing his chin with a soft smile, smack his ass, and whisper: “Next time I bury somebody, you can help dig. Make it a date.”

He smiles, edges of frayed and scarred skin wiring up in genuine glee. Tendered and… at peace, “Always, baby”

drabbles

masterlist

[jinisnuggets]

✧.* 11 𝕭𝖎𝖙𝖊𝖘

PAIRINGS | Vampire! Killer! Sunwoo x Cryptozoologists! Fem! Reader

GENRE | Vampire Au, Angst, Fluff(ish)

WORD COUNT | 2.3k

SYNOPSIS | What happens when multiple series of death happen at the same time, all with different motives and zero connection between the victims. Most people would blame an organization; but your team blames something… a little more otherworldly.

WARNINGS | Mentions of death, unnatural cases, a bit of blood, crime scenes, swear words(ish)

NETWORK | @deoboyznet @starlit-network @k-library

A/N | It took me a while along with a lot of postponing, but this is my submission for @deoboyznet boyz who bite event. It isn't my best work at all, a bit lazy but it will due :D

“Y/n! What do we do with them?”

You stared at the body which laid on the floor, unsure of how to respond to your colleagues.

The police had called your team because this case looked unnaturally gruesome, something that didn't look like the work of a human due to the extent of it. You were put in charge for the moment; though you weren't the main boss.

“Bring them to the lobby for now. It'd be important to bring them in for investigation.” you finally responded, seeing your coworker nod in understanding and run over to those in charge of caring for the corpse.

You sighed, turning around and spotting Chanhee approaching you, clipboard in hand.

Choi Chanhee was one of the newer guys; he was in charge of concluding what monster everyone should be expecting in a certain situation based on any small clues he could find; this was actually his first serious case.

“Whatcha find?” You asked informally, seeing him chuckle as he took a spot right next to you.

“I found a couple things on the body, such as two bite marks on their neck and multiple stains of unidentifiable blood covered fingers on walls. It seems like whoever, or whatever did this knows that they won't be in police systems.”

You stared at his writing, nodding in response.

“Right so-” before you could finish your question he shushed you with an undeniable confidence. You held your laughter, trying to remain professional, but to be completely honest you thought it was adorable.

“Vampires are the most likely cause.” He stated, making you second glance all the gathered clues and nod.

“It'd make sense; the two bite marks and fingerprints seem to add up.” you started, scanning the room for any other missed clues that had yet to be discovered. You glanced back to see him slowly walking forward, you followed him shortly after.

“However, I also found that the fingerprints carried a certain detail that could prove helpful in our investigation. I took some time to study the previous records that we have on various creatures, and found a seemingly repetitive pattern for vampires. All of them have this certain mark on their finger that they receive depending on their vampire age. The older the vampire is, the bigger and more evident the mark will be.”

He approached a stained wall, locating the mark and allowing you to inspect it.

“Judging by this mark; it appears this vampire is quite young, appearing to only age around 15-25 years old.”

You glanced back at him.

“You found all of this just by looking at a fingerprint?”

He chuckled awkwardly, nodding his head in response. How could such an important factor go unnoticed? Was all you could bring yourself to ask, not out loud, but it was still a worthy question.

“Alright then, best go talk to a superior on this new discovery. You better teach us about this age telling mark.” You said with a tease, watching him grin before nodding.

“Y/n!” A voice called from afar. It was Juyeon, who had been jogging towards you while holding a folder.

“What is it?” You asked, seeing him hand over the folder full of files.

“Your husband… Kim Sunwoo is here to pick you up.”

“What!?”

Chanhee and Juyeon looked over at you with a confused expression. You shook your head to snap out of your transe and decided to accept it.

“Not sure why he decided to do so in a time like this but alright.”

Glancing around, you called out and decided to put Jacob in charge. He was the better option between everyone in the crowd.

Waving goodbye and making your way outside; stepping over the ‘crime scene’ tape as you approached your husband.

“What important event is it today that you had to pick me up early?” You asked teasingly, watching him look up from his phone to return that teasing gaze.

“Forgot our anniversary?”

Your expression immediately dropped as you scrambled for your phone, watching him burst out laughing as the screen lit up and showed a different date.

“I'm kidding.”

“You jerk.” You responded with a laugh, placing your phone back inside of your pocket before looking back up at him who was leaning down to plant a small kiss on your forehead.

“Hey now, that’s a bit rude.” he chuckled teasingly, earning a mimic from you as he walked over to the driver side door. You entered the vehicle and felt the car go into drive. You simply stared out the window as he drove off; the small restaurant which had become a crime scene vanished out of sight.

Far too focused into your own thoughts, you spoke without much of a thought.

“Sunwoo… do you believe in monsters? All those creatures we hear and see in movies and novels?” You asked in a low voice that expressed your exhaustion.

He hesitated for a moment, stopping at the next red light and relaxing back on his seat for a moment as he remained silent. He sighed, “There must be something out there.” he muttered, almost to himself as he leaned back up upon the once red light becoming a bright neon green.

“Something you discovered at work?” He questioned, to which you nodded, not moving your gaze from the window and continuously staring at the outside.

It wasn’t supposed to be said, but Sunwoo was your husband and you practically told him everything that was meant to be kept secret from anyone outside of those in the organization.

“A new body was discovered. Police say that the murder must have taken place sometime around the early hours of the morning.” you groaned, watching him glance at you through the rear view mirror and nod.

“So many new cases of late; have you ever thought they all may be connected?” he questioned, watching you glance over back at him and nod knowingly.

“We have, but it seems that the culprits are all different people and none of the victims seem to be closely related. I suppose the motives should be different as well.”

He didn’t say much after that, simply listened and offered to buy you fast food; and well, you didn’t ask him to say much either, afterall it was a situation between you and your colleagues; something between you and your job.

—-----------

Sunwoo approached the doorway, wiping the red off of his cheek and slipping into the warmth of his jacket; knocking on the door and waiting for the person on the other side.

The door opened slowly and cautiously.

“Sunwoo? How the hell are you walking around like that?” He said, being quick to drag him into the room.

“Don't overthink it.” Sunwoo reassured, entering the small and cozy living space and taking a seat on the couch. “I was cautious when making my way over here.”

“I surely hope you were.” He muttered, breathing a sigh of relief as he passed Sunwoo a black towel to clean himself.

“So what have you been up to Eric?” Sunwoo said casually, earning a reaction from Eric as he immediately turned due to his nonchalant attitude.

“That's what I would like to ask you. What did you do?” Eric redirected, brewing some coffee and taking down 3 mugs from the cabinets above.

Sunwoo stared before sighing and smiling to himself. “I’m not sure if I should-”

“Sunwoo?”

He turned around to the sound of his name, smiling upon seeing Eric’s roommate, Haknyeon, who was coming out of the shower and drying his hair with a towel.

“What happened to you?” He asked, unsurprised by Sunwoo’s current state and messy appearance.

“I'd like to talk about it; but before that let me take a shower. If I returned home like this I'd earn a concerned stare from Y/n.”

Eric and Haknyeon nodded in understanding, Eric's eyes softening upon the mention of his friend's soulmate. Sunwoo walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

***

They all sat in the living room, warm coffee in hands along with small store-bought muffins and pastries. Both Eric and Haknyeon refused to look away from Sunwoo, staring at him until he finally decided to speak up.

“Alright, alright.” He chuckled, placing his mug down and reaching out for a small plate.

“You don't need to speak up, we're just curious.” Eric added, to which Sunwoo shook his head.

“No worries.” He reiterated.

Haknyeon and Eric listened intently, taking a couple sips from their coffee's and paying attention to every word he spoke. Though at first disagreeing they eventually agreed and let go of the entire situation.

—-----------

You stared in confusion, seeing their uneasy stares.

“Please take a look.” He said, making you take the envelope from his hand and stare down at it.

In the envelope, there were multiple photographs of the crime scene from the previous day. At first glance there isn’t anything particularly wrong with them; it wasn’t until closer inspection that you noticed the figure who lingered in the back of the photos. All except one.

“Who is that..? You stuttered, seeing them take glances at each other before shaking their heads.

“We were hoping you would know that...” Jacob replied, the small bit of hope in his voice fading into an abyss of emptiness.

As if on cue, Chanhee walked into the room. His curiosity had gotten the better of him and he decided to check what the sudden commotion was about; heart dropping upon hearing the news of the mysterious person in the back of the captured pictures and almost quitting right then and there.

“This doesn't make sense. Vampires don't appear on pictures. They can't appear on pictures..!” Chanhee exclaimed, making you all glance at him realization.

He was right. Vampires and many other mythical creatures don't appear on photographs due to the fact that they aren't exactly alive; they aren't technically real.

Jacob and Hyunjae tried to reason, maybe it was one of your people though it was highly unlikely. Juyeon stayed silent, although you knew it was just him trying to make himself feel better about the entire situation. You on the other hand, took the time to analyze the photo better, the body shape seemed oddly familiar to you.

“If there was someone else there; I'm confused as to how they went unnoticed.” A voice spoke from the doorway.

You all turned around, coming face to face with Kevin who stood in the entryway of the room. Hyunjae’s face lit up by the entrance of the familiar face; feeling better to see someone reliable and different.

“Or how they got passed the cops who were positioned outside on that manner.” Jacob added, his voice of fear being replaced by annoyance.

However, you remained silent as they all argued, and for that left the room without saying another word. This was more than just a vampire case and you knew it. It was a case of some sort of betrayal.

—-----------

You laid in bed, being joined by your husband soon after who laid beside you, taking you into his embrace and cuddling you, pressing multiple lazy kisses up to your temple.

“Long day?” He asked in a comforting voice.

“Doesn't matter right now.” You smiled, feeling his lips plant another small peck onto your forehead. His breath was shallow, low and solacing; bringing you a relaxing sensation that drifted you off into a deep state of unawareness.

You didn't know what happened next, you fell asleep.

5:27 A.M.

Sunwoo wasn't by your side.

He was gone, vanished from sight..

You waited for a couple seconds, thinking he might've gone downstairs to get a cup of water from the kitchen; but as the minutes went by, you started to discriminate that thought furthermore.

Lifting yourself from the bed, you made your way to the closet, taking out a jacket and finding the arm holes to slip into, zipping up the zipper and finding the door inside of the dark room. Your walk down the stairs was careful, your mind felt like it had been in a dream-like state, which made it difficult to concentrate when you found your shoes next to the door.

It took you a moment before you registered the feeling of the outside wind brushing up against your cheek, hair flowing by the cold air, moonlight shining inside of the house and illuminating the dark space.

“What are you doing awake?” He said, walking inside yet keeping the door open to allow the midnight air to enter of the enclosed area.

“I would ask you the same question.” You said with unintended seriousness that caused him and his stomach to turn.

“I just went out for a walk-”

You shook your head, he was lying once more and this time you wouldn't stand by it. You felt your throat tighten, in a tenseness that you found yourself unable to describe.

“Blood. It's on your shirt.”

Your mouth said it before your eyes had noticed. He looked down and glanced back up, eyes an unsettling red color that hadn't been there before. Something that only appeared now.

“Right.” He agreed, nodding casually at your words as if it was normal to be carrying around a shirt full of red stains.

You knew now,

Vampires were a very real thing.

Something so real that they shouldn't be second guessed. The way humans don't second guess another human's existence.

But vampires weren't the worst of creatures, at least not all of them. There were definitely worse things on this planet; worse stuff than blood sucking monsters who were on the constant look out for a fresh meal.

But some didn't feed off of human blood, others straight up hated it, it was different for everyone. Vampires had their own taste and likes, just like humans did. In fact, humans and vampires were species of similar kind.

Both held similar complexity, and strived to survive from everyday dangers. If any creature had the chance of blending in almost flawlessly with a human crowd, it'd be a vampire.

And of course, finding out your lifetime partner’s secret couldn't be helped. It was an obvious shock, but you learned to accept it everytime you remember his vivid words that night, reaching out his hand to bring you into the night sky with him.

“Will you join me?”

[thestoryarchives]

Prince of Sin Week (2024) Masterlist

All of these works have been migrated from my other blog, under the name @litnerdwrites and reblogged on this one for convenience and to keep all of my fics together.

If you want more Prince of Sin content, might I suggest checking out the official @princeofsinweek blog, run by the incredible @afandomangel (who has a lot of great works on her blog too)!

Day 1: Worthy - Platonic!Wrath x Daughter!Reader Wrath comes to inform of his daughter that the vampire delegation that would soon arrive. Instead, he finds her spiralling and steps in. ⚠️Canon typical violence, trauma from witnessing canon typical violence, description charred corpses.⚠️

Day 2: Shattered Reflection - Pride x Wife!Reader You find yourself staggering to yours and your husband's shared room as you descend into a spiral of self loathing. ⚠️Body dysmorphia, mention of self harm, blood, accidental cuts on shattered glass, anxiety, insecurity, mention of sex but no smut.⚠️

Day 3: Present - Envy x Wife!Reader After returning from a trip, Envy wants nothing more than to see his wife. Unfortunately, she has other plans. Envy should've known his wife couldn't resist an opportunity to play. Mentions of smut but not smut. Mostly fluff.

