The Gravedigger and His Dog
tw: gore, weird power dynamics, dehumanization, extremely dubious consent Summary: Set as a prequel to the fae au. John Price pulls a corpse from the snow, a banshee, a wraith held together only by the magic its managed to steal for itself. He offers it a hand, a name, and all the lives it can devour. They make quite a pair, the devil and his Ghost. a/n: I have been working on this for almost 2 years and finally figure out the ending! Yippee!!
The wild is dark, dusky. It's always dusky where snow covers the ground. Price stands over the body of a man, a child really, and feels disgust boil in his blood. Not for this new fae, birthed from blood and snow, barely alive except for the magic it managed to steal for itself, but for the men who made him. He crouches next to the fae, more animal than man, and tells the new wraith a joke:
"Look like a ghost, you sure you're alive?"
It growls at him.
It'll feel better after it eats. Price gives a sharp whistle, bad luck in the dim light of Winter, but not for him. The smoke from a nearby campfire falls to the ground, crawls with creeping claws in every direction. It reaches, digging into the snow to try and grab hold of anything still alive. Fortunately for the ghost, Price has decided to exclude him from that tally. He'll appreciate it later. For now Price's phantom claws dig into something warm and fleshy. With a swipe of his hand one of the men guarding the camp is dragged over. The new fae watches with dark eyes and dripping teeth as he's pulled through the snow, hooked like a pig by Price's smoke.
It doesn't need the coaxing to dig its own claws and teeth into the man, it's instinct. Ripping and tearing, searching for the best pieces, the cleanest cuts of meat. He's a messy eater, Price thinks, I can probably fix that.
-
Two men stalk through the snow, one older, one younger. It's dusk. It's always dusk. There's a fresh powder on the snow under their feet. The older man moves silently through the barren forest, the younger man does his best to follow his footsteps. The forest is quiet, save the older man's rumbling voice.
"Just step where you want to go and the wild will take you there." Price explains, tries to explain, so much that comes second nature to him is alien to his wraith, "Follow your nose if you get lost, can’t trust your eyes out here."
Ghost is smart, he's learned that much in the last few months. Smart but broken. Price can feel the smoke he's breathed into him holding the shadows together, filling in the cracks and ripped tethers. There was so little of him left when Price found him. If it weren’t for Price’s magic providing a skeleton the whole body might have collapsed. God the hell the poor kid must've been through. It takes a long time to make a fae like this, they must've been at it for a years.
Still, the magic that Ghost holds onto, the shadows that swirl around him, are useful. Stolen magic, siphoned off of the darkness around him, the hatred and malice that bled from his captor’s heart, before metastasizing in the loose dirt of the grave he crawled out of. Ghost had painstakingly repaired his own cracked skin with rage until it was enough to live beyond the human part’s lifespan.
He’s silent, still, watchful. Useful magic in a guard dog, if he can actually use it.
Price stops and hear the crunch of snow stop just a few paces behind. He turns to look at Ghost, there are dark circles under his eyes, his hair still death white, Price's dark clothes hang off his body like a child playing dress up. He's too thin. The best thing to do would be get some tethers in Ghost, but the man's been reluctant to do even the most basic fae things. Too bad. Plenty of ways to make a fae strong though.
"Alright head back, nothing out here for us." Price tells him. Ghost stares at him for a moment, before turning on his heel and stalking back into the dark woods. He follows orders well, at least, and this is a decent exercise in magic. Price lets him get a few paces out before he has the wild bring him back. No sense getting lost between the trees.
Ghost gives him an unamused look when he circles back. Price smiles at him, the man may not speak but he wears the shreds of a heart on his sleeve. "Must want to stay with me." He jokes. There’s an undercurrent to Ghost’s clouded eyes, one that makes him wonder how close to the mark he is, one that makes him wonder if he’ll always be able to hold this leash. If he can't, will his dog still listen to him?
