⋆˚｡⋆ honeypip ⋆｡˚⋆

↳ diabolik lovers

🍑🫐 born to give, forced to take (laito sakamaki x reader) 800

🍑🫐 reward her (reiji sakamaki x reader) 1.7k

🍑🫐 🍇 pushing and pulling (subaru sakamaki x reader) 3.1k

↳ my hero academia

🍑🍎 nervous (shouto todoroki x reader) 4k

🥝🍎 foul mouth (shouto todoroki x reader) 900

🍑🍎 pervert (hitoshi shinsou x reader) 1.2k

🍑🍎 game over (hitoshi shinsou x brat!reader) 3.1k

🥝🍎 losercore (nerd!denki kaminari x cheerleader!reader) 1.5k

₊˚⊹ thank you for shopping!

The walk to Zayne’s is quiet, save for the rushing of wind in your long, fuzzy ears and the distant sounds of drunken laughter and song floating from the tavern across the square. It’s likely that the patrons there are celebrating the arrival of autumn. Though the night is only just beginning, you can imagine them slow with drink, all dizzy grins and clunky, overflowing tankards, sloshing ale all down their fronts. You're almost tempted to join them, never one to turn down a night of merriment amongst friends, but the thought of delaying your winter preparations due to an untreated injury steers you toward the physician’s home instead. He lives just within the forest tree line, preferring to keep close to the scattered patches of herbs that litter the ground there (and as far away from the lively town square that can be deemed appropriate). Doctor Zayne is a snow leopard, and while he’s friendly enough, his species is a solitary one, and he tends to keep to himself more often than not. Some might consider him to be cold—perhaps even rude, thanks to his candid manner of speech and impersonal approach to medicine—but he has earned the right to pass judgement and you’ve never once found fault with him for doing so. Zayne may be a bit stoic by nature, but he has always treated you fairly and welcomed you into his home without complaint… during the daylight hours that is.

Zayne is one of the few unmated males you see on a regular basis, as is expected of a young woman like yourself. Traditionally, unmated females are strictly forbidden from interacting with unmated males outside of necessary business. The Elders say it is to keep the innocent from corruption and the mature from temptation, lecturing anyone who will listen on the dangers of premarital fornication. But, as the village physician and apothecary, Doctor Zayne has always been an exception to this rule, free from the prying eyes of The Council to do as he pleases.

He deserves that much; no one would dare argue that. Not after the deadly plague that swept through your community nearly five years ago, killing many and permanently disfiguring others. Because the disease was spread through contaminated well water, the heaviest casualties were amongst the womenfolk who drew from it. You were lucky to have survived… the same could not be said about others. It was Doctor Zayne who shouldered the weight of your ailing town’s survival during those trying times. As one of the few literate men in town, his education stretched much further than those in power, forcing even the most respected to place their faith in his skillful hands. It was thanks to Zayne’s efforts that the awful sickness did not spread further than the infected homes and claim the lives of every snow dweller in town. And it was by his hand that the plague was eradicated altogether, a careful concoction of medicinal herbs—discovered by the physician himself—halting its progress entirely. His heroic actions and sacrifice of self were what solidified his place in the community, and he’d earned the respect of the Council and everyone who bowed to them. He was safe, trusted.

You’d been a patient of his ever since he’d taken up the mantle of village healer, visiting him at least once a quarter. He performed your annual examinations, spread salve on your burned knuckles, and dutifully explained the intricacies of reproduction (you’d been unable to meet his eye for nearly a week after that conversation). And when you’d come of age, body finally reaching sexual maturity once you’d entered adulthood, he’d been the first you sought out. Since then, you’d been visiting his home more frequently, trading fresh bread for herbs that would stave off the new, scalding heat threatening to consume you with each moon cycle.

Still, you’d never bothered him this late in the day, always stopping by during the lunch hour between customers. You can only hope he will still see you…

Zayne’s cottage is awfully still when you arrive. The only indication he’s even home is the feeble glow of lamplight in one of the windows, shining like a watchful eye, peeking out at you from the dark forest that surrounds it. Your feet stop just short of the front door, stomach twisting in knots as you mull over whether or not such a trivial injury is worth disturbing the reclusive physician. Though you're sure he’d never turn you away, the fear of rejection still eats away at your confidence. He’s never given you reason to, but you somehow always feel small and naive in Zayne’s presence, like a youngling receiving a scolding, afraid their father might take a switch to their bottom. It’s a bit pathetic how you wish to please him. Perhaps it is because you respect him so much that you feel so strongly.

But, despite your hesitancy, Caleb’s instructions to seek medical attention sit heavy like stones in your belly along with the work that still lies ahead of you. You wouldn’t want to let him down either, right? What if he found out you’d neglected his advice? Would he be disappointed? Insist on nursing you back to health himself? Or would you meet the same fate as that poor deer, neck caught in his unyielding grip, flesh torn by his claws? You can almost feel the warm oozing of blood pooling in the dip of your collarbone… can almost see the crimson staining his chin… your own this time.

He’s probably out there… in the woods… right now… hunting or, perhaps, watching you. Lurking just out of sight, hiding amongst the shadows that play between the trees, dodging the gentle light of twilight. Maybe he’s tracking you, cataloging your every step, ensuring that you heed his words like the good little rabbit he knows you to be.

The thought sends a shiver down your spine, making your tail flutter and your skin prickle, thoroughly spooking you. That certainly settles things.

Mustering your courage, you rap your knuckles twice against the heavy oak door, but you don't dare knock a third time. The sound is hollow and emotionless, echoing faintly within the cold home. With the wind at your back and your heart in your throat, you wait, and wait, and wait for what feels like an eternity, listening hard for any shuffling of feet or rustling of movement behind the door. Each excruciating second leaves you unsure of whether or not you hope he will answer anymore, insecurity creeping in. The silence stretches so long you wonder if he’s forgotten to snuff his lamp before retiring to bed or simply fallen asleep at his worktable. It wouldn’t be entirely unusual, workaholic that Zayne is.

Just as you’re turning to leave, having convinced yourself (with, admittedly, not much difficulty) that he has retired for the night, the door creaks open. The groan of wood and iron hinges joins that of the passing wind, and a single eye, startlingly green in the darkness, appears in the crack.

Your heart lurches up into your throat at the alarming sight, clogging your windpipe with its incessant drumming. The eye blinks once, eerily slow, before the door finally swings open to reveal the man attached to it. You swallow down a breath of relief when Zayne comes into view, the fresh oxygen forcing your heart back down into your chest where it belongs.

Zayne looks… disheveled, like you’d caught him in the middle of some sort of strenuous activity. His cheeks are flushed with exertion, and his temples are dotted with sweat, matting his carefully styled bangs against his forehead. The spectacles he sometimes wears while attending to patients or reading medical texts have slipped down his nose, drawing attention to the prominent dark circles that line his hazel eyes. You swallow thickly when you realize just how indecent he is, clothing all askew. His shirt is half buttoned, gaping at the chest. It’s with great effort that you do not let your gaze follow the pale expanse of skin down to where it hides away behind hastily buttoned fabric, just above his navel. The suspenders you’ve only glimpsed from beneath his charcoal overcoat now hang free and loose around his hips, trousers sitting enticingly low. So low, in fact, that you briefly wonder what you might discover should they slide any further down…

Oh, good grief!

You’ve got to pull yourself together! Honestly, what inappropriate behavior! He is unmated- YOU are unmated! Are you no better than a wild animal? Drooling over the poor man as if he were nothing more than a potential breeding mate. Surely, you had not been blessed with intelligence to use it for such vulgar daydreaming!