Day 4: Warmth - Platonic!GreedxNiece!OC Greed gets an unexpected visit from his niece, Euphemia. While this isn't typically uncommon, something about this visit is different from the others.

Day 5: Indulge in You - Gluttony x Reader Gluttony's attempts at courting the one he likes have, thus far, ended in failure. Surely this gift will sway her, won't it? ⚠️It's mostly fluff, however, inspiration was taken from the teasers for Throne of Secrets that Kerri Maniscalco posts on her instagram. If you don't wanna be sorta spoiled or know about the teasers, don't read.⚠️

Day 6: For Research Purposes - Sloth X OC Sloth needs a favour from Eleanore. For research purposes. ⚠️A couple sexual innuendos but nothing outside canon typical. Also, Eleanore has a bit of a panic attack.⚠️

Day 7: Speak Now - Lust x OC A oneshot for Prince of Sin week that the Clandestine affairs Series is based off of. ⚠️Almost forced marriage, abuse (father striking his daughter, plus forced fiancé hurting bride), mentioned death of a parent, mentioned canon typical violence.⚠️

[picklebunbun]

Nikolai Gogol x male! reader head-cannons

☾

------------⁂✧★✧⁂------------

hc or oneshot/series: headcannons

male! reader, you/your pronouns and masculine pronouns, can also be read as trans or cis reader

nikolai gogol x male! reader

genre: maybe a bit of angst if you squint but a lot of fluff

romantic/platonic?: romantic

fandom: BSD

cw: nikolai is insane {what else is new}, mentions of de@th, philosophical beliefs

{angel’s note🪽: I barely see any nikolai x male reader fics, we need some for our mlm guys! Nikolai is also one of my favorite characters}

~~~

Scenario:

I guess this is how you two meet if you already didn’t think of a scenario like that

anyways, you could be held hostage by him, Nikolai definitely expected you to beg and scream for him to spare you

people desperate to save their lives and weeping for their killers to save them was always so pleasant to his ears

you were different, however. Maybe you weren’t as smart as Fyodor or as charming as Dazai but you got him

he was surprised on how philosophical you went on him, you understood how fragile life was, how useless it could be if you don’t accomplish anything, in short, after that conversation, he thought you were precious

it also took a bunch of convincing to keep you alive to fyodor

~~~

actual hc’s:

you mean A LOT to him, always around you, wanting to be in your presence

it honestly doesn’t matter if you are a man, he doesn’t care if people give you guys dirty looks {he’ll just cut their legs off later!}

definitely quizzes you for fun, even if you get the answer wrong he’ll give you a peck on the lips

pulls your legs through his portal to scare then gets really happy when he sees you

“hi, моя любимая!” (don’t confuse that with russian btw)

“NIKOLAI WTF???”

probably annoys his victims talking about you, and how lucky he is to have you as a [boyfriend/fiancee/husband]

if you live with him, he puts this LOUDD alarm at like 4am to wake you up

he likes bathing/showering with you, it doesn’t even have to be sensual, it’s just nice having a moment to yourselves

don’t let him cook for you though, he’d burn the place down, not even joking

gives you a human heart for valentines day, the smell was vile, mostly up to you if you want to throw it away or keep it

brings 1000 animals to your place, a few of them were giraffes, HOW’D HE EVEN GET THAT

if you’re in the DOA he’d be your partner every single time

if you don’t work with him he’d be happy to introduce you to Sigma and Fyodor, but he’d also rather you stay away from that organization

he makes you braid his hair every single day, even if you’re horrible at braiding, it wouldn’t matter cause he’d still keep his hair like that

PROBABLY SLEEPS IN HIS JESTER OUTFIT TOO, WITH HIS STUPID SHOES AND EVERYTHING

LOVES physical touch and giving gifts, they’re his love languages

speaking of physical touch, he likes giving you big bear hugs, holding hand and cuddling with you

