#that man is lying through his fangs | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

halcyone-of-the-sea · 9 months

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

SYNOPSIS: There’s blood on your hands again.

WORDCOUNT: 16.8k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transferable down to the saliva of one entering your bloodstream.

You must never get within the beast’s sights.

—

There’s blood on your hands again.

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

Howls.

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

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

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

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

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

It never works.

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

Shapeshifter.

Demon spawn.

Werewolf.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who had you killed this time?

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

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

“Get the dogs on it!”

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

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

The hounds are afraid of you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re going to make it hurt.

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

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

Death would be better than this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was something…off.

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

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

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

It could never be easy, could it?

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare, unable to speak as your fingers twitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the hunch he had was too important to ignore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first thing you do is vomit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breath hitched, you clench your trembling jaw tight.

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

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

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

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

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

Knowledge and company. Understanding and a horrible fellowship.

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

He wastes no time.

“Who bloody bit you?”

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

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

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

“When?”

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

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

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

The blood and the bolt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A great gray wolf with blue eyes…

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

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

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

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

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

So why had he talked to you?

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

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

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

—

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

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

Blankets being shuffled over your clothed body when you shiver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You just blink, mouth slightly open.

“Where…am I?”

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

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

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

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

They’d been re-applied recently, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The furs are warm.

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

Who would suspect a werewolf to own sheep?

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

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

There are runes written on it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking around once more, your brows furrowed tightly.

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

Why were you still alive?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you huff. “Not really.”

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

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

You limp forward and sit in the chair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A long nothingness ensues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

The Hunter was a strange beast.

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

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

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

No livestock.

No bodies.

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

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

Studying it now, the contents were a dark fascination.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face heats.

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

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

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

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

Comparable things, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Money?” You frown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

The full moon was tomorrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But…that was his job, wasn’t it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question makes you double-take.

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

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

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

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

“I kept sheep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But his hands had been kind to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Come morning, you already feel wrong.

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

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

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

At noon, he tries to suggest eating.

“Hungry?” Ghost asks.

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

Brown eyes glint. “Just one bite?”

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

Whispers dance in the shell of your ears.

I’m here.

“Go away,” you whisper quickly to them.

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

Your eyes widen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m waiting.

Find me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, he was real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything,” the Hunter instantly says.

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

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

There is companionship in broken things.

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

Find me.

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

Your bullet, you want your silver bullet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

A white beast prowls the forest.

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

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

Find me.

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

I’m waiting.

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

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

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

Gunpowder.

Leather.

Whiskey.

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

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

A far-off howl leaves your frame freezing.

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

You were being summoned.

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

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

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

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

Like pure white spikes.

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

I’ll find you.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rain would wash away the tracks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your tracks end here.

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

A low snarl sets his hair on end.

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

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

Ghost only watches, eyes a mystery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ghost watches, and he waits.

He can’t do it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can’t get a good shot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The eyes that lock on him are not yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too much.

Brown eyes crease, darting a look down.

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

He can see the conflict; the internal fight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Gunpowder.

“What did I—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah,” he grumbles. “Forgot. Here.”

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

“Better, Little Wolf?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t like you could protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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caelesjjk · 11 months

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simply meant to be | jjk

☾ Title: Simply Meant to Be ☾ Pairing: pumpkin king!jungkook x fem reader ☾ Genre/AU: nightmare before Christmas au, romance, horror, smut ☾ Rating: m (18+) ☾ WC: 4.6K ☾ Warnings: this is not your average nightmare before christmas, its pretty dark and unhinged. jungkook is jack skellington. reader is somewhat of a sally character. jungkook calls you immortelle (it means everlasting), jungkook has face tattoos (you'll see), monsters, fear, seokjin appearing as Dr. Finkelstein hehe, electrocution therapy, being held against will, jungkook unalives someone, a game of cat and mouse, mentions of blood, smut in the forms of: kissing, grinding, fingering, unprotected sex, knife play, blood play, creampie ☾ Summary: you aren’t sure how any of it can be real. This place…these creatures…this man. You wake up next to a man you’ve never seen before with no memory of who he is or where you are. But everyone in town seems to know you. You belong to the Pumpkin King. Scared and utterly terrified you run into someone who claims they can help you remember. And now you’re starting to wonder if that’s truly what you want. ☾ Authors Note: hello darklings! Please enjoy my trick for the Fantasy and Fangs halloween collab! this fic became so much more unhinged than i originally planned lol. it may not be for everyone! just e sure to check my warnings before you proceed with the fic. this is heavily unedited.

Your body jolts upright, lungs immediately gasping for breath.

Panic surges through every nerve as you frantically look around at your surroundings and grasping at the thin sheet you find bunched around your hips.

You’re naked. God why are you naked? How did you get here? Where the fuck are you?

Your heart pounds in your chest as you look next to you in bed and see that someone is lying next to you. A broad back and muscular arms covered in tattoos leading up to a head of messy black hair that covers the persons face lies snoring quietly against the sheets.

“Shit.” You mumble, wrapping the thin sheet around your body as you scramble out of the bed. The man lying in the bed stirs slightly and reaches into the space where your body once was.

You don’t wait to see anything else, dashing for the bedroom door and stumbling into the very dark hallway. The only light comes from the cobweb covered candle sconces that line the black painted walls.

You adjust the sheet around you the best you can before taking off running down the hallway. There is an immediate feeling that you’re being watched and you make the mistake of turning around to look behind you.

The dark shadowy silhouette of a man stands where you had just been a moment ago. You beg your feet to move faster.

Before you reach the top of the stairs, you glance back over your shoulder once more to see what you can only describe as a jack o lantern grin light up and stretch across the face of the man taking his time moving towards to you down the hallway.

“Where are you going, immortelle?”

A voice comes into your mind and almost causes you to fall face first down the winding spiral staircase in front of you.

“Please leave me alone.” You beg as you rush down the stairs. You don’t make it far before you suddenly feel hands gripping at your ankles. Hands with claws….some covered with slime…reaching from under the stairs and tearing at the sheet keeping your naked body from being exposed.

You scream until your throat hurts. Kicking at the hands as you continue to fight your way down the stairs.

“You know how much I love chasing you, baby.”

Somehow you manage to make it to the bottom of the stairs, but you almost wish that you hadn’t when you fall against the front door and throw it open.

You must be hallucinating with fear.

Outside the sky is black and grey swirls of clouds in constant motion, you know if you stared too long you’d become dizzy. Instead, your eyes wonder around to the bare trees surrounding the house you just made your way out of. Just a few leaves hang on for dear life as the wind quite literally howls through the air.

Down the crooked stone steps in front of you is a huge iron gate with two giant pumpkin designs bent into the bars. Gargoyles sit atop every stone post surrounding the house.

Wasting no more time, you descend the stairs until you’ve reached the iron gate, shaking the bars when it doesn’t budge.

“Please open. Please.” You shove with your shoulder as hard as you can and the gate loudly creaks open just enough for you to squeeze out into the open street.

You turn around and shove the gate back shut, looking up at the top of the stairs where the man who had been chasing you through the house now stands with a smile on his half tattooed face and his arms crossed over his bulky bare chest.

You can see even from here that the tattoos on the left side of his face are skull like features. It’s absolutely terrifying.

He lifts a hand in a wave as he menacingly tilts his head to the side and smiles.

Fuck this.

You wrap the blanket tighter around you and take off down the street without a single clue as to where you are. Anywhere has to be better than where you just were.

You spoke too soon again.

The sight in front of you as you round the corner is just as terrifying as that house and that man.

There are monsters, literal monsters, standing in the streets. Selling items at market booths. Chasing their children on the sidewalks. Laughter…and screams. It’s a terrible mix of sounds.

You freeze as a bouncy ball belonging to what you can only assume is a swamp monster child rolls against your feet.

“Happy first day after Halloween Ms Y/N!” The little creature says, staring at you expectantly.

Your instincts tell you not to scream. If you scream it will only make things worse.

“You know my name?” Your voice shakes and so do your hands as you continue holding the blanket around your body.

“Are you alright, miss?” The child’s mother appears behind him, looking at you with concern.

“I um…I should go.” Your bare feet move to cross the street, making you pause when you step in something wet. You know that it’s blood before you even look down. Vomit threatens to fill your mouth but you continue walking away, dragging the train of the sheet you’re wearing through more of the bloody streets.

More monsters stare at you as you go. Some with long sharp teeth and claws that could easily slice through a normal humans delicate skin. Some walked on two feet and some slithered across the ground like sickly serpents.

“Are you lost?” A horrifying witch grabbed your arm and tried to pull you back into the street.

“No, no I’m just on my way somewhere.” You lie the best you can, yanking your arm away only to immediately see deeps scratches from her long nails.

“So sorry miss.” She cackles, moving to join two other witches who were waiting for her on the other side of the street. They all continued their uneasy laughing until you turned the corner up ahead.

As you turned the corner you ran hard into something. Or someone it would appear when you looked up.

“What are you doing out here in nothing but a blanket, Y/N?” The man asks, pushing a pair of glasses up onto his nose.

This man had stitches across his forehead and down around his neck. Like some kind of Frankenstein’s monster, he’s been sewn together.

“Do I know you? Why does everyone here know my name?” You step back to put space between you and the monster.

“Ah, I see. Come with me.” He turns and begins walking but stops when you don’t follow. “I can help you. Come.” He holds out a hand, and while you don’t know what the fuck is happening, something tells you it’s okay to trust this stranger.

You take his hand.

“Who are you?” You finally ask.

“I’m a friend. Dr. Kim Seokjin.” He swings your hands between you in a silly way. “You usually call me Jin. Sometimes Jinnie.”

“Jin.” You repeat, the name feeling familiar on your tongue. “Where are we going?”

“To my lab. I have things that can help you there.” Jin turns another corner and up ahead you can see a tall crooked tower looming in the distance.

“Your lab is in there?”

“It is. Don’t worry Y/N, I promise you’re safe with me.”

You swallow hard but continue to let Jin lead you inside the tower and up, up, up the long spiraling stairs until you reach a door that he slides open.

Inside is a room filled with equipment and various experiments. Glass beakers filled with colorful liquid bubble and burble over small open flames. Sparks fly from wires that connect to different machines and some that connect to nothing at all. There are also several control panels at the center of the room with gurneys situated next to them.

“What kind of doctor are you, Jin?” Your voice shakes a little.

“The helpful kind.” He answers with a menacing grin on his face and a flicker of something slightly insane in his eyes.

“Wh-what do you have here that can help me?” You look down at the dirty blanket still wrapped around your body.

“First,” he grabs your hand again and leads you to a side room that has a cot with some folded clothes lying on top of it, “you can use those clothes to change into, okay? Whatever you want.”

“Thank you.” You step into the small room and turn to face him. “Is something really wrong with me? Something that makes me not remember?”

“Everything is fixable. I’ll have you as good as new in no time.” Jin winks and closes the door behind him so that you can change in private.

You dress in a daze, still feeling very off kilter from everything that’s unfolded from the moment you opened your eyes. Flashes of the man you woke up next too and his terrifying tattooed face race across your memory and leave chills over your skin.

“Ready now?” Jin calls from outside the door. You take a deep breath and walk back out into the laboratory. “Why don’t you take a seat on one of those?” He motions to the gurneys at the center of the room.

Reluctantly, you walk over to them and sit on the thin mattress. It crumples under your weight and immediately sends a sense of dread swimming into your veins.

“How can you fix me?” You barely get the sentence out before Jin is next to you, situating your arms at your sides and wrapping leather straps around your wrists. “What are you doing?” Panic thick in your voice.

“This is how we fix you. Bite this.” He puts a leather strap up to your mouth.

“Are you crazy?! I’m not doing this. Let me go!” You pull against the restraints, thrashing your head and body in an attempt to get the fuck away.

“I know it’s a little frightening. You do this every time. One of your only flaws.” Jin shakes his head, sounding disappointing.

“Flaws? What are you talking about!?”

“You’re my creation. I made you.” He tilts his head and smiles, “and you’re absolutely perfect except for that mind of yours. It resets. Forgets.” He shrugs his shoulders.

“Creation?! I’m a human being! I’m not some experiment! What is wrong with you?” Hot tears starts to leak from the corners of your eyes and blur your vision.

“You’re so adorable sometimes.” Jin yanks on your restraints to tighten them, “sit still, Y/N.”

“You’re hurting me.” You whimper.

“You think that hurts?” Jin smiles before he begins sticking sticky pads to your head and neck. “Just wait.” He whispers into your ear.

You’re such an idiot to have trusted this monster. You were so sure that he was good. A friend. He felt like a friend when you saw him. Familiar.

“Please…don’t.” You beg just before he forcefully shoves the piece of leather between your teeth.

“You’ll thank me soon.”

Terror freezes your body as you watch him slam down a lever on one of the control tables, green electric waves traveling down the wires and entering your body in trembling shocks.

You don’t know how long you lay there, screaming through the pain before you pass out from how much electricity Jin lets pass into your body. But eventually the room goes black and the last thing you hear is Jin manically laughing from across the room.

“It’s getting worse.”

“I tweaked some things this time. I’m hopeful it lasts longer.”

“It better. I’m tired of losing her.”

You hear quiet voices as you begin to come to. Voices that you recognize almost immediately.

“Jungkook?” Your voice croaks. Almost immediately the door to the small room slides open and the silhouette of the only person you want to see fills the doorway.

“You’re okay, immortelle?” Jungkook rushes into the room and kneels next to the cot you’re laying on.

“What happened to me? Why am I in Jinnie’s lab?” You turn your head to face him when he cups your cheeks in his hands.

“You had another episode, my sweet.” He brings your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles one by one.

“Episode?” Your brows draw together in confusion.

“You forgot who you were. That you belong to me. You forgot it all.” Jungkook looks sad while he explains and it breaks your heart.

“How could I forget you?” You sit up slowly and he helps you. “How could I forget my love?”

“It’s not your fault, immortelle. Don’t blame yourself.” Jungkook looks over his shoulder at Jin who stands in the doorway. Jin rolls his eyes before walking away.

“Take me home?” You ask, wrapping your arms around Jungkook’s neck when he picks you up into his arms bridal style.

“Of course.”

Jungkook carries you down the long winding staircase of the laboratory and outside where it’s pitch black besides the white melting candles inside the lamp posts along the street.

A smile pulls across your face when you see all the monsters that you love busy in the streets. They all smile back at you, tossing greetings and wishes of quick recoveries your way.

“They love you.” Jungkook whispers into your ear.

“No. They love you, you’re their pumpkin king. I’m just lucky enough to be yours.” You touch the skull details tattooed on the side of his face so he looks at you.

“You’ll be their queen soon.” He reminds you. You lean up to kiss his lips.

“Let’s get something to eat before we go home. I’m famished.” Jungkook sits you on your feet but keeps your hand in his.

Jungkook talks with some of the shop owners and you watch as he gathers all of your favorite things into a basket. Wines, cheeses, and some sweet treats leftover from the night before. You love him so.

You make your way over to a stand selling haunted dolls and look around at all the choices. You’re about to go back to find Jungkook when someone grabs your arm and twists you around.

“You’re so pretty.” The drunken vampire says, the smell of blood thick on his breath. He’s had too much.

“I appreciate your compliment, but I need you to let go of my arm.” You pull away but he doesn’t let go.

“Don’t be that way. Come with me.” He stumbles and almost falls on top of you.

“Get off of me!” You say louder but the vampire doesn’t listen, it’s nails scratching through your skin. You’re about to scream for Jungkook when he’s suddenly there, ripping the vampires hand from your arm.

“May I ask what you think you’re doing? Touching what’s mine?” Jungkook says too calmly.

“I…I didn’t recognize Ms. Y/N…I didn’t realize.” The vampire stumbles over his words.

“Is that your excuse?” Jungkook laughs, the terrifying cackling sound sending tingles through your body.

You know what’s going to happen next, and the thrill alone has you aching between your legs.

“I’m sorry, I’ll never make the mistake again.” The vampire takes a few steps back.

“Immortelle?” Jungkook looks over his shoulder to you. He’s asking a silent question that you already know the answer to. You nod yes as a smile spreads across your face.

“Remember in your next life my friend, to keep your filthy hands off my girl.” Before you can blink his hand is shooting out between them and into the vampires chest cavity. He holds it there a moment so that he can watch the life drain slowly drain from the vampire before he yanks his hand back out holding the still thumping heart in his hand.

