#ludicmagic writes

[lucidmagic]

Alright, here’s the scrapped Alcina x Werewolf!Reader (F) story I originally planned to write (note: I wrote this before re8 was released so that’s why somethings don’t add up in canon, notably Heisenberg being a werewolf, because that’s what was rumored before the game dropped). Hopefully, I’ll be revising this after I finish Phyto’s Guide, since I have a more concrete grasp on the plot, lore, and characterization. No stealing please :)

Words: 8.3k (yeah I know, I got through a lot)

Trigger Warnings: Mentions/implications of domestic abuse, mentions/implications of toxic/abusive family, mentions of murder, torture, and blood, alcohol consumption, canon typical allusions to violence

Something about the village unsettled you.

Fog hung in the air like a miasma of dread and, coupled with a despondent looks in the eyes of the older villagers, this place could easy be described as gloomy. Cobble stones lined the streets in uneven patterns centuries old and the quaint homes were likely just so judging by the narrow alleys and organic layout of the town.

But modernity was sporadically visible at times. Parked cars occasionally came into view, their compact nature and rust holes detailing their age. Electrical lines hung as vines along the buildings and poles, often grouped up into one location that certainly wasn’t up to code. Radio channels pitched into the silence with crackling national or regional updates—maybe even a football game.

The village was dismal compared to the bigger cities you passed through. Traditional. Rural. Isolated.

(Perfect.)

The growl of your motorcycle between your thighs echoed along the aged bricks, perking up heads and gaining glares of the locals. So far, you haven’t seen a similar vehicle like yours and you briefly wonder if this is the first time any of them ever heard or laid eyes on one. You can’t say for certain that was the case with some of the younger generations, but the older people scrunched up their faces and mimicked spitting on the ground as if to ward off a demon.

(Your grip on the handles tightens as an older woman cursed at you and hissed out an insult. Her breath smelt of harsh alcohol and tobacco, a nauseating combination. You don’t miss how her heart quakes against the reverberation of your bike.)

Tells of beasts and monsters saturated any and all questions you asked about this village from the previous. Mysterious murders. Strange disappearances. The typical ghost stories of remote settlements that permeate still with folklore and tradition.

(Good, you thought when you heard. You’ll fit right in.)

Chilled air escaped your nose as you spotted your destination. The Ranger’s Respite. The only inn here that you could gather from a quick google search and the previous innkeeper from two towns back. It was barely three stories high with faded burnt orange paint and plaster with sloping shingled roof that needed repair years ago. It’ll have to do for now.

You navigated your bike to the side of the road and parked. The rumbling of the engine ceased as you turned the key and the sounds of the village filled the emptiness left in its wake. Corvids cawed in the distance. Wind whistled and chimes rang in its wake. People shuffled along the cobble sidewalk muttering about the brisk breeze. Children a block down not so subtly whispered around small hands and pointed in your direction.

Shaking your hair out from your helmet, you felt several pairs of eyes on you already. There was an older man in a chair who nibbled on a pipe, a middle-aged woman pinning cloths along a line, and a group of dark-haired children clustered together. You sighed and entered the inn, trying not to glare. You were the stranger in this place. It’s only natural for them to be curious and cautious.

The inn was what you expected. Wooden tables and chairs, sparse occupants in far corners, and a box television above the counters where a man eyed you from behind. Decades of cigar smoke and sweat pervaded the air. You just resisted screwing up your face.

“Are there any rooms available?” You asked, gaze landing on the bartender. He nodded and told the rate. His gaze was guarded, eyes dark with suspicion. Your Romanian was passible, definitely enough to sustain a conversation, but it was clear you were a foreigner by the accent. “I’ll take one for two weeks. For now.”

He raised a bushy brow but accepted the jingle of lei you produced from your leather jacket. “Planning on staying that long?”

“In the least.” You looked around the place. The back shelves of the bar were filled with more local brands than ones you recognized. A pair of men were playing cards in the corner, but you noticed their frequent glances in your direction. The waitress, around your age, was wiping down a table not too far from you. Something roasted in the back kitchen and the smell sent a pang of hunger to your stomach. You slide into a stool and looked to the chalk scrawled menu. “I’ll take your special, please.”

Mustering up a smile, you gave your best nonthreatening face to the waitress, who flushed when you met her eyes and scurried away into the back room where the roast was.

(Oh no, did you scare her? That definitely was not the intention. You just wanted food. It’s been half a day since your last meal.

Shit, did you offend her? You read somewhere that some cultures don’t smile for no reason and it can be perceived as strange to do to without prompting.)

You turn back to the bartender. He’s a middle-aged man, broad shouldered, with an unshaved face that wasn’t quite a beard yet. He picked up a glass, inspected it, and placed it down before you. “Do you have a preference, doamna?”

Shrugging, nothing on the back wall caught your attention. “Perhaps some ţuică?”

He seemed to appreciate that choice and nodded as he prepared your drink.

(It seems your harried and quick research into Romanian cuisine was paying off for something. At least, for the alcohol.)

“If you don’t mind me asking, doamna,” the bartender placed a filled glass before you. You took it and silently cheered to him before taking a sip. The taste was sharp but sweet—still hints of plum despite it being distilled. “We don’t normally get wanderers here, so it is . . . odd to see a foreigner. . . why is that?”