Price wraps his hand behind Ghost’s head, pulling him close. The brush of lips is a familiar chill, like kissing a corpse, not entirely unpleasant but Price has never been quite so romantic as to expect it would be. He exhales, tips his head to let the smoke trace over Ghost’s lips as the corpse inhales heavily. Greedy for magic, Ghost’s pupils spread wide as the smoke swirls through him. It isn’t just his body that’s still starving.
Fine then, Price just needs to make sure the leash stays short.
-
There's something about Ghost, how quickly he takes to being fae once the scent of dirt is washed off, how neatly he packs on weight and builds muscle, how his teeth drip with blood,
how he hates the snow.
Price lights a cigar watching his guard collect shadows around himself. Inky darkness like slithering snakes from the trees winds its way over the snow, writhing as if even Ghost’s magic doesn’t know what to make of him. On any other fae Price might find is repulsive, but this monster is his, and he'd be remiss not to find some satisfaction in the grotesquity. Ghost's form shifts and roils, the shadows still unsure how to shape the changes to his body. Wisps of inky smoke swirl around him, lift off his skin and dissipate in the soft evening light. Shadows that can’t keep their shade without their host break in Winter’s dusk. Another shiver through Ghost’s form, a wave over his body as he eats.
Crimson stains the snow around him, pooling only to freeze in pocked discs. It streaks over the crooked angle of Ghost's nose, arterial spray staining his black clothes. Ghost tips his head to look back at him, breathes deep, in and out, expelling Price's smoke like a haunting. He needs it less and less these days, building his own magic on the foundation Price laid for him. It's better this way. Besides, Price knows how his shadows work, can combat them if he goes rogue. Not that he would.
Price doubts Ghost even spares a thought to leaving him.
Not when Price keeps him so well fed, so well entertained. It’s been a good stretch since Price took him under his wing. Time is a fickle thing in the wild, months maybe, could be years. Months of silence from his dog, months of building trust, months of hunting down the men that made Ghost into what he is.
Ghost’s claws dig into the mangled viscera that once closed tightly as a ribcage, now ripped apart at the spine it sits open. A trap, or a warning to anyone that stumbles across it. Ghost pulls the heart free and inspects it. He’s a picky eater when he wants to be. Fae like him always are. It’s the control of it, being able to pick and choose the best parts for himself without worrying someone might take them. Hearts seem to be his preference, he always eats those first.
Price blows his smoke over the shadows, watching them bend and twist to accommodate him. Picky eaters… Ghost’s teeth tear into the muscle, head tipping back so the blood won’t drip down his chin. At least he isn’t messy with it.
His dark eyes flit to Price when he blinks, before moving back to his meal on the next close of his eyes. Still as dead as when Price found him. If it isn’t fighting or feeding Ghost doesn’t seem to have much mind for anything else. Still healing, Price supposes, still finding pieces of himself.
Ghost drags his tongue along the drops of blood trailing down his claws as he swallows the last morsel of muscle. The corpse flinches as he fishes the liver out of it.
Price makes his way closer, crouches beside the head. He pulls his cigar from between his lips and blows smoke into the unlucky soul’s face. If there was any hope of saving them he might say their color wasn’t good.
“Shame you let it get this far,” He tells the fae, watching Ghost dig his claws through the open chest cavity. Price tugs at one of the heavy red threads tying Ghost’s victim to him, the rapid expansion of the corpse’s lungs makes him hum. “Damn commendable though,” Price stands, and settles his cigar between his lips again, taking a steady inhale before speaking again, “consider the debt paid.”
-
There's something about Price too. Something Ghost can't put his finger on. Power drips from his fingertips, eases itself into the corners of every room. Ghost doesn't doubt that the wild bends to his will. He's charming. That's a good word for it, a calculated charm. It makes people trust him. He's a good liar, for a man that can't lie, yet Ghost never doubts he's telling him the truth. There's something heavy between them, something Ghost doesn't have a word for but feels important.
He's warm.
