Prince Caspian (2008) / Mia C., Sun and Moon (modified) / Voyage of the Dawn Treader (2010) / Mitski, My Love Mine All Mine / Wikipedia / Sleeping at Last, Saturn / Mitski, Francis Forever / The Little Mermaid (2018) / Reinaeiry, It's you, It's me, It's us / Cassandra Clare, Lady Midnight / W.H. Auden, Stop the Clocks / C.K., He saved me first, you know
idk why i wrote day 7 on this drawing when it was distinctly for day 2. but here's @caspeter-week day 2: sparring/dancing. apologies to my sword friends for incorrect sword form; i wanted it to look a bit like they were waltzing; hence the prompt
“The day that we first met, heaven and earth collided
You eclipsed me completely and I became blinded
Because the light from within you suddenly surrounded me too
And I have never felt so bright”
Hello Caspeter nation! The time has come to share our official dates and prompt list. The first annual Caspeter Week will run from November 10th—16th, 2025! Without further ado, this year's prompts:
Day 1 (Nov 10): Narnia | England
Day 2 (Nov 11): Sparring | Dancing
Day 3 (Nov 12): Duty | Sacrifice
Day 4 (Nov 13): Ocean | Stars
Day 5 (Nov 14): Legend | Fairytales
Day 6 (Nov 15): Healing | Hurting
Day 7 (Nov 16): Free Day!
You can pull inspiration from one or both parts of each day's prompt—whatever strikes your fancy. As an additional option, we've provided quote prompts for each day, if you want more specificity. And if you're so inclined, feel free to come join the Caspeter Nation discord, where we have spaces specifically for Caspeter Week, as well as a lot of community and fun! Go forth, Caspeter warriors, and we'll see you in November. ⚔️
for the final day of @caspeter-week ... the werewolf au is back! yay. read on here or on ao3 with the link above, and if you want to see the first part (likely necessary reading) it's here.
✧ ✧ ✧
“You should leave,” Peter says, at least the fifth time this evening. “It’s not safe.”
“I am not leaving,” Caspian answers, definitely for the fifth time this evening, this time not bothering to justify his response. Once Peter has decided something, it’s near impossible to convince him otherwise. They are similar, in this account.
Instead, he shifts his attention to the rope in his hands. He doesn’t know where Edmund got it, only that it was thrust upon him near a week ago along with an almanac and a long list of dead-faced advice. The rope is mostly for him. Make sure your knots are secure, but something you can undo yourself. Keep his arms in front so he doesn’t dislocate a shoulder. The moon will rise at half past four, remember, we got an hour on Wednesday―make sure he gets something to eat, and hopefully no one will be prowling the halls so early at night, but here’s what to do if they are. A multitude of contingencies that Caspian only half remembers, but he’d embraced Edmund on an impulse and whispered, you don’t have to worry. I’ll keep your brother safe. Edmund had nodded, tightly. The circumstances are less than ideal, but Peter would’ve skinned his brother alive had he missed such an important trip on his behalf.
The rope goes around Peter’s wrists three times, held out of the sheet he’s wrapped himself in to preserve his modesty without ruining another set of clothes. Caspian wonders that he isn’t freezing on such a cold November eve, even in Peter and Edmund’s room, but the brush of his hand to one of Peter’s while tying the knot is fever-hot.
Caspian tries to keep his expression clinical and detached as he tugs the ends of the knot tight, but it is hard. Peter’s hands are trembling slightly. The evening sky outside Peter and Edmund’s window has deepened to a dusky indigo.
“These should be tighter,” Peter says, wriggling his wrists in their bounds. Surely they can be―Caspian cannot see the rope wound around Peter’s ankles, tucked under his sheet as they are, but no doubt they’re already rubbing the skin under them raw. Around his wrists, Caspian’s left a small amount of slack.
“They are tied to fit a wolf, not a man,” Caspian tells him.
“What if I break out? When I―I’ll hurt you.”
“You will not.”
Caspian only realizes he’s been holding Peter’s hands when they ball into fists, trembling.
“You should leave,” he says. Caspian does not answer this time, only holds his ground.
When Peter sighs, it’s almost a growl. “D’you have enough rope for a gag?”
Caspian starts. “A gag?”
“I will scream.” His tone is flat, matter-of-fact.
Caspian looks around the room. The walls in these dorms are thin; while there are not many around at this hour, any who remain will be certain to hear Peter’s shouts. There is a reason that rumours of monsters in the woods slide through the student body like spilled oil at the end of every month.
He thinks to reach for the trunk at the base of Peter’s bed, before stopping himself. This is not the first time Caspian has been in this room, yes, but Peter Pevensie keeps his secrets so close to himself that it feels like a violation. Instead, he unbuckles his belt and slides it out of the loops securing it to his trousers.
“If it hurts, bite this.”
Peter looks as if he is going to protest, at first, but his face screws up suddenly, a shudder wracking his body. Caspian wonders if he has been hurting this whole time, and says nothing. The thought makes something unnamed tighten in his chest.
Gingerly, and a bit awkwardly between bound hands, Peter accepts the leather belt.
“Thanks,” he says, and nothing more.
Caspian looks down at his watch. The moon will rise soon.
There is nothing to do, then, except wait.
Peter does not move, sitting and staring straight ahead as if he is holding his muscles and bones inside his skin through sheer force of will. His face is flushed, even in the cold, and there’s the slightest dampness to the hair falling in his face. His breathing is laboured.
