knight!simon noticing his wife staring at his fingers a little toooo long and offers to take care of her
Look; Touch
Summary: You have a habit of staring at him, his fingers more specifically, when he’s sharpening his knives. He decides to put your observational skills to good use
Warnings: Teasing, very light smut, very light nipple play,
There is little sound in the room. Not much other than the crackling fire and the sound of the sharpening stone against metal. The fire—that produces comforting warmth with the acrid yet sweet scent of burning wood—sends a short display of ashes from the depths of the of the with a boastful pop pop pop before turning to the dulcet crackling.
While the sound sparsely makes him shift his attention away from the knife he’s holding in his left hand, with the sharpening stone in his right, you do. The wife, Simon and Johnny’s wife, their darling little handmaiden and nymph turned bride, has capabilities you are not aware of.
Because the act of having your eyes settling upon his fingers as he drags the edge of the blade against the stone, causes neurons in his brain to fire off rapidly. Your eyes, your attention, is sacred and it makes him thinking of so many other ways he could use his fingers besides just sharpening his knife.
With you staring at his hands the way you are, instead of focusing on some dress you’re trying to mend, there is an unquenchable hunger that starts to rise. It grows like the fire that is encased in the hearth of the sitting room, a beast with no physical body and no soul yet it is a creature of its own merit.
He lowered the knife and sharpening stone in tandem with you lifting your head from where your attention had previously been so focused on his fingers. When you notice that you had been caught staring, your eyes grow wider, become more doe-like, and you quickly turn your head. You avoid his gaze and look out toward the fire in the hearth, watching the flames as they eat at the wood.
The left corner of his lips twitch and there’s a slow rise of a smirk that forms. He lifts the knife and turns it in the light to catch the sharp edge before he tosses it to the floor with a thud. The sound has you whipping your head wine, widened gaze now narrowing.
“Simon! What did you do?” Your attention flits to the knife and then back to him, lips pursing with displeasure. “Quit making holes in our house!”
“Come here.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, hands folded under his chin, eyes blazing. “Come closer, wife.”
The words hang in the empty space between you both, a directive and a request that feels like an order. Simon watches through half lidded eyes as you rise to your feet and walk forward with a skittishness that reminds him of when the knights had first met you. The question if you would run from them like a doe that felt as if it was being hunted by predators hungry for something delicious to sink their teeth into.
“Simon-” when you are within reach he snatches your wrist in his hand and gives you a tug, pulling you into his lap. When you sit awkwardly and in an uncouth position, Simon uses one of his meaty hands to help you straddle him until you feel more comfortable.
“-you like watching me work with knives, Mrs. Riley?” Simon leans forward and bumps his nose, crooked from the years of fighting, against your neck. He juts it to get you to turn your head and when he has the access he wanted, Simon starts a soft assault with his lips against your skin.
He feels you going rigid, he hears your soft little whines with every struggle to keep your moans contained. Even though he knows he can rip them out of you, he likes to hear you struggle and fight what you desperately want. There’s a cockiness to his actions, his lips and teeth that suck and nip at your neck, while you are trying to refrain from expressing yourself.
“I do not.” You speak with a stubbornness, an innate attempt to keep Simon from calling you out on your desire when you had previously been so closed off. You isolated yourself from them, outright denied the opportunity and their want of you. It took months for them to get you pliable and equivocally needy to their desires and your own.
Still, their little wife liked to play hard to get and they both enjoyed that game.
“No?” Simon’s voice is thick and heavily accented from the roguish area of England he had originally come from. “You weren’t watching my fingers, love?”
Simon’s lips continue their teasing track against you while his fingers begin a path to the neckline of your dress you were wearing. He drags his teeth against the column of your neck while he hooks his fingers into the material and pulls. The audible rip of the fabric has you pulling back, eyes growing in size from the shock before they narrow.
“Simon Riley I just fixed that!” You were glaring at him, chastising him for ruining the dress that you had spent time fixing the day before. The small holes from wear and tear were newly sewn, newly mended and he ruined it all by ripping the front.
“Get you somethin’ new, love. Can’t be wearin’ rags, yer a woman of an estate now.” Simon grunts and raises one hand to the back of your neck to pull you back in, allowing him to latch his lips onto your neck once more. “S’our duty to dress you in pretty things.”
“I don’t need-” your protests falls short when Simon slips a hand beneath the ripped layers of your dress to your breast. When his fingers graze your nipple with a teasing touch, you can’t finish your protests. The words evaporate from your lips, falling short in favour of a shuddering gasp.
“You like my fingers, s’why you’re watching ‘em.” He lifts his mouth from your neck and teases the shell of your ear with his thick voice and the plumpness of his lips. His warm breath works in tandem with his fingers teasing your nipple to make you press tighter against him as his fingers pinch your hardening nipple.
He knows what he’s doing, there’s an expertise that flows through his fingers that tease your nipples and the gruffness of his voice. You are susceptible to him, to one of your husband’s that can so easily wear you down until you can hardly speak let along think.
“You like my fingers on you.” He whispers into your ear, every husky syllable matches the path of his fingers finally leave your hardened nipple alone and trail down your abdomen. When he reaches the apex of your thighs and pelvis, Simon begins kissing along your jaw from your ear to your chin.
His fingers tease your skin, slipping down between your thighs that straddle him, until he reaches his destination. There at his fingertips is the dampness between your thighs, a natural musk that has Simon’s chest vibrating with a curse that falls from his mouth.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he finds the wetness between your thighs and curls his fingers against your soft, puffy labias that are starting to grow slick with your arousal, “you’re wet, already.”
“Don’t tease me, Simon…” you make your complaint while actively bucking your hips against his fingers, trying to get more, trying to feel more. “Don’t be so mean-”
“Mean?” He hooks his fingers against your clit, using the rough pads to circle the little nub at the peak of you. “Ya think I’m mean, love? If I was mean I would take my hand away-”
“Don’t you dare!” With your raised voice and your demand, you raise your hands to his shoulders and dig your nails into his skin, the sensation drawing a pleased grunt from your husband. He drops his head to your shoulder and nips the skin on your shoulder while groaning your name.
“Demanding little wife.” He flattens his fingers against your clit before dragging them down to those puffy lips, tracing the outline over and over until your squeeze his shoulders again. He takes that pressure as a sign to continue playing with you, and who is he to deny you.
He gives you a slow building high when he slips his fingers into your sweetly slick pussy, working a slow and relaxed rhythm. It’s deliberate and intentional, to drive you a little crazy while also giving you as much pleasure as he can. Your head lolls back and you are in your own little pleasured world, rocking your hips against his fingers, pushing them deeper into your wet heat.
You are chasing that high, fucking yourself on his fingers while being bogey unaware of the world around you. You are selfishly ignoring everything else in the estate until the front door opens and heavy footsteps begin a track toward you. You reluctantly turn your head and look over your shoulder, seeing Johnny standing in the entrance of the sitting room with a glowing smirk on his face and a glint in his eyes.
“Got her all warmed up for you, Johnny.” Simon draws you closer by a hand on the small of your back, just as Johnny begins yanking the belt through the loops with a cracking snap. As the belt falls, Simon uses his free hand to cup your chin and make you look at him again.
They both know that you’re going to be in for a long night, that is an irrefutable fact.
knights ghoap jousting but handmaiden reader gives her Hankerchief to another knight ( like in house of the dragon) and the knights get jealous
Jealousy, Jealousy
Summary: You had no idea that giving your handkerchief to a new knight, jousting for the first time, would be so offensive to your husband’s
Even before you can step foot onto the grounds of the arena or lift the skirts of your dress so they do not get caught up under your boots, you can hear the roaring cheers of the crowd. The excitement that bubbles up from the stands convey the overall eagerness to see the skills of the knights participating in the jousting tournament.
While you are attending not as a handmaiden but as a wife to two retired knights, you don't head toward the staircase that will take you to the private viewing boxes you are privy to. The Queen's invitation settles on the back of your mind and you know that you should adhere to the offer to join her and his royal majesty. It wasn't as if seeing you in the royal viewing box for the jousting tournament would have been a striking or scandalous sight.
Before you were a wife, you were a lady-in-waiting, a handmaiden for the Queen. Her favourite handmaiden that had been more on par with a sister than you ever were a servant. Even then you were awarded luxuries and protection from the King, in order to make his wife happy. And there was no shortage of avenues the King would exploit to make his wife happy, which would ultimately mean that your time away from the stands of the arena would be limited.
Instead of joining the Queen like you should, you find yourself in the stables where your husband's horses are. The stableboys that are responsible for the care of all the horses in the stable eye your arrival with a widening glimpse between the two. The boys were young, in the young side of double digits, and had certainly seen you here before but that was before.
It would have been proper before you were a wife to the two respected knights retired and living out on an estate. Now that you were a lady of an estate and should have your own staff to serve you, it seemed far more improper for you to be here.
"You should not be here." One of the boys expressions had shifted from a wide eyed gaze to a state of glimmering fear, as if he was afraid that he would get in trouble.
Most likely fearing that your husband's would catch you where you shouldn't be, but you couldn't fault him for that. For all they knew, you had shifted from being a lady in waiting to being a woman who had property. And that put you, whether you liked it or not, meant that you had climbed social classes.
"I promise you won't get into trouble and I'll be quick." You offered him a reassuring smile and stepped past the boy, moving directly toward the horses of your husband's. The two were already prepped and prepared, dressed in colours to represent Johnny and Simon respectively, as the two were joining in the jousting today.
When you approached the horses, they had stuck their heads over the stall doors in tandem. Johnny's horse was the most vocal with his neighing kickstarting a reaction from the other horses in the stables. There's a chorus of responses from Johnny's mount, and you think to yourself how fitting that is for your husband.
You reach for the cloth covered muzzle of Johnny's horse, soothing him with a hand that runs up and down in a soft pattern. As you are busy soothing the horse, the other end of the stable opens with a jolt that has the animals rising in a state of panic. A fresh faced knight stumbles into the stables with a look of pure panic upon his face, eyebrows furrowed in worry.
When he notices you standing further down the stable aisle, he attempts to right himself and stand up straighter. He rests his hand upon the support post of one of the stables, his eyes growing wider in fear that makes the colour drain from his face. You can barely get the words are you okay out of your mouth before he doubles over and begins vomiting. Your concern for the young knight grows and you leave Johnny's horse behind to walk closer to the young male, stopping only a few feet away.
"My first jousting tournament," he stands up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, the smell is no more atrocious than the stench of manure and it's certainly nothing you aren't used to. Regardless, the younger boy apologizes anyway and leans against the stable door for stability in order to not completely crumble to the ground.
You feel sorry for the boy who appears to be no older than 18, if he has even reached that age, and he is clearly nervous. You know every knight, current and retired, that will be jousting today and there is a high chance that this boy will be facing Johnny or Simon. Or maybe even both.
A frown forms on your lips, your heartsrings are being pulled for the boy who is young and inexperienced. He has likely heard about Johnny and Simon's reputations and that alone would make even the more hardy knights apprehensive. But to have a boy, a younger boy who is going through his first jousting tournament being thrust into the heavyweights...
"Here, to clean yourself up.." You reach into the pocket of your dress until your fingers can clasp around the material of your handkerchief. When you slip your hand out and reveal the material to the young knight, he looks between the embroidered material and then you, disbelief as telling as his nervousness. When he doesn't immediately grab it, you push it into his hands and make his fingers curl around the fabric before you offer him a warm smile.
He looks at you and then back at the handkerchief you had given him, and after reciprocating your smile he slips it into his pocket.
Eyes narrow and a jaw ticks as white, just a sliver of the fabric, slips from the inner pocket of the fresh meat. The knight who is recently acquired to the King’s service fumbles with the jousting stick while mounting his horse. The sliver of white with embroidery has him second guessing what he saw, until he sees initials.
Your initials, inscribed upon the fabric by someone’s skilled hands. A wedding gift that you wanted to deny but had refrained from doing so, because you didn’t want to seem ungrateful. The same white handkerchief that Johnny had meticulously used to clean himself with before leaving on a long trip so you would have a piece of him.
That cloth now sits with fresh meat in his pocket while he stumbles. Johnny would find it laughable if it hadn’t suddenly enraged him, cathartically striking him with intense jealousy and envy. It boils in his stomach like water over a fire that’s threatening to spill over.
Johnny glimpses at the cloth this boy has, and then at Simon who is preparing for his own joust a few rounds later. Without having to say a word, Simon lifts his head and finds Johnny’s gaze before trailing off to where the Scotsman is directing the attention. The cloth and the monogram made with thin pearlescent thread has Simon’s own eyes narrowing in contempt.
Johnny shifts upon his horse, reaching forward to pat its neck and tamper its impatience. It wants to move, to run, to joust like it has done so many times before but it needs to wait. Johnny soothes it while watching as Simon comes around the other side of Johnny’s opponent and grabs the reins of his horse.
“Where’d ya get the cloth, boy?” He leans in and questions the young knight who stutters and stammers, eyes wide and fearful. “A woman gave it to me.”
“A lady,” Simon’s voice becomes a thick laced growl, a warning for the boy, “gave it to ya?”
“I was sick, I was getting sick. She offered-” Simon holds up his hand and cuts the boy off, back of his hand lined with a few visible scars.
“My wife.” He speaks over the boy, forceful with the word wife to deliver a clear message. “Cares too much about strays.”
The boy is already reaching for the cloth ready to slip it out of his pocket but Simon stops him again. The cold dark stare of his indicated solely upon the boy, daring him to make a love that he doesn’t like. The younger knight is kept in a state of in between, hand hovering over the handkerchief to give it back, and ready to slide it back into place.
“Keep it for good luck, boy.” Simon tilts his head and looks back at Johnny, communicating solely through their eyes.
Simon knew Johnny was seething with envy and jealousy, and he knew just as well that the boy would get his ass handed to him once the tournament was starting. He wasn’t going to taken your token from the young knight, he would let the boy keep it to stir Johnny’s jealousy.
Because Simon was going to win no matter what hand he played—Johnny’s envy would flare up and he would absolutely demolish the knight-to-be and Simon would not only win his fight but after he would get to put his pretty hands on you to teach you a lesson for giving away your pretty things.
“Good luck, kid.” Simon finally grins wickedly, overly pleased with himself.
There would be a clear winner, and that was going to be Simon Riley.
handmaiden reader but she trips on tree roots and twists her ankle, the queen sends the knights to find her sister and they carry her back to the castle
Stubbornness & Pride
Summary: After hurting yourself in the woods while gathering herbal ingredients for your queen, you are left relying on two knights to (who are more than happy) to help get you back to the castle
Warnings: None, fluff
It was a stupid mistake, really. It was a state of you being in a rush and not cautious enough to look for the brambles of intertwined roots that lay across the forest floor. You were in a rush due to the conversation the queen started to strike with you, once again based on the idea of you taking husbands.
“They are good men, strong men. They will good husbands, and the only woman they wants as their wife is you.”Two loyal knights of the King, two men who had earned their rewards and all they wanted was you. The conversation was going in circles and you had, admittedly, chosen to be rather bold with the Queen and raised your voice.
“I grow tired of you attempting to set me into a marriage with the men whose brutishness is only outdone by their stupidity. And you are nosy, you meddle and I am done with it.” You had spoken out of line and you were grateful that the Queen had such respect and compassion for you. If anyone else would have spoken to the the Queen Consort like you had, there would have been real consequences.
The King did not allow his wife to be disrespected by anyone, however there was a general exemption for you—because you are less servant and more sister. But still there were those who had suffered more for saying less than you had today and in previous conversations.
“You are being stubborn, Y/N.” The Queen countered your claim that she meddled with her own statement calling you stubborn, obstinate to the very end. “You are afraid of letting them show you how much they want you, for some blasé reason.”
“I have no interest in being the wife of two men who would be better suited for the high nobles daughters who align themselves with being spoiled-”
“-they do not want the high nobles daughters, they want the favoured handmaiden of the Queen who stomps around and makes better friends with their horses than she does with them.”
“Well they can just-” The argument between you had made you take haste with your task of finding truffles, gathering roots that would be ground into medicine, and taking time away from the castle to avoid two knights. Of course while you were in your rushed attempts, your foot had caught on the jutting out length of a root, and you stumbled. In your attempt to catch yourself, you had heard a snap.
Everything hit far too boldly and you had felt it travelling up your leg, the combination of your broken ankle and the pain had brought you to collapse against the ground. Your hands had come to cup your ankle and tears flooded your eyes as the pain, now radiating, had been the forefront of your focus.
“Oh my-” the Queen had stopped her own gathering, which she was only allowed to do so if she took her guards with her, and had come to your side. “-it is broken, is it not?”
“This is what I deserve.” Your hands clutched your ankle, your bottom lip trembled naturally from the pain. “For being rude-”
“Darling, please. You have not said anything that isn’t true. You should hear how I talk to John.” The Queen laughs and rolls her eyes, rebuffing your apology with a shrug and then she reaches for your ankle. “I suppose you will need help back to the castle…”
“One of your guards…” you look out past her to the guards that stand nearby, stoic and completely focused on the queen and her safety.
“I will have one of the guards sent back to the castle to fetch someone to help.” The Queen, as your sister, had reached out and brushed your hair out of your face. “Just try and relax.”
“Your guards can take me, can they not?” You look past the Queen to one of the guards who is already on the stocky looking horse, ready to depart and head back to the castle. “I could go-”
“Just relax.” The Queen silenced you and had come to sit on a nearby fallen log, watching you carefully and cautiously. Your ankle was broken, you knew it was, and it was causing more pain than you had thought it should have. However there was little you could do to prevent the pain, leaving you essentially waiting to be rescued like a damsel in distress.
“You will not be able to work like this, I’m afraid.” The Queen’s eyebrows had become furrowed and her lips had formed a partial pout. “It is a shame, you are so good at your job.”
“You’re going to fire me?” While one hand clutched your ankle, the other had settled upon your lap, balling up the material of your dress to pull it out of the dirt.
“Do not be so quick to say that.” The Queen shakes her head and negates the suggestion, replacing it with reassurance. “I just mean to say that you will need some time to recover and relax. I will have John set you up with a room in the south halls, there you could find peace.”
