#long story short i love him to the moon and back

[yourdicc]

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

PREY

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

SYNOPSIS: There’s blood on your hands again.

WORDCOUNT: 16.8k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transferable down to the saliva of one entering your bloodstream.

You must never get within the beast’s sights. 

—

There’s blood on your hands again. 

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

Howls.

Howls.

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

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

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

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

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

It never works.

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

Shapeshifter.

Demon spawn.

Werewolf.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who had you killed this time?

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

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

“Get the dogs on it!” 

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

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

The hounds are afraid of you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re going to make it hurt.

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

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

Death would be better than this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was something…off.

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

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

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

It could never be easy, could it?

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare, unable to speak as your fingers twitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the hunch he had was too important to ignore. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first thing you do is vomit. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breath hitched, you clench your trembling jaw tight. 

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

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

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

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

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

Knowledge and company. Understanding and a horrible fellowship. 

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

He wastes no time.

“Who bloody bit you?” 

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

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

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

“When?”

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

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

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

The blood and the bolt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A great gray wolf with blue eyes…

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

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

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

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

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

So why had he talked to you?

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

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

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

—

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

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

Blankets being shuffled over your clothed body when you shiver. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You just blink, mouth slightly open. 

“Where…am I?” 

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

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

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

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

They’d been re-applied recently, too. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The furs are warm. 

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

Who would suspect a werewolf to own sheep?

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

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

There are runes written on it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking around once more, your brows furrowed tightly. 

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

Why were you still alive?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you huff. “Not really.”

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

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

You limp forward and sit in the chair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A long nothingness ensues. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

The Hunter was a strange beast.

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

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

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

No livestock.

No bodies. 

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

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

Studying it now, the contents were a dark fascination. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face heats.

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

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

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

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

Comparable things, really. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Money?” You frown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

The full moon was tomorrow. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

But…that was his job, wasn’t it? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question makes you double-take.

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

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

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

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

“I kept sheep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But his hands had been kind to you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Come morning, you already feel wrong.

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

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

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

At noon, he tries to suggest eating.

“Hungry?” Ghost asks. 

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

Brown eyes glint. “Just one bite?” 

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

Whispers dance in the shell of your ears. 

I’m here.

I’m here.

I’m here.

“Go away,” you whisper quickly to them. 

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

Your eyes widen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m waiting. 

Find me.

Find me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, he was real. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything,” the Hunter instantly says. 

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

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

There is companionship in broken things.

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

Find me. 

Find me.

Find me.

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

Your bullet, you want your silver bullet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

A white beast prowls the forest. 

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

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

Find me.

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

I’m waiting.

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

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

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

Gunpowder. 

Leather.

Whiskey.

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

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

A far-off howl leaves your frame freezing.

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

You were being summoned. 

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

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

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

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

Like pure white spikes. 

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

I’ll find you.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rain would wash away the tracks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your tracks end here.

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

A low snarl sets his hair on end. 

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

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

Ghost only watches, eyes a mystery. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ghost watches, and he waits. 

He can’t do it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can’t get a good shot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The eyes that lock on him are not yours. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too much.

Brown eyes crease, darting a look down. 

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

He can see the conflict; the internal fight. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Gunpowder. 

“What did I—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah,” he grumbles. “Forgot. Here.”

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

“Better, Little Wolf?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t like you could protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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@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

[ellecdc]

Baaaaabe 😫

Ive been sick for the last couple days, and as always, that first day was horrible. Ive had my brain legit decide it wants to inflate bigger than my skull capacity (long story short, pregnancy 🫡) and i got to re-experience that feeling for the first 12 hours 💀

BUT i came back and i was sooo excited for your updates!! They were soo good (please tell me theres a part 2 to that angst....pls 🥺) And i love our discussions in the comments 🫶

I do have another request though if you have the time love. Another possessive!wolfstar buuuttt..... make reader Jamie's sister (twins?)!! Its troublesome enough for James to keep Sirius' hands to himself, but full moon Rem?? He's a brick wall. Like somethings happening between the 2 and Jamie is chasing reader, then she spots Rem and hides behind him. James tries to reach for her and Rem is just kinda like "???? Excuse me, thats mine. Dont touch. James Fleamont Potter. DONT. TOUCH." without even knowing whats going on. James is incredulous (because thats HIS sister) and Siri is chuckling but it looks like Rem might actually bite Jamie's hand off so he moves between them to seperate them but Rem is also like "ExCuSe YOU??? Also mine. *to siri* dont touch him. *to James* dont touch them or you might not have all your fingers when you wake up!!"

And just the repercussions of this where James isnt allowed alone with either until a couple days passed the 🌕

Hope youre looking after yourself darling 🩵

I love James' sister trope - something about it screams fluff and perhaps a little angst but just in all the best ways. I would imagine his sister to be so much like him: mischievous, funny, and full of love. Thanks for requesting!!!

poly!wolfstar x potter sister!reader

There were quite a few perks that came along with being James Potter's twin sister. One said perk was having a built-in best friend from the moment you came into the world. Another was that whilst you were attending school, you had the benefit of no one being willing to mess with you on account of the company you kept - namely, your brother and his infamous friends who called themselves The Marauders.

What being James Potter's twin sister couldn't protect you from? James Potter.

What could protect you from being James Potter's twin sister? Being the girlfriend of Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.

You and James were leaving Care of Magical Creatures together, heading to meet up with Remus and Sirius near the Greenhouses when one Lily Evans walked by - graciously bestowing James the time of day for quite possibly the first time ever - when you decided that this was the perfect pranking opportunity.

You really couldn't be blamed for what happened next: it truly was a gift bestowed upon you by the great pranking gods, and who were you to deny it?

"Hello, Potter." Lily said, causing James to gasp dramatically.

"Hello, Lily! Beautiful day out today, innit?"

Lily couldn't help but snicker at the sickeningly wide grin that took over James' face.

"Oi, Jamie. I forgot to tell you: mum sent that rash cream you were asking for. She said to remind you it's only safe to put around your anus, not in it." You proclaimed loudly, pretending to read from a 'letter' your mother had sent.

The courtyard became incredibly quiet before what you recognized to be Barty Crouch Junior's laugh echoed the space, triggering the snickering of all those present.

"You are so dead!" James sneered and you didn't hesitate to take off in a sprint - knowing your brother was a mere few paces behind you.

"You slithering little snake! She finally starts coming around - are you kidding me!?" He shouted as you swerved between bodies standing in your way whilst he just barrelled right through them.

Suddenly, you saw salvation in the form of one Remus John Lupin.

Now, granted, Remus didn't always protect you from your squabbles with James. Part of the reason for that was because half of the time you sort of deserved it (much like today), and the other part was that he claimed he didn't know what proper protocol was in sibling relationships on account of him being an only child. Sirius, a brother himself, had no such qualms and always took your side.

However, you knew that the full moon was in a mere two more sleeps, meaning Remus was at his most protective (read: possessive) which did not distinguish James Potter as friend, sibling, nor pack.

Right now: James Potter was only a threat.

And, let's be honest, being James Potter's twin sister, and a girlfriend to Remus Lupin and Sirius black also meant you were mischievous as hell. So you had no trouble using this to your utmost advantage.

You squeaked in terror as you slid behind Remus' lanky frame a moment before James - the bastard - slammed into his form and all but bounced off of Remus. James was admittedly more muscular that Remus, but Remus' height and werewolf strength left him towering above James as the dumb sod picked himself up off the ground.

"What in the buggering hell is going on?" He spat at James as one of his arms wrapped behind him, shielding you from your fuming brother.

"That sneaky little witch just embarrassed me in front of Lily!" James barked, looking like he was still trying to figure out how to get around Remus in order to strangle you.

"Please," Sirius drawled as he walked over casually, "like you need any help in that department Prongs."

You tried to hide your snicker, but from Remus' glance at you through the corner of his eye, you knew he caught it.

"She told the entire courtyard I needed cream for a rash on my anus!"

Sirius doubled over in laughter and you preened when you noticed Remus let out a soft chuckle himself.

"It's not sodding funny you wanker! Lily spoke to me first today! I'm going to kill you!" James snarled, moving his attention from Sirius to you.

As James stepped forward menacingly, Remus grabbed the collar of his shirt. "Prongs, enough." He barked.

Sirius was still laughing when he moved to stand between Remus and James, releasing James' shirt from Remus' fist.

"Okay, down boy." Sirius snarked, patting James' shoulder consolingly.

"Oh, sod off." James muttered, elbowing Sirius as he moved to step away.

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding and tried to even out your breathing; lungs still burning from your run.

"You okay, dove?" Remus asked you so gently as he bent down to make eye contact with you. His face screamed love, attentiveness, and care, making you feel slightly guilty for having shoved him in the middle of your tom foolery.

"I'm fine, Moons. Sorry for causing trouble." You answered solemnly.

His face picked up slightly at your words as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. "You wouldn't be you if you weren't causing trouble, love."

Your tender moment was interrupted by a yelp, causing the two of you to turn only to notice James and Sirius wrestling. James seemed to have gotten Sirius into a headlock, and the sod wasn't willing to tap out - still kicking and clawing at James in anyway he could.

"Oi!" Remus shouted as he plucked Sirius out of James' grasp and shoved him in the direction of the castle. James used his momentary distraction as an opportunity to set his sights back on you as he lunged, tackling you to the ground.

"Fuckin' hell Jamie! You weight a tonne!" You shouted, kneeing him in the gut. James doubled over and rolled onto his side in the fetal position.

You didn't even get a chance to right yourself before you were thrown over Remus' shoulder who was still shouting at Sirius to "get back to the dorm. The both of you are staying within my sights for the next foreseeable future" as you all left James with the wind knocked out of him, keeled over on the castle grounds.

[frogchiro]

Beauty is in the eye of The Beholder

Author's note: My first kinktober entry!! Yay! We're staring with a new-ish concept so I hope you like it!

Also I apologize for the short story but I was moving into my dorm for uni today and it literally took all day so I apologize in advance :((

Warnings: slight nsfw, reader is female, general creepyness, whatever König is (human or not) isn't explicitly specified but he does some unnerving/possibly uncomfortable stuff like stalking so keep it in mind, mentioned death but nothing explicit.

The almost suffocating warmth coming from behind you is almost too much. Almost. However considering the events of the day you guess that it could be called comfortable to be cuddled and nuzzled by König, your colonel, your superior and...well, mate as he calls it. It can be sometimes tricky to hear him, for a man that size he's unnervingly silent and stealthy and his voice is low and quiet, almost whispery, not to mention that König just doesn't talk much so to hear him rasp that one word, 'mate', in your direction is a feat in itself.

While at first you were terrified of the enormous male due to all the stated reasons something about him was equally unnerving and yet alluring, like an invisible pull towards him.

At first you thought you were going crazy, everywhere you went you saw the tall, lean figure of the colonel doing nothing but just...watching you. His bloodshot eyes stared at you without ever blinking as you laid a USB stick with data you managed to hack with a tremble in your hands, your eyes not daring to meet his. Another such instance was when he almost scared you to death in an empty hallway at night when you just wanted to get a quick midnight snack from the kitchen and just barely held in a scream when you noticed König standing in a dark corner, silent and static like always, his head wasn't even moving under his cowl except for his eyes which followed you as you were scuttling and whispering shaky excuses.

You were KorTac's newest asset, a skilled hacker and yet many soldiers underestimated you; you guess you can't really blame them, you're only in your early twenties and your soft build isn't really military-esque so you suppose you kinda look a little mismatched, but that doesn't excuse what people were whispering behind your back. Not all of them, not even the majority as you were considered friendly and overall harmless, and yet these few whispered sneers cut deep into your self esteem which eventually led you into the moment you were now in.

You were laying under a thick blanket with König plastered against your back, your quiet sniffles the only thing that disturbed the otherwise quiet room. You felt bad that you were taking up König's time, after all as a colonel he surely had better things to do than lay around with his 'mate' and comfort her after some asshole insulted her although a small, selfish part of you was over the moon with happiness that the huge male behind you was cuddling and comforting you so sweetly despite not muttering anything besides the occasional nuzzle and a raspy 'pretty...soft...mine'.

Turning around, you smiled tiredly at the man beside you, his wide blue eyes never blinking as they continued to stare at you with the devotion and love someone may only give their god and yet here you are, loved and cherished by this huge man, a monster many call him, a merciless goliath that kills and destroys everything in his path like a god of war but you know better. König's huge hands ran up and down your soft sides, lightly grazing your belly and finally his large, warm hands slipped under your pajama shirt and up to your breast where he squeezed lightly, pinching at your nipple.

"König...Please I-", your pleading for...whatever were quickly cut short when the long haired male leaned in with a purr deep in his chest and nuzzled his hooked nose against your cheek, scarred lips making tiny movements as if kissing you making you giggle wetly, your former awful mood lifting, instead being replaced by a warm feeling of love and pleasure as the big male above you kept nuzzling and kissing you insistently, his hand working your sensitive breasts and slipping down to your pants to finger at your clit making you moan out.

Unbeknownst to you, König already had a plan in his mind. A plan he started to make the moment his sensitive ears caught your distressed sniffles making a concerned whine come up from his chest and the moment he saw you, he could clearly see right through you. Someone hurt you. S̷̙̭̦̜͚̑͝͝o̷̹̺͓͙̭̍̚ͅͅm̸͕̹͖̩̰͝e̸̤͖̞̯̍̂̋̚͜o̷̝̫͎̬͎̟̲̦̞̍̆̿̀̀͛̐ņ̴̧͉̭̪̣̖͆̉̅̀e̵̜̜̪̯͛͑́͘ ̶͎̣̱͎̹̻͍̥̔́͝h̵̙̰͊̈́̑͛̌̚u̷͉̝̤̾̆͌̂̓̀̏̕r̸̛̞̘͉̦͙͈͎̫̩͒͊͗̓́͝t̶̯̝͎̮͕̩̹̀̍ ̷̧̨͔̮͉͇͊͂̏͌̆̅͠y̸̡̛͕͉̖͈͗̿̅ơ̷̢͖̼͉͚͔͊̍̊̂̈ͅŭ̷̦͔͚̈́̊̚. And now he needed to know who. Ah. It was Gavin huh. That overly confident, cocksure rookie who thought that the military was rainbow and fucking sunshine, shaded glasses, cool uniforms, huge expensive cars and women to fuck left and right.

