Thistle and Down

Hello, I'm Rose! Welcome to the little place I'll be posting bits and bobs of my writing. My main genre is fantasy, which will be about 90% of what I post. However, I do love sci-fi, horror, and romance. So, expect to see some of that make an appearance here and there, too!

This blog will be mostly original content and characters, and will be tagged as such. Any fanfic I post here will of course be tagged regarding the fandom. Story-specific triggers and content warnings will be tacked to each post; if I misspell a tag or miss a tag altogether, please let me know!

I am over 21, and my writing will reflect that. Hence, as previously requested in my description, I'd really rather not have minors following or interacting with my posts.

I do not give any consent to the re-posting of my work to other sites (I have an AO3, that's it), translating, entry of my work into AI programs, or other such bullshit.

(The author of this work does not support the use of this or any other of their works in any AI shit-machine.)

Kiba’s leg bounces up and down where he sits on the couch, arms crossed protectively in front of his torso. He can feel the beat of his heart even through the thick sweater. It drums in his ears, drowning out the noise of the TV he isn’t really watching and the idle conversations that he isn’t part of. He might as well not have his hearing aids in. But he can’t take them out. Not now. The chatter is the only thing grounding him, keeping out the anxious static clouding the back of his brain, reminding him that he’s in this room, in this place, in his body. Even though it feels more like a stranger’s skin he’s wearing.

In the corner of his eye, he can see Ma stand up, empty glass in her hand. He thinks she’s asking him if he needs another drink. Kiba shakes his head. His teeth are on edge, buzzing in his mouth, already beginning to lengthen and point.

Sunlight slants between the open blinds behind him. Biy by bit, the warmth on the back of his neck wanes, as the sunshine turns from daylight white to afternoon gold. It takes everything in him not to turn around and watch. Why bother? Staring won’t stop the sun from setting. Won’t stop what happens when it does.

But he knows what will.

Kiba squeezes his eyes shut at the thought. His pulse spikes, bouncing his leg faster.

Bitterness coats his tongue, familiar and sharp. A phantom burn fills his mouth. Instinctually, Kiba runs his tongue along the roof of his mouth, behind his teeth, checking for blisters. Nothing but faint scar tissue. Next would come the numbess. Tingling and pleasant, blossoming from the back of his throat, until everything, everything, was awash with the high. His bones could settle beneath his skin, locked in a human shape for the night. Icy cold kissing his face and forehead. A tender frost seeping into his mind and quieting the anxiety. No dizzying colors as the curse takes hold, no muscles pulled tight enough to snap, no wiry fur bursting through his skin, no merciless claws. Nothing. Complete bliss. Weightless as the stars.

Until the morning came, and he’d come crashing down, screaming.

Kiba’s stomach turns. Whether it’s the memory of countless agonized mornings or the craving itself, he can’t tell.

Sunlight dims from gold to orange.

Pins and needles brush against his extremities. Wriggling backwards in his veins, worming between the layers of his skin, digging into the thin space between his heart and his ribs. Countless fingers hook around his sternum and yank.

With a hissing curse, he doubles over. His arms tighten around his chest, as if that might stop the pull. It doesn’t. It spreads around the width of his torso in a masochistic sort of daisy chain, until it feels like every bone in his body has been shifted ever so slightly to the side. Just close enough that it’s unseen by others, but Kiba knows there’s something so very, very wrong inside.

“Hey.” Will’s voice cuts through the static, only the barest hint deeper, and softer than it’s been to Kiba in a very long time. “What’s wrong with you?”

And oh, maybe that didn’t come out quite right—

Kiba’s head snaps up. There’s a small, distant part of him that knows Will didn’t mean to come off so callous. Knows that words have never been the best reflection of his love. But the larger part—the part that’s myered in the stiff anticipation of pain he knows is coming and begging for the indigo haze that sweeps it away—only hears disdain. He finds his brother’s gaze with a glare so sharp it feels more like a dagger in his eye.

“What’s wrong with me?” Kiba repeats, breathless, the words ground out past canine teeth. “What’s wrong with me? Fuck do you think?! My insides are about to rearrange for the first time in two years! Sorry I’m not exactly taking it so well!”

Will raises his hands placatingly. Kiba bares his teeth. He opens his mouth, whatever cutting words he wants to say poised on his tongue like a serpet ready to strike. Only for them to be stolen as the pull becomes stronger. Every nerve between his vertebrae begins to buzz. The barest pressure skates along his back as his muscles ever so slightly move of their own accord, readying to swell, and for the bones beneath them to expand. His lungs stall. A gasping groan floats out of Kiba’s mouth as he curls in on himself.

Kiba almost doesn’t register the couch dipping beside him.

A hand carefully smooths over the small of his back. Will’s hand. He knows it’s Will’s because he can feel the callouses, formed by his forge work. Kiba briefly wonders how hands that can twist burning metal can be so gentle. Why they’re so gentle to him of all people.