pulls your face through the portal to kiss you, it’s actually pretty cute

also, your gifts mostly consists of body parts or dead corpses {how romantic}

{this is a little short, sorray 😞}

~~~

[kiryoutann]

okay,,, to make this blog less dead (from not posting lol), i will share my x fem! reader 2025 WIPs. these works are either in the process of being written, considered for writing, and still just ideas. BUT!! no promises, like usual (let's just PRAY, okay. pray for ryou, we pray so she'll stay motivated and productive).

MINORS do NOT interact.

2025 WIPs

:::CALL OF DUTY::: SIMON "GHOST" RILEY

of course, chapter 14 of A MAN'S HEART IS TRULY A WRETCHED, WRETCHED THING. i'm still taking my time because it is a heavy chapter for me to write.

REDEMPTION FOR THE DAMNED [SIMON "GHOST" RILEY X FEM! READER]

THE sequel. thanks to everyone giving me suggestions, i think i know how i want to write the story and ending! YAY. thank you so so much. as i stated before, i plan to write this from the perspective of omniscient narrator who SIDES with simon, so yes,, we will be seeing lots of things from his perspective.

Warning(s): angst, MENTAL HEALTH PROBLEMS, possible unhealthy body image, PTSD, alcohol consumption, unprotected sex, MANIPULATION, MENTIONS OF PAST ABUSE, injuries, blood, military inaccuracies, mental breakdown, use of (Y/N), BIASED OMNISCIENT NARRATOR.

Genre: romance, ANGST, slow-burn. ballerina! reader.

Blurb:

A man is wounded; a man is healed.

Or not.

Or a man is wounded, then he wounds others; spreading his pain as if it were contagious. Perhaps he is a product of his father, with the ability to break women and destroy them. Or he is a product of his own self-reinvention, molded into the shape of his father, driven by a twisted desire to showcase his unworthiness of love.

3. THERE IS A MAN [SIMON "GHOST" RILEY X FEM! READER]

AHHH, i love the concept of this one. also, i'll be testing my skill to write horror through this story >_<

Warning(s): mention of death (Simon is dead), SMUT, grief, horror, mental health problem, PSYCHOSIS, DEPRESSION.

Genre: horror, ANGST.

Blurb:

Your husband is dead. Grief-stricken, you, a professional sculptor, channel your anguish into creating a sculpture of him. One night, you forget to bring the unfinished work home.

A man begins to show up in the shadows of your house.

:::GENSHIN IMPACT::: CHILDE/TARTAGLIA

I'M A GHOST BUT I KEEP HAUNTING A FORENSIC PATHOLOGIST WHO COULDN'T CARE LESS [CHILDE X FEM! READER]

BASED ON THIS IDEA.

the original title for this was "soul bound", but then i was like "hmmm, no.. that's too serious-like. it's supposed to be a light, funny story." and i ended up making the title manhwa-like (very long, very DETAILED. love them). this one's probably gonna end up as short series though, with around 4-5 chapters.

Warning(s): strong language, alcohol consumption, clear descriptions of human organs, dissection of human corpses, forensic stuff, crime, mutilation, ghosts and spirits, dying, MENTIONS OF ASSAULTS AND/OR RAPE (mostly for forensic records), psychopaths, murderers, kidnapping, ACCIDENTS, DEATHS, ajax is younger than reader (tba) . . .

The majority of the medical terms, acts, and forensic techniques used in this work were derived from online resources, expert research, student theses, documentaries, and the Korean drama "Partners for Justice." Although it is not fictitious, it is not advised to use it as a practical guide that may be implemented in everyday situations due to the likelihood of misinformation and the correlation between subjects-triggers, and reactions. If you need clear and LEGIT information, please contact experts near you.

READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Genre: romance, angst, FLUFF, MYSTERY, HORROR, THRILLER, ghost! childe x forensic pathologist! reader.

Blurb:

You have the unusual gift of seeing ghosts, but you have always kept it a secret to keep "their" attention away.

Imagine your frustration when you mistakenly believe someone who seems normal to be a human being, only to discover that they are actually a chatty and bothersome ghost named "Ajax"!

2. EX PROBLEM [CHILDE X FEM! READER]

this will be published on Ko-fi, with limited slot only!

GOOD NEWS ABOUT THIS ONE IS THAT I'M ALMOST DONE!! it has 5 chapters, and it's only 2 chapters to go before i review it, edit it, and post it! i took such a long time to finish this one, i'm not even sure if anyone's still interested. but i will still post on my ko-fi once it's finished.

Warning(s): TOXIC RELATIONSHIP, ABUSE OF POWER, GASLIGHTING, I DO NOT CONDONE THESE BEHAVIORS IRL. childe being borderline yandere, jealousy, possible baby-trapping, childe being his insufferable self, rich people being assholes, SMUT, alcohol consumption, reader is a bit of a bimbo (but love her<3), some wriothesley x reader but childe is still the endgame.

Genre: romance, slight angst, lovers to exes to ???, modern! au.

Blurb:

It's true when your friends say your relationship with Ajax is complicated. One day you're in the honeymoon phase, one day you're screaming at each other at the end of your throats. Today is the end of it all. But, who would have thought that you would be stuck living with him—now, your ex-boyfriend—and adding everything to your headache?

let's make a prayer circle and hope that all these works will see the light.

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION. SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS HERE.

[rmoonstoner]

Kinktober 2023

***

Theme:

4 - Incubus Sex (Monster fucker)

***

Warnings:

18+, darkish setting (surviving zombie apocalypse), angst, fluff, smut, vampires (oppressive dominate species and blood drinking is mentioned a lot), a monster with a hero complex (Stephen coming to save you), monster fucker smut, sex with monster style Stephen, oral (sucking tentacles), tentacle sex, p in v sex, cream pie, oral, size kink, vibrating tentacles, anal play, double penetration, come shower

***

Pairing:

Doctor Stephen Strange x Fem!Mystic!Reader 

(Past relationship mentioned)

Watcher/Eldritch Being Doctor Stephen Strange Supreme x Fem!Mystic!Reader

(Current relationship)

***

Please note:

Writing this made me both cry and very horny. I love writing about evil monster men that get redemption and now act like soft and gentle golden retrievers.

I did not have a proofreader.

***

Summary:

Your husband died a long time ago, during the outbreak. There was never a cure found, but a vaccine was made with Doctor Morbius's blood. Unfortunately, instead of a world of humans being eaten by zombies, it's now a world of humans being eaten by vampires. You're one of the few uninfected left, and a terrible fate is heading your way.

Until a familiar looking man comes to make a bargain with you, offering you salvation, but at the cost of leaving your universe forever.

***

Surviving this horrible hellscape was tough, but you managed to do it just fine, all by yourself, without your husband's help. Zombies had rolled through, covering half of the earth in just under a month. The great Doctor Morbius had discovered a vaccine to stop the spread of the virus, but that still meant people would be turning into monsters. Instead of zombies, they'd be vampires. Still, it was better than turning into a mindless decomposing corpse, so what did your people have to lose?

It had been years since that incident, and you had been lucky enough to avoid being bitten by a zombie, and contracting the virus. You were also lucky enough that you didn't turn into a vampire when you got the vaccine, but it did seem to stop allowing you to age. Apparently your blood was unique, and you wouldn't have been able to turn into a zombie either, if bitten.

You made a lot of money by selling your blood weekly at the local blood bank, and soon the vampiric citizens of New York were paying you top dollar for your blood. You were also an avid pot smoker, and that contributed to the price that your blood was worth.

But still, you missed your husband dearly, wishing he never died during the pandemic. You dreamt of him almost every night and when you didn't, you dreamt of your own death in so many horrifying and gruesome ways.

You grew tired as the weeks passed into months, and then into years. The people buying your blood started asking you to come in twice a week, to deal with the high demand, then three. You knew if you didn't, you'd be hunted down and forced to do it against your will. It was bad enough that the vampires kept harassing you to breed with other uninfected humans, just so they could have more livestock.

You sat at home, watching television and seeing a commercial about the company that marketed your blood. They advertised it like it was various soft drink brands, with yours being a luxury item like fine alcohol once was. You scowled and leaned back against your bed. You felt so fucking tired recently. You just wanted to hide away and not be bothered by anyone anymore.

You wanted your husband back so fucking badly.

You didn't want to be used as food any more, and since you stopped ageing, that was just going to be your life now.

Forever.

Eventually, you knew they'd stop being so nice in asking you to pick a partner and reproduce. You almost would have rather died when the zombies showed up. You sighed and laid down, closing your eyes and trying to think of a plan to get away.

***

A man dressed in an expensive suit greeted you with a wide smile and twinkling blue eyes. His hair was combed and gold back, just the way you liked it, and his goatee was freshly trimmed, allowing you to see his full and luscious lips.

It was your husband.

"Hello again, my dear. I am pleased you've come for another visit." He said smoothly as he produced a bouquet of your favorite flowers. He made them float all around you, with them morphing into glowing butterflies and bubbles.

"Hello, Stephen… I… I can't remember why I came here." You said softly, almost remembering that you were dreaming, when he chuckled. Stephen spread his arms out and engulfed you in an embrace. He felt warm and safe  The next moment, he was dancing with you in a large empty ballroom. He leaned in close to your ear and whispered sweetly.

"Does it really matter? We both know what's going to happen."

He spun you around and the scenery changed to a backdrop of stars. The floor was gone, leaving you both alone in the vastness of space as you kept dancing with him. It didn't feel scary, far from it. Your heart was pounding, stomach full of butterflies as he gazed into your eyes.

Gods, you missed this.

You missed him.

"No, I guess it does not." You murmured back. He drew you close and stuck his nose into your neck, inhaling deeply as his hands smoothed up your sides.

"It does not. What matters, is that you're here, safe, with me." He husked and nipped your ear lobe. You moaned as he kissed down your neck to your shoulder.

"Yes. I'm safe. With you." You softly replied as his kisses became needy and his hands got more adventurous. You felt him grab at your ass and push you up close to him so you could feel his desire for you. You whined at the hardness of his body while you grabbed his face and kissed him deeply.

He groaned, his free hand gliding up your back and into your hair. Stephen gripped your locks and pulled your head back as he placed open mouthed kisses and licks to your skin. Stephen hummed and dragged his teeth along your most sensitive areas, effectively turning your legs to jelly and making it hard to stand. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pushing your face into his shoulder and groaned as he started to suck on your skin. 

You could hear a deep rumbling noise coming from him, a gentle sounding growl as his hand moved from your ass and he pushed you backwards. You landed on something soft as kept his mouth on you, moving down your chest.

"This dress needs to go." He rumbled, and in an instant your dress was gone. He took his time with you, sucking purple marks into your skin at every sensitive spot you had along the way. You gripped his hair, whimpering and squirming for him as he gave each breast a good squeeze and a tantalizing lick to both nipples.

He moved down, bringing a hand to your wet pussy and slid a finger along your seam. You keened for him and lifted your hips, trying to encourage him to put it inside.

"Stephen… More, please?"

"I'll give you more, baby, but first, I need you to wake up and answer the door." He murmured softly and kissed your head.

"What? Why?"

"Because the real thing is so much better, don't you think? Now, wake up!"

***

You heard knocking at your door, and you huffed and rolled out of bed. It was still early, around 3:00am. Who the fuck would be bugging you at this hour? You really hoped it wasn't the security guard, coming to ask you if you had any spare bags of blood in your freezer again. You sighed and got up, going to answer the door, and finding no one there.

"What the fuck? Stop with your stupid games, and just come in already." You snapped and waited a moment as air rushed past you and towards the curtains in the living room. You closed and locked the door. After, you turned towards your freezer and grabbed a pack of blood.

"For fuck's sake, Carl. You don't have to do the super speed ghostly bullshit. I used to be married to the spookiest man alive, so cut the crap. If you wanted a bag of blood, you could have just asked-" You stopped talking when you turned around to see a tall dark figure looking out your window.

That did not look like Carl at all.

Carl was a short, round man with the best sense of humor. He looked and acted exactly like Danny Devito. It was really a shame he was a vampire.

But this guy…

This guy was not Carl.

This guy was over six foot tall, and was quite slender. Most of him was covered by a long black cloak with a very pointy collar. It threw you off, because it reminded you of your long dead love.

"Thank you for inviting me in." His voice was raspy, and you placed the bag of blood onto your counter as you processed the sound of his voice. He sounded strikingly familiar, but people had been known to fuck around and tease you for your past.

Fucking vampires. 

"Look, buddy. I don't know who you think you are, but this is private property. I don't take kindly to pranks." You said firmly as you grabbed a knife and held it calmly. The man turned to look at you, his yellow eyes twinkling as he chuckled softly.

"Knives aren't going to hurt me. Not ones made of Earthen Steel, anyways." He said as he took a slow step towards you. You found the knife was no longer in your hand, and now back in the block again. In its place was your favorite flower.

"Why are you here?" You asked, your body trembling in fear. You hadn't seen actual magic in a long time, and it frightened you.

"I'm here to remove you from this world." He continued with a sly smile. His voice was sounding more and more like Stephen's, and the simple magic trick was hitting you hard in the chest, like a knife.

"Okay, that's a fucking threat, isn't it?" Your voice cracked as if you tried not to cry.

"No, it's not. I'm not here to kill you, darling. I'm here to liberate you. No harm shall come to you, if you come with me. I want to keep you safe." He calmly replied as he lifted his hand in the air, showing off the strappy leather and cloth of his bracers, and flicked his wrist. The bag of blood in front of you floated up into the air, and to the open freezer, then the door shut with a gentle thud. For some reason, the tone in his voice was calming you down fairly quickly.  

"What? What does that even mean?" You asked.

"Silly girl. I feel great sadness within you. You miss your husband dearly, and wish he didn't die. You also wish to join him, but know he'd never want you to end your life to be with him. You wish to leave this world behind, but you don't want to die, correct?" His baritone voice was silky smooth, and you could feel your body react to it. Your skin was heating up at the way he was looking at you, hunger clearly evident in his amber eyes. It was still too dark to see his face very well.

"How… How did you know that?" Your voice cracked again, and he stepped into the light of the kitchen. You gasped when you recognized his face, your chest tightening as you tried to stay calm.

It was your husband, but that was impossible. He died a long time ago, and you missed him so much.

"I've been watching you, my dear. I've seen what you've been through, and managed to do here. While at first, I thought it was a noble sacrifice. You, willing to make such a commitment for your people to keep them alive, but your people quickly took you for granted and started asking too much of you. They have forgotten who you belong to."

"I don't belong to anyone, except Doctor Stephen Vincent Strange, and he is dead." You remarked as a tear rolled down your face.