Despite being from Winter he's warm. It's like finding a campfire burning in the woods. Reasonably you know someone must have built it, that there must be people nearby, maybe even dangerous people, but you're so tired that for a moment it shines like a beacon of hope against the darkness. Ghost only hopes he's one of the dangers lurking in the dark, and not one of the hapless moths drawn to Price's flame. His teeth itch.
Sitting against the pillows that line Price's bed his teeth itch.
Price hardly moves an inch when Ghost crawls over to him, his arm slung across his eyes, his other hand resting on his stomach comfortably. The house is warm and inviting, Price is inviting, Ghost wonders what his blood tastes like. If it would be smokey on his tongue, if it would fill him the way Price's magic does.
Ghost opens his mouth and Price's hand moves to grip his throat.
It's a split second of movement, barely enough time for the thought to fully form before Ghost’s stopped dead. There’s a coldness in Price’s eyes, the ice taking over any warmth that might have been tempting him. A switch flipped to snuff out the flames of what he truly is, cut against the service of dusk. His fingers hold his throat tight, exhaustion gone from Price’s body as if it had never existed in the first place. Every line of him is hard, sharp in a way that teeters at the edge of control. Angry.
“Good dogs don’t bite their masters.” Price tells him, the words mark the air, a new law to carve itself into Ghost’s body, “Or do I need to muzzle you?”
There’s a pull in Ghost’s chest, a weight that drags itself against his ribs. It knocks against bone, rattles it like a cup dragged along the bars of a cage. It’s too heavy a hook to pull out, too big a debt to cash in, a short leash fixed to an iron collar.
Ghost shakes his head, his eyes trained on Price’s until the older man’s eyes dart down. His fingers squeeze Ghost’s neck, applying a pressure that makes his head spin. Thick and controlled. A slow descent into some superior space which had remained unoccupied. His eyes tremble against the stimulation, muscles contracting in unfamiliar instinct. All his blood rushes south, he's fuzzy under Price’s grip, pulled by the debt he owes him.
It’s a new old feeling. A spark long abandoned for survival given new life against Price’s flinty guidance. Fighting, feeding-
“If you want something,” Price’s leg bends, his knee pressing tight against the front of Ghost’s trousers, “you have to ask.”
Months of silence, mute in a way only death knows, Price doesn’t expect an answer. Words have no meaning for dogs or dead men, but still Ghost ruts his hard cock against Price’s knee and lets his first word drip like ichor from his lips. The sound of it so low he almost wouldn’t hear it if he wasn’t listening.
“Please.”
The word hangs heavy between them, Ghost’s head hung low as he waits for an answer. He’s so still Price might have mistaken him for dead a second time.
Price drops his hand from the man’s throat, and wraps his fingers instead around the heavy corded tether between them. He twists his wrist, wrapping the line around his hand and down his arm. He pulls it tight, watches the way the shadows drift like whisps off of Ghost, cracks in his form letting the magic holding him together shudder through.
“Better get to it then,” Price tells him.
It’s a service, a favor, another debt to wrap around the cord. Ghost’s hips jerk forward before stuttering back. The hard press of Price’s knee isn’t pleasant, but it’s better than nothing. It’s more than Ghost can afford on his own. He knows, feels it wrap around his neck like a noose with each shuddering rock of his hips. The ache of having his cock crushed against his hip, the sweet bite of cotton as it rolls against the skin of his cock, the burning friction, it all tingles up his spine.
Sadism. Masochism. It's all the same. The chase of a pain that can't hurt him. Controlled. Everything about Price is controlled.
Even him.
Price watches the way Ghost ruts against his leg. It’s measured. Nothing frantic in the motions, just a steady back and forth that speaks to Ghost’s patience more than anything. Biding his time until he can bargain for something bigger, Price thinks. Ghost is a smart man, he knows what he can get with what little he has.
Ghost tips his head, his eyes are like coals, malice and hatred burning clear as he meets Price’s gaze.
Maybe a muzzle for this one.
-
"Hungry."