(It took all of your self-control not to shatter the glass in your hand. Dangerously close though. Your jaw clenched and your back tensed.)

“Travelling,” you replied, smooth and quick. “Looking for work if you have any.”

“Work?” He almost sounded surprised by that. Glancing at the drawer where he placed your dues earlier, you can guess he didn’t fully believe that. But it was true.

(Mostly.)

“Yes,” you smiled, easing the conversation back to your control. “Been travelling so long my funds are getting low. Need something sustain myself.”

The bartender hummed and at that moment the barmaid came out from the back room, savory smells and spices wafted out that commanded your stomach to growl. Mouth watering with anticipation, you turned to the woman, “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

She flustered again and moved to set out some utensils. “Will that be all?” Her voice was soft, meek almost.

You shook your head and cut a large piece of lamb and began eating. You nearly moaned and the rumbling from your stomach quenched.

“Tyne, do you or any of the girls know of any jobs available?” The bartender turned away to busy himself with something behind the bar.

The young woman—Tyne—paused to think but ultimately shook her head “No, papa. None that I can think of.”

You swallowed. Your mother taught you that much about manners, “I’ll be open to anything—honestly… Even more masculine jobs.” You added the last part as an afterthought. Rural Romania tended to be gender labor divided, yet that didn’t stop you before with previous bucolic towns. Often you outdid the other men in their labor, much to their chagrin.

The bartender pursed his lips at that. He hummed for a moment. “I think I can ask around the town. Working men often come in here after a long day. Maybe they could know something.”

You gave him a smile, genuine this time. Shoulders relaxed and optimistic, you continued to eat with earnest.

(Lay low for a few weeks here. Get some money to pad your pockets. Rinse and repeat. At this point you’re practically a master of selling your labor, keeping out of the way, and leaving without anyone being the wiser. Been that way for months.

When it will end is still a mystery though.)

“Where are you from?” The shy question came from Tyne. She was cute, you admit, turning to her. Dark hair, big round eyes. She was slim, perhaps bony by some standards.

(You noticed how she favored her left side despite her being right-handed and how her foundation was slightly too think on one side of her face. Trying not to stare, your nostrils flared at the antiseptic lingering on her, something you didn’t notice before, masked by the spices before you.

It’s long past your time to be righteous with your history but there are a few things in this world you consider diabolical—even by your standards. It’s a short list that you will never cross.)

“All over, mostly,” answering, you smiled at her. Tyne returned it, tentatively. “Never settled down enough to call a place home.” You changed the subject expertly with, “Did you grow up here?”

“Yes, my whole life. Papa too. Our family has been here since we opened the inn.” A certain pride emanated from her and it is almost a stark contrast to her earlier demeaner. “Papa is planning on retiring in the next few years and I’ll take up the inn from him.”

The barkeep laughed, “You’re saying that like I’m already there. You know I still have about—”

A sudden noise from outside cut him off. A loud curt breying and the staccato clomps of hoofs passed by. The blurry glass of the windows obscured the dark maned horses but it is clear they pulled a large carriage of some sort, bigger than anything you’ve seen. Clattering of hooves and huffing of beasts meandered along, eclipsing the last remnants of sun that leaked from the glass.

The inn went silent. Dead silent. The men in the corner seized up, cards halfway to the table in the middle of a round. The barkeep tensed behind the bar, going stock still. Tyne inhaled a breath and didn’t let it out. Her body shook as if a sudden breeze hit her.

(All of their hearts raced. Picking up speed like they just heard a gunshot. You can practically smell apprehension wafting from them.)

The shadows of the horses and carriage slowly inched across the plane of glass and for a brief moment the whole of the light was snuffed out. As if night abruptly descended upon them.

But, seconds passed and light began filtering back in like the end of a cloud going by the sun.

Everyone breathed in a collective breath. Then, released it as if they just let loose a good drag of a cigarette.

“Tyne,” the barkeeper voice broke the spell of silence—a plate shattering against the ground more like. “Why don’t show our customer to her room? Let her get acquainted. I bet it’s been a long day.” When Tyne didn’t move, he cleared his throat. “Tyne, show her to her room.” His voice was hard.

She jumped, startled, and turned to you, an uneasy look in her eyes.

(You’re first instinct was to demand to know what the fuck just happened. Yet, the way she is looking at you—like a wounded pup—makes you bite your tongue.

It’s your first day here. You can press for answers later on. Leaving stones left unturned never sat right and you doubt Tyne will be difficult to quell your curiosity.)

She gestures for you to follow as her father hands her an old iron key that looks too simple for a decent lock. Then again, you have hardly any worthwhile possessions on you other than a few thousand in lei, the clothes on your back, and your Ducati cruiser out front.

You trail after Tyne, casting one last glance to the blurred glass and the streaks of light filtering in. A feeling begins to rise in you that you haven’t felt in months, bold, aggressive, and hot. Anticipation.

This village is not what it seems.