It’s not long before Grady comes and takes a seat on the arm of the couch. Wordlessly, he places a cool hand on Kiba’s shoulder, drawing what seems at first like nonsense patterns. Soon, the same serene drop in temperature pulses throughout his system. His heartbeat slows just slightly. A little bit of the gnawing goes away as the telltale hum of magic rings in his ears. A calming charm. Just like the one Ma used to write on their backs as kids.

“Breathe,”Will whispers.

Kiba risks a glance up. In the amber light slipping through the blinds, the same color as Will’s own eyes, Kiba can see the four jagged lines of scar tissue swiping down the left side of his face. Guilt twists in Kiba’s gut. He turns away, chewing on the freshly-formed claws at his right hand, and tries not to think about the feeling of slicing into tender skin.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Ki,”Will soothes, gingerly moving along the tense paths his ligaments are creating, reminding him again to, “Just take a breath.”

“I’m trying,”Kiba replies, “This just— It doesn’t feel like it used to.”

“What does it feel like?”

Kiba lets out a low sound, almost but not quite a growl. He stares a hole in the floor where the area rug meets the hardwood floor. Faint red lines appear where he’s bitten his claws down to the quick, already beginning to reform.

“Wrong,”he finally says. “Just all wrong. Everything. It doesn’t feel like my body anymore, man, I don’t— I don’t think I can do this.”

His voice breaks at the admission. At the rejection of his heritage, if only verbal now without the wolfsbane to stop it. This is what he’s supposed to do. What he is, who he is. And yet, all he can think about, all he wants to do, is make a break for familiar doors where he knows someone has to have that perfect poison. Shame rolls hotly over his too-tight skin. Cradling his head in his hands, Kiba ducks down once more, skin prickling as he feels all the eyes in the room turn to him. He wishes they’d go away. He wishes he could tear those eyes out for looking at him, before immediately wishing he was brave enough to tear out his for even thinking that.

Gardenius leans in, wrapping his arm around Kiba’s shoulders. Kiba doesn’t know if the embrace helps or hurts. Maybe both. Shallow lungs press against his ribcage, a stinging agony following, like his bones are going to snap with each inhale.

“Kiba, you have to breathe,”Grady reminds, squeezing his shoulder.

“I am fucking breathing!” Kiba snarls, voice pitching far too low for any human, and he immediately flinches at the sound. “Don’t tell me what I have to do when you don’t know what this feels like!”

Will crosses an arm over Kiba’s chest, and it’s only then that Kiba realizes he’s trying to make for Grady’s throat, with aching teeth.

“No, you’re holding your breath like a dumbass,”Will argues, unfazed as Kiba’s ire turns back towards him. “Hunching over like that isn’t gonna help you. Neither is snapping at G.”

Clawed hands make for the collar of Will’s shirt, or maybe to strangle him, before Kiba recognizes the movement for what it is. He can’t stop it. Not all the way. Not when the need to rip into the nearest thing with a heartbeat is puppeting him.

But he can redirect it.

Kiba turns his hands towards himself, claws and all, and sinks the vicious points into his arms. For good measure, he pushes himself to stand, taking long strides away from the couch. And then everyone else is on their feet, all about to break into a rush towards him, knocking over glasses and plates and sending the loveseat skidding back at least an inch.

“Don’t!”

Kiba doesn’t recognize the voice that comes out of his mouth. But it stops everyone cold. Flicking his gaze from one concerned face to another, unable to focus, Kiba takes a step backward. He shakes his head, deterring. Himself or them, he doesn’t know.

His jaw moving, someone is using his breath to speak, his bones are vibrating underneath the unknown skin wrapped around his frame. Whatever words are coming out, if they’re words at all, are all disjointed. Jumbled. A hurried mish-mash of apologies squeezing between wolf teeth he knows don’t fit in what’s supposed to be his mouth. All the while, the voice keeps struggling to speak, and he knows it's coming from him, but that’s not his voice, it’s not him, it can’t be him—

A pair of well-worn boots make their way across the floor; a slow but certain cadence Kiba instantly recognizes.

Dad kneels down in front of him, and dazedly, Kiba wonders when he fell. Golden eyes find his, gaze soft and impossibly warm. And for a moment, it’s like the sun is back in the sky, and everything has stopped.

Dad brushes his bangs from his eyes, rumbling low in his chest, “There you are. I know those eyes.”

Kiba’s heart pinches. Are these his eyes? They feel so sensitive and sore. The TV light is like a paper cut across his corneas, so bright it makes him nauseous. Or maybe that’s just the way his guts are beginning to shift around.

Swallowing, Kiba opens his mouth—nothing comes out. Not a growl, or the stranger’s voice. Just shuddering breath. There’s a lump in his throat. All the words sit blocked up behind it, straining to get out, but not quite managing.

He leans forward, burying his head in the crook of Dad’s neck, gripping his shirt hard enough to tear it. Dad just rubs his back.

