#fae!ghost

Human!Reader who swears loyalty to one of the King's children as she tackles the politics of the fae royalty. She wishes to finally have the power she needs.

One of such royal revelry forces her to cross paths with Fae!Ghost - bastard child, half fae and half human. A royal knight, forced to guard the royal throne and estranged from his father and his half-siblings, save for his own brother Thomas. His skull mask hides his face at all times, and you wonder which enemy was unfortunate enough to lose his head to the Ghost. He's tall and overbearing, silent and ruthless - and you feel on edge whenever you're forced to acknowledge him. And yet, you smell the fae blood and pine needles on him and resist the urge to goad the beast of a man into pummeling you into nothing.

You are soon betrayed by the princess who took you in as one of her own. You are hurt at the betrayal, and even more so, humiliated for getting bested by a fae. Unexpectedly, it is the Ghost who saves you from your predicament - taking on the blows meant for him and shielding you from the cruel goons as he obliterates them, leaving nothing but ash and bones.

You fret over him and his wounds, using your knowledge of herbs to create a salve to soothe his injuries, wiping away the dirt and grime and blood from his pale, scarred skin. He stays deathly still while you tend to him.

Things come to a head when the king is suddenly assassinated. Fingers are pointed, blame is shifted. Swords clash, loyalty dies. People die. But most importantly, the death of the monarch invokes such bloodlust in the hearts of his successors that almost all of them die fighting for the throne. All except three. The crown prince, the princess you used to work for, and Ghost.

The subjects of the kingdom anticipate that their future ruler must be between the prince and the princess. The idea of a half-fae like Ghost ruling over them is absurd. Luckily, Ghost is not too eager about taking the throne either.

The fight between the siblings drag on for far too long, and it ends with the death of the crown prince - establishing the ruthless cold princess as the tentative head of the household and the kingdom. But she's not satisfied, letting her pride dictate her actions and her pride would not let the Ghost live.

And so she plans to be rid of him, and you get to hear of it first. You rush to Ghost, urging him to hide - which he refuses. You beg him to leave and to never return, if he wanted to live - but he's Death on two legs. You decide that the least you can do for his kindness is stick by him in his last moments, and when the princess uses treachery to land the final blow on the half-fae, you decide that taking it in his stead would be the best course of action for the kingdom.

You're gone and dark and then you're alive - months after the fight between the royal knight and his sister. Ghost had to assume throne, and his brother Thomas is his advisor. The kingdom has successfully established a tentative peace after the constant bloodshed and familial betrayal. Sickened by the sights you had to witness and the horrors you have survived, you plan and plan and then you flee the fae lands - hoping to connect with your human roots and to be forgotten by the faeries. You hope your father can forgive you. You wish everyone else forgets you.

Except your disappearance causes chaos.

Ghost is inconsolable - unable to function without any trace of you. Thomas suggest him to get hitched to someone else - royalty from other kingdoms, princesses of powerful species; hoping that a political marriage to a powerful ally will strengthen his brother's position as king. Except all Ghost wants is you.

And so he searches for you for years. Five or more years since he last saw you, and when he's desolate and believes all hope to be lost, he finds a trace of you that won't end in a dead end now. He leaves the kingdom and ends up in the human world and it's overwhelming. He had always promised his dear mother that they would escape and live out their lives back here. Seems like you accomplished what he couldn't.

He's fuming when he finds you, all human and weak and occupied with mortal achievements and materialism. You left him reeling with your kindness, with the humanity you have lit up in him. You tended to him and cared for him in a way that even his kin failed to do so. And then you left.

Left him alone to deal with fate and its cruel games. Left him starving of your attention and gentle touch. Left him alone without a taste of you.

He's so furious and starving and yearning, so the moment he sees you notice him, he ensures that you have nowhere to run anymore. You try to run, and he's reminded of a bunny trying to escape the nets meant to trap it.

"You cannot leave me again, not unless you take responsibility of your actions".

You ask him about it, and your morbid curiosity leaves you horrified as you realise that he means to abduct you back into the unwelcoming and treacherous lands of the Fae. You feel hopelessness seep into you when he reveals that he had planned to take you in as his consort before you booked it, and now to ensure that it doesn't happen again, he decides that the best course of action would be to bind your soul to him in holy matrimony.

"Have to ensure that you don't go off running on me now, sweet human. I cannot afford to lose you again."