XxxXxxX

Dorin—the barkeep—upholds his word to ask around about jobs with the various patrons of his establishment. And it is because of him you manage to find a menial job as a laborer for the local construction crew. You make sure to tip him well when you return from your first day, sweaty despite the nip in the air with aching shoulders. The men working with you were skeptical and snide to you joining the team, but once you threw several sacks of cement mix over your shoulder and tossed it easily on the truck from the depot, they soon quieted down.

(Well, quieted down when they though you weren’t listening. They were rather vocal about your figure—how they… liked it. The exact words made you snarl to yourself.)

Four days passed since arriving in the village. One day of asking around for under the counter jobs. Three days of labor thanks to Dorin. You get up, prepare for the day, eat lunch at the highest point of the sun, resumed working, and got back to the inn just before sundown. Wash rinse, repeat. It was a simple routine. Nothing particularly intense and you liked it like that. The work allows your mind to wander and plan out your next move.

(Continuing east could lead you to the bigger cities. More people. Less individuals to notice a stranger. But more people to possibly avoid. You know your parents are well connected particularly to the south, so that area is off limits.

Ugh. It’s more difficult to disappear than you realized. You underestimated their reach.

Then again, they underestimated your determination to stay true to yourself. So, you suppose the three of you are even.

The only regret you have is not seeing their faces when the realization hit. The picture itself would have been worth this whole trouble.)

Repetition also allowed you to eavesdrop on the local gossip and history without the locals knowing. You’ve learned some things.

The village is ancient. Settled before it was officially put on maps and ledgers in the Middle Ages. Some of the original pedigree continues in the various families. Dorin and Tyne’s family in particular have one of the oldest, continuously occupied buildings in the area. But it didn’t hold the title.

That would go to the leering castle perched on the mountain side. Steeples, gates, and moats. From what you can see from your perch on the edge of one of the roofs you’re helping thatch, it’s reminiscent of the early Renaissance period with turrets and battlements—all surrounded by thick plumes of fog and piercing towers.

It’s ominous to say the least, but you can appreciate the aesthetic.

Apparently, it changed hands many times since the Moldavian and Wallachian wars against outside influence yet eventually found owners in the hands of the Dimitrescu family. According to the workers and a quick google search on your burner, the noble house still holds major sway over the people of the village like it still partakes in the feudal system of previous centuries. You’ve learned the region as a whole was evidently like that with other houses of the Moreau, Beneviento, and Heisenberg still having extensive influence in local politics and culture.

(The way the men spoke of the family—consisting of four women, a mother and her three daughters—they spat out their names in whispers like a curse and signed a holy symbol after mentioning them.

Interesting.

There was also a man in the picture, a Heisenberg. What you could gather he and the mother were adopted siblings. So are the other Lords of the village. United under a mysterious person called Mother Miranda.

Many of the men hissed his name similarly to the women’s.

You tried once to ask why the workers hated them so, but they only glared and turned away.)

Unfortunately, you also learned of Tyne’s husband.

He came in one time when you were leaving for the morning, Tyne handing you a pre-made lunch so you didn’t have to waste time looking for food on your break.

He—Omor his name was—smelt of tobacco and cheap cologne. Tyne smiled at him when he entered the inn, however, it was evident that she didn’t expect him and the briefest flash of what you can describe as fear appeared in her gaze.

Tyne’s husband gave you a once over when he spotted you thanking her—his eyes glinted with possession, his fingers gripped his hat in his hands, and he gave you tight smile. He had pot marks on his cheeks from ache but he could be described as handsome if it weren’t for his thinning hair and constant furrow between his brow.

He introduced himself and stuck out his hand. The grip was tight like he was wringing a neck. It would have hurt if you were any other person. Canines nearly pierced your tongue attempting to stop your snarl. Instead, you returned his grip two-fold, making sure to catch his eye and letting him know it was you.

(It didn’t matter though. Tyne had her sleeves rolled down that afternoon when you returned, not up to her elbows like when you first saw her.)

You exhaled, setting your lunch down to not crush it between your fingers. Legs swinging freely off the side of the roof, you closed your eyes and gritted your teeth.

(You’re a hypocrite. You’ve killed without mercy. Enjoyed it a good portion of the time. But, there are certain things you can’t excuse.

A skewed sense of morals? Yes. But morals nonetheless.)

The worse part is it seems no one noticed. Not her father. Her patrons. Even some of the friendly locals she can be seen talking to on errands. Only you. Tyne was good at cleaning up afterwards and her typical demeaner aids in that regard. Meek, soft-spoken, forgettable. Why you of all people are so concerned is the real irony.

You sigh.

(Doesn’t matter. You’ll be gone in a few weeks. She and you will be nothing more than hazy memories in each other’s minds.)

Finishing up lunch, you stand, brush off your hands on your jeans, and turn to—

You freeze.

Leather. Old cologne. Aged wood. Musk.

You smell him before you see him. It’s unmistakable. That smell. You’ve known it your whole life. Accompanied by thinly veiled lies, disingenuous smiles hiding fangs, controlling hands, and razor-sharp claws. It wasn’t until you left that you realize how strong it truly was.

Deep. Heady. Thick in the air like a pall.