“Little crowded out here, ain’t it?” Asks Dad, swaying them back and forth, “How about we go to the old shift room, yeah? Nice n’ quiet, and you can calm down without everyone watching.”

Kiba nods pathetically. He holds on to Dad’s shoulders, trying and failing to get his legs underneath him. Eventually, Dad slips an arm around his back and lifts. Kiba comes off the floor much too easily. He misses the way Dad stumbles as he straightens up, as if preparing for more weight than he actually picked up, and the swift, panicked hand that runs down Kiba’s side, feeling his ribs.

Dad maneuvers them both through the living room and into the shift room. As soon as they cross the threshold into the quiet darkness, Kiba smells the old wooden beams and dry straw sacks.

He spent his first full moon here, lying on the floor, the polished hardwood a balm against his blazing skin and fur. How carefully Dad had once tended to him and his brothers as the change took root. Curling into rich black fur when it was over and tentatively nosing his brothers’ sides to check on them. Hana dragging in bits of her fresh kill to share, snow-white maw stained red. Dad’s quiet, oak-steady voice passing over their ears as he promised that next time would be easier, and before they knew it, they’d all be racing between the trees together, free as the wind. Kiba had wanted nothing more than that.

Now, eight years since, he’s back. He doesn’t know what he wants now.

With practiced ease, Dad brings them both to the ground. Immediately, Kiba balls himself up on the floor, relishing the cold floor.

Dad slips his boots off, leaving them outside the door. Something soft finds its way under Kiba’s throbbing head.

His fingers trace the spirals in the grain. Wide scratches that start and stop suddenly, plank-wide gaps in their path where someone’s claws dug too deep and Dad had to replace the bits of wood he couldn’t repair. The texture is grounding. Proof that this is his hand, his arm, his body. And for a moment, there’s peace.

Then the sun fully sets.

Kiba can feel the exact second it happens. The taut strings pulling his bones finally stretch too far and snap back all at once. Every muscle, every tendon, every nerve spasms, bending him backward in a violent seizure. A strangled cry wheezes from his swollen vocal chords. Deep within his core, something stirs. Rising up from the depths he’s shoved it, that oh-so shameful beast strains against the cage that is his bones, screaming, begging, clawing to get out, get out, let it out—

His spine shifts with a sudden crack, pushed forward again by his restless trapezius muscle. Pain shoots up from his tailbone straight into the base of his skull. Pressure squeezes the nerves behind his eyes, filling his vision with a spotty fog of lurid colors. When he opens them again, the room is brighter. Velvet black shadows recede into the far corners, until everything is a bathed in tones of navy blue and stunning silver-white. Moonlight. So cold it burns where it caresses his skin, sinking razor teeth into his belly. Instictively, he tries to crawl away. It doesn’t matter if he knows that will only make it hurt worse. There’s safety in the shadows, a dark place where the moon and what it brings can’t find him.

Where It can’t get free.

“Hey, hey, look at me. It’s going to be alright.” Dad reaches ro cup his face, wiping away tears Kiba hasn’t realized he’s been crying. “You’re going to get through this.”

Again, Kiba shakes his head, trying to pry those too-gentle hands away from his face. It’s too kind, too loving. It’s more than he deserves, after everything he’s put them through.But Dad doesn’t budge. He gingerly tucks loose strands of silver behind Kiba’s ears, revealing more of a face Kiba knows isn’t the one he saw in the mirror this morning.

“I can’t,”he sobs, and it still sounds like a stranger’s voice. “Dad, I can’t—I can’t do this, I’m too fucking scared.”

“You can be scared and you can do this. You know how I know?”

Kiba can’t reply. His head is swimming, every inch of flesh crawling as fur begins to creep over it like worms. His stomach roils.

“‘Cause you’ve already done it, Kiba,”Dad says, oak-steady voice splintering in a way Kiba’s never heard before. “So many times. You survived the addiction, the overdose, the withdrawals. And I know you’ve been scared the whole time, baby boy, I know—”

Squeezing his hand, Dad leans down, pressing their foreheads together.

“You’ve gotten through it before. You’ll get through this, too, I promise.”

Kiba leans into the contact, teeth grit as he chokes back a snarl. Something akin to calm settles over his system. Focus, Kiba realizes. Even the wolf seems to still a moment, Its frenzy briefly giving way.

It, he thinks, suddenly so startled by the thought. When had he started to see the wolf as something separate from himself? Was it instant, the swing of the hunstman’s axe, or a gradual decay? He can’t remember. The division is lost to the aconite haze. But it was there, is there now, the cut that leaves them both to bleed out. Both of them locked inside the same cage, bound and muzzled for no other reason than he thought it might make him good. Two and a half years spent atoning for sins that had never been committed, and creating others in the process.

All this time, he thought he was punishing something else. Some monster hiding deep within. When the only one he’s been punishing has been himself.