Only once you finally get a grip on your treacherous thoughts, do you notice how Zayne has rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, the fabric wrinkled like he’d done so in a rush. The cuffs are flecked with the same strange substance that stains his palms… a deep, reddish-purple in color and caked most heavily beneath his manicured claws. Like he’d shoved his hands into a bramble of blackberries before remembering to preserve his crisp button-down—something you find rather odd, given the physician’s well-known preference for cleanliness.

Zayne finds his voice long before you can even begin to formulate a coherent question.

“What are you doing here at this time of day? The moon is nearly up,” ah, yes… Zayne never had been one to mince his words, had he?

You at least have the decency to look a little embarrassed, face warming under his sharp gaze and ears folding down shyly. He seems irritated… or at the very least, confused. Perhaps you shouldn't have come after all.

“How can you tell? It’s so cloudy tonight.”

Zayne sighs with the weight of a man whose patience has been stretched too thin and whose mind has been stuffed too full, like the burden of knowledge really does sit heavily upon his broad shoulders. He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, leaving a faint smudge of purple in the divot there, “You may call it intuition if you wish, but that’s not what’s important right now… what’s important is why a young woman like yourself is wandering around just before nightfall.”

“Well, I…”

Zayne stares at you expectantly, eyebrows raising a fraction.

“I uh… I accidentally baked too many sweet loaves this morning. I thought you might want the extras?”

You might be more chicken than rabbit after all.

Zayne’s eyes drop to the basket at your hip, tucked safely into the crook of your elbow and lined with fabric to keep its contents warm, before returning to your face. Though his expression remains impassive, if not a little suspicious, the glimmer dancing in his irises betrays his excitement as does the gentle sway of his tail, long and thick with spotted grey fur. Your gaze follows the appendage, fascinated by the juxtaposition between it and its owner. It seems the snow leopard can only conceal his feelings so much, ratted out by his very own body.

“Oh. That’s very kind of you, but you didn't have to come all this way, and at such a late hour no less. I could have stopped by your shop in the morning on my way into town.”

“Well, I guess I could always just… take this back home with me… since you’re not interested,” you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you when the corners of his mouth dip down, unable to resist teasing the elusive physician about his sweet tooth.

“No, that will not be necessary. I will gladly accept your gift. After all, it would be rude of me to refuse such a thoughtful gesture, especially since you ventured into the woods simply to deliver it.”

You laugh more heartily at his eagerness, all hesitation gone from him now that he’s accepted your offer. Zayne is already wiping the muck from his hands off on the back of his trousers—something you, once again, find a bit strange—when you step forward to hand over the basket, laughter dying on your tongue as soon as another twinge of pain shoots through your spine. Though you're far better at suppressing your cry this time around, you can't help the way your eyebrows furrow, teeth grinding together. Of course, Zayne takes immediate notice, gaze hardening as he regards you, slitted pupils sweeping over your rigid form: cold, clinical, assessing.

“You're hurt.”

He says it so matter-of-factly you nearly cringe, that childish feeling of incompetence you’d been hoping to avoid suddenly clogging in your sinuses and stinging in the corners of your eyes. You don’t trust your voice, so instead you nod, unable to meet his eye.

“I see the sweet bread is not the only thing that brought you here tonight. Come inside, I’ll take a look.”

After taking the basket from you, Zayne steps back to allow you entry into his home and out of the wind, ushering you over the threshold and into the dark foyer. You glimpse an open doorway down the hall and to the right, presumably his personal study and laboratory. The dim light of a waning oil lamp illuminates just enough of the room for you to make out the towering bookcases that line its walls and the items they house. A great many books rest on their shelves, the spines of which you cannot read, seeing as you'd never been taught. Some are worn dull from frequent use, while others remain vibrant and bound tight. But, most peculiar of all, are the jars that fill the scattered spaces between texts. They vary in size and shape, each with different occupants: herbs mostly, but sometimes strange, gelatinous substances and the occasional specimen, submerged in fluid and in varying states of decomposition.

“Please make yourself comfortable in the front room. I must see to a few things before I can begin the examination, but I won't be long.”

The leopard’s words pull you from your curious daze, peeping eyes snapping back to his face in hopes he hadn't noticed your snooping. A gentle hand at the small of your back guides you into an adjacent room instead, one you recognize from your previous visits. It’s a rather plainly decorated room, with tall ceilings to accommodate predator and prey alike. Countless rows of little drawers line the far wall, each meticulously labeled in alphabetical order, identification cards bearing Zayne’s elegant, swooping penmanship. It’s in these pigeonholes that he stores his herbs, so pungent in smell that your eyes nearly begin to water. But, beneath the bitter scent of camphor and valerian root, there lingers a far gentler smell: dark amber and frozen pine… one your twitching nose recognizes as Doctor Zayne’s. The room is otherwise devoid of life, unfeeling and sterile, save for the large fireplace on the wall to the left. A few scientific knick-knacks and a small collection of books sit collecting dust on the mantle, the only touch of character the doctor has bothered to grace the space with.

Rather than escort you to the small, velvet couch that’s been shoved into the corner, Zayne guides you instead to the large, wooden examination table situated in the middle of the room. It’s quite tall—built so that a predator might lie comfortably on it—so Zayne offers you a boost, his touch featherlight at your waist as you scramble up onto the hard surface, legs dangling beneath you. As soon as he sees you're settled and a fire is blazing in the grate, Zayne makes his way back down the hall, disappearing behind the door of his laboratory with the basket of bread and leaving you to your own devices.

“Right. Well, guess I’ll just… sit here,” you mumble to yourself, taking to counting the rows of brass drawer handles to pass the time. However, you don’t get much further than thirty-four as Zayne, true to his word, returns quickly, looking a bit more like himself and less like the mad scientist who’d met you at the door.

“Apologies for the wait, you caught me at an… inopportune time,” he explains, adjusting the cuffs on the fresh shirt he’d donned. Zayne is once again the picture of professionalism you remember him to be, suspenders back in place and placket buttoned respectably to the collar. The only indication that anything had ever been amiss to begin with is the faint redness of his palms and forearms, the skin likely irritated from scrubbing away that sludgy grime beneath his nails in such a hurry.

“Thank you for seeing me so late, Doctor Zayne,” you watch as he makes his way over to the apothecary cabinet, hinge squeaking awfully as he pulls one of the larger drawers from its slot on the bottom row.

“I can never say no to your sweet bread,” he muses while rifling through the drawer, the ghost of a smile dancing on his lips and the ears atop his head flicking in mild amusement. As soon as he finds the stack of paper he’d been searching for, he returns to the examination table, tapping its edge against the dark wood to straighten it out. Then he retrieves a small inkwell, along with a goose quill and a stool. Curling his long tail up around his thigh to keep out of the way, he takes a seat next to you, waist nearly level with the table despite its lofty height.

“So tell me what’s troubling you.”

“My um…” good gravy, as if this whole thing couldn’t get any more embarrassing, “my backside. Well, my tailbones specifically. I sorta fell earlier.”

“‘Sorta?’ Either you did, or you didn’t.”

Your cheeks flush a muddy shade of scarlet, gaze falling to the floor when he calls you out, “I did fall. Tripped over a root.”

Zayne dips the nib of his quill into the little pot of ink before jotting a few words down, “And when did the incident occur?”

“Last night… or this morning, rather. I’m not sure what time it was exactly, but the sun was not yet up.”

“And you said a root tripped you?”

“Yes, Doctor. Nasty old thing, halfway out of the ground.”

“Hm,” the scratching of Zayne’s quill against the parchment pauses as he looks up from his notes, eyeing you with curiosity, “Where were you when you fell?”

“The woods. Somewhere up in the mountains? I’m not too sure… I couldn't make out my surroundings clearly in the dark.”