"Oh, I know. I've seen your entire life. The past, present, and all the future possibilities. I was very shocked to find you were linked to my variant. How very fitting, though, that one of me should hoarde such a beautiful and powerful magical energy source." He said and he leaned against the counter, flashing that signature trademark smirk your husband always wore.

"But you're not my husband, are you?" You asked, but he chuckled and changed the subject.

"That big pharmaceutical company that sells your blood… I am concerned for your well being. They want to breed you against your will, and feed off of your children the moment they come out of you. I find that disgusting." The pale man leaned lazily around your apartment and frowned. He turned back to you and pressed his hands against the counter. He didn't have any scars on his hands like your husband did. He quickly conjured up some documents and slid them towards you, and you looked down at them.

They were papers that showed the blood bank was going to acquire you as an object, with you losing your independence and autonomy. You would lose the right to choose what you did with your life. Even the plans for the next fifty years were clearly laid out a schedule for you to remain constantly pregnant with various sperm donors. You grimaced and shoved the papers off the counter in disgust.

"That's no life for a beautiful immortal such as yourself. I can offer you so much more. Something better, something brighter. A chance to do more with your life, instead of being a glorified cow. I won't ask for much in return, except to feed from you once a month, and for you to assist me while I watch over the Multiverse." The doctor explained as he conjured up a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

"That sounds too good to be true. I have a hard time trusting vampires. Let alone ones that look exactly like my dead husband."

"I'm not the same kind of vampire, my dear." He laughed as he shrugged off his cloak and it wandered off to look out the window. It was different than the one you were used to seeing on him, which now belonged to Spider-Man.

"But you're… I watched you die, Stephen. Before they came out with the vampire vaccine." You pointed out. Again he snickered and poured some wine in both glasses.

"I am a variant of your dead doctor. I am an Eldritch being, not a vampire. I've absorbed so much magic, that my body has changed. I'm more like… A demonic God now, but I'm not evil." The doctor handed you a glass and he sat down on one of the barstools you had.

"How's that anything like a vampire?" You asked

"Do you know what an incubus is?"

"Yes… Wait… Oh my God."

"Ah, there we go. It's finally sinking in, isn't it?"

"So, you feed off of sex?"

"Yes, but also no. I need to eat, and I don't eat food much these days. What I do enjoy consuming, is raw energy or magic, which you are just dripping with, my dear. I can smell you all the way across the Multiverse."

"So… Does that mean… I have to…"

"Nothing. You just let me drain some of your magic, and I don't even have to touch you."

"Forgive me, Doctor, but I'm really confused."

"What's there to be confused about? You let me feed off your magic, and I take you away from this universe where they want much worse out of you. If not, you can stay here. It is your choice."

"But you mentioned you are like an incubus?"

"Oh, yes. That. If you allowed me to make love to you, I'd be sharing my powers with you, without the adverse effects that I suffer. But, I'm not going to ask that of you, since that might be cruel, given your-"

"Okay. Fine. Deal. Take me away. I don't want to be here any more. This place sucks, and you're hot." Uou said, and he looked very surprised.

"What?"

"You heard me, old man. Take me away, and you can incu my pussy as much as you want. I don't care that you're not my Stephen."

The doctor's face melted into a wicked smile and he raised his glass in a toast. You grabbed the other glass and tinked it against his, then had a sip of the wine. The liquid didn't taste at all like wine, so you coughed as you set the glass down.

"What was that? That wasn't red wine!"

You were panicking, because it tasted exactly like antifreeze with blood in it.

"No. It wasn't. It is my blood." He said calmly, his smirk growing wider. Your eyes went wide, and you made a disgusted face.

"Ugh, why? I'm not a fucking vampire. Blood doesn't taste good to me. Why does it taste like antifreeze?"

"Haha. My dear, I'm an abomination of nature and magic that exists outside of time and space. I shouldn't exist at all, yet I do. I exist, and I watch over all universes. In all of my years of witnessing millions of realities grow and perish, I have never once seen someone that should be up with me in the Watcher's area. Not even any of my variants. You don't belong down here, and you don't belong in any other universe."

"Okay, but that's not explaining exactly why you just tried to pass your blood off as wine."

"I need you to have some of my essence in you, otherwise the process will be painful. If you won't drink the blood, we have other ways to make the transfer."

"You've done this before?"

"Yes, but also, no." He said in that annoyingly self assured tone of his. Apparently this Stephen was much the same as yours once was.

"I'm starting to hate that phrase." You muttered and he chuckled as he stood up and conjured up a viewing orb, showing a woman with red hair.

The orb cycled through hundreds of ways that she died, with over half of them being accompanied by a younger looking and cleanly shaven version of Strange. You covered your mouth at the horrible ways she perished, and you felt tears forming when you saw his sorrowful reaction each time.

You knew the woman in question. Your Stephen had once been engaged to the one in this world, but they broke up swiftly after his accident. You had replaced her as the love of his life, until the day he died from being bitten by Christine. This variant of Stephen could sense your sorrow, and he placed a hand to your shoulder.

"I tried to save her, many times. I wasn't as wise back then, as I am now."

"Then you did end up saving her?"

"No. I destroyed my world for her, and when I did save her, she rejected the horrible creature I had become. I frightened her so much, she died again, and the look on her face told me I needed to stop. So, I did. I stopped. I became a Watcher, and I learned many new skills. I got over her, moved on, then I finally figured out how I can stop a Nexus event quite easily, without tearing a reality apart and corrupting it." He explained as he showed you on the orb what he really looked like. You crouched down and looked at his demonic form, sighing as you felt your heart ache for him.

"You're the only person I've ever done this to. I am hoping this time, you'll be better prepared, and there will be less complications down the line."

"This time?"

"Yes. Fear not, for I won't make the same mistakes I did last time. I've figured out that it's just easier to remove a person from a universe altogether, before their Nexus event can occur to kill them, instead of trying to stop the event by any other means. Then, I just simply don't return them to that universe. They will exist outside of their time and space."

"... You've done this before, and I died? But I'm… I am supposed to be immortal."

"You weren't the first go around. I figured changing your fate, and having Doctor Morbius be able to get his vaccine out would work much better. You see, I am able to twist time in any universe. I can look into the future, but when I do, I actually live through it, before deciding to go back. It's a standard feature on most Doctor Stranges."

"So is being frustratingly cryptic. How did I die?"

"The first time? My dear… I've seen thousands of possible futures for you."

"Ugh, tell me the first time that you actually had to interfere."

"Oh, well, I'd rather not. It was really quite gruesome. That's why I showed you the paperwork. That's exactly what happened to you. In fact, they are due in just a few hours to come and collect you. I turned the clock back, and now I am here to take you away. This world doesn't have anyone capable of coming to find you once I remove you from it."

You sat there quietly and fidgeted with your hands as you glanced at the door and then back at him. You thought back to the many dreams you kept having, and how they all involved your death, or this man. Most recently, they had become very dark and debauched fantasies of him fucking you in various ways, and less about you dying. When given the choice of being stuck here as a glorified farm animal, or going with another variant of your dearly departed husband to see the wonders of the Multiverse, you definitely were choosing the doctor.

Besides, even after seeing what he looked like in the orb compared to how his form was now… Both were very tempting. It was even more tempting he was a variant of your dead lover. You felt your face grow hotter as you thought about those very sexual dreams. Yes, that would be a much better future for you.

"Take me now. I trust you." You finally said while reaching out to grab his hand. His face softened, eye turning that soft baby blue you missed, and he gave you a warm smile, his thumb gently caressing the back of your hand.

"Good. Do you need to bring anything?"

"No."

***

The place he brought you to was very Strange, pun intended. It was a building in the middle of what looked to be a cluster of bright twinkling lights in outer space.

"That looks like home, the Sanctum Sanctorum…" You said softly, and Stephen placed a hand to your lower back 

"It is. I've replicated it perfectly to be my home, with much needed improvements." He whispered into your ear as his hand moved just slightly lower.

"It's way more beautiful than the one I've seen "

"Ah, yes, well… Better materials do go a long way. I've used a lot of rare metals and wood from across the Multiverse. Let me show you the inside."

***

He showed off the entire place, and as the tour progressed, you started to feel off. It wasn't in a bad way, but you found that you felt hot.

Down there.

He was just as much of a talker as your husband was, full of both useful and useless facts. You noticed the artifacts he had were very much different then the ones your Stephen had in his Sanctum, and he enjoyed telling you about any item you pointed at. He was nice about it, much nicer than your husband was. This one kept checking to see if you knew what things were, before offering the information up. He finally brought you to a large room that looked like an old English pub inside, and he sat you down at the bar, with him going behind it.

"I'm sure you'd like some real alcohol, now. I can assure you I have the finest you'll ever find anywhere." He declared happily while grabbing a fancy bottle of Kree Whiskey in one hand, and very elegant looking Asgardian Wine in the other.

"Sure. I want a slushed Bellini with raspberries in it."

He stared at you for a long moment, then slowly put both bottles down.

"You want prosecco?"

"Uh, well, no. I mostly just want a fancy, tangy peach and raspberry slushie, with booze in it."

"Ah, so may I put a different kind of alcohol in it?"

"Sure, why not? Give me something strong." You said firmly, and he went about making you a drink the old fashioned way, without magic.

"So, tell me more about this deal." You asked. He handed you the drink and you took it, smelling it and taking a sip. It tasted exactly how Stephen used to make them and you felt a pang of guilt as you sat here with some copy of your spouse.

"I need an assistant. Not a secretary type, but a partner to help me with overseeing and managing the Multiverse. My friend can only do so much by himself, and he's not allowed to interfere with any of the worlds he watches, but I am, and so are any I bring up here." He casually explained while pouring himself some of the wine.

"There are others here?"

"Just you, me, and Uatu. Uatu has his own area. You'll know him when you see him. Really big bald head, hates my jokes…" Stephen chuckled. The sound was like music to your ears.

"Tell me about you being an Incubus. I remember those dreams. Was that actually you, or was it my brain processing the world around me, because I miss my husband?"

"Oh, that was me."

"Go on."

"There's not much to tell, I'm afraid. I can feed in various ways. I can drain the life force from someone and leave a husk behind. I could straight up devour the entire being, leaving nothing left, or… Or I could use the pleasures of the flesh, and not harm the person I am feeding off of." He sounded quite honest, and that's when you realized you had already been having sex with this man, but in your dreams.

Those overly vivid and realistic dreams that left your panties soaked when you woke up.

A sinful throb beat between your thighs at the thought, and you gave him a playful grin as you reached out and placed your hand on his.

"Oh… Well I don't think I want to be a husk, or eaten. You know, unless my pussy is the one being drained and eaten." You said in a sultry voice. His eyes flashed a dark amber.

"I'd rather fill you up after I eat you."

"Don't threaten me with a good time." You drank the rest of the Bellini and made a pleased sigh.

"My dear, I don't make threats anymore. I just do it."

"Then stop talking already, and show me what you can do."

Stephen grinned wickedly and snapped his fingers. Everything was replaced by a nicer looking version of your old bedroom that you used to share with Stephen in the Sanctum. You gasped as he pushed you down to the bed and kissed you passionately.

You moaned into his mouth as your tongues danced, and his hands tore your clothes away from your body, almost violently. His hands grabbed at your hips as he chuckled and banished his clothing away. Stephen was nudging himself between your legs, when you put a hand to his chest and stopped him. He furrowed his brows in confusion.

"Wait…"

"Have you changed your mind?" He asked, a look of hurt flashing through his eyes.

"No… But I want to see you for what you really are when we do this." You said and his face fell into surprise.

"I don't think you'd like that very much." He finally said, his mouth turning into a doubtful frown.

"I saw you in the orb. You don't scare me."

"I only showed you the tamest part of my true form." He muttered bitterly. You reached up and grabbed his face, bringing him down so you were nose to nose.

"I loved my husband with all of my heart. I was devastated when he died. I know you are not him, but I still feel that same connection of love in your presence, like he never left me…" You begged him as you kissed his lips gently.

"But-"

"Please, Stephen?" Again you begged, kissing his cheek and along his neck. He groaned and reared back to look at you.

"Alright. I will show you. I'll understand if you wish to leave. I can put you somewhere nice that I know you'll like and-"

"Stephen. Shut the fuck up and show me what you look like."

He huffed and nodded while his skin darkened slowly. Bit by bit, it became a deep ashy purple, with a sheen of glittery red on it. His eyes went back to being that slitted, dark sunset orange, and he started to grow several multicolored eyes on his forehead and the side of his face. Large horns protruded from his head, and his cloak melted into his back, becoming large leathery wings.

But the most striking thing about him, were all the fucking tentacles.

"You hate it, don't you?" He asked, his voice laced with shame.

"You're beautiful." You breathed back and smiled brightly at him.

"What? No, that's not… I'm not-"

"Yes, you are. That's amazing… Are they… Dangerous?" You asked as you sat up and reached out to grab one of his tentacles. The one you tried to touch, recoiled away from you.

"Sometimes, if I need them to be."

"May I… May I touch it? Please?"

"If that is what you want." He sounded very unsure as the appendage unfurled and rested on your palm. You stared at it and reached up to touch it with your other hand.

It was soft, and not at all slimey, like you thought it would be. Your fingers gently ran over the length of what you could reach. The skin there felt a bit rough, but the underside with the suckers was soft, and very much felt like…

"Oh… Careful now. If you keep that up, I won't be able to stop myself."

You felt your face heat right up at the statement. You looked at his main two eyes as you stroked around each sucker, watching him twitch and grunt. You grinned at him, and decided to see what he would do if you licked it. The impulse was too much to hold on to, and you leaned forward, eyes still locked with his, and gave the girthy appendage a long lick. Stephen groaned, all of his eyes closing halfway as he watched you suck the tip into your mouth.

"Fuck…"