The realization strikes his pain-delirious brain with lightning strength. Kiba can’t stop himself from tipping his head back, a high, manic laugh leaping from his throat. A mirthless sound that raises his own hackles to hear. Bit by bit, the sound deepens, and he’s right back to crying again.

“‘M a fuckin’ idiot, Dad,”he cries, struggling to get the words out as his facial bones begin to lengthen. “I wanted— I don’t even know what I wanted. Feels like I’ve been spinning and spinning and spinning in circles, and now I’ve finally stopped, and I’m so unbalanced. I’m scared I’m going to fall. I want to stop, stay still.”

“You’re not an idiot, mijo.” Claws comb through Kiba’s hair, working through the tangles. “It’s okay to be scared about what happens next. You can approach it cautiously. But if you want to find your balance, you have to walk. If you stop moving all at once, all that spinning is going to catch up with you, and you’ll fall anyway.”

There’s a splintering crack as Kiba’s tarsel bones begin to elongate, followed by the leathery creak of skin stretching far past its limits.

And he knows there’s nothing Dad can do to soothe this. Just like there was nothing he could do to soothe it the first time. Just like he couldn’t steal away the pain during Kiba’s withdrawals. Yet, Kiba still finds himself reaching out, shivering and snarling and barely hanging on.

He can’t do this. He can’t, he can’t—

Dad gently takes the sides of his face, threading his fingers into wiry silver fur marred with blood and sweat.

“What do you want, Kiba,”he asks.

Kiba whines, confused.

“You said you didn’t know what you wanted before. But you do now, right? What is it?”

Breathing hard, Kiba glances around. Does he know?

“What do you want, son?” Dad asks, firmer this time, louder, trying to break through.

Guttural cries spill from his open maw. He drags his claws down his arms, his sides, scraping them across the wooden floor as he writhes, everything inside scrambling to get out, get out, get out.

“Kiba, what do you want?!”

Get It out, get It out, It wants out—

It—He wants out.

He wants to be free.

“I just want to be me again!”

Just like that, it’s out, the words unlocking the door of a cell he never realized he was on the wrong side of.

His nerves are on fire. Every beat of his enlarged heart sends molten blood rushing through his veins, burning him from the inside out. Pain pounds the inner walls of his skull. Pointed ears drag up to the crown of his head. Kiba thrashes, rolling onto his front as his spinal chord is once again whipped around, though the pressure is lessened somewhat as it extends far past its original stopping point.

His head jerks back, nearly blinding Kiba as his eyes catch full view of the moon, brigher than the sun. Blessedly, his chest expands, and he can breathe again. Cool night air fills his lungs. Jaws part in a primal scream. Raw and desperate, Kiba can hear a voice—his voice—melt into a wild howl.

The fever is gone. In its place comes fatigue. He collapses in an exhausted heap of silver brindle fur.

Dad is right there to catch him. A solid wall of raven black. Amber and clove fills Kiba’s nose, and trembling, he leans into it. Hands not quite human, not quite animal soothe over any remaining aches and pains. A broken whine drifts from Kiba’s sore throat.

“Shh, estás bien, it’s okay,”Dad rumbles, “Estás bien, mijo. Estás bien. Estoy aquí, te tengo.”

Kiba buries his face in his father’s mane. Aching relief fills the hollow of his bones. Painful, yes, but the good kind of pain. As if he’s just pulled a sword from his heart.

They lie on the floor of the shift room for a long time. Until Kiba’s breathing evens out and he’s confident enough that his legs won’t give out the moment he puts his weight on them.

“Are you ready?” Dad asks, inclining his head towards the door.

There’s the frantic tapping of claws outside, several bodies pacing back and forth, huffing and growling as they begin to come close, only to think better of it, and go back to pacing. To the leftmost room, the kitchen, Kiba can just barely make out voices.

“It sounds like it’s over,”Hana whispers, almost conspiratory, “D’you think we should…?”

She trails off.

“Not yet.” Alexi shoots her down, and Kiba can picture the way he shakes his head. “We can’t risk overwhelming him. He’s got Pop in there with him right now, anyway; if we can trust anything to keep him sane, it’s him.”

Hana makes a displeased growl, but she doesn’t push.

“Are they coming out soon,”Aniu asks, her voice almost directly in front of them, in the living room. “I wanna see!”

“Be patient, pui mic,”Ma replies, “Kiba might not want to be seen.”

Aniu must pout at that, because Ma gives an understanding sigh, “We’ll check on them soon, okay?” Then, to the two pacing forms, she calls, “Boys, don’t you dare go near that door!”

Kiba’s ears twitch back. He rolls his shoulders, shaking his fur out, hoping to send the anxiety flying off his pelt like water. He turns to look at the shift room. Now that the worst is over, it’s quiet. Still. New claw marks decorate the floor and the walls, unsettled dust floating in the moonbeams. He contemplates the straw sacks at the far end. Something soft and safe he can tear up if he needs to. Dad waits. Whatever he chooses, he knows Dad will understand.