He suspected that that prick made some unwanted advances towards you and the moment you rejected him it was 180 and he was nitpicking everything you did or even how you looked. König knew he was gonna be a problem from the moment he laid eyes on him and now he though it funny to make his mate cry?

You know what they say: beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Him being the mentioned beholder and König isn't known to be the most benevolent person...If someone doesn't appreciate your beauty of a goddess, why would they need their eyes?

[moonvyx]

𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦 - 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘶𝘴 𝘭𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘯

THIS STORY IS MADE BY ME, AVTIAGON, FROM WATTPAD

lowercase intended

tw: jealous remus, thoughts of cheating, teasing

requested by iluvthearcticmonkeys (from wattpad)

narrator's pov

remus was going through his prefect rounds when he heard voices by the library.

"thanks again, n/n."

"n/n?" remus thought in confusion as he stopped walking.

"it's no problem, amos. i'm glad to help," remus then realized it was y/n and her hufflepuff friend, amos diggory.

he didn't put much thought into it until he realized that it was way past curfew. what were they doing out so late at night?

remus was about to step out of where he was until he heard amos again.

"could you help me again tomorrow?" she nodded, "of course! same time?"

"same time."

then, both left.

the next day during breakfast, remus sat with his friends like any other day. but instead of him saying his sarcastic remarks, he was silent.

of course, this didn't go unnoticed by his friends. james nudged remus, "you alright, moony?" but he got no reply.

"remus?' sirius asked, waving a hand in front of his face. but he remained still.

peter sighed, "what's he got in his mind now?"

and because of that one statement, remus pointed towards the two, "them."

the marauders looked at where he was pointing. and there they were, remus' sweet girlfriend and her friend amos, sitting together laughing.

"i don't get it," peter says as he looks back at remus, 'what's up with them?"

james snickered, "well, someone's jealous."

"what?"

"moony over here is jealous over amos diggory!" sirius laughed as remus smacked his head for saying it out loud, "shut it, you two. i'm not jealous."

"i call bull," peter says.

" 's alright, moons. she still loves you," sirius tries to pat his back but gets his hand slapped away, "for the last time, i am not jealous!" remus exclaims, "i just don't like how close they are."

"j-" the friend group bursts out laughing after remus once again smacks the back of sirius' head, "my hair!" sirius screams, "do you know how long it took for me to-"

as the two were bickering, james made eye contact with y/n.

the girl smiled and waved. james returned the smile but tilted his head towards his friends who were still fighting.

y/n stifled a laugh and excused herself from her conversation with her hufflepuff friend.

"no, you don't understand because you have short hair. not long and luxur-"

"oh hush, black," a voice interrupts, "move aside. i want to talk to my boyfriend," y/n playfully pushes sirius aside, "even though your little argument's entertaining, i need to see remus."

remus' grumpy attitude disappeared and was replaced with adoration.

"aw look at him! all red and flustered by future mrs. lupin," james teases.

"what's wrong?" y/n pushes remus' hair out of his face, "i know you and sirius bicker a lot but not this early."

he hides his face on her shoulders, "nothin' for you to worry about."

"lies, moony here is jealous," peter says.

remus gives him a look as y/n's lips form into a grin, "oh really? and what exactly is mr. lupin jealous of?"

"the real question is, who," sirius and james gave each other a high five.

"nothing and no one."

"oh come on, rem. you can tell me."

"it's nothing, not a big deal. jus' bug off," he grumbles.

"well that's not how you speak to your missus."

remus sighs, "fine," he lifts his head up, "i am jealous," he looks away.

"because?" her index finger turns his head back to her, "because- because i don't like how close you and diggory are."

remus was embarrassed, but y/n found this cute. remus wasn't the one to be jealous.

she chuckles, "oh, rem. you have nothing to worry about. i was only helping amos with some schoolwork."

"are you sure?"

"are you doubting me?" he shakes his head, "no."

"do you trust me?" he nods, "with all my being."

"then you really have nothing to worry about," she pecks his lips, "okay?" he nods once again, "okay."

y/n kisses his lips again and remus responds with another kiss, holding her hands.

"ew, barf."

"quiet, prongs."

"you can only make comments when you get lily to go out with you."

[hanlimz]

[midnight thoughts: enha + late night love]

synopsis: late night scenarios with enha :,) pairing: ot7 x gn!reader genre/warnings: soft soft soft / none that i know of! wc: ~0.8k a/n: very short return before my break ends! so sorry i’ve kept everyone waiting (;´༎ຶД༎ຶ`) i’ve had writer’s block for ages now so this took a lot out of me :// / i hope you all enjoy tho, pls tell me what you think! (sunjaywon’s r my faves but i love hee’s too)

heeseung never lets you close your eyes before he receives his good night kiss. the cool, night air rustles the leaves to create a midnight symphony while his voice accompanies their song. melodious and gentle, the symphony lulls you into a cloudy, fatigued daze. exhaustion seeps into the marrow of your bones, and you’re about the give into its insistence when heeseung whispers your name. it’s quiet and sweet and ever so slightly desperate. there’s a plea in his beautiful, brown eyes; kiss me before you go, they say. you shoot him a dazzling smile, and heeseung falls asleep with the taste of you on his lips.

jongseong adores the fact that you save a spot for him in the bed. tending to leave early and come home late, he always tells you not to wait up for him, so he doesn’t mind when he finds you sleeping. in fact, he prefers it. as the warm air envelops his body and he rids himself of his work clothes, jongseong slips under the covers and slots himself against your body in the space you left for him. the choice is unconscious; as is the way your hands reach for him through slumber, but he appreciates it nevertheless. before submitting to sleep, he presses countless kisses to the palms of your hands. holding them to his heart, jongseong hopes you can feel how it beats for you.

jake is never not cuddled into your side, listening to the rhythmic beating of your heart. ever the romantic, he weaves the measured thumping into a poem of love, of longing, of devotion. jake counts until his brain becomes muddled with thoughts of you; the joy you bring to his life, the way your smile manages to warm his heart, your endless adoration and care for him. as your body thrums beneath the weight of his, jake feels more alive than ever. your fingers trace the peaks and valleys of his soft face, pausing when you get to his plump lips to commit them to memory. it is in quiet moments like these that jake realizes you are his forever.

sunghoon finds the way you drool a bit in your sleep incredibly endearing. though he curses this wall of restlessness that prevents him from the same slumber you partake in, he is thankful for you. as the moon streams in from the blinds, the light illuminates a peculiarly charming puddle that has collected at the base of your pillow. it should be gross, and he should turn up his nose at you; but, sunghoon can’t find even a modicum of distaste in his mind. instead, he swipes at the stream falling from your mouth and giggles to himself. craning his neck, sunghoon places a tender kiss on your forehead before closing his eyes and settling back in. no matter what, it says, i love you all the same.

sunoo talks your ear off before the familiar wave of exhaustion creeps up on him. by the time his voice grows tired and his eyelids become heavy, he has split your sides with peals of uncontrollable laughter. the two of you have swapped more stories and shared more kisses than you think you ever have, and sunoo doesn’t want to give in. sleep threatens to overtake him, and he fights for as long as he can. it isn’t until you caress his cheek with a soft hand and whisper an ‘i love you’ that he closes his weary eyes. sunoo falls asleep with the ghost of a smile of his lips and the promise of tomorrow in his heart.

jungwon falls asleep to the feeling of your fingers running through his hair. from the sighs escaping his bitten lips to all the tension he carries in his broad shoulders, you know it has been a hard day. upon seeing your open arms, jungwon falls into them with a huff; tears threaten to spill from his pretty, round eyes as he feels your muscles ripple against his. silent and warm, your lover cherishes you like diamonds and keeps you like a promise. as the tips of your fingers traces patterns along the nape of his neck and he slips into his dreams, jungwon lets you care for him, and you let him know he is loved.

riki won’t let you get up after you’ve chosen to lie down with him. with his long limbs and deceptively lean frame, it’s a game where he always manages to have the upper hand. you don’t mind, however, because riki is soft; he is gentle and kind and good. the way in which he envelops your body makes you feel safe. his touch is warm like the tender sunrise of a spring day, and his voice is enchanting as it mimics that of a summer breeze—thick and husky, but not heavy. riki won’t let you get up because, deep down, he’s afraid you will disappear. so, you hold him tighter and hope he knows that you would never leave.

[ateezscupid]

im begging for more sub!mingi 🙏🙏🙏

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬. ♡

warnings ─ medieval au, vamp!mingi, human/princess!fem reader, descriptions of drinking/eating blood, forbidden love, mingi is super tall (like 7'0 at best because why not? sorry for my super short readers LOL) and reader is shorter than him, SIZE DIFFERENCE, mingi immediately falls in love with reader

tags ─ @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @starillusion13 @mingitheskzstan @jeonride @byuntrash101

m.list ┃ nsfw warnings under the cut.

warnings ─ switch (dom leaning) fem!reader, switch (sub leaning)!mingi, unprotected sex (don't do this, especially with some random vampire), handjob, praise kink (m & f), creampie, miss kink, hickeys

Desperate for blood in his system, Mingi set out to the forest in search of his meal. It was a night like any other, as the moon cast an ethereal glow upon the dark ancient forest. Being alone for many centuries will do something to a vampire, and for Mingi, it made him extremely hungry. His hunger for blood and human touch consumed him. His tan, starving body ached with each step he took, ached with the desire to feel the warmth of a living being against his cold, immortal skin.

And then, he heard it; the sound of frantic footsteps approaching, growing louder with each passing moment. Mingi hid behind a tree thinking it was another vampire or some animal, but it turned out to be you. A lost princess running through the woods trying to find safety.

You fled from your palace after having heard rumors of an impending arranged marriage. You didn't want to marry a man you didn't know anything about. You weren't even attracted to him. Tears streaked down your delicate cheeks as you stumbled through the woods, desperate to find some sort of freedom and escape the fate that awaited you. As you emerged from behind a large oak tree, you went behind another tree, finding yourself face-to-face with Mingi, his piercing red eyes fixed upon you.

Despite your initial fear, there was something about Mingi that interested you. He was unlike any man you had ever met, his otherwordly beauty captivating you. Also, he was super fucking tall. You liked how strong he looked.

"Who are you?" you whisper, your voice shaking with a mixture of awe and fear.

Mingi steps forward with graceful movements despite his almost emaciated frame. "I'm Mingi," he said, voice smooth as silk. It was like dark chocolate and honey mixed together. "I could smell you from the moment you entered the forest. Dear princess, I sense you need...companionship?" He closed the distance between you two, the air between you crackling with an unspoken desire.

He spoke so elegantly. Better than any man you've ever met. You hesitated, your heart racing. You've heard so many stories of vampires, creatures who drank the blood of the living and preyed upon the weak and innocent. As intimidating as Mingi looked, you weren't scared. He made you feel safe, despite the danger you knew you were in. You take a shaky breath and nod.

"May I know your name?" he asks, hand ever so gently grazing your cheek. You tense up and nod.

"Y/N,"

"Such a pretty name, miss." His hands move down to your neck, feeling your soft skin. As he moved closer, his fangs elongated, his breath warm against your neck. He hesitates for a moment before leaning down and gently biting down on your neck, drawing your blood into his mouth. You didn't move. You grabbed onto his forearm and dug your nails into his skin, whimpering but ultimately liking it.

You gasp, overwhelmed by the rush of pleasure and pain coursing through your veins. The sensations are unlike anything you've ever experienced, and despite your fear, you find yourself unable to resist the primal urge to feel more of it.

Your blood flowed freely into Mingi's mouth, and he drank deeply, his fangs tearing through your delicate skin. The fear of turning and becoming a vampire was long gone. You moaned softly, arching your back as the sensation became almost too much. You thought being bitten by a vampire would hurt, but this didn't hurt at all. If anything it felt good. Mingi pulled back slightly, eyes wide with surprise and pleasure. He didn't expect you to respond in such a way.

You reach up, running your fingers through his long, platinum-blonde hair. "You're not like the vampires they speak of," you whisper, your voice barely audible.

"You're different." you smile. Mingi chuckles darkly, his fangs still embedded in your neck. He pulls back slightly, mumbling against her neck.

"Perhaps," he voice, voice low and seductive. "I am." And with that, he sunk his fangs back into your neck, pulling you closer while doing so, your bodies pressing tightly together.

As he feasts on your blood, his strength begins to return, his body literally growing in front of your very eyes. He felt a newfound vigor coursing through his veins. He retracts his fangs and pulls away from your neck, licking the blood from his lips.

Sex. That's, quite literally, the only thing on your mind at the moment. Your eyes were glazed over with desire, and you reached out to place your hand on his collarbone, running your fingers down his chest. Mingi gasps at the contact, tan cheeks flushed pink. He had not expected this from you. You were a damn princess. It was incredibly inappropriate what you were doing, yet you didn't seem to care. Your royal status didn't mean anything to you now.

As you continue to explore his body, he whines softly, the sensation overwhelming his senses. He moans softly, the sound echoing through the trees. He was so desperate for her touch now. He needed it. He'd do anything for you to please him.

Your fingers dance across his chest, teasing the skin underneath his top before dipping lower, tracing the muscles of his abdomen through the thin fabric of his shirt. He shudders with pleasure, his eyes closed tightly as he focusses on the feeling of your touch. It's been so long he's experienced remotely close to this. It can't end. Not now.

As you continued your teasing, you reached even lower, fingertips brushing against the cloth that covered his hips. You look up, asking for permission without actually saying anything and he nods. He groans, his body tense with anticipation. He knows what you're about to do, he feels more alive than he has in centuries.