You swirled your tongue around the tip, feeling every little circle, dip, curve, and edge. He groaned and leaned forward, caging you in with both hands as he rested his forehead against yours.

"I've never… No one has touched me like this before…" He growled, his voice beginning to warp and sound more like the deep echoing of Eldritch voices you used to hear when your husband cast spells. Your heart fluttered, and your pussy throbbed from the nostalgia.

You took him deeper into your mouth, tongue rolling over his skin as you reached out and grabbed another tentacle. He curled that one around your wrist as you gave it a gentle squeeze, drawing forth another deep moan from him. Your hand left the one at your mouth, going to grab yet another, but this time you placed it between your legs.

He almost wanted to ask what you were doing, when you leaned back and pulled on him. He moved with you, hovering over your body as you spread your legs for him. Stephen hummed as he looked down, another deep rumbling noise emanating from him while he watched you rub him against your wet entrance.

"You're so wet…"

Stephen twitched, but he didn't dare prod you with it. The tentacles that weren't on your body were coiling in anticipation as you took the one in your mouth out with a loud slurp. You gave him a sultry look and placed the wet appendage to your breast.

"Don't be scared, Stephen. I am not as fragile as you'd think." You said, and pressed him against your breast, squeezing softly to encourage him to move it by himself. Your hand pushed the tip of his other tentacle to your clit and you rubbed it in circles. He let out multiple groans and purring noises.

"It's hard not to be, my dear. I could snap you in half with just a thought."

"You sound like my husband." You teased him in a breathy whisper, hands still trying to encourage him to touch you.

"I am your husband…" He groaned and before you could register what he had said, or the meaning behind it, he brought a few more tentacles down to touch you experimentally. You felt two of them curl around your ankles, slowly spreading them farther apart as the one on your breast squeezed and wrapped the tip around your nipple. 

"Ohhh… Stephen… Just like that." You murmured softly as one of the suckers melded over your nipple, perfectly covering it, before it started to pulse. Another one curled around your other breast, giving it the same attention and working them in a good rhythm. You whined and pushed your hips up while rubbing him against your clit. More tentacles crept out, one wrapping around your other wrist, snaking its way up your arm and cupping your chin. Stephen leaned down, almost close enough to kiss.

"You're so soft… And warm…" Stephen hummed as he coiled more and more of his tentacles up and around your limbs and torso. He brought a large hand to your back, pulling you closer as he looked into your eyes.

He saw how they shined for him, even half lidded as he slowly pushed into your pussy. Your breathing quickened as he pushed deeper and deeper, slowly pushing the thicker parts in,  while the tip slipped back out to curl over your clit. You keened and he kissed you, groaning into your mouth as he slithered all over you.

"Stephen…" You breathed his name, causing him to grunt as a tentacle slowly snaked up your leg and cupped your ass. You felt more, pulling and tugging at your cheeks, with one going to catch the slick that dripped from your pussy, before probing your backdoor.

"Sweet girl… Fuck… How are you this wet?"

"Because of you, Stephen. Because it's you." You murmured back as you felt him move, sliding his thick muscle in more, stretching you wider as another one slipped inside to find your gspot. It felt amazing, feeling two of them writhe inside of you.

"May I… May I put one in your ass?" He growled while rubbing your tight ring of muscle.

"Please." You answered softly. Your hands came up to his face again, fingers gliding up to his horns. He let out another deep sounding growl and shut his eyes.

You felt your asshole slowly being dipped into, then with a sudden sensation of liquid being applied, he pushed in easily. Your head went back as you gasped and panted, feeling three tentacles wiggling inside of you.

"Fuck… You're something else, you know that right? Anyone else would be terrified right now…"

"Th-that's what my h-husband used to saaay- Oh fuck! W-when he used sex magic on meee..." You sassed back as you licked his cheek.

"Shit… What… What sort of things did he used to do to you?" Stephen asked, his mind already spinning a million images as to what his variant did to you.

"Sensory intensifying spells, lubricating spells, g-ghostly touches, mag-gic vibratory aids…" You started to list some things off, and when you mentioned the last one, you suddenly felt intense vibrations coming from each one of his limbs.

"Oh… Gods… Fuck… That feels so g-good!" Your breath came out rushed as he pushed in deeper with all three of them. The way he throbbed and pulsed was amazing, like a designer toy made just to make you come. You felt so full, and it was glorious.

"So pretty… So divine… How could such a beautiful angel like you, let a monster like me do this to you…? You dirty little thing… Fuck…" Stephen husked and slowly put more pressure on each of your sweet spots. You yelped and thrashed, feeling your pussy clench the closer you got to your release.

"I bet you let him double team you with himself, yeah?" He asked, his voice rough and deep as he started to thrust his tentacles in and out of you.

"Y-yes!" You whined back, feeling yourself get to the edge, but not quite able to jump off yet.

"Did you let him fuck you raw, and come inside you?" He asked, and again you whined.

So close…

"Fuck, yeah…"

"How about the multiple arms spell?" He asked as a tentacle slowly wrapped around your throat.

"Yeah… That was always a favorite of mine…" You sighed when he rubbed your cheek. That sigh quickly turned into a debauched moan as he jerked your body flush against his and started to fuck into you faster, the tentacles rubbing you just right.

"Fuck… You feel so wet… Your walls are clenching so tightly around me. I want to see you come." Stephen licked his lips as he turned the vibrations up.

You howled and felt your nerves snap, and you shook violently in his grasp as you came hard. Your nails dug into his shoulders, and he grunted in pleasure as he fucked you through your orgasm. Stephen rumbled and leaned in, forehead pressed to yours as he watched you writhe and moan. The tentacles in your cunt slowed in their movements, and he slowly pulled them from your dripping hole. You stared at him as he brought them up to his mouth, his very long tongue coming out to lick your juices off of them.

"Fuck, that's hot…" You breathed as you tried to catch your breath. He glanced at you and grinned.

"Naughty girl…" Stephen hummed and slowly moved your legs, bringing your feet up high into the air as he positioned himself between them. You glanced down and gasped, eyes going wide like saucers when you saw just how big his cock was.

"Do you like what you see?" His voice was raspy as he made that purring sound. You shivered and stared at his dick. It was dark red, the bulbous head almost a royal purple as it oozed precome. He had thick veins running all over it, and it looked like he was ribbed! 

"Do you think it'll fit? I can make it smaller, more the size you're used to." Stephen asked in that teasing tone you missed so much.

How dare he think you couldn't handle that monster of a cock after he just had two thick tentacles in there!

"I can take it."

"Are you certain? I'll ruin you for anyone else."

"I don't want anyone else. I want you. Now please, Stephen, shut your big mouth and fuck me already!"

"So much confidence… That's hot…" Stephen remarked as he brought you closer, resting the large head of cock on your seam. He gently rubbed you, teasing you as he spread your lips with the tips of his tentacles. With a grunt and a gentle push, he nudged the head of his cock into you. You gasped, feeling him push inside, his girth stretching you far more than his tentacles had.

"Shit… Sssooo… So b-big…" Your voice cracked as he shoved in deeper while he carefully watched your reaction. You began to pant and squirm, fingers digging in harder into the meat of his shoulders 

"I can stop if-"

"No! Don't stop!"

You struggled to breathe as he pulled you closer, pushing his throbbing member in as deeply as he could. You whined as you felt his hips kiss yours, his cock bottoming out and pulsing. You felt his heavy balls resting flush against your ass.

"You're doing so well, my little minx. You've taken every last inch of me. Can you feel me deep inside of you? Can feel it throbbing, just for you?" He waited for a moment, allowing you to adjust and get used to his size as he cupped your face and kissed your forehead.

"Oh… Gods, y-yes… You feel so good…"

"As do you…" Stephen murmured back, then started whispering a spell into your ear. You felt pleasure tingle all over your body, nerves sparking with fire. Your eyes rolled back, back arching as he began to move his hips.

"Gods be damned… You feel absolutely heavenly…" Stephen growled as his tentacles squeezed and slithered all over your body. He sighed as he sped up, his hips slapping away at yours as he fucked you hard.

"St-stephen!" You called his name and tugged him closer to kiss him. He groaned and stuck his long tongue into your mouth, it sliding around and down your throat. You made small grunting noises as you breathed through your nose, the sensations overwhelming you, and you came.

He pinned you to the bed and pressed you down, his hips fucking up into your tight cavern over and over, sending your senses into overdrive as he pulled another orgasm from your body so quickly after the last. You would have screamed if he wasn't tongue fucking your mouth.

Your nipples suddenly surged with pleasure, and then the suckers on your clit started to send harsh vibrations to it. You gurgled and shook, feeling him draw yet another orgasm from your body. You felt his cock pulse and throb along with every tentacle he had wrapped around you. The one in your ass was purposely pushing against the thin wall between it and his cock, making your eyes roll back as you drooled excessively.

'I'm going to fill you so full…'

You heard his voice in your mind, and all you could do was take his harsh thrusts as he moved in and out of your holes.

You felt his cock throb, and a moment later, he was growling as you felt him spurt the first rope into you. You moaned, feeling more and more fill your womb directly, his come forcing its way out from the side of his cock, and dripping down your ass cheeks.

His come was so warm, and it sent tingles of pleasure through you as you felt the tentacle in your ass begin to fill you like his cock did. You felt warm and sticky, all the other limbs releasing gobs of come all over you. You felt him draw his tongue from your mouth, and he watched as you twitched and thrashed from overstimulation.

His hips slowed down, and then he finally stopped moving altogether, just resting inside of you as he rolled over with you in his arms. You laid on his chest, panting and huffing as his wings slowly wrapped around you, covering you in a warm embrace.

"Stephen..?" You gently asked as you stroked his chest.

"Yes?"

"I missed this so much…" You softly murmured. You felt him kiss the top of your head.

"And I missed you more." He replied as he stroked your shoulder and back with a few tentacles. He had one hand on your ass, the other holding your left hand, his thumb slowly stroking the wedding band that your husband had given to you. You hadn't taken it off since he died.

"Stephen..?" You asked again.

"Yeah?"

"Did you absorb my husband?" You suddenly asked. You felt him still and his hand gripped yours a bit tighter. You heard him swallow, and he took a deep breath.

"Would you be upset if I said yes?" His voice trembled as did his hands. You looked down and noticed the one you were holding had deep dark lines etched into skin.

"No." You sighed happily and nuzzled your face into his chest.

"Then yes."

"Okay. I thought so. I love you." You cooed and kissed his shoulder. He sighed back and held you a bit tighter.

"I love you, too, my dear. Thank you for waiting for me."

"Thank you for coming back to me."

***

@jumpdingus @ashreblogsnow

Tags:

[m-jelly]

Hi jelly! Hope you're doing well!

I would like to request another No Name Levi fanfic!

Reader is a solo artist (Inspo is Violent by Carolesdaughter) who was like an opening singer for the No Name band who were on tour. The band and soloist hang out, Levi develops feelings and Reader develops feelings. You can make it NSFW or SFW either is fine.

(idky but every time i think about Levi in No Name I think Corpse Husband 💀)

If you don't get to this all good take your time. Thank you so much! 🫶

Smoky room

Levi x fem!reader

Modern AU, fluff, romance, confessions, singer reader and singer Levi.

During practice the day before a big show, Levi confronts you and confesses his feelings.

Note: I only know corpse husband you referenced. To others who don't know one or either, just imagine being a singer like a different band or Levi as well, like Muse, system of a down, Paramore, evanescence.

@ladycheesington @levisbrat25 @nyxiieluna @li-anne @galactict3a @youre-ackermine @thebobaprincess @2moth-anon2 @cypidity @nbinairyn @bts-spnlvr12 @darkstarlight82 @emilyyyy-08 @notgoodforlife @demonic-bird

With a little adjustment to your earpiece, you were finally happy with the sound coming through. "Ah, all good now. Sorry everyone, it just was like a robot."

Levi climbed on stage and sat in a little spot. "Can I listen and watch?"

You blushed a bit. "You can."

Levi leaned back and rested on his forearms as he watched you closely as you performed. He felt his body tingle in pure excitement. The way you sang and moved was incredible. As soon as you were done he clapped for you making you giggle.

You put the mic in place and moved over to him as others cheered for you. "Thank you." You crouched in front of him. "How was that?"

Levi sat up. "You were mesmerising. I'm so glad we asked you to join us."

You smiled as your heart fluttered. "I'm glad too."

He blushed a bit and looked away. "So, uh...you single?"

You nibbled your lip. "Yes. You asking me out?"

He got up and cleared his throat. "Was just uh...asking." He cleared his throat and pointed. "I'm going to get changed and warm up before I'm on for a bit."

You sat there pouting a little. "Damn it." You stood up slowly and huffed. "Maybe next time." You made your way to your room, started removing your makeup and slowly changed into comfy clothes. "I thought he liked me..."

Levi felt like shit. He was going to ask you out, but instead, he panicked and ran off. He whined a bit and knew it was now or never because if he didn't, some other guy was just going to swoop in and confess to you.

He shook off his nerves and stormed through backstage and to your room. He shoved your door open and stared at you. The two of you just stared at each other. Levi just clamped up and couldn't believe how cute and pretty you were.

You pulled him into the room and closed the door behind him. "You okay, handsome?"

Levi pressed you against the door making you gasp. "Slap me if you don't want this."

You frowned. "What are you?"

Levi crashed his lips against yours. He tangled his fingers in your hair and pressed his body against yours. The two of you moaned in delight as you finally kissed after a long time of tension building up. The heat and chemistry between the two of you was electrifying.

He pulled back and panted. "I'm in love with you. I want you."

You gripped his shirt and smiled. "Me too. I want you so much. I adore you. I love you."

Levi tilted his head. "My recent love songs are about you."

You linked your arms around his neck. "Mine too. I wrote so many about you."

Levi picked you up and carried you to your makeup desk. "I guess we're just very lovesick, huh?"

"Yep." You purred. "Stay with me for a bit."

"I'd be happy to."

[eccentrcks]

Primis “Tank” Dempsey x Reader

♡ Domestic Headcanons

Warnings ; not much to warn here, it’s just lots of fluff and hints of suggestiveness.

Note ; I finished this sooner than I expected, but I’m happy to get this done sooner. And the motivation I have to write made this easier for me to finish.

Word count ; 1,012.

I personally think Dempsey would be the greatest husband of all time. He’s attentive, devoted, and utterly loyal to his only significant other. He is all there for you physically and emotionally. There isn't a day, or moment, where this marine mistreats you in any way. He is literally husband material.