“No,”Kiba finally says, “But… If I wait until I am, I might never come out. I can’t stay still.”

Golden eyes take a moment to look him over.

“Mi valiente niño,”he praises. My brave boy.

Dad swipes his tongue across Kiba’s cheek, clearing a streak of blood and using his teeth to gently gnaw out the smallest knot in his fur.

The door opens slowly, Dad giving him enough time to change his mind. When he doesn’t, Dad exits first, walking on all fours. It’s easier to move through the house that way. Will and Grady appear at the end of the hall, rushing him in concerned circles. Aniu bolts from the couch at the sight of him, a blur of white fur. She skids to a stop, nearly crashing into Dad’s forearm. The sound attracts Hana and Alexi, who come running from the kitchen as fast as their human forms will allow. Even Ma can’t resist anxiously jogging over to see.

Rising up onto two legs instinctively, Dad blocks both their view and their way, hackles raised at the commotion. His teeth snap at the air between them. Not angry or forceful. A reminder. A gentle warning.

“Don’t crowd him,”Dad orders.

Everyone takes a measured step back into the living room. When he’s satisfied, Dad hunkers back down, and turns around. He chuffs, nodding encouragingly.

Tentatively, Kiba takes a step across the threshold. Then another. It’s been so long since he’s moved this way, it doesn’t feel completely natural. So he takes it slow, wading through the dark hallway and then into the mellow lamplight of the living room.

Ma gasps, hands flying to her mouth cover the sound. Wide eyes stare at him like he’s a ghost. She turns her head so Kiba can’t see her face. But the telltale quake in her shoulders tells him she’s crying. Dad weaves around the others, allowing them access and a way to go comfort her without drawing attention.

Alexi looks like he might explode. He chews his nails, lilac eyes glowing so bright, they might burn out of their sockets. His other hand absently claws at his upper arm, like he’s about to rip his skin off. Kiba can see the desire to shift plain as day in his face. And he could, if he tried. But as much as Kiba wants him to, he won’t dare ask. Tonight isn’t his night. His magic calls the wolf the other way. They’re all still too young to master the shift, and forcing it is difficult. Still, knowing Alexi would risk the pain just for him is more than enough for Kiba.

Hana doesn’t look much better. Her mouth gapes in an open curse, caught between a smile and something terribly shocked. She crosses her arms, as if the wolf might jump out of her chest to greet him. She moves from foot to foot, leaning this way and that to try and take all of him in without rushing him and scaring him. She barely manages. Like Alexi, full moons are not the night that bids her shift—but the sharpening of her teeth suggests she might be more likely to ignore that fact.

Will and Grady whine, clawing at the floor, fighting on whether to run to their brother or to respect Dad’s orders. It’s only when Kiba gives them permission that they surge forward, nearly tackling him, bandying him about as they rapidly switch from nuzzling him to circling him in the hall, just barely fitting as they trip over each other. More than once, Grady’s tail smacks him in the nose. The absurdity sends the three of them into a manic laughing fit.

And then there’s Aniu. Pressed against Alexi’s leg, she looks up at Kiba with wide eyes, glancing between their brothers and him, excitement turned to quiet observation.

Wriggling between Grady and Will, Kiba huffs, nipping at both of their ears until they make enough space for him to muscle through.

Kiba approaches carefully, lying down in front of her. It’s been so long since she’s seen him in this form. She might not even remember, only just barely turning six before he left. She’s almost nine now.

For her part, Aniu watches, leaning in until they’re almost nose to nose to sniff at him. Kiba waits. Holds his breath. Aniu makes a wary circle around him. Then another. On the third turn, she slips under his muzzle, and cuddles into the space between his throat and chest.

“You’re warm,”she finally says.

Kiba barks out a laugh, nodding, pretending that the affection isn’t this close to making him cry all over again.

Hana risks skating her fingertips across the back of his ear, waiting until Kiba leans into the touch to wrap him in a bear hug so tight, it almost winds him. Lycan strength supercedes human form, he supposes, as Hana twines her fingers into the mane mingling with the fur at his ruff.

“Hey, kid,”she murmurs, and if Kiba feels tears on his shoulder, he doesn’t say anything.

“Hey, Han.”

It’s a long moment before she pulls away, rubbing at her eyes. When she does, she clears her throat, one hand still in his fur. Then it’s Alexi’s turn. Hana moves back to give them space, idly tracing the brindle patterns of Kiba’s pelt. Lex kneels down, letting Kiba rest his chin in his palm. He follows the white blaze at Kiba’s nose up to his forehead, where it’s overcome by Damascus patterns in all different shades of silver and grey.

“You look good,”Alexi tells him, bumping their foreheads together. “Better than…” Alexi fumbles for the words, and upon deciding there are too many, settles on, “Well, better.”

Kiba knows what he means.

“I feel it,”he replies, truthful. “It’s… Different. But it’s better.”