For a moment you hesitate. Do you really want to do this to a man you just met? This wouldn't be your first time, but it would be your first with a vampire. What would everyone think of you when they realize you hooked up with a random, hungry vampire? Well, they wouldn't just randomly find out, and you were sure he wouldn't tell anybody. You slowly pull his pants down, now palming his erection through his underwear.

His breath catches in his throat as you pull his throbbing cock out of his underwear. Hard and aching in your hand. Your eyes widen in surprise at how big he is, but you don't pull away, keeping delicate fingers wrapped around him and beginning to stroke. The sensation is almost too much to bear; he's never felt anything so good, so right. Having a human touch him in places like this drove him crazy.

Right now, you were back against the tree with him leaning over you, droopy eyes examining your facial features while trying to control his own expressions. With every stroke of your hand, every caress of your fingers, he feels more and more alive. Your touch is like magic to him, as if you have the power to bring him back to life.

"You're so beautiful," you whisper, fingers never slowing as they stroke him. He reaches down and cups your face in his hands, kissing you passionately. To him, your lips tasted like candy. He felt the softness of your breasts pressing against him. He groaned into the kiss, his hips bucking slightly as you continued to stroke him. He wants more of you. All of you.

"Come here," Slowly, he pulls away from the kiss with heavy breathing. Switching positions so his back was against the tree. He slides down the tree, now sitting down. You get on the ground with him and he pulls you into his lap. You straddle him, legs wrapping around his waist, and lean forward, your breasts brushing against his chest.

You bunch up your dress, Mingi assisting you by grabbing the bottom part of your dress and simply ripping it in half, also ripping your undergarments and pushing your panties to the side. For a split second you were mad at Mingi for destroying your dress which was priceless, but the thought dissolved in your mind when his cock entered your tight heat.

“Holy fuck.” you whine as your fingers crawled their way into Mingi’s hair, gripping it tightly as you adjusted to his size. He filled you perfectly, every crevice now covered by his length. He could feel your innocence seeping out of you, your scent racking his brain. It’s so much more, so much better than be expected, and it was literally the most incredible sensation he’s ever felt.

He began to thrust, looking up at you with hearts in his eyes. Your eyes were shut tightly, focused on the feeling while trying to move your hips in rhythm with his. Your connection grew stronger with every movement.

“Miss,” Mingi gasps, pushing his face into your neck and furrowing his eyebrows, layering your neck with kisses. The sound of your passion echoed throughout the forest, mingling with the noises of other animals and the rustling of leaves. It was like the world revolves around you two for just this moment.

“I’m close,” his muffled words rang in your ear, causing you to grip at his hair tightly. “I—I cant hold back for long,”

“Don’t.” you pant, feeling your orgasm build up little by little, closer and closer to the edge it felt like. Mingi also felt the same, knowing that when he gets there, it’ll be glorious. Like nothing he’s ever felt before.

Your nails move from his hand and to his shoulders, moving underneath his top and scraping lightly against his shoulders, leaning forward and slamming your hips against his own. He barely felt present in the moment anymore, mind blank and his body overwhelmed with pleasure, but in the very best way possible. Your breath is hot against his neck, and your whispers barely even register to him. Mingi whispered in a language you didn’t understand, hands clawing at your hips.

You moved faster, lost in the physical connection, eyes fluttering closed. Mingi whimpered your name, thighs shaking the faster you moved. It became too much. He could barely take you bouncing up and down on him.

Time seemed as if it was slowing down, Mingi holding your hips down and emptying his load inside of you. He threw his head back, gasping for air and moaning your name repeatedly. It felt like he was being milked. At the same time, you came, squeezing around his length and making him whine from the overstimulation.

For a moment you two sat, ignoring the copious amounts of sweat on your bodies, leaning into him and hugging his body. Mingi at first was confused. Why were you hugging him? He didn’t think you developed feelings for him like he had for you.

“M-Miss, are you oka-”

"Thank you," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of your hearts racing. "For this. All of this.”

“…You’re more than welcome, princess.” he met your gaze,. “Are you going to return to your kingdom now? I assume it’s, well, punishable to sleep with a vampire. I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with your family and people.”

“Are you kidding? I’m staying here with you. They want me to marry a man I don’t even know.” you sigh.

“Well, you don’t know me? Yet you let me come inside of you.” Mingi chuckles, his words making you blush. You shake your head in disagreement.

“But I feel like there’s something between us. It’s not the same with the other man.” you smile. “I want to stay here. With you. For as long as I can. Maybe until they find me, but Is rather stay here with you then return to my kingdom.”

Mingi kisses your cheek. “Well, so be it.”

You two sit together in silence, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. More so a peaceful one, a shared moment of connection. As the sun began to set, you didn’t move, enjoying the feeling of Mingi’s arms wrapped around your waist.

You were better off here.

[minispidey]

03: Barbie and the Giftshopist.

Steven Grant x f!bimbo!reader. previous part. series masterlist. next part.

03. Everyday she wears pink.

(A/n: your feedback on the last chapter about me writing the moon knight system is so amazing tysm! i referenced mpgis here and more legally blonde. i wanna note that reader has been a lawyer for a couple years now and amazing at it 🤸‍♀️ btw update tags are open!)

warnings: mention of cock, swearing and cursing, mention of blood.

the cock line is from my bubs @ominoose ily

"This isn't just a date. This is a date!" You told yourself as you threw random articles of clothing behind you as you hunted for a specific dress.

You thought maybe you shouldn't wear pink. Maybe you have a pretty dress he hasn't seen you in.

You barely slept due to excitement.

The way he talked and looked at you made you swoon over him. Just thinking about makes you-

You squealed as your leg involuntarily kicked up. You blinked twice in confusion "That is so weird..."

Maybe you were horny.

"Oh gosh, not again. Bad leg!" you scolded your beautiful leg as it kicks up again "Down girl, down! No nasty thoughts about... about... about the hot neighbor across us- no!"

You almost moaned at the though of his lips against yours... You shuddered as you kept remembering the way he looked at you. You laid down in the pool of clothing as you imagined how your little lunch date will go.

As usual, you two walked out of your flat at the same time, discussing where the two of you were going for lunch.

"Wetherspoons..." you parked your pink corvette outside, looking at the flowers decorating the place. Your high heels clicked on the pavement as you walked inside, still in your pink work suit despite planning on changing.

It was a busier day than you thought, but of course lunch time is important.

Your eyes lit up as you spotted Steven, sitting up rather stiff "Stevie!" you smiled as you walked over to his table "Hi, so sorry I'm a bit late. Traffic and all."

But Steven looked back at you with such a loving look in his eyes "It's alright, love. I haven't been waiting long."

The truth is, he thought you weren't gonna show up.

"Have you ordered yet? Gosh, you must be starved." you opened the menu and browsed.

"I haven't." he shook his head, opening his menu as well.

"Cross examination was a success." you smiled "Next week's the next trial with the witness."

Steven didn't know what you were talking about, it was out of context "That's great!" he responded.

"So then he was like no and I was like, you are. Then he was like no but then I was like you are! And he was like, I kinda am. So long story short he's like, totally gay." you said as you looked at your compact mirror.

"Thank gosh I figured it out, because no way can he say my Chanel is so last season when his shirt is so last year. My client was totally bugging, but we figured it out and I, like, totally won that. How about you, Stevie? How's your day?"

Steven smiled back at you "T'was alright, love. Just the usual." he says sarcastically "Donna's been a real-"

"Excuse my language— Bitch? Cunt? Pain in the ass?"

He chuckles "Yes. A pain in the arse, love."

"She always sounds like she's giving you a hard time. You sure you don't want me to talk to her?"

"I don't think it's lawyer-worthy. It's really alright, love." Steven shakes his head "Just another typical day."

"Yeah, which can be classified as workplace abuse."

"Really. I'm fine."

You press your glossy lips into a thin line before sighing "Alright. But if you need someone to represent you in court, I'm your girl." you playfully winked at him.

Steven blushed before nodding "I'll keep you in mind then." a waiter comes up to the two of you and he began to order "-and a cocktail. Uh, how about you?"

"Um, I'll have the Soup of the Day with half a baguette, and Pasta Pomodoro with salmon. And— wait did you say a cocktail?" you blinked twice at Steven "I'll have a cocktail too, thank you."

You smiled at the waiter as he repeated the order to you two before walking away.

"Jeez, Stevie. It's only lunchtime." you giggled at him.

"I-I just wanted something strong."

"Work's really stressful, huh?"

"It really is." he sighed "Working late again tonight. But this uh lunch date is really cheering me up."

Your cheeks felt hot, making you smile "That's so sweet... tell you what, I'll pick you up from work tonight again. I'm working late too anyways."

It was Steven's turn to blush. His hand shakes with his head "You're way too nice. I don't wanna bother you. It's quite overwhelming too." even his ears turned red.

"Steven, you shouldn't turn away blessings." you winked as you giggled. Your cocktails were served just a few minutes later.

"I haven't had a cock in a while."

Steven felt his drink rush to his nose and he quickly grabbed a napkin. He coughs a few times before looking up at you.

"Oopsies, I meant a cocktail." you covered your mouth, smiling "Well, I mean... I haven't had that in a while either."

You took a sip of the drink and Steven stared at the lipstick mark left on the edge of the glass. You always wore a certain shade of lipstick, and it always drove him crazy.

There were times he'd imagine smudging your lipstick... in more ways than one.

After lunch, the two of you laughed as you drove to the museum. Steven just kept falling more and more into your wonderland of pink and diamonds. He stared at you with half-lidded eyes, listening to every word you said.

The thing about Steven is that he loves to ramble and talk a lot, and so do you. He knew you were perfect.

"-and I was like, thank gosh I talked her out of buying an orange chiffon scarf. It doesn't suit her spring tones at all! There's a fine line between terracotta and brown."

That evening, your pink corvette was parked outside of the museum, waiting patiently for Steven after a long day of reading case papers. You puckered out your lips to reapply some lipstick before popping and smiling at your reflection.

Your freshly manicured nails tapped on the steering wheel while humming a small tune.

Then suddenly someone knocks on your window.

"Steven?"

He looked like he was roughed up, red staining his clothes, but it's not his blood. It didn't even look like the same clothes he was wearing during your lunch date.

"Oh my gosh, Steven-"

...but that's actually not your main concern.

"-I told you, blue and black as a combo is a total crime against fashion. If it were me, I'd make it law." you groaned, opening the locks of your car "Get in."

His eyes widened but he doesn't respond, only taking the passenger's seat like you commanded.

"Oh, you have a little stain there." you pat the patch of blood using a pink handkerchief with lace trim and your name embroidered on the corner.

He continued to stare at you as you took his hand and placing your handkerchief on his palm "Here. You can give it back to me some other time because I seriously I need to take you shopping this weekend."

You thought maybe he's always tired after work, that's why he's so quiet, like yesterday.

"Maybe I can figure out your color palette so I know what looks best on you. Your shirts are cute, I'd have to admit, but some of them are... meh. No offense but some prints are worse than the last. OH! I know, we'll do a whole shopping day on the weekend. An hour or so won't cut it. I know it's your weekend off, but trust me when I say when your pretty neighbor's a fashionista, your life is gonna change."

Steven looks at you from the mirror's reflection before shifting his eyes towards the body— Jake. Unlike Marc's creepy silent behavior from the night before, Jake actually looks at you as you went on and on.

He even responds with small nods.

"Can we not make this a habit? First it's Marc pretending to be me in front of her, now it's you. I don't need your help with her. Can I please go in my own pace?" Steven tells Jake, but Jake shook his head in a not now kind of motion.

As Jake entered the apartment after waving goodnight to you, he's met with a poor attempt of a glare from Steven "Don't look at me like that, you wanted the girl so I gave it a push."

"I want to do this on my own. Marc doesn't want me to, I don't know about you, but I don't need help. Can I please do it my way? It's all I ask."

"Can you ask her out?"

Steven pressed his lips into a line before letting out a sigh "Give me the body. I'll... try."

"Alright, alright. You go on ahead."

Steven, now in control of the body, swung open the door and he sees you struggling to find your keys. You blinked twice before smiling at him "Hi again, Stevie. My keys are just- ugh, a lot." your keychains jingle as you tried to find the right key.

"Can we go on a date after shopping this weekend?" he blurts out quickly. Steven was red as a tomato "D-Dinner date."

Your eyes lit up and you felt the butterflies in your stomach again "I'd love that! I'll just- oh! I found my key!"

And you also found the key to your locked-up heart.

UP NEXT: the best weekend ever! a date with steven and a little breaking and entering 💅

tags: @red-hydra @monsterroonio @pastelpinkpilatesprincess @letmehavemyfictionalmen @uncle-eggy @superduckmilkshake @3zae-zae3

[ghostlychief]

first off love your writing !!!!!! I was wondering if I could get a story about ghost where the reader is pregnant and they’re doing the baby shower and it turns out to be a boy and ghost is extremely happy???💞

thank you so much!!! apologies for such a late reply, I know you sent this in awhile ago. hope you enjoy <3

---

beautiful boy

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader

wc: ~620

warnings: none; fluff

---

You’re currently upstairs, laying on your bed, with a ribbon held in between your hands. A soft smile graces your lips as you look down at the baby blue material, thinking about the little bean growing inside of you.

Your baby shower was today, and in fact, is still going on downstairs. You hear the muffled chatter amongst your guests throughout your house from upstairs, and a feeling of gratefulness washes over you. You’re currently five months pregnant, and as much as you love a good party, your feet were aching after standing for hours, hence the reason why you are currently in your bedroom and not downstairs with everyone else. You came up to rest only for a short bit, before you head back down and join everyone again.

You opted to wear a light yellow babydoll dress, wanting to be neutral for the gender reveal. You honestly did not have a preference, and were just ecstatic that you were expecting, and celebrating with all of your close friends and family. The light yellow, and the cut of the dress complimented you well, making your complexion glow, and highlighting your ever-growing baby bump.

Simon was speechless for a minute or two when you finally popped out of your bathroom, showing him your finished look before all of the guest arrived for the party. After his momentary pause stuck in awe, Simon breathed out, “You look absolutely beautiful,” and wrapped you in a warm hug. It was a quiet and intimate moment you guys shared before your house started filling up with guests.