It's the first word Ghost has spoken to him since- Price looks up from his ledger, eyes his shadow. The shadows swirl around him like smoke, his new mask already collecting in all its gorey glory. He's bigger again, building muscle on top of muscle, sharpening his claws as well as his wits. He's really grown into the role of guard dog well. The tethers are still an issue though. Price's are the only ones that string from him, their weight like lead, constantly reinforced.
"For what?" Price asks, he knows Ghost's preferences as well as his own, but it's so rare to hear his voice. It makes him want to prod. The deep tone, rough with disuse, rumbles pleasantly in the space.
"Meat."
So he feels like talking today. That's good, a good sign. Who knows how long it will last. Price makes a quick note on the page and closes his ledger. He presses his hands to the table and stands. There's no debt that needs collecting today, but he can always move someone to the front of the line.
Maybe a trip to the city is in order. There are a few things that need checking on, and nowhere better to check up on them. He fixes his eyes on Ghost, watches the man watching him.
He's waiting. Waiting for the next command that Price utters with the respect of a soldier. He’s well trained, trusting, Price is careful not to break that trust, but that doesn’t mean he can’t push it.
“City’ll have easy hunting.” Price tells him and the shadows tense. The darkness wriggles and wriths with upset and unease at the idea, though Ghost himself stands still and commanding as ever. “Can have your pick.” Price offers, throwing the dog a bone to raise the tuck of its tail.
Price tugs a cigar from the nearby case and lights it with a match struck against his fingernail. Ghost’s silence is as much an answer as anything. It’s not a ‘no’ which is as good as a yes as far as Price is concerned.
Price grabs his coat, and Ghost falls in line behind him.
It’s bad in the city. Two women dead, their hearts thudding in Ghost’s stomach, their slick still dripping down his chin.
A leash only works when the dog stays on it.
-
“Come on love,” Ghost’s voice stops dead on the cobblestone, “Say something pretty for me.” It's been years and Price still can't get used to the sound of it.
The woman in his grasp, gasps and whines. Price sniffs at the autumn air, keeps his eyes glued on the passers-by. Nobody pays any attention to the dark spots in the city. To the soft slap of skin against skin or the dulcet whimpers that tug at Price’s own cock.
“Feels good,” The woman moans, Ghost’s body pressing her tight against the alley wall, his hands digging greedily into the fat of her hips.
“That oll?” The walls seem to watch, eyes in the shadows, greeting hands squeezing and groping at anything darkness wraps itself around. Price waits for the sink of Ghost’s teeth. His picky eater.
“Wastin’ yer time,” Price tells him. Ghost growls. Price’s eye twitches.
Price turns and stalks towards the pair, he raises his cigar from his lips and presses the burning embers against the woman’s forehead, digging his magic in between her eyes. She screams in pain before her body goes limp.
“Tell ‘im what ‘e wants ta hear sweet’eart.” Price orders with a nod.
“Love you,” The woman slurs, and Ghost’s shadows explode from his body. Spines bristle, teeth sharpen, roiling excitement, uncontrolled, uncontained. Unease slips down Price's spine as he steps out of the way; only just avoiding the splatter of blood that rips across the stone walls. There's something on the wind, something tempting dusk to midnight. Unpredictable. Price doesn't like it.
“Sweeter,” Ghost explains once he’s licked the blood from his fingertips, his hunger sated, “heart’s sweeter when it feels for ya.”
Price hums. He’s never been one for hearts. Too messy.
“Should taste witch,” Price tells him absently, “blood’s thick with magic, goes down like liquor.”
"Wonder 'ow long I could keep one of these." He isn't listening. He's been doing that more, never disobeying, but- Independent. Price doesn't like that either. "Found the old man's place, piece of shite, but could fix it up."
Price's eyes creep with the flow of his displeasure towards him. "You know where home is." He reminds him.
Ghost's eyes burn where he meets them, frostbite creeping over the inky graveyard dirt. For now, they seem to say, for now.