Ma clears her throat behind him. Amethyst irises are red-rimmed where they look at him, almost eye to eye, even with Kiba on the floor. Immediately, Alexi moves out of the way, Hana following suit and taking Aniu with her. Dad hangs back. Close enough for comfort, but far enough that they have a semblance of privacy.

Kiba swallows. It’s hard to look at her face, though he’s trying, managing a timid, “Hi, Ma.”

“Hello, baby,”she breathes, the corners of her mouth twitching into a watery smile.

She moves to cradle his face. His head alone is nearly the size of her torso, not counting the shaggy fur that completely envelops her arms as she wraps them around. Tension he didn’t realize he was holding melts away, and Kiba closes his eyes, nuzzling her as much as he can without bowling her over.

“Băiețelul meu.” Ma sniffs, kissing his forehead and temple and cheek. “My sweet boy. I love you so very much.”

“I love you, too,”he says, breath hitching.

Ma doesn’t let go for a long time. When she does, though, her hand gravitates to his left ear. Her thumb and forefinger gingerly close around the point, and she gives it the barest tug.

“Still the same,”she laughs, smiling at the white tip. “Your bleach spot.”

Kiba snorts, playfully growling and baring his teeth as if to groan ‘Moooom!’

Etched glass chimes sound on the back porch as the wind changes direction, sending a ripple of energy throughout the house. An electric spark that has Kiba’s fur bristling. He casts his eyes to the sliding glass door. Trees dance in the breeze, silver-blue light reflecting off the leaves like a sea of dragon scales, beckonging him.

Dad gets up from his place on the floor. He noses Ma’s hip, letting her run a loving hand between his ears and down his back before he walks to the door. Will and Grady are hot on his heels, tails wagging, pushing one another out of the way in order to be the first one out. Aniu bounds up behind them, barking excitedly.

Almost robotically, Kiba follows.

Dad slides the door open. Aniu is off like a shot, looking less like a wolf and more like a comet as she streaks across the yard and into the treeline. Dad sighs and tears off after her. Grady is out next, clearing the back steps with one stride of his long legs. He pauses at the bottom, when he realizes the other two of his set haven’t followed.

Kiba stands just inside the door, staring at the sharp change from honey-toned lamplight to the cold hue of moonlight, uncertain.

Warmth brushes along his side. Will appears next to him, orange eyes fixed on the treeline. He doesn’t run. Instead, he waits. Lets Kiba press into his side in a silent plead for support, anxious claws scraping over the floor.

“Take your time, Ki.”

Grady pads back up the stairs. He stands patiently at the top, pale golden eyes soft as he waits for his brother.

“We’ll go together. Whenever you’re ready.”

“I might… need help,”he confesses.

“That’s okay.”

The wind beckons again. Kiba longs to feel it. For it to ghost along his fur, breathing as he breathes, filling his lungs with that long lost wild.

Gritting his teeth, Kiba draws in a long inhale—

—And pushes himself onto the porch.

Grady’s head darts forward, teeth latching onto Kiba’s scruff just in case he gets it in his head to dart back inside. Meanwhile, Will shoves Kiba further forward, sending the three of them tumbling head-first into the dirt. Will cackles as they trip over one another, falling in a pile and slipping in the dewy grass when they try to recover.

The scent of petrichor and night-blooming jasmine floods Kiba’s senses. Moonbeams send shivers down his back. Restless, his bones thrum with wild magic, everything from the tips of his claws to the ends of his fur buzzing, until he can’t contain it anymore.

 Before he knows it, he’s on his feet, flying after Grady and snapping at his tail. Will weaves between them, nearly sending them all crashing a second time. They chase each other in circles across the yard, tackling the others in turn and dodging swipes from playful claws.

A bellowing howl cuts into the air. Dad’s voice, calling them into the sea of trees. Kiba stops, just long enough to listen, ears swivelling as he pinpoints the location of the sound, as if he’d never stopped hearing it.

Grady is already running before the howl ends.

Will bumps his shoulder, barking out, “Race ya!”

 Then there were Feroz and Kiba.

Standing at exactly six foot three, it was clear that Gabriel and his siblings got their height from Feroz. A myriad of scars littered his body, past fights and deaths he survived, but the two he was most proud of were the subcutaneous mastectomy scars on his chest. They were newer than the rest, judging by how well they stood out against his brown skin. By far, though, Anna was most intimidated by Feroz's eyes. Normally a honey brown, they were a gleaming amber now. A hunter's gaze.

Kiba sat with his hands in his lap. He was much shorter than Feroz. Long black hair tied into a low ponytail, his eyes were far more human-looking, with a brown so dark Anna nearly mistook it for charcoal. In fact, he could almost be mistaken for a human; the supernatural point of his ears gave him away. What scared Anna the most about Kiba was his facial expression. Or, the lack thereof. Not a single emotion graced Kiba's features.