At this, Zayne puts down his pen entirely, propping his chin on folded hands and leaning forward over the examination table, head tilted just slightly, “And what, pray tell, were you doing halfway up the mountainside at night?”

Ah…

You fumble for a response, quickly settling for a half-truth, “Oh, you know, just… out for a stroll. I’d been having a hard time sleeping—all the fuss over the Harvest Festival is stressing me out, I guess—and thought the fresh air might help clear my head.”

Something in your gut tells you it’s wise not to mention your encounter with Caleb… that the timber wolf would not take kindly to townsfolk knowing his business. Besides, unlike your beloved friend Tara, it has never been in your nature to spread rumors. The good butcher had done his best to make amends, and for that, you’d keep the knowledge of his whereabouts to yourself. Speaking about it now would only rouse unnecessary suspicion, your little village being a superstitious and judgmental bunch. No, it would not do to have the nosy old crones in town asking questions, wondering why an unmated male would approach a lost woman in the woods… or why he was out in the woods at night to begin with. For now, it shall stay between you—a secret shared in the wee hours of morning and left to fester in the gloomy mist.

“I see,” if Zayne finds fault with your excuse, he doesn't mention it, continuing with the assessment as if you hadn’t spoken at all, “Though I doubt you broke anything, I’d still like to take a look, just to be sure. If you wouldn't mind standing, please.”

The snow leopard leaves his stool, moving to help you hop down off the table and steadying you when your legs wobble slightly. The fire blazes behind him, bathing his silhouette in its gentle glow, the strong line of his jaw dripping with golden light.

Blinking owlishly, you stand before him like a lost sheep awaiting its shepherd’s orders. Zayne has always had this effect on you, able to stall your thoughts and stuff your head with cotton. Somehow, though you try so very hard to act mature and responsible, you lose yourself to his presence, unable to act without his explicit permission. Perhaps it’s the way he carries himself, his silent strength blending seamlessly with the natural poise of his species. It’s instinctual, your desire to follow where he leads, eager to prove your worth. Or perhaps it's his impressive height and handsome face, all sharp angles and rigid planes, softened only by the two round little ears that sprout from beneath his dark hair. But you suspect, more than anything, it is those mesmerizing eyes of his, distinctly feline in shape and painted in mother nature’s finest shades of green and brown. It’s easy to get lost in them, to watch the way his pupils contract and dilate with the changing light, the gold flecks in his iris shimmering with each subtle shift of his head.

Something warm and gooey takes root deep inside your belly, melting you from the inside out, sparks dancing along your heated skin. Surely, this is what it means to be a woman in the presence of a truly capable man…

When he fails to see any movement from you, Zayne clears his throat, eyebrows furrowing ever-so-slightly in confusion, “I’ll need to see the affected area to properly assess the severity.”

“Oh, right…” his words pull you from your trance and spur you into action, face warmed by more than just the fire’s heat as you quickly turn to offer up your backside.

“Please place your hands on the table and bend at the hip.”

It’s almost humiliating, bending over like this, nearly folded into mating position as you hike up your skirts, bunching them around your waist to allow the doctor access to your injury. It’s an awkward arrangement, your back arching uncomfortably, and the table’s lip digging into the flesh of your palms. Luckily, Zayne is no stranger to vulnerability in his home, having seen many patients in varying states of undress and stripped of their pride.

“You said it was your tailbones and the surrounding area that were causing you pain, correct?” the soft ‘thud’ of his knees hitting the ground behind you only flusters you further, thankful the doctor can't see the shame that twists your face and creases your forehead.

“Yes…”

The calm, self-assured manner with which Zayne delivers his next words seems far too nonchalant for their implication. Your ears twitch with each syllable that rolls off his tongue, muscles tightening with anticipation, “I’ll need to remove your undergarments to get a better look. Is that alright?”

“Yes, of course,” you breathe, legs feeling less like limbs and more like the strawberry jelly you spread over your toast this morning. Well… there goes your dignity along with the wishful thinking that your future husband might be the first to bear witness to your most intimate parts.

You can’t help but cry out when Zayne’s hands find your tail without warning, a pitiful little string of noises tumbling from your lips when he gently grips the appendage at its base. Something primal gnaws at your instincts, caught somewhere between fear and desire… leaving you just a bit nauseated.

“Apologies…” Zayne murmurs, the barest hint of his own embarrassment creeping into his voice, hands suddenly stilling, “I should’ve announced myself first.”

Mortified, you grope for something—anything—to dispel the mounting tension that now hangs heavy between you. It’s as if the room has shrunk to no more than a stuffy broom cupboard, the walls suddenly feeling a bit too close for comfort.

“Oh! I-It’s… It’s alright!” no… no, it is not alright. The words leave you in a panicked rush, cracking in your throat as you desperately try to find your balance on shaky limbs, lest you make a further fool of yourself by toppling over. You settle for white-knuckling the edge of the table, grip so tight you fear it may crack under the pressure. Behind you, the fire crackles and pops in the grate, flames leaping like little, dancing fairies, toes licking the wood as they twirl about, laughing at you and your sorry performance as they go.

“I’m going to push your tail through the hole now,” Zayne informs you this time, voice strained as he returns to the task at hand, carefully maneuvering your tail through the little opening in your bloomers so as to avoid it catching when he finally pulls them down.

Saliva gets stuck in your throat, making it harder to swallow down the noises that threaten to leave you with each squeeze and pull to your sensitive tail, drool pooling in your mouth when his nails accidentally rake over your skin. It’s completely overwhelming, having his hands on you like this. No one had yet touched you there… none but yourself, under the cover of night, hidden away beneath your sweet and colorful patchwork quilt, running your fingers through the fur and tugging at the fuzzy, little appendage experimentally.

“Done,” though the leopard’s palms are practically ice-cold, they seem to burn where they rest on your hips, so hot you can feel the warmth seeping through the soft cotton of your bloomers, “I’m going to pull these down now, alright? Not all the way, just enough for me to get a closer look at your tail.”

“Alright…”

And then before you even have time to gasp at the rush of cool evening air, your undergarments have slid beneath your tail, exposing you to the doctor’s prying eyes. As he promised, your most intimate parts remain covered, but the curve of your ass is on full display, rabbit tail quivering where it curls at the base of your spine. Zayne clears his throat, taking a steadying breath of his own, before he begins examining you, gently moving your tail this way and that.

“It seems like you have a bit of bruising, here,” his fingertip lightly traces a circle around your tail before following the line of your backbone up to the dimples that dot your behind, “and here.”

“I-Is it bad?”

It’s quiet for a moment, the physician carefully contemplating his next words, “Not terribly. There doesn't seem to be any vertebral fractures, and your tail is responding as normal, but… the bruising looks fairly serious. It may take a few weeks to clear up… I suggest you take it easy until then.”

“A few weeks?!” you whip your head over your shoulder, mouth agape as you stare incredulously at the man still kneeling behind you, “But… but- what about the Harvest Festival?! There’s still so much left to do!”

“There’s no point in shouting, what’s done is done. Besides, your injuries could have been far worse after a fall like that. You're lucky nothing is broken. The bruising is favorable by comparison.”

Zayne lets out a tired sigh when he notices the tears welling at the corner of your eyes, glittering in the firelight, “I’m sorry, but you have to rest your body. If you don’t, you’ll only delay the healing process. You don’t want to be in bed longer than necessary, do you?”

“No… I suppose not.”

Zayne stands, giving your bum a gentle pat after he’s returned your bloomers to their rightful place, the most obvious display of affection you’d ever received from the quiet doctor. He leaves you to straighten yourself out as he makes his way over to the apothecary cabinet once more, clearing a few stray lavender stalks from his mortar and pestle before adding a few handfuls of leaves to the well.