Mal stood at the far wall of their crafting space, studying their old leather bound notebook. It was an account of every project they’d ever undertaken here at the shop, filled to the brim with notes. Currently, it was open to the last commission on their list for this quarter, someone wanting a garment that would fill them with confidence after a particularly difficult time in their life. Before them stood several cones of yellow and orange cotton that they had dyed with this intention in mind. Now to decide what it would become. Mal closed their eyes, imagining the customer in their head, how their shoulders had hunched and neck sunk involuntarily. They needed something to straighten up, bring some height back into their frame. A jacket would do them nice. 

Mal took the cones to their warping board, a square frame with pegs hanging on the wall, and readied the yarn. Before they began Mal closed their eyes once again, taking deep breaths and pressing their bare feet firmly into the floor as they grounded themselves. Once they were settled, they imagined in their mind what their customer would look like in this new jacket. How their face would be full of warmth and joy, how much taller they would stand, the swagger and spring in their step as they walked. Mal let the feeling wash over them, filling themselves up with the giddy confidence. Full of energy, Mal began the warping process, tying an orange yarn to one peg and wrapping it around sequential pegs until it was as long as their fabric needed to be, then doubling back and following that same path back. 

Maintaining this confident headspace Mal continued on, occasionally switching between colors to create a shimmering ombre across the warp. This warp will act as the vertical threads when they weave the fabric later on tonight. Already they could see the gentle halo radiating off of the threads as the intent gets buried deeper and deeper. By the end it’ll be radiant like the sun. 

The slight jostle of someone attempting to open the front door made Mal accidentally skip a peg, breaking them out of their concentration. Immediately the halo of the current length they were working on dimmed, forcing them to backtrack and do their best to bring themselves back into the confident headspace. They didn’t really care if someone was at the door, there was no reason for anyone to be there and thus no reason to give them the time of day. Pick up was always reserved for the last week of the month, and they hadn’t pulled aside the heavy curtains hanging from the gutters that prevented humans from seeing the shop, and warned Fae from entering without an invitation. No, those get pulled when Mal’s commission list was empty and ready for new customers. Which it wasn’t. 

The jostle returns again and only a well timed breath keeps the bubbling anger from making its way into the warp. They tied it off and stepped away with a sigh. They couldn’t afford to keep having their concentration disrupted by the mystery person at the door. 

Opening the door reveals a girl, smiling brightly, “Hey, I think your doors locked.”

“It’s not,” Mal replies. Not in the physical sense anyway. Witch’s wards are strong and clever like that. Although they will have to check up on the curtains outside. Nobody should have been able to find their shop with them pulled shut, although now there was a clear section that was pulled to the side where the girl seemingly forced her way through. Those damn Moth’s were probably nibbling on it again. 

The girl stares at them for a moment, as if expecting them to say more. Evidently the silence becomes too long as she presses on, “Aren’t you going to let me in?” 

“Why would you want in?”

“Because you’re a business? And I’d like to do business here?” The exasperated look on the girl's face is enough to set Mal’s teeth on edge. 

“Pushy aren’t you?”

“Yes. Now come on, I want to get something nice for my boyfriend and he’s going to pick me up any minute now.”

Something about the girl’s big, insistent eyes made Mal’s resolve crack, “Fine. You’ve caught me in an indulgent mood.” Mal turned around, walking back towards the counter, “What are you thinking of?”

When the girl didn’t immediately follow they turned around again, only to see her seemingly stuck mid stride, foot unable or unwilling to touch the hardwood floor of the storefront. Curious. The girl seemed perfectly human to them, but looks could be deceiving. 

“You’re welcome in, for this transaction,” her foot fell with a solid thump, and she continued walking in as if nothing had happened.

“So I’d like to get something for my boyfriend.”

Mal settled in and flipped their notebook to a new page, “So you’ve said.”

“Yeah, well I know that he likes to cover up a lot, but recently his gloves have been falling apart and what with Winter coming up I don’t want his hands to be cold-”

As the girl talked, Mal kept a close eye on her chest, watching for any tethers that shone brighter than the others. Humans, and sometimes Fae, had a hard time deciding what their real intent was for a gift, and sifting through their tethers was always easier than getting it out of them through words. Except that the more this girl talked, the more her chest started to light up like a god damn christmas tree. She was tangled and pierced and snared on so many hooks it was almost distressing, and one in particular burned so bright it almost hurt Mal’s eyes to look at.

“Excuse me,” Mal interrupted her, “but may I?” they said, pointing towards the brightly glowing tether at the center of her chest. 

“Uh, sure,” she said, slightly confused but trusting all the same. 