Your body moves without your permission. You scream in your head to stop but your legs disobey. You don’t need this. You’ve done so much to get away. It can’t end like this.

First thing you notice is that he’s midway up climbing into the driver’s seat of a massive carriage. Old cherry wood engraved with silverly filigree that’s chipping along the sides. Two dark horses brey before it, coils of mist rising from their nostrils.

One of his feet is on the step up but he stills, other leg positioned to push up from the ground.

There’s a moment where things go silent around you—a feat in itself with your hearing. Everything fades—in anticipation or fear you don’t want to know either way.

Then he turns and lifts his head up.

You should laugh at his outfit—a dusty leather hat with frayed edges, long black trench coat, oil-stained shirt and trousers, and round sunglasses perched on his nose. His hair used to be black, but it is more streaked with grey than its original color. His face is rugged and slashed with scars, unshaven in a messy full beard.

All you can see of his eyes are the black circles of his glasses however he’s unmistakably staring right back at you. His lips part and his brows arch up. Clearly he wasn’t expecting you either.

A moment.

Another.

Another.

Several seconds pass.

(It feels like an eternity since you’ve seen another of your kind. By the way he’s staring at you—it may be the same for him.)

You don’t know why you do it. Maybe it’s the shock of finding another werewolf this far outside of civilization, outside of typical pack territories. Or maybe it’s the unspoken comradery of the same monstrous nature.

You give him a recognizing nod.

It takes him a second. His thin lips quirk up and he raises one of his hands to the brim of his hat. In response, he nods back.

A greeting. An acknowledgment.

(A truce.)

He tilts his head the side, eyes glancing over to the carriage, attention gone. His mouth replies to something but the blood rushing through your ears deafens you. You vaguely know that a voice is heard but other than that you can’t make out what is said.

(You think it may be feminine, but you can’t be sure.)

The man gives you one last glance, smiles, and pulls himself up to the carriage.

You watch as the vehicle trots off into the thick forests surrounding the castle’s hill.

When the carriage can no longer be seen, you recognize the pain in your chest from holding your breath.

You exhale.

This village just got more interesting.

XxxXxxX

The man you recognize as kin begins to come around the village more often. At least, you notice him more often now that you know of his existence.

Every time, you give him a quiet nod. He gives one back.

That’s the extent of your interaction. It’s simple. Clean. Easy.

(Part of you wants to introduce yourself properly, perhaps get his name as well. Form some sort of rapport with a fellow werewolf. You are invading on his territory after all. It’s only appropriate.

Another part of you—the very much human side—is fucking terrified. You’re escaping from your kind. You do not need to befriend one. What if he knows who your family is. What if he knows what you did and why you are here. Selling the information is quick, he can simply make a phone call if he’s connected well enough.)

Until today.

It has been four more days since you first greeted the man, and his presence quickly became a feature in your routine. Get up. Get ready. Head off to the construction site. Eat lunch. Continue to work. Go back to the inn. And somewhere along the way he emerges—sometimes on foot, sometimes on the driver’s seat of the massive carriage. He nods or you nod first. The other replies out of respect.

It’s simple and singular.

But not today.

You just finished a day of slugging cement mix over your shoulder and nailing shingles to a roof. Your shoulders ache in a productive way, and the satisfying burn gives you a sense of pride.

Freshly washed, you descend the stairs to eat a well-deserved dinner to a quiet tavern—

Quiet.

It’s never quiet this time of night. There is usually a rowdy bunch of drunken work men or older card players rousing the night.

The silence is deafening.

You round the banister of the stairs and meet the eyes of the other werewolf in this town.

(Huh.

You thought he’d be taller up close.

That was the first thought in your mind. The second was if he ever takes off those stupid looking glasses.

The third was fuck.)

He gives you a small salute with a shot glass of dark liquor and then throws it back in a quick gulp. He licks his lips and smiles.

“Ah, a newcomer. Rare in these parts.” His voice is low and course with a strange accent to his words and you briefly wonder if he’s native to this region. His smile is surprisingly nice, his teeth are straight and white. You don’t know why that takes you back more so than him acknowledging you.

“Come!” He large coat swooshes behind him as he opens his arms invitingly to the stool next to him. “Have a drink. This place doesn’t get too many visitors. I’m curious.”

You curse at yourself for not sniffing him out sooner. Damn Tyne’s divine cooking thick in the air.

A quick glance at Dorin told you that he would be no help as he shifted from one foot to another avoiding the man’s gaze. His daughter was nowhere to be seen.

Inhaling and bracing yourself, you situated yourself next to the werewolf. Dorin looks to you, eyebrow raised.

“I’ll take what he’s having.”

As Dorin nods, the other werewolf barks out a laugh. “Ah, an outsider and a foreigner. Even rarer.” He motions for the barkeeper to tend to his drink. Pitching his voice low, continues with, “Tell me . . . what brings the like of you to our humble village.”

The like of you. He’s not referencing your locality.

You give a grateful nod to Dorin as he places a glass before you and fills it, giving you time to compose yourself. Being vulnerable and cornered after a long day of work settles in your stomach like a jar of bees. Twitchy, buzzing, unstable.

Throwing back the dark liquid—sharp and spicy, whiskey, good by the smoky after taste—you half turn to the man. “Passing through, need money to continue on.”