The two of you typically married at a church with loads of guests that are family members (mostly from his side) and some close friends from the USMC. He once joked that he glued your wedding ring onto your finger after vows were exchanged and rings were given to one another. Although he was actually tempted during preparations.

So many twirls and dips during dancing at the reception. He couldn’t keep his hands off of you for a minute on that special day. Like, someone would need to tug him by the arm off of you if it was necessary for whatever was needed of him much to his obvious dismay– which wasn’t in his personal opinion.

Then there was the honeymoon. Oh man, after Dempsey carried you bridal style to the bedroom like a classic gentleman would do. Man or woman (ain’t no way he’s passing up the opportunity to do this with you), there isn’t a doubt he would still do this gesture just for you.

That honeymoon phase lasted for years, and yes, you did read this correctly. Years. More than other newlyweds did so. It’s just so blissful for you two.

The two of you often bath with each other in that bathtub, with steaming hot water and bubbles, where it’s just simply intimate. He likes to wash you with the sponge and shampoo (and conditioner, don't worry) your hair himself.

He does love it when you wash him up as well. Things might get really wet if you get really touchy.

Let’s be honest, he isn’t exactly skilled in the culinary arts, but he is half-decent and does his best just for you. Breakfast? It’s really simple for him and makes him feel happy to know that he can make his spouse the most important meal of the day. Lunch? Whenever he gets the opportunity, Dempsey will make sandwiches and maybe easy recipe soups that he learnt from his mother. Dinner? Let him cook with you, uhm, sure he can help, but just give him an easy task such as cutting up the vegetables or something. No need for dinnertime to be delayed.

He’ll just end up unexpectedly holding you from behind whenever you’re cooking..

If the marine persists on helping with dessert… kick him out of the kitchen. That man will just end up becoming distracting and make you his dessert instead.

He will buy flowers for you everyday. You’d need so many vases, or start a little garden in the backyard, because he will not stop gifting you these gorgeous plants.

Whenever Dempsey is home, he will likely spend most of the day with you on the couch watching television, usually whatever you prefer, and hold you in his arms during the movie/show.

Arguments don’t tend to last long between you two. Not even twenty-four hours. He will give you space and sleep on the couch downstairs if it upsets you that bad, but is the first to give in with apologies because the guilt eats him alive slowly like maggots would do to a deteriorated corpse.

So he will hold you and place kisses all over your face and neck once he makes it up to you with a bouquet of your favourite flowers in his hands alongside with something you love in the other.

Dempsey prefers to resolve the situation with sweet words and gifts if you’re his spouse. His favourite person. The most beautifulest love of his life.

You’re getting a dog and a cat. He can’t choose one of them and the two of you would go through animal shelters to see which one of two is the one for your household. Welp, let's just say that you ended up getting one dog and two cats. They came in a pair and the marine couldn’t resist leaving the cat’s littermate behind at the shelter all alone so he had to bring them along.

So far they have been great additions to your little family since then.

Dempsey won’t pressure you into the idea of having kids (either having them biologically or adopting), but he will give out subtle hints here and there. He is family oriented after all and is definitely eager to become a dad for sure.

He won’t get overly bummed out if you do not want to have any. Maybe just a little he will, but your choices matter to him more than his own. Either it’s health issues related or you aren’t comfortable with the idea of having children, Dempsey will prioritise you first.

However, if you do decide to have children. He wants around five kids. Yeah, five. Man is willingly to negotiate if you want less than that. The conversation will probably last all night in the bedroom at night time.

Dempsey loves, loves coming home saying “Honey! I’m home!” in that loving tone of his when he walks through the front door.

With his job as a drill instructor, it’s not an easy job as it looks most of the time whenever you’re not in his range, but all of his stress and worries would just easily evaporate once he looks down at the photo of you from his pocket and once he gets home to you for sure.

Expect the two of you to be heading to his parent’s place often. The Dempseys love you and are likely to be the best in-laws since his mother loves spoiling you with her homemade meals and desserts.

He is communicative and wholesomely supportive in your marriage overall. The marine will cherish you in his arms until old age, no one can whisk him away from you. There isn’t a happy ending without you for Tank Dempsey as cheesy that sounds, but it’s true.

Dividers by @saradika

[ruinedbylanadelrey]

In the air, In the Moon

Inspired by My Love Mine All Mine by Mitski

Joel Miller x Ghost!F!Reader

Summary: She was the first to go. Joel is learning to cope without his love. And then...

WC: only 4.6k warnings: 18+, MINORS DNI, age gap (Reader mid 20s, Joel late 50s), bit of canon divergence, MAJOR DEATH (Reader), Reader is called ‘lovey’ by every one, Joel Miller crying a lot, TLOU PART 2 Spoilers, Ellie and Joel angst, Reader has long hair, domestic!Joel, husband!Joel, smut (ghost sex/handjob), suicide due to injury (Reader), hurt/comfort, murder hosue type beat (AHS SEASON 1), joel's suicidal thoughts, fluff, abuse (reader was a victim not form Joel), description of corpse, yooo sarah makes an appearance, i have poor knowledge of medicine, joel is a cat person, a little frank sinatra, religious imagery AN: Let's kick off October with angst, fluff, and smut. I'm sorry for what I wrote. playlist imagery masterlist

'Save who you can save'

He lost his head when Joel first saw you collapsed right outside of Jackson on a patrol trail. He expected someone older not so young and beautiful. You were a fallen angel coming into his life, you arrived alone and sick with the flu. He will never forget the whimpers when he picks up your body burning with a fever. 

"Shh, it's okay, angel, you're gonna get ya' some help," He gently picks up your body, and Tommy helps him get you on Joel's horse, setting up front so he could hold you up. Joel looks at how pale your skin is, the bruises scattered on your hands, and how ill-equipped you were to be out in the bitter winter conditions in Wyoming. 

Tommy and Joel came back with you sick, knocking on heaven's door when they had you rushed to the infirmary; rushed as in, Joel carrying you directly there and grabbing the town's doctors right from his office. 

"Found 'er out on patrol. Now listen here," His southern drawl comes out when he has tunnel vision on getting you well again. 

"You will give her the best medicine, remember I know whatcha got," Joel lets go of the poor man and watches him assess your state. Checking your temperature and finding you new clothes. When the doctor comes back with the set of dry clothes Joel brings him to a halt with a hand to the chest. 

"I want Nurse Cadence to dress her," Joel demands with a huff. The doctor nods and quickly goes to the nurse doing a check on the other patients. Cadence an older woman who was a nurse back before the outbreak. She comes with the set of clothes and a wrinkled smile. Joel nods and steps out of the room waiting for the door to open again. 

When Cadence opened the door, her face was in a frown and her eyes were welling up with tears. 

"She's been abused..." She weeps before wiping away the tears. Joel closed his eyes and bowed his head, he knew how heinous people were. He starts imagining the worst happening with you. Questions start bulleting in his head.

Joel could feel his benevolent side come out when he walked in seeing you asleep with your eyebrows furrowed and mouth agape. The doctor comes back with a wet cloth and drapes it across your forehead. 

"She needs sleep. I'll notify you as soon as she wakes up." Doc walks Joel out of the room to the doors. Joel waited for a moment before stepping back outside to the cold. Winter always made him nauseated and he really could sense it once images of your body in snow being left for dead wouldn't leave his fatal mind.

Winter was brutal, Joel tried to think about Texas and how it would get freezing but never snow and the sun would still come out. When was the last time he saw the sun? It's been cloudy and snowing for so long. He huffs out, his breath dances in the air like a ghost. Just another reminder that he is still kicking and screaming 50 years later. 

Joel would wake up every morning before patrol to head to the infirmary. You wouldn't wake up until 2 days later. You woke drenched in sweat, your chest feeling sticky, and your muscles all over your body just wincing in pain with every move you made. The day that you first woke up, you sat up straight in the bed and hyperventilated. Nurse Cadence had you calm down by breathing with your belly. 

You were shaking after your breathing evened out. Brain fog and general confusion were a mist in your brain. A tall gruff man stood at the doorway with flowers, where could you get flowers in winter? He was tan but fading to pale tan, had salt and pepper hair, and a leather coat that looked so warm. The nurse greeted him with open arms, maybe he isn't going to kill you? Where even are you?

"My love, this is Joel Miller. He was the one who found you at death's door." Nurse Cadence ushers in Joel and takes the flowers from his grasp. Joel's eyes were dancing around your face, taking in how the color of your skin was coming back, your flushed cheeks and nose, doe eyes full of fear. You froze in place, your heart slamming against your chest. 

"Howdy," Joel didn't know what else to do but stick out his hand. You quickly tucked into yourself and held up your hands for defense. You waited a minute before letting yourself look at Joel, he was at the end of the bed with his hands in his pockets.

"I-I'm sorry," Your voice was still horsed from not talking about days on end. 

"It's fine, just wanted to see how you were getting by?" Joel gives a half smile not knowing how to display his relief of you being alive. 

"I'm alive...I don't know how I can ever pay you back for saving m-my life," You bring your knees to your chest and wipe away the onset tears. Yes, you have been sick but he saved you from ever being found by your captor. It's been a long winter just as much as for you as it was for Joel. 

"Sorry, I don't mean to cry in front of you," You cleared your throat and blinked the salt water from your eyes. You giggled and that caused Joel to just fall to the ground and never your side like a guard dog protecting their favorite girl.

That small giggle from your pale pink lips was the butterfly effect to the end of your life and the start of Joel's suicidal thoughts again. But we aren't there yet in the story. 

That small giggle got you to where you were now, about to move outside of Jackson gates with Joel and the 3 kittens you recused. The farmhouse on the hill with a barn adjacent to the house. It was perfect Joel was getting his dreams with a few additions, you, his young beautiful wife, and 3 kittens that he didn't have the heart turn away from when you carried them in the house like a child. 

You were always trying to save others, which has caused you a lot of pain. Finding puppies and kittens on the brink of death, hoping you could cure them with the warmth of your heart. But it was like you were a living and breathing Grim Reaper. But these kittens were more than 4 months old and seemed to be living off mice and different kinds of rodents. 

When Joel asked you to be his love forever, it was a spring day and he took you outside of the walls of Jackson. He wanted to show you an abandoned home with a lot of land. You were excited to see the world again for the first time in a long time.

The hike to the pasture of land with a house that looked small until you got closer it got bigger. White paint chipped on the siding. The roof only missing a few shingles. A beautiful porch that wrapped all around the home. 

Joel watches your eyes grow wide and a smile paints across your face. You giggled and ran up the steps to the porch. Your hands glide along the railing, bumps hitting the ridges of your fingertips.

The giant columns towering over you, imagining having Joel install a hanging planter for the flowers that you love, maybe a few more for vines. You could see the cats liking to sit in the sun in the mornings and just sleep on the porch swing. A whisper of child-like giggles flows through one ear and out the other and a cold chill runs through your body. The hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. 

"Do ya like the place?" Joel comes up behind you, wrapping his strong arms around your waist. You smile and nod trying to not show you were just stunned. 

"I love it," You turn around, and wrap your arms around his neck. Your fingers play with the end of his hair. He looked at you like he was in heaven and never had suffered through anything. The sunlight tinted the white sundress you had on, hugging your curves and complimenting your complex just perfectly. 

"I brought you here because there's different about you and well, my love, I want...I want this til' death do us part," Joel nervously rubs your back, and another chill shudders through your body, skin prickling all over. Maybe it was just hearing Joel saying forever or another set of invisible eyes watching you getting proposed to. 

You met his gaze and just drained from all color, seeing a little girl in the window just smiling at you. Joel watches your eyes flutter closed and you lose all strength in your body. 

"Lovey, are you okay?" Joel holds up your weight in his arms, you shake your head to bring yourself back to reality. Your hands slide down his built arms and intertwine your hands in his. You stand on the balls of your feet to reach his lips. You melt in the taste of mint and coffee on his tongue. 

"Til' death do us part," You whispered against his lips. 

Husband and Wife. Just like that. When you got back in town, Joel surprised you again with a small party at Tommy and Maria's place with Ellie and Dina in tow. You were always awestruck when Joel would pull romantic gestures. Your heart soared even more when Ellie approached and hugged you and kissed you on the cheek. 

"Congratulations, lovey." Ellie tried to sound happy, you could tell she meant it by her eyes screaming excitement even if she and Joel weren't on good terms. 

"Thank you, Ellie." You squeezed her when you brought her hand in yours. Joel nodded and looked away not knowing if he should hug Ellie. Maybe it's okay because this a celebration of Joel and you tying the knot. Ellie drops your hand, stands in front of Joel, and quickly rushes in for a hug. Without thought, Joel wraps his arms around the girl and kisses the top of his head. 

"Thanks, kiddo," Joel whispers to her. You move away from them, hoping they would have a moment to talk but that would be the last time they would ever talk. 

You started to help Joel fix up the house, and that meant getting up just before sunrise and not getting back into town after sunset. Always travel there and back with Joel. Never by yourself. 

"I'll be back a bit after noon, wait for me, lovey," Joel talks to you who was briefly awake to say bye to Joel. You groggily say bye and fall back asleep. He didn't know that you had a plan to take Ellie and Dina to see the progress going with the house. 

When you woke up, it was a race to get out the door and meet Ellie and Dina before they got there. The sun was giving warmth to the earth, morning dew wetting your shoes when you walked through the overgrown grass. Chirping echoing from tree to tree, you loved how the air was crisped and filled up your lungs. 

You stepped into the house and felt a sense of pride bloom in your chest. It was like the world never fell apart, and you and Joel bought a home to make your own. You walked into the kitchen turned the faucet on and saw actual water come through. You bit your lip and smiled at the thought of Joel being knowledgeable and how he still thinks like a contractor (his words). 

Having a man who knows what he is doing brings you such security. You turned off the water and went to the back shed to gather the paint supplies to hopefully lure Ellie and Dina to work with you today. Painting was the thing to do in the home. 

You hummed to yourself and heard a twig break from the woods. Your mind didn't set off an alarm, Joel always told you that this was safe. So that meant you were safe.