The vampire falls to the ground in a lifeless heep, his eyes still open and eternally full of the fear he last experienced. The crowd around the market doesn’t take offense, they know if their pumpkin kills someone it was for a damn good reason.

Jungkook turns towards you, handing the heart to one of the children playing with the body on the ground. He pats their head and then slowly brings his hand up to his mouth, licking a thick stripe from the bloody palm of his hand to the tip of his middle finger, all while keeping eye contact with you.

You smile, closing the space between the two of you and claiming his mouth. Your tongue seeks out the blood that’s dropped down his chin and around his lips.

“It never gets old…watching you kill for me.” You breathe into his mouth while his blood hands lace into the strands of your hair.

“We need to get home before I show everyone here how well I fuck you.” His mouth leaves hot kisses against your neck as he leads you backwards down the street until your back hits the iron bars of a familiar gate.

Home.

The gate loudly creaks open as soon as it realizes the two of you have arrived. Jungkook stops kissing you to take your hand and walks with you up the stone stairs to the front door that also opens all on its own, the door knocker welcoming you home.

“Do you want to play?” You whisper, making Jungkook pause at the bottom of the stairs. Those tattooed details raising into a smile.

“Okay, immortelle. Let’s play.” He kisses the top of your hand before taking a step back. He slowly slips of his black and white striped suit jacket and unbuttons his shirt before it joins the jacket on the floor.

You soak in the tattooed planes of his body, the muscles begging to be touched. His dark falling over his forehead as he steps back farther into the shadows until he’s completely disappeared from your sight.

“You know what happens if I catch you, immortelle.” His voice floats into your ear from somewhere unknown. “Don’t let me catch you.”

A thrill shoots through your body again and you sprint for the stairs, loving the way the monsters and ghouls grab at your ankles and whisper your name. You immediately turn left at the top of the stairs, your mind going a million miles an hour trying to think of where you could hide.

He knows all of the good places for hiding.

In a last ditch idea, you run into your shared bedroom upon hearing Jungkook’s footsteps running up the stairs. He took this game of chase so seriously and never took it slowly.

You slide under the bed, your chest heaving in fear but also excitement. You’re hoping by hiding somewhere obvious that he won’t even think to look here and waste his time checking all of the usual spots you tend to hide.

“Where are you, immortelle?” You hear his menacing voice out in the hallway coming closer. You almost giggle. “You know I’ll find you. I will always find you.”

You hear his footsteps stop outside the bedroom door and then the door slowly opens right after, lightly hitting against the wall behind it.

Jungkook’s heavy footsteps make the floorboards creak as he walks into the room. You throw a hand over your mouth to keep from making any noises. Jungkook undoes the buckle of his belt and a moment later slips it from his belt loops and lets it clang against the hardwood floor.

“Are you soaked for me right now, my love?” You watch with wide eyes as Jungkook slowly walks around the bed. “I’ll find out soon enough.”

He doesn’t say anything else and when you look around at the floor you notice that he’s no longer next to the bed, his black boots no longer anywhere in sight. You release a long breath of relief.

And then you’re being yanked by the ankle from beneath the bed, a startled scream escaping you as you flip onto your back just in time to see Jungkook trap you with his body against the floor.

“You caught me.” You smile, lifting your hips up to meet his, desperate for friction against your core.

“Don’t I always?” His mouth is on yours, his hands pushing your dress up around your hips.

He was desperate for you too.

“I love you.” You whisper on his lips, the tattooed skeleton grin on his beautiful face turning upwards.

Jungkook sits up on his knees between your legs giving you a full view of his naked torso. Pretty muscles and flawless skin that you ached to leave your mark on. Scratches and bite marks and bruises were the only things that could make him more perfect.

Your chest heaves as you watch him reach behind his back in the band of his black dress pants to retrieve a silver shiny knife. Your pulse quickens immediately.

“Is this what you want, immortelle?” He presses the cold steel flat against the inside of your thigh, keeping the blade from cutting you just yet.

“Will you torture me?” You ask, your hands coming up to cup your breasts with anticipation.

“Absolutely.” Jungkook moves the knife farther up your skin until the point brushes over underwear. You moan pathetically at the feel of it brushing over your center and slowly sliding over onto your other thigh.

“Jungkook…” you sigh.

“Be patient. I’ll give you what you want.” Jungkook uses his other hand to undo the button and zipper of his pants, pushing them down until his perfect cock springs free from the confines.

You bite your lip at the sight in front of you. Jungkook slowly strokes himself to the sight of the knife moving across your skin. He draws the sharp side of the blade oh so gently across your stomach, so sharp you don’t even feel it draw blood. The view of you on display for him makes him groan and move his hand a bit rougher up and down his shaft.

Your fingers move on their own accord, slipping through the small pool of blood on your stomach and moving them back over your breasts to smear the crimson liquid in a trail.

“Fuck. Fuck you’re so perfect.” Jungkook moves the knife to your throat, gently leaving one long cut from one side to the other. You immediately feel warm blood leave the wound and drip down the sides of your neck.

Jungkook drops the knife to the floor and bends over your body to attach his mouth to your neck. He licks and sucks at your blood, whimpering at the taste of it on his tongue. Your body instinctively arches from the ground, your chest rubbing against his and spreading more of your blood between your bodies. It was the most beautiful visual you could imagine.

You looked down between your bodies to see Jungkook’s hand still stroking his cock as he continues to move his mouth down your body to the cut on your stomach. You can barely stand the burn in the pit of your stomach any longer, your desire for the man on top of you smoldering too hot.

“I need you now. Please.” You lace your hands into Jungkook’s hair and lift his face. The sight of his face covered in your blood, his eyes solid black with lust almost does you in completely.

“Such a good girl, saying please.” He moves back onto his knees, squeezing precum from the head of his cock before he releases it completely and picks the knife back up off the floor. You watch in awe as he brings it to his mouth and licks the blood from the blade.

“I always want to be good for you.” You say sweetly. His cock twitches at the sound of your obedient voice.

Jungkook moves the knife down between your legs and ever so carefully pressed the sharp blade to your underwear and drags it down until the fabric slices apart and reveals your absolutely drenched pussy to him. The knife clangs to the floor again and Jungkook leans back down to claim your mouth, his thumb immediately finding your clit.

Your lips part to moan and his tongue swipes against yours swallowing up all the sounds that escape you. The dripping head of his cock suddenly swipes through your folds and causes a high pitched whine to bubble up your throat.

“Is your pussy desperate to be filled, immortelle?” His hand swipes the blood on your stomach before it’s back on his cock, the blood lubing his shaft to make it easier when he fucks himself into you.

“Yes. It hurts, Jungkook.” You let your hands wander his chest and stomach, watching him watch you.

“I’m not going to last long once I get inside your perfect pussy, my love. But I need you to cum and I need you to scream.” Without warning he roughly spears himself inside you, his hands holding you on his cock as you writhe from the sudden intrusion.

“Oh my fucking god.” Your eyes roll to the back of your head when he starts to move, rough and hard.

“Made for me. I literally had you made just for me and you’re perfect. So fucking perfect and pliant just for me.” Jungkook’s hand comes down to your throat, careful of the cut across your skin, he gently tightens his grip.

You immediately see stars, wrapping both of your hands around his wrist to keep him in place. You gasp and moan at the feeling of him controlling your breathing and ruining your pussy at the same time.

“I’m going to come. God I’m coming right now.” The words are quiet as he continues to hold your throat but he hears you just fine, moving his hand from your throat to play with your clit.

“Scream. I need you to scream so I can fill you up.” You open your eyes to see Jungkook watching you, his hair sweaty and mouth parted. Just when you’re about to beg for a kiss he punches your clit between his fingers and your orgasm rolls through you like a hurricane.

Black and white sparks explode behind your eyes and though you can’t hear yourself, you know that you scream loud and high pitched. Just what Jungkook needs to find his own end, dropping on top of you as he continues to fill you past the brim and onto your thighs.

Dried blood scratches between your skin and his as he lies on top of you, his head against your chest and your hands roaming the expanse of his broad shoulders.

“You’re okay, immortelle?” He finally asks through his heavy breathing.

“I am, of course.” You lift his face to place a kiss to his lips.

“We didn’t even make it to the bed this time.” He laughs lightly, groaning as he pulls out and helps you sit up with him.

“I didn’t mind.” You both smile knowing he feels the same.

“I’ll never mind being with you, immortelle. Never.” He touches your cheek and kisses your lips once more.

“Even if…even if I keep forgetting?”

“Even then. We are simply meant to be, my love.”

#bts fic #jungkook fic #jeon jungkook #jungkook #bts smut #bts fanfic #bts #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #bts imagine #jungkook imagine #jungkook oneshot #jjk

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makeadealwithdean · 1 year

Note

Damon recording you while……..

18+, minors, back off!! using fem pronouns and language for this, hope that's alright! completely unbeta'd, sorry for the weird tense issues :/

No cause he would be soooo into it! He'd be lying on his back in bed so you could ride him, and he'd have one of those camcorders with the strap that wraps around his hand.

And the video itself would probably be shaky and dizzying to watch because of how hard you're slamming down on him again and again. So hard that his cock is ramming into your cervix every time you come down, probably leaving bruises too, but it's fucking worth it as far as you're concerned.

Especially since Damon can't stop panting, alternating between watching you through the little screen on the side of the camcorder and peering over the top of it for a pure, unfiltered view of your body. He can't help but moan and huff little breaths of praise out every so often.

"Shit, that's right, baby."

"Pretty girl..."

"Fuck that pretty pussy on m'cock."

You pray that his words are just loud enough for the mic on the camera to pick them up. Usually, Damon was so confident and cocky in bed, he rarely praised you like this. The soft whispers and mutters of a man rendered speechless by the sight and feeling of your body writhing on top of him.

The fact that you allowed him to even record you at your most intimate was amazing to him, the biggest display of your trust in him. Of course, he'd never show anyone else those videos, he was much too possessive of you for that. Only he got to see you like that, and fuck, that made the whole thing even sexier.

As much as he loved watching you bounce for him on camera, his patience would be growing thinner and thinner with every sweet moan that passed your lips. He would reach up to palm one of your tits, to squeeze and pinch the sensitive nipple, so he could watch you toss your head back, exposing all the delicate lines and veins of your neck for him and the camera.

Shit, that was it. He'd barely even take the time to stop the recording before tossing the camcorder onto some pillows that had fallen on the floor.

You'd squeal as he surged up to grab your waist and flip you over, and the sound would go straight to his dick. He couldn't deny he loved the sound of you screaming for him. Damon would climb on top of you in an instant, his true face showing as he bared his teeth at you. You'd scream again because you know he loves it, but you turn your head to the side to give him better access to sink his teeth into your neck.

His eyes darken, glued to your neck, and he barely gets out the words, "Fuck...okay?"

You nod eagerly, loving that he still opts for checking in, even though you've told him a thousand time he can. You trust him fully and completely, and besides, you like the pain, so you'd never deny him the additional satisfaction of feeding as he fucks deep into you.

His pointed fangs pierce your delicate skin carefully, the spot where you know he can control the blood flow. You're used to this by now, hardly even fazed by the idea that he's feeding on you.

No, you're quite unbothered. What you are a bit fazed by is how hard he's slamming into you now. On top, he has all the leverage, and he isn't holding back in the slightest. The slapping of his pelvis against yours already echoes around the room, and when he pulls back from your neck, eyes glistening darkly, tongue licking smoothly over the tips of his fangs, and lifts your thighs up, the echoing only grows.

Damon practically folds you in half, "Yeah, that's it princess. You taste so good for me, y'know? Could live the rest of m'life on you alone."

"I...know," you smirk as best as you can with his dick pistoning in and out of you at that speed. It'd hard to be snarky when you're getting the breath railed out of you at inhuman speed, but you try your best.

Damon smirks right back.

"Oh, you're still able to talk, baby? Hmm, well let's fix that..."

forevers: @hintsofhoney @deanwanddamons @katelyn--renee @lassie-bird @jensengirl83 @superfanficnatural @wayward-dreamer @that-one-gay-girl @writercole @flamencodiva

tvd: @day-trippin-dreamer @akshi8278 @stefans-wife @beth-gallagher22 @mooffinss @dixontardis @poppet05 @alexxavicry

damon: @yungblcds @niiight-dreamerrrr

join my tag list here!!

#damon salvatore #damon salvatore x reader #damon salvatore smut #damon salvatore x fem!reader #tvd smut #tvd

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luveline · 11 months

Note

Could we please get vampire Sirius? Like maybe he originally lured reader in to drink from her but was just totally enamoured by her because she isn’t scared of him? Love you xx

love you!!

“Do you often accompany strange men to cemeteries?”

You pick a little piece of lint from your sleeve and move on through the gravestones, “Only ones in need. Padfoot! Come here, boy.”

Sirius feels bad for lying to you about his dog that he doesn’t have, but he’s hungry. It’s like blaming a cat for killing a mouse. Nature is nature is nature, and you’re pretty enough to make feeding from you a thrill and a half. He can’t believe you’d been this potent a fool as to believe his lie in the first place — the moon is heavy as a silver medallion in the sky, light like silk pouring over the cemetery, but it is still a cemetery, and you are still alone with him, a strange man you barely know.

“You should call him more, he’ll recognise your voice,” you suggest, turning to him with a very nice smile, as smiles go. This is the part where he jumps on you and holds you down. But you’re smiling, not a hint of suspicion about you. “You really don’t know what breed he is?”

“He looks like a mixture of every dog on earth.”

“A creature, then. Nice.” You wait for him to catch up with you before you point to a darkened area of the cemetery. Maroon pitch stains the floor, evidence of past misdemeanours. “Ooh, gross. That looks like blood. How many people do you think get murdered in places like this?”

“Definitely a few.”

“Is there even really a dog?” you ask.

Sirius takes your hand into his. Your hands are almost as cold as he is, your fingers stiff with frigidity. He doesn’t bother trying to warm them, impossible, but he does attempt a seduction of sorts. He likes when his victims are scared; it gets the blood pumping quickly, and it tastes different. Not sweeter or anything so fanciful, but different. You aren’t easily scared, it seems, so he brings your hand to his lips instead for a kiss pressed against delicate knuckles.

“Why wouldn’t there be a dog?” he asks.

“There are other ways to get someone alone, you know?”

“Like what?”

“Like flirting,” you say, your shoulders relaxing as he continues his touching, his fingers dancing up the length of your arm and netting behind your shoulder to pull you in.

“There’s a dog,” he lies, he promises, staring into the innocent pools of your eyes as hunger burns with the ferocity of tears in his throat. “Why? You thought I wanted to be alone with you?”

He leans in, forcing you to close your eyes as he closes his. “You don't?” you ask.

His gums sting as the razor tip of his fangs slide over his canines, sharp and thing. There’s no room for words now, only action. He kisses you softly, because if he’s going to kill you he thinks he can manage a kinder goodbye, your glossy lips parting at the pressure of his wading. He opens his mouth and yours opens with it, a gasp rushing between you as you feel the sharpness of his fangs and pull away.

“Ow,” you say, frowning, “you vampires are all the same.”

“We— what?”

“You have no sense of sweetness about you. If you kissed me nicely at first I wouldn’t mind letting you feed on me." You scowl, pressing your pinky to your bloody lip, dissatisfied.

"You want me to kiss you nicely?" Sirius asks.

"I thought so, yes." You turn away from him. "Not very much anymore."

For some reason, the idea that he could overpower you flees his mind. "Now, wait a minute, darling. I'll kiss you very nicely."

"Sure you will. My lip is bleeding, I know exactly what you're like."

"Nuh-uh." Something about your lack of fear —he's shocked, but it's hot. Really, really attractive. "Sweetheart, I've been kissing people for longer than you've been alive."

"Ew." You giggle at him, your reluctance fading. "Okay, fine. But no biting, okay? You can bite me afterwards."

Sirius grins and pulls you forward, barely caring about the implication of afterwards as you melt into the circle of his arms and kiss him with an ardency he hasn't felt for a few decades, at least. You shiver at his cold hand where it disappears under your shirt, but you smile into his mouth rather than shriek. (He's in love, probably.)

#sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x fem!reader #sirius black x you #sirius black x y/n #sirius x reader fluff #sirius black imagine #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black fanfic #sirius black fic #marauders era #marauders #sirius black drabble #sirius black scenario #sirius black oneshot #the marauders #sirius orion black

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tteokdoroki · 1 year

Text

☆༉ — KATSUKI BAKUGOU. baby talk.

about. you know how people raise their voices all high and squeal, and pout through their words when they talk to babies?…yeah? well imagine that with your husband, katsuki.

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact ! sfw, fluff, baby talking (lots of w’s involved), cutesy speech, baby doesn’t have a name, new parents, reader is referred to as mommy, fem!reader, girl dad + pro hero!bakugou, uncle!deku.

you’ve always known your husband, bakugou, to be slightly rough around the edges. being the man that he is, and witnessing first hand every struggle he’s ever gone through, it’s hard to imagine him without his hardened outer shell. your katsuki has stood on the brink of death more than once — testing, fighting it… all while facing a world that saw him as good for nothing and evil.

how could you expect a man like that to be anything other than defensive, brash and bold? katsuki bakugou can be a little harsh, a little too mean at times but that’s never deterred you from giving him all the love he thinks he doesn’t deserve. you’d give him all the stars in the sky if you could, and he would give you the universe in turn.

he was far from cookie cutter perfect, yet, even with his bumps and sharp edges, katsuki tried to love you and let you in. still, you’d never thought you’d see the day when all of the blonde’s roughness, his bared fangs and callous tongue all melted away for another human being aside from you.

for your darling baby girl.

“who’s my ‘eepy lil’ girl? you are! yeah. you are, sweetheart. oh, what’s that? big yawn for daddy?” the blonde coos with a sunshine smile that lights up the entirety of his well-aged face. you’re still young, for parents of a eight month old but even you can see the way that his hair is slightly silvered at his undercut that’s growing out and there are finer lines under ruby framed eyes (the late nights and early starts are probably the reason for that).

still, with all of this, and even with your genetics throwing a spanner in the works — your daughter is the spitting image of bakugou and he loves her. he loves her pale blonde curls, big bambi red eyes and her all the parts about her that remind him of you.

pulling her from her crib to settle her on his hip, the bigger bakugou rubs the sleep from her eyes as she wakes up from her nap. “so freakin’ cute.” he hums, licking his thumb to wipe over the traces of tears on her cheeks.

ever since she was born, earlier and around spring time, bakugou has been absolutely obsessed with the tiny human version of him you'd blessed him with. he’ll be the first one up at the crack of dawn when she cries for her breakfast, he’s happy to carry around her dynamight themed baby bag and always apologises to you when you have to change her explosive diapers (or he just does it for you.).

baby dynamight goes everywhere with her daddy, she’d be on patrols if you’d let bakugou take her on them too. she’s absolutely spoiled as well, with more clothes and toys and itty bitty little shoes a baby of her age would need despite how often you tell your husband that she’ll just grow out everything. perhaps your little girl is more spoiled than you — not that you mind, because it only means you get to witness adorable moments like these each and every day.

“katsuki, she’s supposed to be lying down.” you remind him gently, stepping past the threshold of the nursery to be by his side. your daughter instantly reaches out to curl three of her tiny fingers around your index, drooling in content between both of her parents.

bakugou looks down at you with a distraught pout. “yeah… but she woke up cryin’ f’me so i came to check on my sweepy wittol pwincess.” you giggle at how high pitched katsuki makes his voice when he talks about your daughter, baby-talking her whilst waving her tiny little hand at you. “say hi to momma, sweet girl. say hi!”

the mini bakugou tucked into his bulky arms lets out an excited squeal — though she’s quickly distracted by mapping her hands up and down the squiggly lines (tattoos) on daddy’s arms.

“exactly,” you press, grabbing an uravity themed spit up cloth from the diaper station behind you moth. carefully, you mop up the drool tracks baby dynamight leaves on katsuki before dabbing at her chin as well. “we’re trying to get her to learn how to go back to sleep on her own. which means?”

“leavin’ her to cry until she falls back to sleep….”

“which is why?”

bakugou’s shoulders sag in defeat. you know how much he hates leaving her to cry, it’s been difficult for him to adjust to not just picking her up whenever she needs or he wants to. “you invited stupid deku over ‘n daddy has to have stupid drinks with his big stupid broccoli head, ain’t that right gorgeous?” your baby grins with her gums again and bakugou blows a raspberry at her. “oh yeah? yes it is! look at that pretty girl smilin’, just like momma.”

you know he’s trying to butter you up for more time with her — you’re a sucker for the father-daughter bond they have already, you fear that you might melt if you look at the two of them together any longer. they’re a sight for sore eyes, the two loves of your life cuddled up with each other, baby bakugou’s pudgy cheek resting on katsuki’s warm chest (no doubt lulling her back to sleep).

“katsuki please,” you plead weakly, ready to give up on being the rain on this baby parade so you can scoop your little girl up and shower her with kisses. “we have guests and she needs to go back to sleep. or she’ll be up in the middle of the night.”

the elder blonde can’t help the proud smile that illuminates his face as he watches his two girls together — the way you fiddle with her baby grow to make sure she’s cosy. “s’okay, daddy’ll wake up for you, won’t he?” bakugou sways from side to side, toying with all the tiny features on your daughter before catching your exasperated look. “alright, fine. back to sleep we go princess. don’t mind mommy, she’s jus’ bein’ meanie who won’t let me show you off.”

there’s a tender moment, where time stands still, while katsuki lowers his pride and joy back into her crib — fighting back what are probably tears as she clings onto every part of him, looking up at him with her matching big beautiful ruby eyes. he feels as though he’s looking into a mirror that reflects not only him but parts of you as well.

“night night princess, goodnight! daddy loves ya—“

said moment is lost when izuku stops by the nursery on his way back down stairs from the bathroom. “wait, kacchan baby-talks?”

“of course i do nerd!” bakugou’s head whips up faster than the speed of sound, and you have to refrain from laughing at how fast he goes from soft and tender father to deku’s public enemy number one. “she’s my fuckin’—” the blonde pauses after receiving a warning glance from you. no cursing in front of the baby. “freakin’ kid!”

the number one raises his hands in surrender, sheepish laughter spilling out of him. “relax kacchan! i was only teasing.”

“tease my ass! you go ‘nd have a kid with your partner ‘n see what it turns you into — in fact, ‘m surprised you don’t have a whole litter already. what with the way you two are fuckin’.”

“oh that’s rich coming from you, kacchan. you guys literally conceived at my family barbecue last year!”

“well you fucked on my desk. my desk. so it’s only right that we—!”

while the boys bicker, you make quick work of ensuring your daughter is safely tucked in and her pacifier is popped into her mouth just in case she wakes up again and needs to soothe herself. stroking back her peach fuzz curls, you press a kiss to the soft membrane of her skull and pull back with a wistful grin while she drifts off to sleep again. her unfairly long lashes flutter against your hand, mostly inherited from her father.

“alright boys, that’s enough!” you whisper yell, hands still on the bar of the crib to make “don’t you see that she’s sleeping again? we wouldn’t wanna wake her up, right?”

katsuki pouts. “you’re right, sorry, sweetness.”

midoriya nods along agreeably, taking a peek at his sleeping niece from the doorway.“right! otherwise we’d have to send daddy back in there to save baby girl’s day. he can’t resist his pwecious gwirl.”

“i said shut the fuck up, izuku!” your husband snarls, cheeks burning fire truck red.

“yes daddy!” izuku bats his eyelashes at him.

“i’ll kill you, nerd.”

“i’d like to see you try, daddy!”

“boys!”

you do try your best to intercept, but your daughter beats you to it — waking up with a fresh set of tears and a wail so loud it has two big, burly pro heroes baby-talking her in an attempt to get her right back to sleep.

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hopesangelsprite · 2 months

Text

The Summoning

Pairing: Vampire!Illumi x Reader

Summary: Being immortal can grow very old, very quickly and Illumi's found that out the hard way. The only reasonable solution would be to find a suitable playmate, right?

Warnings: mentions of blood/death/murder, biting, size/strength difference, fingering, oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v, dacryphilia, breeding kink, degradation, female ejaculation, manipulation (vampire compulsion)

MINORS/AGELESS ACCS DNI

Viewer discretion is advised.

Oh, and my love

Did I mistake you for a sign from God?

Or are you really here to cast me off?

Or maybe just to turn me on

Illumi watched with half-lidded eyes as his servants removed a corpse from his feet, nothing left of the younger male but an empty, soulless husk. How many had he gone through now? 30? 300? Whatever the death toll was, it didn't matter. Illumi no longer cared for numbers, the sheer quantity of his years on earth drawing him to the conclusion that they were overrated.

"Bring me the next one.", he ordered while leaning further into the large throne chair he'd taken residence in, "If this one doesn't satisfy me, I'll be draining one of you in their place.". Illumi let threat roll off his blood-stained lips easily, keen on fulfilling it should he be presented another weakling.

There was a brief silence before the doors to his quarters opened, your figure edging closer uncertainly. The closer you got, the better he was able to analyze you. Unlike his previous victims, there were no tears in your eyes or trembling in your limbs. Though you eyed him warily, he sensed you were more curious than afraid. You were quite attractive, as well; with smooth curves just barely concealed by what was left of a skirt and halter top. As you finally got within arm's reach of him, you sank to your knees with fluttering lashes.

Illumi's cock twitched at the sight, the position giving him a perfect view of your tits and exposed thighs. "Do you know why you're here, pretty thing?", he inquired whilst making a mental note of just how fragile you were in comparison to him. To any mortal man, you'd be considered healthy, maybe even too much so for those on the weaker end of the male spectrum. To Illumi, however, you were nothing but a doll, a plaything he could bend and contort to his undead heart's content.

"I was running from my old life... I was promised shelter.", you answered after a moment and Illumi chuckled. He leaned forward, crimson tongue flicking over glinting fangs, and grasped your face with a large, ring-laden hand. "There's no safety for you here, little doll, only death or imprisonment.", he drawled out, keen eyes catching the way your thighs pressed together at his touch. With one hand, you removed his hand from your face, head turning to place a kiss on his palm. The other you placed on his dark denim-clad thigh, fingers tracing patterns into the coarse material. "Then I should aim to please, no?", you inquired as your hand crept closer to his belt.

'Cause these days

I would be lying if I told you that

I didn't wish that I could be your man

Or maybe make a good girl bad

A smirk graced Illumi's lips at your insinuation, lust deepening within him as you carefully undid his belt's clasp. So, he leaned back, dark eyes watching you like a predator behind inky tresses. He pushed his hips forward to allow you better access to him, reveling in the tiny gasp you let out upon freeing his cock. His skin was milky, fading into a pretty pink closer to his weeping tip; a few veins adorned his shaft, a little longer than he was thick. Your mouth watered at the sight, core moistening as you took him into your hands.

Illumi groaned at the softness of your skin against his, catching his bottom lip between a fang as you gave him a few experimental strokes. You shuffled closer, knees no doubt bruising from the floor's harsh surface. You placed your chin on his knees, inquiring eyes boring into his as you swiped a thumb over his leaky slit; you were seeking permission, how wonderfully submissive of you. "Go on then, have a taste.", he permitted with a lazy nod.

His breath caught in his throat as your warm, plush lips enveloped his cockhead, your tongue following shortly afterward. You kissed him wetly, the taste of precum unfamiliar yet welcomed. You took him into your mouth once more, this time sucking him as far back into your throat as you could. A deep, satisfied hum rumbled through Illumi's chest as he watched you begin to come up for air, a blood-stained hand tangling itself into your hair to stop your rising and push you down further. "Now, now. Don't underestimate yourself, darling, you can take a little bit more.", he mewled over the sound of your gagging, "Can't you?".

Illumi finally let you up after a few moments, cooing at the sight of tear-streaked mascara kissing your cheeks. Still, your eyes only held a strange look of awe and adoration; one that Illumi found himself mirroring as you continued to suck him off ever so sweetly. Illumi hissed as he pulled you off his cock, leaning down to catch your lips with his. He deepened the kiss as he guided you from the floor onto his lap, the taste of his arousal on your tongue only making him harder.

As Illumi broke the kiss, lips dipping to nip at your neck while his hands slipped underneath your skirt, a low curse escaped him as his fingers met your bare, soaked core. He found his sanity waning. "Nothing underneath?", he hummed as he brought your face close to his, "What a pretty little slut you are.". He locked eyes with you, eye contact unwavering as he pushed two long fingers past your entrance and began searching for that soft, spongy spot he knew would have you singing praises.

You whimpered upon the intrusion, thighs quaking as he began scissoring you open. Illumi took your bottom lip between his teeth and tugged, enjoying your breathy moans and the noises coming from your sopping cunt. "Feels good, doesn't it.", he chuckled as your hips began rutting against his palm, "I think we both know what'll feel much better, though.".

I've got a river running right into you

I've got a blood trail, red in the blue

Something you say or something you do

The taste of the divine

Before you could reach your high, Illumi pulled his fingers from your cunt. Without a second of hesitation, he shoved those same fingers into your throat as he pulled you down onto his cock, allowing very little protest as your pelvises met abruptly. More tears welled behind your lash line as you adjusted to the stretch of him overfilling your pussy, tip nuzzled snuggly against your cervix and g-spot. "Filthy fucking whore.", he spat as he pulled his fingers from your mouth and began manhandling you up the expanse of his shaft, "My filthy fucking whore.".

You cried out in pleasure as he pulled you back down, setting a quick and unforgiving rhythm. Illumi watched your tits bounce beneath the fabric of your top ruefully as he continued to use you like a doll. He growled as he tugged at its neckline, hips bucking up into you as it freed your breasts with a loud rip. You shivered as Illumi leaned forward to take one of your nipples between his teeth, gently tugging at it before swirling his tongue around the sensitive flesh. He continued his ministrations, switching between left and right, with a single hand keeping a bruising grip on your hip while the other busied itself by rolling your clit between its thumb and index finger.

Illumi felt your soft walls flutter around him and he groaned into your skin, pulling your body impossibly closer to his. He released your tit with a loud pop, hips pistoning his cock into you faster as he licked a stripe up your chest and neck. It didn't take him long to find your pulse, suckling over the skin while imagining just how sweet you'd taste. Soon, his cock was throbbing in perfect time with your moans, his high growing closer and closer the more you called out his name and begged him to slow down. Instead, he removed himself from your neck, pulling your forehead against his to lock eyes with you.

The air between and around you quickly grew tense, a steady thrum of energy bringing you closer to your high as Illumi's dark eyes melted into a bloody, crimson shade. "Cum for me.", he moaned into your mouth, head dipping to pierce your skin with his fangs. Without warning, your orgasm washed over you like a tidal wave, curses and pleas tumbling from your lips as the stinging pain of being bitten melded into overwhelming pleasure. Your mind grew numb as you came, your arousal spraying over Illumi's lap as he drank you in. And you let him, body trembling and unable to come down from the violent high he'd brought upon you.

You've got my body, flesh, and bone

The sky above, the earth below

Nothing to say and nowhere to go

A taste of the divine

Illumi released your neck after a long moment, tongue lapping up a few stray beads of blood as he pulled your hips flush against his and filled you with his seed. Another tremor crept down your spine at the sudden hot, sticky substance filling your womb, Illumi whispering sweet nothings and pretty vows into your ear to coax you out of the trance he'd locked you in. You blinked once, then twice, to clear the white spots and tears from your vision.

"There you are, little one.~", he purred before placing a kiss on the now bruising bite mark he'd given you, "Was afraid I lost you for a second.". All you could do was whimper, slumping forward to rest your head in the crook of his shoulder. Your scent faintly mingled with sex and iron filled his nostrils, tempting him to finish draining and breeding you. He let you rest, though, leaning back into the chair with his cock still plugging you full as he, too, drifted into sleep for the first time in centuries.

Besides, the venom and cum in your system would need time to take effectively.

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jellys-compendium · 2 months

Text

Eat Me - Ch. 2

Rating: 🔞 (Minors DNI)

Pairing: Vampire Hunter Nanami x Vampire F!Reader Chapter cw: blood and violence, mentions of previous chapter's sex scene, minor character death Wc: ~2.3K A/n: Well here it is. I hope the people who were looking forward to this continuation enjoy chapter 2. If you liked it, please let me know! Thanks!