The man hums and slips on his shot that was refilled by Dorin. “And how long will that be?”

“About a week more—perhaps shorter if you need me to move on.” You eye him, gauging his reaction.

(If this is a pissing contest, then he has the home advantage. You’re the lone wolf encroaching. The least you need at the moment is to fight for unnecessary territory.)

He stares for a moment, gaze obscured by his dark glasses. A moment passes. And then his smile widens, brilliantly.

“That won’t be necessary.”

The shock must have been evident on your face as the man slaps you on the back—hard and abrupt. You let out a sudden gasp at the action.

(Breathe. Breathe. It was friendly. At least it wasn’t with claws and disdain.

. . . It was nice. If sudden.

May you can get used to this type of affection—

No. Don’t get ahead of yourself. You don’t know this man. He’s a stranger. You need to know his angle first.)

If the man noticed your reaction, he didn’t show it. “You got a name, stranger?”

A second passes before you relinquish your name. Your gaze is hard as he listens—watching for any reaction to your surname. Anything that indicates he knows who you are. Instead, his face is a neutral, amusement in his eyes, and he tilts his head.

He hums. “Heisenberg.”

“What?”

“My name, little pup.” He gives a knowing grin . . . It’s pleasant. Warm. You try to remember an easy smile like that from before but the memory is so hazy it could be deemed nonexistent. “My name is Karl Heisenberg.”

It is then that it clicks. The silence. The stares. The unease in the tavern.

He’s the Heisenberg everyone speaks so darkly of. How they whisper his and the Dimitrescu’s name like a curse.

Is it because he’s like you? Would they react similar if they found out you’re the same? Would Dorin scowl at you when you turn your back on him? Would Tyne tremble as you greet her?

(Is he as lonely as you are?)

You raise your glass to him, and a bewildered look crosses his face. But he still follows suite and clanks his glass to yours. A strong ring resounds around tables.

“To names.” You speak, a small smile crossing your face.

Heisenberg barks a laugh. “To Family!”

The two werewolves continued to chat away. Much to the tavern goer’s dismay.

XxxXxxX

Heisenberg and you start a tentative companionship since that evening. You’d continue your time laboring for the local builders, pocketing the money of the day, but with the added routine of Heisenberg joining you for a quick drink in the corner of the tavern, absconded from prying eyes and ears. Most of the time he was the one who did most of the talking, reminiscing about his stalwart sister, her chaotic daughters, quiet younger sister, ugly brother, and their demanding mother. Other times he would reveal tales of his youth and how he slaughtered a dozen or so hunters bent on slaying him. Or even telling you about his various horses, their personalities, and the apparent horse drama that is always brewing.

Tyne and Dorin give you suspicious looks every time you emerge from the corner when Heisenberg needs to get on with his duties. The father becomes more distant after the second night, glaring from the counter when the other werewolf sloshes some of his drink on the table. The daughter is still nice to you, thankfully, but she’s noticeably more reserved with her grins when Heisenberg chats with you.

The man is full of fire and smiles, and though he slaps you on the back at a good joke, you begin to expect it more and more, stopping yourself from flinching too often.  

You haven’t smiled or laughed that much since you ran.

It’s nice.

(You could be friends, a part of you pleas. Start anew here. Build something close to a confidant.

Fool, you equally warn. You hardly know this man. He could be playing the long game—gaining trust before finally baring his fangs and going for the throat.)

“Think you would like them.” Heisenberg says one night. His face is flush from several fingers of whiskey. His glasses are askew, one pale grey eye glinting from behind.

“Oh?” You respond, nursing your drink.

He hums, pursing his lips. “Dani would warm up to you quickly—she’s the most sociable if a bit . . . much at times. Cass is a spitfire so she may play with you in the beginning . . . Bela takes after her mother so she’ll be hesitant but gain her trust and she’ll burn down the world for you.”

You snort. “Why does it sound like you’re trying to set me up?”

Heisenberg holds up his hands. “Listen I’m just saying. There’s an opening for the groundskeeper, since the last one was gutted.”

You raise an eyebrow at that. “Oh? That doesn’t sound like a great job security. Sorry, I don’t want my blood to be the new stain for the hardwood floors if I miss a patch of grass.”

“Come on!” He pouts. “You’ll love it! Live in a castle on a mountain. Free to work on projects. Meals and board. Surrounded by beautiful women. Even if you count my over-sized sister.”

You almost lose your eyes rolling them so hard. “I’m regretting coming out to you now.”

He huffs and takes a drink. “I’m just saying. It’s a good position. Think on it. I can’t be there to repair the old place—I have my factory to look after. You got a good mind and a set of strong hands. Alcina will appreciate the help. She’s too dainty for the harder labor stuff.”

The alcohol burns your throat as you take a sip instead of answering.

(It does sound good. Enough work to keep you busy. Protected. Isolated. What more could you want?)

Sighing, you turn to him. “Listen, the offer’s great, but I need to move on. It’s not safe to stay in one place for too long. I’ll only get you and your family hurt.”