“I’m going to make you an herbal poultice of wormwood and mallow. The wormwood has anti-inflammatory properties that will help with any swelling and hasten the healing process. The mallow should soothe the irritation. I want you to apply it morning and night. Spread the paste between muslin—or cheesecloth if that’s what you keep on hand—and place it on the affected area for at least a half hour.”

“Alright…” you sniffle, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe at your eyes before any tears embarrass you further, “Anything else? Should I eat an apple a day too?”

Chuckling lowly, Zayne shakes his head, dark bangs flicking with the movement, “Just a bit of rest will do.”

The room falls quiet, save for the sputtering fire and the grinding of herb against stone. Your eyes follow the dancing flames, but you don't really see them, mind wandering as you process your diagnoses. Bedrest means a delay in winter preparations and a hold on your daily work… and a hold on work meant less bread and unhappy customers. Your tears nearly return at the idea. Perhaps you can convince Tara to help you out with a few orders…

Zayne is the first to break the silence, a subtle redirection when he notices your gloomy demeanor, “The weather is changing.”

“Indeed, it is,” you sigh, thoughts still lingering stubbornly on your chores, “I’ll have to bring out my heavy quilt this week… oh, and mend that hole in my coat.”

His pestle stills halfway through its rotation around the mortar, spilling a bit of paste over the edge thanks to the abrupt stop. Zayne glances over at you, a single, dark eyebrow raised, “Yes... and we have entered a new moon cycle.”

“Oh, that reminds me! The autumn equinox is this month. I’ll have to start running my errands earlier in the day… I don't wish to get caught in the dark if I can help it.”

By now, Zayne has set the mortar aside entirely, staring at you pointedly from over the rim of his glasses. You had always been a bit slow on the uptake, a quality he often found himself endeared to, but was proving to be irritating in this very moment.

“Your next heat is due,” he offers up dryly when the silence finally captures your attention and you blink at him in confusion, “It should arrive within the next few days.”

A violent shade of scarlet blooms across your cheeks, face heating once more under his piercing gaze. The ears that usually stand tall and proud upon your head slowly make a home against your hair, folding back shyly at the mention of such intimate things.

Ah, yes, your heat… You’d been so busy preparing for the oncoming Autumn you’d nearly forgotten. Every month, Zayne supplied you with the medicine necessary to keep your symptoms at bay, allowing you to go on living as though you simply had a mild cold. You hadn’t endured a single heat in its full capacity since your first, brought on by your coming of age. Quite frankly, you wished to forget that miserable experience altogether.

“I suggest you take the necessary precautions unless you intend to find a mate,” Zayne returns to his work, diligently grinding the herbs down into a fine paste before scooping them into a foggy, old mason jar.

Your response, or lack thereof, draws his eye, curiosity glimmering in its hazel depths, “…Do you?

“Do I what?” you ask, a little too quickly.

“Intend to find a mate.”

“Oh,” you’re not quite sure how to answer…. Did you want to find a mate? You’d never participated in the mating season before. You’d always been too young—and when that was no longer an issue, too busy. But, now that you’d been ordered to take it easy, you could give it a try… if you wanted to, that is.

You're a woman after all, why shouldn't you find a husband? It would be nice to spend the frigid winter months wrapped up in the strong arms of a loved one… and it would be nice if the aching emptiness between your thighs on lonely nights could finally be filled.

“Maybe…”

So quiet you almost t miss it, Zayne’s breath hitches— just a fraction. With a little more force than necessary, he clamps the lid over the jar, tightening it as far as it’ll go before labeling its contents.

“Is that so?” his voice remains professional, despite the subtle pull at the corner of his lips, “You might want to see Xavier if that’s the case. He might have some insight on the matter. But, if for some reason you change your mind, come see me. My store of skullcaps and peppermint is currently depleted, but I intend to go foraging tomorrow afternoon. I’ll set some aside for you, should you need it.”

And with that, he offers you the jar of poultice, along with a small bunch of lavender (“to help you sleep,” he explained) before escorting you back to his front door. You thank him profusely for allowing your interruption and for tending to your injury, curtsying your goodbye before you venture back out into the black of night, the sun having fully set while he’d examined you.

Just as he’s waving you off, he calls out, “Oh! Promise me something!”

“What is it?!” you call back, turning back to find that he is no more than a fuzzy figure in the doorway.

“No more nighttime strolls, alright?!” Zayne’s voice is hardly a whisper over the howling wind that’s whipping at your hair, but you hear him loud and clear.

“Promise!”

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 // 𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖞𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

a/n: finally we have chapter three! i’m sorry this update took so long. on top of a hectic few months in my personal life, it was hard finding motivation to write with everything happening in the fandom… but! alas, i have made it out of the fires of writing hell (not unscathed) and finally have a new chapter for you! i hope you enjoyed meeting our beloved doctor zayne as much as i enjoyed introducing him. he’s a wonderful man: caring, capable… literate. what more could you ask for? perhaps he’ll find his way onto your roster should you choose to find a mate this season… assuming his strange experiments and animal specimens don’t put you off! we shall see how you manage in the next chapter. until then, dear readers, enjoy chapter three!

Wincing, you wonder briefly what you could have possibly done to injure yourself in such a way before it all comes rushing back… Caleb… the forest… the blood… falling.

Memories of your encounter with the wolf flood your mind, nasty visions of the deer—neck snapped nearly in half—and the gore of its demise swimming behind your eyelids.

How strange it had been… to find him there. Though you’ve never interacted with him much outside of casual pleasantries, as is customary for unmated females such as yourself, you’ve never known Caleb to be anything other than friendly and good-humored. Caleb is a beloved member of the community, well respected as a dependable and capable provider. As far as you know, he is unwed and unmated, brushing off the constant nagging he receives from the Elders with lighthearted laughter and the promise that he’ll take a mate when the time is right. He visits your shop just once a week—usually early in the morning—to trade his meat for baked goods, always smiley and charming… a stark contrast to the beast of a man you’d met in the woods. The Caleb you’d stumbled upon this morning was not the lovable neighborhood butcher who tussled with pups and younglings in the fields or snuck extra meat into expecting mothers’ baskets. No, the Caleb you’d met in the woods was practically unrecognizable… more animal than man.

The sound of cheerful conversation and the thump of footsteps outside pulls you from your thoughts, a much-needed reminder to return to the task at hand. You're already woefully late, and if you don't open shop soon, nosy customers will come knocking. Sighing, you shake the memories of Caleb from your mind. No matter how odd an encounter it had been, life continues on, and your duties take precedence over unexpected jaunts through the woods and deer hunts. Besides, the world always seems less scary in the daylight hours… perhaps you'd overreacted, fear clouding your judgement.

Determined to go about your routine as usual, you hop over to the small wash basin and mirror in the corner of your bedroom, but every other step feels torturous thanks to the sting in your ass, air hissing through your clenched teeth. A splash of cool water against your sleep-warmed cheeks has you feeling refreshed and looking a little less rosy. Examining your hazy appearance in the polished metal, you do your best to make yourself presentable, brushing through the tangles in your hair and smoothing the mussed fur of your rabbit ears. Unable to help yourself, you spend an extra minute or two admiring how beautifully they sprout from beneath your hair to stand tall and proud atop your head, tracing the delicate curve with your fingertips. Right now, the fur that lines them is a lovely shade of brown, dark and rich, but it won’t be long before it begins to molt, shedding to make way for a brilliant, snowy white. The same will happen to the fluffy tail that protrudes at the base of your spine, just above your behind. Snowshoe hares like yourself, along with many other furred mammals, undergo a seasonal molt at least twice a year, hormones affected by the loss of daylight and impending change in weather. Soon, most people in your village will match their wintery surroundings, coats doubling and blending seamlessly with the snow-covered mountain peaks.