Reaching out they gently snagged the tether with the tip of their pinky finger. Even with that small amount of contact all they could think of was LOVE LOVE LOVE. So much love, and passion, and desperation, and protectiveness. 

Within the next second, Mal’s ears popped as air that used to be in the space behind the girl forcibly vacated in favor of someone apparating there in its place. Mal stumbled back, eyebrows raised in shock as the absolutely massive fucker came into focus. Piercing brown eyes peered out through a pale white skull mask, with one hand wrapping protectively around the girl's chest and the other landing solidly on the table creating an effective barrier between them and Mal. 

“What’s wrong, Love?” The man's voice was deep, and although he was addressing the girl, (the capital L was obvious in his tone) his eyes never left Mal’s. 

“Well I was going to get you a surprise gift, but I guess that’s not happening anymore.”

“Why were they touching you.”

Mal straightened, “I received permission, if that is your concern. I was only attempting to see what her true intent was for this gift.” Despite the way he was glaring, Mal could tell this man didn’t think they were a threat, at least not physically.

On closer inspection the guys gloves did look as if they were threadbare, ready to fall apart if a stiff breeze came through. He was fae, no doubt about it, and even his human form commanded respect. Mal could see the shimmery effect of the fae’s obscura, hinting at a much larger and much more. . .sinister silhouette. They could do better, break up the outline of his body like camo on a soldier's fatigues, but something told them that he wouldn’t appreciate being upsold at the moment.

“And what was my intention?” Love looked almost giddy to know, leaning over the counter top with a manic grin on her face. 

Mal quickly looked between Love and the man, trying to gauge the pro’s and con’s of this whole interaction. 

“Go on,” he said. 

“Well, it seemed like Love here wanted to stake a claim on you. To possess and protect you as much as you do her.” 

Like a seesaw, Love rocked backwards into the man's embrace, wrapping her arms up around his neck and giggling, “Yeah, I guess I am a little obsessed with you.”

For once he looked a little bit out of his depth, and once again Mal almost had to shield their eyes from the sun that seemed to light up between the two. Jesus these two were co dependent as all hell. 

“So,” Mal said, desperate to get this conversation over with, “any design you want in particular?”

“Oh, right, I think his gloves should be dark black, with white details that look like finger and hand bones. And can you make them really warm and soft? Am I asking for too much? You’ll tell me if it’s too much right? Also-”

Mal dutifully took notes, not even attempting to get a word in edgewise as Love rambled on. Briefly looking up, Mal saw the masked man curled contentedly around and over top Love’s much smaller form like a mountain sized cat. It was hard to find him intimidating now that his eyes were full of love and adoration. 

The wild is dark, dusky. It's always dusky where snow covers the ground. Price stands over the body of a man, a child really, and feels disgust boil in his blood. Not for this new fae, birthed from blood and snow, barely alive except for the magic it managed to steal for itself, but for the men who made him. He crouches next to the fae, more animal than man, and tells the new wraith a joke:

"Look like a ghost, you sure you're alive?"

It growls at him.

It'll feel better after it eats. Price gives a sharp whistle, bad luck in the dim light of Winter, but not for him. The smoke from a nearby campfire falls to the ground, crawls with creeping claws in every direction. It reaches, digging into the snow to try and grab hold of anything still alive. Fortunately for the ghost, Price has decided to exclude him from that tally. He'll appreciate it later. For now Price's phantom claws dig into something warm and fleshy. With a swipe of his hand one of the men guarding the camp is dragged over. The new fae watches with dark eyes and dripping teeth as he's pulled through the snow, hooked like a pig by Price's smoke. 

It doesn't need the coaxing to dig its own claws and teeth into the man, it's instinct. Ripping and tearing, searching for the best pieces, the cleanest cuts of meat. He's a messy eater, Price thinks, I can probably fix that.

-

Two men stalk through the snow, one older, one younger. It's dusk. It's always dusk. There's a fresh powder on the snow under their feet. The older man moves silently through the barren forest, the younger man does his best to follow his footsteps. The forest is quiet, save the older man's rumbling voice.

"Just step where you want to go and the wild will take you there." Price explains, tries to explain, so much that comes second nature to him is alien to his wraith, "Follow your nose if you get lost, can’t trust your eyes out here."

Ghost is smart, he's learned that much in the last few months. Smart but broken. Price can feel the smoke he's breathed into him holding the shadows together, filling in the cracks and ripped tethers. There was so little of him left when Price found him. If it weren’t for Price’s magic providing a skeleton the whole body might have collapsed. God the hell the poor kid must've been through. It takes a long time to make a fae like this, they must've been at it for a years. 