“Hey,” Heisenberg places a rough hand on your shoulder. It’s strong, stable, warm. You can almost imagine it to be brotherly or even fatherly if you let your mind slip in that direction. You resist shrugging that thought and his hand away. “Don’t underestimate the family. We’re tougher than you think—tougher than whatever you’re running from.”

You haven’t told him much about your past. Only the essentials—a werewolf on the run from your former pack. From your hesitance and tone, you can gather he picked up the direness in your gaze. Not evening knowing the details, he offered the position almost immediately. You always refuse when he brings it up.

“Well,” you say. “It’s not my or your castle, so I have to hear it from the Lady herself. Don’t want her killing me for knocking on her door.”

“Oh, she wouldn’t do that . . . she’d bleed you dry first then kill you.”

You snort into your glass. It’s alluring to say the least. Multiple times you’ve found yourself on the edge of agreeing but . . . it’s a risk to settle too soon. Last thing you want is collateral, especially to someone who has only shown you trust and thoughtfulness.

“Let me think on it. It’s a lot to change so suddenly.” You give him a smile.

He returns it. “No pressure. Only want what’s best for you.”

(What’s best for you. . .

Those words—simple words really, but words you haven’t heard before. Not from your mother. Father. Brother. They didn’t care so long as they got something out of it, even if it was the worst for you.

That’s why you had to take what’s best for you. Wrangle it away from another, claw at it, tear open a hole for only you. Damn them all, you thought. Damn them all to the darkest, deepest hell for making you choose. Between them and happiness. Between duty and being true. They forced your hand and have the audacity to be shocked when you bit back.)

You shallowed, a lump stuck somewhere in your throat.

(You choose happiness once before.)

“Thank you.”

“No problem, little pup.”

(Maybe you can choose it again.)

XxxXxxX

Tyne stares at you, mouth open, eyes wide, face pale. In one hand, she braces herself against the bathroom sink of the tavern, grip white. The other is covered in foundation, half applied on her left cheek where a blooming bruise is forming.

Omor’s handiwork.

She just stares back in the mirror, caught. You can see her hands shake.

You can only stare back.

The door wasn’t closed all the way so you thought it was open for use. But instead, you’ve caught her in the act of cleaning up her husband’s mess.

A moment passes.

Another.

She doesn’t move under your scrutiny.

After another second, you straighten. Stepping in, you shut the door fully and move the hinge to lock it in place. Tyne lowers her hand covered in foundation as if ashamed. Her head follows.

“Don’t tell, papa. He’ll kill him, in broad daylight if he found out. I can’t lose both of them because of me. I can’t.” She doesn’t look at you, eyes fixated on something more interesting in the sink.

“Omor . . . he has too much power in the village. His family is one of the wealthiest, one of the first to settle here. Papa was so happy when the wedding happened—So was Mama. I was sort of pushed into it because—it was security so I wouldn’t. . .” She’s rambling. Rambling on and on, as if she can somehow convince you it was someone else’s fault, her fault even. It sickens you.

A step, another step. You cross the bathroom in a couple of strides so you’re next to Tyne in under a second.

She doesn’t notice the tears dropping to the sink below. Or the sobs heaving her chest. But you do.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done this here. It’s just there was no time before opening this morning and—”

“Tyne.”

Voice gentle, but sudden and it breaks off her spiraling words. She looks up then. Not in the mirror but she turns to you fully. It’s slow as if you’re a snake and she’s trying to creep by without disturbing you.

You reach around her in the tiny bathroom, careful to choreograph your every movement so she doesn’t recoil. Slow but deliberate, you grasp the pallet and the cream from the counter. You bring it to your front. Tyne continues to just stare, tears drying on her cheeks.

You unscrew the cap to the cream and squeeze some on your fingers. Cautiously, you bring your hand up, telegraphing ever move, each muscle. Letting her know she can trust you.

(You see her throat work to gulp and the perspiration builds on her top lip. Tyne’s heart races as you step half a stride to her.)

As gently as you can muster, you spread the cream across her cheek, over the growing discoloration, over the trails of tears left behind. She sucks in a breath and stills.

It’s at this distance you can see a splattering of freckles across her nose with some across her forehead. Her eyes are a deep brown, like her father’s. One of her incisors is slightly crooked. She’s still pretty, but you can see the wear of months of work and abuse in the way her heart continues to pick up every time you fingers spread the cream across her cheek. There are bags under her big eyes and slight wrinkles at the corners of her eyelids despite being the same age as you.

Her sudden flinch makes you stop.

(Of course, you hurt her. That’s the only thing you’re good at.)

“Sorry,” You quickly say. “I have laborer’s hands.”

“It’s okay,” Tyne breathes. “It’s still sore.”

(It takes all of your self-control not you sprint out of there, follow Omor’s cheap cologne, and rip out his throat, and watch him gurgle on his blood. It’s the least he deserves.)

“Do you want him gone?”

Tyne stills. “W-what?”

“I said,” voice firm, you place the cream tube back and keep your gaze on hers. “Do you want your husband gone?”

She just stares at you, mind catching up to what you said.

“I can’t—Papa won’t ever—”

“You have more than your father who cares.”

It is then Tyne realizes the extent of your question. Her eyes go wide and her mouth tries to form words but can only move.