“An entire wing? Milady that is far too much, and the knights-” you were balking at the idea, at the premise that you would be sharing rooms so closely to the knights. The proximity would put you in direct contact with them a handful of times a day, and though the castle was spacious you were sure you would able to hear them.
“-the knights, what? Are close by to watch you so you do not trip again?” Now she teases you with a grin on her face and a lilt to her eyes. She knows what she’s doing and she’s unapologetic about it.
The back and forth between you continues for a half hour until you desire to make your finely argument.
There’s little time for you to continue, as the sound of hoofbeats pounding against the trodden path overtakes any chance you have. Your words become trapped in your throat as both of the knights come riding over the small rise of a hill, parting off to the right on the trail that leads to you. You don’t understand why both of them have come to escort you back when it really would only take one of the knights.
As they come over the other side of that small hill, you have a better optical view of the knights. While they are as bold and physically intimidating as you expect, there’s an air of ease that radiates from them—or at least Johnny.
And the Scottish knight comes to a stop by pulling on the reins of his horse, slowing the beautiful horse to stop. As it huffs, it nods its head twice up and down as if it’s confirming that you are their intended target.
“So ye are waitin’ here like a damsel in distress?” Johnny leans forward and folds his arms in front of him across the saddle, his blue eyes glinting at you with boyish mischief. “For two brave knights-”
“I am not a damsel in distress.” You grunt and make a single attempt to stand, ready to brave your way through the pain.
“Sit down.” Simon speaks coolly but controlled, halting you from moving too much. “Your ankle is broken, princess.”
He calls you princess and you scowl at him, unable to school your expression or curb your burning annoyance. It’s vivacious, the temperance you previously held that is so quick to falter when they call you a damsel in distress and princess, as if you could ever be royalty.
“Wee little nymph didnae like tha’.” Johnny chuckles and begins to dismount his horse, fluidly and smoothly yet Simon beats him to it.
He gets off his own mount and his feet hit the ground with a solid thud before he begins walking toward you. It feels like there’s a rumble of electricity that passes between you. Sparks of lightning infused in the ground, rumbling beneath your fingertips waiting to be expelled through the branches of the trees that hang above you. The forest is alive yes, but it feels even more cathartically vibrant with life as he closes the distance between you two.
“Let me see.” Simon’s voice is coarse, yet he speaks to you with a stream of warmth that produces a slow rolling shiver. “Your ankle is broken?”
“She needs to see the doctor, Simon. And I want you to inform the Seneschal that my maid is not to be working until she is healed. I will have someone else take over her duties.” The Queen speaks with finality, her word is law only second to the King, although you are awarded the luxury of protesting and not being punished.
“My lady, please-”
“Let’s not argue with the Queen.” Simon does not give you another chance to raise protests. He only spares enough time to tenderly feel your ankle surmising that, yes, the bone is broken. When he has confirmed what you knew, Simon then arranges himself in the best position to pick you up and carry you like you are a bride.
He carts you off toward Johnny, like there is nothing more imperative than carrying you as if you are breakable. Once you are seated in front of Johnny, the other knight’s hands slip around you securely, guarding you between his chest and the saddle.
“S’alrigh’, little nymph. ‘Ave had worse than a broken ankle.” Johnny croons sympathetically to you, while you are protesting as much as you can through muttered grumbles that are only spoken under your breath.
“Take care of my handmaiden, Simon. Johnny, do not make the bone worse.” The Queen, knowing that you are safe now, rises to her feet and dusts herself off. She hums and bends to grab the basket she had carried, and begins to pick more of the desired roots that she needs. “Off you go then.”
“Wouldnae harm a hair of our little wife’s-”
“-I am not!” You seethe, finally raising your voice and nudging back into his abdomen with your elbow.
“-head.” Johnny grunts, more from the shock and less from the pain, and takes the opportunity to look down at you with his blazing blue eyes. “Fiery little creature.”
“Let’s go, Johnny.” Simon settles himself in the saddle again and clicks his tongue against the top of his mouth, spurring his horse into step. With the order and you placed on top of Johnny’s horse, you are off back toward the castle with the firm order not to work.
Smoke, thick and heavy, fills your lungs and the acrid smell burns the inside of your throat. There is the heavy-laden glow of embers that burn within the confines of those stacked pieces of wood. There is the promise of something permanent that hangs in the air, the metal that burns like molten lava clinging to the formed letters.
There is no chance of escape from the confines of this space, not even as the smoke billows in the room you’re barricaded in. Forced to watch as the iron heats up to a molten degree, to an inescapable heat that will burn into your skin as if you are cattle.
You can’t breathe. The smoke, the likes of which calm honeybees, has rendered you incapable of functioning to your full capacity. If they are attempting. To keep you as complacent as the bees they obtain honey from, it’s working. There is little, nothing, that can keep you from choking on the smoke that you are sure will kill you.
“…too many have come before…” there is a hiss somewhere through the thick smoke that obscures your vision, and you feel it—lightheaded and weak.
“This is his choice! The money he will give for her-“
“—she is nothing but livestock, then?” The comparison is made while the glow of that iron formed letters are lifted from the core.
The intensity of those colours, the heady glow that will sink into your skin, has already begun burning, and you have yet to feel its sting. Rather, you had begun to feel the lack of oxygen in your lungs and you crater forward, desperate to suck in a freshness that is not there for you.
“This is how we do things. This is the sacrifice we make to keep our bloodlines clean.” There it is, the truth that hangs over your head like the smoke you can’t escape from.
“Hold her down.” The smoke thickens, you are losing your ability to stay still just as hands grasp and grapple for you.
Heavy fingertips that dig into your skin, that bur against your forearms and muscles. You are dragged forward while your feet dangle loose and uselessly behind you, unable to grab the ground with even the toes of your boots.
'Please’, you want to beg them to give you a chance to plea your case regardless of what position you’re in, ‘please don’t do this. Don’t let this happen to me.’
“There is nowhere she can run now, even if she manages to escape-“ There is a haggard cough that rips through you as canvas stretches out before you as a cot. Your chest is pressed to the material as you struggle to gain access to your self-preservation.
You’re sure that it’s useless.
“FIRE!” A scream, harrowing and terrified has broken through the barrier of this place you are in, the sacrificial marking stall. The iron in the hands of a man going to mark you as taken, as property for your future husband, slips from his hand. “BEAST! FIRE! GET OUT!”
A screech, a painful and sorrowful scream breaks through the momentary silence. There is a jutting creak of the building as the joists are affected and battered by something. The screams from outside the building have only increased as a sense of panic begins to surge.
“GET OUT NOW!” Someone outside warns the two men who are in here, preparing to mark you, and then the joists that support the roof and the walls, break. The sharp splinters remove the barricades that keep you confined, releasing the smoke.
Fresh air filters in as smoke billows out, and you are dropped to your knees. Your fingers curl against the grounds as the iron drops to your left, the sharp sizzle of the metal on the cool ground hits your ears. You begin to crawl forward, gasping for the fresh air that has begun to trifle in as trouble seems to erupt around you. There is no rhyme or reason why there’s such chaos breaking out around you, and through your hazy vision you can see flames.
Flames that eat at metal and wood, flames that eat at the carved statues of the village you are confined in. People are running wild to escape the terror that seemed to be unleashed around them, fleeing the safety of their homes as the fire continues to break out around you.
“What are you doing here? Go! Run, pick yourself up off the ground and run!” A woman, one of the other brides, one of the women who were forced into a marriage she doesn’t want, helps you to your feet. “Don’t look back, don’t turn. Don’t come back!”
It seems rough as she drags you to your feet and gives you a harsh shove. The nails of her fingers dig into your back as she pushes you, and you would have hissed at the momentary pain if it hadn’t been for your lungs burning. Your legs almost give out from under you as you stumble forward, as you scramble to gain your footing like a newborn fawn learning to walk for the first time.
You take one step and almost fall again, sinking to your knees. You stumble, you get up and stumble again. But then, the clearer your head gets, the more stable you become until you surge forward. It’s through still shaking legs that make you feel weak, but you press on, going further and further until you reach the woods.
Your chest slams into a large and imposing tree, bark burning against your hands from the force in which you slam into it. But then you’re made aware that you have to move, that you have to keep going.
You can’t let them get you. You can’t go back. You can’t be branded like you are property that will inevitably end up battered or bruised or broken.
The screams continue behind you, the glow of flames eating at the buildings that were your prison, illuminate the path in front of you. You groan as you push yourself off the bark and step forward, you take a few steps, make little progress, before you feel your legs giving out from under you. You gasp and groan as your body crashes into the ground beneath you, your fingers curl against the dirt as you struggle not just to breathe but to process what is going to happen to you.
“Don’t let me die.” You plead for something, for anyone to help you. “Please.”
A shadow lingers above you as you are rolled onto your back. Your eyes blur, your vision is hazy, and you can’t catch your breath yet. All you can see is the glow of the fire behind whatever creature stands above you, and wings.
*********************************************
His fingers dig into the scrap of cloth within his hand, the dampness of the material cool against his skin. But it’s not for him. The coolness of the cloth, of the rag that he clutches so tightly, has begun to drip water onto the floor of this travel wagon. The bed, which had been coiffed and perfected only hours before, now has rumpled sheets and a blanket that is strewn upon a body.
He hums under his breath and leans forward, inhaling the smell of charred fabric and hair, singed at the ends. But it’s not without its enticing sentiments, the scent that clings to the human lying on his bed. No, there are many more complexities that draw him in. However, there are limits to what he will do, and he is not as beastly as the human’s think he is.
Even for someone insatiable like himself.
“Poor thing,” he croons in a seductive tone that he cannot shake, it’s in his nature, “what did they do to you, hmm?”
It’s only when he presses the cool cloth against your forehead and cheeks, that he finds the soot washing away. The smoke that they had used to keep you complacent, according to Johnny, had made you weakened even in the fresh air. And it was only after Johnny and Simon had dragged you out of that hellhole, to the request of Kate, that your lungs had begun to clear. But still, you remained still and lifeless, in need of great care.
“Soft and sweet, supple skin…” He feels hunger building within his chest, an irrevocable thirst that he so desperately wants to fulfill, but he has restrained. He has proper restraint and control over himself, even though it burns deeply, like he is being set aflame from the inside out.
Gaz feels his throat tighten when the little human lying on his bed whines. Though you are deep in sleep and have not yet risen to your feet since you were brought here, you make noises. You whine and toss in your sleep, even as you are slumbering you are affected by the things you have experienced. However, you may whine or whimper in your sleep, whatever influences you behind your eyelids, you are still as captivating as ever.
“You will take care of her, won’t you?” Kate had displayed the urgency of this extraction to Johnny and Simon before they had left. And had just as equally questioned Kyle when he had volunteered his bed for the distant cousin of the woman who formed this whole carnival.
Some would have thought that it would be better for someone so unlike Kyle to have you resting in his bed. However, his control was immense and well stabilized that he could manage. Unlike Johnny, who was a half-dragon, who could easily grow possessive and obsessive of things he declared was in his hoard. Even only being half hadn’t lessened the natural instincts of a dragon, especially one who had stumbled upon his mate.
Their mate—not that humans believed in such things.
However, it was true, there was little to be debated. There was no question about it, and it was an inescapable factor that would settle into the path going forward. As it was, things would unfold slowly within them all until Kate, your distant cousin, had a chance to explain what was going on here. Although he was sure that you had been made aware of what Kate had done, of what creatures she surrounded herself with, nothing was simple.
Not when they—John the fae, Simon the trickster, Johnny the half-dragon, and Gaz the incubus—were all mates. Nothing could be easy to explain when the four were mates, when they all belonged to each other and Johnny’s hoard, which would now include you.
“You’ll be okay here,” Gaz whispers in the quietude of his travel wagon as you sleep, and he takes care of you, as he cleans the soot from your face and neck, “Kate told us enough, we know enough. They won’t reach you here.”
It speaks like a vow, something raw and real. It’s not just a promise or a statement that hangs in the air. It is the natural and raw truth, one that is shared between the four of them.
Kyle hums under his breath again and dips his cloth into the water, displacing the warmth for the cool. And then he presses it once again to your skin, to ease you into comfort and to clean all of what he can see.
Carnivale reader giving her men sweaters she made so they can stay warm during the colder months please please please
He huffs against the back of your neck and nudges you, the curve of his horns ever permanent press against you. When you don’t give him the attention he wants, Johnny’s lips curve into a scowl, and his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt. He follows a track that he’s familiar with and there’s another soft yet deep huff against your neck—a growl that predetermined his wanton need.
“I’m trying to focus. Johnny—!” You grow annoyed and elbow the half-dragon behind you, satisfied only temporarily when he grunts. “You made me mess up this row and now I have to restart!”
“You should be payin’ attention to me, not that.” He groans and presses against you, chest flush to your back. “M’not takin’ your attention f’nothin’. Need you.”
“I’m busy.” You whine and continue making your tracks for the sweater, using specialized yarn that Mrs. Laswell had given you.
The threads of the yarn are made with special material that changes to the mood of whoever wears it. You’d gotten it from Mrs. Laswell, the kitsune who made all the costumes for the circus and performers. You’d already finished three out of four sweaters, but Simon’s had proven to be the biggest challenge.
Because he was so big.
“Human!” Johnny hisses. He was mildly irate and annoyed by your refusal, and his wings had fluttered with that display of irritation. “Don’t deny-”
The door to his trailer opens and John, Gaz and Simon enter the space. An immediate precedence is set with Johnny becoming a possessive half-dragon while John, Gaz and Simon stare him down. As the fae, incubus and trickster watch Johnny, his wings slide around your waist as if to act as a barrier to shield you.
“Give ‘er up, ye fuckin’ cunt.” Simon growls and breaks the silence, shifting toward Johnny. “Kept ‘er all night. S’my turn-”
“No.” Johnny huffs, steam from his nostrils billowing. “Not yet.”
“Starved.” Gaz’s eyes darken, his jaw tenses and his feet grind. “Give her.”
“I made you all something.” You shove Johnny off and slip from underneath his wing, stepping barefoot into the trailer floor. “I made you all something but yours isn’t done, Si.”
You ignore Johnny reaching for your waist and stoop low to the bin of clothes folded. You rifle inside and grab the sweaters you made for them, made of that special yarn and warm. You lift the three you were done and hand them to John and Gaz, and then Johnny.
“Sweaters to keep you warm.” You hand them off, watching John & Gaz lift them up and study them. They’re made of that yarn, the special yarn that changes to match the mood, and warm enough to keep the chill of the winter out. “Mrs. Laswell gave me the yarn.”
“S’nice, love.” Gaz lifts the sweater to his nose and inhales your scent that clings to the material, his hunger only growing. “Makin’ me absolutely ravished.”
“I’m working on yours, Si. Sorry it’s not done yet.” Simon draws himself toward you while you speak and kisses into your hair, drawing you away from Johnny.
“I’ll wait, lovie.” Simon glares at Johnny, sending him a direct warning to keep his hands to himself. And instead he draws you toward Gaz, to appease him and his hunger. “Kyle needs ya, sweetheart.”
“She was mine.” Johnny’s wings flutter again, and John interrupts by drawing his hands to his belt. There’s a clink of the metal tongue of the belt, and a sudden swoosh as it’s ripped from the loops.
“And you’re mine.” John growls and steps toward the bed just as Simon and Gaz lead you out.
The ground beneath you was soft, almost spongy, comforting the bare soles of your feet as you walked. With your leather boots hooked on your forefinger and middle fingers of your right hand, you were feeling the forest against your skin.
There was nothing to prevent you from curling your toes into the soft mossy soil or feeling the cool dampness of the dew from the night. The moon hung was cutting through the canopy of trees like light from a torch that had illuminated the path back to your new home.
Back to the den that you shared with werewolves who had hunted you down and chosen you as theirs. It was the Hunt, a kind of sacrifice to keep the werewolves from attacking the human settlements and you had believed, like most humans, that they wanted to kill you. You believed that was the reason for the Hunt, to satiate their bloodlust once a year but as it had become apparently clear, the werewolves were not the real monsters.
Humans were the ones to be feared, and humans were the creatures who had inflicted the most amount of pain on each other. Humans in the village you had come through were not sparing any mercy when they divided themselves by classes of power or money. They were inflicting the most amount of work and pressure upon those of lower social status or wealth because they believed that it was their right.
And then they had made themselves look like the heroes by promising the village would be safe if one human a year would be hunted down by beasts. The rumours, the tales and the screams, had all become stuff of nightmares for humans like you.
But the truth was incomparable to fiction.
The werewolves were not bloodthirsty beasts who tore into humans in order to rip them to pieces, whose jowels were marred with blood and flesh from the victims that were thrown into the maze. That was all a fabricated lie to make humans like you fear what was on the other side of the barrier, because if humans had really known how well the werewolves lived than those in power would have no more control.
Even in the short time that you had been here on the other side of the barrier thrown into the world of werewolves that you had been taught to fear, you had been treated like you were royalty. The beasts you were taught to think were mindless, had done nothing like what you had been told they would—you were treated as if you were their reason for breathing.
“Ya ‘ave no idea what you meant’us do you?” A voice rises from the space behind you, gruff and hoarse, and you know that it belongs to Simon without having to turn your head.
You know that he is one of the largest, bulk wise, and among the tallest second only to John. Simon appears to be the coldest of the werewolves with eyes that could appear black in the dim light, but his eyes are brown—cold, yes, but not without the ability to convey emotion.
“I’m your mate.” You recall what they had said earlier, during the celebration to mark the end of fall and start of winter. The party to welcome humans that have been settling in with their mates since the Hunt had taken place almost a month ago.
“Aye, our mate but there’s more to it than that.” Johnny huffs and tilts his head back, nose pointed in the air as his blue eyes are trained upon the moonlight that filters in through the canopy of trees. “Snow’s comin’.”
“You can smell the snow?” You follow the motion of his head tilted back and then your eyes follow a track down from his nose to his lips and the scruff of a beard that could be growing, only to stop at his Adam’s apple. And there, on the side of his neck, you can see healed bite marks, physical scars that mar his skin.