Right? He wouldn't let you be in a place that jeopardizes your safety. You quickly gathered the supplies and then went back into the house. Ellie and Dina were at the screen door talking about Jesse. 

"Hi girls," You greeted them and opened the door. They quickly saw the paint buckets and rollers. Dina was more than happy to pick up a brush and start painting the living room. Ellie followed you around like a lost puppy when you poured the paint into the pan. You handed a roller and showed her how to properly paint like the way Joel taught you. 

"He won't be here until later," You said casually to Ellie, the tension in her shoulders relax. You helped Ellie get into rhythm with her painting then you suggested putting on some music, no old country a request by Ellie. So you settled on some 50s and just listened to the jazz and classical mix together and created a dream state. 

Later came sooner than expected, Joel slamming the screen door and stuttering to a close. You jumped and bumped into the record player. The music stopped and Joel's heavy breathing took over the silence. Joel looks at you and only at you, Dina grabs Ellie and they walk out the door quickly. No goodbyes. Just the thuds of their shoes. 

Joel walks up to you and pushes you against the fresh eggshell paint. His breathing fanning your face, never seen him this angry since you first told him about the world you lived in before he picked his snow angel up from the ground 2 winters ago.

"What did I say this morning?" Joel asserts, you opened your mouth but he held up his hand. 

"I said wait for me, lovey," Joel softens together, his tone, and his eyes and he stops grinding his teeth. 

"I wanted to show the girls the house, and they helped us get a start on painting," You smile and him hoping to thaw his soft side more. Just so prettily, he nods and lays a kiss on your forehead. 

"And you were late, it's the end of sunset," You smirked and nodded to the window, casting a deep orange through the windows, he shook his head and a breathy chuckle. You always had to be right. He was late because the patrol Tommy wanted to do, was a bit further out from the original trail. 

"I'm sorry my love, what can I do to make up for it?" Joel leans his arm against the wet paint, you giggle and push him back from the wall. His hand grips your waist and pulls you into him. His hand-painted the clothes you had on. 

"I think you owe me some Frank Sinatra and a dance," You were drunk in love with Joel, it was nice to be with someone who had experienced the world and who knew how to be romantic even if you had brought it out of him. 

'Over and over, I keep going over the world we knew'

Joel pulls you in close, his one arm around your waist, and the other one with your hand in his. Swaying to the beat and when the violins harp and the trumpets blare he would spin you around each time, so effortlessly, feeling his body against yours. The broadness of his frame makes you feel small and so safe. You pressed into him and kissed his jawline while he kept you both swaying

'And the sun and the moon seemed to be ours'

You opened your eyes and could see the moon hovering in the sky and the sun was finally giving a wink before leaving the sky. It felt more right to be together in the moonlight. Joel was sweet talking to you in your ear, making you giggle and smile so much your cheeks started to strain. Joel spins you one last time and dips you back to plant a tender kiss on your lips.

You pull on the collar of his flannel and guide him to the ground. He hovers over you and cradles the back of your head in his hand. Joel tasting your skin, taking in your scent like this was the last time. 

It would be the last time. The last time he would make love to his love. His wife. Joel thought if you got to the home by yourself then you can do it again. You did do it again, but a stray infected had found its way into the property. 

You woke up early and made the plan to have Joel meet you there to work on the fencing while you stayed inside working on decorating with everything from Joel's home in Jackson. You didn't think to bring a gun with you since Joel said there hasn't been infected around in months.

You were trenching through the tall grass trying to make it to the house with snarling falling you. It was like you were running in slow motion through the dense prairie grass. Your mind racing with your feet and tripping, falling down and the infected following your motions. 

Screams scaring the birds away from the trees, and squawking almost intimating your pained cries. You grab the knife stab the infected in the jugular and spray blood across your face. The limped fungus falls in the grass next to you. 

The pain runs through your body, there was the mark of death with tendrils of Cordyceps etching over your veins. The birds echo again your cries, and you see a murder of crows flying away with your screams mimicked in their caws. You crawl to the steps of the porch and drag the pocket knife across your throat. You sputter out blood and it flows out your mouth like molasses and paints the white sundress you know that Joel loves. 

The crows fly over the town, still cawing your screams. Ellie looks up and to see them flying away from the direction of the farmhouse. Her feet were picking up and going to find Joel, he was riding back into town. She was rambling about how you might be in trouble and tears running down her face. Joel was confused trying to catch what was flying out her mouth. 

Ellie gets on her horse and Joel follows behind her. His heart sinks to his stomach, and his heart beats sweat running down his neck. The run-down grass leads right up to the scene. Joel hops off the horse before it stops. He is scrambling for balance.

Ellie gathers the horses and ties them to the tree, comes to see Joel on his achy knees holding you in his arms. Your skin is drained of color and cold to the touch. Eyes glazed over with a light film then dead infected a few feet away. The sun comes out from the cover of the clouds and shines right down you. 

Ellie felt her blood run cold and dropped next to Joel, watching him put pressure on your neck like it would make you comeback. Her eyes danced across your body and saw the bite mark on your left arm. She doesn't say anything but sit in the hot sun. Joel rocks back and forth crying into your hair, smelling the strawberry soap you had used the night before. 

'save who you can save'

Joel spent that night with your body prepared for burial. He stares at the table dressed in flowers surrounding your body, your hair brushed and curled with baby's breath pinned throughout your locks. You saw your body from the living room across from the dining room. Candles burning giving a romantic glow. Joel sits and pours another whiskey. If your dead heart could break again it would've when you watched the tears fall from his eyes. 

You wander next to him, causing the candles to blow out and a cold breeze by him. The blue moonlight shines on your body, and he sits up straight and holds his breath for a second and you quickly light the candles again. You don't want to spook him but to show how you're here and not really gone. Joel sobs out again and rests his head on your cold and stiffened arm. 

You gently a lay kiss on the top of his head, he shakes off the touch and buries his head into the flowers and just thinking about what he should've done. He should've gone with you, he should've built the damn fencing before even starting to work on the home. But he was too excited to start a life with you. Even have a baby with you. 

Joel buried you under the tree and planted flowers around it to mark your grave delicately. He wouldn't dare enter the bedroom, the bed was made up and he could feel your presence when he would open the door and just stare at the smallest things. The lotion bottle that you bought from Cadence in Jackson, rose hip oil and shea butter always making you smell and feel heavenly. He swears it lingers in the air, almost suffocating his lungs. 

Joel slams the door shut every time you saunter to him, taking how his eyes were always bloodshot, his beard was getting unkept which was not like him at all, his hair more grey than before. You want to make yourself known but he isn't ready yet. 

You didn't want to overwhelm him and put him in an early grave. You watch him every day, not leave the house, barely eating, talking to himself about you then start speaking out loud about Ellie not knowing what to do with her. You continued to watch him suffer until you worked up the energy to open a book of poems that you had cherished when Joel gifted to you. 

The book is laid open perfectly on the dining table, Annabel Lee by Edgar Allen Poe. Joel woke that morning and thought he opened the book when he was in a drunken haze the night before. He sits down at the table with a glass of his morning whiskey (what he calls it). 

'But our love it was stronger by far than the love' 

The line was underlined in pencil which laid next to the book and your signature heart that you always added to your notes. That morning Joel poured out the whiskey bottle and settled for water. 

You felt more energy as Joel began to accept your death. You kept up with the poems, Joel never denounced the dead lingering on the earth. He wanted you to be there physically and hold him while he would bury his face in the crook of your neck, tasting the shea butter on his lips when he would lay a sweet kiss right below your ear always earning a sigh from you and smile on your face. 

Joel finally walks into the bedroom and sits on your side of the bed, swearing it was warm like you had been lying there waiting for him to come home. You were there, caressing his thigh like how you always done. He loved it, he basked in your phantom touch.

Joel flutters his eyes shut and moans out, he unzips his jeans and pulls down his underwear, and his hard cock springs out, resting heavily on his stomach. You reach and wrap your hand around him, stroking lightly Joel falls on the bed, letting memories of you and him in bed together. 

He is falling into a dream state when you appear in front of him straddling your lap. You smile and just continue pleasuring him. Joel whimpers thinking his imagination is running wild. Having you in front of him, you fist his cock and feeling the warmth of his skin in your hand once again. 

"Always been so good, lovey," Joel moans, gripping the comforter in his fists, sweat beading at his forehead and an ache in his stomach blossoming to his balls, pulling tight. Your hand moving up and down squeezing him a bit hard when he releases his seed, coating your hand and his lower stomach.

You bring your hand to your mouth, feeling how warm his cum is and the musk and salt hitting your tongue. You moan out, Joel breathes heavily and reaches out to touch your hand but you disappear in front of his eyes. Sleep taking over his eyes and shuts out the bright moonlight. 

Joel sat with poems and read the new poem of the day well night now since Joel slept through the daylight, just absolutely heartbreaking. 

'Remember your hands; how did your lips feel on mine?'- Love, Pablo Neruda. 

The book slams shut and is thrown at the wall, knocking off your favorite painting of horses running in the scene. The candles blow out and the record player starts playing Frank Sinatra. You were trying your best to calm him down. You thought you were helping him to get over your death. Joel stands up, walks over to the record player, and moves tonearm off the record, but you quickly put it back on. The record scratches and continues the song. 

"Lovey, it's so sweet but I can't," Joel speaks out in the open, you wanted to show yourself but again he isn't ready.

But when will he ever be ready? When he's dead?

You bowed your head and just watched him leave the house. This is the first time in months, he's been off the grid from everyone since the day of your burial. He thought he could wander back to the old farmhouse and die there too. Every day hoping death will come. He lost you and lost Ellie. Abandonment took over that night. 

Joel would spend the rest of his days back in Jackson. Keeping an eye on Ellie until his dying breath. The last sight he would see with Ellie with blood flowing through her nose and her pleas falling on deaf ears.

When the world goes dark and cold, the fade-in is just so warm and bright. He is back at the farmhouse, you on the porch swing with the book in your lap wearing the white sundress he had you buried in. He walks through the prairie grass with the sage green button-up and clean pair of dark wash jeans. You shut the book and could see that he was in the best health ever. 

"Joel!" You scream out maybe this isn't real and this is all a bad dream. This is life and you two have a happy ending. 

"I'm here lovey," Joel wasn't crying, he was perfect. Like God just stitched him up in a few places. He sees you. He's here with you...finally. You run to him and he picks you up without the grunt he always makes. Heaven is a place on earth. With Joel and the farmhouse. 

Can the dead mourn the dead? 

You smile and bask in his touch and feeling him in this other side of life. The little girl that was in the house before still peeks around the corner to watch you and Joel find each other once again. 

"Joel, I'm sorry," You started to cry. You have never cried before. The wet tears stream down from your cheeks to your neck, Joel brushes his finger through your hair, looking how beautiful you looked, just a bit more perfect. 

"I'm home forever," He smiles and seals the words with a kiss. Death do us part isn't true when he's back with you in the ground. Joel looks at the house and sees the young girl, and his eyes grow wide when he sees that it was his first love, Sarah waiting for him to notice her. 

You smile a nod to him, the young girl introduced herself to you when you first showed up the house that first night after your death. 

Joel bends down to her height and brings her to his arms, smelling her scent again. That scent he would've moved mountains before. Familiarity comforting him even after death.

[litnerdwrites]

Masterlist

Requests: Open

Worthy - Platonic!Wrath x Daughter!Reader Wrath comes to inform of his daughter that the vampire delegation that would soon arrive. Instead, he finds her spiralling and steps in. ⚠️Canon typical violence, trauma from witnessing canon typical violence, description charred corpses.⚠️

Shattered Reflection - Pride x Wife!Reader You find yourself staggering to yours and your husband's shared room as you descend into a spiral of self loathing. ⚠️Body dysmorphia, mention of self harm, blood, accidental cuts on shattered glass, anxiety, insecurity, mention of sex but no smut.⚠️

Present - Envy x Wife!Reader After returning from a trip, Envy wants nothing more than to see his wife. Unfortunately, she has other plans. Envy should've known his wife couldn't resist an opportunity to play. Mentions of smut but not smut. Mostly fluff.

TBA

Indulge in You - Gluttony x Reader Gluttony's attempts at courting the one he likes have, thus far, ended in failure. Surely this gift will sway her, won't it? ⚠️It's mostly fluff, however, inspiration was taken from the teasers for Throne of Secrets that Kerri Maniscalco posts on her instagram. If you don't wanna be sorta spoiled or know about the teasers, don't read.⚠️

Pet - Gluttony X Reader Gluttony returns from a hunt, expecting to find his fiancé in bed, waiting for him, to reward him for his victorious hunt. Well, she is in bed, at least. Maybe not entierly alone though. ⚠️References to sex but no smut. All pretty cannon typical.⚠️

For Research Purposes - Sloth X OC Sloth needs a favour from Eleanore. For research purposes. ⚠️A couple sexual innuendos but nothing outside canon typical. Also, Eleanore has a bit of a panic attack.⚠️

Clandestine Affairs - Lust x OC (series masterlist)

Speak Now - Lust x OC A oneshot for Prince of Sin week that the Clandestine affairs Series is based off of. ⚠️Almost forced marriage, abuse (father striking his daughter, plus forced fiancé hurting bride), mentioned death of a parent, mentioned canon typical violence.⚠️

Tomorrow- Lust x Reader What does tomorrow hold for Lust and (Y/N)? Well, they have some ideas. (Request). ⚠️Nothing really. This is a fic that appeals to Lust's secret soft side, but there are some canon typical sex references. Nothing out of the ordinary.⚠️

Warmth - Platonic!GreedxNiece!OC Greed gets an unexpected visit from his niece, Euphemia. While this isn't typically uncommon, something about this visit is different from the others.

Want it - Princes x Euphemia Wrath demanded his brothers presence as they try to solve the mystery behind his daughter's current fixation; Demonberry wine. ⚠️Little blood, but just cuts, canon typical threats of violence (threatening people is like, Wrath's hobby), mentions of a child potentially having drunk wine. She never does on page, but the possibility is discussed if that's something that bothers you. Really, it's mostly fluff.⚠️