Simon also decided to dress neutral but as your eyes moved up and down assessing his outfit, you noticed the subtle blue socks covering his feet. You always knew he wanted a baby boy, but you knew he would be happy and grateful for a girl or boy, just as long as you and baby were healthy. It’s just one more thing that makes you love him as much as you do.

You decided not to comment on the socks, and simple beamed at him saying he looked just as handsome as when you first met.

The gender-reveal itself went smoothly, and of course Simon was over the moon that you were having a baby boy, and since then, the quiet grin that bloomed on his face has not left.

The memory of the reveal plays over in your mind, and you’re lost in thought as you stare at the ribbon. You’re unaware that Simon has entered the room until you feel the bed dip behind you. Simon lays behind you, wrapping an arm around your middle, and his hand gently rubs on your bump. He rests his chin on your shoulder, looking down at the blue fabric you’re holding. He leaves a kiss on your shoulder, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and his embrace envelops you, and you feel tears start to form in your waterline.

You bring your hand up to rest over his that’s still on your tummy, and you manage to choke out, “I haven’t even met him yet, but I know that he’s going to be the most beautiful boy.” You lightly sniff, and the tears finally fall down your cheeks. Simon reaches over you to catch your tears with his thumb, and he gently caresses your face, giving you a kiss on your temple.

“I know, sweetheart.” He leaves another kiss on your temple, “You are his mom, after all. Of course he’s going to be beautiful.” You let out a laugh, and squeeze his hand.

Simon and you continue to stare at the blue ribbon, committing this day to memory, and dreaming of what’s to come.

[sethvzekiel]

what could have been | 141 x cold!reader

a passing admission proceeds to completely take over his mind

141 x cold! reader. callsign azrael. gn! reader. mild angst + pining. multiple POV, no established relationship. flashback central, marked in red + italics.

part 1/same AU as this

Long hc/short fic. 3.6k words.

It was banter — really, just mindless chatter to fill the silence on the way back home. Something to wear off the adrenaline from the previous battle. It spilled from lips like loose threads, mindless ramblings about past experiences and feelings and army stories.

Stories like “LT, what do ye mean I wasn’t first place? That was a solid run I just did, solid!” and “When you were our age, Captain, they didn’t have telly,” between snickers and friendly insults.

You were the contractor, not one of them: a position you were keen on protecting as you kept to the far corner of the army plane, typing up your own report for Laswell. The chatter droned on in the back of your mind as you spared only the barest sliver of attention for emergencies. It was only when someone mentioned your name that you looked up from your laptop.

Gaz tilted his head at you, a spark of mischief in his eyes. He’d been getting bold lately, fully confident that he was your favorite comrade. Gaz did always have a sharp tongue, even for Price.

“Have you ever been in love?”

You scoffed, fully ready to get back to your report.

“What are we, schoolgirls at a sleepover? Don’t ask stupid questions.”

Someone closed your laptop. Soap.

“No, no, answer his question!”

“Scotsman. Get your hand off something that’s five times your salary, or I’ll remove it myself.”

You were only half kidding; the laptop was six times his salary. Merc money was a lovely thing.

Soap quickly retreated, muttering something about being on the wrong career path and “five times my fuckin’ salary, get off yer arse,” but nudged you nevertheless.

It felt as if the conversation was finally going to move on when another spoke.

“Answer the question, Azrael.”

This was a joke. You didn’t hide your disdain as you glared at Price.

“Really, Captain?”

Price took a long drag of his cigar.

“Answer it and I’ll tell Kate you’re on good behavior. She’ll be over the moon to hear you’re getting some social interaction.”

Unfortunately, he wasn’t lying. Laswell did not hide her hopes of getting you true comrades, not just contracted acquaintances, when she introduced you to the 141 — a hope you’d gone out of your way to quash for a long time. If a false reassurance from Price would get her mind off that ridiculous idea and focus on getting you more kill contracts…

Well, not a bad trade-off for pretending to be friends for one plane ride.

You let out a sigh from deep within your soul, opened your laptop again, and pulled up the report. Almost mindlessly, you spoke whatever came to your mind at that very moment, not knowing how badly it would change the 141.

“Sure.”

God, you could feel the whole plane lean in with anticipation.

“Never had the time to fall in love, but…” 

You mentally shrugged. This was fine to admit, right?

“... I was briefly interested in one of you. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

You popped on your headphones, leaving the boys to dwell with that answer.

The plane couldn’t have gone any faster.

◈ GAZ

Interested? Like, interested-interested?

There was no getting you out of those headphones—he’d tried before, didn’t end well. The entire task force was stunned silent for a minute, each one picking apart your casual admission and grappling with the idea of Oh God, is it me?

It was Soap who broke first, exploding into a shocked yell that boomed throughout the tiny plane. That shook Gaz out of his stunned silence, but he still blinked rapidly as he tried to comprehend what you’d just said.

Interested. In one of them.

There was a one in four chance that it was him. Five, if Laswell counted, but he was certain that you saw her more as a mentor and confidant than a romantic prospect. Besides, she wasn’t even in the plane. It was between him, Soap, LT, and the Captain, and this was a battle royale he was keen on winning.

Gaz wasn’t blind. He was the first to notice the changing opinions of his teammates on you. Bearing the combined advantage of brains and emotional awareness, things the 141 usually lacked one or the other of, he picked up on Price’s constant attention towards you that increasingly felt less like a professional checkup. He knew about Ghost’s rivalry with you that brought a tinge of tenderness to his gruff exterior as he complimented your skill. And who could miss Soap locking onto you like a missile from day one?

But it had to be him, right? He was the only one you spoke to of your own accord, the one whose name you called when arranging for shared night shifts. The one who’s actually been to your room (he happily ignored the fact that he was just there to fetch a report for Laswell). The one who, at a drunken night out where you’d actually gotten tipsy for once, you’d stuck to like glue, no matter how rowdy the pub got.

Gaz was your first defender in the 141. When even Price was wary of your cold nature and mercenary background, Gaz was always up at arms, ready to express the simple truth that you were just a professional, and Price could look at Ghost for an example, couldn’t he? Always jumping the gun, fighting back even Soap’s teases at your expense simply because you weren’t present to defend your attitude and the unfairness of their assumptions felt real to Gaz. They didn’t see the you he saw. They just had to.

You were soft around him. Safe. And Gaz felt the same way, too. As much as you’d listen to his ramblings of whatever’s going on in his life, he looked forward to your own stories, hanging off of every rough-toned word as you shared your wisdom from past fights and your assessment of his skills, which he’d known was your way of caring for him. Making sure that he’d live long to fight good.

“In another world,” he’d said one night as you watched the last hours of your watch tick away. “Would you be back on the field again? If you had a choice to walk away from all this, live a normal life?”

Back then, your moonlit expression was intense, but sorrowful as you considered your answer. Gaz thought that you were only being sincere in answering him when you’d gazed deep into his eyes, but now, he couldn’t help but wonder if you meant something else when you replied:

“I don’t know. Where would you be?”

“Dunno either. Always wanted to protect people. Make some real change. Don’t think I’d handle being an artist or bloody stockbroker all my life.”

He was so fucking stupid. Why didn’t he actually listen to what you’d said when he was too busy imagining living some alternate life, when you were right in front of him and so close?

You smelled nice.

“Then I’ll follow you back to the fight, Kyle.”

“Aw mate, I’ll look forward to it, yeah?”

The memory, the regrets, and the what-could’ve-been’s swirled in Gaz’s mind and stung at his eyes.

He wanted to look at you again, but he wasn’t going to risk anyone seeing his face right now with how he’s feeling.

He was a bloody moron, and he lost his chance.

◈ SOAP

“Yer taking the piss!”

Laughter was always Johnny’s first response. Little Johnny-boy giggling nervously as his mother demanded to know where he’d been after playing outside until dark. Freshly-recruited MacTavish snickering as he far surpassed the other recruits in exercises, again, to their dismay. Sergeant Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish cackling with delight and adrenaline as he fired off the C4, lighting up the battlefield with plumes of orange fire.

Laughter was also a defense mechanism: difficult personalities, hard questions, bad days. Heal it or shrug it off, Soap was never one to make things more complicated than they should be.

This laughter… he wasn’t sure if it was one of joy or nerves.

You were interested. Were, he tried to remind himself, but his mind kept on latching onto the ‘interested’ part. One of them—which could’ve been him. 

He was delusional now, flailing around and being the jokester when it was all just an act to hide his inner turmoil. Fuck, did you know that he had it bad for you? It was his fault for not bothering to hide it and trailing after you, but he thought that you already shrugged it off as a joke. Did… did you take him seriously, after all?

Or worse, what if it wasn’t him? 

His glance went to Gaz, remembering how he’d fallen asleep on the truck that one time and accidentally leaned on your shoulder, how you stiffened, then slowly settled down, even adjusting your shoulder for the entire two-hour drive. How, no matter the situation or your mood, you always called upon Gaz with a decidedly softer tone than the one you used on him.

Surely, he wasn’t that attached to you. You were comrades, a passing fancy wouldn’t hurt anything.

He’d never seen LT smile, ever. Part of it’s the mask, but it was clear in his voice and the lack of crinkling around his eyes that smiling wasn’t his thing. But then Ghost and you had that sniper competition, dragged Soap in to referee, and when you hit dead-center for all moving targets, Soap wrenched his gaze away to catch a shine of something in Ghost’s eyes as he watched you.

Friends and professionals. That was all you were, right?

“Good health makes good men, MacTavish,” you said sharply as he sat up on his bed. Soap was forced into the medbay after a particularly grueling op. Long, sleepless nights, absolute hellfire, and blood loss all culminated in him passing out from shock mid-battle. His memories of the exact moment he collapsed were hazy, but he knew that he heard someone call his name in a choked scream.

Was it Gaz who screamed then? He was always the worrywart. Soap scratched his head, wincing as pain flared up his side at the simple motion. He shot you a shining, albeit weak, grin.

“Don’t lose yer head over me, was just the one time.”

Your glare narrowed.

“One time is all it takes, soldier.” 

Fuck, you were calling him ‘soldier’ now? You were pissed. Soap raised his hands in surrender.

“I give, I give. I’ll take my meds a day and all that shite. No trouble from me.”

For a moment, he was expecting more scolding, admonishments of his recklessness or a possible lack of skill. A “stop dragging the rest of us down with you,” considering your pride in your own battle prowess. But he got no such thing.

You sighed, looking a thousand nights older as you did, and he caught the marks of sleepless nights under your eyes. The roughness of your hands as you held his good shoulder. The miniscule caress of your thumb that he assumed (back then) was purely accidental.

“Make good on that, Johnny,” you whispered, gaze drifting off elsewhere. “You have to.”

Your voice was hoarse—why? When you left and the medic had taken your place, refreshing Soap’s bandages, he asked about how long he was out.

“Three days, sergeant,” the medic replied. “And your scary friend insisted on staying here for all of it. Tended to you like one of our own staff.”

“Psh, LT? Knew he was soft.”

“No, no, not the lieutenant. Your PMC friend.”

Without even thinking about it, Johnny laughed.

◈ GHOST

He definitely wasn’t paying attention to the mindless gossip, and anyone who’d say otherwise will have months of latrine duty awaiting them. Gaz calling your name piqued his attention, but only barely, and brought a tickle of amusement when he asked you such a ridiculous question.

He was much less amused at your answer.

It was sarcastic, he tried to reason. Spouting off bullshit to keep the boys off your trail and get back to work as soon as possible. That’s what you’re always like, and that’s what he liked about you.

He also liked your shots. The pride you took in your expertise. The devotion to your warcraft. How you always took his challenges as if your name was on the line. How you’d smirk if you won, or promise comeuppance if you lost.

He liked your loyalty to Laswell — and envied it. You obeyed him and Price, yes, but he would never forget the brief gleam of admiration when the boys asked you about Laswell over lunch. He liked and envied your closeness with Gaz: a sign that you might be a true ally of the 141 after all, but a closeness that he wondered if you could extend to anyone else. He respected your ferocious protectiveness of Soap when he’d (stupidly) collapsed mid-battle, but watching you tend to Soap for nights on end wrenched something awful from within his chest.

You were a shade more casual with Price. According to the captain, you had some snark to you when not in work mode: a privilege Price had gotten purely because you were both friends of Laswell. You bonded with Price like you were fellow leaders, people down similar paths instead of mere colleagues, and when planning missions, you and Price made up a tactical machine to be reckoned with.

It was whenever he’d deliver late night reports to Price’s office, that he’d listen before knocking on the door. Muffled conversation—most of it Price’s, but every so often, there was a quick chuckle that wasn’t his, or a quiet snark followed by Price’s gravelly laughter. The office would be thick with cigar smoke when Ghost was allowed in, but what was harder to swallow was the cigar hanging from your lips that you’d returned to Price, and he’d popped it between his teeth without question.

Ghost was in deep. He’d never admit it to anyone, not even to himself, but he was. That chilling, anxiety-inducing truth nudged at the back of his head as he silently watched Soap cackle and holler throughout the plane while you intentionally ignored them, eyes trained on your report like your life depended on it.

You and the laptop. A familiar sight when he’d pass by the rec room on late nights, where you’d be tapping away at the laptop with stacks of coffee cups and energy bars littered across the table.

“Bloody hell, that can’t wait until tomorrow?” He’d asked, exasperated, by the fifth night.

You took a moment more to work before responding.

“The mob won’t wait for tomorrow. This mission needs to go down tonight.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

He didn’t know why he stayed there with you, sharing the couch as he made tea for two and set a cup beside you without a word. He could have actually tucked in for the night, gotten some well-deserved sleep lest he be grouchier than ever for the next day’s training drills. Or popped open a book if he felt like it. Anything more productive than sit beside you all night as you silently blazed through reports and phone calls, arranging operations that he had no business in caring about.