Still, the magic that Ghost holds onto, the shadows that swirl around him, are useful. Stolen magic, siphoned off of the darkness around him, the hatred and malice that bled from his captor’s heart, before metastasizing in the loose dirt of the grave he crawled out of. Ghost had painstakingly repaired his own cracked skin with rage until it was enough to live beyond the human part’s lifespan. 

He’s silent, still, watchful. Useful magic in a guard dog, if he can actually use it.

Price stops and hear the crunch of snow stop just a few paces behind. He turns to look at Ghost, there are dark circles under his eyes, his hair still death white, Price's dark clothes hang off his body like a child playing dress up. He's too thin. The best thing to do would be get some tethers in Ghost, but the man's been reluctant to do even the most basic fae things. Too bad. Plenty of ways to make a fae strong though.

"Alright head back, nothing out here for us." Price tells him. Ghost stares at him for a moment, before turning on his heel and stalking back into the dark woods. He follows orders well, at least, and this is a decent exercise in magic. Price lets him get a few paces out before he has the wild bring him back. No sense getting lost between the trees. 

Ghost gives him an unamused look when he circles back. Price smiles at him, the man may not speak but he wears the shreds of a heart on his sleeve. "Must want to stay with me." He jokes. There’s an undercurrent to Ghost’s clouded eyes, one that makes him wonder how close to the mark he is, one that makes him wonder if he’ll always be able to hold this leash. If he can't, will his dog still listen to him?

Price wraps his hand behind Ghost’s head, pulling him close. The brush of lips is a familiar chill, like kissing a corpse, not entirely unpleasant but Price has never been quite so romantic as to expect it would be. He exhales, tips his head to let the smoke trace over Ghost’s lips as the corpse inhales heavily. Greedy for magic, Ghost’s pupils spread wide as the smoke swirls through him. It isn’t just his body that’s still starving. 

Fine then, Price just needs to make sure the leash stays short.

-

There's something about Ghost, how quickly he takes to being fae once the scent of dirt is washed off, how neatly he packs on weight and builds muscle, how his teeth drip with blood, 

how he hates the snow. 

Price lights a cigar watching his guard collect shadows around himself. Inky darkness like slithering snakes from the trees winds its way over the snow, writhing as if even Ghost’s magic doesn’t know what to make of him. On any other fae Price might find is repulsive, but this monster is his, and he'd be remiss not to find some satisfaction in the grotesquity. Ghost's form shifts and roils, the shadows still unsure how to shape the changes to his body. Wisps of inky smoke swirl around him, lift off his skin and dissipate in the soft evening light. Shadows that can’t keep their shade without their host break in Winter’s dusk. Another shiver through Ghost’s form, a wave over his body as he eats.

Crimson stains the snow around him, pooling only to freeze in pocked discs. It streaks over the crooked angle of Ghost's nose, arterial spray staining his black clothes. Ghost tips his head to look back at him, breathes deep, in and out, expelling Price's smoke like a haunting. He needs it less and less these days, building his own magic on the foundation Price laid for him. It's better this way. Besides, Price knows how his shadows work, can combat them if he goes rogue. Not that he would. 

Price doubts Ghost even spares a thought to leaving him.

Not when Price keeps him so well fed, so well entertained. It’s been a good stretch since Price took him under his wing. Time is a fickle thing in the wild, months maybe, could be years. Months of silence from his dog, months of building trust, months of hunting down the men that made Ghost into what he is. 

Ghost’s claws dig into the mangled viscera that once closed tightly as a ribcage, now ripped apart at the spine it sits open. A trap, or a warning to anyone that stumbles across it. Ghost pulls the heart free and inspects it. He’s a picky eater when he wants to be. Fae like him always are. It’s the control of it, being able to pick and choose the best parts for himself without worrying someone might take them. Hearts seem to be his preference, he always eats those first.

Price blows his smoke over the shadows, watching them bend and twist to accommodate him. Picky eaters… Ghost’s teeth tear into the muscle, head tipping back so the blood won’t drip down his chin. At least he isn’t messy with it. 

His dark eyes flit to Price when he blinks, before moving back to his meal on the next close of his eyes. Still as dead as when Price found him. If it isn’t fighting or feeding Ghost doesn’t seem to have much mind for anything else. Still healing, Price supposes, still finding pieces of himself.

