Gay for Fictional Women | 20

You know otherwise. Real monsters don’t lurk on the undersides of mattresses; no, they lurk both in the skies above and the depths below. They do not stalk dark closets because they instead stalk alleys in daylit streets. Monsters are very real, that you know is true since you’ve seen your fair share of them. You’ve met monsters in person–they’ve come to you before. Terrifying is an understatement for them, and each time one has appeared as a client, you’re no less scared shitless.

You’ve learned that even inhumane demons find themselves in need of entertainment; like the sinful creatures they are, they seek self-pleasure. And that is how you found yourself in this particular circle of hell, meant to serve and please demons, devils, and monsters alike. Perhaps it was a revolting job, working at a strip club run by a criminal organization but it paid decent money for being danced on the fingertips of whoever you were unfortunate enough to be assigned to.

If it was a regular strip club, being an exotic dancer would have been fine. It wouldn't be so bad. Lustful and prying eyes can be accustomed to quickly, and so are the flattering compliments and the awkward flirting by middle-aged married men. However, there was a difference between lecherous and predatory gazes. Here, you aren’t even viewed as a person, no, the clients here, those that come in reeking of smoke or blood (though sometimes both), armed with knives and guns on their person, see you as nothing more than a toy or prey for them. Even in the eyes of your employer, you're less than human in their eyes. 

‘You harm our merchandise, you’ll pay for it,’ is the warning given to every guest when they first enter. Merchandise. That's what you are. And that single line of words is the only thing that assures you of your safety among mafia members, gangsters, crooks, and whatnot. You've heard that the organization behind this strip club does well in enforcing that rule according to other dancers, but you personally don't want to see if the statement is true. You've been here for a little over a year, and besides bruising grips and pulled hair you’ve surprisingly yet to be seriously injured in any way. So maybe monsters do have a little humanity in them. 

You're quickly growing to be a fan favorite as of recently, which means more money goes your way, but you're not sure how you feel about all the attention on you. It's most likely because of how often you offer private dances and private rooms to clients. Whatever gets you the most money; the faster you make money the faster you can pay off your debt and be out of here. 

Tonight is supposed to be no different from other nights. You perform on stage, you rile up the crowd, you get showered in tips, and if there is a customer that looks mentally sane enough not to murder you in private, you take them to the back. Except, tonight, you're approached by your boss, who informs you that the entirety of the club was reserved by the Fatui, a well-known mafia more powerful and larger than the one that backs you up, for some celebration. These kinds of occurrences in the club rarely crop up, but when they do, they're often the most opportune time to bag in an abundant amount of money. Big shots like the Fatui pay and tip well, but there's one unsaid risk that comes with this: as a mere dancer like yourself, your life quite literally dangles in the Fatuis’ hands tonight. The organization that owns this establishment can't retaliate against the Fatuis if they so choose to dismiss the warning. They can't even compare to the might of the Fatui.

Simply put, if a Fatui kills you tonight, no one could do more besides bat their eyelashes. You're not at all pleased with this predicament of practically bordering on death, especially when you know one wrong move with one too hot-tempered Fatui could land you at the pearly gates. Keep pleasing the crowd, keep entertaining them, keep racking in the money, you remind yourself as you continue your dance, twirling around the pole sensually, and the customers devour every movement with their eyes. The only comfort you're given is that you've heard the Fatui are quite reasonable and diplomatic most of the time. This is especially true for the Harbingers, you've heard, the twelve most elite members that serve under the Tsaritsa, and the ones that are the most exclusive customers this night. That doesn't mean the Harbingers are any more humane than the average crook. Having worked in a strip club run by the mafia and surrounded by criminal organizations, the more rumored something is, the more dangerous it is. They can be considered devils amongst demons even. That's simply how vile they're supposed to be. 

The most concerning problem about the Harbingers is that you don’t know what they look like, only the occasional whisper has alluded to how to distinguish between the twelve. Perhaps, you can survive through the night if you try not to draw too much attention; let the other dancers shine instead and hope you don’t get requested for a private room or dance. That way, you can ensure you don’t end up dead. 

Your time to go upstage comes sooner than you’re prepared for. Your hands are clammy, and your form trembles in a way that only happened during your first month. Both reactions don’t make for a very good combination when your survival relies on you not fucking up and disappointing criminal customers. As you approach the pole, just like every time you’ve done, you make sure that the crowd’s gazes are in the backdrop of your mind, and instead, fixate on repeating the movements you’ve been taught and have mastered with your experience. Bet your survival on the provocative sway of your hips, the practiced showcase of your legs, and the allure of your dancing form. Beguile the crowd, but not too much, just enough to wow them. From what you can tell by the volume of the crowd, you’re doing a good job pleasing the Fatui enough. Your body stops tremoring after a few minutes on stage, and with one last final push of courage, you focus your eyes on the crowd before you.

Unsurprisingly, the makeup of the Fatui are men, though there are notably quite a few women. Either way, all of their attention is on you. As your eyes scan across a crowd, for one reason or another, you stop at a particular set of eyes near the back of the crowd. Intent, pitch-black abysses stare back, like they were trying to bore into your soul and devour every single motion of yours. They don’t quite hold the same ravenous desire as many of those before you right now, you mentally note with curiosity. It feels like your form is being calculated, in the way a predator would cautiously observe their next prey, a sensation you’ve experienced a few times, but each is no less chilling. The weight of their engrossed gaze causes you to shiver momentarily, and you snap away from their disturbing gaze to prevent any fumbling or faltering while you’re on stage. 

Tonight marks the first time you actively seek out the same viewer while on stage, or even, during your entire time here. For some reason, you feel awfully bold, or curious, whichever two comforts you more, and unlike the meek little rabbit you usually are, you instead search for the viewer’s gaze. You find the pair of eyes with relative ease, as you remember that above their eyes are distinctive snow-white strands with streaks as black as their orbs. You take a moment to study them, and they remind you of a lion–or lioness–among hyenas. The aura they exude varied quite a bit compared to the other Fatui in front of you: not rambunctious, or arrogant; it's apparent they held an aura of indomitable authority just from the way they held themselves. Perfect posture with their clasped hands nested in their lap, with one leg raised over the other. They’re an embodiment of perfected elegance, however, much like a porcelain doll, they’re also expressionless, their appearance unmarred. You don’t examine the Fatui’s form for much longer because their scrutiny on you pricks at your skin irritatedly. 

You don’t look for them again throughout your performance. In fact, you hope you never meet those charcoal pits again. You’re afraid that if you do, you’ll be ensnared by whatever beastly claws or fangs you know that Fatui hides underneath that impenetrable mask. The moment your time on stage ends, you rush back to the changing room to shake off your nerves. You sit down at a nearby chair, taking in deep sighs as you attempt to forget how you were stared down like a you were cornered, defenseless animal. And that is what you are, as much as you hate it. There’s nothing that can protect you from the Fatui. Maybe if you hide, never show your face for the rest of the night, they’ll forget they ever saw you and they’ll target another dancer. Surely, that will work, won’t it? 

You’re able to steady your breathing before you can delve into a panic attack. Tonight, you decide, you’re not going to take any customers to any private rooms or take any private dances. You’d be missing out on a lot of money, but your life is more of a priority as of currently; not after the ‘encounter’ with that individual, you don’t want to think about how many more are just like them, hiding in the crowd like they were awaiting an opportunity to pounce on your vulnerable form. 

Unfortunately, it seems like someone else has other plans for you because your manager storms into the room asking for your whereabouts before his eyes narrow on you. You immediately sit up, stiff as a board when he practically marches his way towards you. 

"Someone wants you." 

You sigh and shake your head. You should have known. "Not tonight." 

He clicks his tongue. "You know I can't allow that tonight." 

You bite your lip. "Just pass them to someone else." 

"They're not someone you or I can refuse." 

"Who?" You question with a shuddering breath, your nails digging into your thigh. 

"The fourth one. The Knave. Lord Arlecchino."

Fuck your life. You might as well pull the trigger now. You’ve heard faint whispers of each Harbinger from the customers audacious enough to speak of them. The youngest, the eleventh, charming and boyish. The ninth, money-obsessed but a pretty looker. The eighth, elegant and cold, yet no less alluring. The seventh, as human-like as their robotic creations, which to say isn’t very. The sixth, is hotheaded and mysterious. The fifth, unknown. And the fourth?

Insane. Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. That’s how the fourth is described. You shiver at the horrors that appear on the forefront of your mind when imagining what may come for you. If you're lucky, you'll be alive at the end of the night, more than likely clinging to the edge of living. 

“Well? What are you waiting for? Get ready as soon as you can.” 

And you do. It’s not long until you stand in front of the private room’s door, your guest is already inside more than likely. The Fourth Harbinger is waiting, you remind yourself, fruitlessly trying to swallow down your stress. You can be dead the minute you step inside, this room could be marked as your grave. Whatever he tells you to do, you’ll obey wordlessly to survive. Just nod along, smile, and do whatever it is that he tells you regardless of the demand. You inhale deeply, regaining some ease of mind, before you bring your knuckles to the door, knocking. 

“Come in,” comes a deep, flat voice, slightly muffled by its distance but what surprises you is how feminine the Harbinger sounds. Maybe you got the wrong room. You glance back at the room number plate on the door, and it’s the room you remember your manager mentioning. It’s the right room. Maybe someone else? You don’t have time to wonder, however, as you enter the room, knowing that if it is the Fourth, it wouldn’t be wise to keep him (Her? Them? You’ll just stick with ‘them’ now.) waiting. 

“Lord Arlecchino?” You inquire as you enter the room, closing the door behind you. Sucking in a harsh inhale, you instantly recognize their distinct hair. It’s them. Your sight is immediately greeted by the figure sitting on the couch before you, sitting in exactly the same way you discovered them–crossed-legged and lounging back with unfaltering confidence. The Knave wears a scarlet blazer over a black compressed turtleneck, with a matching set of crimson leggings. Upon closer inspection, you’re able to make out red irises in their jet-black eyes. Despite the blatant and literal red flag, something about their appearance draws you in even when they scream danger. They’re… you’re not quite sure how to describe them. You admire the unblemished and pale skin, their elegant and rugged demeanor is like the perfect balance between femininity and masculinity. Are they beautiful, or are they handsome? You think both. 

Arlecchino stares back at you like they’re considering devouring you then and there. You can’t suppress the shudder that runs down your spine. You’re a sheep before a wolf. There’s something so chilling about them that even with your experience with other clients, none has ever made you feel this way with just their mere gaze alone. This is what separates the average crook from one of the most powerful mafia members you've ever heard of.

You wait for a response but they only continue to observe you. You take the silence as confirmation to your question and that they’re anticipating something from you. Biting back a sigh of resignation, your hands hook underneath the band of your bra top and you lift it just the slightest amount before a cutting voice makes you freeze.