After slipping your apron down over your head and knotting it behind your back, you make your way down the hall and into the main room that serves as your storefront, albeit slowly.

Situated in the corner is the large open-mouthed oven with which you bake all your goods, made from heavy stone and tightly packed cob, worn and weathered from generations of use. In front of it is your work station, a sturdy table built from thickly cut cedar wood, already dusted with flour for today’s kneading. The dough you’d prepared the previous evening waits patiently beneath their damp cloths in circular little bowls, having risen as you slept.

Every moment spent dawdling is precious time your oven could be heating, so you hurry to build a fire. The crack of steel against flint sends leaping sparks of light into the rough pile of kindling, eating away at the tinder until the heat swallows it whole. Only for a minute do you admire the dancing flames, poking and prodding at them occasionally to make sure they're catching properly. Once the fire in the oven has grown to a fierce roar, you round the shop counter, quickly pushing the top half of your stable door open to air out the stuffy little bakery. Soon, the mouthwatering smell of freshly baked bread and pastries will drift from your cottage, beckoning passers-by to take a peek inside, curious to glimpse whatever your baker’s peel might pull from the gaping oven mouth today.

It’s a gloomy sort of day outside your door, sun occasionally peaking from behind the fast-moving clouds that blanket the sky in grey. Though the fog has burned off, the weather is no less dreary, a twinge of cold cutting through the last breath of summer. Great winds blow in from the east, carrying with them the promise of rain and cold.

Summer has finally turned over its dominion to the hands of autumn, trading warmth and sunlight for cooler temperatures and shorter days. It won't be long before the changing of the leaves begins, deciduous trees dressing in their finest shades of orange and red as a last farewell before dropping their foliage altogether. The rows of juicy tomatoes and cucumbers that line Farmer Jeremiah’s gardens will soon boast a variety of colorful squash and cauliflower instead, their seeds dutifully sown by the good-natured wood mouse throughout the last months of summer.

You’ve always loved autumn and everything that comes with it… the buttery pies and roasted pumpkin seeds, the fallen leaves crunching beneath your boots, the smell of fresh apple cider wafting from the tavern windows… but the thing you love most of all is how your village seems to come alive with anticipation. Though the summers in the mountains are typically mild, the promise of cooler temperatures is like catnip to Snow Dwellers, a call none can—or wish to—ignore. Sure, you can withstand the heat well enough, but your people are made for the cold, bodies better suited to polar habitats and climates thanks to your animal genetics. Snow Dwellers typically boast larger physiques, have thicker hair, and experience autumn weight gain. These attributes often leave you sweaty and disgruntled during the warmer months of the year, but they allow you to thrive during the snowy blizzards that plague your mountain range.

In fact, the ability to withstand harsher conditions is what differentiates you Snow Dwellers from the other people groups that dot your region. Though you’ve never interacted with them yourself, having never ventured very far from home, you've heard tales of communities that live very differently from your own… different species, customs, and lifestyles.

According to those who’ve traveled down the mountain, just east of your village lies a settlement of Grassland Dwellers. The animals that live there are far better equipped for temperate climates. Because of this, they choose to occupy the fair-weathered rolling hills and plains rather than the rocky outcroppings and plateaus on which your people make their homes.

You once heard whispers of Burrower colony in the lands to the south. Supposedly, it’s comprised entirely of rabbit hybrids who live simplistic lives almost exclusively underground in intricate tunnel systems called Warrens. Rumor has it that despite their ability to easily reproduce, they still struggle to survive, afflicted by unusually short lifespans. Without the natural strength of predators, manual labor is far more demanding, and their development as a society has been slow… Your village is lucky to house both predator and prey alike.

Occasionally, your village plays host to nomadic travelers passing through on their way to higher altitudes as well, but they arrive few and far between and never stay in town for long. Once, a scruffy yak wandered into your bakery. His speech was limited, but with a few simple words and a game of charades, you managed to give him directions to the gorge he was headed for, along with a seed loaf to keep him fed along the way. Typically, Nomads prefer to live by animal instinct alone and ignore their humanity altogether. They often appear more “wild” and look closer to their animal counterparts than those who live in civilizations. Nomads almost always travel alone and tend to avoid others if they can help it.

Needless to say, different hybrids have different needs, and the winter months meet your people’s almost entirely.

But, unfortunately, the arrival of autumn doesn’t just bring tasty treats and warm socks, it also brings extra responsibility. Despite how hard your animal genetics work, they still have human ones fighting against them, and you are not immune to the cold, much less starvation. With the threat of frost and ice looming mere months away, your village will have to kick preparations into overdrive if you wish to survive the winter.

For you, that means the doubling of recipes, hours spent slaving in the heat of the oven’s glow, and more time in the forest foraging for herbs. The days ahead would be busy, not only for you, but for other village providers as well. As a pillar of the community, your labor is vital to the survival of your people. Without food, you will not make it through the winter months, a weight that sits heavy upon yours, and so many others’, shoulders. So heavy, in fact, that you sometimes fear it will topple you. You are young and inexperienced, only freshly come of age, and this shall be your first year as the primary keeper of the hearth. Though you are only one part of a much larger operation—a tiny cog in a great machine—the people look to you for sustenance. They rely on you to provide what is needed when food is scarce, and the crops grow dormant.

You need only to make it to the Harvest Festival, a town-wide celebration marking the end of the fertile period and the beginning of the inactive months your town calls Hibernation. The remainder of each crop will be gathered and a grand feast prepared, the last of its kind before your village hunkers down to wait out the winter. Only when a large, steaming plate of fresh pumpkin bread sits upon the long table to be enjoyed by townsfolk—young and old alike—will you finally be allowed rest.

It is with these expectations in mind that you work today, gently kneading dough into beautifully scored loaves, dutifully filling your shelves and stores with pretzels and pastries.

A few customers make their way in over the next few hours, one of whom is your good friend Tara, a mountain goat. She is the village chandler, and while you know she comes to trade candles for this week’s rations, her reputation as storyteller and town gossip means she will provide you with more than just wax goods.

“Good morning- or should I say good afternoon,” she quips, leaning across your counter as if she owns the place, “Care to tell me why when I came by this morning, the door was shut and the lamps snuffed? It’s the least you can do after depriving me of my morning scone… my tea was so bland without it.”

You sigh, dusting your hands on your apron before you make your way over to her, pulling two fresh scones from the tray to offer as an apology, “I’m sorry. I had trouble sleeping last night… strange dreams. Before I knew it, the day was half gone.”

Tara takes the sugar-covered sweets without complaint, plucking them from your hands with the entitled attitude only a best friend could afford to have.

“Hm, you know… they say dreams serve as omens for something to come. Hopefully a handsome man was present.”

As Tara pops a piece of the pastry into her mouth, you think back to your brush with Caleb. He is certainly handsome, well built and a fine face… but the manner in which he’d appeared…

“Nope, only monsters and ghouls.”

Tara makes a disappointed sort of noise, mouth full of the delicious sweet and pouty lips covered in crumbs and sugar crystals. You can’t help but laugh at her childish behavior, grabbing a nearby cloth to carefully wipe away the mess on her face. As soon as she’s swallowed her bite and you've finished cleaning her chin, she’s back to her endless chatting, something you find both endearing and a bit impressive.

“Speaking of-”

“What? Monsters and ghouls?”

“No, silly,” she pins you with an exasperated look to which you raise your hands in surrender, “Handsome men, obviously. I’ve heard whispers that Gideon intends to court Simone this mating season.”

You pause at that, eyebrows shooting up into your hairline, “Gideon? Gideon wants to mate with Simone? Our Simone?”