“Are ye tellin’ me tha’ yer wee little ‘uman nose cannae smell the snow?” He’s teasing you and he lowers his head to cast his glowing blue eyes upon you. “Cute little human has bad senses-“
“I’m sorry not all of us have instincts they get from changing into werewolves.” You snap at Johnny, your eyebrows furrowed and lips forming a scowl that is directed toward him. “Some of us are only human.”
“Oh, ye’r forgiv’n love.” Johnny continues the teasing nature of his words by delivering his cheeky statement with a wink and a playful half-grin on his lips. The sight of that grin has you turning on your heel away from him, you start digging your heels into every stamp of your feet on the mossy ground as you pick up your pace back to the house.
“M’only teasin’ love. No need to get all huffy.” Johnny’s shoulders rise and fall with the laugh that escapes his lips, and his longer legs trail off after you with little effort. Once he is in line with you again, he throws an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side.
“I’m not huffy.” You hiss and shove the point of your elbow into his side earning a grunt from the werewolf next to you, although you know it doesn’t actually hurt him. If anything, he’s acting it up to make you believe that you are strong enough to do him damage. “And I am not temperamental.”
“If I say yer not temperamental, do I get a kiss?” Johnny’s teasing is effortless and his smile is disarmingly charming, boyish with the ability to win people over regardless of their mood.
“Fuck off ya beast.” Simon speaks before you can respond to Johnny and reaches for him, grabbing the back of his neck like it is his scruff and tosses him aside. The force behind the action looks as if it should hurt yet Johnny merely rolls his eyes and flips Simon off with a rolling of his eyes. “Tonight, has been enough for ‘er.”
Silence settles between the three of you, two werewolves and the human that’s their mate. You are endeared to the silence, and you don’t seek to break it. Not until the pathway begins to widen and the first clutches of houses appear around the bend and through the trees. Only then do you stop walking and turn halfway toward Simon and Johnny, gaze flitting from deep brown eyes to blue irises that appear iridescent, and then back again.
“Where are John and Gaz?” You finally break the silence and ask the question that has been sitting on your mind since the moment that Johnny and Simon gathered you to leave the celebration. While you had wanted to ask before, it took time for you to be surrounded by the peacefulness of nature rather than the busyness of the party, for you to gather yourself to ask.
While the werewolves and humans at the party were welcoming and warm, it was a lot for you to embrace. You were not used to being around so many people who had genuinely cared for one another and hadn’t innately sought to overpower or take advantage of another. Sure, there were fights that took place when tension had gotten too high or they had drunk too much, but it wasn’t anything compared to the village you had come from.
The social statuses, the financial differences that separated people from each other was almost entirely inescapable. And you were not used to parties where there was such ease experienced by everyone and not just a few. It was overwhelming, to say the least, and had taken a toll on you—something that you were sure you would get over once you had been given enough time.
However, it was still enough of a difference that you were not used to, that you hadn’t garnered the energy to ask. Not until now, not until you had felt less crowded and closed in on by people who were eager to meet the newest humans.
“John and Gaz are bartering and trading for a supply drop at the house. Once winter hits you won’t be going out much, little luna.” Simon answers your question with an answer that sounds entirely too reasonable and comprehensible, and you should leave it at that.
But you wanted to know more.
“We can hunt,” Simon, as if hearing your thoughts and understanding your need for more information, continues before you can even ask, “as werewolves, we go hunting for meat. We go deeper into the forest away from the villages, where humans are not allowed to go.”
“Why?” You cannot help it; you cannot stop yourself from wanting to know more even if you might not like or appreciate the answer. This is all new to you and you need to know, your curiosity will not allow you to have questions without answers.
“The winters are harsh and the forest is dense. It’s easy to get lost beyond the borders of the village.” It’s not Simon or even Johnny that answers your question, it’s John. And John steps through the treeline onto the path, followed by Gaz. The two of them do not appear empty handed, they have dense wooden crates that they are carrying, supplies you surmise, that are likely for you.
“Humans have been lost in the forest trapped in snowstorms that are blinding and cold so dense that it could freeze someone within an hour.” Gaz continues to speak where John had ended, adding onto the detrimental weather that is sure to hit the area if Johnny’s sense of smell is accurate.
“Wolves have lost their mates; their children. Human’s do not go into the forest.” John locks eyes with you as he speaks, holding your gaze to drive home the message that you cannot simply glance over. “You will not go into the forest during winter, am I clear?”
There is a sternness that builds on his face. From the furrowed brows that sit above sparsely narrowed eyes that convey the grey storm cloud colour that afflicts his blue eyes, to the firm purse of his lips. This is a facial expression that demands your upmost and focused attention, words that will be written in stone without the ability to remove them.
It’s not a suggestion; it is as close to an order as you think you will get from any of them. There are multiple freedoms that you are aware you have been given since you have come here but among them are distinct rules and constrictions that will not be removed. For your safety and wellbeing, for your protection as their mate.
And this is one of them, this is non-negotiable.
“Yes.” You reply with a single syllable, and a rush of fear rushes down your spine.
“Good.” With your acceptance, John’s face softens again as does his eyes. He looks you over and then motions his head in the direction of your new home, allowing Gaz to pass first followed by John. When those two begin their trek, you remain standing where you are watching them as they walk, and you remain still until Johnny’s fingers brush against the back of yours, and he grabs your hand like Gaz had earlier in the night.
He wakes up the sound of faint popping that is reminiscent of fire eating at wood. It should not stir him like it does, but he is accustomed to this, to waking up to the smallest sounds that are out of place. And a fire in the middle of the night in the hearth when everyone should be sleeping, is out of place.
It’s his role as the alpha of the pack, seconded only to Simon, to detect any threats and deal with them accordingly. He rises without making a sound, departs the bedroom that he finds solace in and passes the sounds of the other werewolves snoring.
He descended the staircase with cautious, careful patience. He is both man and beast, tactfully capable of remaining completely silent in the pursuit of a target. When he hears the popping of a fire in the hearth, he does not think of the boys, his pack—he thinks of you.
The shared mate, their little Luna.
John thinks of what kind of threat he might have to face to keep you safe; guarded and protected without knowing there was any risk at all.
But his descent to the lower level has his guardedness lowering until it evaporates. It isn’t some kind of intruder that has broken into their home and started a fire to burn the house down, it is you.
Their Luna, lying before the hearth with your hands tucked under your cheek as you rest. Your lips are parted and you seem to mumble in your sleep, things that don’t relate to the life you have, but rather things of your past. John stands at the threshold of the living room where you are laying before the dimming firelight. There are pops and crackles of the fire as it burns, and his eyes are drawn from the burning flames to the woman that lays before it.
John crosses the little distance between yourself, observing the way the blanket falls down your shoulder. Beneath the quilt he can see the shirt that you stole from Simon, worn and weathered yet coated with his scent. It’s comfortable and acts as a cooler blanket beneath the thicker material that covers you.
He crouches and picks at the blanket, lifting it to bring it back up over your shoulder. He sees you shiver from the feel of the material being pulled back up onto you, and then he hears your breath hitch.
John knows you are awake even before your mind can catch up to you, because he understands your apprehension. He comprehends that there is a natural fear that prickles under your skin.
They may be your mates, but they are still werewolves. They are predators that are capable of destruction, of coating their maws with blood when they become the beasts.
That fear clashes with the feeling of security and safety that they can provide. He is capable of giving you everything you need, they all are, and just as now he will provide for you.
John draws himself from your side and moves toward the hearth. He crouches and grabs a chopped piece of wood, corded with knots that make it only useful for fires, and then he throws it into the burning flames.
As he chokes the fire to keep you warm, he hears you moving behind him, shifting and turning on your makeshift bed.
“I couldn’t sleep.” You explain your reason for being down here instead of tucked in your bed; you answer before he can even ask but you both know he doesn’t have to. “My-”
“-head is too full.” John poked at the fire, stirring the coals to kickstart the flames that eat at the wood inside the hearth. “I understand how tiring that must be. To not sleep and have your mind racing.”
He looks at you over his shoulder, his blue eyes meeting your tired gaze as you lie on the floor with a blanket covering you. Your hands are tucked under your cheek, your eyes flutter shut with tiredness before they open again. You look at John with a frown on your lips; your chin tucked to your chest.
“I don’t understand this all or why I feel so comfortable here. But the humans…there is so much about them that…”
“You know you are safe here, yes?” John approaches where you are lying and crouches in front of you. “That you are our mate, and no one will hurt you?”
You are silent for the time being and John takes the opportunity to reach out and brush your hair behind your ears. His fingertips are rough against the shell of your ear, weathered and toughened from the years of whatever taxed him, just as your hands have always carried testaments to your status.
As someone who was not high on the social ladder in the human village you had come from, you were one of the cogs in a machine that made the nobles and upper-class function how they deemed they should have.
Which had ultimately meant that you, and others like you, were meant to be the sacrifices that were given to appease the blood thirsty beasts that were on the other side of the barrier. Only you had learned that it wasn’t the werewolves that were the frightful creatures you had thought them to be, that title was reserves for humanity.
Werewolves were not the nightmare that hid in the closet to prey on children’s peaceful dreams and terrify them into submission. They were nothing like you were taught as a child, and being here was not the death you anticipated you would receive. But that was, in part, why there was such an emphasis on how deadly the werewolves could be—for control.
If the general population of humans knew that werewolves were not blood thirsty animals, then there would be a clear and distinct shift of power within the social classes that were so clearly drawn. The nobles and the people in power that extended their desires upon people like yourself, would lose what hold they had on the classes.
However as unlikely as the werewolves were to be the beasts of legend, there were some obvious exceptions. There were some werewolves who were driven mad, to the point of becoming more animalistic than they would ever appear to be human. They were lost mentally to some kind of sickness that adhered themselves to the stereotypical and nightmarish image of a beast with blood on its maws.
And those few werewolves had aided in the human’s twist of the narrative; it had driven the fear to a place where it could not be denied. Because no werewolf would allow their mate to go back through the barrier even if it was possible due to the risk of death. None of the humans would allow a sacrifice to come back to the village to put an end to the ingenuine lies that had such a hold over the villages.
“I cannot sleep.” You repeat yourself and shift positions to sit with your back resting upon the one of the couches in the living room. You draw your knees toward your chest and press the heels of your hands against your eyes to rub the hard edge against your eye sockets, but you only do it twice before hands steady yours.
John’s hands grab your wrists, and he pulls your hands away from your eyes and settles them against your knees. He does not let your wrists go like you anticipate, rather he keeps a hold upon them and brushes his thumbs back and forth against the junction where your wrist meets your hand.
“You are safe here, safe from them.” John’s voice is husky and rich, yet his tone is soft and tender. It never wavers, it is continuously strong and steady, and its message settles over you like a warm blanket. Comforting. Protective. A stronghold where no one can reach you.
“I think I’ll wake up, and it will all be over. I think I’ll be back there, in the cold village where everyone is walking on eggshells.” You speak before your mind can prevent the truth that falls too easily from your lips. It is a leap of vulnerability that you can only let go because of how safe you feel here.
“Where you work yourself to death for the nobility that lord’s wealth above you, where you would spend your life wondering if you had survived the Hunt just to die from the cold. Or worse.” John’s hand finally releases one of your wrists and he moves his hand to cup your cheek, to brush his thumb against your skin as he feels your exhale shakily.
“You are our luna, it is the most coveted position in a pack. It means more than just being a mate, you are the centre to our whole world, you bind every one of us to each other. You function as our core, the pack’s heart, and soul—yes, even if you are human.” John’s explanation of the term that you had only ever heard here, is both simple yet offers so many more complexities if you had wanted to ask.
However, he is quick to offer a definition to your unaired question, knowing that you will soon default back toward sleep, because you are exhausted.
Whether you would like to admit it or not, the festival had been both the most fun you had in your human life and the ultimate source that drew out your energy. Which had left you socially drained and a little numb, needing to ultimately recover away from the curious eyes of Johnny’s nieces and nephews, and the generous welcoming of their community.
“C’mere.” John rises to his feet and then settles himself upon the couch and invites you to join him by patting the thick density of his powerful thigh. He sees your hesitation and he knows that you want to withdraw yourself back to the floor—maybe because that is where you think you belong and maybe because you are still cautious—regardless, you join him on the comfortable cushions.
But you do not sit upon his thigh like you think he wants, rather you lay upon the couch and rest your head upon the warm, firm muscly thigh. You twitch and squirm until you have found a position that you desire and then you sigh—a weary, stretched out and tired sigh that falls heavily from your chest.
Your eyes centre upon the fire that’s burning in the hearth while you feel John’s fingers brushing and stroking your hair. The feeling of those rough fingertips is cathartically soothing, so much so that your eyes grow heavy.
Your breathing begins to slow down and relax; you are being calmed and soothed until the warmth of sleep begins to settle over you.
With his fingers brushing against your hair, you are welcomed into a deeper, calmer sleep than you had every gotten before.
Tag lists: @boldlyherdream @loulovesyou @eliannathetopic @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @misscaller06 @kalypsoox
141 but as werewolf’s and reader being their human mate. It’s cold out and the 141 shift to wolves and have their mate all snuggled up in the middle of their puppy pile please please please
If it wasn’t for the blistering wind that battered the front door, or the cold depth of winter that made trekking anywhere in the snow impossible, you would have bolted. You would have thrown open the front door and taken the slim chance to find your way back to the thorny border that separated the werewolves from the humans.
Even if that chance would have meant you were being chased down and hunted by the beasts that—by every right of the sacrifice to keep them sated—had earned you. You would’ve taken the opportunity regardless of one of them pinning you to the mossy earth.
Digging their teeth into the back of you neck to keep you compliant.
But you couldn’t. Not in the dead of winter whilst you were being threatened by freezing and devastating temperatures that would kill you. Instead of running like your mind was screaming at you to do, you were huddled by the fire. Curled up by the flames while the wind howled and carried on like an ancient beast that was rattling the cage it was kept in.
The pack held you there because by any right seen in the eyes of the human sacrificial court, they had earned you.
“You’re cold.” A statement made by the eldest of the aforementioned pack had drawn your attention off the dancing flames encased in stone. “And you need to eat.”
Your teeth chattered as hands reached behind you, scooping you from the floor to set you against a firm and broad chest. Chiseled and radiating heat that bore deep into your bones, that had stymied the cold that threatened to take you.
“Such a darlin’ human, eh?” He spoke against your ear. Johnny, or was his name Soap? “Hush, love. You’re not gonna freeze.”
“She might if she tries to escape.” Ghost, or maybe Simon? The one werewolf that genuinely terrified you, had stood by the door and cracked it open, allowing you to see the depths of the winter that would claim you.
“You wouldn’t do that.” Kyle, Gaz you’d heard him being called, crouched in front of you, offering you a bowl of freshly made rabbit stew. “No, you’re ours.”
“Please…” Your plea fell from your lips but even you couldn’t tell if it was a plea to make you warmer, to feed you, or to let you go.
“Relax love.” John, the leader, had stepped behind Gaz and rested a hand on his shoulder. “You need to eat first, you’re cold because you’re hungry.”
Logical as it was, you felt like you were solely driven by the winter air. And you had subconsciously pressed into Johnny, shivering while your teeth chattered, while you had felt Johnny’s hands tighten around you.
“You broke your fever,” Simon quipped from the front door and you had glanced toward him as he began stripping himself down, “but you’re still not over the flu. You need warmth.”
“Food.” Kyle had almost growled at the other werewolf, bringing a spoonful of stew to your lips, which you had graciously and finally taken. “Good, love. Good. Eat more.”
“Warmth.” Simon repeated himself now standing naked but it wouldn’t last.
Not as he had begun the process of shifting into one of the beasts that hunted you down. You watch the process, watch the form of a dark furred wolf take over the man, and the sharpness of his teeth as he snapped them. Simon was a wolf, he was the beast like all the others.
“Eat.” Kyle gently prodded you again, and you had continued until you ate half the bowl before pushing it away with your hand.
Johnny had praised you for eating though he hadn’t continued holding you. As soon as you signalled you were done, you were off his lap, and he too—like Simon—had begun stripping down.
“We’re in for a bad storm, temperatures are going to drop.” John had grasped your hand and pulled you toward him and away from Johnny.
Another beast, another wolf, another creature that you had belonged to.
“We’ll be warm but you will be cold. All night.” John led you toward Simon and you had been made to lay against his side on the furs laid out before the fire.
You were stubborn yes, but even you couldn’t resist burrowing yourself into the wolf form of Simon once you felt his warm fur. And he had curled his tail around your ankle, brushing the thick softness of his fur against your skin.
Johnny was next to lay near you, to partially encase you in this depth of warmth. His head rested upon Simon’s shoulders, or where they would have been, while Johnny’s tongue slipped from the side of his mouth. Was he teasing you, trying to goad you into reacting?
Or was this just Johnny acting like an oversized puppy?
“Kyle-”
“-already on it, Cap.” Kyle faux saluted and winked at you, repeating the process yet again. Flesh became fur, nose became a snout, and those men became wolves.
You were being encased in their warmth, secured in depths that made the cold dissipate immediately. But they still weren’t done. Not yet.
John had been the last, and he had waited until you had enough of what you would need. Water, dried pieces of fruit if you grew hungry, blankets and pillows for your comfort. Once he had been prepared, he too had shifted into the wolf that helped hunt you.
He has joined the rest of the pack, the four of them encircling you and enveloping you in warmth. Fur pressed to your back, fur above your head, fur by your feet and fur by your abdomen.
They were beasts, creatures who were capable of crushing skulls with their teeth as wolves. However in this moment they weren’t deadly like you had expected, like their reputations had been proven them to be. They were wolves keeping their human mate safe.
They were wolves prepped and ready to keep their human lover alive and warm in the blistering battering winter. This was only natural for them, not just the 141 as they called themselves, but for all werewolves.
The humans that had been taken as mates, were deeply embedded in the centre of a pack’s life—any good and strong pack treated their mate like a lifeline.
“Goodnight, I suppose.” You mumbled, incapable of keeping a soft laugh to your self when a cold nose pressed against you.