Chapter Index: [1], 2

Nanami Kento focuses on the target in front of him. Cornered in a back alley, a man lies supine on the unforgiving concrete, black liquid dripping from his throat and fingertips, staining both the ground and his white dress shirt.

The sharp scent of copper hangs heavy in the night air, the sickening sound of slurping accompanying it. A dark shadow hovers above the man, hunched over him like a vulture over its kill. It’s grotesque in the way it shudders, sighs, and laps at the pools of blood with ravenous ecstacy, the long blonde hair cascading from the crown of its head doing little to conceal the horrific scene before him.

Nanami readies himself to take the vampire on, sharpening his senses and using his technique to rapidly build the strength in his body. He’ll dispatch the creature in one blow, there would be less suffering that way.

In anticipation of the violence that is to come, Nanami loosens and removes his tie, circling it around his fist to help reinforce the bones in his hand. He advances, the sound of his heavy footfalls ring between the cold concrete walls that surround them, immediately alerting the creature to his presence.

The vampire stops feeding, the stomach churning sounds it had made swallowed by the darkness surrounding them. Nanami stands perfectly still. The confidence of his stance makes the creature appear uneasy as it leaves the man’s neck to turn and look at him. Fear flashes across her bloodied face for a moment, but it is quickly overtaken by that look of disturbed euphoria in her glowing red eyes. That eerie expression of a vampire in frenzy.

After a decided moment of silence, the creature’s hold on the corpse tightens as she snarls at Nanami. Her fangs gleam in the sparse moonlight from above as she pulls the body closer, thin arms trembling as she cradles the man she had viciously mauled almost like a lover would.

Nanami catches a glimpse of the man’s face when she moves him, expecting to see those wide eyes and mouth frozen open with terror. But instead what Nanami sees disturbs him even more. The man’s eyes are closed, and the expression he’d harbored in his last moments of life looks almost serene.

And for the briefest of moments, Nanami wonders. Is that the face he made when your fangs pierced his throat?

He swallows, his tongue heavy and dry like granite as he forces the thought of you from his mind. He will not taint what happened between the two of you with this. Refocusing on his target, Nanami wastes no more time and lunges at the vampire. The creature shrieks angrily, but it does not run. Instead, she covers the corpse she is cradling and refuses to leave the dead man’s side.

The merciless blow Nanami lands shatters pristine skin and marble bone. The vampire, though powerful, succumbs to the sheer force of Nanami’s overwhelming power like a sapling in a hurricane. Her terrible scream echoes through the night as his fist nearly splits her body clean down the middle. It’s not long before her screams turn to sickening gurgles and she takes her last breath, joining the man beside her.

Nanami slowly stands. Rivers of liquid black drip down his knuckles and land on the grimey pavement below. The rorschach it forms, a sickening signature upon the “good deed” he’d just performed.

“Stop lying to me. You’re a hunter. Killing vampires is what you hunters do, right?”

The trickling down his hands and the cool night air…he can hardly feel them. It feels as if he’s been plucked from the alleyway and placed in some artificial lab, a white room in the middle of nowhere where all sensation and notion of being alive is far beyond his reach.

He feels so…numb.

“If you’re going to kill me just do it already.”

Nanami’s gaze falls and lands on his bloodsoaked hands. Would you end up meeting the same fate as this vampire? Nothing but a bloodstain on the pavement, or a pile of ash scattered in the wind? His entire purpose in life is to wipe your kind out, it is the only life Nanami had ever known. And letting you live, is a betrayal of everything hunters stood for. A betrayal of everything Nanami believed he once was.

But…he can’t go through with it. Can’t even stomach the idea of harming a single hair on your head, let alone send you back to your maker. Nanami knows, deep down in his gut, that he has come to care for you—swiftly, intensely, and so very deeply. And with each vampire Nanami slays, the more he sees your face in them and the more those malicious jaws of his mission—his duty—close in on him. It won’t be long before the others start asking questions.

Or before Gojo takes matters into his own hands.

Shaking away the thought, Nanami reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he finds the person he’s looking for. The phone only rings once before Masamichi’s deep voice rumbles over the line.

“Report.”

“Extermination complete.” Nanami flatly responds. “One human fatality. Requesting cleanup at my location.”

“Understood. I’ll send Itadori and his team.”

Nanami grimaces at those words and his gaze falls upon the two blood soaked corpses on the ground.

“Send someone else.”

There’s a shuffling sound over the phone. Nanami hears Masamichi shout a gruff “Hey!” before he hears that unmistakable, youthful voice join the conversation.

“Hey! Come on, don’t underestimate me! I can handle it. And why didn’t you take me with you today Nanamin?”

Nanami’s response is curt and cold, knowing perfectly well that if he has any hope of stifling Yuji’s protests, he will need to be firm and unyielding.

“This is no job for a child.”

“I’m not a child, I’m a hunter in training! What do you think is going to happen once I become a full fledged hunter, huh? I’m going to be out there exterminating vampires just like you.”

Nanami’s grip tightens around his phone. The thought of any child having to deal with the grim realities of the adult world, or so eagerly accepting the terrible fate of becoming a vampire hunter, makes him feel sick to his stomach. He would spare Yuji or any other child from all of this if he could. Killing vampires isn’t glorious. It’s not even heroic.

Nanami lowers the phone, trying very hard to ignore Yuji’s attempts to get his attention as he quickly switches to his messages and sends off a quick text.

“Nanami?” Yuji’s insistent voice rings loudly through the phone. “Naaaanamiiii? Na-na-miiiin?! Nanananananamiiii!!”

Nanami sighs and returns the phone to his ear.

“I am not arguing with you, Yuji. This is not something you need to see. Tell Masamichi that I’ve contacted Ijichi. He will take care of the cleanup.”

“Wait! Na–”

Nanami promptly hangs up, puts his phone on silent, and slips it back into his pocket. As he waits for Ijichi and the cleanup crew, he glances at the bloodied corpses, their limbs entangled in one another. The vampire’s hand is tightly gripping the man’s and her hold is still so tight that her nails have pierced his skin. She never let him go, not even in death.

Thunder rumbles in the sky above by the time Ijichi arrives with his clean up crew. Nitta, unsurprisingly, has joined him as well. The pair quickly approach Nanami, unsubtly attempting to peer over his shoulder to get a glimpse of the gruesome scene he left behind. Nanami finds their morbid curiosity distasteful, but understandable. Given that both Ijichi and Nitta are some of the many who occupy a supportive role amongst the hunters, this is usually as close to a vampire as they’ll ever get.

Usually being the key word of course. Especially considering that your desk is right next to theirs.

“Was that the only one, Mr. Nanami?” Ijichi asks, the bags under his eyes noticeable even under the dim light.

Nanami nods and then promptly explains the situation. He spares them the unnecessary details, assured that they don’t want to be knee-deep in this sorry affair any longer than Nanami does. Ichiji and Nitta listen intently to the senior hunter’s report before affirming his information and proceeding with the clean up. With any luck, they’d be done a few hours before dawn.

By the time Nanami makes his way home, the thunder roars loudly, like an angry god in the sky. Purple streaks of lightning flash in the midst of heavy, dark clouds. About half way home, Nanami feels the pitter patter of raindrops against his cheeks and hands. His footsteps falter and he looks up for a moment and closes his eyes, savoring the cool touches dotting his face.

The rain increases in intensity as he stands there, engulfing Nanami in a downpour and drenching through his clothing in seconds. He doesn’t move, electing to instead savor that rain, foolishly hoping that it could somehow wash away all the blood on his hands. That he may be forgiven for his sins and could one day leave this kind of life behind and settle down somewhere nice and warm. Maybe…he could even take you with him.

You.

The thought of you is always inescapable. For months Nanami had tried to deny it, but the more time the two of you spent together in that office, the more difficult it became to ignore his feelings for you.

It was the way you smiled. The sound of your laugh ringing down the hallway as you shared corny jokes with your coworkers in the staff room. It was the joy and excitement you had for the little things, and your compassion. The tender and encouraging words you had so freely given him on those late office nights were like a lifesaving breath of air amidst all the drowning. Being in your company, Nanami found both a gentle solace and a burning desire that made him feel more alive than he ever had in years.

A pleasurable throb emanates from the column of his throat, beckoning him. Nanami reaches up, and brushes his fingers along the puckered puncture wounds on his neck.

“You don’t know what you’re offering…”

Oh, he knows. And Nanami will gladly offer it to you again and again and again. So long as you’ll have him, he’ll nourish your body with his own, serving you with his flesh and loving you with his heart until you’re aching for more, crying for more, begging for more. He’ll make you melt in his arms as he renders you blissfully enraptured.

The hiss of the now pounding rain floods Nanami Kento’s ears, the midnight downpour covering the city like a curtain, overpowering the sounds of nightlife as it soaks the earth. Flashes of your ecstasy replays on repeat in Nanami’s mind. The scarlet velvet of your lips and the white gleam of those pretty fangs that scrape so tantalizingly along them are nearly driving him to the point of madness.

Nanami bites his inner cheek. He remembers the feeling of your hot pussy, spread open beneath those panties just for him. Cushioning and cradling his cock so perfectly it was like the two of you were made for one another. An intense heat courses along Nanami’s skin despite the frigid rain. He feels hot and electric, charged much like the sky above. He can practically feel your sinful tongue stoking up his neck and the sharp glide of your fangs along his Adam's apple.

“Mr. Nanami…”

Fuck…

“Touch me.”

His cock instantly hardens, your breathless plea echoing in his mind over and over, tormenting him sweetly with a prurient promise that he knows he shouldn’t want, but covets so ardently. Nanami had never intended to lay a hand on you tonight, but that enchanting siren song of your need—so sweet like a honeydrop from a ripened fruit on the vine—proved impossible for him to ignore.

He is assigned to kill you, and yet here he stands, desperate to give you a piece of him, be it big or small, it doesn’t matter to him either way, so long as he gets to be inside of you.

Nanami resumes his walk, wet shoes squeaking with each step against the glimmering, moonlit concrete. He shakes his head as he adjusts himself in his pants, laughing pitifully under his breath at his sorry state.

You may be the vampire, but between the two of you, who is the ravenous beast really?

(***)

Across the sea, Gojo Satoru sits comfortably behind the window of his high rise penthouse, those heavenly blues admiring the spectacular pink and orange tones of the sunrise. He sighs wistfully before taking a sip of his black ivory coffee. It’s been a good hunt, but his fun will soon be coming to an end. Once he eliminates his high profile target it will be back to the mundanity of home.

Despite having no other audience than himself, Gojo sighs dramatically once more before taking another sip from his steaming cup.

“How boring.”

His theatrical melancholy is abruptly interrupted by the vibration of his phone. Glancing down, Gojo reaches down with his dexterous fingers and pulls the phone free from the bathrobe’s pocket. He glances at the notification. It’s a text from Shoko.

‘You need to see this.’

A picture sits below the text. It’s dark and slightly out of focus, but Gojo’s keen eye is near impossible to fool. At the center of the photo is his friend and colleague Nanami Kento, his expression hardened into one of barely controlled bliss. And nestled in his arms, latched onto his throat like a leech, is the vampire princess he was assigned to kill.

A slow, sly smile spreads across Gojo’s lips as he studies the picture.

“Well, well. How unusual for you, Nanamin. Perhaps the return home won’t be so boring after all.”

#jjk fanfic #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk au #jujustsu kaisen x reader #kento nanami #nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami x you #nanami smut #nanami kento smut #jellywrites

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gravehags · 9 months

Text

sleeping with the ghouls and ghoulettes

dewdrop - stage 5 clinger even though he’ll deny it. this dude wants to be the big spoon no matter how much bigger or smaller you are than him. is not above rutting against your ass while you’re asleep and very gently latching his fangs into your shoulder.

aether - my man loves being slept on like fling an arm over his chest and a leg over his and tuck your head into his neck and he’s in heaven (or is it hell?) doesn’t mind if you snore if you don’t mind his own snoring which is incredibly sonorous. he’s cute so you let it slide.

rain - insists he prefers sleeping alone but when you slip into his bed one evening as he dozes he immediately stirs and grabs for you. loves burying his face in your hair/along your scalp and murmuring sweet little comments to you as you both fall asleep.

mountain - big man loves being little spoon no matter how comedic it looks. he loves feeling held and will start purring if you kiss along his shoulder while rubbing his back. when you wake up in the middle of the night his tail is wrapped snug around your leg holding you close to him.

phantom - this bug is over the moon when you invite him into your bed, completely content to hold you face to face and watch you sleep. when you weave one of your legs between his, your thigh brushing against the length of him, like dew he’s not above grinding on you regardless of if you’re awake or not. half the time he doesn’t notice the sleepy grin on your lips as his lets out his sweet little whimpers.

swiss - i hope you like being crushed because this dude will flop face down onto your chest and hitch his leg up by your hip. loves nuzzling into your neck and places sweet, sloppy kisses along your jawline to work you up. before you can do anything about it he’s snoring into your sternum. maybe drooling a little. you eventually fall asleep too but get fed up and shove him off at some point in the night. he always comes back.

cumulus - two words. titty pillow. she insist on pulling you half on top of her, smushing your cheek into her boob and you have absolutely zero complaints. the two of you will lie there playing with each other’s hair and talking about the day until you inevitably fall asleep first. she loves nothing more than lying there in the dark listening to your steady breathing.

cirrus - ma’am is the big spoon always. she’ll manhandle you and haul you over to her side of the bed, murmuring words of praise when you acquiesce to her demanding touch. likes to trace patterns into your arm and back with a single claw, giving you goosebumps no matter how tired you are. total sleep talker.

aurora - loves sleeping face to face with you so she can look into your eyes and watch you get sleepier and sleepier in front of her while the two of you talk. likes to play with your hair, sometimes braid it if it’s long enough for that or just twirl it around her fingers. loves nothing more than to sing you to sleep, especially when you make requests.

sunshine - like swiss, this ghoulette will absolutely clamber on top of you no matter your size and cling to you like a koala. snores are very cute and lowkey make you laugh, your chest shaking underneath her. if you fall asleep before her she’s not above slipping a hand between your legs and getting you worked up - sometimes she’ll see it through sometimes she’ll leave you hanging. depends on her mood.

#dewdrop ghoul #aether ghoul #rain ghoul #swiss ghoul #phantom ghoul #cumulus ghoulette #cirrus ghoulette #aurora ghoulette #sunshine ghoulette #nameless ghouls #nameless ghoulettes #the band ghost

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the-kr8tor · 7 months

Text

In Pursuit of Blood: A trip down goblin lane.

Pairing: Vampire! Hobie Brown x fem! Vampire hunter! Reader

Word count: 5.6k

Synopsis: You, an amateur vampire hunter, find it really hard to kill the one vampire you were tasked to kill.

Tags: Use of Y/N sparingly, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), same universe as the WWDITS series, CW blood, TW violence, CW suggestive, Mockumentary AU, established relationship, Fluff.

A/N: Special thanks to @al1x00 (ly fr) for the idea! Happy 1k! 🫶 (Enjoy my attempt at humor lol)

Navigation

Hobie's Masterlist

The camera focuses on a leather clad man sitting on a patchwork armrest. His long leg is crossed over the other, metal clinking against each other when he moves. He places his elbow on the armrest, hand under his chin, ringed fingers tapping on his cheek—bored and clearly disinterested. Red eyes lined with dark eyeliner, piercings glimmering under the camera lights, sharp nails painted, he makes the crew suck in a breath.

He's the perfect picture of a rockstar.

The dimly lit gothic home provides the perfect backdrop to the ‘confession booth’, various books, knick knacks from far flung places are littered all over the living room. A grand piano stands proudly to his left, dark oak polished and well taken care off. Tapestries from the sixteenth century are tacked on the walls next to seventies and eighties band posters. His coat rack is full of jackets that look like they come from different times in history.

The producer nods at him, asking for the man's name, his voice just above a whisper so that the microphones don't catch the sound.

He sighs, jaws tighten for a second. “Name's Hobie, Hobie Brown.” His voice shakes the crew's bones. The blond haired producer clears his throat and Hobie rolls his eyes like a spoiled celebrity. “And I'm a vampire.” he says flatly.

The blond gestures for him to continue, asking him how old he is. “Fuckin' hell.” Hobie says under his breath. “Were you not taught manners? Come off it, you don't ask a vampire their age.”