“Yup,” Tara pops the ‘p’ playfully before she’s back to her scone, shoveling another large piece into her mouth, nearly choking on it.

“She’s gonna eat that boy alive,” you lament, shaking your head as you do so.

Your friend Simone is a wolverine and seamstress. She’s blunt and straightforward, never one to shy away from expressing her opinion—even to those superior to her. Village Elders, who so many respect and heed without question, often find themselves the subject of her harsh critique. More than once, you’d been intentionally poked with a sewing needle during a garment fitting, Simone chastising you for speaking badly of yourself, loudly insisting that your shape was perfect and any man would be blessed to bear witness to it. She is a wonderful girlfriend, but she remains largely unimpressed with the men in your village and rarely extends to them the same kindness she freely offers women. Her maneater reputation wards off potential suitors like the plague.

Gideon, on the other hand, is a bit of a lap dog… literally. He’s a Bernese mountain dog, a herding species known for their gentle and affectionate disposition. He maintains the town’s cattle, carefully shepherding the herd while managing dairy production and slaughter selection. You like Gideon well enough; he’s friendly, good-looking, and loyal to a fault, but you have to admit… he’s a bit naive, always in over his head when it comes to women. If you didn’t know any better, you might think that he’s become a little desperate with the passing of each unsuccessful mating season, but you’ve long since realized that’s just who Gideon is… a hopeless romantic through and through. You haven’t talked with him much, but you found his head to be in the clouds the few times you have.

You hate to say it, but the poor man doesn’t stand a chance with your feisty friend.

“I dunno,” Tara muses, clapping her hands together to rid them of crumbs before picking out the baked goods she wants for the week, “Lovable Gideon might yet thaw our Simone’s frozen heart… or at least his muscles might.”

“He has gotten rather big this summer, hasn’t he?”

“Not nearly as big as Sylus,” Tara argues, to which you nod your head in agreement.

Sylus, the village blacksmith, is easily the largest man in town, years of labour at the anvil strengthening his back and shoulders. Every unmated woman (and even a few mated ones) has caught themselves ogling the lynx while he pounds away at hot metal once or twice, watching his beefy bicep ripple with each heavy strike of his hammer.

“Either way,” your friend’s words yank you from your daydreams, mouth a little dryer at the memory of Sylus’ impressive form, “I think they’d make a cute couple. Don’t tell Simone, but I'm secretly rooting for him.”

You laugh, busying yourself with wrapping Tara’s pastries before carefully placing them in her basket, “It would be nice to see his… attempts at flirtation succeed for once.”

“Agreed. Well, I’d better be off,” Tara takes her basket from you in exchange for a small pile of candles, still joined at the wick, which you store with your lamp oil for later use.

“I expect to see you bright and early tomorrow morning with my scones!” she calls back as she makes her way out the door, making you laugh with fondness. Oh, how you’ve spoiled her.

You return to your work as soon as she’s gone, your progress a bit slower than usual due to your injury, and your mind filled with distracting thoughts of the upcoming mating season and potential couplings. Perhaps you’ll participate this year… should you have time to.

Only when you are well into the afternoon does the door bell chime once again, announcing the arrival of another customer. Already, a friendly, welcoming smile is sliding into place as you turn to greet whoever has wandered in.

“Welcome in-“

The words die on your tongue when none other than Caleb steps over the threshold, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the low doorframe, though he’s unable to keep the tips of his fuzzy brown ears from brushing it. Your blood runs cold at the sight of him, the memories you’d been so successfully pushing away until now rising unbidden to the forefront of your mind.

He’s quite possibly the last person you’d expected to see today.

Caleb’s cleaned up in the few hours since last you saw him, linen shirt back to that off-white you know so well, not a trace of blood left on his chin. He looks… normal. Alarmingly so. So normal, in fact, that you briefly wonder if you’d hallucinated the entire encounter. In his right hand is not the neck of a mutilated deer, but rather, a small, neatly wrapped parcel, twine tied around it in a delicate bow.

Here, amidst the cozy atmosphere of your bakery, he’s nothing more than a man once again.

Caleb sends a warm smile your way, not quite meeting your eye as he wanders over to the counter, bending to inspect the loaves lining the shelves beneath it.

You watch him peruse the selection from the corner of your eye, unable to help your curiosity. Aside from this morning and his usual weekly visit, you haven’t seen Caleb much in recent days. He always seems to be cooped up in his butchery, likely getting ahead on his work, preserving what meat he can before winter arrives. Once, two weeks ago, you’d caught a glimpse of him from your window, headed in the direction of Zayne’s around dusk—whether to receive medical care or to simply pay the physician a visit, you don't know—but you hadn’t seen him since.

Caleb looks comedically large in your little shop, though most predators do. Your ancestors had built this cottage with rabbits like yourself in mind, never once considering how a wolf might have trouble navigating the small space. The difference between the two of you is jarring, but you’ve grown used to it living in this village. Predators are large, Caleb especially. He’s a big boy, the physically demanding nature of his occupation hardening his body, thick, corded muscle lining his large torso. He carries his weight well, his silhouette bulkier than most men you’ve known. Second only to Sylus, he’s one of the taller men in your village and easily towers over you, his bushy tail nearly as long as you are high.

You clear your throat awkwardly, attempting to bury the apprehension that lingers still. This is the Caleb you know… the Caleb you like. He’s nothing to be afraid of… you think.

“I have sweet loaves this week… I know you usually prefer the spiced ones, but…”

Finally, Caleb’s purple eyes find yours, quick to notice your discomfort, acutely aware of your hesitance. You're unsure of how to approach him, something that makes guilt twist in his stomach.

“No, um- well… uh-“ you’ve never seen Caleb struggle for words like this, fumbling like a newborn pup. He’s usually so talkative, carrying with him an air of confidence and an effortless charm that makes him popular amongst both men and women alike.

“I came to apologize,” when you don't respond, merely blinking at him, he clarifies, “…For earlier. I scared you.”

Oh.

Your bewilderment must show on your face because he rushes to fill the stunned silence, anxiously raking a hand through his bangs, pushing the chocolate strands back off his forehead, only for them to stubbornly fall back into place.

“You just surprised me. I didn't expect to run into anyone so early in the morning… or so far from the village,” he explains, “I was huntin.’”

“Hunting what?”

You can't help how quickly the question escapes you, not wanting to sound accusatory, but suspicious of his behavior nonetheless.

“Venison,” he answers, a hint of embarrassment sneaking into his voice, “Gids says the herd’s a bit thin this year… gonna have to get creative if we want to make it through Hibernation.”

Suddenly, things are lining up more clearly. Gideon’s cattle are the village’s primary source of protein, but if there had been fewer spring births than usual, Caleb would have to turn to other means. You’d never known how he procured his meat when calves were scarce, just known that he’d never failed to provide.

Still, you feel sorry for the deer for meeting such an untimely and gruesome end. Your people treat animals with the utmost respect, looking upon them with sympathy for having not been touched by evolution and blessed with higher intelligence like yourselves. You’d always given thanks for their sacrifice, praying their spirits might pass on in peace… a luxury that poor thing had not been gifted. But you cannot fault Caleb either, knowing he has the village’s well-being in mind.

“I see…”

The silence stretches between you, thick and charged, until Caleb once again breaks it, “You dropped your shawl when you… when you ran off.”

With that, he holds out the little package, his own silent version of a peace offering and apology.

“It had a bit of mud on it. Tried to get it out the best I could.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, suddenly feeling a bit shy under his expectant gaze. Shame for having ever doubted him creeps up your spine, especially after receiving such a thoughtful gesture.