“What are you doing?” the Harbinger demands, their tone chilling and apathetic, making you want to shrink in yourself immediately. Your blood pumps loudly in your ears and your hands tremble a bit. Something about how designing their gaze makes you suddenly self-aware in a way you’ve never felt before another client–you’re practically half-naked in front of them with your skimpy bra top, undergarments, and fishnets and now is the only moment that you've actually considered how little covering is on you. 

Why are they stopping you? Isn’t this what they wanted you to do? Or maybe they just want to do it themselves. Those types of customers always have the most bruising of grips and suffocating of holds. You stiffen at the notion. How are you going to survive this night with a Fatui Harbinger of all things? How many of your limbs are going to be fractured and how many of your bones are going to end up broken? 

“I…I’m undressing,” your meek voice sounds out and you hate the crack in your speech. The Harbinger continues to scrutinize you. You don’t dare continue disrobing yourself. 

There are several beats of wordless response before they then stand up from the couch. 

Oh shit. You’ve fucked up. Are they going to kill you now? Is this your end? 

Every thought is telling you to run in the opposite direction as they stalk up to you, but you're petrified as you realize with a chill that they’re taller than you. You’re not short by any means, a bit above average height, but they tower over you, looking down at you from above and casting judgment on you like a god. Once they stride toward you, you avoid eye contact by looking straight, observing their neck and clavicle that protrudes from underneath the fabric. You tense when they raise a hand, their manicured fingers placing themselves underneath your chin and long, carmine nails dig into the underside of your jaw, making you wince. They forcefully tilt your head, raising your focus onto their face. 

It’s like they plunged their hands down your throat and ripped out the oxygen from your lungs, leaving you unable to breathe. Up close, the first thing you notice is their lips, plump and red from their lipstick. Briefly, you wonder what color their lipstick would look on your skin. Then your eyes travel up, red-crossed eyes gaze back at you and you gape quietly at the distinct shape of their pupils. You swear that their pupils flash red as you finally lock eye contact with them. 

“Did I tell you to?” Their tone is cold compared to the strange softness of their handsome (beautiful?) face. 

Something in your gut coils inwardly and you want to look away, but their firm hold on your chin prevents you. You bite your bottom lip to repress a whimper. You’re delicate glass in their hands, and they can break you so, so easily. 

“No, sir.” Only the numerous times you’ve said this phrase ensures you don’t stumble over your words. They don’t answer promptly, but as they observe your features, their lips quirk up the slightest amount. 

“You know how to address me. Very good,” Arlecchino purrs after several beats of silence, in a low, oh-so-sultry tone, and oh. Oh. 

You’re not sure why, but their last two words make your stomach churn, but not in a discomforting way. In the way that lights a fire underneath your skin and spreads heat to every part of your body. You’ve never quite felt this way with another customer. You couldn’t believe that your body reacts this way just from a single praise but it doesn’t stop the pooling heat in your bowels. The chill down your spine still remains in place, but there’s an off-putting equilibrium of iciness and fervor generated from the client. 

The Fatui’s eyes stay fixated on you wordlessly until the hand on your chin turns your head, finally breaking you free of their intense behold. Their grip slackens so that they can trace their nails gently down your throat, every inch of surface their fingertips brush against ignites a blaze on your skin. A shuddering exhale leaves your lips and it seems like they take notice because from the corner of your eye, the small uptick of their mouth grows. Despite how sensual and probing the Harbinger’s touch feels, there’s nothing lecherous about it–purely just intrigue and fascination. It’s a touch you both have and never experienced before. Cold nails rake against your throat, not enough to mark or scratch, but enough to invoke shivers. 

You’re aware you should be terrified, but for a reason you can’t pin down, you can’t jerk away from their touch. You try to reason with yourself it was only because you’re one upset away from getting yourself killed but that reasoning falls apart when their hand gingerly traces your jawline and you make the softest of groans, a barely audible noise of content. Unfortunately for you, the sound seems to have reached Arlecchino’s ears and their expression softens slightly: their eyes narrow less and their brows aren’t as creased. And that smirk–if you could even call it that from how faint it is–becomes a half-smirk. 

They pull their hand away and your trance is broken, reality returning back to you as you remember that the person before you is still a Fatui Harbinger, no matter how bizarrely melting their touch was. They turn on their heel and walk towards the couch in front of you; the slightest bit of heaviness is placed on your heart. You remain stationary where you are, observing them as they seat themselves gracefully on the couch, and their attention encounters yours again. Their black pits hold expectancy in them. At first, you’re clueless as to what the criminal desires from you, but then their legs spread apart, an inviting gesture that beckons you and every rational thought leaves your easily swayed mind. Your heart skips a beat, and you're sure this time it's not out of trepidation. 

Even if you didn’t command them to, your legs would take you to their seating figure. You stand before them, feeling blatantly disrespectful to look down at Arlecchino, but you await their order. They lean back, lounging laxly against the couch, their posture never lacking their usual self-assurance. It only ties the knot in your gut tighter. You’re aware of what they’re instructing you to do, but the absent confirmation makes you hesitant. It seems like the Knave picks up on this because the room echoes with one definitive spouted word from their lips, authority and dominance ringing through their husky voice. 

“Sit.” 

Your legs buckle underneath you from the one-worded response, the demand only stoking the consuming fire inside you. Eager to please, you perch yourself on their lap, straddling them, your knees pressed into the furniture below you and encasing both of their thighs between your own. 

Oh, you think to yourself as your legs make contact with their thighs. They're firm. And for some reason, that provokes your stomach to churn in itself even more. You're so close to them, enough to feel their breath cascade against your skin. 

As you seat yourself, you nearly clumsily topple over, instinctively grasping onto their shoulders for support. Their shoulders are remarkably broad, you regard, well-muscled as well. Their hands creep up on your hips, steady but gentle hands grasping on each bare side of yours to stabilize you. The heat that radiates from their hands is infectious, regardless of the nails that burrow into your plush waist. For the first time, you flush considerably, a sweltering inferno forming in your cheeks and your head fills with dizziness. Their touch is gentle–something you rarely experience with customers–so, so gentle that you would describe it as heavenly. How can someone so inexplicably vile have heaven on their fingertips?

It's not a position you never found yourself in. In fact, it's far from the first time you've been like this with another client. But here, as you're sat on top of the Fatui Harbinger, and red x-pupils search yours, a foreign feeling passes through you. Placing your finger on it, you dubiously think it's bashfulness, but the heartbeat that sings in your ears and pulses underneath your fingertips tells you otherwise, tells you it's something more. Against that, you remove your grasp on their shoulders and place your palm flat against the couch’s surface behind the Knave. 

You squirm a bit, nervousness in your form as you remain as still as you possibly can, waiting for any more instructions. All you need to do is act like an obedient doll for them in order to survive; compliance is the best way of ensuring survival with people like these. You feel like you're merely eye candy from the way that their attention flits across your body, but you're immobile throughout the entirety of their observance. Being looked at is much better than any physical interaction. Their hands still cup your hips, but slowly, they descend to the side of your thighs, making your skin feel tingly. 

Impulsively, you mumble out a quiet "Sir…" as strange sensations brush against your skin. 

The sound surprises you and you feel on edge as their eyes travel from your lower half to your face. You gulp considerably. From their stare, they expect more of a response, a reason for their addressment, but even you don’t know yourself; it seems like an unconscious calling that just rolled off your tongue. You cow underneath their gaze, even when the two of you are at eye level. When you linger in quietude, their hand releases one of your thighs and lifts to your face, supporting your chin while their thumb rests on your bottom lip, unfurling it just the slightest amount to implore an answer from your now parted lips. Gleaming scarlet pupils grip your regard sternly, piercing into you and instilling you to spew something out. Except, you still can’t, now too entranced and lost in the crimson. 

“Doll.” 

Despite the pet name, it's devoid of any affection or warmth. It's a word that drips of command, a reminder of your place: simply a toy that they can play with however they want, a manipulated and decorated plaything for their amusement. That means you answer to them, and so when they request a response, you're under the obligation to please them. Your survival is in their palms anyway, if they wanted you to dance, you would just so they wouldn’t strangle the life out of you. 

However, its implication doesn’t prevent the tingling shudders that wrack your body nor the involuntary clenching of your thighs around theirs. Was it the gravelly voice that aroused your behavior? Your cheeks flare at the knowledge that Harbinger sensed the physical reaction. It shouldn't be possible. It shouldn't be possible, your thoughts repeat, but then they're interrupted by: 

"Oh?" Arlecchino inquires to themselves, a stark amusement in their speech. Their red glare illuminates slightly, replacing the lost darkening with a faint glow in their pupils, and the corner of their mouth curls up. It is only then that you discover something entirely new: that monsters can be sinfully, cataclysmically, terrifyingly beautiful and the sight before you is the most exquisite example. A devil has you wrapped in its claws and its fangs readied for devouring but it’s disguised as an ethereal angel; blinded by their perilous allure, you mistake their snow-white hair, their lustrous piercing rubies, their flawless porcelain skin, and their burning, fleeting touches as traits of a seraph. From a measly smirk, you forget the atrocities lying underneath their fingertips and dismiss the hazard their presence holds. 

The hand on your thigh rakes its fingers up, red nails trailing across the surface of your fishnet, wrenching out a breathy gasp from you as they travel inwards. Tingling pleasure injects into your veins as you subconsciously lean in, imploring for further sensual contact. A plea sits on your tongue and nests in your eyes as you beg them through your pitiful expression. They drink in your desperation with a slow swipe of their tongue over their lips, and that single action is debauched enough to elicit a soft groan from your throat.

“Well, aren’t you an amusing toy?” They drawl out with a preposing rasp and dark abysses glint with an insatiable hunger. 

They smirk enticingly, their thumb running across your bottom lip and smearing your lipstick on their thumb pad. Their grip on your chin tightens a bit, pulling you even closer to them before a shadow casts over you when their face nears. Before you can even fathom their intentions, they descend upon you, closing the distance between the two of you. Your lips are greeted with something pillowy soft and fervently warm, and you sharply inhale from the sensation. Every one of your nerves sings frenziedly, your muscles tense all over, and your heartbeat drums deafeningly in your ears–all of this as your body is engulfed in a fervid tornado of heat that makes you lightheaded with pleasure. It takes you several beats to realize the reason for this is that Lord Arlecchino, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave is kissing–no, kissing is far too intimate, devouring–you voraciously like they're trying to rob you of any air, trying to imprint themselves on your mouth. Their mouth dominates yours, pushing against them with a deep fervor and famished urgency, eager to swallow every bit of shocked noise you make. 

You close your eyes and allow yourself to indulge. 