You were exhausted, but you were determined and alert as you ferried reports on the trafficking ring takedown. The calm, effortless strength in your voice as you spoke—sometimes strongly—with operatives much higher up the chain than you, because you knew what you were doing and were going to see this op to the end. A flicker of silent gratitude as Ghost refilled your tea again and tidied up your makeshift workspace.

A call by the first sliver of sunrise made you sag into the couch with relief.

“Mission accomplished?” Ghost asked.

You slid your tired gaze to him, and this close to you, he caught your tiny, sleepy grin.

“G’job, LT,” you murmured, voice thick with lethargy. “Mmh… needta phone Kate…”

“I’ll do it.”

“Not your op.”

“Don’t think Laswell’d understand a word of what you’re saying right now. C’mon, let’s get you some rest.”

He beckoned for you to stand up, only to hear a soft, muffled snore. You… were sleeping, knocked-out dead, with a hint of your grin remaining, probably dreaming about a job well done. Disheveled, snoring, and surrounded in loose notes and coffee stains, you were far from the cold professional that you normally made yourself to be.

The rec room was no place for sleeping. Soap would be here any minute, booming and hollering as him and Gaz would raid the fridge, again. You needed to be anywhere else.

And if Ghost was going to carry you in his arms all the way back to your room and go through the trouble of arranging for your sudden day-off, then he was going to do it silently, and pretend it never happened when you approached him the next day.

◈ PRICE

That… was a surprise.

While Price was the most privy to your story as your commanding officer and, more importantly, Laswell’s friend, much of your life was still a mystery to him. Laswell only gave him a few pointers: “They’ve had a long life, John,” and “Trust is a double-edged sword for them.”

He could guess when you entered Laswell’s life. It was some years ago, when she was busier than ever, to the point that he’d considered staging an intervention alongside her wife when Laswell refused with fire in her eyes. She was fighting for something, he could tell, but he didn’t know what exactly until she told him about you.

Somewhere in the gaps between what little he knew about you, Price hoped you had some normalcy to your life. Enough memories on hand to look back fondly upon, to carry you through the darker days. Yet he had a feeling that you had little of such memories to yourself. Perhaps, that was why he decided to share with you some of his own.

Foolishness in his youth. Summers from his wilder days. Dreams he’d had and lost, but never mourned—the kinds of men he’d wanted to become before making peace with himself. You understood, somehow: you were an old soul, no matter your age, a wealth of experiences and wisdom in you with just as many unanswered questions.

You can be safe with me, his soul all but screamed in your nightly chats. The doubt and fear and sorrow layered on your shoulders like dust was easy for him to see when he could feel the same thing. You weren’t delicate, not by a long shot. You were one of the strongest people he knew, but there was nothing Price could do to stifle the yearning in his chest to hold you, let you rest in his shadow and believe for once that everything was going to be alright.

“Do you have any interest in living long, sir?” You muttered as Price brought out his first cigar of the night. He wouldn’t be smoking this early in the night, but he had to deal with higher-ups and red tape all day just for some damn clearance. You were the only person he’d actually looked forward to speaking with that day.

“Smoking won’t kill me, Azrael—” You scoffed, then. “—it’s the bloody Pentagon that will.”

“And the UN. And the UK.”

“If the boys don’t get to me first. Where’s my lighter?”

“Here you go.” You didn’t have his lighter, but you had your own up and ready.

“Picked up the habit, did you?”

“No. You’ve lost your lighter enough times that I bought one myself.”

He offered you a gruff thanks and sank into his chair, watching the smoke swirl up to the amber light. You leaned back on his desk, your body barely brushing his—something that he was used to by then that he was second-guessing now.

It was beautiful and terrible, how close his hand was to yours.

Stupid stories made you laugh, but not foolish ones. Your concern for the boys was evident even in simple retellings of the past; a fact that burned in his heart when he noticed. So he told you about how Gaz tried to fix a leaky shower only to explode the entire camp’s plumbing system, he clung to your brief chuckle like a lifeline. The mirth lighting up your face was going to be his second addiction.

“Want to try, soldier?” He asked as he held out his cigar, not for the first time.

“Just this once. If it’s ass, you’re not getting another light out of me.”

He was going to offer you a new one, but you’d taken the one he’d been smoking and casually placed it between your lips, as if the very sight hadn’t made the blood roar in Price’s ears. You frowned at the taste—he laughed, ignored the flush of heat across his body.

A knock on the door: Simon, turning in his papers. He froze when he saw you and Price, and though obscured by his mask, Price knew the lieutenant well enough to recognize the hesitation in his steps.

Why did he do it?—Price wondered now as he recalled that night, how you’d returned the cigar and he, without thinking, popped it right back to his mouth in front of Simon. And why did he feel proud?

But Price had to hold himself in check. As captain, he had boundaries that he mustn’t cross. The team’s well-being was his top priority, that was always the truth of it, and as he watched the boys dwell in the fallout of your shocking admission, he had no place in making this rivalry worse, no matter how he felt about you.

[holdmytesseract]

baby fever au

One of the kids gets hurt, but they hide it because they want to be strong like their dad Loki

Loki just loves them so much it hurts

Boys Do Cry

☆ The Baby Fever AU ☆

Loki & Narfi

Summary: When Loki picks up Narfi from school, he can tell that something is definitely wrong. All he wants to do is comfort his son - but Narfi tries to be a strong boy...

Warnings: angst, Narfi being insecure, fluuuff, Loki being the best dad - as usual, some Y/N & Loki cuteness

Word Count: 3,4k

a/n: I combined your two requests, friend, because it fitted quite perfectly. I hope that's okay! 🤗

Baby Fever Crew: @lady-rose-moon @muddyorbsblr @chennqingg @smolvenger @alexakeyloveloki @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @jennyggggrrr @stupidthoughtsinwriting @loz-3 @eleniblue @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @fictive-sl0th @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @lovingchoices14 @glitchquake @lokidbadguy @icytrickster17 @mandywholock1980 @november-rayne @xthatpottahfanx @simping-for-marvel @lou12346789 @aagn360 @anukulee @multifandom-worlds @hisredheadedgoddess28 @vbecker10 @jaidenhawke @km-ffluv @lokiforever @crimson25 @kimanne723 @cakesandtom @buttercupcookies-blog @salvinaa @javagirl328 @noideakitten @zombiesnips-blog @dustychinchilla74 @lokisgoodgirl @princess-ofthe-pages @coldnique @frzntrx @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokisrealpurpous @huntedmusicgardenn @lokischambermaid

Baby Fever Masterlist °☆• Loki Masterlist °☆• Masterlist

It had been the last weekend of the holidays, before Ella and Narfi had to return to school. Therefore, you and Loki decided to take them somewhere special. And since you believed that you and your husband deserved some relaxation, the decision was made quickly. Two days at a water park/spa hotel. Slides for the kids; spa for you and Loki - and it turned out that this weekend was exactly what the whole family needed. Everybody returned happy, relaxed - and with black painted nails.

Long story short, you went to get your nails painted. Ella joined you. Narfi heard it and wanted it, too. So you took the six-year-old with you as well, because why not? And in the end, Loki joined in, too and everybody left with beautifully black painted nails. And you had to admit... Your men could absolutely wear it.

Narfi loved his painted nails. You could tell - and so could Loki. It filled the god's heart with pride that the young boy was so confident in what he wants and does. He didn't want Narfi to think that painting nails was only for girls, because it wasn't. After all, Loki had them painted too - and even his uncle Thor sometimes (due to Eisa, but nevertheless).

The little prince ran around the whole compound that Sunday morning when the family returned, showing everybody proudly his new 'look'. Everywhere he went, Narfi received nothing but love and support. It made Loki smile.

But then Narfi had to go back to school - and from one day to the next everything suddenly changed...

"Hi, Mr. L!" Lindsay Peters - one of Narfi's classmate's parent, single mom, quite annoying - and having a huge crush on Loki. Whenever the occasion occurred, she'd flirt with him; trying to get closer - since months. She didn't care at all about the fact that he was very happily married. When Loki told you about the... issue, you only giggled; knowing very well that Lindsay wouldn't even have the ghost of a chance.

Loki stood in front of the school, waiting for his son; hands stuffed deeply into the pockets of his coat. It was getting colder. Winter was definitely around the corner. Of course it didn't affect the god as much as it affected you, for example. The Frost Giant in him cushioned this a bit, but he'd lie, if he said that it wasn't cold.

A rather harsh breeze brushed his face and rustled through his long, free raven curls, as he suddenly heard somebody approaching. Nothing unusual, given the fact that Narfi wasn't the only child who was done with school at that time of the day; but the squeaky voice of somebody he (unfortunately) only knew too well caused him to subtly roll his eyes.

Gritting his teeth, Loki turned to face her; forcing a smile on his lips. "Hello, Ms. Peters." "Doing the school run today?" She asked the god; winking and gave him a not quite subtle once over. "Yes. Indeed. Unless I wouldn't be here, right?" Lindsay laughed out loud at this. But as fast as the laugh left her lips, as fast died it down again, and she fluttered her eyelashes. "Well... You are mostly here when I am here too..." She bit her lip and gave the god another wink.

He wanted to throw up.

"Hey, little prince." "Hello."

"Some could probably think we have an affair." Loki almost choked on his own spit at her words. He blinked rapidly; frown forming on his forehead. "No, Ms. Peters. Nobody thinks that." The woman standing beside him wanted to answer something, but got interrupted by the rather loud ring of the school bell; telling Loki that Narfi would appear in the next few moments. Thank the Norns, he thought and made his way further into the school yard; eyes searching for his son in the huge crowds of kids, which started to flood through the doors.

Luckily, he found him soon. All he had to do, was to look out for a head full of short, thick and mostly bouncing raven curls - and the bright green puffer jacket his uncle Thor gifted him.

Once Loki's eyes found his son's he gave him a bright smile and already squatted down to welcome the little boy with a hug. Loki immediately noticed that Narfi's smile wasn't remotely as bright as usual; and when the hug Narfi gave his father was shorter than normally as well, Loki grew suspicious.

Yes, something was definitely wrong.

The god's eyes roamed the little boy's face; trying to find the solution in his matching blue eyes. Narfi had learned to shape-shift at the age of four. It was a rocky start, but in the end, he mastered it. Not always, but mostly.

"Bye, Mr. L! See you hopefully tomorrow!" Again, the shrill voice urged to his ears, causing him to roll his eyes once more. "Goodbye, Ms. Peters.

"Is everything alright, little man?" Narfi nodded. "Sure, daddy. School was great." Loki noticed, of course, that his son clearly wasn't telling the truth, but he also noticed, that he seemed uncomfortable in talking about this here and now, so Loki decided to leave it be... For now.

"Okay. Let's go home, huh?" Another nod from Narfi. Loki gently ruffled the boy's hair, straightened up again and took Narfi's small hand in his.

But then he started to shake his head. "N-No. Can I go to my room and play?" Loki sighed, but accepted - once again his son's decision. "Sure, little prince. I'll call you later for dinner, okay?" Narfi nodded, and Loki smiled; trying to lift the mood. "It's just me and you today, buddy, remember? So perhaps we can watch a movie later? Or play something together, if you like?" "Mhm." The boy gave Loki a fake smile, while he took off his puffer jacket, handed it to Loki and then turned around and left; vanishing around the corner.

Loki and Narfi crossed the street then; walking home together.

On their way, Loki tried a few times to start a conversation with the six-year-old; asking him how school today was, what he played with his friends during breaks and which new things he learned - but again was the boy not very talkative. Another reason for the god to assume that something was bothering his son.

After the main door of the apartment shut close behind the father-son pair; Loki helped Narfi a bit to get out of his shoes and puffer jacket.

"Narfi..." Loki started; untying one shoe lace. "You've been very quiet on our way home... Something is wrong, I can tell." He looked up; giving his son a compassionate look. "Would you like to talk about it?" The little boy stayed silent for a moment; seemingly weighing his options. His eyes looked everywhere but into his father's; hands fumbling with the zipper of he puffer jacket nervously.

The god sighed and stood up from his squatting position. His gaze lingered on the bright green piece of clothing in his hands. He really hoped that Narfi would open up to him - or to anyone. Perhaps it was a mama thing, but the problem was that you weren’t here. You were currently in Vancouver, together with Natasha and Clint on a spy mission; and Ella had afternoon classes and stayed over at her best friend's after, since it was her birthday and they made a small sleepover party together.

With one hand running through his raven locks, Loki hung up Narfi's jacket and then went to do a bit of laundry. Loki had learned to do this years ago. He had to, since you were both Avengers and therefore was the other not always around. And right now, you were at least away for the rest of the week... And it was Monday...

Later that day, he went to cook Ratatouille - one of Narfi's favourite dishes, hoping that this would put an honest smile on his face. Before he started with dinner, he texted Ella; making sure that his princess was at least alright. She was; he could tell from her texts. He even received a voice message. It made him smile.

Just as Loki cut the aubergines into thin slices, he felt the vibration of his mobile in the pocket of his sweatpants. Quickly wiping his hands, he fished for his phone and checked the caller ID. A smile lit up his whole face when he saw your name on the display. Of course the god immediately answered the call, "Hello, my love." and clipped the small device between his ear and shoulder, so that he could keep on slicing the vegetables.

"Hi, babe!" Your happy voices urged to his ear from the other end of the line. He hummed. "What a delight to hear my beautiful wife's voice. It's Monday evening, you left yesterday after dinner and I already miss you so much."

You giggled, but Loki was almost 100 per cent certain, that you were blushing, too. Still. After all those years. He smiled.

"Aww, baby... I miss you too - and the kiddos, of course." You paused for moment to yawn. Loki chuckled. "Tiring day, love?" "Mhhh... Being on a spy mission with the two best spies this world has probably ever seen is really difficult for a plain vanilla Avenger. Especially to keep up." You laughed - music to Loki's ears.

Loki showed you the ingredients and the cut pepper on his cutting board. "So, what do you think? What's it going to be?" "Hmm..." You started to smile once more. "Are you cooking Ratatouille?" "That is absolutely correct." "Yesss!" The god chuckled at your small, cute victory dance.