It was unnerving, sitting across the table from the two of them. Then again, Anna supposed it was normal to feel that way in the presence of werewolves, no matter how used to them she was. Anna was fairly certain she was either going to throw up or be eaten, and neither option was particularly good.

"Why have you come here, Miss Vacarescu?" Feroz's low voice made Anna's heart shake.

"I… I wanted to talk to you about Gabriel,"she replied, mouth dry.

Feroz quirked a brow.

"Do you intend to leave him,"asked Feroz in a conspiratorial voice.

Anna balked. "No! No, no, never. I love Gabriel more than anything. I want to marry him."

"You have come to ask for our blessing,"Kiba spoke up.

Anna nodded.

Dropping her gaze to the table, Anna fiddled with her bracelet. There was a far away look in her eyes and a smile on her face.

"I love the way he smiles. I love making him laugh, I love his gentleness, I love how he talks about the thing's he's passionate about and how he grumbles when he's grouchy. We don't always agree. There are hills we'll both die on, and sometimes they're not the same hill, but I respect that. I would never dream of trying to change him or tame him. I love him, and he loves me, and I can promise you that fact won't change."

"Never?" Feroz prodded.

"Never," Anna replied. "There's not a single force in this world that could ever hope to try."

Feroz and Kiba glanced at one another. Kiba nodded. Feroz placed his hands on the table, leaning forward, seemingly getting comfortable.

"And if our son ever decided he was unhappy in your marriage? If he ever wanted to separate; what then? Would you still love him?"

"Of course! Even if we were no longer together, I would love him just the same and want him to be happy."

Suddenly, Feroz was smiling. The overhead kitchen light caught his fangs, and Anna felt her breath catch in her throat.

"Good answer."

Blinking, Anna began to stutter some kind of reply. Her heart beat fast in her chest. She was sure she was about to faint. A wide, excited smile graced her lips.

"You mean--"

"You have my blessing to marry Gabriel, yes."

Unable to stop herself, Anna's hands flew to cover her smile, so wide it hurt. She stood from her chair and did a quick lap around it. Every step felt like she was walking on air. At that moment, Anna felt she could take on the world. Hell, she could take on the gods if she wanted to! Nothing was in her way!

Sitting back down in her chair, Anna dipped her head once.

"Thank you!"

When she looked back up, her eyes fell expectantly upon Kiba. There was the slightest hint of a grin tugging at his lips.

"You have my blessing…"

Anna's heart soared.

"On one condition."

Furiously, Anna's stomach turned. The tips of her fingers went cold. That was when Kiba set those near-black eyes on her. Anna's body turned to ice. He pulled something from his pocket. A pack of playing cards, Anna realized. The box was worn, yellowed at the edges, with wrinkles and cracks scattered about. Devilish and wicked, Kiba smirked, waving the pack of cards.

"One game of poker. If you win, you will receive my blessing."

It was an insane wager. The kind where you'd have to be either a fool or a god to even consider accepting, let alone imagine you could win. A cautious woman would have backed down. A cautious woman would have played it safe. A cautious woman would have asked for time to think.

Anna Vacarescu was not a cautious woman.

"Deal."

Her answer was met with a toothy smile.

"Then we begin."

Kiba opened the pack, the flutter of cards and soft bolero music overtaking all sound. In the midst of his shuffling, Kiba beckoned to his husband with his index and middle finger. Feroz leaned down. Anna watched as Kiba whispered something in his ear. Rolling his eyes, Feroz stood, rounding the table and exiting the kitchen. He returned with a small case. Inside were poker chips. Kiba took Feroz's hand and placed a chaste kiss on his knuckles.

Feroz grumbled something in what sounded, to Anna, like Spanish, but didn't retract his hand until Kiba did.

Tapping the cards on the table to neaten up the stack, Kiba placed his blind. Anna followed suit. There was a soft thwap as Kiba dealt the cards, two to Anna and two to himself.

"Do you call, raise, or fold?"

Anna placed several more chips on her blind.

"Hefty start,"commented Kiba. "You must be very confident."

"Not confident. Certain."

The wager was set.

It was a blur of card after card. They lay on the table, fanned out, mocking Anna from her hand. Porcelain stacks grew higher and higher in striped columns of red, green, blue and black. The image of a six of spades and the wood grain of the kitchen table was burned permanently into Anna’s retinas, sure to haunt her in her nightmares for the next decade. Yet she refused to fold. Anna held on to the bitter end, determined to clamp her jaws, bear-like, around victory’s throat.

There was no longer the slap of cards as they hit the table, or a clink as poker chips were stacked or moved. Absolute silence. Nothing. Finality settled in the air like lead. It was done.

The match was over. The winner was called.

Anna had lost.

Kiba raked the chips towards himself, a smile on his face. He counted them silently.

“Another game.”

Raising a brow, Kiba slid his near-black eyes towards Anna.

“What was that?”

“Another game,”Anna said again.

Glinting, the corners of Kiba’s near-black eyes crinkled. He spoke in a low voice.