You first taste lipstick with a waxy flavor hitting your tastebuds. It’s cold against your lips, yet warm at the same time. But the physical texture and flavor of their lips are irrelevant; there’s only one true manner you would distinguish their taste: 

They taste like sin. 

The type of sin that’s chocolate coated and sprinkled with colorful toppings; depravity so sweet and charming it makes you reconsider the bounds of right and wrong. Degeneracy is far, far tastier than anything you’ve indulged in before. How can something so evil be so heavenly? Cushiony soft, placidly warm, flatteringly zealous, it’s like having a dance with a devil; so unequivocally immoral but no less gratifying. You question if they really belong to the Fatui because how can something like this come from such? You want to engrave the texture of their mouth onto your memory, feel this faux intimacy even when you’ve long parted. The Fourth Harbinger, you surmise as you surrend your will to them, is decadent–the only word that can be defined as both wicked and delectable at once–the perfect word to describe them. 

The last remaining bit of reasoning comes to the backdrop of your thoughts and begs you to not be swept away in the heavenly embrace. You discount it in favor of accepting this godsent gift by leaning further with a weak imitation of their ravishing lips and pressing back. It’s a feeble attempt to match their insatiate nature, far too domineering and forceful than you can manage but they display a token of appreciation when they squeeze your thigh, indenting your skin shallowly with the burrowing of their nails. The action exposes just how sensitive you’ve gone underneath their touch and you reward them with the sweetest of sounds. 

“Arlecchino,” you mumble with half-lidded dazed eyes in between ravenous exchanges and it evokes a depraved throaty growl from the Fatui, like provoking a call from a starving beast. They lean deeper to indulge in your taste. The gruff sound reaches your ears and it’s like a psalm–you shudder from its musical melody. 

Their clutch on your jaw releases and their fingers outline your jawline before snaking to the back of your head. Well-manicured digits entangle themselves in your hair, and there’s a gentle shove against your skull that forces you deeper into the kiss. Your hands clutch onto the couch underneath you as tight as you physically can for any sense of grounding and your knees attempt to close in even more to feel more of their body against yours. The hand on your leg, in turn, caresses the length of your thigh. 

Every graceful touch, stroke, and brush exudes an unyielding and infectious warmth that only adds to the stoking fire in your gut, and you’re bathed in so much swelter from the ecstasy that you feel dizzy. Yet, you never want it to end, you grow more addicted and drunk with each encounter of their lips. That, paired with your strained breathing, prompts your stamina to falter much sooner than the Harbinger’s. You let out a soft whine to signal your depleting oxygen, and their mouth unlatch with yours, pulling away despite your ache for more. With the separation comes a small string of saliva attached between the two of you, evidence of the shared intimacy that’s snapped when they lick their lips. The hand behind your head detangles from your hair and you silently mourn over the loss of contact. 

You heave for air, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You’re a little perturbed when you notice that they’re not even out of breath, a small but firm reminder that they’re as inhuman as humans can be. That knocks a sense of reality back into you. Customer, mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, it comes back to you like a train. Here you are swapping spit with them while in the lap of potentially the most dangerous criminal you could ever meet, but fuck were they a good kisser–you’ve never experienced anything that came close to this in your lifetime.

Any foolish doubtful contemplation of the morality of this interaction is swept away just like that when you hear:

“Greedy little thing that you are,” they regard with the most cunning and handsome of smiles, discrete amusement dripping from their words. Their dark pits behold you entirely, the same way they have always done when it seems like they were contemplating what part of you to savor the most. Only this time, you’re not so disturbed by the notion. If anything, the swirling heat in between your legs suggests the opposite.  

Greedy wasn't a word often associated with you, yet you couldn't more correctly describe yourself in that moment. Greedy. Greedy for a Fatui Harbinger no less. As ashamed as you should be, there's no use denying that you crave for their touch, for their gaze, for anything and everything they're willing to give you. You want everything and more. The more you contemplate, the more it seems obvious why you wouldn’t. Are they a devil disguised as an angel, or are they an angel that fell from grace? Regardless, they bring nirvana to you. An incessant desire bubbles inside you, your throat swelling up with an urgent request on the tip of your tongue. Would they allow such a thing if you plead? Would they be offended by your impudence? Would they punish you for such? But the necessity outweighs any reconsideration of your insolence and the supplicant beg tumbles out of your loose lips. 

“Can I… touch you please, my Lord?” You croak out, wincing at just how wretched it comes out. The response from them is not immediate as the two of you stew in silence, a building sense of dejection inside of you. The expression on their face noticeably contorts, smile lessening, their brows furrowing, and their red x’s glinting dimly. Their free hand raises to near your neck and you suck in a harsh breath as their fingers enclose around your throat. The mere action sends a stinging reminder to your lust-dazed thoughts about their position, and a chill pierces you. 

Mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave–the labels cycle through your thoughts. Though their grip is lax, not exactly suffocating and giving ample space to breathe, their fingertips does acutely jab into your skin, a display of their impressive grip strength. You have no doubt that they can suffocate you with one hand alone, snap your neck, or, as your mind ventures into more harrowing territories, crush your skull. Those thoughts alone has you breathless with anticipation. A heavy weight suddenly appears in your gut, so heavy that you feel like you can’t move so much as a muscle. 

Did you just go too far? Was that too much to ask? Was this how you were going to die?

The reflex to gag and inhale combat each other in your throat, a discomforting sensation that crawls up your spine while you tremble. You’re almost certain that the nails have penetrated the layer of skin, drawing beads of blood that’ll trail down your mark. You whimper at the prickly pain. Yet, in all your unease, the most masochistic thought arrives briefly at the forefront, and you can’t help but consider: this position is just as intimate as all the other interactions. You’re already so vulnerable in their lap, does the hand around your neck change your peril in any way? No, you’ve been a defenseless lamb to a slaughter the moment you’ve stepped into the domain of a menacing wolf. 

Ah. Even now, you can’t dismiss the warmth of their fingertips. 

“Do you still want to touch me when I do this?” They demand callously, their voice harsh and reverberating through the room. Their grasp closes more around, and you feel your supply of oxygen inhibited. Tears begin to brim your eyes, but you’re undeterred. Unlike Arlecchino’s, your answer is instant and breathless. Your eyes intently lock on theirs, the hardened expression enough to satisfy their question. There’s no need for contemplation. Danger, you determine, is addicting. 

“Yes.”

The previously small smile stretches across their lips considerably. Content, or dare you say it, thrill writes itself over their face and the boulder previously pressed against your shoulders is lifted. Your throat is freed from their hold, but their touch doesn’t halt there. Instead, they rotate your head for you to face to the left, exposing your side profile to them. From the corner of your eyes, you watch as their face draws closer to your skin, hot breath cascading across the small dents her nails created. The one on your thigh finally leaves, moving to one of your hips, tender strokes across your flushed surface. They lean forward, and moist, plush skin meets yours. Lips traverse over the length of your neck, teeth scraping against, making you weakly groan. It takes all of your will to still your body, only allowing for the Harbinger to do whatever they desire to your form. Their touches are burning, burning, burning–so hot that you wonder if you’re experiencing a heat wave. Peppered kisses follow the edge of your jawbone, all the way up to your earlobe. A wet kiss graces your ear and then the most sinful of statements dignifies your eardrums, like a devil whispering hymns directly into your ear. 

“I think I’ll keep you to myself after this.”

A short hum follows afterward. 

“If you want to touch me, you’ll have to work for it. You’re only mine for tonight, aren't you? Entertain me. Give me a private dance, doll. After all, you have me for all night.” 

---

It was late. If you’d just take one step further, it would all be over. Everything. You never expected you to do this. Maybe you had a drink too many, following your truest, most hidden feelings. You were always a coward, never able to do this yourself. You can imagine the plunge, the way your heart would race. Imagine the cold water below. The pain. It might be why you hesitate. 

Your heart pounds. Throbs with both fear and pain, yet with anticipation and excitement. No more rent, no more asshole landlord. No more shit boss. No more.. hatred. No more fear. It would all be over.

You lift your foot, ready to take the step forward with no ground underneath. You’re scared. You don’t want to. Right as you accept your fate, a noise behinds you startles you enough to fall back onto your rear, heart pounding and hands shaking. 

How shameful, being caught like this. You mentally prepare yourself for the assault of false worried words, and with a moment longer to prepare yourself, you turn around. 

Instead of someone human looking back at you, you’re startled breathless when a giant beast stares at you from the treeline. Its silver fur almost glows under the pale moonlight, and those eyes, completely inhuman, glow as it stares right at you. Maybe that’s what sobers you, what shocks you into the realization to what you’ve almost just done. 

The bigger concern of the beast in front of you distracts you from dwelling on the thought for too long, you unconsciously count it as a blessing in disguise. (You don’t want to die. You’re just tired of living like this.)

It stares at you. It’s hard to determine just what it’s thinking, those dangerous crossed pupils pinning you in place. Is it hunger? Is it fear? Neither of you two move, the sound of your heartbeat deafening any other noise. 

The beast blinks finally, breaking the stare down. It moves to step forward, but its eyes flutter, and before it can make that step closer, it collapses within the bushes. 

Your legs shake, your heart still hammering. Can you even get up? Every part of your body is running on adrenaline, and with a deep breath, you finally force yourself up, away from the cliff. You run to the beast’s side, caution to the wind. You could have died anyway, and if the beast decides to take you, well, it’s no difference to you. Might as well do something good with your life.

As you step closer, the harder your heart pounds.The beast is massive. It has beautiful fur that looks unbelievably soft, though with limbs that fade to black. There’s also big red splotches- no, that’s.. blood. The beast somehow has been terribly wounded, all over its side and well, a closer look would be needed.

As of right now, the beast doesn’t react. It’s breathing heavily, eyes closed. Maybe it doesn’t realize you’re next to it- that can’t be true, not with the way its ears are flicking towards your every ragged breath, every thump of your heartbeat. 

Moon. Cliff. The cliff is bare of trees, perfect view for the moon. Wolves are like.. connected to the moon somehow, right? This is no ordinary wolf, but.. werewolves can’t exist, right? That’s all fantasy, it has to. Yet, said fantasy is slapping you right in the face with those too humanoid limbs, ripped with muscles and fur. This is no normal wolf. 

Your breath hitches. Everything grows blurry. Tears in your eyes. You’re scared. Scared of what? Of yourself? Of this beast? 

Before you know it, your feet are tripping over every step, running, sprinting, needing to get out of there. Maybe it’s all a dream. A terrible, evil, nightmare of a dream. You’ll wake up and everything will be okay. No.. mistake near the cliff, no attempt to walk over the edge, no terrifying beast that shouldn’t exist. 

Home. You just have to make it home. 

.