After telling him what happened on the actual mission today and that you were back in the hotel now, you switched the topic. "What about you, babe? How was your day?" Loki smiled at your words; cutting a pepper. "As good as it can be without you, darling. Woke up the kids this morning, brought them to school, helped my oaf of a brother, did some chores and now I'm cooking." "Ooo, what are you cooking?" Your voice was full of honest excitement, which made the god smile even brighter.

"Let's switch to video call and I'll show you." He suggested; finger already hovering above the small button. "Oh yes, please. I love it when you cook." You giggled; switching to video call. "Well, you taught me well, love." Loki switched, too and was now able to see your beautiful self. His heart skipped a beat at the smile on your face. It always did. You were clearly sitting on the bed in your hotel room; still dressed in your mission gear.

"Ella is at Tara's?" He nodded; cutting the onion next. "Yes. They are having fun. She already sent me a voice message." "That's good. I have to text her later as well..."

"Yes," he said; adjusting his man bun. "You are most likely right." You smiled gently. "Give him a bit more time. He'll come to you. You know our little prince." Loki nodded, "I know, love, I know... It's just..." and sighed. "He's my baby and I-I'm worried." "I know you are, babe - which makes you the best daddy in all the nine realms."

A few moments of silence passed, before Loki took a deep breath and decided to tell you about Narfi.

"I asked the little prince if we should watch a movie later together... Just us men, you know." You ran a hand through your hair; smiling. "That sounds great, babe." "But I don't know if Narfi wants to... Since I picked him up from school he is... quiet and glum. Something is bothering him, I can tell, but he doesn't want to talk to me." The god sighed.

Your expression changed into slight worry; a frown forming on your forehead. "Sounds like something happened in school..." Loki nodded. "Apparently, yes. He shut himself off. Already spent the whole afternoon in his room..." You nodded. "Something is off, yeah... But he sometimes does that when anything happens that affects him. You know that our little boy always needs a bit more time to open up - just like somebody else I know." You gazed directly into your husband's eyes; a little smirk tugging at the corners of your lips.

Loki blushed; rubbing his hand down his muscular chest. A small nervous habit.

Another moment of silence passed.

He smirked.

"What are you up to on this fine evening, darling?" The god changed the topic; trying to distract his slightly troubled mind.

You smiled - and as if by command, yawned. "Not very much. I am super tired. Clint and Nat literally wore me out." You chuckled. "So, I'm gonna go to bed soon. But first, I'm taking a shower. Just have to wait until Nat is finished."

These words caused a small shiver to run down Loki's spine; and he felt a little twitch in lower regions of his body.

"It's been way too long, babe. We should really catch up on this when-" You interrupted your own sentence and looked past your mobile, before you snorted out a laugh. "Oh shut up, Nat!" Loki raised an eyebrow; smiling. Seems like the Widow was finished with her shower.

"Mhh... I'd die to join you in that shower now." The god winked; giving you a smouldering look. You almost melted on the spot. After all those years, he never failed to affect you. Emotionally and sexually.

You bit your lip; couldn't help yourself but to play along. "I can absolutely imagine that you'd love to join me, babe. Especially with the kids not being around... And I have to admit, it sounds very tempting." "Indeed..." Loki hummed; voice low and husky. "I didn't have you in the shower since an awful long time..." You shifted on the bed; feeling your husband pressing the right buttons perfectly.

"What did she say?" You looked back at your husband; still giggling. "She said no phone sex when she's around." Loki laughed; shaking his head. "If our dear Ms. Romanoff would know how often we fooled around on missions with her sleeping right next door to us." He said amused; trying to focus on the Ratatouille again. And you knew of course exactly what he meant.

You sighed. "Okay, babe... I think I should go now; take a shower and sleep." Loki nodded. "You do just that, my love. Sleep well. Please take care tomorrow and text me once in a while. I love you." You gave him a smile. "Will do, I promise. I love you even more. Good night and cuddle and kiss the kids from me, yes?" Your husband smiled as well. "Absolutely. Good night."

"He's right, Nat," you called out to your best friend. "Oh, believe me, sweetheart, I know," Natasha threw back. "You weren't as quiet as you thought you were."

You exchanged a look with Loki. "Whoops... Sorry, babes." You giggled along with your husband. Natasha just made a gesture of refusal. "Don't worry. I got used to you two, fucking each other's brains out everywhere you can, so..." She shrugged her shoulders; smiling. "But I still don't want to witness phone sex between you two, so please keep it in your pants." "Yes, ma'am." You saluted and watched your best friend walk off to get dressed in her pyjama.

Once Loki ended the phone call with you and finished preparing the Ratatouille, he did a few more chores. After that, he set the table and went to get Narfi for dinner.

"Narfi?" He gently pushed down the handle of the door. "Dinner is ready." Loki received no answer, so he entered the room - and felt like he had fallen into the refrigerator. It was cold in his room. Narfi was nowhere to be seen; probably hiding inside the cave he had built out of blankets and pillows. Delicate snowflake were fluttering on the cave from an invisible cloud above.

It couldn't get more obvious for Loki... Something was wrong.

Narfi's emotions had a huge impact on his Frost Giant self. Strong emotions - like anger, sadness, grief and happiness could cause icy things to happen... Like the snow cloud.

"Narfi?" Loki called out gently; similar ruby eyes snapping open to look at him. "D-Daddy? W-What are you doing in here?" The god sighed. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I just wanted to tell you that dinner is ready..." He hesitated for a moment, "Then I saw the snow cloud above the cave and..." but approached the boy further, until he was seated right beside him. Loki wrapped his arm around Narfi - nothing more. It was a simple gesture. A simple gesture of fatherly comfort.

Loki felt his inner Jotun as well; his skin turning into a soft blue - but it wasn't enough to tickle the Frost Giant entirely awake. The god sighed and cautiously stepped closer to the 'cave'.

"Little prince?" Again, there was no answer. The god squatted down; searching for the 'entrance' of the cave. He found it rather quickly and gently pushed the blanket aside. "I'm coming in, okay?" The opening wasn't exactly built for a 6'2" tall man, but in the end, he made it. Crawling around the little corner, he shape-shifted into his Jotun form and finally spotted his son. He sat in the middle; completely in the dark. His knees pulled up to his chest; eyes closed.

If Narfi didn't wish to talk, Loki wanted at least to let him know that he was here for him. He always would be.

But it was enough to break down the small Frost Giant's walls.

The god frowned. A snap of his fingers dipped the insides of the cave in a warm, dimmed light. "Why, buddy? I thought you liked it?" Narfi swallowed visibly; "I-I do, but..." trying to hold back the tears.

With tears in his eyes he looked up at his father. "D-Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"C-Can we... make the paint on my nails go away?"

In vain.

"Narfi..." Loki gently said; pulling him closer against him. "That's the stupidest thing I have ever heard. Nail polish isn't just for girls. It never was." "R-Really?" He nodded; smiling. "Really. All that matters is that you like it. Don't listen to the other boys. Never change yourself because others say so. You..." Loki cupped Narfi's cheek; wiping away the tears. "... are my little prince who wears this black nail polish like a king."

"T-The other boys at school not. T-They said I look like a girl and that painting nails isn't something boys should do."

Loki’s heart dropped; appalled about his classmates words. Children could be cruel. He knew that as well.

The young boy smiled softly through his tears; climbing into Loki's arms. He said nothing, just cuddled close. And Loki just held his son.

Loki’s heart broke for his son. Seemingly had those boys not a single clue how important and good it was to cry. "Narfi..." He started again; stroking over his back in a reassuring manner. "It's more than alright to cry. In fact, it's even very important... I know that they say boys shouldn't cry, but believe me, little prince... Your dad has shed a lot of tears."

"Why didn't you talk to me right away about this, little prince?" It was a question that Loki still troubled. Sure, he'd never push his kids into talking to them, but he learned a long time ago that talking was often the best medicine.

"I... I wanted to... be strong. Like you, daddy. I-I don't want to cry all the time, b-because the boys laughed when I cried," Narfi whispered.

"I love you, too." He pressed a kiss against his son's cheek. "Let's go eat dinner, huh? The Ratatouille is waiting for you."

The boy lifted his head and looked at his father with big eyes. "Really?" Loki nodded. "Oh yes." "A-And when was the last time you cried?" "Hmm..." He hummed; thinking. "A few months ago, right after your mommy and I watched you walk inside Primary School like a big boy." Narfi's eyes widened more - if that was even possible. "B-But why did you cry about that, daddy?" The god smiled gently; eyes filled with love. "Because I watched my little prince grow up."

The young boy returned the smile. "I love you, daddy."

[bettyfrommars]

Breaking the Curse

a Gargoyle Eddie story

Words: 792

This is a short smut blurb inspired by a conversation I had with @2clones-1kamino about needing some balrog/demon/gargoyle Eddie, and of course I have to make it so he's in love.

Part 2 Part 3 Part 3.5 Part4

gargoyle!Eddie Moodboard

It started out innocently enough. There was no way you could’ve known about the curse.

There was no way you could’ve known that the huge, 7ft stone gargoyle statue in your aunt's garden had once been a living, breathing man.

You used to visit every summer as a kid. You painted watercolor pictures of him and introduced him to your friends. You called him Goyle. He was your Goyle, and you truly believed that he looked out for you, even though he was just an inanimate statue at the time.

The years rolled on, as they do, and soon enough, you were an adult. You spent years away, having your own adventures, and making a life for yourself. Slowly but surely, you forgot about Goyle, until one summer, your aunt passed away, and you returned to pay your respects.

In the past few years away from the gargoyle, your life had taken a horrible turn. You’d lost several jobs and a relationship, and now your beloved aunt had died mysteriously. After the funeral, while still in mourning, you found your way out to the garden after nightfall, coming up behind his dark stone body hunched on a pedestal just beyond the archway hedge, near the rose bushes. The curve of his bare ass, long spade tail curled around his hip, and chiseled wings pulled down tight against his body, his big head arching down, as if in shame or penance.

You let your fingertips drag along his hip as you passed; the full moon was the only light you needed because you knew Goyle by heart. You knew that demon face with the handsome snout, full lips, two horns curled flat against his head, and wide-set eyes; he was carved from stone, but yet his expression always seemed to change for you. Tonight, you could tell he was hungry.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you,” you cooed, slightly buzzed on spirits, as you got on your toes to take his face in your hands and kiss his snarl of a mouth.

That was when two, big, flesh hands cupped your face in return, claws digging into your head softly, and your lips melted against his with unbridled eagerness. His tongue slipped out long enough to swipe the back of your throat; it tickled, and you pulled back to see that his eyes were a warm brown, and dark hair grew down along his demon face, making him half human.

You barely had time to whimper before you heard the stone crack as he jumped down from the pedestal with a swoop of his wings and a thud—the ground shook--- and then he took you into his arms. You clung to the rock-hard muscles of his back until he stretched you out on the grass so he could rut you with his face; smelling, licking, grunting, from your neck to your aching pussy that was now showing signs of your arousal.

You didn’t speak his ancient language, but just as his snarling mouth made claim to your swollen slit, he said, “need to taste you,” and “you’re mine,” before fucking you with his forked lizard tongue.

You grabbed onto his horns as his massive shoulders spread your legs wide, and the claws dug in, lifting your hips up so he could lick your slit front to back, making you shiver and cum; he was hungry to taste every inch of the woman he loved. The centuries he'd spent waiting for you had been long and lonely.

Mounting you from above, his demon face inches from yours, he could only get the tip in an inch before you cried out, stiffening under him, and his curious eyes found yours as he went slow, stretching you out with purpose, desperately needing to plant his seed deep inside your womb.

Your hips rose up to meet him, moaning, eyes rolling back in your head. His long hair grazed your cheeks, your hand clinging to the muscles of his thick neck. He was mumbling words to you in that old language you’d never heard before, growling at you in a way that made you say, “fuck yesyesyes,” as you came again, twitching, pussy pulsing on the biggest cock you’d ever had before as it impaled you.

He was grunting words as he shot endless pulses of cum inside, thrusting base deep, filling you to the brim until it poured out. His dragon scale wings opened up and his head tossed back in a primal howl. You wrapped your legs around him at the end, planting sweet kisses on his face, and whispered things to each other, words of affection that neither one of you understood.

The next morning, after an evening of too much alcohol and grieving, you wondered if it has all been a dream.

But your cunt bore the residual tenderness and your inner thighs were still sticky with his spend. Your fingertips feathered along the claw marks on your bare hips as you gazed out over the garden with a confused smile.

The stone pedestal was empty, and your Goyle was gone.

[1onelypoet]

stuck by the glue pt4 || op81 smau

a/n: last part. im a little depressed abt it but im working on a (hopefully) much better smau with like writing (does that make sense?) sooo. again thank u guys sm for the love 💕 ALSO OSCAR NEW IG POST WAS SOSODOD

pairing: oscar piastri x singer!reader

fc: beabadoobe

warnings: cursing and the mildest of mild innuendo

oscarpiastri

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oscarpiastri First race back was a crazy one 🥴

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mclaren A day to remember!

oscarpiastri 👊👊

landoscar OP81 WDC 2024 🗣🗣

landonorris Great job, mate!

pastry4piastri im so normal abt him!

oscarpiastriswife same.

yourusername

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tagged yourbff, yourfriend1

yourusername it's a blacked out blur but im pretty sure it ruled 🍒

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youfriend1 there's no bond like the one between drunk dutch girlies who don't speak english and drunk american girlies who don't speak dutch 💕

yourusername nothing brings ppl together like alcohol-induced nausea 💓

landonorris think you guys forgot to invite me

yourbff we didn't invite you! yourbff girls only 😘 yourusername esp after that comment 😐 landonorris I'm not sorry.

y/ntaylorsversion oscar is not giving up lmao

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[caption: my world ❤️]

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yourusername got me giggling n blushing n shit 🤸‍♀️ oscarpiastri that's the goal 💕 also why are you cartwheeling yourusername y not 🤸‍♀️🤸‍♀️

yourbff simp oscarpiastri only for y/n ☺️ yourbff ok that's kinda sweet ig... still using the emojis like a grandpa tho!