“Have fun, beautiful.” Kyle’s encouragement centres itself in your mind while your focus is constantly shifting between the werewolves of your pack to the other creatures who are lingering in the village square.
There’s no shortage of differing evens to celebrate the end of fall, and you find yourself struggling to keep up with them all. It's distracting enough that you let the conversations and stimuli around you slip into the background of your focus.
You’re not listening to the friendly competitive growls of werewolves nearby that are trying to prove themselves stronger than others with drinking-based competitions. Nor are you trying to keep up with the discussions happening nearby you that are passing back and forth between Simon and Johnny.
You’re losing focus on everything immediately around you as your attention is so swiftly divided by the other displays of community and appreciation for the werewolves world and customs. There’s an innate beauty that you find yourself drawn to, even though you wished you could protest the very idea that they were anything but beasts.
It was getting harder and harder to deny that these men, women, and children were more composed and regulated than humans were. There was a deniability that you weren’t necessarily comforted by, yet it was starkly being thrown in your face—perhaps it wasn’t the werewolves were ment to be feared.
Perhaps it was the humans who had cast out the less fortunate among them and lorded wealth and power above the lesser. There was reason to believe that the human villages you came from, where young men and women were forced to work until their fingers bled, were truly the worst among them.
Perhaps werewolves, despite their brutality and their physical power, were not the enemy you were made to believe. They were so much more than the beasts of legend who hunted humans down and used them for food, for sources to expel their bloodlust.
Those fables and tales were wrong, increasingly so the more time you spent simply observing the interactions of families attending the festival. There was the reality that you wholly understood that some werewolves could be brutal and cruel, but cruelty wasn’t limited to humanity or beasts alike.
And from your experience, limited though it was here, it seemed as if there was more brutality unleashed upon the human villages than here. It was almost too apparent that there was an unstated divide between what animalistic power these werewolves unleashed during their cycles, and the everyday brutishness of man.
And what would you rather face in the course of your life? The possessive flare of men who could turn into wolves, and devoted their lives to their mates and children?
Or the steady course of being limited and forced into a low social standing by the wealthiest people in your village, who would always seek to take advantage of those they deemed lesser than themselves.
“Hen,” a thick brogue echoes in your ear with a whisper that makes you shiver involuntarily, and the fingers that match dust themselves against your chin, “deep in thought, aye?”
Your attention is slotted back to Johnny, those beautiful blue eyes fixated upon you with a studiousness that makes your heart skip a beat. Involuntary as it is, you can’t help the way you feel the flutter, the reaction to the sharpness of his jaw, the strength of his body that you have felt upon your own.
Even if you’d only felt it because you tried to run was irrelevant, it was still a sensation that reminded you starkly of how fit they were. All of them.
“What’s going’ on in yer ’ead?” His fingers continue to trail along the side of your chin to your jaw, and then beyond to pull the hood of your cloak closer to the back of your neck. “Hmm, somethin’ life altering?”
To your silence and your act of staring at him, the corner of Johnny’s lips lift in a half-smile, slightly crooked and boyish. He responds with his silence, however momentary, just long enough to reach across the table and steal the rest of Simon’s ale. After he grabs the handle of the tankard and sets it down between the two of you, Johnny shifts more centrally toward you until it feels like you’re sitting face to face rather than side by side.
“What’s your favourite colour?” His question is almost incomprehensible above the noise of drinking glasses clashing together, the sharp tings acting almost like church bells and the sound of fiddles.
Fiddles and bagpipes, drums and other instruments that create an infectious melody that draws multiple generations toward the makeshift dance floor. In the middle of this festival to mark the end of summer, the conclusion of fall and the beginning touch of winter, is where the dancing happens. Men, women, children, of all ages that seek to dance are moving to the steady beat.
It’s a party, it’s a celebration before the winter sets in that draws your attention once more from Johnny. You observe them all, the humans and werewolves that are mingling so peacefully in comparison to what you expect. And through the crowds of those dancing, you see John and Gaz passing by through the crowd of those enjoying the music. The two, who are closely bonded to each other like they are to Simon and Johnny, have let themselves loose to the beat of the drums.
“Eyes up here, pretty human.” Johnny’s fingers graze against your chin once more, pulling you back into focus where he wants you. “What’s your favourite colour?”
You remain silent as you think, as you ponder the innocent question while searching for an answer for him. The struggle to pinpoint a specific colour that drew your attention, that stole your fondness, was harder to quantify than you expected. Why couldn’t you choose a colour, why was it so challenging to give him the answer he wanted?
“I like…” you begin speaking and fall silent once more, to sink your teeth into your bottom lip. Why was this so hard?
The longer you thought, the longer you processed his question, had left you feeling more unsettled by the lack of knowledge you had about yourself. You didn’t even know your favourite colour, you didn’t know your favourite sweet or music, what book you liked to read most.
But that felt like it was par for the course for someone like yourself, for someone who was classed low among the village. You were meant to work yourself to exhaustion to afford the ability to live while the rich nobles and business owners of the human settlements profited. They profited off of your labor, of other humans who laboured like you had, and spared little care for the simple pleasures you could afford.
“There were northern lights once that were scattered across the sky last year. Usually, the sky is only lit up by street lamps and stars, but last year…it happened after a bad storm that nearly tore the town square apart.” Your tongue operated faster than your self-control, working in tandem with your mind to finally give him an answer.
“While there was rummage everywhere and the cleanup was beginning, the first spark of northern lights illuminated the sky. It was subtle at first, the blues, and greens that lit up the sky, but they were there. And the longer the night stretched on, the brighter they’d become, they were dancing across the sky in….” You recall the memory, the ache of your fingers as the social class you belonged to were ordered to clean up, and the reprieve of those lights.
“I’d never seen anything so beautiful before.” Your voice, softly tendering an image of something magical, had almost been an invitation for Johnny to lean in—to draw his fingers along your collarbone where those polished buttons held your cloak together.
“What in the hell did they do to you?” His brogue was tender, softly whispering sympathy that you didn’t think you needed, and yet, it made your body buzz with emotionality. “Bonnie…”
“Blue and green, the colours of the northern lights. The way they glowed against the sky was something I will never forget. Those are my favourite colours, those would be my choices.” You reach up to brush his hand away from your collarbone but Johnny clasps yours in his instead.
He turns your hand-over to expose your fingers and draws his free hand along the ridges of the tips, feeling your skin against his own. While you’re left feeling frozen in place by this werewolf touching you in an intimate yet non-sexual manner, your heart clenches deeply in your chest. It squeezes almost painfully as your emotions become a hailstorm within yourself, unrelenting and unwillingly to let you focus on anything apart from him.
“You’re safe here, Luna. You must know that.” He extends the intimacy by bringing your fingertips to the forefront of his mouth, the subtle shift of his lips as he grazes your fingers with his kiss.
Soft, tempting and deeply affectionate.
“You’re safe here, darlin’. Nothin’s going to hurt ye here.” He repeats the same kind of sentiment, relaying the image that this is not the hellhole you came from.
He’s reinforcing the idea that your life will be better here.
And you want to believe him, regardless of your self-preservation that tries to tell you that they’re still beasts, you desperately want to believe every word he says.
You should say something in return, you should make some attempt at a retort, and yet, all you can do is swallow. There’s nothing more you can manage to do than remain silent. Johnny’s blue eyes study you, search you and every little detail about you, while he continues to keep your fingers pressed against him.
“I want to believe that, I really do…” Your voice is almost entirely indistinguishable over the sound of the drums and fiddles that create that infectious beat that keeps people dancing.
“…it’s easier to fear something you haven’t felt before.” A presence behind you draws another shiver out of you, and there’s a calloused yet warm hand that slides against your back to your waist. Simon draws himself to sit behind you, keeping you pinned between himself and Johnny, without making you feel trapped or enclosed between two powerhouses.
It’s a tough pill to swallow, one that lodges in your throat, but it’s true.
How can you embrace safety when you’d never really experienced it before?
“We can start here.” Johnny’s hand squeezes your own, his head cocked lightly to the side. “By you lettin’ us into that pretty mind of yours.”
“How?” You mumble, your attention faltering from Johnny whose sitting in front of you, toward Simon whose behind you. Simon Riley, the one of the bigger werewolves of this pack you’d been inducted into, settles his other hand upon your waist, just to feel you.
To ground you.
“Ever play a game called fifty questions?” Johnny’s hand finally lowers yours to the bench seat between you two, though there isn’t much distance between your bodies and theirs. “Kids like t’play it. Ye already answered one.”
“A question game?” You seem to be holding a one-sided conversation with Johnny, but Simon is still present, and it’s clear that it’s enough to just observe you and Johnny.
“A question game, aye.” Johnny rests an elbow upon the table and then cups his chin in his hand, those pretty eyes feasting upon you. “Answered your favourite colour, already. What’s your favourite sweet, love?”
“I didn’t have the opportunity to have many back ho…” you stop yourself from saying home because that location you could pin to that word carries less meaning and weight to it than is deserved. “I don’t know.”
“Seems unfair that ye haven’t got a favoured sweet.” Johnny takes the confession as a personal affliction against himself, and the scowl that forms on his face is evident of his growing distaste for the human village you left behind. “Fucking arseholes.”
He stands abruptly and with enough force that you can feel the shifting weight on the bench you’re sitting on. Once he stands and steps over the wooden barricade keeping him at the table, he lifts his head and searches for something he desperately needs. Only when he’s found it, does he grin and return his attention to you.
He rests one hand against the table and leans down, his eyes boring deeply into your own as he captivates you with every shift of emotion in his gaze. He relays his hand to your cheek, thumb brushing your cheek back and forth as he pushes further, and brushes his lips against your forehead.
“Stay here, I’ll be back soon.” The warmth that blooms against your skin is only momentary before he’s leaving yo alone with Simon. Though you can feel Simon’s hands on your waist grounding you, you still follow Johnny with your eyes and call after him.
“What about the questions?” Your raised voice garners his attention, and he stops walking to look back at you, that boyishly charming grin aimed at you.
“Got somethin’ better in mind.” He tips his head and turns on his heel, leaving you and Simon alone. With his departure, you look over your shoulder toward Simon who's still holding on to your waist, and whose chest is pressed against your back.
“Should I be worried?” Your voice is contained to a conversation between the two of you, though you doubt anyone around you would be able to hear anything over the varied sounds of the celebration.
“He’s not gonna bite ya.” The corner of Simon’s lip twitch anyway, and it leaves you far more curious than you should be—with your curiosity overshadowing any fear or anxiety that could rise. “I might-“
“What?”
“S’a joke.” Simon leans in, and for a stoic and deadly werewolf, gives you a rather light and affectionate nuzzle against the back of your neck. “Relax, sweet’art.”
It only takes moments for Johnny to return with an entire woven basket filled with the enticing smell of sugar and some spices, both of which immediately make your stomach growl. Even though you’d already eaten the food Johnny got for you earlier, your appetite isn’t sated yet.
“What’s this?” You question Johnny as he sets the basket down and begins pulling out varied sweets from the basket to set them down on the table between the two of you. “Johnny-“
“We’re not going anywhere until you try every one and choose a favourite.” He boasts his idea with a smile that’s bright and infectious, charming and disarming all at the same. “Cannae say ye won’t have a favourite after tonight.”
You admittedly stare at him as if he’s gone mad, unbelieving that he would really do this for you. There was no shortage of small and mini cakes and pastries, some that were dripping with sweetness and others that seemed to be savoury rather than sugary. Still, there was intent behind his actions and when you hadn’t moved to make your first choice, Johnny moved on your behalf.
“This is Si’s favourite, you should try it first.” Johnny turns over your hand and sets the pastry down upon your palm, making sure your fingers grasp the crisp edges so it doesn’t fall. “Dig in, love. Ye got lots to try.”
You look between them, hesitantly, and then you lift the pastry to your lips.
It was more than just a simple act that was meant to help you open up to them. What Johnny was doing for you symbolized so much more.
Safety. Trust. Devotion.
Small steps, but steps in the right direction regardless.
The night of the fight at the pub still registered in your mind as the first night you’d seen how protective the werewolves were over you. Even if it was a small display of those protective instincts, it had set a precedent that you couldn’t wholly deny.
They acted in your interest, surpassing even what you thought was best, overshadowing your desires or wants. It was true that there was no escape for you here, the barrier was closed for a year, and they had, by all rights apparently, won you by hunting you down.
Acceptance was an easier pill to swallow than you imagined, and by the second week you’d been stuck here, it had become less imperative to fight. It was apparent that if you had to be stuck here, if you had to be chased down and hunted, chosen by beasts, there could be worse beasts to capture you. Evident by the rumours of humans that had been taken by far more vicious and wilder werewolves.
By all accounts, you were considered lucky.
“This is a feast to mark the end of fall, the beginning of winter.” Hands trailed down your arms from your shoulders until rough fingers grazed your own. “It’s what you humans would call a harvest festival.”
You’re caught gazing at your own reflection in a mirror framed with deep brass, studying the dress that was custom-made for you from the seamstress in the village. A wife and mother, a mate to a female werewolf, had talent in the fingertips that created this dress. That created every piece of clothing you needed to survive in your new life. Even if the dress was simpler than the garbs the rich humans wore back across the barrier, it was beautiful.
“It’s also a way to welcome the humans to the village.” Through the clear and crisp reflection of the mirror, you can see those warm brown eyes watching you from the doorway. “Usually by now most mates are settled in.”
He catches your gaze through the mirror, and you return the look with a pursing of your lips. The tips of your fingers twitch as Kyle enters the bedroom with something draped over his shoulder. His claim that most mates have settled in carries a weight with it, more meanings that extend beyond simply not fighting anymore. You know for certain that, some at least, of the human’s had already borne the biting marks from their werewolves.
Other humans—like you—had come to accept that there was no escape.
“What is that?” Your attention flits naturally toward the thing hanging off of Kyle’s arm, and you angle your body away from John and toward the other wolf in the room.
“A coat. Cloak, if you prefer, little red riding luna.” Gaz’s natural lilt of a teasing voice brings a rise of sparks of heat in your belly, like those that are necessary to start a fire.
The coat is deep and rich, made of some of the finest crushed red velvet fabric you think you’d ever seen. It’s thick and there’s no doubt that it would be warm, keeping the chilling nip of fall that will settle in with the setting sun. There was fine embroidery at the collar and the hood, perhaps initials or the shadow of a full and bright moon.
“For you,” John’s voice was low and husky, like rich melted butterscotch, that drew out a slow shiver from your body, “to keep you warm tonight.”
It was draped around your shoulders and affixed by your collarbones, with the few aged brass buttons being pushed into the buttonholes that kept it secure around you. As the cloak or coat, whatever you would prefer to call it, was settled, John’s hands had shifted back toward your shoulders. His thumbs pressed into your muscles with a firmness that wasn’t meant to hurt you, rather it was steadying and grounding.
“Time to go, love.” That final squeeze of your shoulders had come and gone far too quickly, and just as soon as he had let go, Kyle had grabbed your hand in his.
His fingers entwined with yours as he led you out of the bedroom toward the staircase leading to the first floor. Those familiar steps, that you’d tried to traverse when running, had passed beneath your feet with every step. And from the middle you’d been able to get a better look at the remaining two werewolves who were waiting for your descent.
“Bout time, ye fuckers. Gonna be late.” Johnny’s mood was equally drawn between impatience and his attempt to take the piss with John and Gaz. “Not you hen, the other two-“
“Shut up, MacTavish. Save your energy for the drinking games.” Beside him, Simon had stood with his arms crossed, taking a position that must have been natural to him—as natural as the firm line of his lips. “Don’t be a pissant tonight.”
“Not tonight.” Johnny’s smile softened and warmed, and his beautiful blue eyes had defaulted from Simon toward you. His eyes met yours and that’s when he was looking at you like you hung the moon, stars, and everything in between. “Wolves honour, I’ll be on my best behaviour.”
“Doubt that.” Kyle scoffed under his breath and gave your hand another small tug, leading you behind him as he began walking toward the front door of their home. He led you outside and into the dusky sky with his hand still clutching yours, and warmth blooming beneath your skin that felt like you were being wrapped in a warm blanket.
“You’ll have fun tonight, I know it.” He whispers softly, tenderly, leaning in to press his lips against the top of your head.
*********************************
The village at night during this festival is nothing if not stunningly captivating. Under the glow of hanging lights that line the streets that are decorated with the trappings of fall, you feel transformed. It’s as if you had taken a step through the pages of a storybook, a fairytale that transported you from a place that—truly wasn’t ordinary to begin with—to a place that feels magical.
All around you are signs of happiness and a community that you would sparsely find in the human villages that lay behind the barrier. There’s a peacefulness that startles you, that makes you feel as if you are watching a picturesque scene from the outside looking in. Children, werewolves, and humans alike, perhaps even a combination of both, dart past you as they strive toward the centre of the village.
Music from traditional means of fiddles, violins, bagpipes, or even drums, create a steady beat that some are dancing to. There are long tables that have been set out and decorated with barrels of whiskey and ale, spiced cider for the children, while a series of food is being prepared. There are various cooking pots are cared to by both men and women while there’s roasting meat over an open fire, the dense mixture of spices and scents wafting from the open kitchen makes your stomach growl.
“Gonna grab a pint, find us later.” John says, addressing you and Simon, while he nudges Kyle to follow him toward the tables.
“Enjoy yourself beautiful.” Before Kyle leaves, he taps his fingers against your chin, tipping your head back with a light tease. “Relax, take a breath, don’t look so scared.”
You find yourself nodding in complacency while two members of your…pack…depart, leaving you with Simon and Johnny.
“Somethin’ else, innit?” Simon’s voice that draws your attention from the lit build square and the people, creatures as well, mingling. “Almost like we’re not just beasts.”
You feel warmth flourishing under your skin, from both embarrassment and the brush of his lips against your ear. He’s not shameless about calling out your prejudices that made you so standoffish and cautious, and it rattles you more than you’d care to admit. All your life you’d been warned of the beasts that linger beyond the barrier, the mindless bloodthirsty creatures that hunt humans down.