So why the FUCK are you back out here again. Small medical box, bottle of water, and a towel in hand, you make your way back up the cliff, even with your knees shaking. Every step is torture, especially with how badly you tripped up while running back home. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, scrapes and bruises starting to sting.

How silly, using the very thing that you thought you’d never use. The medical box stuffed away, collecting dust. And now, you’re about to use it on some unknown beast. You don’t even know if it’s still there. If you can even help it.

Much to your surprise, the beast is actually still there. Still heavily breathing in the bushes, as if it has no more strength to move closer to the moon, to let whatever supernatural healing take place. You doubt you could move it. It’s like made up entirely of muscle, and honestly, you’d take the cliff over being eaten alive.

Except that it doesn’t matter. You probably would have died tonight without its intervention anyway, so might as well try and do a favor. Life for a life, right? Or. Whatever the saying is, if there’s even a saying for it. 

Plus, the moonlight would be useful when examining its wounds. Right now, everything looks dark, messy, and well, you can’t tell where any wounds start and where they end. With a deep breath, you try anyway. Adrenaline helps with breaking one’s limits, right? 

You call out to the beast in a shaky, fearful, yet gentle voice, trying to coax it into letting you touch it. You don’t even know if it understands speech, if it understands what you’re trying to do. It growls when your hand draws near, even when it can’t see you.

Some sacrifices are going to need to be made. You offer a small apology as you grab onto its arm, watching as its eyes snap open to you, the fear, the rage, the hurt swirling in its eyes. It doesn’t bite, not yet, but it does continue to growl, growing more and more angry. 

You’re pushing your luck. You’re more than aware of that, but you push past it, trying to remember what that one video said about ‘the best ways to lift an unconscious person’, or something. It’s not very fruitful, and neither is your memory. You end up crawling underneath its arms, struggling under the weight of a massive beast as you all but drag it closer to the cliff, closer to the moonlight.

Upon being jostled a bit too much, the wasp’s nest poked too far, the beast bites you. Pain sears through your arm and shoulder, and you can’t help the tears that blob at your eyes, the whimper that escapes your mouth. It hurts, it hurts so unbearably bad. Even when you can tell it’s holding back, it hurts like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Yet, you continue further, letting it down gently even as its maw still latches onto your skin.

Once it’s back on the ground, does it finally let go. At this point, your eyes are filled with fat tears, your face stained with their trails. It watches you as you hunker down, sniffling away snot and tears as you try to examine its wounds.

It looks to be heavy lacerations, at least, the majority of it. Maybe it got in a fight with another beast? You don’t think even a bear could match these claw marks, not when you look at this beast’s claws and see how massive they are, as well as bloodied. Definitely a fight. Maybe over territory?

It’s not your place to really theorize. It’s all just a bad dream. All just a bad dream, it’ll all be over once you get home, go to bed. 

Trying to steady your shaking hands, you inform the beast with the best voice you could muster, though it’s still filled with fear, pain, and too many emotions for it to really be smooth. It simply observes you, unmoving. Maybe it used up its strength in the fight. 

First comes cleaning the wound. You wet the towel, holding it up to the beast’s face so it can smell it, determine it’s safe, before starting to scrub the wound gently, removing any dirt or debris lining it. 

Of course, the beast growls. It doesn’t bark, doesn’t whine, not like other dogs do while in pain, but its soft tail is tucked between its legs as it growls. 

“Okay, all done,” you mutter to yourself, still trying to calm yourself. You’d need the stillest hands for the next part. You rinse your own hands, gathering your own mental strength to pull through. The lid to the medical kit clips open, and you grab a needle, the lighter, and the thread you put in there for those just in case moments. 

You light the needle, watching as it grows warm, hot, and then, to what you assume is perfect. Just wanting to be safe, you grab the small hydrogen peroxide bottle, unscrewing it with your free hand now that the lighter is put away. When the needle cools enough, you put it in the bottle, letting it sterilize further while you try to mess with the thread. 

Surprising, how all those articles and videos you consumed in passing are helping you out here. 

When though time, maybe a little bit longer than usual- you really wanted to be safe- you grab the needle, and carefully thread the string through the hole. Once everything is ready, you place a comforting hand, or at least, you hope it’s comforting, onto the beast’s upper side, just above the first wound. 

It’s been watching you. Observing. Even when you’re this freaked out mess, you’re still deciding to help it, even when it bit you. You’ll have to look at the wound when you go home, though the thought is mainly on the beast, and not yourself. 

It watches as you carefully start the uneven stitches, taking way too long as to not cause any unnecessary harm with such shaky hands. You were able to still them enough to continue your work, but not enough to move efficiently. 

The moon grows both higher and lower during this moment, watching over and granting you just enough light to sew all those deep wounds shut. There were only a few wounds that needed stitches, and well, you doubt you could just bring in this hulking beast into an animal hospital. For both parties' safety. The thought humors you while you examine the beast for anything else that needs immediate attention. 

Everything else is shallow, enough to where you just need to apply some ointment. Nothing broken, you sigh with relief.

When everything is said and done, you fall back onto your haunches, heaving with breath you had limited due to focus. You look over at the beast, only to see it staring right back at you. It’s flustering, its eyes. It had seen you about to fall, it had seen you crying, running, whimpering and scared, and it had seen you help it, even when it tried to warn you away. A puny human, daring to touch such a mighty beast?

With a shaky sigh, you reach out, offering you hand for it to sniff, in which it does. It bumps its nose against your palm, and for the first time tonight, you giggle softly, letting your hand discover the plush softness of the giant wolfish beast. 

You don’t know what it is, but tears flood back to your senses, and you giggle and cry softly as you gently caress the beast’s face, its soft cheeks, scratching behind its ears. Oh, you adore this thing, even if you’ve known it for so little time. It’s so unbearably soft, and if you had a little less restraint, you’d faceplant your face in its mane of fur. The stress washes off you in waves.

As the adrenaline starts to fully wear off, your exhaustion grows. You continue to pet the beast, watching as it seems to relax under your touch, grow more content and comfortable with your presence. You don’t even realize it when you pass out right into that very soft mane of fur you so desperately wanted to nuzzle.

.

When you wake, it’s to a familiar ceiling. Your ceiling. Your room. Warm light spills in through the poorly blinded windows, giving you enough of a mind to determine it’s maybe a bit past noon. You blink as you sit up, letting the blankets pool at your waist.

You were right. It was just a dream. A bad, terrible, shameful dream. A part of you wishes you could see the beast again, but they’re not real. None of it is real. (You miss the small medical box placed on your nightstand, a small flower lying atop it.)

Wanting to at least get ready for the day, and surprised you slept that long, you stretch and head to the bathroom, wanting to clean up and at least feel freshened up. A shower wouldn’t hurt, not after last night– no, all of last night was a dream. All you did was go out to drink with some friends and go home. Because if last night weren’t a dream, you’d still be outside! Boom, checkmate!

Only for you to lift your shirt and see some kind of marking where the beast bit you. Well. Uncheckmate? 

First of all, how is that even possible? You lean closer to the mirror, running the tip of your fingers over the flesh. It feels normal. It looks similar to a scar, but it’s.. slightly discolored. Darkened, as if it were decaying. But.. that’s not possible. It looks completely healthy, more like a tattoo than anything. Kind of cool looking, if you were being honest. Actually, upon closer look, it looked kind of like some kind of band on your upper arm. Sure, there’s other small markings around it in the location the beast bit you, but it seems more like some kind of ring of jagged blackened skin. Yeah.. probably best not to go and flaunt this around. 

In the following days, you’re also somewhat able to return to normal life. Same shitty boss, same shitty work, the usual. The landlord, thankfully, seems to be off your ass at this moment. Something about a new tenant, or something. Not your problem, you simply wish them the best of luck in your mind and move on.

You made a doctor’s appointment to get the marking checked out. Better be safe than sorry. The doctor, however, seemed quite upset, asking you if this was a joke. A joke? Are you kidding? Your life was in danger and this doctor is calling it a joke? Either way, the doctor sighs, saying that everything’s fine, that it’s just a tattoo or something. With your story of a rabid dog biting you, though, the doctor offers you a rabies shot, in which you gladly accept.

Honestly, you try to forget that night. You really do. It was a moment of weakness, and well, foolish, if you were thinking it from another’s perspective. Yet, you can’t deny the small amount of hope for freedom in that moment, and the overwhelming fear. You were never fond of heights.

You try to forget that night oh so badly. So why do you find yourself going back to that forest whenever you can? Trying, hoping, wishing to see another glimpse of the beast, to plead, to ask it why it decided to save you. You know it didn’t save you, it was probably just looking out for itself. Despite that, you just.. you want answers. Answers to anything. To why you feel this way. To why you were stopped. To what this mark means. To.. well, everything. Why you?

You ended up passing out in the forest last night, crying out to the moon, to the stars. The moon seems to watch you with an intensity, even as the full stage fades. The stars watch with curiosity and anticipation. None of them answer, coating you in their gaze and protection, a promise you can’t understand.

Ache fills your body. Sleeping outside is never really a good idea, especially when it grows colder out, winter drawing near. You hate the feeling of being watched, yet you never retreat, caring more for answers than your life. You never freeze, and you’re never wounded. It surprises you how no animals considered you a meal of convenience. 

You make your way home, a complete and utter disheveled mess. You stumble upon the apartment next to yours, the door open and people moving things inside. Must be your new neighbors, then. You’re unsure if you should say hello or not; your other neighbor has been quite a creep. Might as well warn them.

At this point, you’ve forgotten that you’ve all but slept outside and literally under the stars, sticks and dirt clinging onto you as if you were a part of them. You offer their open door a quick knock, a loud enough rasp of your knuckles, before hesitantly entering. Why are you doing this? You don’t know.

Right now, everything is just boxes. It looks to be empty, besides all of the hired movers moving all the boxes. Y’know, their job. You look around some more, trying to find any sign of life. You feel eyes on you, but no signs of anyone around. Kind of eerie, but it’s not uncommon for the one moving in to be missing while their stuff is being moved in. Well, at least you think. You’re not totally sure.

As you make way to leave, right as you turn around, you’re faced with a young man. You jump, startled out of your mind at being snuck up on like this. You offer a small apology, trying to explain why you’re in their home.

The young man, actually, he still looks to be a child, maybe ten to twelve years old? His hair is an ashen blonde, well taken care of. It looks soft, well maintained and his bangs cover his left eye. Speaking of eyes, you’ve never seen anyone with this kind of blue for their eyes, piercing and seeing. If you were any more delusional, you could imagine the moon fitting perfectly, or reflecting beautifully off of them.

“I was looking for the people that are moving in here,” you comment softly, trying not to make yourself look like a total creep, even as the kid stares at you like he knows something you don’t. “Are you moving in here? You seem quite young.. Where’s your parents?” You certainly don’t want your other neighbor to be a creep to this kid. You might actually end up with charges on file.