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[caption: last day in the netherlands w my bae yourusername n her man]

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yourusername we're such masterminds 🤞🤞 yourbff imagine if they dont figure it out lmao even tho we layed it all out yourusername HELP bet they're gonna say it's logan again yourbff nah logans mine 🥊🥊 he just doesn't know it yet! yourusername LMFAOO i ship it 💝

logansargeant i thought y/n and oscar were hardlaunching? yourbff y/n is wearing the same jacket as the one in oscar's story so u can tell it's her logansargeant who's gonna notice that 😭 yourbff twitter the chronically online hoes etc logansargeant ...so you

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oscarpiastri ❤️❤️❤️ can't wait to show you off yourusername AHHHH U CANT SAY SHIT LIKE THAT cant wait to show u off too ☹️☹️

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yourusername love u to the moon and to saturn ❤️

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oscarpiastri ❤️❤️❤️

oscarpiastri This guy's very lucky!

yourusername ur such a dork oscarpiastri You love me though ;) yourusername yeah <3

yourusername im the luckiest logansargeant this is disgusting oscarpiastri Don't be rude to my gf yourfriend2 U TELL HIM OSCAR

oscarpiastri I love you so much

yourusername I love you toooooo

laufey so happy for you my love

yourusername mwah

alex_albon Congrats!

yourusername omggg thx alex

yourfriend1 YALL R SO CUTEEE

yourusername thank u bb

oliviarodrigo cute! (sleeping on the highway 2night)

gracieabrams love! (gonna go bathe with my toaster) conangray amazing! (taking a long walk off a short pier)

lilymhe you guys are the cutest I'm crying

yourusername lils 😭😭

yourbff ngl this made me tear up a little

yourbff no but fr, there is nothing better than seeing u happy. so so happy for u y/n ❤️

yourusername ur gonna make me cry. yourbff good.

logansargeant photo credits pls

yourusername no logansargeant wow okay i see how it is

mclaren Welcome to the family!

yourusername sobbing. oscarpiastri I can confirm this

landonorris the draining life of a thirdwheel...

oscarpiastri It was like 3 times. landonorris 😔😔

logansargeant same mate yourbff hi im free monday 8pm xx landonorris FIFTHWHEELING NOW

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oscarpiastri All's well that ends well to end up with you ❤️

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yourusername AHHHHHHHH

yourusername best. bf. ever.

oscarpiastri best. gf. ever. landonorris get. a. room. yourusername no ❤️

landonorris UM THE 7TH PIC??? THERE ARE CHILDREN PRESENT!!!

carlossainz55 You are the child. yourusername OKAY GO OFF KING 🔥🔥🔥

lilymhe we've all seen the pictures. she looks amazing! and, um, he's there...

alex_albon I'm starting to think you're y/n's girlfriend lilymhe I am! alex_albon @/oscarpiastri you seeing this, mate?

mclaren 🧡🧡🧡

logansargeant again, no photo creds? this is insane.

oscarpiastri 😬😬

danielricciardo Congrats, mate! 🎉🥳🎊

oscarpiastri Thank you!

landonorris not the emojis...

alex_albon ❤️

liamlawson30 We should go on a double date sometime!

oscarpiastri We'd love to!

opeightyone Aaand couple of the year award goes to...

yourbff u better treat her right or else

oscarpiastri I will 🫡🫡

youfriend1 not the public threat smh youbff 😘😘

yourusername

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yourusername 1st gp as papaya girlie <3 also yes ik the top n skirt arent papaya i have no orange clothes :(

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oscarpiastri Stunning 💕

yourusername <3

mclaren Our favorite papaya girlie!

y/nupdates admin is so real for this

landonorris @/oscarpiastri get the girl some papaya clothes

mclaren ^^

justaninchident HELP THE EAT PASTA DRIVE FASTA

[en-archive]

hi lovely keeper! hope you’re having an amazing day / night !! just wanted to know who in enha hyung line would most likely be into thick thighs, how they think of it + what they like to do to it?? hehe looking forward to see your future work keeper !!

Thank you for the ask anon, I am doing well, hope your day is also good, guys!

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

Sunghoon would most probably be the top one in the list, I think for Sunghoon, and I always say it, he is the one who does not like your typical conventionally beautiful or traditionally beautiful women, he likes them as unconventionally pretty as they come. Yet, he would love himself some thick thighs, I would imagine him coming home late, tired, and wanting to bury his face between them. He likes doing everything to them, biting them, pulling on the taut flesh, he would lick them constantly, having his hands on them, and if you noticed one thing about him, he never has short nails, so he loves digging them in your thighs. His favorite past time was watching small red crescent moons forming on your thighs as you whimper and moan out his name in the moon-lit room. He does all of this, almost till you see white from pain, only to kiss the pain away.

I cannot say the same about Jay, the way he loves thighs is a little different from Sunghoon. He likes to love you softly, and this includes you thighs. He would just love them, like Sunghoon there are no limit to things he could do to them, but he mostly loves caressing them any minute he gets: while driving, one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, or under the table getting so dangerously close to your core only to go back to your knee agonizingly slow. The pads of his fingers touch you so tenderly almost like a feather, but his hands and arms strong as they lift you up and put them over his shoulders, just to deepen his thrusts. He loves leaving wet kisses on them, licking them, but he is always so tender with them.

When it comes to Heeseung he is similar to Jay, but the difference between the two is he is almost always playful with it. His hands always rest on your knees, only for them to tantalizingly climb up to the top. He loves massaging them out of all the things. When it comes to actual fucking, thighs are the first thing he does is have a nice grip, so he can guide you when you get a little too tired from riding him. Thighs for him serve a more practical role, he uses it so well when he needs to manhandle you on the bed, throwing you over to only continue pounding into you, bringing your thighs up your chest and kissing the skin closest to him. At some point he learns that scratching at the top of your thighs is what gets you going, so when ever he thrusts in he never misses a chance to scratch slightly.

In all honesty, thighs? yes! but ass? Even better! Jake loves thighs, don't get him wrong now, but more than anything he loves your ass, biting and leaving marks on it is his specialty. The way he likes to grip at them as he drags you up and down his dick, gripping you fest as he tries to hold you up. Jake would love anything that is round and cushiony in my opinion, using your ass as a pillow or making sure it is as red as your abused pussy after a long session with him. He massages it, kisses, bites and slaps it so much you wouldn't be able to sit. Your thighs won't look any less, before you can long forget the pain, he is back gripping at the waist, right at the thighs as he has you for his breakfast. Jake loves breasts too, but the way he gets crazy for them is a story for another day.

[sorrowful-lover]

Douma x Demoness! Reader - Devotion

NSFW : Sadistic thoughts, Dark depictions, dark thoughts, Cock Gagging, Cock Worship, slight slut shaming, slight degradation, masochism, hair pulling, graphic sexual intercourse.

Slight Summary: A young demoness, is ready to show her utmost devotion to Lord Douma in the dead of night.

I wish to give thanks to @mrskokushibo for the inspiration for this story, I couldn't have done it without her!! Go and read her content, she has some very spicy stories!!

This is my first ever story, and I wouldn't mind feedback.

The sound of crickets and cicadas could be heard singing throughout the dark forest, the night sky was a hazy deep blue, the stars standing out like white dots on a giant canvas, standing out the most against the dark canvas was the crescent moon. In the distance, overseeing the forest, stood a temple. Everyone who lived close to the forest knew of this temple and promptly called it 'The Eternal Paradise Faith' but most considered it to be a cult.

Hundreds of people went to the temple, all with the hope that the man, who has been said to have been sent by the gods to answer their prayers. Most who go into the temple never come back, as they'd rather live with the diety, to gain utmost peace and tranquility, as they say, it's the only way for your prayers to come true.

Within the temple, it was dark, everyone was in their beds asleep for the night, ready to face tomorrow, hoping that it would be the day they would obtain true peace. The floors were shiny marble, the walls were made of white rose quartz, carvings of Buddha laid about the ceiling, and the pillars, within his palms, he was holding a lotus. Along with the Buddha carvings, beautiful lotus designs littered the building, giving an ambiance of peace and relaxation.

Within the silence, the sound of something hard could be heard clacking against the marble floors in a rhythmic pattern. A pair of black high heels could be seen, cat-walking through the darkness slowly, with long smooth legs, a red dress cutting off the view of skin, hips rotating side to side, a lush waist, a pair of lovely breasts, slightly bouncing from her walk, thin straps over her shoulders. Her gaze was that of a predator, her narrow-slitted pupils piercing into the dark, locked onto a pair of large brown doors that appeared black in the darkness, their golden handles slightly gleaming in the dark.

Once at the door, her fingers slowly wrapped around it, the confidence and sexual energy she expelled was enormous. She pulled the door open, revealing a large, dark room. The marble floor was replaced with a wooden one, and the Buddha carvings were laid upon the walls, giving off the same peaceful ambiance. Towards the center of the room on the left, lay a sizable, polished wooden shrinelike structure, the four pillars held up the top of the shrine, engravings of lotus littered the top of the border, blue and green curtains draped around it, pulled back on each side to show the middle of it.

Inside, was a large, purplish, zabuton pillow that lay in the center of it, upon the pillow, laid her target. The young deity himself. He was looking over at her with a questionable look, his rainbow eyes holding curiosity within them as he stared at her, his legs crossed and his hands lay in his lap lazily. She gave him a flirtatious smile as she walked into the room, gently closing the door behind her. She walked over towards him, the same slow rhythmic walk, a more eager bounce in her step as she stared him down. He cocked his head at her before an empty, welcoming smile graced his face.

"Oh~! Y/N!! I'm surprised to see you here, and especially at this time of night~!! What brings you here, dear?" He asked in a friendly voice. She stopped short of his shrine before she raised her hand up under her breast, she then slowly trailed it down over her waist, hip, thigh, knee, leg, and finally down to her shoe. She silently took it off, her head angled to where she was sure he could see her cleavage through the neckline of her dress. She repeated this process with her other shoe.

His eyes remained trained on her, a patient yet knowing smile on his face as he watched her. She gently picked her shoes up together before she neatly placed them down together on the floor with a gentle clack from the heel. She sat down on her legs, knees bent as she placed her hands on her lap. "I've come to you, Lord Douma, with an important question." She spoke calmly and collected. He tilted his head slightly. "And just what would that question be, my dear~?" He kindly asked. Her smirk slowly lost its flirty look and turned into a small smile across her face. "I wish to ask, how do I obtain peace and tranquility?" She asked.

Her voice sounded genuine, her smile matching her voice. His smile widened and he closed his eyes as he gave the same recited answer he always gave. "Why, peace and tranquillity are obtained once you've overcome the trials and tribulations of your life~ the more hectic your life, the harder it will be to obtain peace. Hence why you cannot be one with the world and seek peace, it's always going to unbalance itself." He explained. She tilted her head, intrigued by his words that she has heard a thousand times. "Your words are always so deep and philosophical, Lord Douma, your wisdom knows no bounds." She praised.

He chuckled at her words. "Well, I am known as the god who brings peace and tranquility, for wisdom is simply a part of what I've been blessed with~." He said in a chirpy voice. She gave him a questioning stare yet her smile never left. "Seeing as how you are the god of peace and tranquillity, does that mean I must be around you in order to obtain such?" She asked. He gave her a condescending smile as he stared at her with kind eyes that held slight pity within them. "Only if you wish to obtain peace and tranquility~." He said.

She gave a soft chuckle. "You're already aware that I do, I wish to worship you, lord Douma." She said, her eyes gleaming with an unknown emotion. His smile widens. "You've already given yourself to me, now you must work on obtaining peace and tranquility ~!! But you already knew all of this... why Y/N~? Why must you come and test my intelligence so?" He asked, his smile was far from kind as his eyes shined with the promise of pain and punishment.

Her heart nearly skipped a beat at the stare, as her back straightened out, the heel of her foot dug into her pussy through her dress, giving her stimulation. He watched as her thighs shifted and her hips wiggled, sensing her discomfort and smelling her excitement, he blinked and the dark look vanished and it was replaced with pity and mirth. "Tell me, Y/N~ what do you want from me?" He asked in a purr.

She sighed at the tone of his voice as her rocking sped up, the part where her heel was plunged into her sobbing pussy was making a damp print of her red dress, and her thighs flexed and relaxed as her hips rolled. "My Lord, I want you to touch me, I want you to do such unholy things to me~." She moaned out, as her hand slowly crept up her thigh, her fingers purposely hooking under her dress as she slowly rose it up her thighs, nearly exposing her panties before they unhooked, it trailed up her stomach slowly till it reached her breast where she grabbed it with a sensual sigh.

His eyes were slightly hooded in glee at her actions, he was entertained by her, he truly was. He wasn't aroused by demoness, they couldn't get him riled up like a young, virgin, gorgeous human woman did, the sight of the pleasure and fear in her eyes as he'd have his way with her, her screams of plea for help as he'd dig his claws into her soft skin, the smell of her warm blood, her hair getting knotted. Just the thought alone was enough to get his cock to twitch. He decided to entertain her.

" So You wished to be touched by me~? To be caressed and held~? To be unclothed and licked upon~? To be bitten and marked~? To be thrown onto your back, to be dominated~? To be forced to lie upon your back as I ravish you to my heart's content~? To be suckled upon while I finger your moist, tight, aching pussy~? To have your clit sucked upon~? To have your back arching as you call to the heavens from your orgasm~? To be flipped onto your knees, and to have your waist covered in bruises from my heavy touch~?

To be pounded into, by my thick, curved, long, dick~? To be spanked and manhandled like the little whore you are~? To be moaning my name into the echoing of my room~? To reach your second orgasm with trembling legs~? To be overstimulated by my constant thrusting~? To be flipped onto your side while I grab your soft throat with my large and powerful hand~? To have me whisper into your ear about how you're being such a good girl for me~? To have your thigh held up over my own as I thrust into you, hard and fast~? To have my groans and moans fill your dirty mind~? To have my seed fill you as you reach your last orgasm~? Is that what you want me to do to you, my sweet~?" He purred out.