Ghost drags his tongue along the drops of blood trailing down his claws as he swallows the last morsel of muscle. The corpse flinches as he fishes the liver out of it.

Price makes his way closer, crouches beside the head. He pulls his cigar from between his lips and blows smoke into the unlucky soul’s face. If there was any hope of saving them he might say their color wasn’t good.

“Shame you let it get this far,” He tells the fae, watching Ghost dig his claws through the open chest cavity. Price tugs at one of the heavy red threads tying Ghost’s victim to him, the rapid expansion of the corpse’s lungs makes him hum. “Damn commendable though,” Price stands, and settles his cigar between his lips again, taking a steady inhale before speaking again, “consider the debt paid.”

-

There's something about Price too. Something Ghost can't put his finger on. Power drips from his fingertips, eases itself into the corners of every room. Ghost doesn't doubt that the wild bends to his will. He's charming. That's a good word for it, a calculated charm. It makes people trust him. He's a good liar, for a man that can't lie, yet Ghost never doubts he's telling him the truth. There's something heavy between them, something Ghost doesn't have a word for but feels important.

He's warm.

Despite being from Winter he's warm. It's like finding a campfire burning in the woods. Reasonably you know someone must have built it, that there must be people nearby, maybe even dangerous people, but you're so tired that for a moment it shines like a beacon of hope against the darkness. Ghost only hopes he's one of the dangers lurking in the dark, and not one of the hapless moths drawn to Price's flame. His teeth itch.

Sitting against the pillows that line Price's bed his teeth itch.

Price hardly moves an inch when Ghost crawls over to him, his arm slung across his eyes, his other hand resting on his stomach comfortably. The house is warm and inviting, Price is inviting, Ghost wonders what his blood tastes like. If it would be smokey on his tongue, if it would fill him the way Price's magic does. 

Ghost opens his mouth and Price's hand moves to grip his throat.

It's a split second of movement, barely enough time for the thought to fully form before Ghost’s stopped dead. There’s a coldness in Price’s eyes, the ice taking over any warmth that might have been tempting him. A switch flipped to snuff out the flames of what he truly is, cut against the service of dusk. His fingers hold his throat tight, exhaustion gone from Price’s body as if it had never existed in the first place. Every line of him is hard, sharp in a way that teeters at the edge of control. Angry. 

“Good dogs don’t bite their masters.” Price tells him, the words mark the air, a new law to carve itself into Ghost’s body, “Or do I need to muzzle you?”

There’s a pull in Ghost’s chest, a weight that drags itself against his ribs. It knocks against bone, rattles it like a cup dragged along the bars of a cage. It’s too heavy a hook to pull out, too big a debt to cash in, a short leash fixed to an iron collar.

Ghost shakes his head, his eyes trained on Price’s until the older man’s eyes dart down. His fingers squeeze Ghost’s neck, applying a pressure that makes his head spin. Thick and controlled. A slow descent into some superior space which had remained unoccupied. His eyes tremble against the stimulation, muscles contracting in unfamiliar instinct. All his blood rushes south, he's fuzzy under Price’s grip, pulled by the debt he owes him.

It’s a new old feeling. A spark long abandoned for survival given new life against Price’s flinty guidance. Fighting, feeding-

“If you want something,” Price’s leg bends, his knee pressing tight against the front of Ghost’s trousers, “you have to ask.”

Months of silence, mute in a way only death knows, Price doesn’t expect an answer. Words have no meaning for dogs or dead men, but still Ghost ruts his hard cock against Price’s knee and lets his first word drip like ichor from his lips. The sound of it so low he almost wouldn’t hear it if he wasn’t listening.

“Please.” 

The word hangs heavy between them, Ghost’s head hung low as he waits for an answer. He’s so still Price might have mistaken him for dead a second time. 

Price drops his hand from the man’s throat, and wraps his fingers instead around the heavy corded tether between them. He twists his wrist, wrapping the line around his hand and down his arm. He pulls it tight, watches the way the shadows drift like whisps off of Ghost, cracks in his form letting the magic holding him together shudder through.

“Better get to it then,” Price tells him.

It’s a service, a favor, another debt to wrap around the cord. Ghost’s hips jerk forward before stuttering back. The hard press of Price’s knee isn’t pleasant, but it’s better than nothing. It’s more than Ghost can afford on his own. He knows, feels it wrap around his neck like a noose with each shuddering rock of his hips. The ache of having his cock crushed against his hip, the sweet bite of cotton as it rolls against the skin of his cock, the burning friction, it all tingles up his spine.