The kid simply stares at you, and you get the feeling he’s not really one to talk. His clothes are nice, though simple, you doubt he’s been abandoned here. You state back, unsure what to say in this bout of silence. The kid’s eyes risk a quick glance to your arm before finding your face again. He seems to sniff the air (do.. people do that? Do you smell bad? You did spend the night outside, no shower yet..), and that seems to ease his worries. At least a little. His gaze falls behind you, and you hear them before you notice their presence. 

“I see a little birdie has wandered into the wolf’s den,” the hair on your skin immediately stands on end hearing that silken, husky voice. Your heart pounds. Said person behind you grabs something out of your hair, and that’s when you turn around. And holy Jesus Christ. 

They had pulled a leaf out of your hair, but dear lord. Someone have mercy all over your body because what do you mean your new neighbor is the hottest person you’ve ever seen? Piercing eyes with unusually colored pupils, yet they look at you with a certain softness, and amusement, of course. That’s not all, oh archons, they were wearing a fitted tshirt, and you could see their abs poking through. Not to mention their arms, ripped to hell and back, covered in tattoos, and ones that look similar to your newly gained one on their upper biceps. Your mouth goes dry.

The handsome stranger flashes their teeth, surprisingly sharp- you have to remind yourself to keep focused- their soft dual white and black hair falling ever so elegantly over their face as they lean down, lean closer to you. Your eyes catch on their multiple piercings. 

“Cat got your tongue?”

You swallow thickly, mentally shaking yourself to get yourself together. You were practically drooling at the first sight of them! 

“No, uh, sir, uh, ma’am..” Gods, how embarrassing. Stammering over your own words, best bet is to just flee back to your apartment and never come back.  You can’t look them in the eyes. 

“Sir. Call me sir,” they interject, their voice smooth, gentle, but stern in a way that makes heat stir below your skin as they look at you with both fondness (You might be making it up, too caught in your own fantasies.) and amusement. 

“Ah, yes sir.. I, I just, um.. wanted to warn you guys that.. This isn’t the best.. place to stay. But it’s, uh, not my choice to make.. so .. just beware of the guy two doors down, or.. My other neighbor. He’s.. not the kindest.. a creep. I’ve caught him trying to peek through windows and chat up some of the other residents,” a shiver runs through your body at the thought, “especially the younger ones.”

You risk a glance up, catching their gaze for a split second. You doubt that said man could even pose a threat- this person looks like they could fold some of the strongest people you know in half with a flick of their fingers. Seriously, are they a bodybuilder or something? Something that requires major muscles? What’s their workout routine…

Said person seems to nod, an almost pensive expression settling on their face as they consider your words. You can’t tell if it’s genuine or not, their concern over the threat, but at least they’re listening to your words. Their gaze falls to the child behind you, and they seem to have a silent conversation with their eyes that you simply can’t decipher. 

When their gaze falls back to you, their voice seems to soften a bit. “Thank you for your warning,” Their unique eyes bore into yours, though you don’t see a threat, but a safe place. Which is definitely weird- you’ve never seen this person before in your life, and they seem to be super friendly already. Or at least, their eyes seem to speak it. “I’ll.. suppose I’ll have to talk with this neighbor sometime.”

Well, that’s not ominous at all. You simply smile and nod, feeling more and more flustered as you stand there. What an embarrassing first encounter! You didn’t even wash up before meeting them.. oh they’re going to want nothing to do with you..

Before you could spiral more, you offer a quick excuse, wanting to at least get cleaned for the day. You had work later, after all, and this was definitely not the best way to start a day. The kid behind you was gone by the time you turned around, but at this point, you’re more concerned with going back to your own home rather than staying here or finding out where the kid went. 

It doesn’t take long to clean up, but it does take longer than usual. Gotta wash out all the dirt and twigs, grass and leaves and whatnot from sleeping outside. You hate to admit it, but the sounds of the forest were rather comforting. It was.. peaceful. Unlike the city.

Nonetheless, you’re not really allowed to dwell on it for much longer- work calls. You don’t even want to think about it, about the time being dragged on as your boss all but harasses you and your coworkers. Reporting him to anyone else doesn’t do anything, it’s pointless to fight back. None of the other jobs you’ve applied for have accepted you, either. You accept it’s pointless.

It’s late again when you start making your way home. You’ve got that itchy feeling again where you swear eyes are on you, watching you. You hate the feeling, and just like all the other women online preach, you don’t go home. No, the only other place you can think of that’s close enough is the local bar. Might as well drink away your sorrows again. 

Sure, hangovers suck, but it gives you something else to focus on than the black hole that seems to be your life. 

Drinks fly by once you sit down. The feeling of being watched hasn’t gone away, though no one has approached you yet, as to which you’re thankful for. You don’t think you could humor any kind of conversation, more invested in laying your head on the cool bar counter, letting your thoughts run rampant, too tired to try and control them, pretend everything’s fine. 

Until the feeling finally quietly retreats, and a minute later, a hand taps on the counter next to your dozing eyes. Lazily, you drag your gaze up, meeting your hot neighbor. They hold out their hand to you, as if you were a dog and they were letting you grow accustomed to their scent, and with a slow blink from you, they test the waters of contact by grabbing your hand and holding it ever so gently. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” their voice is like warmed honey, and it washes warmth all over you. Your eyes close, your thoughts silencing for a bit just to listen to the melody. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Upon receiving no response, they rub their thumbs over the back of your hand, trying to gently coax you back to the moment. Unfortunately, it seems to have the opposite effect, letting your breaths deepen as your mind zeroes in on the feeling. It’s so gentle, so.. soft. 

“Hey,” they murmur, and your eyes flutter open to them being much closer, having crouched down to be eye level with you. And of course, they were much closer, just a breath away. You could smell their cologne, something akin to a warm fire. How dare this stranger be so charming?

“Mmn… don’t… d’wanna.. go home…” you whine.

They stare at you with gentle amusement, and their free hand comes up to gently pet at your head.The feeling is unfairly comforting. Why are you letting this happen? You don’t know this person! (You try to ignore the familiar feeling bubbling inside your gut. Have you seen them, met them before?)

“Why not?”

It takes a bit more effort than you’d like to let your eyes scan your surroundings, watching the life of the bar truly spark. People around getting drunk, having fun with their friends, or like you, to drown out their sorrows, to forget. 

Your eyes eventually find theirs again, and you swear you’ve seen them before, those crimson crosses. 

“..Bein’.. watched.. Can’t go hooome.. Not safe…”

Your neighbor exhales a small laugh, eyes crinkling ever so slightly with the same thing you’d feel when looking at the cutest thing in the world. 

“I can make sure you get home safe. Take you home. We’re neighbors, aren’t we? Gotta look out for each other.”

Just like a child, you pout. Of course you want to go home with them, but! You don’t know who they are! They might be hot, but they might also be a serial killer! You cannot give in so easily.

“..Mmmnooo. I meannn.. We do.. Have ttto look out.. for eachother…” You sniffle, wrinkling your nose as you continue your pout. “But.. I don’t.. know youuu.. So I can’tt…”

“Ah, right.” Their hands, oh so warm and big, find their focus back on your own hands again, warming your cold extremities back to life. “I suppose we have forgone introductions. Would you rather do them now, or when you’re sober?” 

Their tone seems to hold barely held back amusement, and you swear, you seem to be the most interesting thing for them at this point. It’s not that you mind- quite the opposite. Anyone else you’ve met don’t even have the mind to be as gentle or kind as them. So you indulge. 

“Mmmhh… I want.. Both.”

You finally lift your head, feeling the way your body’s control slips, how you end up overshooting the straightening of your back and head, almost falling off the stool. Of course, your attentive neighbor catches you with those strong arms, letting you rest your head on their shoulder. 

“So clumsy,” they chide softly, exhaling another small laugh as they look at you. “My name is Arlecchino. You met one of my children earlier, Freminet. I have two more young ones; twins. Lyney and Lynette. They were absent when you showed, but I supposed when we do actual introductions, we’ll get to know each other better.”

Gods, listening to their voice through their chest, the pleasant vibrations of their silken, deep voice is doing nothing to help keep you awake. 

“..Mhm.. keep.. going..”

They smile softly and hum, trying to figure out the next best thing they could tell you. To gain your trust. To go home.

“Let’s see.. I’m an entomologist that mainly focuses on spiders, their habits and whatnot. Ah, I could let you handle a few if you’d like.”

You don’t really care as to what they’re saying at this point, way too caught up in the pleasant feeling washing over you. It’s been incredibly long since you’ve last felt like this, since your thoughts have been quieted. You wish they’d keep talking forever.

Oh, and of course they just have to be so gentlemanly, holding you like porcelain, one of their hands rubbing up and down your arm, the one that was bit, their thumb soothing any anxieties under your skin. 

“..Mhm.. okay..”

They smirk, leaning down to your ear. Their voice is unbelievably soft. “It’s not fair I’m the only one talking, hm? Isn’t it your turn?”

A shiver runs through you involuntarily, travelling down your spine as you try to collect your thoughts. You don’t want this moment to end. You don’t want your thoughts to come back, you don’t want to.. to return to being.. you. You plead internally for this moment to last a bit longer. What if you mess up, say something you shouldn’t, what if they hate you after you spill something you shouldn’t?

“I..”

Your face scrunches up, your thoughts wiggling in again. They’re overwhelming as you introduce yourself sloppily, hating how your drunken induced state inhibits your speech from being normally.. not a puzzle to understand. 

You don’t speak more than your name and profession, opting to lie back down on the cool counter to try and silence the thoughts. 

Of course, Arlecchino has different plans. They hold you close, letting their palm fall under your head so when you do try to let your head fall rather harshly onto the counter again, it doesn’t hurt. 

“Why don’t we go home. I don’t think anyone’s watching you anymore, little dove. I’ll make sure to protect you, okay? You’ve had plenty to drink, and I think you need more rest, than anything.”

With a sigh, you reluctantly agree. You hate the way you act when inebriated, but you didn’t expect them to show up, so.. Well, there’s really no winning. You whine when Arlecchino guides your arms around their neck, their strong arms finding purchase on your back and under your knees, and with one gentle but swift movement, you’re in their arms. 

“Let’s get you home, sweet thing.”

You nod, holding on tight, listening to their thrumming heartbeat, to the rattle of their lungs with every step they take. It’s a lullaby you stand no chance at staying awake against. 

.

Waking up in your bed after you don’t remember the way home has.. certainly grown more common, which you can’t really remark as a good thing. The familiar ceiling, the familiar scent of your home, and the familiar light that pours through. And, of course, the familiar tellings of a hangover. 

The only thing that’s unfamiliar is the pelt that covers you. It’s so incredibly soft, silver and black fur strangely familiar, something you wish you could connect back to that werewolf from oh so long ago. It’s been too long, you don’t recall the markings, though.