More than once, Caspian wishes to reach out, feels his hands ache with the need to do something―anything―to help this boy in front of him who he has only known a few months, but who has inexplicibly put his life within Caspian’s hands. Who Caspian knows would flinch from any comforting touch offered as if Caspian were pressing a hot iron to his skin. Horribly, the knowledge only makes him ache more.
As the minutes go on, Peter’s stillness begins to resemble an injured animal more than anything else, and the shudders that overtake him become constant. His eyes screw shut, his shoulders hunch. Caspian counts the minutes.
Peter hisses, a sharp intake of breath between tightly clenched teeth, and Caspian realizes―it is happening now. He does not chance a glance at the window to see the full moon, does not dare take his eyes off of Peter, but he knows it nonetheless from the way that Peter suddenly curls in on himself, the way his back arches a little too far when he does. He hisses again, the sound rumbling deep and wolflike in his chest, before the sound cuts itself off as he bites into thick leather.
As fur is thickening on Peter’s skin, his shoulders shifting and nails blackening into claws, he flinches, a horrid sort of action accompanied by a soft pop that must be a bone shifting. Caspian is at his side before he can think better of it, though he stops himself from doing anything more than easing Peter gently to the floor instead of letting him fall. He does not touch Peter as he curls into himself, lying on his side, knowing that any more sensation will only cause pain. Edmund told him that. For some reason, it is one of the few bits he remembers.
The ties around his wrists and ankles hold, though the ones around the latter look just as painful as Caspian imagined they would be. He looks more wolf than man, now, pale, thick fur covering his body, tall ears twitching and long snout wrinkling. He can smell like a dog, Caspian has been told, like this, and it is rather disconcerting. He hopes, stupidly, that he himself does not smell too badly.
Slowly, the change settles. Peter-the-wolf lies on the floor, stuttering gasps and groans evening out into heavy, deep pants. Caspian’s belt is completely unsalvagable, but he finds he cares very little for that at the moment. Some of the horror of seeing Peter so pained fades, and wonder takes its place. What a magnificent creature rests before Caspian’s very eyes, white and burnished gold as his sunkissed human hair. Caspian has never given much thought to wolves before he met Peter, but he is becoming rather fond of them. Though, Caspian thinks, as his eyes open, cold and mountain-blue, he has been quite spoiled for normal wolves after meeting one such as this. They are unlikely to compare.
✧ ✧ ✧
When one is a wolf, many things become less important. Wolves are not dumber than humans―they simply care less about the past, and the future, and wasting hours of their days worrying about what their classmates might do if they knew they were a wolf, or what that sparkler-feeling in their belly means when their dark haired friend touches them, or whether they might fail their next Physics exam.
When Peter-the-wolf comes to his surroundings, he remembers that he’s horribly afraid. He can’t name the source of the fear, but it permeates everything. It’s outside of the walls, in the air, tangled up in his intestines and deep, deep, within his bones.
There is something wrong with here, with this, and he wants to run, but his paws are tied together with thick rope. He struggles. The rope is tight, and heavy, but it’s not a chain, and that is important. Chain hurts more, but it’s also secure. He feels strangely weightless.
Something touches the ropes, suddenly, and he flinches, twisting to snap at it. What is that, he thinks in his fear, why is it here? No one should be here.
Then, the voice that belongs to the touch says, “I'm sorry. I did not mean to startle you.”
The voice―it is known. With it, the scent becomes apparent, and the memory of gentle touch is pulled to the forefront of his wolfish mind. He relaxes. These hands are trustworthy.
“May I untie these?” asks the trusted voice.
The wolf stiffens. He wants the ropes gone, yes, wants to tuck his legs comfortably under his torso, but he cannot. There is fear that way, bone rattling and belly-churning. It would not be safe. It would not be safe.
“Shhh,” murmurs the voice, though the wolf has not made a sound. The hand that belongs to it comes near his face, slowly, leaving ample time for him to turn it away. He doesn't. The hand comes to rest at the back of his head, and digs its fingers behind one ear.
That feels very nice. He leans into the touch.
“You are safe,” the voice tells him, scratching his ear and stroking the fur on his neck. “You are in no danger here. I am in no danger, also.”
The wolf grunts softly, pleased at the gentle hands, comforted by the gentle words. The voice says, “Nothing here will hurt you.”
The voice, he knows, is trustworthy. The hands mark the truth of what they say, soft, calming, never hurting, so he believes them. Trusting is simple for wolves, easier than for boys who've spent their whole lives afraid.
The wolf tries to shift towards the owner of the kind hands and safe voice, to wrap around him and offer the same comfort and protection in return, but he is hindered by the ropes still restraining his legs.
The hands pause. “May I untie these, now?”
The wolf cannot nod quite like humans do, but he pushes his front paws towards the hands of the safe one in answer.
“Thank you,” answers the safe one as he uses his spidery human appendages to undo the knots, as if it was him being hurt by the ropes, which is silly. Even so, the wolf finds himself endeared.
After both sets of limbs have been freed, the wolf curls his body around the small human one and promptly places his head in its lap. The hands return to their place at his ears, and he huffs, satisfied.
His fear is gone. It’s in the past, which does not matter. What matters is now: the murmuring of a voice in a language he cannot understand, familiar nonetheless. Sure fingers digging into the thick fur at his neck. A clear, soft scent. A steady heartbeat under his head.
It’s like this that the wolf slowly falls into sleep, unafraid for the first time in quite a long while. After all, why would he be afraid? He is safe.