“Uncle Johnny!” There’s a startling screech as a small clutch of kinds come barreling down the stone path barefoot. Their eyes are as bright as Johnny’s and their hair seems wildly out of control, as if someone tried to manage it only for them to immediately undo the progress.
The kids, four if you count correctly, slam into the big broad werewolf, nearly toppling him over. Of course, it’s probably more for show, how he stumbles back and wavers before correcting himself. Their smiles are wide and bright, they cling to him and his legs while chattering all at once. You can only pick out a few words that are clearly spoken through the jumbled speech that overlaps each other.
“Look at ye wee bairns. Causing trouble, ye little shites?” Johnny speaks with nothing but love and care for the kids who call him uncle; all while they grapple for him. Johnny is all smiles as he easily lifts two of the kids that hang off his left and right biceps, grinning wolfishly in a manner that makes the sharp edge of his teeth glint.
“You promised to buy us all sweets!” “You promised you’d try to win me a prize!” “Mum said you brought your mate!”
The words overlap while you stand there watching the scene play out with slightly parted lips and deeply furrowed brows. He’s part man and part wolf yet even more than that, Johnny is someone with a family. He’s someone with a mother, father, siblings and clearly nieces and nephews.
“Aye, get off’a me ye little gremlins!” He angles his head back as he growls the playful threat, and when he catches your eye, his grin only grows and he winks. “Ye wanna meet the luna, then?”
A hand tightens on yours and Simon leans into you, his chest pressing against your back. He can feel the mild tension that afflicts you, the question you don’t ask about what a luna is or why they keep calling you that. While Simon is still pressed against you, he keeps one hand on yours while the other shifts to the side of your waist. His fingers trail up and down the expanse of your waist and the side of your abdomen in an act that you find soothing.
“This,” Johnny drops his little nieces and nephews to the ground, not that it affects them, and slips a steady arm around your waist with his fingers spreading against that warm cloak, “this is our beautiful little luna. Ye treat ‘er well, yeah?”
“Is it true that humans don’t eat meat?” “Do humans really hide during the full moon?” When are you going to have babies?”
One question after another is fired off by the curious eyes of these children, who stare at you like you could very well be the first human they’d ever seen. They’re curious, they’re eager to know who the human is that’s part of their uncle’s pack, and you find yourself opening and closing your mouth to respond. Though you can’t find the words.
“Off with ye beasts. Get back to your mother.” Simon reacts first, playfully growling and baring his teeth toward the kids who squeal playfully and happily, and run from him. As they tramp back toward a few women who are standing by one of the tables, who you assume are their mothers, Johnny comes to encroach on your other side.
“Little mischief-makers,” he speaks with fondness and a softened voice, though his attention is quick to falter toward you, “hungry, little mate?”
You remain silent while you watch him, while you reach his eyes, and then you turn your head. Those curious eyes of children fall back to you until something else captures their attention, and just as soon as they give you a second glance, they’re looking away. And you are left standing in the street with Simon behind you, Johnny to your right, and a village buzzing with warmth and happiness in front of you.
You never knew this was possible. You never anticipated that they, these werewolves, could be anything but beasts. That is what you were told, that is what you expected, to be ripped apart by their powerful teeth, to have your blood dripping from their maws.
But instead…
Instead, you watch as a male embraces a woman and presses a hand to her heavily pregnant belly, before he crouches to kiss her stomach. You see tenderness again, and again, and again, as two mothers carry their children before exchanging a kiss.
You see werewolves and humans interacting together, mates and families and couples, packs that love each other.
And you see Kate Laswell, one of John’s oldest and dearest friends, with her mate. Mrs. Laswell, that sewed and created every piece of clothing in the wardrobe, leaned into her partner and mate, while their little boy runs along beside them. Two women—one werewolf and one human—desperately and hopelessly in love.
This was not a horrid and detestable fate that you were made to believe waited for you. This was something beautiful and real, and raw.
This was what humans wished life was like back in the village you came from. The peacefulness, the feeling of belonging to something bigger than just immediate family, it was a desirable experience that not everyone was welcome to.
“Y/N?” Johnny’s thumb slides against your cheek and then down, to cup the side of your neck, to draw your focus back to him. “There she is.”
“What?” Your lips move on their own accord as you settle your gaze back onto one of your four werewolves. The corner of Johnny’s lips rise and his blue eyes sweep across your face. His thumb trails the same languid path on your neck, that was drawn across your cheek.
“Are you hungry, little Luna?” He repeats the question and deflects his beautiful blue irises toward the long tables set up in the village square—the centrefold of the festival. “Or would ye want some wine?”
You follow the path his eyes make. Witnessing so many people, werewolves, and humans alike, so relaxed and so calm, it makes you feel less guarded. Less skeptical. Less jaded about where you are.
“Cannae tell me you’re not. Could hear your stomach from across the village.” He lets go of your neck, and you feel the loss of heat against your skin, but it’s not without cause. Johnny might have let go of your neck, but he slips an arm around your waist to settle upon the small of your back.
“John’n’Gaz are waitin’.” Johnny leads you down the stone road toward the table the other two are sitting at, already obtaining drinks for you all—though the two are not alone.
John is carrying on a conversation with a big, you assume, werewolf that’s on par physically with Simon. His brown hair is slicked back and pushed off his forehead, while his eyes crinkle at the corner with a husky laugh. The closer you get to the three of them, the easier it is to detect a rather Henry accent. As you approach with Simon and Johnny, the three wolves sitting at the table acknowledge your approach.
“This is the little fox, eh?” The voice of the wolf you’d never met is laced with as much amusement as Johnny’s can be, though there’s natural wisdom that comes with age. “Crafty little human that tried to slip away?”
“Knocked the hell out of Gaz too, Nik. Broke his nose.” John admits the sordid truth with nothing less than unequivocal admiration, and perhaps even pride.
“No hard feelings, sweetheart.” Kyle grins and leans his elbow on the table, his hand cupping the handle of his pint. “Werewolves heal quickly.”
The werewolf, you’d still not officially met, reviews you and then casts his gaze back toward Kyle. The corner of his lips reach a peak as a half-smirk forms on his face, and then he cocks his head to the side. It seems like there’s an unaired conversation happening between them all, something you’re not privy to.
“Full of fire, crafty like a fox, slightly temperamental-” the wolf languidly looks you over again, making surmising remarks about you.
“—I’m not temperamental.” You come to your own defence with a hardening of your gaze and a pursing of your lips.
“—perfect, darling.” John reaches for your wrist and his fingers press into your skin, applying the logic that whatever Nik was saying was meant to be a compliment. “Means you’re nothing but perfection.”
You’re not given much time to respond to either statement, as the music picks up and there’s the sound of cheering coming from the table with all the ale, wine, and cider. At the sound of the cheering, the big werewolf, you didn’t officially meet, smacks a hand on the table. He rises to his feet and claps John on the back, squeezing his shoulder as he announces his departure.
“We’ll share drinks later, да?” Without waiting for a response, he withdraws from the table, allowing Johnny and Simon to take the place he was sitting at. While they take their places, you approach the table with your own short and slow steps, unsure where you should sit.
“Sit, love.” The invitation is put forth, and space is made for you to be nestled between John & Simon. “Heard your stomach grumbling the moment we got here. Food’s nearly done, wine’s flowing.”
“Dancin’ should start soon.” Johnny leans forward and looks past Simon toward you, his elbows resting on the table. “Ye like dancin’?”
“Dancing?” You look between John, to your left, and Johnny down to your right. “There weren’t many parties back home…”
“S’too bad. Cannae come tae a festival and not dance.” Johnny’s smile builds, and you get the general idea that he’s gonna be dragging you out there soon enough.
“Food first,” Simon momentarily blocks your view of Johnny, and directs his attention toward the cooking pots and the open fire, “get somethin’ good in ya before Johnny wears ya out.”
“Aye, I’ll get the little mate some food.” Johnny begins to rise to his feet and you turn your head to follow his movement. And when he passes by you, he stops and leans down to kiss into your hair, squeezing your shoulders. “Promise I’ll take good care of ye and get your belly full.”
“Of food, not just wine and ale.” John corrects one of the younger wolves of the pack, head cocked to the side. “Johnny-”
“Wolves honour.” He grins and crosses an x over his heart before he winks at you and moves toward the food.
Husky and rough laughter erupts next to you, the boisterous sound startling you. With a nearly feral jump out of your skin, figurative even as it was, your hands tighten around the girth in your hand. The head of the ale is bubbling within the confines of the glass, dissipating the longer it sits. You keep your head down and your eyes transfixed on the ale, on the head that’s becoming less impressive as it was when it was first poured.
To your left is the alpha of the pack, or so you surmise his role is the alpha, while the one with icy blue eyes is to your right. The werewolf to your right is the one who has touched you the most, who tries to be as affectionate with you as possible. The bulking alpha who cornered you in the room you were given, who prevented you from running. The alpha with thick hair, cut fine in a Mohawk, with a heavy accent.
The werewolf to your left, the one you think is alpha, is keeping a silent guard up. While the patrons of the pub are growing louder and more ruckus with their voices and jeers, there is silence from the one to your left. That natural state of guardedness hovers over you like a mist, or rather like a fog. While you are rendering yourself silent, the werewolf with the mutton chop style beard and aged blue eyes, observes you.
Not head on but indirectly. Through the corner of his eyes, through the observations of conversations around them all. He remains silent, just as the alpha across from him. The one with deep brown eyes.
“Hungry, love?” The alpha whose nose you broke, you remember his name is Kyle, breaks the conversation with the boisterous alpha. He questions you, draws your attention toward him, hand resting upon your own as his fingers slip between yours. “You should eat-”
“Don’t.” You yank your hand away with force that you don’t recognize, and you hope your voice conveys that same force, but it trembles. Your voice shakes but not necessarily out of fear or vulnerability but a complex twisted ball of emotions. “Don’t touch me.”
Your elbow, and the force you use to pull your hand away, sends it into the side of that alpha with the devil-may-care charm. The sharp point of your elbow disturbs him, and he casts his attention upon you, as you’re set in the middle of himself and the alpha. His dark eyebrows furrow and he opens his lips to say something, to ask a question, yet they fall back together in a purse.
Voices, jaunts, and jeers erupt in the pub as a drinking game concludes. You are stuck in the middle of it all, surrounded by a heady mix of humans and beasts. Some werewolves who have long since been mated, and new pairings. You see them, those humans who linger here in the pub surrounded by their mates, these new humans with that same glimmer of apprehension in their eyes.
“Settle.” The voice is echoing in your ear, and you find yourself twisting away from him, the oldest werewolf. “Take a breath.”
“Don’t.” You repeat yourself with that same tremble of your voice, a kind of shake that resounds in the tips of your fingers. The glass teeters on the edge of the bottom, that dissipating foamy head starting to lose the bubbles.
The walls seem like they’re closing in on you. All you can do, all you want to do, is embrace the urgency to run. The barrier is closed, there is nothing that will allow you to leave and yet, you want to run. You hope to escape the pub, escape the town, escape them.
Run, girl, run.
“You haven’t eaten all day.” Those brown eyes, not the cold depths of that Stoic alpha, but the brown eyes of Kyle, bore into you. “Your stomach’s grumbling, you’ll get weak if you don’t eat.”
You stare at him with the same visceral intensity that he stares at you. His brown eyes, swirling with emotion and already connectivity that you don’t have or feel, stare into your eyes that you know reflect anger. You don’t bend or break eye contact despite wanting to, nor do you allow a hand to your right to touch you.
You shrug it off, Johnny’s hand, and squirm where you sit.
“Another round of drinks?” A barmaid approaches the table, and finally, your eyes falter from Kyle, shifting instead toward the silent alpha.
Simon Riley, so you’d heard, was staring at you. Analyzing your entire body, even further, if you truly believed he could look into your very soul. He was watching you while leaning back against his chair, his fingers twitch as he makes a nonevent, almost like he’s tossing an invisible coin.
“Something to eat for her,” Kyle speaks for you, or on your account, taking the directive to get you food, “luna-”
There’s a crash behind him, a pair of werewolves starts a fight, physically going at each other while a third tries to keep them apart. The sound of heavy footsteps scraping across wood floors might as well have been shards of glass. The sound of crunching bones seems to be no more deadly to them, but it makes you wince naturally.
Attentions are divided as Johnny stands up with enough force to send the chair crashing behind him. There’s tension that builds in the immediate space around you, a glint of sharp teeth illuminated in the light of the pub as his lips curl. Grunting and growling radiates with a sickening threat, the fight only getting further agitated by the rising voices. The bartender raises his voice, laced with his own growl, as he urges them to break it up.
They’re beasts, wild creatures that have other halves literally running human’s down for whatever twisted sacrifice people like you are made to be. While curses are flung as naturally as everyday words, you almost imagine blood dripping from their maws.
Your eyes are naturally drawn to the fight, to the scene that plays out. Strength not imposed by the laws of nature, send one of the werewolves flying to toward the table you’re at. Johnny, who has previously stood, has no hesitations about slipping a strong and sturdy arm around your waist. Heat blooms beneath the clothes you wear as he yanks you away from the table and hoists you up and over his shoulder.
“Enough!” A raised voice, John’s, ends the fight while Simon drives his own fist into the sparring werewolves’ face. There’s another crunch, blood is spilled from that werewolf’s nose and mouth, as you are dragged out.
Johnny doesn’t stop, he doesn’t let you go. He leaves the pub with urgency that makes his shoulders tense, while Kyle trails on behind you. There’s less than limited space or energy you could use to free yourself from him, from them, and you know every attempt would be fruitless.
At least not until you’re out of the pub’s views, not until you’re on a quieter street and side alley. Then you feel solid ground beneath your feet, and there’s an unrelenting set of hands cupping your cheeks. Thumbs stroke your flesh back and forth rhythmically as an effort to draw your attention away from the chaos that’s muffled, back to him.
“Y’okay?” His voice is softer than you anticipate, and your gaze wanders from icy blue eyes to warm brown eyes, and back again. “Fucker dinnae hurt ye, did he?”
Kyle stands to your left, between the two werewolves you’re shielded almost entirely, save for your right side. With the back half of a building wall behind you, pressed against your back, and Johnny in front of you, you’re stuck. Stuck where you are despite wishing to be anywhere but here, stuck pressed against creatures that hunted you down.
“Stop it!” You raise your voice and smack his hands away from you, away from your skin, wherein chill replaces the warmth. “Keep your hands off me!”
Part of you acknowledges that you should thank him, thank them, for getting you out of the fight. But another part of you wanted to take the opportunity that’s dangling in front of you, to break another nose. However, you know you only managed to break Kyle’s nose because of that candlestick, and trying to break Johnny’s nose with your hand would be stupid.
“Calm down, luv. No need to get y’er knickers in a knot.” He doesn’t flinch, not once, and grins at you after you smacked his hands off. “Jus’ protectin’ our mate from some dumb brutes.”
“M’not your mate.” You spit the words as if they could poison you from the inside out if you don’t keep the denial in place. “M’human that you hunted.”
“Aye,” Johnny doesn’t deny you again, and instead cocks his head as he looks you over, “in an event that lets werewolves find their mates. So….”
“So fuck you.”
“Wish you would.” “Johnny—“
Your hand cracks against his cheek before you can stop yourself, and pain blooms in your palm. While his head gets turned to the side from the force of your strike, there’s little pain that affects him, clearly. Though, his lips curl back in a smirk, and you can see a glint of blood on those wolf-like fangs of his—as if the sharpness of his teeth cut the inside of his mouth.
You expect him to have a visceral reaction to you hitting him, like Kyle had when you broke his nose. You’re half expecting, the gruffness of the werewolf, to present itself as a string of curses or animalistic growls. A warning.
Instead, he grins like a fool and cocks his head again, looking over you and your body with sparks of a fire building in his eyes. No cursing, no growling, no threats of violence.
“Ye wanna hit the other cheek, love?” He turns his head, allowing you to see the other side of his face not yet struck, and offers it to you on a silver platter. “C’mon, hit me again.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Any aggression that might have made you strike him before evaporates and becomes nothing more than confusion.
He looks amused. Johnny, the boisterous werewolf who cornered you in that room, who prevented you from running, isn’t pissed that you hit him. He’s beguiled, if not turned on, by the action of you smacking him.
“A lot,” Kyle interrupts Johnny before he can answer you, those brown eyes seeping across you before they shift behind you, “good?”
“Fuckin’ ruts.” Simon’s voice is teeming on the edge of a growl, dark and aggressive, though it cuts short.
When he says rut, a part of you wanted to ask what he meant. There was a portion of you that was begging to know because you knew so little about werewolves and how they functioned. Instead, you clamp your mouth shut and take as good of a look around this alley as you can.
There’s dimming light from the last portions of sunlight that cling to the horizon. Night is swiftly approaching, and with it comes the shapes that form from moonlight. The shadowy reflections of the forest surrounding the village, of the people lingering in the streets while completing their business. While you had no doubt that mothers and fathers had their children nestled into bed, there was still enough life out here, both beastly creatures and humans alike, to convince you this was a hub.
A hub of trade. A hub of business and pleasure. A centrefold of sorts to their daily lives.
Simon appears in the alleyway, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips forming a rather intense scowl. “Driving’ them crazy. Testosterone filled pissin’ contests. Wha’s with Johnny?”
“Same shit.” Kyle exhales, and there’s a passable moment of silence before he cracks a grin and looks back at you. “Hand okay?”
“You’re all insane, this is madness.” You speak with a solid yet quiet huff, finding yourself pressing back against the wall behind you. “This is all… I was supposed to be dead-”
“S’tha’ what you think?” Simon scoffs and digs into a pocket of the coat he’s wearing, slipping out a hand rolled cigarette. “S’tha’ what shite you’re fed?”
You watch the flame appear at the end of the cigarette, the burning end leading to him releasing a small puff of smoke from the corner of his lips. This is all insane, you know it is, and there’s a defining battle within yourself that’s warring for control.
To run. To hide. To escape.
To be cared for, damn all your reasoning. To be doted upon.
“Yes.” You answer short, your voice tight.