Begrudgingly, you make your way to your bathroom, wanting to at least get cleaned up, even if your entire body protests at the idea. When you manage to drag your cumbersome body into the room, you look at yourself. A mess, like always. It’s exhausting. 

As you begin to undress to shower, you notice the mark is missing. You blink, rub your eyes and lean closer, because that’s not possible- it’s like it was scrubbed clean. You turn your arm just a bit more, and find that in its place is a small marking. A smaller tattoo, this time in the pattern of a slim four petaled flower, with what looks to be red bulbs in the center of the flower, resting over a four pointed star. It’s.. beautiful, but you can’t really say it’s a good thing. Seriously, magical tattoos don’t just exist. Another doctor’s appointment would be a waste of money, seeing as the last time ended up with a rabies shot. At least nothing bad came out of it, the mark, the bite.

It takes you a lot longer to actually get the willpower and strength to shower, your body feeling like lead. Today would be lovely to just sleep everything off. 

Your mind slips back to last night. It’s blurry, sports swallowing some parts, but you’re able to remember that your neighbor helped you home. Helped you unlock your door and settle. Ah, that pelt must be theirs, then.

When you get out of the shower, all somewhat ready for the day, you return to your bedroom, finding that soft pelt on your bed. It’s so incredibly soft and fluffy, you have to return your thoughts to the task at hand- folding it. You’re unsure of how to wash pelts, so might as well hand it over with an apology. Better than accidentally ruining it. 

Next task is to get busy in the kitchen. You don’t bother with anything more than a mixed tea to help with your hangover. Instead, your goal is to make cookies, because everyone likes cookies, right? 

You spend maybe a bit more time than you’d like looking for a recipe with enough good reviews, and manage to scrounge up just enough ingredients to actually make them. It doesn’t take too long, but the ache in your mind and bones shout that you’re wasting time. 

It’s more or less evening when you leave your apartment, grateful that at least you had today off, walking a few steps over to your neighbor’s door. It’s firm, like yours, nothing really special about it. You don’t know what you expected. 

A few moments after you knock does the door open, revealing a different kid this time. No, young man actually fits the description this time; ashen blonde hair with faint magenta streaks that swooped over his right eye, and greyish eyes you could swear were purple. What were with these unusual eyes you were happening across lately? Well, not your problem, they were pretty nonetheless.

“Hey, uhm.. Is your.. parent home? I’d, uh, like to apologize for last night. And return this.”

You hold out the pelt, neatly folded, and the small plate of cookies on top. The kid does the same thing as the other did yesterday, sniffing the air before his face brightens up with excitement.

“Oh, you’re the one Father has their eyes on! Come in, come in! They’re probably in the shower right now, but they won’t be long! Plus, I’d love to get to know you!” The kid quickly ushers you inside before you could protest, wanting to simply drop everything off and face less humiliation than you did last time. He quickly picks up the cookies, though leaves the pelt in your hands, saying something about how you should give it to ‘Father’ yourself.

He guides you through the newly furnished home, and it looks a lot better than it did yesterday. Sure, there were some boxes still here and there, but it looked almost perfect. Homey. Something you wish you could have. Something that didn’t feel like a box, trapping you inside. (Yet in that cage you felt safest.)

After a little more rambling from the kid, he introduces himself as Lyney, sitting you down on the couch in their makeshift living room.

It seems your presence attracted another, as soon you’re faced with another child, a girl that looks to be the same as Lyney, though her eyes were more blue, more purple, and teal in her hair instead of magenta. You try to search your memory for the name, only to be handed it when she sits down opposite you, next to Lyney.

“Lynette,” her voice is a lot softer, eyes more observing. “This one’s twin sibling. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” 

You nod, sheepishly introducing yourself as well, hoping they haven’t heard any of your previous encounters with the rest of their family. Wishful thinking, but if they’ve heard anything about it, they don’t mention it. 

Idle chatter with the twins is rather pleasant, and you find yourself relaxing as you talk to them, mind drifting away from your previous goal to return the pelt. It’s nice, and you’ve been petting it idly, adoring the way the fur feels under your fingertips. 

It’s not long before you hear footsteps, heavier than the twin’s, so you assume it’s Arlecchino. And lord are you right.

They walk into the living room, those perfect hands you recall being so warm fussing with a towel on their head, trying to dry the water still clinging to their silken strands. Their skin is still slightly flushed, some water droplets clinging to their skin. Their clothes are loose this time, a low hanging tshirt and some grey shorts. 

“Oh, what’s this? The little birdie’s back.”

Arlecchino greets you with a quirk of their lips, all but plopping down onto the couch next to you, ignoring how you’re all flushed and flustered with the proximity. (It makes them happy knowing you have similar thoughts.)

“Oh, I, um, came by to thank you.. and apologize for having to take care of me last night. That was.. unbecoming of me..”

You quickly hand over the pelt, already missing the warmth and feeling in your hands. Having Arlecchino next to you flusters you so much you don’t see the twins across from you watching with wide, expectant eyes. 

“I, uh, didn’t wash it.. I didn’t want to ruin it, but thank you for letting me use it. It was.. very warm and soft. So, um, thank you.”

Arlecchino watches you with an expressionless face for a moment, her hand resting on the pelt now in her lap. You’re almost afraid you did something wrong when a gentle smile settles upon their face. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to keep it? It’s yours, you know.”

Your heart thumps. You chastise your heart for jumping to the first person that isn’t a complete asshole to you. That, and the pelt. Of course you want it, but it looks expensive. You can’t just take it.

“Ah, I’ll.. pass. I’m afraid I’ll ruin it. Even though it is lovely.”

You risk a glance at the twins across from you, feeling awkward that you’re making them almost invisible. It doesn’t seem they care, though, as they watch Arlecchino with bated breath and wide eyes. 

Only then do you risk a glance at Arlecchino, who seems to be looking at you with slight surprise, slight wide eyes herself. Seriously, what’s with this family and being so surprised that you didn’t take a pelt? Sure, it’s nice fur, but you really didn’t want to be responsible for such an expensive, high quality thing, even if it was the epitome of warmth and safety. 

“Did I.. say something wrong? Surely I haven’t offended you for rejecting this, right..?”

Anxiety and fear starts to well in your mind. You come into their home, try to apologize, and end up offending and upsetting them-

“No,” Arlecchino’s voice is.. soft. “Not at all. I just.. No, never mind. Say, would you like to stay for dinner? It’s already quite late. And..”

They feel the pelt under their fingers, smiling just a fraction you swear it was a hallucination. Even Lyney and Lynette seem to gape a little at the expression. 

“I would love to learn more about you, little birdie. We have yet to do sober introductions, don’t we?”

Your face goes red at the mention. You had momentarily forgotten completely about your words the previous night. You wanted both sober and drunk introductions. You’re about to stutter out an excuse, too flustered to overstay your welcome, when Lyney chirps in his answer.

“Please! Please stay! We’ll take care of dinner, you can count on us that it’ll be super yummy! Uh, please take care of our Father!”

He jumps from his seat, sparkles in his eyes. Lynette is a lot more quiet, but you can catch the glint of excitement in her eyes as well. She’s about to further add commentary when the door opens and closes, and in walks Freminet, carrying a very worn penguin plush. It looks like it has some tears here and there- you’ll have to ask later if you can fix it, for all of this family’s generosity. 

Lynette is the one that gracefully gets up, walking over to her younger brother. You watch as her steps are slightly hurried, hiding under the facade of calm. Seriously, did you just offer them the lottery, or something? Why is everyone acting so weird over a pelt? 

“Freminet,” Arlecchino rumbles pleasantly, grunting slightly as they stand from the couch. “Everything look okay? Nothing… out of place?”

Freminet shakes his head, confirming nothing was up. At the same time, Lynette whispers something into his ear as Arlecchino offers you a warm, calloused hand that you easily take, making standing up infinitely easier with their support. 

Freminet gains that sparkle in his eyes as well when Lynette walks back to join Lyney’s side, bowing respectfully as they both excuse themselves to go work on dinner. Arlecchino turns to you, hands still holding yours, as if reluctant to part.

“Pardon me, but I’ll have to excuse myself for a moment. Please, make yourself comfortable. I won’t be long at all.” Arlecchino leans closer, as if wanting to bump their forehead against your own, though hesitates before pulling away. (You try to calm yourself at the feeling of their warm breath fanning your ear.) Instead, they pat your head and offer a gentle smile.

Something is.. definitely different with this family, but you can't say that you hate it. You’d much rather deal with this than your other neighbor. Speaking of which, you haven’t seen or heard of him at all recently, which is.. unusual, to say the least. Not that you’re complaining.

“Right. Um, I’ll just.. help out in the kitchen. Thank you for your, um, hospitality.”

You watch as they hesitate for a bit longer, ultimately deciding to drape the pelt over your shoulders.

“Just.. while you’re here, wear it, won’t you? It gets quite chilly. Best to stay warm. I wouldn’t want you to freeze, little dove.”

It’s been a bit since you’ve been called such a pet name, and you can’t deny that you like the feeling of it, of the pelt over your shoulders. Arlecchino was right, it is incredibly warm, like lying next to an open flame, but not too close to where it burns. 

They turn to leave, Freminet watching the interaction intently before following after his father. You watch their retreating backs, into a separate room to discuss whatever they talk about. You shove down your disappointment at Arlecchino’s departure, wanting to at least make yourself useful.

You meet the twins inside the kitchen, watching as they work almost perfectly together, like two hands to a mind, like they literally are the other halves of each other. You’d feel almost awkward, trying to join in with how seamlessly they move and work around the kitchen, but your fear of being a burden overpowers that, and so, you offer a soft rapt of your knuckles to the wall, alerting them to your presence. 

They seem to be making a simple soup, though it smells delicious. Aromatics slowly releasing delicious flavors and scents as they’re prepped and cooked, with other ingredients being perfectly chopped and added to the mix. 

After a little bit of silent debating between the two, Lyney allows you to take over his job of cutting up some vegetables, saying something like he needs to cook the stew meat anyway. Cutting vegetables, that’s something you could do. (You made extra careful to not spill anything on the silvery white fur sitting upon your shoulders.)

When it’s time to put them in the pot, you can’t help but notice the difference between your chunky, uneven cuts of vegetables versus the previous even and nicely diced ones that Lyney had prepped just a bit earlier. You’re not given much time to think about it when Lynette grabs the meat her brother was preparing, stirring it into the pot, waiting for you to do the same.

When everything’s mixed together, the broth is finally added. Now, all there is to do is wait. A timer is set, and the three of you make it back to the living room, plopping down on the couch. Arlecchino plops down next to you again, seemingly not knowing the definition of personal space, their large thigh almost dwarfing yours, feeling oh so warm as it finds comfort against your skin. 