As you move to take the parcel from him, pain flares in your behind, making you whimper pitifully, outstretched hands cringing inwardly to comfort yourself. Caleb’s ears swivel to attention as soon as the painful little noise leaves you, eyes raking over your form to find the source of your discomfort, nose twitching when your scent once again sours.

“Did you injure yourself when you fell? Where does it hurt? Do you need help? I can carry you to Zayne’s if you can’t walk,” a flurry of questions leaves him, protective instincts urging him to do something… anything.

Waving your hands dismissively, you steady yourself, attempting to put on a brave face lest you worry him, though you're not quite able to sponge away the grimace entirely, “No, no. It’s just a bit of bruising. I’ll be ok.”

Caleb shrinks back at your refusal, ears folding back submissively, making him look more like a kicked puppy than a wolf. A twinge of regret passes over you at the dejected look on his face, but he schools it into one of neutrality just as quickly, bending to your authority even against his better judgment.

“Alright, well… make sure to get it checked out if it gets worse,” you nod obediently, taking the shawl from him. A shiver prickles the back of your neck when his large hands brush yours in the trade off, the warmth of his skin gone just as soon as you’d felt it.

“I will. Promise.”

“Good girl… Gotta get back to my shop, but I’ll drop by later this week. Save a sweet loaf for me?”

His praise makes heat bloom across your cheeks, saliva sticking uncomfortably in your mouth. But when Caleb tosses you another friendly smile, it effectively dispels whatever strange tension had been growing between you, earning him a grin of your own in response.

“Sure, get back safely.”

“Will do.”

Then he’s gone. The door bangs shut with the whispers of something more, and you watch his figure retreat down the path, back toward the butchery. Even through the gloomy grey clouds, you can see the sun beginning its path of decent, the evening hours approaching quickly.

How very odd this day has turned out to be…

However, Caleb is right— you really ought to get checked out by the doctor. You simply cannot afford to let this injury fester into something worse. Too much is at stake this autumn. It’s with the mountain of work ahead of you and the Harvest Festival’s demands on your mind that you decide to pay Zayne, village physician and apothecary, a visit.

Just as the sun is beginning to dip below the horizon and your work is finished, you’ll make the journey out to his home. You can only hope your apologies for bothering him so late in the evening will be accepted and he’ll see you. After all, Zayne is a private man… one who doesn’t like being disturbed during personal hours.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 // 𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖞𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

a/n: well, we finally made it through chapter two! thank you for your patience with this one… i hope it was well worth the wait! what do we think? is caleb really as sweet and friendly as he seems to be, or is the man you saw in the woods what’s been hiding beneath the surface all along? will you make it to the harvest festival, or crumble under the pressure? will gideon manage to charm simone? who knows? well… me i know, but soon you will too. i hope this chapter was immersive and easily digestible, giving you a proper feel for the world of snow dwellers and their village traditions. it’s going to be a long fall, but never fear! our lovely protagonists will support you all the way—doctor zayne especially, as he examines your bruised bum next chapter. thanks for reading!

It suddenly feels stifling in your room, the comforts of home turning menacing in the gloom of night. What was once a cozy sanctuary now feels like a trap, desecrated by evils of your own concoction. It’s as if the walls are closing in on you, that devil from your dreams lurking just outside your field of vision, lingering in your peripheral. You suppress the urge to call out, afraid those awful eyes might blink back at you should you do so… afraid it’s watching you. It’s suffocating.

Rationality wars against the more animalistic side of your brain, fighting the impulse to run… to get out.

The rabbit wins.

Tearing the covers from your body, you scramble out of bed, knees wobbling precariously when your feet hit the floor. There’s little light to dress by, only the cooling embers glowing from the mouth of the large oven down the hall, casting odd shadows and changing the once friendly shapes of your furniture to monsters and ghouls. So you dress quickly, pausing only for a moment to pull the short, fluffy tail at the base of your spine through the opening sewn into the back of your skirt. The laces of your boots barely make it through their eyelets in your haste to get out of the house, knotted into sloppy bows.

With only a small oil lamp to light your way, you stumble out the front door and into the night, leaving the safety of your little cottage bakery behind. The cool air is welcome against your feverish skin. You swallow it down in large, eager gulps, lungs aching as they expand rapidly to accommodate.

Disoriented, you find yourself heading for the nearby woods rather than the sleepy town square of your small mountain village, the call of pine and earth too strong to ignore in your panicked state. Your aimless wandering pulls you further and further from civilization, feet following the narrow path that leads towards the trees, sloping gently upwards.

The last moon of summer winks at you from behind the great mountain that shadows your village. Tall and imposing, it looms ahead of you, cutting a dark silhouette against the black sky. Mist curls over its ridges like the twisted fingers of an ancient giant creeping over its peaks, a thick fog descending down its slopes to blanket the land below. It pools in the crevices of rock and tree, wispy tendrils snaking over the ground and circling your ankles only to be scattered each time you take a step.

The little dirt trail you’ve been following disappears not far into the woods, only a few hundred feet past the tree line. It serves as little more than an entry point into the forest, but it’s of no matter to you. You’ve explored these parts before while foraging for herbs, though only in the daylight hours. Rosemary grows not far from here; you can smell it on the breeze even now, nose twitching at its sharp, soothing scent.

You walk for what feels like hours, weaving between trees and trekking through the dense underbrush, slowly but surely making your way up into the mountains. Little by little, the sky begins to lighten, inky black of night making way for a sort of pale blueish-grey that washes the world in a fuzzy glow. Every step forward brings you deeper into the impenetrable fog, the trees surrounding you growing so thick you can hardly see through the canopy above, their gnarled roots threatening to catch on the hem of your damp skirts. The fabric hangs cold and heavy around your legs, which are beginning to ache. Cool mist clings to your skin in tiny droplets, the thin shawl you pulled tight around your shoulders doing nothing to shake the chill from your bones.

Autumn is fast approaching. If the early morning gloom isn’t evidence enough, you can feel it in your bones, the ability to sense the impending cold snap written into your very biology. Soon, the lovely brown fur that lines your ears and tail will molt to reveal a thick coat of wintery white. Just as all other creatures must, you too will follow the laws of mother nature.

Though the four walls of your bedroom no longer press in on you, relief is hard to come by; anxious paranoia still haunting your every step. You glance back over your shoulder every few feet, the sense you're being followed chewing insistently at your frazzled mind like a flesh-eating parasite. Perhaps that thing from your nightmare had somehow followed you out here… you’re not quite sure what’s real and what’s a figment of your imagination anymore. The small oil lamp does little to dispel the fog, flame flickering so weakly you have to hold it up near your face to see. Mist blurs the greenery around you, every bush and shrub now threatening in the dense whiteness, tree trunks appearing unexpectedly at each turn. Somehow, it feels more claustrophobic here than it did in your bedroom.

Dread has very nearly consumed you when, finally, you stumble upon a clearing, the trees thinning as you wander into a grassy meadow, pooled with fog as heavy as the skirts at your hip. It’s unnervingly quiet, no ruffle of leaves or early morning birdsong, just the stillness of dew-covered mountain brome and moor grass.

Suddenly, you’re reminded of the quaint cottage bakery you call home… safe and sweet. The shop is due to open in only a few hours‘ time and the dough you’d prepared last night won’t bake itself… you really ought to be getting back to it.

But... where are you?

Rarely did you wander so far into the wilderness like this, preferring to keep to your little patch of herbs where the view of your village is still visible through the gaps in the tree line. The woods that surround you are unfamiliar, the trees large and ancient, not the stubby aspens and junipers you gaze at from your window. How careless you’d been, straying so far from home. You can hardly see an inch in front of your nose in this haze, much less discern the direction that might lead you out of this unending forest.