“I—I—”

“You don’t have to answer now.” You take a step back and it seems she exhales as you do. “But you do need an answer. Because it will affect what I do from now on.”

Speechless, she stands there. Eyes and body unmoving. Face covered as best as you could do given the rage flowing through your veins.

It is at that you turn, stepping to the door, unlock it, and turn the knob.

“Yes.”

Tyne’s voice makes you stop. You catch her eyes over your shoulder and it is perhaps the first time you don’t see fear in them. Resolute. Unwavering. No sign of the earlier woman.

With one last second, you nod, open the door, and leave.

XxxXxxX

Three days pass since the bathroom incident. Three days of broiling rage in your heart and bloodlust filling your mind—the only thing you can really concentrate on. Your labor doesn’t faulter but the men around you notice the intensity of your gaze and they keep their comments to themselves.

You added an extra two weeks to your tenure at the inn much to Dorin’s surprise, but he gladly took the money and the extended friendship to his daughter. Tyne continued to talk to you, almost like nothing had drastically changed between the both of you and she didn’t give the okay to kill her husband. Still, there was a heaviness now to your interactions, like any moment the other shoe would drop and she would rescind her approval.

But it never came.

So, you bide your time in the village. Working hard during the day, drinking with Heisenberg during the evening, and contemplating how you’re going to rip out Omor’s throat.

(Personally, you’re leaning to your bare hands so you don’t miss the way the light from his eyes dim.)

If the other werewolf noticed the change in your demeanor, he chose not to mention it, instead focusing on the topic of his new mechanical project which you listened to with half an ear.

“But I learned that if you create cage around the power plug with a polymer-steel blend—”

“Here is your ţuică,” Tyne interrupted, setting down your drink as your previous dwindled down to only a sip. “Is there anything else you need?” She gave Heisenberg a small smile. Slowly, she’s been warming up to him, even if it was miniscule, no longing flinching when his gaze landed on her.

“If you get another finger of whiskey that would be delightful, darling.” Heisenberg gave his best white grin and winked. Tyne had a good enough sense to only roll her eyes and give a slight shake of her head. His words were already slurring and he still needed to ride back to his factory.

“How about good stew and water, Lord Heisenberg?”

He pouted like a child not given his fourth cookie of the night but nodded all the same. No one can deny Tyne’s skill in the kitchen even if it was at the expense of alcohol.

You couldn’t help but snort, taking a sip from the new glass before you. Tyne caught your gaze and turned in your direction.

“Have any plans for the weekend?” She asked.

You hummed, “Not particularly. Probably just going to ask for overtime or get my muscles a break from slinging cement.” There was glint in her eyes. Intent, focused. “Do you have any plans?”

“Oh no,” she started, waving a dismissive hand. Her acting was good to others but her flickering look gave her away to you. “Just staying in the house. Omor is going hunting with a few childhood friends of his. One of them has a cabin a dozen or so kilometers in the forest. Just going to be a quiet few days.”

You hummed. “Well, I hope he has fun.” It was a monotone comment, almost reflexive.

A few more pleasantries were passed before another inn-goer waved for Tyne. She gave a farewell and left.

Sitting back in the booth, you took a long simmering sip of your drink and saw Heisenberg shift besides you. He could smell blood on the wind.

“Fine time to go hunting in these parts.” He began, lowering his voice. “The deer are fleshly born and the foxes are out to mate. Good game.”

You keep silence but eyed him over the glass. His lips twitched.

“But wolves are also aplenty and looking forward to eating too. Could be dangerous.”

“Are attacks common?” His gaze locked onto yours and a second passed.

Heisenberg gave a wide, blindly smile. It resembled more like a snarl. “They say monsters roam that part of the forest. Many men have gone missing.”

“How . . . unfortunate.”

(He knows when a hunt is on. The way his eyes glint and his almost wolfish smile widens. He’s eager. You faintly wonder how long since he’s had a proper pack to hunt with.)

Heisenberg leans ever so closer forward never breaking eye contact. “So, little pup. What are your plans for this weekend?”

XxxXxxX

One of the worst things about being a werewolf is the continuous need to remember where your spare set of clothes is. Yes, you and Heisenberg can return to the village like a band of nudist hippies but considering the utter lack of attraction on both ends and the shear embarrassment the two of you can avoid, well, it practically a no brainer.

You made sure to memorize the path to the two duffel bags a few kilometers east of the cabin Tyne told you about. Packed with weather appropriate clothes, snacks, water, and other supplies you’re certain that they will come in handy after the hunt.

(At first, Heisenberg thought it was overkill, yet you reminded him of how your kind typically is famished after a transformation if you don’t eat in your human form. You doubt the days after nursing a tumultuous stomach after devouring an unsuspecting deer will be worth it regardless. Especially since you’re going through this because of Omor.

It’s strange to think but eating a whole deer raw in your full-wolf form doesn’t translate over well and your people learned that human food directly after helps with digestion.)

The air held a chill and the wind coated your skin with a layer of rime. Trees, several feet across, stood proud and strong, had slender, spidery fingers reaching across the canopy. Detritus littered the ground in soft hills blanketed in a thin coating of sleet. It’s not quite winter, not yet. The seasons are on the edge of toppling over like an ill-balanced scale. Your lungs grew brittle as you sucked in a breath.