Headcannons- Euphemia Just some fluffy, cute headcanons for Euphemia and the Princes of Hell.

New Friend- Euphemia Part 2 While visiting House Gluttony, Euphemia goes on a hunt of her own, and makes a new friend. Fluff all around.

[lunarwritesthings]

: ̗̀➛ REQUEST INFORMATION

– Please check my pin to see if requests are open.

– Please put if you want it to be an "x reader" fic or an oc will be used.

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: ̗̀➛ What I will & Won't Write

– I will not write about self-harm, eating disorders, or anything that is in that realm.

– Fluff & angst only. I will not write smut as I don't believe I can write it well.

– Most angst is fine except for anything involving heavy blood or serious topics.

�� Any kind of relationship, such as male x male, male x female, or nonbinary x male/female, is fine.

– I will write about family even if it's not by blood and just by people being a specific family figure.

: ̗̀➛ Who I'll Write For

Wrestlers

– Christian Cage

– Jeff Hardy

– Edge

– Undertaker (all versions)

Musicians and Bands

– Ryan Ross

– Dallon Weeks

– Noah Sebastian

– Corpse Husband

– Andy Biersack

– Gerard Way

– Luke Hemmings

– Ashton Irwin

– Michael Clifford

– Livingston

[aouiaa]

REFLECT ✶ WILL IT HELP, OR HURT YOU?

MASTERLIST !

SYNPHOSIS: When all the leads dried up, Ellie is forced to accept the heart wrenching reality that she’s never gonna see you again. Until two years and half later, the unexpected happens. People don’t come back from the dead so, How did you? SERIES WARNINGS: TLOU AU + Heavy mentions of Death and death itself + Heavy mentions and depictions of violence + Flashbacks (Flashback with E + R are both 19 and in present 21) + Established relationship between (E + R) + Mentions and usage of weapons + Angst (with little comfort) + Mentions of sucidal behavior + Self-deprecation + Depictions of depression + Mentions of Anxiety + Mentions of PTSD + Mentions of grieving + Mentions of survivor’s guilt + Torture sequence + Mentions of blood + Descriptions of corpses + Mention of cannon game violence + Fighting sequences + Mention of stalking + Fluff + Light humor (MORE TO BE ADDED) PARINGS: Ellie Williams x Female!Reader TOTAL WORD COUNT: 13.7k+ (ONGOING PROCESS)

— INDEX

I. TORMENTOR

II. IF I EVER TO LOSE YOU

III. I’D SURELY LOSE MYSELF

IV. ACCEPTANCE?

SERIES TAGLIST: @dyk3ang3l, @elliesprettygirl, @woahshhh, @cinnamonmilf, @ellie-07063, @bready101, @mina-281, @san8ny, @teawithnosugar, @bubbles6813, @me-and-your-husband, @bbglmfao, @syrenada, @maenews, @diddiqueen, @hrtreuptakeinhibitor, @abbyspussyslurper, @elliewilliamsrealwifey, @onlinelesbo, @hsangel64, @blossomt0wer, @skylerwhitwyo, @mcqueeferson, @craz1er4you, @lia-winther, @isitadinosaur, @elliesbitchh, @natashasnoodle, @lillysbigwilly, @millinorrizz, @elliesswearjar, @clittor, @scintiale, @abbysleftbicepp, @ashreblogsnow, @vqxen, @zoehxnji, @a-little-bit-of-everybody, @tphmnv, @elliewilliamgfooc, @whenlostinthedarkness, @ellabssucker, @elliesexual, @moonsofartemiss. ELLIE FICS ONLY: @herelieskrisy, @mikellie, @slaysksmska, @mina-281, @teawithnosugar, @kitkatkittycat111

[takenbyheartstrings]

Burden | corpse x reader

Summary: You and Corpse get into a nasty fight, which ends in broken hearts.

Pairing: Corpse x Fem!reader

Warnings: Swearing, Angst, Fluff

Authors Note: cried, laughed and cried again during this lmao. i just wanna give him a hug 🥺

requests are open!! <3

You groaned loudly, you and Corpse were in a heated fight, his symptoms started to flare, but he didn’t care, and neither did you.

You groaned loudly, your frustration bubbling, “Babe! I don’t care that you don’t wanna take pictures with me, I don’t fucking care that we can’t go outside, I don’t fucking care if I can’t show you off, because I love you.”

“Y/N YOU’RE NOT GETTING IT,” Corpse sighs, “Every fucking day I feel like I’m a burden to you. I feel like you can do so much better than me. BECAUSE YOU CAN. I FEEL LIKE I’M A FUCKING BURDEN.”

“I DON’T WANT BETTER THAN YOU. THERE IS NO BETTER THAN YOU AND YOU ARE NOT A BURDEN.” Pools of clear, salty water filled your eyes.

Corpse groaned, matching your frustration, “I’m just worried that I can’t give you the life you want, and I want you to have better. No, fuck that I need you to have better.”

“What does that mean for us then. I want you and you want me to have better than you.”

“I STILL WANT YOU Y/N, but I can’t fucking live with the fact that I couldn’t give you want you need. That I never can.”

You were in shock and you knew what was coming for the two of you, you just didn’t want to believe it at all and it was so fucked up and terrible and you knew you wouldn’t be able to live without this man. Your anxiety wouldn’t be able to handle that you weren’t with him anymore. Your breath became heavy, as you felt a weight on your heart. Your stomach shrunk and you felt so constricted by yourself. You shook your head at him, from the opposite side of the bed as both of you were on either side.

“We’re over, we’re done. Live a better life without me in it, y/n. As long as you’re happy, I won’t regret it.” Tears ran down the boy’s skin.

You weren’t angry anymore, you were anxious, you were in sobs, “Fine,” Corpse face fell when the word came out of your mouth.

You turned around and opened the closet that held the both of your clothes. Taking off Corpe’s sweater that you were currently wearing, throwing it at him, taking all your clothes out of the closet, opening a duffle bag shoving everything inside of it. Putting on another shirt to cover up the bra that covered your chest. You couldn’t believe he would end things with you. After all you guys have been through.

You convinced him to move out to L.A. when most of your friends had made the same exact transition. You got him to open up to you without even trying in the first two weeks of knowing him. You were the first person he showed his face before he showed the rest of your friends. He said I love you first and was okay with it when you were hesitant about saying it back, even though you said it three days later without even knowing you had. You were both sat in bed and he said “You said it back.” “Said what back?” “I love you. You said it, this morning when you hung up the phone.”.

After throwing the duffle bag over your shoulder, you looked at him once more, “I’ll be back tomorrow to get the rest of my things, my PC, my set up, all of it. You can keep the TV, you can keep everything else, I just need my set up.”

“Done. See you tomorrow.” Corpse sighed, taking a seat on what had been a shared bed, was now his. He couldn’t believe he was sleeping in the king bed the two of you had bought because you were one of the biggest bed hog’s he had ever met. You walked out and he looked down at the f/c coloured bed sheets you had convinced him to let you put on, even though he preferred the black ones, but you let him have the wall behind the two of you black and helped him painted the room. As well as painting the walls of his gaming room black too.

You got into your little Honda Civic, as you drove for around 15 minutes finally reaching Rae’s house. You told yourself you wouldn’t break down in front of her, but you knew that you would. You got out of your car, and closed the door as you walked up to Rae’s front door. Knocking on it, she didn’t answer at first but you looked down at the clock on your phone, noticing that it was 12:00am. Although she might’ve been sleeping, she could’ve been streaming.

So you knocked again, and she opened the door, her bedroom room was lit up from what you could see, and she was streaming. She noticed the duffle bag and let you in, placing a finger to her lips telling you to whisper. Running back to her stream room.

“Well guys! I’m getting tired so, I’m gonna end it here, goodnight!” She said cheerily. Before shutting off her PC and ending the stream walking back out into her living room to see you sitting on the couch. You were in sobs.

“He ended it, Rae, he ended things with me and I can’t br-breath.” You said taking a deep breath as she sat down next to you pulling you close to her. “How am I supposed to go and get my things tomorrow, I can’t even think about him without crying and picturing his smile and hearing his laugh and crying. What hurts even worse is the fact that he didn’t even want to end it, he ended it because he said I could do better. When I can’t get better than him.”

“What makes him say that?” She asks.

“He thinks he’s holding me back. He thinks because he doesn’t show his face online, he doesn’t want to leave the house, he thinks he’s holding me back and he’s not because that’s not what people do when they love eachother, when people love eachother, they walk through life together. They experience things together. We loved eachother.”

“Y/n, it’s gonna be okay, you just need to talk to him, you both clearly still want to be together, so you just need to tell him what you told me - he’s loosing his mind if he’s letting you out of all the people go. So when you go pick up your things, talk to him.”

You nodded, “Yeah. You’re right. I’ll just talk to him.”

Well, talking to him was harder than you thought. You texted him five minutes before you got there to give him a heads up. You walked upto the front door the next morning, seeing a yellow post-it note on the front door.

Pick up your things, text me when you leave.

You sighed, calling Rae, “Rae, can you come help me get my stuff, Corpse isn’t here,,, he left.”

“On my way.” She sighs.

With the two of you getting your set up, it didn’t take long before it was dismantled and in both of your cars. Your pc, mic and monitor and your now broken desk chair in your car, and your desk in Raes.

Gone <3

Was what you texted Corpse after you left. You thought the little heart was cute, but you knew it wasn’t needed and so did you. You didn’t set your stuff up at Rae’s knowing it would only be temporary. You told your fans you were visiting your parents and wouldn’t be streaming for a little bit. Though they knew something was up, you hadn’t responded to any of Corpse’s tweets or hadn’t commented on the fact that he posted another hand pic, usually a cute remark like “that’s one sexy hand ^-^” or something like that would be in the comments.

Every night that week without him, you cried yourself to sleep, every night the next week, you did the same, and the week after that, you did it again. It had been almost a month since you guys had ended things and you still cried. You would keep crying. Corpse knew you were staying with Rae, and made sure to ask her if you were okay. Short answer, Rae told him every time: No.

It was raining one night, fit the mood, as you sat in bed on your laptop watching streams of him play, missing his laugh and his voice. You frequently went back to the stream where he couldn’t do admin swipe, because that was the hardest he had laughed on camera. The hardest he had ever laughed was when you two had fallen off of the bed, when you had surprised him with a kiss. A heavy thump echoed through the house as the both of you fell into a fit of laughter, you had calmed down, but he was still going - couldn’t look at you without bursting into a laughing fit - he tried to stop the laughter, because it was making his stomach hurt like 30,000 knifes, but he couldn’t. That admin swipe didn’t even come close. But it was close enough for you as you cried watching them. You opened your camera roll to which you found lots of photos of him. You cried.

You got up out of Rae’s guest bed. She was streaming so you just shot her a text careful not to give your location away. She shot you a simple text back as you left the house in your little black honda civic, you looked at the little plastic bag he had set up for your gum wrappers and used gum.

Tears ran down your face as the rain followed. You sighed getting out of the car standing in the rain contemplating if you should go and knock on the door or not. You knew he wouldn’t be doing okay. Or maybe he was, but you just knew him too well to know he wouldn’t be hurting.

“Fuck it.” You muttered under your breath.

You walked up to the front door, knocking on it furiously as the porch light turned on. He opened the door. You looked at his face, his eyes were bloodshot red like yours, and you could hear tiny sniffles coming from his nose. You could see the couch behind him had been pulled out into the bed, but there was nobody staying over. He couldn’t sleep in the bed the two of you shared. But you knew you had to give the sappy ass speech because you were both hurting.

“When I started streaming in 2015, I didn’t think it would be like this. Y’know. I knew I’d be meeting people left and right, but I didn’t know I would meet you. Until I did. Then we started to talk outside of the group and streams and, everything else. Then you opened up to me about everything you possibly could and we knew each other for two months. But that felt like years. Then you asked me to come to San Fransisco and thank god i said yes. Then we went on two dates on your balcony and they were perfect, and thennnn you asked me to be your girlfriend and of course I said yes. One year later, I convince you to move to L.A. with me, you say yes. We move here, buy a house, everything was perfect. Two years later, I’m sitting in bed for one month, crying over you, because we both want each other, you just wanna give me better. But that’s not how it works. How it works is we go through life together and I’m fine waiting for you, because I can’t live without you. I can’t function without you and people who love eachother go through life together and we loved eachother. I still love you.” By the end of it, your words were unintelligible to anyone but him.

He just looked at you, the same tears running down his face as you, he sighs of relief, “Thank fuck. I tried to call you everyday, but I couldn’t. Not after I was a coward like that. It was so fucking shitty of me to do that to you - I just wanted you to have better. I needed you to have better.” He cried as you pulled him close, your foreheads touching.

“It’s okay,” You said hugging his head.

“Please take me back, please.” He choked.

Your foreheads touched, “Of course I’ll take you back, I need you back.”

Your soft lips pressed onto his as you both smiled against it. You could taste the salty water between your lips. Although Corpse’s eyes were now dried. He smiled down at you pulling you back into a hug. Rae texted you as you heard the familiar ding of your phone.

Pulling away from Corpse and pulling your phone out, a screenshot of both you and Corpse’s bitmoji’s showed up on Rae’s snap maps. A message sat underneath it.

this you? 🤭

You chuckled showing Corpse as he let out a laugh with you.

yeah SDFJHDKFSJDNG spending the night here :)

i knew you guys could get through this! see you tomorrow, come pick up your shit 😐

SDJFKDJF all jokes aside - thank you so much Rae, i wouldn’t have been okay without you. i hope i wasn’t a burden on you.

of course you weren’t! now remember, i’ll see you tomorrow 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

So that night, you lay in your bed with your boyfriend. Your boyfriend. God, it felt nice to say that again. It was warm and soft and you liked the way his chest fell up and down as you lay on it. His strong arms around you. Careful never to let you go again.

People don’t believe in soulmates, but you knew you had found yours, as when you thought he was asleep, he intertwined your fingers together, as you both fell asleep entangled in between each other.

[domxmarvel]

All morning

Masterlist

Pairing: Corpse husband x Gender neutral!Reader       

Words:200

Today was one of the few times you woke up before Corpse,usually he'd be up all night if you didn't force him to go to bed. It was never easy but waking up with him in your arms was worth it,he was laying on top of you,his face buried in your neck and his breath ticking your skin. You wrapped one arm around him,running the other through his hair. You were gonna wait to wake him up but soon felt his lips on your neck,trailing kisses up to your jawline and cheek. 

"Did you sleep well?" You asked,still running your hand through his hair. 

"Yeah,thanks to you" He wrapped his arms around you,putting one of his legs around yours,so you wouldn't be able to get up. He did this a lot when he didn't want you to leave just yet. 

"If you wanted more cuddles you could've just asked,you don't have to trap me" You laughed,pulling him closer to. "I'm not leaving you,we can stay here as long as you want" 

"I love you" He whispered so quickly you barely heard him,you whispered back. 

"I love you too"