The clipboard holding man, who pretends to be important, asks him why he agreed to the interview if he's so disinterested.

“Fine,” He smiles, showing his sharp fangs, the simple act makes the documentary team's heart skip a beat. “Before you say ‘m following a trend of vampires givin' interviews and a ‘peak behind the cape’ like the wankers in staten island or the lovebirds in dubai. ‘m not, ‘m only doin' this because,” he points dramatically at the clipboard holding man. “Your director told me all proceeds from this goes to charity. And it better be—”

Something thumps outside. The camera sharply turns to the closed floor length curtains.

“Oi, eyes back ‘ere.” Hobie exclaims, the camera whizzes back to his figure. “Again, vampire, been alive for…” he inhales, “a long bloody time. Been a pirate, a cowboy, hell even a rockstar. But always an anarchist.” He says proudly. “I've been rebelling against the one who bit me for centuries,” the camera zooms in on his scowl. “Hate that knobhead.”

Something falls right outside his windows, a groan and a curse sounding out, voice muffled by the walls.

The crew expects Hobie to hiss or even deal with the intruder but he smiles, posture loosening up.

“That,” he points at the source of the ruckus. “That’s a vampire hunter.” Smiling, the crew could hear a muffled ‘fuck you’ behind the walls. “She's been hunting me for a few years now. She—eh, hasn't been close.”

The cursing was louder, camera swishing towards the source, your angry face peeking out from the curtains. The boom mic captures your annoyed growl clearly as you place your face as close as possible on the glass.

“Fuck you, Hobart!”

He chuckles as the crew's face grows with concern. “Don't worry, she's—I guess bad at her job. She's interestin’ though. Y’know what, let me just show you.” He stands up, the cameras and the entire crew follows him through the hallways of his home.

The cameraman almost trips on a stray guitar on the floor. “Careful now, that was a present from some rockstar in the seventies. That's why I leave it on the floor, it works best as a boot scraper.”

Hobie stops in front of double doors, scenes of a love story are carved on the wood.

“It was a gift.” He addresses the doors, “not my first choice but where else would I put the bloody thing?” With a small push, hands braced on both doors, he reveals the expansive room lined with hundreds of paintings and photographs.

He sucks in his teeth. “The entire house is a gift, I'd rather live in a boathouse honestly but this works fine I guess.” Shrugging, he points at the oldest looking wood carving hanging on the wall. A man kneels in front of a woman, rose in his hand as she looks down at him with glee.

“Yes, that's me courting. The wood carver fucked up the scene though, it was more like me ravaging– uh” he clears his throat “…this won't show in pbs right?”

The people behind the cameras shrug as Hobie looks to them for an answer.

“I'll tone it down then, for the children, just in case.” He continues down the lineup of pictures.

Stopping by a large painting of what looks like Hobie in medieval clothing. The painted version of him is surrounded by flowers and trees. His antlers protruding from his head, webs clings to his arms.

“This was when people thought I was fae.” He makes a face, “everyone was tripping on shrooms back then.” walking towards the middle of the room, passing by a few more paintings and tapestries, He pauses on a yellowed painting of a woman who looks similar to you, only less angry.

“Look at her,” sighing, the vampire has heart eyes while looking at the painting. “this was before she was cursed by that bitcharse jealous witch. Now every descendant of hers is cursed to never harm me or any of my spawns, which is bad because they all think I killed their ancestor, and all they want is to kill me. A consequence of dating a vampire hunter during the fifteenth century, I guess.”

“The curse is a two way street, they can't kill me, I can't hypnotize them. It's not that I want to anyway.” he continues.

Another ruckus echoes throughout the house. Hobie smiles again. “I believe she doesn't know about it, so hush, yeah?” He does a double take. “Wait, can you cut that part out?”

—

The second crew runs towards you as you climb the tresses of the house. The camera lens zooms in on your clumsy climbing. Looking down, hearing leaves crunch underfoot, you yelp in surprise.

“What—?!” Losing your hold, you fall on a bush, landing directly at his wild flowers. “Ow! Who the fuck—?!”

—

Now sitting down on a lawn chair, leaves stuck in your hair, face and clothes covered in dirt, you scowl at the producer behind the camera.

Sighing, clicking your tongue, you answer their questions with another question. “Who the fuck are you guys?”

You raise an eyebrow at the words ‘documentary crew’ uttered by the producer.

“Seriously? Who would want to interview Hobart? Scratch that, is it because of those fuckers in staten island?”

A cameraman answers, ‘for charity.’

You blink in surprise, “charity? You fuckin' kidding me? Well if it's for the kids then.” sighing, you resign, looking directly at the camera with disdain, you say your first name. “And I'm a vampire hunter, I mean obviously I am just looking at all the stakes and holy water strapped to me. I look like I'm very fun at parties.” You say jokingly, “and church, probably. Dunno never been.”

The camera cuts back to Hobie still in the large room full of paintings and memorabilia.

“— I didn't do anythin’ wrong. They're absolutely mad at me for no reason—” he stops, thinking. “But I guess I was the reason their family was cursed innit?”

He changes subjects, showing the camera a painting near the end of the room.

“Oh this? This is when her great great great great grandfather almost got me, memories huh? He was mighty fit.” The crew zooms in on a gorgeous painting of a man trying to put a stake through Hobie's heart while he smiles up at him like he's smitten.

“Good times.” He chuckles.

—

“Fuck this.” You say, standing up from the chair, grabbing the mic off from your shirt abruptly. The camera follows you as you grab the lawn chair that you were just sitting on. You then proceed to throw it at a stained glass window. Giving you entry to his abode.

“It was gaudy anyway.” Entering the house, your shoes crunch the broken glass.

—

“Huh, she's inside. That's a record.” Hobie says almost excitedly. “I'll show you the rest of the room after this—.”

The double doors burst open, the camera swivels to you and the camera crew behind you. Holding a stake, you scowl at Hobie.

“Hello, darling, how was your commute?” He genuinely smiles.

“I have a car now, fuck you!” You lunge at him.

Lightning fast, he grabs your wrist right before the stake kisses his chest. The camera crews film on the sides, avoiding getting hit themselves.

“Good for you, finally saved up then?”

Lifting your legs, you kick his chest, you tumble, landing on your feet, staring at him menacingly. “Yes! It's a kia!” you scream before you run full speed at him.

“You got a good deal on it? Automatic or manual?”

“No!” You swing at him, he dodges. “I think I got swindled!” Kick “And it's a manual!” Punch “I’m not a pussy!”

Hobie clicks his tongue, avoiding the pointed edge of the stake. “Point ‘em to me, love, maybe I can get you your money back.”

Stepping back further away, you pause while he stands at the end of the room. Changing your hold on the sharp wood, you throw it at him, he leans slightly, dodging the projectile. it hits the wall right next to your ancestor’s portrait.

“You'll just drink him dry like the last guy!”

He shrugs, making a face that makes you want to punch him harder. “Not my fault he was a knobhead.”

You bounce on your feet, pouncing at him. “He was my dentist!”

He moves to the side, seeing you running towards one of the paintings, in danger of getting smashed by you. In his panic, he raises his arm to stop you, accidentally clothes lining you. His wall-like arm hits you right on your face.

Falling harshly on the floor, you're completely unconscious.

Hobie looks at the cameras with concern. “Shit.”

—

You wake up on an ancient looking couch, it's soft despite its appearance. Lifting your head with a groan, headache punching through the back of your head, you grimace loudly at the camera crew still filming in the corner.

Falling back on the couch, you hide your flustered face with your arm, pulling the blanket further up your chest.

“I promise I'm not that bad at fighting.” You murmur, still hiding your face from the cameras. “You just caught me at a bad time.”

Hobie suddenly appears with a whoosh, he holds a metal tray with tea and a hot compress placed on it.

“Who's giving you a bad time?”

You audibly groan. “No one.”

He places the tray on the coffee table, sparing a quick glance at the camera. “I caught you lackin’ you're not always that bad. Tea?”

Wordlessly reaching up, you flip him the bird. Hobie smiles softly, tapping your legs to give him space on the settee. The documentary crew is surprised that you actually move to give way to him.

He sits by your legs, preparing your tea just like how you always take it. Two sugars and a dash of milk. The entire production staff is perplexed to say the least.

With a clink of the tea spoon against the cup, you sit up, wincing slightly. “Can I get another sugar cube?”

Hobie raises a brow, “it's that kind of day huh? What's bothering you, love?”

You scoff, taking a cube for yourself then plopping it in your tea cup. “Nothing.”

He flicks his eyes at the camera with a knowing glance. Resting his elbow atop his thigh, chin placed on his hand, he pokes at your leg using his foot. Wordlessly having a conversation. With a sigh and a frown, you sip at your tea.

“Ex kicked me out. Now I'm living with the family again.”

Hobie's nonchalance drops, hand instinctively reaching out to you until he realizes what he's doing, he retracts his hand back.

“Shit, ‘m sorry. Their loss.”

“Mm-hmm, consequences of living with someone you've only dated for three months.” You finish your drink in one gulp. “‘sides, I don't have to pay rent anymore.”

“You've got shitty taste in partners.” You snort, half agreeing with him. “But you have to live with your psycho family so there's that.”

You laugh, the camera zooms in on Hobie's pleased expression.

“They're tolerable now, mellowed out after they took out count Belois.” You look at Hobie, copying his position like a mirror.

“He was an arse, did all of us a favour.” he stares at your eyes while the camera continues to film, yet you two don't seem to notice them anymore.

“Yeah, wish I was there though.” You say in a small voice. “They never invite me to those hunts. Always left watching outside.”

Hobie reaches towards you again, this time he actually holds you. Long fingers curling around your wrist, his thumb rubbing gently. “If only they know how hard you could kick.”

“You barely moved when I kicked you.” Chuckling, your eyes sparkle under the dim lights.

“Well it's me,” he inches closer to you in the seat, knee brushing against yours. “But if it was any other vampire out there they would have flown.”

You scrunch your face. Laying your hand down to your thigh, Hobie intertwined his fingers around yours properly this time. The camera captures the confusing scene.

“Because they turned into a bat?”

He grins, showing you his teeth, you don't even flinch. “Nah, because you kicked ‘em too hard. Did you hit your head that hard?” Knocking his knuckles against your temple softly, you move back like lightning has struck you.

“No, I'm actually okay, thanks.” You take your hand away, eyes flitting nervously at the camera then to Hobie. “I gotta go, dinner with the psycho family.” Standing up, you take your belongings from the floor. “You know how it is.”

He looks up at you with an unreadable expression, “yeah, I know how it is.” He says forlornly.

Patting his shoulder awkwardly, your hand lingers for a half second. “Bye,” you stare at the crew in the corner, “bye to all of you, I guess. Don't get eaten.”

The camera pans towards Hobie who just shrugs, fangs poking out of his lips.

—

Hobie eats alone in his empty dining room. The table is long, made of strong narra, designed to sit a dozen or so people. He sits in the head of the table, utensils scraping against the bloodied plate. His goblet is full, untouched.

He looks up at the camera on the other side of the table, observing his every move.

“The table's a gift too.” He says before continuing to eat silently.

—

The camera follows Hobie throughout his day. Roaming aimlessly around the house, he floats above the ground, hand and feet sticking on the wall while he dusts pictures that's placed on the highest shelf.

In the afternoon, he writes music on his piano while he flashes back and forth towards the drums and guitar, testing the music he wrote.

The crew captures Hobie burying something in the backyard. Jacket off, tank top and bare arms in full display. Moonlight illuminating his skin. His necklaces clink together as he shovels in dirt, packing the hole in tightly. The producer asks something about familiars and Hobie scowls at the word.

“No, just no. ‘m fully against havin’ familiars, it's fuckin' wrong.” He sticks the shovel harshly on the soil when the producer questions him again. “Ask me again and you'll be the one ‘m burying next.”

The camera shuts off abruptly.

—

The small supermarket's repetitive jingle from the nineties irks Hobie as he shops for some meat. But what irks him more is the documentary crew finding him especially after he went out of his way to hide from them.

He tosses a box of your favourite tea in the basket, annoyed at the team behind the cameras and boom mics. “Do the lot of you have a tracker on me or somethin’?” Shaking his head, he stomps down the aisle, heavy boots thudding loudly on the floor.

With his leather jacket plus all the metal and spikes on him, Hobie looks like a regular punk shopping for groceries. But if you looked closer, stayed too long in his presence, your flight or fight response kicks in, rendering anyone frozen on the spot.

His ruby eyes scan around the soap display, trying to ignore the cameras and people trailing after him, he gets a whiff of a familiar scent: strawberries and cream, it's you.

Hobie's feet move on its own, carrying him towards your direction. He spots you standing in the fruit section, weighing a watermelon in your hands, knocking on it then listening to the sound closely like you're trying to eavesdrop.

“What's the watermelon saying?”

“Christ!” You jump, dropping the watermelon.

Thankfully he catches it before the fruit splatters on the linoleum. “Just me, love.”

Clutching your chest, you take deep breaths. “I thought I smelled something rotten.” He raises a brow at your comment. “What are you doing here? This is far from your place.”

“First of all, I smell like sandalwood and fresh linen, fuck you.” You snort, rolling your eyes. “And ‘m tryin' to avoid them.” He points behind him, towards the cameras.

“Augh, they're still following you?”

“Apparently I signed a contract, it's not a one time thing.” He places the watermelon back to the crate, taking one that is riper and sweeter just for you. He then gently drops it in your cart, you nod a thanks.

“I told you before don't sign anything when you're drunk off of alcohol filled blood.”

“You're right, lovie, should've listened to you. Can't blame me when I only hear music whenever you open your pretty mouth.” He leans on your cart nonchalantly, giving you his signature smirk that has people falling over themselves for centuries.

“That's not much of a compliment.” You grimace, unaffected by his charm. “Listen, since we're in a public place I'm not gonna try to kill you so please get off my cart, I've got some shopping to do.” Shaking the trolley, he leans away, dismayed. “Also, the owner seems to like me, which is rare enough, so I don't want to ruin my relationship with the old lady. Shoo, Hobart, I'm off the clock.”

“You've got two people who like you now. One more than the other, I suppose.”

You narrow your eyes towards the vampire. “Who's the second one.”

Hobie walks backwards, arm wrapped around his basket, smile blinding everyone in its vicinity. “Me, darling, isn't it obvious?”

The bright fluorescent lights shouldn't do him any favours but by god, he looks amazing under it.

You don't answer, the camera zooms into your hands gripping the handles of the shopping cart, chest heaving, swallowing thickly.

He leaves, going towards the cashier to pay for his groceries. And you spot a sign that's labeled ‘50% off on garlic!’ you glare at the camera, pushing the cart towards the display.

—

Hobie sits on his work table, pieces of a TV are jumbled out on the table as he tinkers with them. His hands shake slightly, he should really feed.

“—‘m pretty good with technology, not like the other vampires. I've adapted well with—” he sniffs, “wait, what's that smell?”

He opens the door to find thousands of garlic circling around his house, “what—?”

“Tada!” You pop out from the side, hands carrying bushels of garlic, no doubt smelling like it too. “Wait, no, not tada, that's in poor taste because you hate them.”

Hobie gags at the smell, eyes watery and irritated. “This is a bad idea!” He rubs at his eyes, tears fully streaming on his cheeks.

“Why? Because it's working?!” You cackle, throwing the vegetable like confetti, one lands right on top of your head.

“Because it attracts—!”

You screech when you feel a sharp tug at your coat. A little green creature shrieks at you, the sound rings your eardrums, almost breaking the boom mic. Its eyes are dark and glassy, ears pointed, teeth sharp.

“A Goblin?!” Falling on your ass, you crawl backwards, watching as more and more of them appear from the bushes.

“I'm a goblin.” The one with a worn out party hat says, voice cracking like foil.

“What are you a Pokémon?!”

Hobie runs after you as fast as he can with the garlic hindering him. “Get inside!” He yells, dragging you towards the door. His hands sizzle atop your arms, the garlic searing his skin.

The creatures skidaddles towards you, towards the smell of garlic. Waves upon waves of green skitter and crawl on all limbs, eyes hungry, mouths agape.

“Hobie!” You hold on to his wrists as the ground scratches your back. Kicking an incoming goblin, you yelp as the door closes at the nick of time.