A thin sliver of the moon is only visible, on the cusp of a crescent. Stars occasionally peaked through the dark clouds of the black sky but most they were shrouded as if they were already mourning what was to come.

It was the perfect night of a hunt and you can’t wait for blood.

Since your escape from your pack, a proper transformation wasn’t in the cards as you stuck close to civilization to hide behind countless faces. Sure, there were half-shifts, where you bared your fangs and claws to unsuspecting nuisances to scare them away. But a full-shift . . . oh how your body is singing for it.

First comes the heat. Almost unbearable, to the point of pain. As if you suddenly came down with a fever in a matter of seconds. Your breath becomes ragged, shallow as you struggle for air as space around grows steadily hotter and hotter. Tendrils of steam curls around your figure, your smoldering body and the chill colliding. Your skin burns and burns and burns until there’s a sharp rip.

Next comes the pain. Your flesh breaks. Your muscles tear. Your skeleton shatters as it realigns to meet you desired form. Cracks, pops, and snaps fill the forest music. And soon your gasps and groans mingle with it, no longer possible to keep in. Somewhere in the distance you hear Heisenberg yelp accompanied by a loud sickening break—you can guess it was his facial bones jutting out.

Then the screaming. Not literally. At least not with you and Heisenberg. Some of your past packmates would scream as they transform. But this isn’t it. The scream is the only way you can describe the overflow of sensory stimuli entering your brain—the sights, the sounds, the smells. Everything is so loud when you fully change—a cacophony, a crescendo, utter chaos floods your body. It’s all too much.

And finally, the stillness. The heat, the pain, the screaming just stops. In a matter of seconds, it all ends. Your new form steps from where you stood, paws sinking into the forest floor, claws carving into the dirt. You are finally free.

A low grumble behind you makes you turn and you see Heisenberg emerge from the tree line. Half hunched but standing close to twice his normal size, his black fur is speckled with grey. His muzzle and face nearly white from this lighting. His body is long, more similar to a humanoid yet with a distinctive otherness that you can’t place. Strong digitigrade legs and humanoid arms capable of either walking or crawling, there are several scars crisscrossing his limbs from his years. Triangular ears pointed upward, long tail relaxed, he licks his jaws exposing long canines still perfectly white like in his human form. Piercing dark grey eyes take you in as well.

(His gaze travels down to your arms, legs, and torse, charting the deep gashes along your fur. Claw marks. Bite marks. Even bullet or blade wounds. For a moment his ears pin back as his eyes land on your muzzle where the scar typically across your face is deepened in this form, and a particularly nasty one on your shoulder in the distinctive dental arcade of your kind. Your pack wasn’t kind the way he is.)

Without a word you both take off in the direction of the cabin on all fours. Twigs and fallen branches barely have time to snap as you sprint, faster than a racing stallion. The breeze coursing through your fur is as if a deity is carting their fingers along the planes of your body.

You’ve never felt freer in that moment. The sliver of the moon over head, the forest singing in the wind, and Heisenberg right beside you, matching your pace.

But you have a mission to do.

Soon the two of you came upon a flickering light in the distance—yellows and oranges painting the trees. The sweet smoke of a campfire filled your senses—and alcohol, whiskey and bourbon, maybe some vodka. Laughter also bounced off the trucks of the trees, deep and slurred.

It was them. You slowed and Heisenberg followed your leave. Your plan was simple. Flank the men. Separate out Omor away from the rest and Heisenberg distract the others—maiming, but not killing and no turning. He seemed pleased with the plan, anticipating their screams and wails was enough for the other werewolf. Omor was yours and yours alone.

(When Heisenberg asked why him, you simply said one didn’t have to be a monster to be monstrous. He seemed to understand, eyes going hard when the pieces clicked in his mind. Heisenberg replied with, “I hope Tyne makes us the best fucking lamb after this.”)

You keep low to the ground, stalking to the edge of the clearing. Not a sound escaped from under your paw steps.

There were four men all sitting around a campfire. Bottles of liquor and discarded guns laid scattered around them. A few yards away a small one-story log cabin stood dark against the backdrop of the woods. . .

[End]

XxxXxxX 

Yeah, so that’s about it that I had written before I began to simp for Donna hard and the game came out. Of course, no Alcina and Reader interaction from what I’ve written because I didn’t get that far.

Obviously, canon lore and this don’t align like it should and the Reader’s personality has been shifted slightly (more one-shot like) as well as Heisenberg’s characterization and non-werewolf-dom (though they’re still companions in other aspects, much to Alcina’s chagrin in the actual story).

Tyne’s story line is still the same, but her personality has shifted as well (less timid, more calculated now) because I plan on her becoming involved with one of the Dimitrescu Daughters once her husband is out of the picture and her get the love and care she deserves. Her and the Reader actually do become friends.

This will also be connected to my Donna x Reader story, same universe. Idk when this will actually be written, I have so much to do.

I hope you all liked it, despite it being unfinished.

Stay safe and healthy y’all!