Freminet joins the twins’ side, making himself known, but still incredibly shy. He’s more of a listener still. 

Either way, sober introductions happen. You introduce yourself to them, what you do, leaving out the part where it’s almost suffering day to day under your current boss. You share another dream job you’d love to have, but laugh it off as an impossible dream. That’s what it is after all, isn’t it?

Everyone else introduces themself as well. Just by how they present themselves, you know exactly who they are. Lyney, a pure heart. Lynette; reserved, but not unkind, and Freminet; who’s shy but sweet and earnest. They each seem to have their own pelts that look extremely similar to each other, and they’re proud to show it off to you. You feel some kind of protectiveness over them, the silly, ‘I’ve only known these kids for what, maybe less than 24 hours, but if something happened to them you’d kill everyone and then yourself,’ or at least, you think you do. 

It actually becomes a task, going home that night. Arlecchino seemed to always have their eyes on you the whole night, watching, observing your mannerisms, as if committing them to memory. It’s intense, almost to the point where it’s uncomfortable. It’s nerve-wracking, especially when you constantly feel like you’ll make a mistake or embarrass yourself. 

Arlecchino themself had no problems, being as generous as always. Handing you things, doing things for you, gods, their hands were just so big, calloused as they are, they felt heavenly on your own, and you didn’t need all that help, you just got.. caught up in the sights. That’s all.

It’s nice, being in their presence. You find yourself wanting to be there in your alone time, not wanting to be alone. You never tell them about your struggles. Kids have to have adults to look up to, right? (You ignore the feeling of disgust, of hatred at yourself for failing to be such.)

After that night, home starts to feel less like home. Quiet. Lonely. You go over to Arlecchino's home more than you go to your own, though they don't seem to mind. The warm atmosphere, the warm, delicious food, the fun game nights occasionally. It makes you forget your struggles occasionally. (They always come back when you leave. It hurts. You want to stay there forever.)

Overall, you end up drinking less, too. Instead, you busy yourself in their home. The more time spent with them, the less time you have to dwell on your thoughts. Every time you do end up drinking, Arlecchino always finds you. Always takes you home. You never question why they're there, simply happy to see them.

One night, you get drunk, unable to silence your mind after a long day. Work was shit. You got yelled at, told off for something you didn't do, and you couldn't defend yourself. It hurt. It felt like the smallest thing would break you.

You find yourself going home early, not wanting to stay in such a loud place, but end up in front of their home. You raise your fist to softly knock when doubts creep into your mind. The children have never seen you like this, so.. broken, so.. out of it. You were supposed to be someone they could look up to, not be some.. Mess even you can’t figure out. It would be terrible to show up and look like this.

It's cold. You're sniffling, shivering from the lack of warmth, and you know that if you go inside your own home, it'll only grow colder. You miss the silver pelt you always wear when you go over. You can imagine its warmth, holding you like you wish someone would. 

Right as you turn to go into your own apartment, doubts dulling your senses, the door swings open. Lyney is standing there, Freminet behind him.

"Moth- Ah, excuse my manners! What're you doing out there? It's cold, come on in!"

You try to decline, your words soggy and drawn out. You don't want to tarnish the image they have of you. The thought alone hurts. They’ve already seen too much, seen the flush in your cheeks, smelled the alcohol in your breath, the daze, the haze in your eyes.

A third person joins them- Arlecchino. Their eyes seem to be guarded, almost unsettled and a hint of panic in a way, at least, until they settle on you.

Once they see you, their eyes soften tenfold, erasing any evidence of previous turmoil. "Ah, I was just about to come get you."

They walk out, carefully enveloping you in their arms. They lean down, hovering by your ear as they inhale your scent, warm breath fanning your frozen ears.

"Are you okay? You've been out drinking again.” They pull back to look at you, lifting a hand to cup your jaw, the pad of their thumb caressing your too cold cheek. “You’re freezing. You should stay over- I wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

You can't say no to this warmth. Is it selfish to want to have this? To want this warmth always? Either way, you follow them inside. Into their home, into your home. To the only place you feel you belong.

The trio take care of you staying by your side as if they were cute little puppies. They don’t ask, don’t make you question anything about how they see you. They simply do what they can, helping out when needed. They end up making soup, something light and easy on your stomach after so much alcohol. (It’s the same soup you made together the first night you spent over. It’s delicious, just like it was back then.)

It’s not long after you eat that Arlecchino whisks you away to get you ready for bed. They help you through the bathroom, which you're ashamed to let them see, despite their insistence that they'd love to help.

Bowels now emptied, freshly showered, and teeth cleaned, you now lay snugly in Arlecchino's bed, draped in that expensive pelt once again. Arlecchino joins you shortly, having gotten ready for bed themself. Once under the covers, they wrap their arms around you in a gentle embrace, pulling you close. You adore the warmth, and for once, you’re grateful that you don’t have to ask, to plead for it.

"Do you want to talk about it?" They ask, voice incredibly soft, a safe landing point if you want to drop the burden of having to fly so high, to rest your wings.

You hesitate. When was the last time you could talk about your feelings so freely like this? It's been a while, certainly. And so, after a minute of hesitation, you begin to spill. Your thoughts, you mind, how.. you used to want to.. disappear. The feeling is still there, but it's lessened. You've found a home in them, and it gives you just a bit more spark, a bit more fight.

But the urge is still there. Life is still tough. At least your landlord isn't on your ass, but your boss and your work.. You're struggling. You hate it. You just want a break. (You come clean to them about that night. The cliff, the way you almost fell off, the beast that saved your life. You don't realize Arlecchino holding you closer.)

Arlecchino listens whole heartedly, their chest rumbling with each murmured reassurance, with each affirmation. You adore the feeling of it traveling through your own body. You don't realize it, but sleep comes a lot easier that night. You miss the kiss Arlecchino plants on your forehead, the soft oath spilling from their mouth, the way they hold you impossibly tighter. They can't lose you now.)

Something subtly changes after that night. Even though you’d been going over to their home more often than your own to the point you swear your things are collecting dust, Arlecchino seems to want to see you more often, inviting you to more things with their family. 

For the children- at one point, you end up fixing Freminet’s plush penguin, surprising him with it on his birthday. He’d come out of his shell immensely after that. For Lyney and Lynette, you’d go and watch their magic shows, something they’ve been enjoying doing on the side of school. 

Speaking of school, you’d been taking days off work to see them, any sort of special event, you made sure to mark on your calendar, made sure to attend, even if your boss got.. more and more spiteful and passive aggressive towards you. It was tiring, but seeing them made it worth it. It always did. 

One lucky day you get off work. It’s a weekend, so that means home time! Your own home feels so.. dull, and though it’s full of your belongings and things your “family” gifted you, you’d much rather be over there. So with half a mind, you make a quick trip to the store, picking up some dried meats and some pastries for the family, sort of like your apology for always taking up their space. (They want you there. Too many times have they pouted at you bringing things over with a sheepish smile, trying to excuse your want in their life.)

It goes like usual; you knock on the door, and within seconds you’re whirled inside, treats left on the table to get into later. Today though, you seriously have no energy, especially after a gruelling week, so you apologize in advance as you flop onto their couch, passing out immediately. 

It doesn’t take long for the first sleepy child to join you, Lynette taking the opportunity to both steal and provide warmth. Freminet clocks the other side of you, cuddling close to your side, in the junction of your arm, resting his head on your shoulder. And poor Lyney hates being left out of things, so he drapes himself atop of you, a pile of fur and warm bodies. 

It’s only a little into the afternoon when Arlecchino comes home. They’re quiet at first, unsettled with the quietness in their home. Usually there’s some kind of noise happening, be it footsteps or the sound of an activity, but here there’s nothing. Well, at least until they find out why it’s so quiet. 

Seeing all of their favorite beings all piled up, sleeping and cuddling oh so cutely on the couch.. oh, they might have to get a bigger couch. Their heart threatens to burst from their chest, seeing you under all of their children, knowing they trust you enough to be vulnerable near you. (They take a photo. It makes a lovely new phone screen.)

You wish you could stay the night again, but knowing that you’d wake up in those warm arms and a soft bed, you don’t think you could make it to work. And that might actually get you fired, seeing as your boss pretty much despises you. And for what reason? You couldn’t say.

With a heavy heart, you leave them later that night, trying to prolong your stay as long as possible. They seem to not want to let you go either, seeing the bags under your eyes grow more like they had been when they’d first met you. 

The next day, you’re surprised when you’re met with Freminet at your door when you’re about to leave. He offers to walk with you to work, as to which you try to decline, not wanting him to go home alone. He sighs, and you promise to take him to the aquarium the following weekend you’ve got off.

He seems satisfied with that, though still hesitant to let you go on your own. With a pat to his soft hair, you leave your own apartment, off to your vehicle to commute to work. (You miss him donning his own pelt, growing furs and claws to follow you from behind.)

Work is, well, work. Exhausting as always, following orders like usual, getting yelled at, questioning your purpose on this earth. At least you can smile at the photos in your phone of the sleepy children and some goofy photos you managed to sneak of their father. It makes your day less shit.

Until you get slapped with overtime. Heavy overtime. It seems that you’re the only one burdened with it, as well. A targeted attack, then. Something you half expected, but hadn’t had in a while. Work that could easily be done by your colleagues is piled on your plate, with the demand that they’re due before tomorrow. An almost impossible task, you feel yourself falling into the ache of your bones again, one that you’d hoped to leave behind. But like a determined predator, it always shows when its prey is weak.

When the moon starts to fall, are you finally freed. It’s dark outside, the full moon doing little to illuminate your surroundings. Or maybe it’s your eyes, staring at screens too much. Or just getting older. You use your phone as a flashlight as you make your way back to your vehicle, an uneasy feeling crawling up your spine. If something happened to you-

A sharp echo of shoed footsteps behind you raises your attention to full alert. You swivel your head around, trying to find the source of the noise, heartbeat pounding. Surely it’s just someone going about their day, someone else that’s staying late for some odd reason, going back to their own car, wanting to go home. 

You’re not lucky. The person behind you is the stereotypical malicious stranger. Hooded, face obscured, and the glint of a weapon in hand. No, this.. Your heart pounds in your chest, fear overwhelming you. As soon as you pick up speed, they’re quick to catch on, their own steps hastening.

You won’t make it, they’re too fast. 

Too easily do they bodyslam into you, all but throwing you to the ground. Your neck stings as something sharp threatens to cut deeper into it. This is what you wanted, right? To die? 

“I’m so.. sooo tired of you, running around like a little rat,” gasps a too familiar voice. You know exactly who it is. “Pretending you’re too good for me, huh? You’re pathetic! You think you’re better than me?!”