Claws scratch at the windows and walls. One of them even bangs its head hard on the glass just to get to you.

Hobie hides you behind him, eyes still stinging and skin aflame. “Get to the basement!” He screams when one breaches the house with glass shattering. “Go!”

Running down, Hobie lets you and the crew go first. He grabs a cutlass from the wall, chopping one that comes a little too close to your leg.

You look back at him with worry. “Hobie!”

“I'll be there! Just go!” He grabs one by the neck, throwing it away haphazardly.

It yells a faint ‘whee’ as it sails through the house.

Reaching the large basement, you search for the light switch, a cameraman beats you to it and you yelp at the sudden brightness.

The basement is full of things from different centuries. An iron maiden lays discarded on the corner, its steel rusted and brown. A sculpture of a woman sits on a shelf, it looks like it's a long lost work of Rodin. There's a large tapestry depicting a vampire war that is now collecting dust on the wall.

But the thing that catches your eyes is the massive metal cage that sits in the middle of the room. You would gawk but the swarm of goblins are nearing the basement. The familiar thumping of boots shakes you with relief.

“Cage!” Hobie grabs you effortlessly, you have no time to react as he carries you like a duffel bag by your waist.

The crew follows frantically, closing the metal doors shut behind them just as the swarm gets close. They shriek and bang on the bars, little arms trying to reach towards you.

He lays you back to your feet, dropping the drenched sword on the ground, palms still healing. He cups your face, searching for any injuries.

“You alright?” He heaves, out of breath, legs covered in goblin bites and palms searing but he looks at you like you're the one who's bleeding.

Staring at him with your irises blown out, mouth slightly parted, you embrace him to his surprise and the crew's.

“I'm okay,” you lean away before he could hug back. Hands placed on his shoulders, nails digging into him like he's about to be yanked away from you. “Are you?”

Hobie forgets about the other people inside the cage and the goblins trying to nibble at him. It's only you in his hands, even though the pungent smell of garlic makes his nose itch. Eyes tender, touch gentle, he could only nod.

“Yeah, I'm good now.” His voice lacks the usual charm.

You can finally breathe. “I thought…I'm the only one that's allowed to kill you.”

Chuckling, he traces your jaw with his thumb. “I know. You're first in line, darling.”

The crew stands near the sides awkwardly.

—

The goblins are trashing Hobie's basement, and based on the sounds from upstairs, they're also wreaking havoc in the entire house.

You sit back to back with Hobie in the middle of the cage, away from the bars, hands braced to your sides, his own are mere inches away from yours. He's glad that the garlic smell has wafted away from you, but not enough to get rid of the goblins still hankering for your flesh.

The crew stays away from the openings of the cage whilst a handful of the creatures try to grab at their equipment. It's been hours since the initial attack and everyone's getting hungry and thirsty, including Hobie.

“Why do you even have a dungeon in your basement—? Wait, scratch that, don't answer.” You try to pass the time.

“It was for your great great uncle—”

“Ew!”

“Get your head out of the gutter.” He says flatly, hands shaking from hunger. “I got it so he has a safe place to transform every full moon.”

“What? Huh, so that's why that branch of the family is so hairy.”

He changes the subject. “What were you thinkin’ with the garlic?” Hobie lays his head right on your shoulder, craning his neck to face you, he uses the closeness to memorize your face. His crimson eyes are dimmer than you're used to.

“I dunno, I thought it was a genius idea back then. Y’know, trap you inside, starve you then when you're weak enough I'd put a stake through your heart.”

“It's a good thing you're bloody fit.” He murmurs, chuckling quietly. “You almost got me though.” Your ears pick up the fatigue in his voice.

“And here I thought you fancy me for my amazing personality.”

“That too.” He smiles weakly, feeling the ache in his bones. “We need to get out of here.” His jaw visibly tightens, wanting to get away from you and your scent. Unfortunately it's not so easy when you're trapped.

“I know,” You sigh, Hobie sits up, covering his ears with the heels of his palms. “You okay?”

“I can hear your blood rushing through your veins.” He bites the inside of his cheeks. “Fuck, we really need to get out of here.” Standing up on wobbly feet, you help him up while the crew stands as far as they can without getting slashed by goblin claws.

“You're hungry.” You state the obvious.

“Starvin’” his red eyes flick down to your neck, already feeling guilty from the simple look.

You swallow thickly. “When was the last time you drank?”

“A couple days ago.” His vision blurs.

“Why are you starving yourself?” Scolding him, you guide him back down on the cold granite. “Hobart.”

“Why do you keep callin' me that?” Cold hands against your own, his eyes zeroes in on your face, avoiding the veins in your neck. “You sound like her when you call me that.”

Your eyes soften, warming him with your palms atop his cheeks, you worry. “You haven't answered my question.”

He groans, head lolling backwards. “Got busy, forgot what day it was.”

“Busy with what?” You click your tongue, lifting his head back up with your hands under his head. You search his hungry eyes, making a decision you could regret in the long run.

“If I let you feed, will you be able to get rid of the goblins?”

That has him picking his head back up, waking him up from his hungry stupor. “What—?”

You reiterate, voice determined. “If I let you drink from me can you get your strength back and get rid of the little fuckers?”

“Y/N, I can't let you do that.”

“I know what happens if you don't feed and judging by how the goblins are devouring your entire house like some frat, they aren't leaving soon enough.” You ball his shirt in your hands for emphasis. “I'm letting you drink, just this one time so we could all go home.”

“Are you really sure?”

“Just don't turn me into your spawn, deal?”

Hobie cracks a smile, fangs glinting off the basement lights. You suddenly feel your nerves kicking in.

“I promise I won't. Just tell me if it gets too much, yeah?”

“Okay,” you inhale deeply, tugging down the collar of your shirt, showing him what he needs. “Don't drink me dry.”

“That depends, for all I know you taste brilliantly.” His joke alleviates your fear a little. You're both unaware of the cameras watching, recording everything. Even forgetting that they were there in the first place.

His hand is on the back of your neck, the other is gripping on to your arm like his life depends on it. Eyeing your skin, lips brushing along it, fangs barely piercing, he gives you enough time to lean away.

“Hurry on with it, I need to pee.”

With a deep chuckle, he sinks his teeth in you.

Gasping, you bite down on your bottom lip, stifling any sounds. But Hobie can hear them from your chest, feel how your body quivers with every suck and nip from his teeth.

You whimper and he holds on to you tighter.

He wants to devour you whole, his instincts tell him to ravage you until you're dry and limp in his arms— to rip you apart with his bare teeth. But he doesn't, he's careful and gentle like he's drinking nectar straight from a flower.

“F-fuck…” you let out, hands shaking, sliding down to the back of his neck, pressing him closer.

He turns warmer with your crimson flowing through him, not letting a single drop of the precious liquid dribble from his mouth.

Hobie feels like his dead heart beats once again after centuries.

Eyes closed, you feel like you're on cloud nine. You look like it too, eyes hazy, lips parted, hand holding on to him weakly.

Before he could drown in you, Hobie carefully eases his teeth out from your pierced skin, maw covered in your blood, thumb pressing down to your wounds to stop the bleeding.

It will scar, but you're alright with that thought.

He feels anew. His eyes are sharper, adrenaline coursing through him like your blood in his system. His ears perked at every breath you let out. Eyes blown up like the size of dinner plates, his warm breath fans your cheeks.

Half of him regrets doing it, now that he has gotten a taste, he can't go back to biting random rich assholes. His other half delights in your after taste, so sweet and nectarine that makes him crave more.

You crane your neck slowly like molasses to look at him sweetly through your half lidded eyes, and a soft yet tired smile on your lips. Still clinging into euphoria, vision swirling and heart beating a thousand times per second. You feel like you've ascended and you'll never go down from it.

Licking his teeth, Hobie resists the urge to dive back in. But he's more than that, you're more than a blood bag.

“You alright?” He whispers, he smells like you.

You hum, smiling giddily like a child who just got what she wanted.

“‘m gonna go and kill some goblins now. Stay here for me?”

You hum a tune that sounds like a rendition of ‘happy birthday.’ Giggling, you pat his cheek.

“Yeah, you'll be alright. I'll get you some orange juice after this.”

“Orange sounds nice… such a pretty color. And cookies, yum.” You chortle like you just heard the best joke. “Oh handsome, so handsome. I'm gonna bite you back one day.” Staring up at him, your eyes roll back, falling unconscious.

“Lookin' forward to it.”

Hobie gently lays you down on the floor, standing up, ears listening to your fast heart beat, but it's not enough proof for him. Eyes observing your chest, watching it go up and down, making sure he didn't go too far. Satisfied, he points at the crew cowering in the corner, their cameras still rolling. The documentary won't air anywhere at this rate.

“Watch her.” He says sternly, eyes glaring.

They all nod frantically.

With a swift kick to the metal door, he strikes down every goblin he sees.

—

You sit on the same patchwork armchair, sipping on a warm cup of tea, comfortable and content in your seat. The two pin prick scars on your neck peeks under your collar. The camera has you in the spotlight, zoomed in on your freshly washed face.

“Do you know about the curse?” The man behind the camera asks, his voice wavering with every word like it's taboo to mention it.

“What curse?” You watch as their faces morph into panic. “I'm fucking with you,” you laugh at their expense.

“Of course I know about it. Why do you think I hunt him down? For fun? Well, partly because of it but we broke that curse like five generations ago when my ancestor figured it all out and made friends with the witch.”

Smiling fondly, you continue. “She's my godmother now. Don't tell him.” You warn. “Hunting him down is an initiation for us really, a tradition to try and kill him, just really doing our best to cause damage. He's pretty powerful.”

Laying your elbows on your knees, you look directly at the camera.

“I mean you've seen the room right? He's fucking obsessed, someone has to off him or just—I honestly think he should just move on.” shrugging you sip your tea that he made for you.

“Is that why you're living with him?” They ask unabashedly. The camera zooms out, showing you still in your pajamas, complete with fluffy slippers.

“Uh—”

Hobie appears in the corner, leaning on the doorway casually, a similar pajama pants hanging low on his hips.

“Darling, have you seen my good jumper—?”

You take your crossbow from under the chair, twisting in your seat, you aim it at his head, shooting, the arrow whizzes past him, he ducks down as the arrow imbeds into the oak.

Hobie laughs on the floor, lifting up a black and red jumper. “Found it!”

“Goddamnit.” The word is laced with endearment. You turn back towards the crew, eyes narrowed at them. “Wait, why are you guys here so early?”

Support banner by @/cafekitsune

A/N: Thank you for reading! And happy 1k! 🎉

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thebestofoneshots · 6 months

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Gilded Constellations | (wolfstar x reader)

Series Masterlist | Previous episode

Pairing: Wolfstar x Reader Word Count: 8.8 K Warnings: None Prompt: It's finally time to test Peter's theory? Will all the cuddles be worth for something or will things end terribly wrong? It is time for Vixen to face Moony. This IS a Wolfstar x reader fic, but it's incredibly slow burn. They won't start all dating each other until we're very deep into the story, but I promise the long wait will be worth it. Proofread by lovelies: @aremuslupinsimp and @nagareboshi-chiyo (for the French <3)

Chapter 39: Running With the Pack

Wednesday, December 22nd. 5:37 PM

As you leaned closer to the dark tunnel that had once haunted you, you took a deep breath and stared into the vast darkness. You had run through it so many times in your dreams, crawled out of it as you were chased by a giant wolf about ready to turn you to shreds, broken your nails as you dug your fingers through the dirt and now, now you would slide down, and walk all the way to the wolf’s den, willingly.

What once had been scary, keeping you awake at night in fear of going back to it, was now drawing you in, a magnetism so strong it was almost irresistible. You took a deep breath and then smiled, greeting the darkness like an old friend rather than a foe, and letting yourself fall down the dark rabbit hole that would take you to the wolf. But not just any wolf, to Moony. Your best friend Moony. Your Moony.

The beautiful wolf you had had the grace of witnessing once before you had to run from it, the large creature with claws as sharp as honed blades and fangs that could pierce skin as one might tear through a fragile sheet of paper, eyes so sharp they could follow you through the forest before you even had enough time to think of an escape route– but they were kind too. Golden and dangerous and beautiful. They shone with the kindness of your friend, of the man behind the sleek coat of fur that shimmered with the moonlight. The eyes of the soft-spoken boy that smelled of chocolate and old books, of the one that had been kind enough to show you through the school and cheered you up after a rough day after merely days of meeting you.

They called you insane for throwing your wand on the floor as the wolf advanced on you, but you had not been looking at the wolf then, you had been looking at him, at your best friend. That had gotten you almost killed, seeing the beauty in chaos might be a noble trait, but a dangerous one nonetheless.

You now knew what a terrible idea that had been, Remus had not spared a chance to remind you of your recklessness, and perhaps you needed it, being mesmerised by the wolf was not an excuse for getting murdered. Either way, you’d be lying if you said the prospect of seeing the wolf up close –even as Vixen– wasn’t exciting.

“Sirius?” you whispered, he was a few steps ahead, walking with his wand held high and a Lumos charm. James was just a few steps behind and Peter had gotten ahead as Wormtail, to make sure Remus was still Remus when you got there.

“Yeah, Luv?” he asked.

“Are we too far?” you asked and revised your clock “It’s 6:00 pm already, and the moon comes out in about a quarter of an hour.”

You had never walked through the tunnel, you had only ran through it, and you would be lying if you said that it didn’t feel much longer now than it did back then. Not that the path hadn’t felt eternal while you were running and throwing spells at Moony, but you were rather certain that that had to do a lot more with your own perception of time than time itself.

“We’re less than 5 minutes away,” James responded, he too had been keeping an eye on the clock, trying to make sure that things would be alright.

Sirius slowed his pace until he reached beside you and whispered, “Nox,” over his wand, he placed a hand over your shoulders, drawing you close to him as he pointed deeper into the tunnel, “See that light reflection?” he asked. You nodded in response. “It’s the door you blew up last time you were here.”

You looked at him with a frown and then back at the place he was pointing at, Remus must have told him, you realised as you saw it, and you picked up your pace, almost sprinting towards it. Sirius turned to James who gave him a shrug and the two boys ran behind you.

You reached the door just under two minutes later, and you brushed your hand over the hinges, “You fixed it?” you asked as you turned to the boys, who were just behind you.

“Peter and I did, when we brought Remus over after the last moon,” James responded.

“It was in an awful condition,” you replied, remembering the Bombarda you had used and how many of the pieces of the door had flown about the room, you were pretty sure you had turned it to shreds.

“Yeah,” James agreed with a diverted smile.

You looked at the door a little closer now and located the thick bar of metal that held it in place, you brought your hand under it and started pushing it up. There was a click and the door snapped open, Remus was on the other side, he was leaning on a bed, bouncing one of his legs up and down while looking right ahead. He turned to you shortly after and seemed relieved to see everyone there. Peter was still Wormtail, and he was sleeping on a worn-out pillow on the floor. He hadn’t been sleeping well that week, staying up late to work on the final projects he had left for the last minute (It had been all of them).

You walked forwards and sat beside Remus on the edge of the bed, “How are we feeling?”, you asked. James sat beside you and Sirius had plopped down on the floor, staring up at the three of you.

“Fantastic!” he said sarcastically.

You pushed him with your shoulder lightly, having him crash against James, “Don’t be such a downer.”

“You can still leave.”

You let yourself fall back into the mattress. “No thanks.”

Sirius laughed from the floor and considered whether it would be a good or a bad idea to jump on top. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too clever, at least not with how nervous Remus was.

Remus sighed with your reply, “But what if it doesn’t work?”

“It will,” Sirius reassured.

“But what if it doesn’t?”

“Then we go for plan B,” you responded as if it was the simplest course of action.

“What if you’re not fast enough?”

“Werewolves don’t eat animals,” you said.

“No, but we can kill them,” Remus muttered as he remembered the time he had killed a squirrel that had walked close to his cage when he was 7. He had cried about it for weeks and even asked his parents to bury her in the garden. He called her Juliette, since his mom had been reading Romeo and Juliette to lull him to sleep back then and he knew she would die in the end.

“Remus!” you whined as you bumped your knee into his, “Drop the negativity, would you?”

It’s not that you didn’t have doubts of your own, but it was easier to ignore them and be brave about it if he was not repeating all the ways that things could go wrong over and over again.