“No.” Johnny’s grin falters, same as Kyle. And like earlier in the day, you’re touched by one of them. By Kyle, whose knuckles stroke your jaw as he feels you, as he commits your face to memory as if you’d slip before his very eyes. “No, we don’t hurt our mate. You’re cold, sweetheart. Let’s go home.”
Home. Here? Or there, where you came from?
What would wait you in the village at home? Among humans where you’d be considered lower class while the rich nobles, elected by themselves or by their own corrupt hands.
What was even happening in your mind? What the hell were you thinking? It was all a mess, every piece and portion of your mind.
There’s so many things you can accuse them of, so much you want to say and could say. But there’s silence in place of verbal responses, and you can’t muster the energy to speak. Not now. Not when you feel your body giving into exhaustion, when you can feel the ache of your muscles and the demand to sleep. It’s weighing heavily on you, irrevocably drawing you toward a place of formidable silence—and an unfortunate dependency on creatures that hunted you down.
The sound of the pub, of the fight that’s fuelled by whatever in the hell Simon called a rut, sparks that urgency again.
Within Johnny. Within Kyle. Within Simon.
“We’re leaving.” Simon observes your silence and takes any chance of a rebuttal away from you. “Now.”
That word, the demand of the single syllable, is enough to spark a reaction. A hand slips into yours, Kyle’s your surmise, and you’re led down the alley away from the pub. You tug on his hand to free yourself, but his hold is too strong, and he won’t let you go. His grip is stronger than iron and steel, and you’re led away, flanked and escorted by Johnny and Simon.
There’s no change of arguing because you know it wouldn’t change anything.
*****************************
“Fuck.” Johnny groans and grinds his hips against the mattress, pressing that hardened edge of his tip against the sheets. The startling and desperate want in his veins is like fire, unrelenting fire that burns him from the inside out. “Fuck, fuck, fuck….”
Behind him, a hand scrapes down his back. Nails dig into flesh while his legs are separated and a girth presses against him. The tension is boiling over, the need, and desire is driving the werewolf to desperation. He claws at the sheets, digging his nails into the bed as the material rips from the sharpness of his grip.
“You can’t be rough wit’ her.” Simon’s voice echoes in Johnny’s ear, the older and slightly stronger werewolf cracking his hand against Johnny’s ass. “She’s human, you can’t be a fuckin’ brute.”
“No more than ye.” Johnny’s voice is meant to be a growling display of contempt toward Simon, but it comes out as a whine. The desperation clawing at his throat as Simon leans in, biting the back of Johnny’s neck. “Damn you-”
“Shut up, Johnny.” Simon’s bite increases in pressure and strength as the final push is made. The hard, dripping length of his cock slips between Johnny’s ass cheeks, filling him out like he’s so desperate to be. “You cum ’fore I say so, and I’ll fuck you until you pass out.”
It’s a threat between mates, between two werewolves who are just as equivocally affected by the rut as most other wolves are. Their mate is here, little human tucked into a bed across the house, while they’re left thrashing and hungry with need. But it’s too soon, you’re not ready for them, not in the slightest.
“Fuckin’ fire,” Johnny moans into the sheets, grinding his hips against the mattress while Simon thrusts into him, fucking Johnny like he so desperately needs, “the human is damn-”
“Johnny.” Simon growls and slips his hand down the back of Johnny’s neck to his throat. His fingers tighten, they begin to squeeze the other werewolf’s neck, silencing the werewolf pressed against the mattress. “You like being manhandled.”
Like a pain slut, Kyle’s voice echoes in their mind, and it’s not far from the truth. Johnny likes being tossed occasionally, manhandled and pushed around. When you smacked him, when your hand cracked against his cheek, you had no idea what that did to him.
You had no idea how much deeper and stronger the connection was to Johnny, how much desire surged through him. You were theirs, their mate, their human, their Luna.
Theirs.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Johnny groans and raises his hips, knowing full well that Simon will only shove him down again. “Si….”
“Whore.” Simon breathes into his mate’s neck, an affectionate dig whispered into Johnny’s flesh as Simon pulls out only to push his thick veiny cock back inside, only an inch at a time. “Taking my cock so well aren’t you?”
“Ye bastard, teasin’ me.” Johnny slips his hand between his abdomen and the mattress, grabbing onto his throbbing length. While his own hand is never as satisfying as someone else’s, Johnny knows it’ll have to do.
With the rut sinking well and full into their veins, Simon will be keeping his eyes on Johnny while John and Kyle deal with each other. And you, their darling little Luna, are well out of the way and out of reach.
For now.
“You like it.” Simon’s hand rests against Johnny’s left ass cheek, fingers digging into the flesh as he bottoms out again. There’s a heightened sense of pleasure that comes from being balls deep into his mate’s ass, and even more, knowing how well he enjoys this.
The bed begins to rock, the frame creaking with every thrust, while Simon’s keeps one hand around Johnny’s neck. He squeezes his fingers, tightening his grip as Johnny arches his back and grinds his hips. Simon knows Johnny’s searching for friction to get himself off, with his hand and the pathetic grinding against the mattress.
“Don’t you dare fuckin’ cum.” Simon leans his head down and latches onto Johnny’s neck again, teeth grating against his skin. “You ‘ear me?”
“Cannae ‘ear ye, fucker.” Johnny knows what he’s doing, and he knows he’s going to get it. He knows, and he doesn’t care.
“Brat.” Simon withdraws his cock from between Johnny’s ass, letting the pre-cum dribble from his red and throbbing head. “On your back.”
It doesn’t take more than one order before Johnny is flat on the mattress, his cock being pumped by his own hand. Simon growls and forcefully spreads his legs, fingers digging into the meat of Johnny’s thigh. He doesn’t give him notice, Simon doesn’t need to. He presses the tip against Johnny’s ass and pushes in, the head disappearing into the hole as the werewolf beneath him moans wantonly.
The bed crashes against the wall like thunder. Every thud is chaotic and matched only by the moans and grunts coming from Johnny’s mouth. While Simon is fucking Johnny like he’s driven wild by the rut because he is, there’s a slick dampness that coats Johnny’s palm.
Simon is fucking Johnny ruthlessly, taking them both through a rut, while Johnnys is pumping his hand up and down his cock. His neck is craned, and he’s whimpering, desperately grunting and groaning, chasing the high that he knows won’t come until Simon says so.
“Don’t.” Simon leans over and crashes his lips against Johnny’s, giving him a sharp order while their tongues meet. “Not yet.”
“Won’t be able to hold it.” Johnny whines, voice trembling. “Can’t-”
“Yes.” Simon cuts him off as the bed creaks and groans, the headboard smacking ruthlessly against the wall. “You. Can.”
“Simon-” “I said wait.”
He doesn’t necessarily blame Johnny when his self-control snaps like a rubber band. The rut is taking its hold of all of them, and Simon knows that by grinding his hips against Johnny’s ass that it will be the end.
And it is. Simon fucks Johnny as roughly as he needs, he grinds his hips against his mate, and he knows Johnny’s losing it.
It appears as thick white spurts of that wasted seed, coating Johnny’s abdomen. The sticky spend, ropes of illicit cum shoots from the head of Johnny’s cock, coating parts of his hand and his stomach.
“Told you.” Johnny huffs, but not necessarily in relief.
“You’re in for a long night.” Simon promises Johnny, lowering a hand to crack against his ass.
The morning comes with vibrant hues of red and pink, beautiful shades of colours that mock the grim reality facing those who are trapped. Behind the thick maze of hedges, the barrier that is sealed for another year.
Days have passed between the start of the hunt and that morning—the closing of the barrier that sealed you all in here. Human’s as they had been hunted and captured, are once again waking up to a new life forced upon them for the safety of others.
The colours that burst into the horizon with the promise of something new, unwanted and unwarranted as it was, had starkly been a reminder that there was no escape. Your attempt to run had been squandered with the quick thinking of werewolves, who truly operated like a pack of wild beasts. There was no place to run and since your attempt to flee had been kiboshed like it had, you had been sealing yourself away from them.
“Space, leave them be.” John, the oldest of the werewolves, had given a direct order that was set in stone despite one of the other protests.
You spent days after you had sought escape in that bedroom they had given you. You had self-isolated and the werewolves, that had hunted you like you were prey, didn’t encroach like you expected. Whether it was the order of the eldest werewolf, or your own aggression displayed through the broken nose, they adhered to your space.
They had given you what you needed without you even asking, knowing what you required without provocation. The trays that appeared outside your door contained food and water, tea or even wine in polished silver goblets. There were new and freshly washed blankets two days into your isolation, seemingly appearing while you were dead asleep—when you’d finally found rest after pacing in the room.
Isolation wasn’t forever.
Four days after the hunt had begun and concluded, he appeared in your doorway. The werewolf that was bigger than the rest with those dark brooding brown eyes, the ones you mistook for black when he was a wolf. He hadn’t spoken to you when he had shown his face in the threshold of the door, rather he had stood like a gargantuan gargoyle keeping watching over a church’s peek.
You had been comprising another track to pace while kept in this room when that werewolf, in the flesh, had appeared. His stark gaze that burned holes into you had ceased your actions before you could follow that same track as before. Silent but telling, he had stood there and waited for you to acknowledge him with any physical or verbal cues.
When you had stared back at him, hands balled by your sides and your throat tightening with some curse you couldn’t air, he had responded simplistically. The corner of his lips rose in a half-smirk, one rooted with something you could perceive as amusement or even a challenge. As if he were daring you to try pulling the same shit you had with the other one, begging you to attempt to break his nose.
Interrupting the silent exchange back and forth between the two of you, another werewolf had appeared by his side. This one with blue eyes, the one called SOAP, hadn’t taken the same cantankerous approach. Instead, he had grinned in a boyishly charming manner and stepped into the room with you.
Your attention flitted from one werewolf to the other, to the one who had tried to comfort you when you tried to escape. There was no reasonable doubt in your mind that made you believe he was any less dangerous or deadly as the others. They were all beasts, all werewolves who spent time hunting human’s that were chosen to be bartering chips for the safety of the villages surrounding.
“Mornin’.” He hadn’t bared the idea of you hurting him or you breaking his nose like you had the other, and didn’t heed the “Soap” spoken by the beast behind him. “Need a bath, hen.”
You slid your feet back against the wooden floor, creating another few inches of distance between you and him. Though there was nowhere to run, even if you could have darted past one, the other brute was keeping guard. Your hands, still balled by your sides, were your only means of defence if he had tried something.
“Johnny.” The creature guarding the door spoke again, this time an actual distinguishing name.
The incident with the candlestick had resulted in anything remotely dangerous, that could be turned into a weapon, was removed from the room. There were very few items left for you to use, even as volley’s—save for the books that still lined the shelf.
“Not sayin’ ye smell bad but…” Johnny, or Soap or whatever the hell he was called, started approaching you. His grin widened, and his head cocked to the side, like a curious puppy. One who was either uncaring or unaware of the space desired between it and the object of its attention.
“Cannae go to town lookin’ like ye were dragged through mud. Can’t say dinnae like the look of ye-“ He encroached toward you and only stopped when there was less than a foot between his body and your own. And then he had stood stark before you, his height and frame towering over your own with a modular comparison that made you feel weak.
“The barrier’s closed. Can’t go anywhere, and this is done. Sealed you in. Ours.” The words echo in your mind, while the lips that speak them are hidden from you by Johnny’s body. “Stay here and lose yoru mind, or try’n make the best of it.”
“We know…” his hand moves toward you, and you freeze where you stand, bracing for something nefarious. And instead you’re treated to a soft yet calloused finger brushing against your skin, wiping flecks of caked dirt or mud from you. “…it isn’t easy for you.”
“You don’t know a thing about what you’ve done.” Your response is instantaneous, and you finally react by smacking his hand away from you, a hard glare. “You hunted me, hunted us-“
A throat clears behind Johnny, and he steps aside to give you a clear view of yet another werewolf. The oldest of them all, the one who demanded they give you space, stands in the hallway. His blue eyes, crinkled at the corners with faint signs of the years he has on the others, zero in on you and you alone. He stands there with a commanding presence that demands respect, and there’s almost an innate desire to crater.
“Go clean yourself. We’re leaving in an hour.” There’s no question, no room for argument that could give you any leverage to say no. There’s only the telling remark and the natural order of this pack that responds to their, you assume, alpha’s voice.
“Got ye some nice bath oils, hen.” Johnny grabs your hand and begins leading you out of the room, your heels digging in naturally, but the strength of the beast in front of you is unyielding. There is no chance of you fighting him off, of you resisting by any measure that could produce results.
That harrowing and settling force of his hand against yours is pressing. It’s indicative of the pressing reality you faced days before and even now—when you had broken the nose of the fourth werewolf, he could have stopped you. He could have retaliated and broken you in return. It was obtusely clear that they garnered strength you didn’t have.
“He’s not pissed at you.” The door to the bathroom opens, and you are escorted into the room, despondently remiss at the beauty of the room.
A large window that sat near the clawfoot bathtub, brass faucets and fixtures that contrasted against the colour of the walls. The bathtub itself was built for them, obviously suited for bodies larger than yours, and even then, it appeared it was suited as a soaker tub. For them when they wanted comforts with each other, or for when they wanted to completely immerse in the water.
“What?” You had aired the question, a natural response to hearing his voice yet not registering what he had said.
You were too distracted by the beauty of nature that was much more accessible without the haze of the fog that plagued your mind. While it wasn’t entirely dissipated after the days you had self-isolated yourself, it was lifting ever so slowly, which left you mesmerized.
Captivated by the thick brambles of branches boasting brightly coloured leaves that created an image of something otherworldly. There was an inescapable beauty that contrasted with the beasts inhabiting the forest, a contrast that seemed wholly unfair.
If the situations were different, you could have enjoyed the breathtaking beauty of the enchanting forest. If only you hadn’t been hunted, you could have spent hours wandering the trails and tracks of the woods. You could have gotten lost in the density of the moss covered earth, the thick bark of trees that created shadows upon the trails.
“Kyle,” he spoke again and his voice a catalyst that made you tear your gaze from the window by the bath, “he’s no pissed at ye, hope y’know that.”
“Mean, he’s not happy that ya broke his one, but he cannae blame ye. Little human’s quite fierce, aye?” Johnny’s lips upturn into a smile again, and he crosses his arms over his chest. A stance that must feel natural to the beastly man, as it doesn’t seem to be indicative of his mood.
The comforts of a warm, steaming bath that would ease your muscles and the ache in your bones is calling you. And you turn away from Johnny again to focus on the water that’s waiting for you. Prepared just for you with the soft scent of natural lilac and roses, maybe even vanilla, that rises from the water.
“Take yer time, love. We’ll be waitin’ for ya when you’re done. Set new clothes outside the door for ye when you’re ready.” Johnny doesn’t wait for you, he silently backs out of the bathroom.
The door shuts with a soft click, and you’re left alone in the room, the water still steaming and the blend of scents promising comfort. You stand in the middle of the room, attention diverting from the window and the nature that lies beyond the glass to the water in the bathtub. Eventually, the stillness that renders you unmoving dissipates, and you slowly peel off the linen shift you were given before the hunt.
You ball them up and kick them toward the wall as if they, themselves, are cursed, and then you approach the side of the clawfoot bathtub. Your fingers curl around the edge to stabilize yourself before you lift a leg and set your foot into the depths of the water. It’s almost immediate, the warmth that radiates your body as the combination of lilac and roses eases you.
When you fully immerse yourself in the water, you tip your head and rest the back of your neck against the edge. Your eyes flutter closed, and you sit in the water, immersed in the warmth that laps at your skin. You inhale and fill your lungs, promptly and far too easily, forgetting where you are and what happened.
For a moment it feels perfect, it feels natural and wondrous.
****************************************
The rays of sunshine peeking through the covering of shifting and falling leaves, signalling the cusp of fall and encroaching winter, had cast shadows on the path ahead. The forest that was alive with moans of pleasure from humans, the barrage of howls from beasts and the heavy thuds of paws sinking into the earth, had been stilled.
The heady mix of the hunt and the thrill of the villages lying beyond the borders of the hedges, happy to be secured for another year, had ended. In its place were the soft trills of birds taking cover on the branches of overhanging trees. Beyond the front gate was the trail and path that led away from their property, carved out and guarded by four beasts that would defend it with their lives.
That path had taken them, and you, through the winding trail carved out in the forest toward the village. The road that was littered with leaves shifting colours as they fell to the ground beneath those sturdy trunks—signalling the end of one season and the beginning of another.
“Even if you wanted to run, you wouldn’t get out.” It wasn’t a threat, it was a fact that was blatantly laid out for you.
There was no escape, your fate was sealed, no matter how you had tried to fight this decision. You were not the first human to try to run from the fate they were handed, and you would not be the last. It was only a matter of time before you would come to accept what was happening to you.
The winding path from the property they carved out from themselves had led you here. There was a main road that led in and out of the village, with buildings and thatched houses that acted as sentinels. The village itself was not dreary nor dead like you imagined it to be, which in itself was a startling contrast to your perceptions about them.
Life was flourishing within the village. Shoppes that were bustling with those creatures and humans who had come to buy necessities or trade. Vendors who were selling in open aired carts on the sides of the road, while men, women, and children had walked by. The inability to detect which were wolves and which were humans had been altering to you.
Almost maddening.
“We’re not bloodthirsty fuckin’ animals, love.” Kyle had caught your surprise and suspicion, commenting on the expressions that shifted on your face.
The stages of grief weren’t being reflected in their entirety now, but you had certainly gone through every one in the days following the hunt. Even back at the property and house—or perhaps a den by their standards, non-traditional of course—you had retained your standoffishness. You weren’t going to so openly accept this fate inflicted upon you, but it wouldn’t change anything.
They were determined to show you what life was waiting for you, what your conceptions of them had been wrong. Regardless of your aggression, of the act of you breaking Kyle’s nose in the act of anger, they would not retaliate. There was no indication in the slightest that they would react with force that you had expected.
“What kind of ideas do you have about us? What the hell have those humans been telling you?” The question that was aired had gone without an answer. It didn’t need one, it was apparent they knew about the disingenuous reputation they had received from the villages.