No. You don’t want to die. You want to see Arlecchino. You want to see Lyney, Lynette, Freminet, all their smiling faces. You want to see them graduate. You want to see them live happy lives. You want– is it.. Okay for you to want? 

You risk a glance behind you as the blade digs deeper into your skin. It’s hard, but the moon lets you catch the maniacal glint in your boss’s eyes. 

“The fuck are you talking about?!” You gasp out.

A boney hand curls around your neck, shoving you further into the ground, adding to the stinging pain, the fear building. Silencing you. I don’t want to die.

“Ohhh you know what you’re doing. Don’t even try to play dumb with me, fucker. You think you’re better than me, staring at me with those eyes. Like you know everything. No matter what I do, you always do it BETTER. No, no, no, that’s what they all think. No, it won’t be anymore. You’re just some.. Some NOBODY that NO ONE will remember. One blink, and you’re gone!”

He presses the blade to your neck, cutting the fragile flesh. The threat is there, though you assume he wants to finish ranting before actually killing you.

The thought of calling for help crosses your mind, but who would hear you? Who would care to help? Would help even come in time? 

You choke out a laugh, trying your damndest to breathe, “Your.. ego.. seems to have.. taken a hit.. At least I know.. why.. you’re such an.. asshole now..”

Of course, disobedience is never rewarded, and not saying what he wants is an easy way to death. Why are you even taunting the man kneeling on your back, choking and pressing a blade to your neck? Maybe you don’t want to go down without a fight.

Your boss sneers, lifting the knife from your neck, and you watch as the world falls in slow motion as he aims to thrust it in your back. Oh, this wasn’t going to be easy. He was going to make it hurt, and they’d find your body in the morning. Or, if he decided to dump it, maybe never. 

Right as you brace for the pain, the sound of something moving very quickly followed by a large thud alleviates the weight from your back. You cough and heave for air, rubbing your wounded neck as you scramble to sit up, to look at what saved you. Screams fill your ears.

It’s the beast. From the night on the cliff.

You blink multiple times, wishing it weren’t a dream, that this was real. It was real; the same silvery fur, the same blackened limbs, the markings. It was real. And it was here. You still want to ask it things, want to question it. Why was it here?

It doesn’t even register that the beast is furious, tossing the man around like a chew toy. You can only watch in muted horror, covered in a veil of apathy as he’s all but torn to shreds, screams going unheard, swallowed by the moon above.

Before you can witness too much, you feel something cold on your neck, and you jump when you see three more smaller beasts (still bigger than you) surrounding you. One boops closer, its cold, wet nose, trying to remove your hand from your neck so it can lap up the blood, assess the wound. 

A silent shock seems to befall you as you stay there, limp and pliant to their care. Another, the smallest of the three, comes up to you, pressing their soft, warm face against your own, further shielding you from the horrors just beyond. 

The bigger of the two are able to situate your body on one of their backs, and you don’t even realize you’re home until you blink and suddenly, you’re in Arlecchino’s bathroom, being tended to by their kids. They all wore their ashen blond and brown pelts.

Freminet by your side, Lyney holding your hand, and Lynette cleaning and bandaging the wound. Something about it not being deep, no real harm done. A scratch, at worst. 

“Wh.. there.. What’s.. what happened? There were.. wolves? Werewolves? And.. my boss? He..”

“Attacked you, yes,” Lyney answers, gaze downcast, almost ashamed to meet yours. “You weren’t back when you were supposed to, and well, the mark Father bestowed upon you told them you were in danger..”

Your eyes unconsciously move to look at the mark on your arm, something you’d forgotten about, for the most part. 

“..But the beasts..?”

You look at him, at them. They all look guilty, ashamed. As if you’d hate them for being different.

“..Those were.. us. We.. never meant for you to find out this way,” he replies sadly, a bittersweet smile on your face. “Timing never really was good, and.. We never knew your thoughts on.. well, creatures like us. And.. seeing how you call us beasts..”

He trails off slowly, silence filling the room. Lynette steps back, and it’s only then that you snap out of your stupor.

“No, no. No- I- I didn’t mean beasts like that, I just.. I didn’t know what you were,” you plead, reaching out desperately, grabbing onto Lyney’s hands, almost yanking him close so you could hold him. You reach for Lynette and Freminet as well, holding onto them like your lifeline.

“No, I could never hate you. Never, never ever. I.. I’m sorry, I never.. Thank you, thank you for saving my life, I..”

Your fingers curl into their pelts, scared to let them go for even a second. 

“I love you. All of you. I don’t care who, what, where you are, you’re.. You’re mine too. Mine to love, mine to care for. Arlecchino can share. “

All three of them seem to return the hug, holding you back just as tightly. Clinging onto each other, hiding their faces as if hiding the tears would prevent them from falling.

“We thought we’d lost you,” Freminet croaks, his arms holding your waist tighter as he holds you close. “We were all following Father, and then they picked up speed like I’ve never seen before.. and.. All I saw was you, on the ground, and.. you smelled of blood..”

It’s hard not to wince. You hadn’t realized just how traumatic it could have been for them. In all honesty, you didn’t think you’d mean so much to them, but this clearly slaps you in the face that they care just as much as you do. It warms your heart, but you hate that they had to go through that.

“You scared us,” Lynette chimes in, her normally soft voice quite shaken. You hug her closer, offering her head a couple reassuring pats. “I’m just glad we made it in time. That you’re okay.”

“I am,” you affirm, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before quickly following suit to the other two, holding them close. “I’ll always be okay. I’ve got you three, don’t I?”

The moment seems to hold strong, adrenaline wearing. You can feel the sting on your neck now, the dull ache in your body, but it’s not unbearable. You’re able to calm your nerves, trying not to think about what just happened, simply wanting to hold your children close. 

There’s a thud at the door and you look up to see Arlecchino looking quite disheveled, covered in blood and eyes wide. They visibly relax when they see you, okay and alive. Too quickly do they move to your side, carefully pushing Lyney to the side before dropping to their knees, hugging your waist and shoving their face in your chest.

“Thank god you’re okay,” the gasp, holding you closer. 

You smile softly, letting the kids know it’s okay to leave, giving you two some privacy. A hand finds its way into their hair, combing through the stress no doubt building.

“Of course. Thanks to you. I.. I owe it all to you, for saving me.”

The stress seems to slowly spill out, though their grasp on you remains tight as ever. “I don’t.. I don’t know what came over me, but I.. When I saw you on the ground I..”

You hum, trying to mentally block out everything that just happened. You can process it later, think about it when everyone isn’t on high stress. Instead, focus on the moment, letting your hand find their jaw, coaxing them to come out of hiding.

“But you found me. And you saved me. I’m here, aren’t I? Breathing, in your arms?”

They exhale, leaning into your warmth. Their eyes close, brows pinching. There’s a thousand words at the tip of their tongue, it’s too easy to see, so instead, you lean closer, thumb brushing over their bottom lip. 

Your gaze meets theirs, a silent ask of permission, and before you know it, there’s a warm pair of lips on your own. It’s incredibly warm. Beautifully warm. Exactly how you’ve imagined it, only better. It feels like a gentle fire on a cold day. 

You can’t help the way your arms wrap around their neck, gently pulling at their hair and at the fur of their pelt. It only spurs them on, their hands growing more bold, opting to feel every inch of your body, as if wanting to memorize it after confirming that no part of you is in danger, or untreated. Gentle, but firm. Hungry, but patient. 

Their lips grow hungry as do your own, both of you pining way too long for this moment. You don’t care that you almost lost your life, not when you have a beautiful bloodied distraction right in front of you.

~

After a long shower, you find yourself in Arlecchino’s bed once more, this time without a clothing barrier. Something about needing to feel their skin on your own helps reduce your own stress. You had looked them over for any wounds, and found none. The blood must not have been theirs, then. (You’ll think about that implication later.)

It’s late into the night, early into the morning, at this point. Still perfectly dark out, but the moon illuminates the room, illuminates the love of your life. Illuminates the way they hold you, the way they look at you.

The words rest at the top of your tongue. Now that some time has passed, you cannot help but yearn to know the answers of the questions so long ago.

“Arle,” you whisper, carding a hand through their damp locks. “Are you awake?”

They groan in response, cracking open their eyes to peer up at you. 

You smile, heart full of warmth. “So you’re the big bad wolf, hm?”

They groan again, burying their face in your chest again, enamoured with your warmth, with the comfort you bring them.

A few moments of silence pass, and you let your hand glide down their body, finding the scar that had healed so long ago. The sloppy stitching you gave them. Arlecchino leans into your touch, letting you trace over the wound itself along with the other scars from the stitches. 

“Why?” You eventually ask, your voice almost.. scared to hear an answer.

Arlecchino lifts their head again, looking at you with slight confusion, though staying silent for you to finish.

You look down at them, almost unable to handle their stare. “That night.. why did you.. save me?”

They tilt their head, as if not understanding. You go to elaborate when they interrupt, looking at you with such.. unbridled confusion, love, and everything under the stars. 

“I could ask you the same thing. You could have left me out there to bleed out. Instead, you brought me closer to the moon, patched me up.. You saved me, my love.”

You shake your head, “No, I.. I was just doing what anyone would have done- I’m not that great, I’m not.. I’m..” You look away, unable to meet their gaze, your hand retreating from the scar. “I.. I was.. ready to die that night. I’m.. I’m not worthy of the praise.”

A warm hand finds your cheek, Arlecchino’s palm cupping your jaw, coaxing you to look back at them, to face them, to meet their gaze.

“But you did. You did save me. You did drag me under the moon, even when I bit you. You did stitch my wound. You could have gone home. You could have jumped anyway. But you decided to help. Is that not.. worth the praise? Is that not worthy of my love, to love and repay that who has saved my life? The life of my children, as well?”

Your gaze finds theirs, brows knitted in confusion. 

“Saved their life? No I-”

“You did,” they reaffirm, voice firm but gentle. “You have made their days much happier. It was just survival now, but this.. now, they’re living. They’re enjoying life. Just like I see you, nowadays.”

“But what if it all ends? What if I’m temporary, or you guys, you’ll just up and leave–” “Hush, my love,” Arlecchino interjects, their hand trailing from your cheek to your hair, gently running their fingers through the damp strands. “I would like to court you properly now. I would like you to properly become my mate. I will never leave you. We will always be by your side. That pretty little head of yours thinks too much. Put a little trust in us, okay? I’ll do whatever I can to help you, to make you happier, to want to live.”

You nod, hugging them closer. 

“Unfair. You’re so unfair. You don’t get to be so likeable. You’re supposed to be a big bad wolf.”

They chuckle, leaning in to pepper kisses all over your face.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to start with devouring you and your worries.”

(edit) Bonus doodles! (how i interpret werewolf arle)