“Sorry,” he said.

James let himself fall on the bed, imitating your earlier action, “I’m sure it will work,” he said, “Besides you’ve been doing research about it, right Vix?”

“I think I read more about werewolves and wolves this past month than I did for classes,” you sighed.

“I can confirm that,” Sirius said, he’d been going to the library with you too, and he’d read just as much.

You had also talked to Damocles and asked him about the potion, to use as a failsafe in case the plan didn’t work, he said he was still working on it but that he hoped he’d have it ready at some point next year. He had also given you all his notes on werewolves since you had asked if he had anything other than the ones he’d given you at first, and while those had been useful to learn about Moony, none of them helped you either prove or refute your theory.

“Right,” Remus said as he started bouncing his leg again. And then he bent down a little bit. When he looked up at Sirius, his eyes were completely golden. James stood up and turned into Prongs in the blink of an eye, standing defensively as he stared at Remus. Remus was now clawing at his own shirt to try and take it off, last time he had ripped it to shreds and he didn’t want the same thing to happen to this one. Sirius stood forward and helped him get it off.

You saw, this time even more than the last, how his skin started to rip, but you also got a small glimpse of his muscly back, and while the potion had already worn off, you’d be lying if you said he didn’t have a very nice and defined one.

“Turn,” he said as he placed his hands on his pants. You instantly turned your head to the wall.

“Into Vixen!” Sirius said, almost laughing at your instant reaction. Remus would have laughed too if he hadn’t been busy trying to hold back the cries of pain that threatened to leave his mouth.

“You too,” he said as he looked at Sirius who had placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“It’s fine,” Sirius countered. You were already Vixen, and you were still looking at the wall, tail waving restlessly as you heard Remus whimper. “I’ll do it right before you’re Moony.”

“Sirius,” Remus said as he tightened his jaw to hold back another groan and ended up stifling a whimper instead.

“You’re not going to change my mind,” he said as he helped Remus kneel on the floor.

“Sirius.”

“I’ve got it under control.”

But I don’t, Remus thought as he tightened his fist on the floor, scratching the wood with his nails, which were a lot more claws than nails themselves.

“Sirius!”

“Moony, we’ve been through this, just let me help,” Sirius insisted as he tightened his grip on Remus’ shoulder, reassuringly.

Remus huffed and turned to Sirius angrily, his eyes were menacingly golden now. But Sirius held his stare, a reassuring smile on his face as he tightened the grip on his shoulder again and sent Remus a wink. Remus would have scoffed if he’d had the chance, but he ended up just bending over a bit more and letting his head fall over Sirius’s shoulder, who was now helping to hold him up. Remus would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the closeness to Sirius. There was something about his hand on his bare back and the feel of his curls crashing against his face, that was dreadfully comforting.

If only he could bask in those feelings at any moment other than when he was about to turn into a fucking werewolf. He couldn’t though, because those hands, those curls and those beautiful lips of his belonged to someone else. To the pretty fox waving her tail desperately on the bed as she struggled to not turn her head. But then he felt it, the Wolf gnawing at him and taking his agency away, locking him up in the cage of his mind, his last ounce of control slipping away.

“Siri-us…” His voice broke near the end. And you couldn’t take it anymore you turned your head to look at the two boys and barked as Sirius. Your best friend’s face was already turning into a snout, but Sirius looked awfully calm as he held him between his arms.

You barked again, now more desperately and jumped towards Sirius, pulling at his shirt with your snout. Remus tried to push you away so that you weren’t that close to the wolf when he came about but his hand was no longer a hand anymore and his paw ended up accidentally bopping your head. You looked at him reproachfully and barely managed to make out his wince. You barked again, and this time Sirius actually listened, he turned into a Padfoot and seconds later, Moony let out a shrieking howl, no wonder that’s what they called this place.

Moony stood straight and imposing, last time you had tried to escape from him as a fox, you hadn’t had time to actually see him, too busy running the hell away. But this time around, you could see how much more bigger and imposing he looked to Vixen, as if he wasn’t imposing enough to you already.

At first, Moony seemed disoriented, but then he spotted Padfoot, who stood just a few feet from him and he howled again, this time around a much more playful one. The black dog imitated him and then Moony jumped his way, raising his front paws and letting them fall over Pads who barked happily. Moony was nibbling on Pads’ left ear while the dog continued to bark excitedly. And then, he spotted you.

He stopped the nibbling and tilted his head to the side as if analysing the intruder. He narrowed his eyes at you and bared his teeth, growling lightly as if telling you to step away, he felt Padfoot tense underneath as he too turned to you, but the dog had a worried face instead of a menacing one.

Every single instinct on your fox self was telling you to run. To find a small nook in a wall and crawl inside of it like you had done the previous moon. Alarms blaring in your brain loudly urging you to step away, to pull back, to hide. But you held your stance, you knew the wolf was trying to scare you because he didn’t recognize you, and it was his immediate reaction. He probably remembered you from the last moon too, the fox that had gotten away.

But this time around you weren’t planning to run from him, you’d held your stance until he leaned forward curiously, or until he did it intending to eat. You pulled your head a little higher and he barked at Padfoot, a simple question: «Who is she?»

Padfoot barked a much simpler answer in return «A friend».

The wolf narrowed his eyes at Padfoot now and slipped his paws off the black dog’s back. You were so used to how big Padfoot was in comparison to Vixen, that seeing the wolf standing right beside him, with the staggering difference between Pads and Moony –who was much bigger and much more imposing– was a little daunting, but you fought the urge to flee, imposing yourself over Vixen’s more animal side.

The wolf tilted his head again and started walking in your direction, one paw after the other, looking every bit like the regal beast of the night it was. You found yourself resisting the urge to step back again, looking at the wolf and tilting your own head slightly to the side. You didn’t say a thing but it was clear what you meant «I’m not afraid of you».

Moony snarled again, baring his teeth at you «Your heartbeat says otherwise».

You barked this time «Try me». Padfoot intervened this time around and barked a warning to you. And you held your tongue from barking anything else, regardless you were looking at Moony attentively, keeping your stance as calm as possible.

The wolf walked close enough to tower over you, and you stood still, he leaned his head down, leaning on his front paws to level it with Vixen’s, and he stared.

You held his stare again, a lot calmer now that you could see his eyes, there he is, hidden beneath the fur, your friend. You could always see Remus through Moony’s eyes. The wolf noticed your change in demeanour, not understanding why the closer he was the calmer you seemed to be. You leaned your head forward a little and bumped your snout with his much bigger one in a teasing manner and he pulled back with a frown.

«Careful», Padfoot barked. You ignored him, deciding to tease the wolf a little further as you jumped forward and bit one of his legs playfully.

Moony looked as scandalised as a wolf could, his features conveying a mix of confusion and irritation in the face of such unexpected audacity. How could this tiny little animal tease him like such, he was sure he could split you in half in one bite. Not that he wanted to, he was too curious to do it. Regardless, he reacted like you would expect any apex predator to react when bothered; he used his head to push you away from him, you rolled about half a metre to the side and ended up, belly-facing the ceiling as the wolf stalked towards you and snarled.

Padfoot seemed just about to jump in your defence when Moony threw him a warning look and bared his teeth at him just like he had done to you, now vulnerably underneath him.

Padfoot barked again, «friend» he reminded Moony.

He huffed in return and turned to look at you, your eyes locked with Padfoot’s who seemed to be telling you to stand back, but you knew whatever relationship you managed to develop with Moony forward, strongly depended on how you acted today with him, you had seen how playful he had been to Pads, perhaps you could have a similar experience.

You turned back to look at Moony who was looking at you with curiosity as if he was still trying to decipher your character, and you used one of your paws to hit his snout in a playful manner. He pulled back and snarled, you did it again and barked. When you tried to do it again, he held your paw in between his sharp teeth. Not biting strong enough to break skin.

You heard Prong’s hooves crashing on the floor, as if he was ready to push Moony off of you, but everyone held their place. You had all agreed on a sign, a rather specific scream that foxes could make, and they had to stand back if you didn’t make said sound or they thought danger was imminent.

You, on the other hand, looked like you were having fun as you teased the menacing wolf. You leapt forward enough to lightly bite his snout and he let your paw go in surprise, pulling back again as he stared at you.

What was that? She smelled… familiar.

«Friend?» he barked.

«Friend» Padfoot confirmed.

Moony leaned down closer to you again, his snout close to yours as he took in the way you smelled. He frowned, he was sure he had never been close enough for you to smell like him and yet, you did. Was it some kind of trick? Had you also tricked his friends? He pulled back, and stared, circling around as you turned back on your heels in the most playful of movements and sat on your back legs as an obedient little puppy. Turning your head only to follow the steps of the huge wolf.

The initial urge to run had faded away and now, even the most primal and fox-like part of you was excited to continue playing with the wolf. He barked at you, and you barked back, a polite bark this time around. Eventually, and after circling you a few more times, Moony walked closer to you, leaning from the back and moving his snout close to Vixen’s body.

First, it was close to your neck, then along your back and eventually, he leaned down to smell your belly again, meanwhile, you stood there, patiently letting him do his thing, allowing him to slowly realise you really were a friend. He pushed you to the side with his head and you pushed back. He gave you a warning look and you reluctantly did what he asked. Moving to a different side of the room where he repeated the entire thing again.

Eventually, he stood right in front of you and laid down on his paws, staring at you with his eyes narrowed. You nudged him with your snout, and he gave you a dismissive look. And then you jumped forward and nibbled his ear like he had done to Sirius earlier.

Wormtail turned his small head the other way around, thinking that would be the last straw for Moony. Perhaps you really were stupidly brave. But contrary to his expectation, Moony simply barked in response, clearly diverted. Even Padfoot seemed surprised. And after you bumped your paw against his snout again he reacted. You pulled back and barked yourself.

«Catch me if you can».

Moony barked in response and stood from the ground, chasing after you as you moved around in circles and all over the small room in the shack, crossing over the furniture, the old raggedy sofa, up and down from the bed, under the bed, under the desk that seemed close to falling apart, close to the –now wide open– metal door, under the rundown piano, and many other pieces of furniture laying around.

Eventually, you ran under Padfoot and after Moony tried to also get in between his legs, he too joined the game. Wormtail and Prongs were looking at the whole thing with both incredulous and satisfied looks. Incredulous because Moony –who had been awfully hard to control the last full moons– was playing along the room all merry and bright like a puppy rather than the angry wolf they saw too often. And satisfied, because the plan had clearly worked. Moony had accepted you as part of the pack, in fact, Prongs would even dare say he liked you. Perhaps as much as Remus liked your human self. He certainly seemed to be enjoying his time as he jumped about chasing you and Sirius as if you were all playing some canine version of tag.

After a while of playing inside the shack, Padfoot barked as he leaned towards the door, Prongs, who had been sitting on his hooves as he lousily watched you play, since he was too big to join the game inside the small room where there was barely enough space for the two big dogs and the small fox to play around, stood up in an instant. And while Prongs –being a stag– did not speak canine, like Moony, Pads and you, it didn’t take a genius to know exactly what Sirius wanted.

Prongs nodded, looking all regal in his Stag form –completely contrasting to his goofy human self– and walked towards the entrance, allowing Sirius to cross the door first and following right behind. You realised the opportunity you had then and decided to make the game a little bit more fun. You walked over to Moony, as casually as you could, and when you had the chance you bit his leg again. He growled at you in response and you took off running.

«Catch me if you can» you barked again and crossed right underneath Prongs, who had merely a second to realise something small and swift was running under his legs and stopped moving entirely, trying to avoid stepping on you. Once you got past him you ran beside Padfoot who gave you a questioning look before turning his head backwards and realising the gigantic wolf stalking behind the two of you, being slowed down by Prongs who was too big for the narrow hall to allow both him and the wolf to pass through.

Padfoot seemed about to panic when he saw the wolf chasing behind you, but when you bit him the same way you had bit the wolf just seconds ago, he realised you were playing, just like you had been inside the shack and started running just beside you, his legs were a lot longer, and he had easily gotten ahead of you. But that didn’t stop you from running as fast as you could, leaving the wolf and the stag behind. Once you reached the end of the tunnel, you crawled your way to the top. It was much easier to do it as a fox, you realised. Perhaps if you had been a fox back then, you wouldn’t have ended up as bruised as you had.

Once you were up though, you saw Padfoot near the entrance, keeping himself there as he watched the Whomping Willow stir about.

«Scared?» You barked.

«Starshine, it’s dangerous» he barked in response.

You are scared then, you thought as you sprinted forward, zigzagging your way out of the willow’s reach and barking at Sirius a short «chicken» as you ran into the forest. You felt unbelievably free, and you were having the time of your life.

Running as Vixen had always been a way for you to feel better, and after last moon, you never thought you’d consider running away while being chased by the same wolf that haunted your dreams would ever be enjoyable, not when you were hiding in the rock and not when you had been pulled by the tail with his mortifyingly strong jaws, and yet, here you were, biting his leg softly and inciting him to chase behind you, as a bIoody game.

The fact that the association made the last moon, of running away from the big bad wolf, was changing so quickly after just hours of officially meeting and playing with Moony was insane. You didn't see running from the wolf as scary anymore, but rather, it was exhilarating. The cold air of the night filled your small lungs as you ran through the crisp and thin layer of snow underneath your paws.

Was it cold? You were having so much fun you didn’t even realise it. You continued running all the way to the forest, not bothering to look back to see if the others had caught up with you, you could still smell them, they were far, but not that much. And if you could smell them, Prongs and Moony, who had the most developed senses in the gang, would definitely be able to find you, if you didn’t run fast enough, that was.

So you kept running, twirling and zigzagging all over the forbidden forest as you did, to try and make sure to leave traces of your scent on as many places as possible, to try and confuse the boys into following fake trails and so you could continue running.

You had just jumped over a dry branch when you felt something push you from the side, you rolled a few metres and took some time to figure out what was going on when you realised Moony was there, looking at you with what could be interpreted as a self-satisfied expression. He’d caught you. He pushed his snout next to your neck since you were still looking at him as you tried to get back on your feet and then howled. A loud, high-pitched sound that reverberated all over the forest.

You barked in response «Congratulations, you won».

He howled again, and you knew what he wanted, and even if you were still on the ground secretly trying to catch your breath –even foxes get tired, you know?– you followed suit. Howling along with the big bad wolf like you were part of his pack. No, you were part of his pack, the precautions had worked, and this? This meant he’d accepted you.

Another howl floated through the wind, it wasn’t far but it wasn’t close either. It’s Padfoot, you realised after hearing the slight give of his voice. You wondered if you would have been able to tell it was Pads if you had been human or if knowing was inherently a fox thing. You sometimes found it fascinating that even though you had been a fox for almost as long as the boys had been their own animagi, there were still so many things for you to discover, perhaps it was because you hadn’t spent as much time as a fox as they had spent as their own animals.

While you had roamed around the grounds of your old school as Vixen a couple of times, you had never really had time to explore that much, let alone to actually interact with other animals like you had done now. Heck, you didn’t even know you could talk with other canines while you were Vixen until a couple of days ago when Padfoot barked something at you and you understood exactly what he meant. It was so shocking to you at that moment that you had instantly turned into a human and accidentally crushed Remus awake.

“Sirius!” you had said, eyes opened like saucers as you stared at your boyfriend turn back into his human form and look at you groggily as he rubbed his eyes, he had been half asleep.

“What is it?”

“You said something to me,” you whispered, “and I understood it.”

Sirius frowned and gave Remus a look, by then you had already half gotten off of him after apologising for crushing him as you turned into yourself and were sitting on the bed as you leaned close to Sirius, your bent legs brushing against Remus’ torso.

“Yeah, you speak canine when you’re Vixen.”

“I what?!”

“You didn’t know?” Remus asked as he placed a hand on your shoulder to get your attention, you turned to him and shook your head slowly as if still considering what he had said.

“I assumed you’d know already,” Sirius said with a shrug. “You even ran when I told you to back on the last moon.”

“Because it was the obvious thing to do…”

“Are you sure you weren’t just understanding canine?”

You swallowed and turned your gaze back to Remus, “You speak canine too?”

He nodded in response, “At least when I’m Moony, I do.”

“You talk to each other?”