Mindless, bloodthirsty beasts that tore into humans. Humans that would be laid out onto the earth broken and torn to shreds, never to be seen again. There was nothing but death and destruction on the other side of the barrier, humans that were sent to their demise at the whims of beasts.
“Over here.” A steady hand on your back had steered you off the path that led further into the village, toward a shoppe built from stone. John had led you with ease while no one else, not a single person or creature, had bat their eyes at you.
Humans and werewolves intermingling and cohabitating like there was nothing amiss—as if there were never a hunt or the cries, moans and howls of wolves and humans alike. Life had moved on in the village that you expected to be dreary and dilapidated. There was nothing of the sorts, rather there was a kind of eclectic beauty that filled out every space of the village. It extended from the seemingly peaceful balance between humans and wolves, symbiotically thriving with each other.
“Mates.” Kyle’s voice was softer than anticipated, and he slipped by your right side to open the door to the shoppe for you. His nose was already healing, a benefit of being a werewolf, and the bruising was almost nonexistent. It was beginning to appear as if it had never happened; as if you had never used a candlestick and what force you could to break his nose.
You were escorted into the building by John, Kyle flanking your right side, with the other two following behind. The moment you stepped through the door, a whirlwind of a child flew by you. Running barefoot holding a stuffed wolf with a bright pink colour, the child had torn away from the front door toward the back. You followed the child with your eyes, long before you had been distracted by faceless busts secured by metal rods—all of which were displaying clothes.
“Our little human needs somethin’ to wear. Unless ye want to be naked all the time.” Johnny had wolfishly grinned at you whilst you looked around the shoppe with caution and speculation. “Wouldnae bother me, d’like to see ye bare-“
“No.” Simon had spoken over him, silencing Johnny with a grunt and a passing smack to the wolves' ass—both playful and teasing for the imposing man. “Love needs warmth for winter.”
“Choose whatever you like.” That hand on the small of your back was still guiding you, driving you toward the various options and fabrics.
You were deridingly silent while you were being both escorted and guided. Moving throughout the shoppe while the innocent laughter had echoed from the back. Until the wild child who had brushed past you before, had made another appearance. He had appeared at the entrance toward the back of the shoppe, tucked behind his mother’s legs—a woman wearing a simple yet sturdy dress made of thick wool. She smiled at John warmly as she reached behind her back to brush her fingers through her child’s hair.
“We were expecting you earlier, John.” Her hair was pinned at the top of her head, delicate box braids held by a scar made of fine silk. “Kate was beginning to worry.”
“The adjustment is hard.” His hand tightens on your back as he urges you forward like you’re a child afraid of meeting new friends. “This is her.”
“She’s beautiful.” The woman in front of you crooned immediately, her natural smile widening and brightening. “I remember my first few days here, it was hell.”
“You were…” your voice comes out softer than expected, yet it trails off, almost strained from the silence you’d mostly kept all morning.
“Hunted, yes.” She responds without hesitation, while her child who’s as hiding behind her legs quickly tries to climb her legs. “The villages we leave behind are detestable compared to the life we get here.”
Yoru face shifted through differing and varying emotions, as if there was second wave of the stages of grief. The woman before you, human like yourself, hadn’t looked deranged or captive by any means—she had a child who absolutely adored her, and it appeared that she was glowing.
Radiant.
“We need everything.” John had spoken again while the silence lingered, and stepped closer until his chest was nearly flush to your back. “They give them less every year.”
“I heard.” The woman’s smile falters and is replaced with a deeply rooted frown, a clear and immeasurable display of her disapproval. “They think the more deprived the humans are, the more thrilling the hunt.”
The child that climbs up is mother’s legs, clings to her. His arms wrap around his mother’s neck and his cheek rests against her shoulder. His eyes shift from John behind you, to yourself and a small shy smile crosses his face. He snuggles in closer to his mother but moves one hand in the motion of a wave—one that you naturally return.
“Well, you came at the right time.” The subject and the tone shifts from the deplority of the humans and the village you left behind, toward the future in front of you.
“Kyle, take Johnny and get everything else we need. We’ll be here for a while and when you’re done, meet us at the pub.” John speaks with nothing less than respect, regardless of it being an order, and affection drips through his tone.
The two werewolves who had escorted you from their house and den, down the winding paths through the forest, have been ordered by the leader of their pack. While they acknowledge the orders, and they will comply, they don’t leave immediately. Not yet.
Kyle, who is still near your right, reaches out and brushes the back of his knuckles against your jaw. He feels your flesh beneath his own as the very shadow of a smile, affectionate in its nature, rises. He mumbles something soft and sweet, before he passes by you and leaves the shoppe.
Johnny, like Kyle, has to bid you a goodbye that he feels is proper. And like Kyle, he reaches out and touches you, but not in such an overtly tender way as Kyle had. Rather, Johnny reaches for your hair and gives it a playful tug, like a boy trying to tease the girl he has a schoolyard crush on.
With the two gone, under John’s direction, you are left to the devices of the two remaining werewolves. The door to the shoppe closes with a gentle tug, and then you are dressed by the human in front of you.
“This way, we have a lot for you to choose from.” It’s not just her eyes that are kind or her smile, it’s her voice and tone. She exudes understanding and sympathy, knowing where your headspace must be and what hell you think you are in.
Even if you would rather not admit it, there appears to be a bright glimmer of hope in front of you.
It’s droplets of blood that stain razor sharp teeth, curled back behind the snapping maw of a werewolf that stands above you. The hot breath of a beast that snarls and growls like a demon in the flesh sends a coursing of vibrant fear down your spine, rendering you incapable of moving. Your back is pressed against sharp stones buried in thickets of grass, and those heavy paws that rip prey apart in seconds, pin your limbs down.
The weight and force behind the werewolf above you keeps you trapped beneath the roughened and dirtied fur, preventing any chance of possible escape from the creature. Your fear is threatening your heart, committed to stop its natural beat, as your mind struggles to come to terms with the death toll that strikes as a current to sweep you away.
There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that can stave off the hunger of the beast that traps you beneath its body, and any willpower it has to tear you to pieces has yet to be unleashed.
“Make it quick.” You had long since staved off pleading, off begging for any kind of reprieve or mercy. “If you’re going to kill me-“
The beast lowers its head and lets' loose a hellish growl that silences you with the threatening power of a monster who could and likely would kill you. Your eyes are trained on the creature hovering above you, pinning you beneath its weight and strength. There is no escape, there is no running from this fate that you are being succumbed to.
Another drop of blood falls from those razor sharp teeth, thick and hot drips of crimson that soak into the fabric of your clothes, staining the material above your abdomen. You feel the heat from this wolf’s body, you feel the inebriated state of some kind of calm settling over you as you accept that this is the end.
You will die. This will be the day and the hour of your death, the minute that your heart stops beating.
The wolf above you crouches down, pressing its thick and dirtied fur against your body, its head lowered until it is nearly parallel to your own. You expect to feel the pain of teeth ripping and digging into your flesh, the sudden and inescapable heat of pain that courses through you as you are ripped to pieces.
It never comes. The werewolf pinning you to the earth growls again, the rumble of its chest radiates into your own until you feel as if your bones are rattling. But the pain never comes, the tearing of flesh and muscle, breaking of bones is not inflicted upon you like you are expecting.
The wolf dips its head, and you feel the cold wet tip of its nose press against your chest, the sensation of it’s body touching your own has made you inhale painfully. Your breath is bated, and you wait, you wait for something, anything else to happen that could and would be the end of your life. The beast is certainly capable of ending you, you know that.
Like the expectations before, it doesn’t come. The beast doesn’t tear into you, it presses its nose to your chest and then to your abdomen. There is a soft motion from the werewolf, the feeling of it rubbing its nose against your abdomen and upper pelvis, any and all growls are ceased.
Momentarily. The growls are replaced by whines, soft and almost soothing, if you could claim the beast had any ability to be soothing. It’s almost like a melody, a kind of communication that only these creatures are capable of.
And then as soon as the melody verbalized in whines, whimpers and soft purring is finished, the werewolf stands again. Its claws dig into the earth it stands on and the curling of its jowls has once again struck fear within you; however, the werewolf doesn’t linger.
It stands above you for only a moment more before it braces itself and then jolts forward, running like the maddened beast you thought it was, snapping and snarling. You tilt your head back and see the werewolf, deadly and destructive, darting into the treeline, chasing something.
Sweat clings to your skin, the hair on the back of your neck is dampened. Behind your eyelids, you can feel the intrusion of light that casts lines only you can see, beckoning you to rise. You don’t will yourself to open your eyes, you cannot guide your mind and body into a united act, there is too much of a deterrent within you to comply.
However, there is little hope of remaining in this status of being both awake and asleep, not when you can hear the distant sounds of human screams. The sound that is converged into the final stimulus to wake you bleeds through the corner of your mind until you are left with no choice. You open your eyes and cast your vision upon the wall that’s immediately in front of you, the wooden surface broken up by a single window.
A single window is cut into the seamless wall with a frame that is divided into four panes of glass, each with a layer of dust upon the wood. Though the window is shut tight, there appears to be some small amount of a chill billowing in from outside, one that even the blankets you are under cannot stave off. You remain silent and still as you take in every visual stimulus that you can.
A candle burns on the bedside table to your right, the wick is flickering as afflicted by the invisible chill that billows in from the window. There is the casting of light that partially illuminates the room, giving it a soft glow, a glow that would be enticing and welcoming in any other circumstance.
Instead, it had brought back the resurgence of the events of the night that were briefly forgotten by what sleep you had gotten.
You shift on the bed and reach your left hand toward the candlelight, fingers nearly grazing the flame that burns. Your focus shifts from the candle flame to the cuts and abrasions on your skin, the deeper and large cuts are cleaned and wrapped, though none are longer than two inches. Your eyes trail the distinction of every cut, every bruise or scratch that you can see.
And then you feel the dull aching at the back of your head that swift begins to move forward. The sensation of that dull pain that presents itself as a headache, had yet again stopped your fingers from touching the flame of that candle. Your eyes screw closed, and your lips become firmly pressed together in a desperate attempt to quell the headache from making you incapable of getting out of bed.
Through the window, though still muffled, you can hear the screams of humans. Screams that you once thought were terror, register in your mind as not pained as you had originally thought. No, instead of screams of anguish like you had initially believed, they are screams of pleasure from being caught and being taken down in the dirt.
The werewolves you had seen with their male mate, fucking him from behind while his mouth was busy sucking another off, filtered into your mind. You wondered how many other humans were being fucked and played with, how many others were being screwed where they were hunted down and taken.
And how many times has the werewolves ripped orgasm after orgasm from them, to the point where there were no words but pleasured yelps.
And furthermore, why hadn’t you been thrown to the dirt and taken like others were?
Not us, not here, not tonight….
The werewolf that seemed to be in the lead of this pack, the one in charge who barked orders and commanded the others like they were a small army, had promised they were different. But why, if the point was to enjoy the hunt and take what they wanted, then why wait?
A loud and animalistic growl obscures the pleasured screams, one that comes far too close to the house you’re in. You don’t rise to your feet to witness what is going on, but you hear it, the snarls and there’s snapping of teeth, the heavy thuds of paws that are driven forward, followed by a yelp.
There is something happening outside below the window, or even further, and you briefly debate moving to see what’s happening. Though just as quickly as the snapping of jaws, the steady thudding of paws and sharp yelps occurs, there is silence again.
“Run girl, run.” You mumble the words that had once echoed in your mind from voices that didn’t belong to you, those same words are now repeated in your mind.
Finally, after staying in the position you were in, you find the gumption or the actionable need to move, to shift and throw the blanket back. You allow your flesh to be accosted by the slight chill, and there is a rising of goosebumps to your flesh that is just another sensation that reminds you that this is real.
This is reality, not some dastardly horrid nightmare that you will wake from. This is real, it’s happening and there is little chance of getting out of here regardless of your will to try. You are briefly entertained by the idea of opened the window and climbing down the side of the house to find an escape, to dart from the werewolves that had caught you. There is a momentary-deluded plan to try to navigate back to the barrier and keep hacking away at the hedges that keep you in, until you are back where you belong.
Reality sets in again, and you know that you wouldn’t make it far. You know that even if you had opened the window and climbed down, if you had somehow managed to escape without drawing the werewolves' attention, it would be futile. And even by some miracle if you had done all of that and managed to slip by, there was the manner of the barrier itself.
The manner of which you would be unable to get back across because this was the deal—because this was the first trade and that barrier was sealed.
There is a momentary lapse in screaming from outside, as well as the deep growling from below the second window. The sliver of quietude allows you to hear voices that radiate and penetrate the closed door, voices that carry naturally from the first floor and lead you to believe that there are now two creatures in the house. Which two you can’t be certain, but you listen well and long enough to know one of them will be coming upstairs, to see you.
Your gaze falters from the window across from the bed, and it falls to the interior of the room you’re in, studying the layout or what you could make use of. The bed you had been lying on is made of solid wood that is stained and coated with a natural layer, with visible knots in the headboard and footboard.
Across from the bed along the adjacent wall to the window is a simple and plain three level shelves with a few select books. The books carry the same kind of small dust as the window frame and windowsill, giving you the impression that they haven’t been used lately.
To the left of the bed is a closet with doors that are left open, and the interior is mostly barren save for a few pieces of clothing that are arranged on hooks built into the closet. Above the clothing arranged on hooks are blankets that are folded and placed near the edge of the shelf rather than toward the back, perhaps for your benefit.
Footsteps come up the stairs with a heavy creak of the floorboards announcing their arrival. If not both, then at least one, and at least one, will enter the space you are in. You shift your weight from foot to foot and exhale slowly, your fingers touching the carved stem of the candlestick as you grasp the girth of it.
You turned your head and watch the door from the corner of your eyes as the footsteps stop and then the door creaks open. One of the werewolves in human form enter the room carrying with them a wooden tray with a small teapot in the middle, a cup to the left and what looks like bread and meat, spiced or salted.
“How’re you feeling?” The voice matches one of the voices that was in your head while you were running, smooth and rich like chocolate melting. “Better, worse?”
He sets the tray down on the bedside table opposite of the one you’re near, sliding the tray until it is well-balanced. You watch him cautiously, observing and studying the nature and appearance of the wolf now turned human.
This must have been the one with the thick and deep, dark brown fur with a glimmer of gold upon his back. The wolf, that had mixed fur of deep brown and gold, now had short dark curls that were cropped fairly close, not outgrown or improper.
His eyes were deep brown but oddly warm, rimmed with the gold belonging to the wolfish nature buried inside of him. This wolf-turned-human carried with him an enticing charm to his voice, one that could have easily dismantled any concern you might have had for your wellbeing—if you hadn’t known better. If you hadn’t known who or what he was, you might have been easily charmed by him.
“Name’s Kyle, they call me Gaz.” He steps toward you, drawing closer as he leaves the food and tea behind, letting it rest there while obviously trying to make introductions. “I know you’re scared, most humans are after being hunted.”
Humans. Hunted. Scared.
Your fingers tighten against the candlestick, and you’re glad that you angled yourself to hide the weapon you were trying to use. Your back was still to him, your eyes were cast over your shoulder as you watched him warily. He was coming closer, drawing nearer to you, while endeavouring to use that soothing voice to calm you.
“We won’t hurt you, love. We’re not beasts.” His lips rise at the corner as he mentions the word beasts, like it’s some joke to him and not a play on what you, and the other humans, think he is. “Why don’t you eat, yeah? You have a headache, we know they like you humans to be hungry going into the hunt.”
Your fingers tighten around the middle of the candlestick, skim over your knuckles are drawn taut as you brace yourself. As you try to gain the strength and confidence to turn and strike, to use what you could find to even attempt escaping.
Those previous ideas of running have returned, and now your mind is on autopilot, fight, or flight is encroaching upon you. You don’t need to choose between one or the other, you’ll accomplish both or die trying.
“Night’s almost over, the screaming will stop. Bother’s you, doesn’t it?” When Kyle or Gaz, or whatever the fuck his name is, reaches out and brushes his fingers against your waist, you react.
Your body moves on its accord, acting on self-preservation and instinct that drives you to react with the physical assault that had been building in your mind. You grip that metal candlestick with all you have and turn sharply on your heel, using the heavy base you slam it into his nose using as much force as you can.
You don’t even register your scream until it is matched with his own pained grunt and cursing.
“Fuck!” His hand rushes to his nose, blood instantly drawn as the crack registers as a broken nose in your mind. “You broke my fuckin’ nose!”
Your hand drops the candlestick to the floor, and you bolt past the werewolf in human form, darting out the door. There is nothing more present on your mind than the urgency to run, to run fast and far and escape while you have a chance. Your feet carry you down the hallway and stairs, the tenacity you feel nearly makes you trip over your feet as you move. Your heart races, thundering beneath the cage it’s in, as your eyes grow wide with fear.
“Gaz, what the fuck?!” A voice deeper than the one before booms from the second floor, somehow it was another one of those creatures you missed.
“Broke my fuckin’ nose, that’s what happened!” The arguing between the two only spurs you on, only drives you further toward finding an exit. “S’not fuckin’ funny!”
Your feet slip out from under you, and you crash against the wooden floor, hitting bottom with enough force that you’re temporarily stunned. Your breath comes out shakily, your heart feels like it’s about to stop completely, and you think that maybe time itself has completely stopped. Your body aches where you fell, and you have to mentally scream at yourself to move, to get up and move, to free yourself from the fog that pins you down.
You push yourself to stand on your shaky legs, you find your footing again and then jolt forward. Once more, you feel the natural drive to run from these predators who hunted you, to escape while you have the measure opportunity to try.
“Soap!” The second of the voices from above calls a name just as you manage to get out of the house. You skid to a stop and freeze completely, your hand shooting out to grab the frame, to keep your balance, while you realize your only means of escape onto the trail is blocked. There at the gate is a werewolf with retained that light blue colour and beautiful as it was while rimmed with gold, it spelled trouble.
The wolf whose name was called had stood and perked its ears up, its head cocked to the side. Its tail was wagging slowly and rhythmically as it jogged toward you. Frozen by some unnatural hold that prevented you from escaping, from running further, you stood there. It was an inability to run, to really try to make your way into the forest from which you came.