Sadism. Masochism. It's all the same. The chase of a pain that can't hurt him. Controlled. Everything about Price is controlled.

Even him.

Price watches the way Ghost ruts against his leg. It’s measured. Nothing frantic in the motions, just a steady back and forth that speaks to Ghost’s patience more than anything. Biding his time until he can bargain for something bigger, Price thinks. Ghost is a smart man, he knows what he can get with what little he has.

Ghost tips his head, his eyes are like coals, malice and hatred burning clear as he meets Price’s gaze. 

Maybe a muzzle for this one.

-

"Hungry."

It's the first word Ghost has spoken to him since- Price looks up from his ledger, eyes his shadow. The shadows swirl around him like smoke, his new mask already collecting in all its gorey glory. He's bigger again, building muscle on top of muscle, sharpening his claws as well as his wits. He's really grown into the role of guard dog well. The tethers are still an issue though. Price's are the only ones that string from him, their weight like lead, constantly reinforced.

"For what?" Price asks, he knows Ghost's preferences as well as his own, but it's so rare to hear his voice. It makes him want to prod. The deep tone, rough with disuse, rumbles pleasantly in the space.

"Meat."

So he feels like talking today. That's good, a good sign. Who knows how long it will last. Price makes a quick note on the page and closes his ledger. He presses his hands to the table and stands. There's no debt that needs collecting today, but he can always move someone to the front of the line.

Maybe a trip to the city is in order. There are a few things that need checking on, and nowhere better to check up on them. He fixes his eyes on Ghost, watches the man watching him. 

He's waiting. Waiting for the next command that Price utters with the respect of a soldier. He’s well trained, trusting, Price is careful not to break that trust, but that doesn’t mean he can’t push it.

“City’ll have easy hunting.” Price tells him and the shadows tense. The darkness wriggles and wriths with upset and unease at the idea, though Ghost himself stands still and commanding as ever. “Can have your pick.” Price offers, throwing the dog a bone to raise the tuck of its tail.

Price tugs a cigar from the nearby case and lights it with a match struck against his fingernail. Ghost’s silence is as much an answer as anything. It’s not a ‘no’ which is as good as a yes as far as Price is concerned.

Price grabs his coat, and Ghost falls in line behind him.

It’s bad in the city. Two women dead, their hearts thudding in Ghost’s stomach, their slick still dripping down his chin.

A leash only works when the dog stays on it.

-

“Come on love,” Ghost’s voice stops dead on the cobblestone, “Say something pretty for me.” It's been years and Price still can't get used to the sound of it.

The woman in his grasp, gasps and whines. Price sniffs at the autumn air, keeps his eyes glued on the passers-by. Nobody pays any attention to the dark spots in the city. To the soft slap of skin against skin or the dulcet whimpers that tug at Price’s own cock.

“Feels good,” The woman moans, Ghost’s body pressing her tight against the alley wall, his hands digging greedily into the fat of her hips. 

“That oll?” The walls seem to watch, eyes in the shadows, greeting hands squeezing and groping at anything darkness wraps itself around. Price waits for the sink of Ghost’s teeth. His picky eater. 

“Wastin’ yer time,” Price tells him. Ghost growls. Price’s eye twitches.

Price turns and stalks towards the pair, he raises his cigar from his lips and presses the burning embers against the woman’s forehead, digging his magic in between her eyes. She screams in pain before her body goes limp.

“Tell ‘im what ‘e wants ta hear sweet’eart.” Price orders with a nod.

“Love you,” The woman slurs, and Ghost’s shadows explode from his body. Spines bristle, teeth sharpen, roiling excitement, uncontrolled, uncontained. Unease slips down Price's spine as he steps out of the way; only just avoiding the splatter of blood that rips across the stone walls. There's something on the wind, something tempting dusk to midnight. Unpredictable. Price doesn't like it.

“Sweeter,” Ghost explains once he’s licked the blood from his fingertips, his hunger sated, “heart’s sweeter when it feels for ya.”

Price hums. He’s never been one for hearts. Too messy.

“Should taste witch,” Price tells him absently, “blood’s thick with magic, goes down like liquor.”

"Wonder 'ow long I could keep one of these." He isn't listening. He's been doing that more, never disobeying, but- Independent. Price doesn't like that either. "Found the old man's place, piece of shite, but could fix it up."

Price's eyes creep with the flow of his displeasure towards him. "You know where home is." He reminds him.