Her eyes hooded and her lip locked under her teeth as her hand messaged her breast and her other slowly made its way between her thighs, her sweet moans sounded out, echoing into the quiet room, her mind imaging his vivid description of what he'd do to her. "Yes~! Yes, Lord Douma~!! That's what I want! That's what I crave, please, have mercy upon me, and bless me with such actions, I beg of you!" She whined and moaned out her pleas. His smile widened as he held back his gleeful chuckles. He didn't usually do this with demoness, but seeing her being so desperate made him want to be the slightest bit nice to her.

"You wish to worship my cock that badly~? How shameless." He teased. She whined in want as she batted her lashes at him prettily. "Please, Lord Douma?" She said in a soft voice. He observed her for a second longer before he uncrossed his legs, man spreading onto the zabuton as he curled his finger at her for an invite. "Come here, my little vixen~." He said. She was quick to crawl on her knees over towards him, climbing up into the shrine as she kneeled before him, she dared not to touch him, and her eyes trailed over his masculine features.

His handsome face, his Adam's apple, his strong shoulders, his wide chest, his toned stomach, his thick forearms, his powerful hips, and lastly, the main prize that was covered with his hakama pants. He smiled down at her with empty fondness, as he reached out and he petted her head. "Go on, I grant you permission to touch me as you please~." He said in a gentle voice. Her hands got to work, as she slowly trailed them up his strong and toned thighs, closing in on her prize. Her hands cuffed around his clothed cock in a diamond shape, his thickness was shown through the bunched fabric as she ran her hands over his flaccid cock.

He stared down at her with patient and observant eyes, watching as she literally worshiped his cock. She moved her hands back only to move them back in as she unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his pants, and unzipped them. Her anticipation was heavy, her heart hammered in her chest as she was revealed to her prize. She gently and carefully pulled him out, holding it gently in her palm as she gazed at it. "It's very handsome." She complimented. He smiled but said nothing, as he enjoyed watching her in her trance.

She gently kissed the tip before she opened her mouth and she wrapped her tongue around the tip, french kissing it before she took him into her mouth. Unfazed by her actions, he watched with mirth as she sucked his flaccid cock, working to get him hard. "My~ You're very skilled at that, I can tell, but it'll take more than that to get me hard." He said. She sucked his cock slightly harder as she hollowed out her cheeks, her throat opened to take him deeper, he remained unfazed at the feeling of her smooth tongue rubbing under his cock, the walls of her cheeks hugging his cock, her throat tight around the tip of his cock as she took him in deeper.

"Hmm~ I don't think you understand... So, let me help you." He said with a close-eyed smile. She looked up at him, waiting for him to explain, but she was shocked when he suddenly grabbed the back of her head and he pushed her all the way down his cock till her nose was pushed into the base of his abdomen, he held her there for a while, the feeling of her throat adjusting and swallowing around his cock brought a smirk to his face and a twitch to his cock. "Human women, are so much more fun to play with, by now, her throat would be squeezing me from the lack of oxygen, constantly swallowing, the ridges of her throat feeling so good~" He said, his eyes shining with a sadistic gleam.

"But, you're sadly a demon, so I won't get that from you~." He mourned before he grabbed a fist full of her hair and he pulled her back, the tip laid on the middle of her tongue, her saliva coated his cock, strings connected from her chin down to his balls, a dazed look on her face as she looked up at him with utmost admiration. He smirked down at her face before he pushed her head back down as he thrusts up, her gagging was loud as she gripped his pants tightly, focusing on breathing through her nose as he mouth fucked her to his heart's content.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Y/N~? Is this what you wanted? To be used like a whore, to be my source of pleasure~?" He purred out. She moaned in response, her hips swayed from side to side as she rubbed her clit on the heel of her foot, and her pussy leaked through her panties to her dress. His grip on her hair tightened as he picked up his speed and force, practically slamming her face back down into his lower abdomen. His eyes grew a hazy look, as she was mentally replaced with a human girl.

Her brows furrowed as her closed eyes tightened, along with her grip on his pants, and her orgasm came crashing down on her. Her jaw twitched closed around his cock, her teeth squeezing him as his muscles convulse, her pussy spasmed as her moans came out high pitched. Her release trailed down her feet making a small pool around the ball of her foot. From the feeling of her teeth clenching down on his twitching cock, he gave a loud groan as his thigh muscles twitched, his hazy and dazed eyes shined in glee at the pleasurable feeling.

The sound of her gagging, the feeling of her contracting throat, her slapping hands upon his thighs, her nails digging into his skin. His cock twitched hard in her throat. He gave a throaty groan in response to his wandering thoughts. She moaned back in response, her hips picking up speed as she grinded down on her heel, her core clenched and unclenched, her stomach growing hot, signifying her of an approaching orgasm.

His own heels dug into the floor of the small shrine, generating a creaking sound as his thrusts became quicker. Her moaning became constant as she felt her orgasm coming, the vibration of her moans stimulated him, and he groaned deeply as his head threw back, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly.

He looked down at her, seeing his saliva-coated cock appear and disappear from his sight. He stared a little longer before he pulled her off his cock, and her post-orgasmic moans sounded out as she was in a dreamy daze from her intense orgasm. He gave her a sadistic smile as he chuckled. "My~ that was actually rather fun... what else can you give me?" He questioned as he sat up, he let her hair go, allowing her to sit up on her own, she stared up at him, admiration was mixed in with her fucked out haze. "Take your clothes off." He simply ordered. She raised her hands up grabbingthe thin strap on her shoulder, as she slid them down, allowing her dress to fall down her body, it pooled around her waist before she stood up, and it fell to pool around her feet.

He watched patiently, as she took off her bra, the straps slid down her shoulders, and she pulled it down, releasing her breasts, her nipples hardened, ready to be played with, she turned it around on her so that she could properly unclip it, allowing it too to fall with her dress. Her hands cuffed her breasts as she closed her eyes, her fingers rubbing over her perky nipples as she moaned softly, her thighs rubbing together. Her hands slid down her body, her bottom lip locked under her teeth as she hooked her thumbs under her panties, slowly pulling them down, bending over with them till they hit the floor.

She slowly straightened out, her hands trailing up her body as she did, running them over her legs, knees, thighs, hips, waist, breast, neck, face, and up into her hair, she gave him a sluttery stare as she batted her lashes at him. His dazed eyes stared at her as he beckoned her over with his finger. "Come here~." He purred. She walked over towards him, her hands coming up to rest on his shoulders. She marveled at how strong and toned they looked. She looked up into his eyes.

They were dazed and hazy, almost like he wasn't really staring at her, it was like he was in a dream-like state. His hand trailed up her hips, around over back to her ass where he roughly squeezed her cheeks. She gave a soft moan at the rough treatment, his nails seeming like they were going to pierce her skin, he pulled her forward, making her spread her legs as she stumbled forward into his lap. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck. His hands trailed up her waist, over her back, and back down. She looked down between them, seeing his spit-coated cock pent between them.

The tip leaked pre cum as it slightly twitched from a pulse. She was brought from her musing when he suddenly laid back, her hands pulling from his shoulders to rest on his chest as she stared down at him. "I want you to ride me, show your devotion to me.~" He said. Her hands ran over his chest, feeling his muscles underneath his shirt, theybran down his abdomen, till she reached his glistening cock. She roughly grabbed it, vaguely recalling his reaction when she bit down on him earlier. It was the right move as his cock throbbed under her actions.

He swallowed at the feeling of her rough treatment, his hands resting lazily on her hips as they moved around to circle her ass cheeks and thighs. She sat up on her knees, while her hands guided his cock down between her legs toward her aching pussy. 'This is it... I'm going to be one with Lord Douma.' She thought excitedly as she slowly sunk down on him. Her eyes rolled as they fluttered close, the stretch slightly burning from not being prepared beforehand, but it was such a good feeling, it burned just right as she descended down his throbbing cock. The feeling of his veins and throbs brought small moans from her mouth as she sunk down.

His eyes were glued to where he could see himself entering into her, her clit slightly throbbing from the stimulation, the feeling of her core clenching. This was different, he wasn't used to having sex to pleasure his partner, he'd usually have sex out of boredom as he'd kill his next meal. It was never to give his partner pleasure. It was always for sadistic reasons. With her, it was different, he didn't hate it, but it was different. His thumb brushed over her clit, and she bucked, making her descend down his shaft fully making them both give a pleasurable sigh.

Her nails dug into his chest making him groan from the pain, his thumb rubbed heavy, fast circles on her clit, and her core tightened making his cock twitch from the feeling of her soft gummy walks pressing into every crevice of his cock, his other hand held onto her hip, his nails dug into her skin making indents into the soft flesh. She moaned from the stimulation on her clit, her hips grinding up into his thumb and down on his cock, her head flopped to the side her eyes closed as she tried to focus on riding, raising her hips up before she brought her ass down heavily on his lap.

He moaned out as his hips raised up to meet her halfway giving her the extra boost to bounce up, their moans, huffs, and groans sounded out in the room, the muffled sound of clapping echoed out, the gooey sound of her pussy could be heard as she grew wetter, her walls contracting and releasing around his twitching cock. He pulled his thumb from her clit, in favor of grabbing her ass, effortlessly picking her up, and letting gravity do its job of making her plant back onto his cock. The muscles in his arms, chest, and shoulders flexed.

His thigs slightly moved back and forth as he thrusts up into her fluttering walls, one of his feet rose onto the ball of his foot, helping his hips to angle up slightly, her reaction was immediate as she threw her head back and she moaned loudly into the empty room. The head of hisbcock pressing against her g spot heavily, hard and fast.

His eyes focused in on her bouncing breasts, watching as they did small little circles as they moved freely from the forcing of their fucking. Her hands moved down his chest towards her clit where she pressed her fingers against it heavily as she aggressively rubbed it.

"NNUAAGH!! FUCK!" He shouted before her walls loosened and they fluttered aggressively as she came hard around his cock. "AH! AH! AH! UGAH! OH GOOOD!" She moaned aloud in time with each new wave from her orgasm. He helped her ride out her orgasm, his thrusts speeding up, chasing for his own climax. Her body relaxed, and she slumped onto him. Her orgasm was harder than she expected, and her eyes were dazed. His arms wrapped around her lower back as his hips continued to thrust his cock up into her well-spent pussy.

"YES! YES! GOD YES! AH!! AHH!! I'M GONNA CUM~!! OH GOD!! LORD DOUMA!! PLEASE!! UAHH!" She cried out in pleasure as her other hand unconsciously came up to groop her breast. His cock twitched from her moans, the thick vein in his cock pulsed harder than expected and his head threw back from the feeling.

Her walls grew tighter, hotter, wetter, and her G spot flexed against the tip of his cock, his thrusting becoming urgent as he knew her climax was coming. Her moans got caught within her throat, and her walls grew tight for a moment, his cock fluttered and the thick vein on his cock pulsed quickly from the feeling.

The loose feeling of her relaxed walls made him groan, his cock twitch, his balls tightened and his world turned white. The feeling of his cock pulsing and twitching against her gummy ridges helped stimulate his orgasm. "NNNUGH! HA! HA! HAAA!" Came his breathy groans in time with his release, his hips doing small weak thrusts, His arms tightened around her, making her groan as it felt like his arms were going to sever her spinal cord, but they slowly loosened as his orgasm came to an end. His legs relaxed against the zabuton.

The room was silent as they both rested in their afterglow. She sighed as she felt his nails gently dragging up and down her back mindlessly. She moved her head, her chin resting on his chest as she looked up at him. "You up for round two?" She asked, a smirk on her face. He looked down at her and he smirked in return. "You still wish to show me your devotion?" He asked. She chuckled in return. "I feel that showing my devotion once isn't good enough." she said in a teasing voice. He gave an empty smile at her words. "Very well then, show me your devotion~." He said, mirth in his eyes.

[sametsyun]

I HAVE A FANFIC IDEA!!

Alright you guys know that Moon Goddess from Over the Moon??

What if the reader was Chang'e and she and Lucifer used to go wayyy back, setting aside the whole plot of Over the Moon and changing it to god creating her as an angel to watch the moon or something bla bla bla, and Lucifer would frequently visit that moon she falls in love and so does he. And since Chang'e does wishes n' after she's been given a gift or something like that, I forgot, Lucifer would bring her like little ducks and stuff and she'd grant him every little wish she could.

And here comes the angst, Lucifer stops frequenting at the moon making the reader all sad and confused. She looks for him all over heaven but he isn't there. Why was he ignoring her? Did he not like the wish she granted him? He's probably busy right now.

And he comes back all of a sudden with a big ass smile that makes her think he was happy to see her after not visiting her for a long time only for that thought to be crushed when he simply gives her a gift with no thoughts and asks for a heavy wish

She hesitates because it was slightly against what she was only allowed to grant but still does it anyways.

Here comes Lucifer's trial, and reader is just shocked af to see him there only to realize what he truly needed that wish for and bro she Gon be hurt hurt af when she sees him with Lilith.

The angels then ask for the details and Lucifer panics and straight up snitches on reader for giving him that wish.

So long story short, they casted him down to hell with Lilith. And the reader was sentenced to a lesser sentence since she didn't know what that wish was going to do or what it was going to cause.

But she was still cast out of heaven, never able to enter those gates ever again and is thrown over to the moon alone.

She is left alone in that dark moon desert with a single green bunny that had been gifted to her by Lucifer.

The reader just cries out of heartbreak and betrayal. A tear drops on the bunny and Jade comes to life. Reader is no longer alone and is a tad bit happy she has company.

Then timeskip to a few ion years, and the moon is bustling with lights, fun and parties, just like the movie.

Then we follow Chang'e story, trying so many things to figure how to see Lucifer again.

Well that was long idea. BUT I NEED THIS WRITTEN PLEASE. ADD TWISTS AND MORE STUFF TO IT I JUST WANNA READ IT.

I know I can write this but, I WANNA READ IT IN SOMEONE ELSE'S WORK YOU GET WHAT I MEAN?