The wolf dipped its head and began whining, low in its throat, as it watched you. Seconds were torturous as you mentally screamed at yourself to run, to flee while there was a furry of aggressive cursing coming from the second floor, and yet—
Don’t run, dinnae even try, a Scottish brogue thick and heady echoed in your mind with an encompassing warmth that didn’t entirely unsettle you as it should have. The sun is rising, morning is coming. Don’t run
“I can’t.” You get control of your body, and you move, you shift and begin the same tract as before, trying to run.
And just as easily as you cross the threshold of the house and step onto that wispy grasp, a strong arm encircles your waist, and you are lifted from your feet. Strength and warmth bloom against your back followed by the scrape of teeth against your ear, the buzzing in your brain makes you feel weak and lightheaded.
“It’s too late,” this was the fourth werewolf, the leader you surmised, that had caught you, “barriers shut. Sealed.”
Any fight that might have been retained is quick to dissipate as your body goes lax. Your eyes burn with the sting of tears that you will not let fall, not of your own free will, and you feel the cusp of grass beneath your knees. You’re set down onto the ground, still pressed against that firm and strong back, but you are not alone with this fourth beast.
The one with blue eyes pads toward you ever so slowly, only to flop onto its belly. It crawls forward, head between its paws, as he watches you and the one behind you. It whines again and draws closer, tail still flopping back and forth with a slow and steady thump.
Tha thu bòidheach, you are beautiful the werewolf with blue eyes draws closer with every whine, keeping low as to not frighten you further. You’re okay, it’ll be okay
Fireworks crack and boom in the sky as distant cheering from the village that chose you to be here, signals the end of the hunt. The sun is rising with breathtaking colours that mock you and every other human in here, just as the barrier that werewolf spoke of will seal shut.
By the time the sun peeks up over the horizon and the start of the morning arrives, you know that your fate is truly sealed.
how does it go when gladiator könig meets servant reader for the first time? Was she terrified ?
Your hands shake under the weight of the amphorae that the wine is stored in, unsealed for the party and ready to be served. There is already a steady flow of wine and ale, like the river that cuts behind the estate the master of the house will pass down to his children.
You are pressed against the wall of the open aired gathering space, watching the plethora of guests interacting with each other. Some are regaling the tales of their prideful champions they sponsor, although some gladiators are owned like you are.
You had been sold as a servant by your family when they threatened with starvation. One too many mouths to feed and too many daughters who were born into a family where they preferred sons. You had been ripped from the beautiful rolling hills of the small village you were born into, and thrust into servitude in the Britannic-Roman empire.
A servant for the vilicus, the owner of the estate who had a large number of servants and an even larger hand in the gladiatorial are arena. The very men who he was hosting tonight to appease and show off to his rich friends, to flaunt his ability to find the good ones, the men who would win every time.
Your hands follow a routine that has been seared into your mind from the multitude of parties you have served at. You approach the table, you fill the cups with wine from the amphorae and then you stand back and wait. You wait to be called, to be needed, for your services to be desired.
You pour wine for a gladiator who has two women in his arms, and feel the tight grip of fingers digging into your ass. The amphorae in your hands falls, it shatters upon the ground and wine splashes against stone. The gladiator who touches you laughs at your foolish mistake, and you feel the material of your dress starting to rise up your thighs.
Your master looks your way and begins scolding you while you are pawed at through the dress. The words start flowing and you are caught, frozen in place while knowing that you can’t fight, not now. You feel sick, you know you are going to be sick, until a sharp whistle cuts through the music and the partying.
The giant mountain of a man who has climbed to the top of the gladiator roster, acts of your behalf. He speaks with harsh words to the man touching you, calling him for a fool for wanting one more woman when he cannot even keep the two in his lap busy.
You duck your head and back off, you retreat to the wall and go back into your place of being invisible until needed.
With the wine flowing freely, the state of the men and the pleasure servants entertaining them have made it possible for you to slip outside. You step into the cool air and move toward the well that is dug into the estate, rushing to clutch the stones that form the walls. You lean over and heave, you feel the tautness of your throat and the burning clutch of bile that is beginning a slow climb.
“You are quiet, like a mouse scurrying on the ground to avoid being hunted.” The voice of the gladiator who prevented you from being exposed in the middle of the party rises behind you. You hear him walking, the sound of his leather sandals on the stone make you stand and turn—fingers curling around the strong edge of the wall to stabilize yourself.
You stare at him, eyes wide and lips parted in a silent protest or prayer; a begging cry for him not to touch you.
The gladiator moves forward until he towers above you, until he has to bend in order to look into your eyes. He raises his hand and you flinch; he does nothing but brush his fingers down the side of your cheek. He follows the motion to your neck, brushing hair off your shoulders to expose your neck, to see the bruise that forms from the hands that have touched you.
He clicks his tongue against his teeth, making a sound of disapproval and admonishment. His blue eyes are gleaming with something you cannot detect or describe, but there is a cock of his head that brings awareness to the fact that he is thinking. Of you. About you.
“I am owed so much for my…talents. I have earned the right to have anything I want, to have any servants I desire.” He brings his hand toward you again, tracing the lines of the bruise along the junction of your shoulder and neck. “Even a little maüs of my own.”
There is a loud crash from the party, cheering and jaunts and the soft cry of a woman. You look past this gladiator, back toward the door that leads back into the party and feel your breath hitching again. The brute in front of you follows your gaze by turning his head and looking back at the party you left.
He is watching, mindfully observing and listening to the mess. And then, as quickly as he looks back, he turns his attention back to you and reaches into the folds of the shirt toga he is wearing and removes a pouch. It is heavy with coins and he holds it in his hands, feeling the weight before he raises his head and takes a glimpse at you with a smirk playing on his lips.
“This should be more than enough to buy your servitude from your current house.” He slips the pouch of coins back into the folds of the toga and then nods his head in the direction of the party. “We will go deal with this now, ja?”
The world above him is black, with the only source of light coming from a moon that is too perfect and too large. The surface of the moon with all its cavernous dips and ridges can be seen from this place on earth, an improbability that somehow makes sense.
It’s vibrant as it sits against a background of endless black, a sea of darkness littered behind the beautiful bold moon. There is nothing to obstruct from the enrapturing sight of that big bold moon, not a single cloud that could obscure its face from visibility.
And there beneath the moon, laid out on a thick blanket of grass, is a body made of thick and warm fur. The tousles of grass that brush against the side of the beast are soft tendrils that draw out a sigh. The sound and breath of air that slips from the black nostrils of that wolf is just one of the few sounds that will fade into the background. And yet, the werewolf that lies in the grass, is still and complacent as it lays there, staring up at the moon that is reflected in the nearby waters of a clear stream.
“Keep the doors locked, and the windows shut, blackout all the windows. It isn’t anywhere near being done, and she doesn’t need to hear the screams.” John’s voice filters from inside their home, directing both Simon and Kyle on keeping their human as content as she could be.
And Johnny, who remains out in the grass at the front of their home, is laid out as a guard. Although there is little chance of a rogue werewolf trying to take another wolf’s claim, that is a risk they will not take. He would tear into them and rip out their throats before he would allow another wolf to take the human they hunted for themselves, to lay a hand on their mate.
“Need to switch?” John’s voice is shadowed by Kyle’s, and the offer makes Johnny rise to his feet, the sharp claws of his nails dig into the thick and lush grass. “I can take over.”
I’ll stay here, I want to, Johnny’s response is a form of communication that only mates can share.
Whether it was a tool for hunting easier as a pack, or as a bond that tied them all together, it was theirs. And that ability hadn’t just been kept between them, as their human, you could hear their voices as well. It was them, the four of their voices that you had heard while running. You might not have realized what was happening nor had you likely wanted to accept it, but it was true and it was natural.
“She’s going to have a hard time when she wakes up.” Kyle doesn’t leave Johnny alone. No, instead he sinks into the grass beside him. His hand runs along Johnny’s fur, fingers trailing along his spine and then back again, feeling his mate’s fur.
Johnny tucked his head and nudged the cold tip of his nose against Kyle’s arm. The sensation made him hiss under his breath and take a swipe at Johnny, one that was far more playful than harmful. There was a tentative stillness between the two of them, Johnny as a wolf and Kyle in is human form, before that silence was broken by a scream. Another wolf pack, however small, had taken their human there in the dirt and grass.
“We don’t treat our mate like they’re a toy.” John had verbalized all their desires and feelings pertaining to the hunt for their human.
They had seen first hand the brutality that could be extended upon humans that were hunted, and the aftermath that had left them emotionally, physically and mentally vulnerable. The recovery had not always been pleasant, and there was a precedent set among the four of them that would prevent them from treating their human like that.
“It’s getting late, the hunt will be over soon.” Gaz drew his hand along Johnny’s fur, his fingers stroking the thicker protection around his throat and neck to prevent him from being taken down easily. Like Johnny, their bodies were designed for fighting and hunting. There were viable reasons for the humans on the other side of the barrier to be frightened of creatures like them because they were deadly.
Nothing broken? Johnny’s voice had echoed in Kyle’s mind, and the latter responded with a frown that tugged on his lips and a wry shrug.
“Cuts, bruises, and a headache in the morning. John and Simon already got ‘em all cleaned up.” Kyle hadn’t ceased petting Johnny’s fur, if anything the soft strokes had continued. But along with the affectionate petting, Kyle had leaned his left temple against Johnny’s shoulder, sinking into the soft fur.
There was silence between them, verbal and mental communication had taken a pause. The two sat together in the grass while the breathtaking full moon hung above them against a dark canvas. There was a peacefulness that contrasted heavily with the atmosphere in the near distance, the hunt was still viable, yet it was coming to a close. Those screams from humans pressed between werewolves, taken and captured in the dirt, would cease soon enough.
And in the aftermath, a new round of humans would be spending the morning hours with marks on their necks and claims that tied them to the beasts they were so afraid of.
Johnny’s ears perked up at the sound in the thick brush that surrounded their property. The rendering of movement and sounds that were coming too close to their property, to their human, had the beastly werewolf inching forward toward the enclosed gate. His lips curled in a low rumbling growl, his razor sharp teeth bared as those blue eyes, rimmed with gold, narrowed in contempt of the possible threat.
The front door opened, and heavy footsteps had hit the stone path behind Johnny. Simon had left the house and took to the exterior a mere second after Johnny had detected the possible threat. Although Simon and Kyle were both in their human forms, they were no less of a threat and a danger to whoever, or whatever, was coming closer to them.
They would fight, willingly tearing into anything that crossed their paths, to defend the human inside. And John, in the unlikely chance anything or anyone would get past the other three, would be guarding you closely. A pack mentality, a unified motion of dangerous wolf-men who would kill for the human they captured tonight.
The incredulous ballsiness of whoever dared to come close to their property was quickly and deftly dealt with. The threat was another werewolf, young and likely the newest member of whatever pack it was from. The young thing had gotten too close to their property and Johnny, regardless of the age of this werewolf, had lunged forward. His teeth had been bared, and he snapped his jaws in warning as he dove toward the threat, using his strength and size to slam into the other wolf.
The young thing yipped from surprise and circled under Johnny to create some distance, its tail tucked between its legs. The other wolf was young, curious and had likely just followed the scent of their human here, not realizing what waited on the other side. Johnny had given it enough of a scare, enough of a jolt, for the younger werewolf to realize its grave error.
Mistake or not, the stakes were high not just for the werewolves who were doing the hunt but for the humans were being taken tonight. The adrenaline surging through the wolves turned them into animalistic, one-minded beasts who were wholly focused on taking what was theirs. The chance of a fight happening between different wolves in opposite packs was far more warranted than any other night.
And this younger werewolf had wandered off from the pack it belonged to, chasing a human scent that had been enticing enough to follow. This young werewolf was clearly eager to join on the first hunt, and if Johnny had to pin an age to this young thing, he’d estimate the wolf had just turned 19.
Young, eager, trying to prove it’s worth.
Go home, boy. This one’s ours. Johnny’s lips curled with another threat and a harrowing growl, though the other wolf couldn’t hear the physical claim Johnny had made on you, that was limited to the pack, the threat was still viable. The way he stood with his teeth bared, with the fur on the back of his neck standing on end and far more experience than this young thing had, Johnny was ready to fight.
“You’ll run away with your tail tucked between your legs, missing an eye.” Gaz stood on the edge of the property behind Johnny, equally just as threatening even in his human form. The promise was aired out to the young wolf, the curious and eager to please hunter trying to prove his worth, had wandered far too damn far.
With the threat of Johnny in front of the young to the hunt wolf, there was no chance of winning a fight—if it even dared to try. Knowing that it was futile, the young wolf bowed it’s head and huffed against the ground, a signal of it giving up on the very idea of fighting. However, it was smart enough not to turn its back on Johnny, not with Simon and Gaz behind him. Rather than turn its back to the three, the younger wolf had lowered its belly to the ground and crawled backwards into the woods, into the cover of the forest.
With the immediate threat, albeit not necessarily a dangerous one, to their human gone, Johnny had also returned to his original post. There was nothing that would cross him, cross them, until the final blow of that horn had ended the hunt for the year. And then once it was done and over, the three of them would join John inside the house and prepare for the fallout their human would undoubtedly give them.
“She’s gonna be pissed, mate. There’s fight in her.” Kyle welcomed Johnny back to the proximity of the house with a statement that drew another huff from Johnny. While Kyle stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes drawn toward the full and bright moon, Johnny looked at the house.
He raised his head and looked upon the window to the left and the candlelight that glowed softly through the glass, that warm light was just as captivating as the moon above them. He knew that inside that room, tucked under sheets and blankets for warmth, was their captured human. And just like Kyle had stated, there would be a hellstorm in the morning, as their pretty human would more than likely fight them all.
Regardless, you were their little mate that they had hunted and rightfully taken as their own. The act of the hunt was a guarantee that there would be peace between the werewolves and the humans. However, on your side of the barrier lies were told, twisted vulgarities about the nature of the wolves that lived here to scare the young children.
These humans they hunted were not meant to be killed foolishly and wantonly. They were mates, and they were meant to give their werewolves children. Mating and breeding. The humans, all of them regardless of the nature of the pack, were protected.
“It’ll be over soon, then the hissin’ begins.” Simon had reiterated Kyle’s previous point, and Johnny acknowledged his mate with a sigh before he laid back down in the grass, his head resting between his paws.
He knew it; they all knew it. Their fight was not over.
Johnny finds comfort in the moon that’s laid against the dark night sky. The canvas of the night is littered with stars that cast a glow, one that is entirely too beautiful and breathtaking to be real. Yet there it is, the moon as a nightlight to lead the way for the remaining hunters. It’s enticing, and its inescapable hold has Johnny feeling more relaxed than he should be while on guard.
“I can take over.” Kyle offers again, willing to trade in the final hours of the night as guard for Johnny. The offer sits in Johnny’s mind, it renders itself there, but the wolf can’t take it.
Instead, he flops his thick furry tail against the grass twice with a heavy whomp before he shifts ever so slightly. He tucks his chin against the width of his left paw and tilts his head, his gold rimmed blue eyes still transfixed upon the night sky. There’s a depth to his admiration of the suitable darkness that hangs above him. It’s as if the moon itself is communicating its approval of what they have done and who they have taken.
I’ll stay here, Johnny’s communication is accepted. It only takes a few more rendering moments of silence before Kyle and Simon head back inside the house, the door closing behind them. From outside, Johnny can hear the three of them moving around and completing tasks that need to be taken care of.
Johnny listens while he keeps his eyes on the moon, on the night sky and the stars that blanket it. He keeps his attention on the captivating feature while the last of those human screams seem to quiet down. The last of the wolves are finishing up their hunt, or their mating down in the dirt and grass, and soon the horn will blow.
Johnny waits, that’s all he can really do. He waits on guard, he lays against the thick billowing grass that brushes against his side and bides his time. Soon enough, he will hear the final blow of that horn, and it will all be over.
The barrier will be sealed, the line between humanity and the creatures they fear will be once more carved out like a trench. Dividing the opposing forces once more until the next hunt, until the next round of humans will be headed for the thick twisted forest.
The next hunt will be spent tucked inside their home, with their mate. You, with all of them. You, their Luna, nestled between four beastly men who will desire you like no one else ever could. They will spend the rest of their lives doting upon you, protecting you and safeguarding you better than any human ever possibly could.
It doesn’t take long for the blast of that horn to signify the end of the hunt. Johnny raises his head when he hears the sound, and his eyes are captivated by something apart from the moon. It isn’t just the blasting of that horn that signals the end of this year’s hunt, it’s the thunderous explosion of fireworks that cast their own light.
A celebration for the humans who are made safe on the other side of the barrier, who will spend the year in safety and without threat from the beasts they fear.
Johnny waits until the fireworks are over before he lays down again, resting his head on his paws. He watches the smoke from the fireworks dissipate into the night air, and then he sighs contently. He should be inside, he should be shifting and heading back to replenish his energy, but he doesn’t.
He lays under the bright moon and stars, and allows himself to fall asleep to the dulcet sounds of a now, peaceful forest.
Slumber finds him easily.
Until there’s a startling scream and the cursing from deep within the house.
what do you think about a possible love square between König/Ghost/Soap and reader??
My initial and first thought is yes—but make it a werewolf/human trope
My second thought is to make König the king/ruler of a very powerful werewolf clan and have Ghost/Soap as his two elite guards/berserker’s who accompany König to a potential peace settlement between humans and werewolves
A marriage that would bring peace between werewolves and humans—the human king, of course, wouldn’t willingly send his daughter to a marriage like that. Instead the human king sends one of the peasant/servant women in his daughters place
König obviously knows what’s happening but he accepts anyway, letting the human king think he’s fooled the strong werewolf. In reality, König can tell the human replacement is their mate—König, Simon and Johnny—and takes the human woman before the king realizes what bartering chip he’s lost
Of course the human servant/peasant hasn’t grown up with luxury and is in for a world of surprises when not one but three werewolves dote on her like she’s made of gold
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