“I spent the last moon trying to calm him down while he wanted to pull you out of the rock,” Sirius responded.

“Wait–” you said as you considered the new information the boys had given you. “Does that mean you can talk to other dogs?”

“Yeah,” Sirius said with a nod. “Did you never encounter a fox out in the wild yourself?”

“Well, I– I didn’t stay as a fox too long when I was in my old school. Didn’t have much free time. And I had more roommates.”

“And no cuddle mates,” Sirius joked and yawned, turning back into Padfoot seconds after. He then barked.

Remus gave you a look, “He says we should go back to sleep.”

“Thought you only understood when you were Moony.”

He huffed a laugh, “Doesn’t take a genius to know what Padfoot wants,” he said as he opened his arms out. “Come on, get back here, you have to wake up early tomorrow.”

You laughed as you shook your head and turned back into Vixen. Remus carefully picked you up and placed you back on his chest as Sirius got comfortable himself.

Another bark startled you out of your thoughts and you turned to the side, looking at Padfoot, who had now jumped over Moony to try and throw him off balance. You jumped happily before spotting Prongs already catching up with you three and you barked at him as you jumped around a little, exploring the small clearing you had ended up in as Moony and Padfoot continued playing around themselves.

Being smaller, you had gotten tired a lot faster than the other two dogs and you had found a small nook on top of a fallen branch where you had leaned in to watch. Prongs had joined their playing at some point too, and they had gone on small “races” against each other, going back and forth from one spot to another. Prongs would jump on his back hooves in a much less regal way than before whenever he won while Moony and Padfoot would howl as loudly as they could when either of them got there first.

Moony tried to get you to join them on a race at some point and you just barked back something along the lines of «Not stupid enough to think I could win». Which had the wolf pull you from the tail like he had done last time –a lot softer now– and caused you to fall on the soft mossy floor.

You barked at him in reproach and he just barked again, telling you to join their race.

«Play!»

«I’ll lose»

«Play!!!»

You huffed in response, a tired sigh but in fox version. He barked again, and looked at you while peeling his eyes open a little. Was he doing the puppy eyes at you? The big, scary werewolf, making puppy eyes so you continued playing with him? Who would have thought?

You tilted your head to the side a couple of times and eventually nodded, walking towards the branch they had all deemed the finish line and prepared, Padfoot barked and you ran as fast as you could, jumping through branches and pulling through as fast as you could. But Prongs had already gotten ahead and Moony was running as fast as he could to try and catch up with him. Prongs was the largest of the pack and that helped him easily outrun most of your friends, that didn’t mean Moony was no match for him, even compared to other wolves, he was huge and incredibly clever.

The real match for you was against Sirius, who was not as fast but certainly a lot larger, if it were a race towards a specific point rather than a circle, perhaps you could have outmanoeuvred him by finding smaller places and shortcuts through the forest that he didn’t have access to, but in this case, it really was a matter of raw speed and he was far larger than you were.

Regardless you were pushing through as much as you could, jumping and crawling around to catch up with him. He wasn’t too far ahead, in fact, you could probably bite his tail if you jumped towards it, and you were so focused on trying to level up that you barely noticed the giant stag running top speed straight towards you. Padfoot veered to the side and you jumped towards the other, only to be –in the most literal sense– caught in the air by Moony.

His head pushed you to the ground and then grabbed onto the skin in the back of the neck as he picked up even more speed to outrun Prongs.

You barked in protest, not because his hold was hurting you, in fact, it was so gentle that you weren’t sure what the hell he had done to his sharp and blade-like teeth. You protested because you didn’t understand what the hell he was trying to do by carrying you through the forest at top speeds. Once you crossed over the branch, Wormtail raised one of his small hands and pointed it towards you and Moony, shrieking as he gave you the win. Prongs was just a few feet away and he jumped over the finish line branch and turned to look at the now proud-standing Moony with a tired huff.

Moony left you on the ground and howled, a testament to his victory over Prongs and then he turned to you and barked «We Won!»

«You won» you replied, not even thinking it over.

He shook his head and pushed you with his snout letting you see you were standing right over the finish line and barked again «WE WON!»

At that point, you realised Moony was far more whimsical than Remus and shook your head with a slightly amused air to your features, then you joined his victory howl.

After another while of playing with the boys, you all seemed to be running out of energy, even Moony who seemed to run on endless batteries was starting to slow down his movements. The night was still dark, but judging by your probably skewed perception of time and the position of the stars, the night wasn’t going to last much longer.

«Let’s go back» Sirius baked.

Moony snarled at him as if he were angry about the mere idea of going back to his cage.

«You’re tired, you’ll feel better if you sleep»

Moony shook his head as if he despised the idea of having to go to sleep, almost like a small child who wanted to continue playing. He turned to you as if you could help him change Padfoot’s mind. You had been the one to start him in a playing mood, after all. But you were far too tired to continue jumping around with him, you were not used to pulling all-nighters as an animagus like the boys were, and your small muscles already felt sore from so much use.

As if the abuse you had given them for trying to keep up with the much larger animals was taking a toll on your body. It was much easier to just lay on Remus’ chest and sleep than to keep up with Moony’s whims, even if both were equally relaxing and fun. You opened your mouth to bark but a yawn came out instead.

Moony leaned closer to you and started whining, much like a hurt dog «I don’t want to go» he barked in between whines. You wonder if he meant the forest or if he meant he didn’t want to turn back. It made you wonder if he knew he would turn back, in the same way Remus knew he would turn into Moony. If he was aware of his nature as a werewolf and if he felt so energetic because he knew he wouldn’t be around for another month or so once the sun came up.

You thought it was best not to ask him, it seemed like a rather delicate subject and you did not want to get your head bitten off for asking the werewolf if he knew he would be locked up in a human body for weeks until he came back again.

You wondered if it was the same thing for Moony as it was for Remus while he wasn’t transformed, if Moony saw everything Remus did in the same way Remus saw everything he did without being able to do anything about it. It didn’t seem like so, and while Remus and Moony seemed to be two separate entities, there was definitely something that connected them to each other, perhaps the potion Kless was working on would strengthen that connection, joining them together rather than dividing them in the way it did during the moons.

You yawned again and he nudged you with his snout, trying to get you up in the same way he had done for the race, «Sleep» you barked.

He whined again and Padfoot got closer, barking a few things that you didn’t care to understand, and after they seemed to reach an agreement both he and Padfoot went to nudge you «Let’s go back» Sirius barked, and this time around, everyone listened. You stood up lousily and trailed in between the two much larger dogs. Wormtail had crawled on top of Prongs and he was lying there as the stag walked carefully to avoid disturbing him. You were rather jealous, Wormy had gotten his good deal of sleep while you had to walk all the way back, then you remembered you had been the one to run headfirst into the forest as if tiredness was a state of mind instead of an actual fucking feeling in the muscles and you almost laughed at yourself.

Once you got back to the shack, you jumped on the bed and made yourself into a small ball, yawning once and then falling soundly asleep. You didn’t feel when Moony crawled on the bed next to you and placed his head on top of your back, closing his eyes as well. And you also didn’t see what happened afterwards.

Padfoot tried to get on the bed as well, which didn’t seem to bother Moony at all, but when he tried to place his snout close to yours, Moony snarled at him, baring his teeth and his hair standing on end, and expression so vicious that even Pads was taken aback.

He tried to get close again and Moony emitted a low growl «Away!» he warned.

«Friend,» Padfoot said, trying to get close to you again and Moony barked louder.

«Mine!»

«NOT!»

Moony’s growl got deeper, it was a miracle it didn’t wake you up at all and Sirius took a step back. Remus could live with seeing you and Sirius close, he would be lying if he said he never felt jealous or possessive whenever he saw you all over each other. He’d be lying if he said he’d never felt a sharp tug on his chest when he saw you kiss unexpectedly, not because he wanted you to stop, but because he yearned to join in. But Moony lacked the level of control Remus had gotten over the years.

Moony was more animal than man and Moony did not like it when you and Pads were all over each other. He could tolerate it if it was a game, but that was his Padfoot and his Vixen and they had no business sleeping next to each other if it wasn’t next to him. Was he overreacting? Probably. But unlike Remus, Moony didn’t care if he was overreacting and he didn’t care if he upset you or Pads by being possessive over the other. He didn’t care because he was the biggest, he didn’t care because he was the strongest, and he didn’t care, because he was the king. And as long as Remus was Moony, you’d have to comply with his silly little whims because, after all, he was still the scary werewolf that had once haunted your nightmares, only acting tame enough to play around with you all because he wanted to and not because he had to.

Eventually, Padfoot resolved to move to the other side of the bed and laid down next to Moony instead of next to you like he did all the time when you were cuddling. About half an hour later, you woke up after feeling a hand grip tightly at your belly, pulling you towards them. You turned around only to spot a very naked Remus, sleeping soundly. You looked at the old clock on the wall and barked to try and get him to let you go. If the clock was right, then you only had but minutes to get the hell out before Madam Pomfrey came to get Rem.

Since your barking didn’t seem to do a thing, you stretched your head as far as you could to lick his face, you had seen Sirius do it, so you thought it would work. As you stretched though, you felt your tail brush against his lower abdomen and you were so incredibly glad that foxes couldn’t blush because dear Merlin! A little lower and you would have been feeling the very private, and very exposed parts of your best friend. After getting rid of that initial shock, you stretched your head again and started licking his face.

“Little witch?” he asked groggily as he started to get up. And while you had cuddled with Remus –as Vixen– more than once, you almost always left before he woke up since you went to fly with the boys, you rarely got to actually see him in his barely lucid state. You licked again and he laughed, his voice was raspy, which made you wonder if it was just his raspy morning voice or if it was raspy because of how much howling he had done as Moony last night. You leaned closer to him and focused on a wound near his neck from where his skin had split open to let Moony out. You barked.

“It’s all right, Luv.” He said calmly, “It’ll heal soon.”

“Yeah, and we should go back now,” you heard Sirius say, he stood by the door and was brushing his fingers over his hair to get it to look less messy, both you and Remus thought it was adorable.

“You should cover up mate,” Peter said as he pulled one of the covers your games had dropped off the bed last night and threw it over Remus, covering his more private areas. He was immensely thankful for that.

“And stop hogging my girlfriend,” Sirius added, you had your small head on the crook of Remus’ neck and he was holding you rather close, just enjoying how warm you were and how deliciously you smelled, of moss and wet soil, of Padfoot and Moony, and most importantly, of Sirius and himself. If only he could cuddle you and Sirius every day like this, he would be the happiest man alive. Sirius, on the other hand, was a little cranky over the fact that Moony had kept Vixen away from him at early morning cuddles, he had already gotten used to biting your ear in the morning to wake you up only to have you turn back into your human self and shove him off for waking you up in such a crass way. He would then say something silly and get you to laugh. Sometimes you would even place a soft kiss on his lips as you climbed over him and out of the bed. He adored how domestic it was, something he hadn’t tried before, and he hadn’t seen it either, such simple acts of affection lifted him up immensely. He’d never had something like that at home.

You thought of turning back, to give Sirius a rather snarky remark when you remembered you were still lying next to your naked best friend and decided it was best to step off the bed before you were human again. And so you wiggled out of Remus’ grasp, who groaned in return.

“Stay a little longer,” he said with a pout as you tried to get out. You barked in response, something along the lines of «It’s late, Pomfrey will be here any minute now», not that anyone understood, neither of the boys were dogs anymore.

“It’s late, Moony,” James said as he walked over to the bed, took you from Remus’ grasp and dropped you in Sirius’ arms, who, by the way, looked absolutely pleased with himself now that he got to hold you. “You better get dressed or you’ll be naked by the time Pomfrey is here.”

Remus just groaned in return and covered himself with the bedsheets entirely. You were aware that Moony liked his hours of sleep, you also knew he got cranky if he didn’t, but it was surprising to see him act so childishly. Either the moon fucked him up real bad, or he just considered you already close enough to him to act however the hell he wanted when you were around.

“We’ll meet you at the infirmary before the train leaves,” Peter said and you barked afterwards, to confirm his statement.

Remus just groaned in response, something akin to “okay” but not quite it either.

Peter turned back into Wormtail and James placed him in the front pocket of his pyjamas before he took the cloak out of an old trunk in the corner of the room and covered himself, Sirius –and you for default– with it. That’s how you stepped out of the old raggedy room of the shack and back into the dark tunnel.

You thought it was silly how different the tunnel felt each time you’d passed it so far, the first time you had been running from the wolf, anxious, stressed and fearing for both your life and Remus’, the second time you had been walking with both curiosity and hope that your plan would be all right, and it had felt a lot longer than the first. The third time had gone in an instant, you had been running from Moony again, but this time you were diverted, since it was all a game and the two of you knew as much. The fourth, on your way back you had been exhausted, but the kind of exhausted that felt good. The kind you felt when you were a kid and you had played for hours and hours and your eyes were giving out, but you still wanted to continue playing. And now, being carried by Sirius as he and James walked alongside each other back towards their room, you felt so comfortable you might as well fall asleep.

And you did, next time you opened your eyes, you were lying alongside Sirius on his bed, curtains drawn and silencing spells clearly cast around them, since you couldn’t hear anything from the outside. You turned back into yourself and Sirius stirred on the bed, taking hold of your waist and pulling you to him. “Morning sleepy head,” he whispered in your ear.

You yawned, wondering what time it was as you turned around and leaned on Sirius’ shoulder. “We need to pack,” you sighed.

Sirius groaned in response, pulling you closer to him “Non, nous devons câliner.”

“Sirius…”

“S'il te plaît, Étoile“

You sighed again “The train is leaving at 3, what time is it?”

“Assez de temps pour que tu me fasses un câlin.”

“Ugh,” you said as you buried your head in his chest, he loved it, he too thought you smelled delightful. “You make it hard for me to be responsible.”

“Désolé.”

“You’re so not sorry,” you said with a smile as you shoved him lightly. You weren’t sure when it had been the last time you had cuddled Sirius. Just you and him, you missed it, even if it felt like something was missing from it. You then started drumming your fingers over his chest “It worked,” you added.

Sirius nodded, “It did.”

“Who would have thought, Wormy had it right…”

“You didn’t think it would?” Sirius asked as he looked at you with a frown.

“I had hope…” you responded with a shrug.

Sirius shook his head as he scoffed a laugh and bit his lip, of course, you would go through with it even if you weren’t 100% certain.

“Does that mean we have to continue doing the cuddle thing with Remus?” you asked then, a small frown forming between your brows.

Sirius was taken aback by your question, the three of you had gotten so used to it by now, that the idea of not doing it anymore seemed preposterous, for the three of you, since even Remus was thinking he would miss the hell out of it now that it wouldn’t be happening anymore. Moony had accepted you as part of the pack.

“I– perhaps we should continue it, if only for the next moon or so, just in case…” he said, thinking if that excuse was too silly to be believable. If you would see right through him like you so often did and instantly tell there were secret intentions behind them. Was he using you as an excuse to be close to Remus? To be close to both you and Remus at the same time? Was that so bad? Was he so selfish for wanting to have the two things at the same time? Boy and girl? Wolf and Fox? Remus and you?

Would he even get away with it? With being in love with you but having this pull towards his best friend that he just couldn’t quite grasp yet? Only that he knew he liked burying his face on Remus’ neck and he liked how much bigger he was in comparison and how strong he felt, but he also liked how much smaller you were and how much softer. Was there a worst possible time for him to discover he liked boys? For him to discover that he liked– no. He liked you.

You didn’t want the cuddles to stop either, even if you told yourself it was an excuse to be Vixen, even if you told yourself it was an excuse to be next to Sirius at night, that you certainly loved, even if you kept telling yourself that it was for Moony and for Remus’ sake, it would be a lie if you said you didn’t like laying over Remus’ chest and sleeping with his hand on your head, carefully brushing the back of your ears. Vixen adored Remus’ cuddles, there was no question about it. But perhaps, you were lying to yourself too, as much as Remus and Sirius were lying to themselves at least. It wasn’t only Vixen that liked the cuddles and it wasn’t only your animagus side that liked to be pampered.

“Yeah,” you responded, “just in case.”

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

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A/N: So... it was actually all cute and fluffy during the moon. Who would have thought? You guys were asking for a new Q&A so I'm working on it at the moment, send all the questions you may want to be added here, or directly on asks. Love, Lils xx