Just as you're about to turn on your heel, determined to find your way back to the village even if you have to crawl along the ground, a figure emerges from the fog.

Your stomach lurches into your throat, heart hammering so hard against your ribcage you worry it may crack the bones that house it. It seems as though your fears were not so senseless after all. Whatever has been hunting you—be it a monster from this reality or another—has finally caught up, and you're going to be devoured. You can only hope it will be fast and relatively painless.

The figure turns sharply at the sound of your startled shriek, ears perking with interest. You see now that the silhouette is that of a man… or, at least, you think it is, and he’s dragging something large behind him. A muffled voice screams at you from somewhere in the back of your mind, but perhaps that’s just the deafening thrum of blood rushing in your ears.

Run.

You begin to shuffle backwards before your brain has time to catch up, left foot tangling in the root of a nearby oak tree and sending you tumbling to the wet earth below. A sharp cry leaves you when you hit the ground hard, mud splattering your pretty skirt. If not for the adrenaline coursing through your veins, you’d be able to feel the way your behind has already begun to bruise.

It’s too late, you’ve caught his attention.

Bile rises up your esophagus when the creature—man begins stalking towards you, his footfalls heavy as he makes his way through the tall grass, the hard lines of his body softened by the ominous mist that curls around it. Behind him, you can see the long, bushy tail that follows the line of his spine, its lazy wag betraying his excitement. You're pinned to the ground in fear, muscles locking up and eyes darting around nervously in search of an escape route. The rabbit ears atop your head fold back submissively with every step he takes toward you, nose twitching as the scent of damp wood and autumn apples invades your sinuses, marred by the metallic sting of copper. You recognize his scent long before you finally catch a glimpse of his face.

It’s Caleb, the butcher boy from just down the road… but he looks less like Caleb than you’ve ever seen, his face streaked with blood and violet eyes wild… almost maniacal. In this moment, you see him not as the friendly neighborhood meat cutter, but rather, the predator you know him to be.

In his right hand is the neck of a deer, a chunk of flesh missing from its jugular and twisted at such an odd angle you can’t help but wince. Surely it had been a painful break, but you take solace in the fact that the poor beast likely died before it could feel as much. It drags the ground behind him for a ways before he drops it altogether, body lying crumpled in a sad heap. Caleb’s linen shirt, usually the off-white of bone, is stained with the creature’s blood. And his expression… he looks like some sort of rabid animal, chin and cheeks smeared with crimson, brilliant eyes reflecting the dim light of your lamp, glowing eerily. His sharp canines are bared in a snarl, the fluffy, triangular ears that stand tall from beneath his messy chocolate locks straining towards you in curiosity. You can tell he’s fresh off the hunt, the thrill of the chase still coursing through his veins, senses on high alert. Restless energy is practically rolling off of him, his chest heaving from his exhilarating run through the forest.

A flash of something—surprise or perhaps… recognition—flickers over his features when he finally gets close enough to see you properly, slitted pupils dilating rapidly. His eyes rake over your frightened form, from the dirtied hem of your dress—far too light for the changing weather he notes—to your fearful expression. The mouthwatering scent of baked goods that often follows you burns in his nostrils, soured by your terror.

Like a horse spurred in the haunches, your instincts kick into overdrive, forcing your paralyzed joints to unhinge, self-preservation urging your body into motion. You hardly have time to see the way his ears flatten back against his head in guilt before you’re yanking your boot free of the root it's caught on, scrambling off the ground in a panic.

Though snowshoe hares are generally regarded as docile and easily spooked, the strength of your kind is undeniable, muscled thighs pushing you forward into a powerful sprint that only a large predator could match.

A predator like Caleb… a timber wolf.

You leap and bound through the thorny underbrush with surprising agility, flying down the mountain with impressive speed. The cool morning air bites at your lungs, but you dare not stop, don’t even chance a glance back over your shoulder to see if he’s following. You can only pray that he is not, and seeing as how the smell of blood is gradually fading, replaced by the pleasant tickle of thyme and rosemary, you hope those prayers have been answered. Soon, the village is in sight, your cottage nestled safely amongst the other shops that border the square.

You nearly slam into the front door when you finally make it home, throwing it open with so much force it almost comes off its hinges, locks clicking into place as soon as you’ve crossed the threshold. The bed is as you’d left it, soft and inviting now that nightmares have been turned to child’s play. You burrow into the covers, nuzzling your face into their familiar warmth as if you can somehow shut out the danger that lies just beyond the tree line.

And so, fearing the hunter, the rabbit returns to its cage.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 // 𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖞𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

a/n: welcome to the world of rabbitology! as you can see, not all is quite what it seems… try not to lose your way in the fog as you explore a quiet mountain village through the eyes of a snowshoe hare. i’m so excited to share my very first series with you. i’ve put a lot of time and effort into building this world and its characters so hopefully it lives up to your expectations. thank you for your continued interest and support. here’s to writing chapter two in which we run into some surprises.

hartebeast - yaelokre

wolf house - rabbitology

the devil & the huntsman - sam lee

it will come back - hozier

detuned mini base - havocharpa

heavy in your arms - florence + the machine

the bog bodies - rabbitology

the yawning grave - lord huron

black train/end credits - the blasting company

nobody’s soldier - hozier

butcheress - rabbitology

in aisles - nero’s day at disneyland

pale white horse - the oh hellos

cosmic love - florence + the machine

brutus (instrumental) - the buttress

white winter hymnal - fleet foxes

the huntress - ha vay

red sex (re-strung) - vessel

harpy hare - yaelokre

the book of kells - bruno coulais

eat your young - hozier

chokehold - sleep token

and the hound - yaelokre

a quick one before the eternal worm devours appalachia - lizard in the spring

danse macabre - the oh hellos

even in arcadia - sleep token

the kelpie - kiki rockwell

in a week - hozier

poison tree - grouper

run rabbit run - flanagan & allen

for context (i swear this is necessary) i have an hour commute to work everyday and the route takes me through the mountains… so a lot of extra daydreaming time on my hands an some lovely scenery to back it up. i came up with this idea back in early february when the weather was still cold and things were still wintery. i usually begin my commute in the very early morning when it’s still dark and the fog has not yet burned off so very spooky sleepy hallow vibes.

the idea came to me in this exact sequence:

*‘liz on top of the world’ from the movie pride and prejudice comes on shuffle during my drive*

- wow, love this moment in the movie when mr. darcy comes walking towards liz out of the fog.

- hey… it’s foggy right now… haha what a coincidence!

- hmm…

- what if, instead of mr. darcy, it was caleb walking out of the fog? (cause my annoying ass wants to make everything abt him)

- what if, instead of mr. darcy, it was caleb walking out of the fog, but he’s covered in blood?

- wait, why would he be covered in blood?

- he’s a wolf hybrid… obviously.

- what if, instead of mr. darcy walking through the grassy countryside, it was caleb, a wolf hybrid, coved in blood, stalking through the foggy mountains?

- hmmmm… i think i need to write this

and thus rabbitology was born. i decided i absolutely had to get the rest of the guys in on this and added them immediately. since then i’ve spent hours putting together character sheets, world building, map making, and plot outlining.

↳ warnings: !!18+ nsfw!!, alternate universe-animal hybrids, animalistic character traits & behaviors, mating season/cycles, time period inaccuracies (medieval), non mc reader, unreliable narrator, elderly character death (murder), predator/prey themes, dark themes, light angst, hysteria & panic, moral dilemma, folklore/mildly religious themes, blood/gore, reverse harem, slow burn, explicit descriptions of intercourse (see chapter summaries for specific warnings)

series playlist // archive

chapter one: out of the frying pan and into the fire

chapter two: an unexpected visitor

chapter three: an apple a day and a bit of rest

chapter four: coming soon…