“No, one game is more than enough, Miss Vacarescu.”

Standing quickly, Anna’s chair scraped backwards with a furious screech, her hands slamming onto the table.

“Another wager, then!” Anna pressed on, refusing defeat. “Anything! A race, a fight, take my blood if you want it! I’ll do a thousand trials to join this family properly.”

“I know,”replied Kiba. “Which is why there only needed to be one wager.”

He finished counting the chips, and took one of the black ones from it’s stack. Kiba then opened the chip case again, and pulled one of a color Anna hadn’t initially seen. It was a bright purplish-pink. She had never seen a chip that color before.

“This poker chip,”he began, holding the black chip between his thumb and index finger, “Is the highest-value chip in a basic poker set. About one-hundred dollars. Did you know that?”

“No,”admitted Anna, drawing out the word with visible confusion.

Where was he going with this?

“Why did you pick these chips, then?”

Tilting her head, Anna’s violet gaze fell on the chip, considering.

“I suppose… I suppose because the black makes me think of Gabriel’s hair.”

Kiba chuckled. If possible, that made Anna more nervous than his previous lack of expression. He then held up the pink chip in his other hand.

“This chip, in comparison, is worth only about two dollars and fifty cents. However, it is much, much rarer than the others. Most new poker sets don’t even include it anymore. It’s used more in black jack, although even then it is also rare. You haven’t seen it before, have you?”

Anna shook her head.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m getting there.”

Kiba placed both chips in front of Anna. With his hands so close, Anna could make out the slightest curve of claws at the very tips of his fingers. With his right pointer finger, Kiba tapped the black chip.

“This chip reminded you of Gabriel, and I can’t say I disagree. My family is the single most important, valuable thing to me, Anna. I would tear my own heart from my chest for them. I am loath to part with them for any reason.”

Pointing to the pink chip, Kiba continued:

“This chip, however, reminds me of you.”

There was a buzzing in Anna’s hands, and she looked up to meet Kiba’s eyes. They were softer now. Finally, Anna was beginning to see the warm brown beneath the hard, nigh-unforgiving charcoal.

“It’s not every day I see someone so willing to go through hell, and I am sure this is hell for you, to prove their devotion. It’s even rarer that it moves me. But you, Anna, like this chip, are rare. Unheard of. You saw odds that were against you from the very start, and even though you did not win, you did not falter or back down. However, even when you lost, you didn’t quit. You were not content to resign to your fate.”

With burning eyes, Anna gently picked up both chips.

“Anna Vacarescu,”Kiba began, “I would be quite happy to have your determination and rarity grace my family. You have my blessing to marry my son.”

Reaching across the table, Anna took Kiba’s hands, and brought them close and placed her forehead on them.

“Thank you,”she said, trying her hardest not to sob. “Thank you.”

Slipping the pink and black chips from her hand, Kiba placed them back in the case with the others.

“May your happiness and love outlive the stars, little one.”

In the day, despite the beaming sun and blue sky, there is always a flicker of the moon in his eyes. If you catch him early enough in the morning, when dawn is fresh and the colors deep, you will find the edges dark, as if still coated in shadow. Canine teeth that are just a little too long. Bared against the sunlight they are white and cold like the furthest stars. The corners of his mouth curve into a smile both gentle and challenging. Great, wide hands with absent claws and calloused fingertips from running in another form.

It will show in the turn of his head. Tracking with his ears first, he is still as the trees, and then slowly his head will follow. Smooth and calculated is the motion. It is rare that he only turns his eyes. It should be no less feared. Whether his head or his eyes alone move, it is still the gaze of a hunter that pins itself to you. Night or day, manshape or beast.

Other times his voice gives him away. Low and lilting. Gabriel’s voice rises from his stomach and spills over those too-sharp teeth like a distant roll of thunder. That voice, which comes from a human-seeming mouth, has sung on countless winds and bayed and barked. It shakes with a roar and a whisper tangled together.

There is wolfskin beneath his flesh. Ever-wild and writhing within his skin and bone and sinew. Not an ounce of tameness lives in him.

Oh, there is gentleness, to be sure. Softness. Kindness and a warmth not unlike that of the sun itself. The great, thrumming heart enthroned in his chest is not cold. Never was, never will be. Gabriel is a man of colossal love and tremendous passion. These things do not a bridled wolf make.

Anna was born human, raised human, and has remained such well into her current year of 56. She does not look like it. Flowing within her is unbridled magic, thick as her blood. Stars race down her veins with every pulse of her heart, faster than it takes to blink. It trickles down her arms to her fingertips. Glimmering, you can only catch it in the corner of your eye. Only the corner. Her hair, a length beginning to rival that of Rapunzel, is an impossibly pure shade of white. It behaves of its own volition, pouring from her scalp in thick waves, like the curtain of a waterfall and shining even when there is no light to catch. Eyes the color of heliotropes that seem eternal in their depth, and it is rare to find someone who can meet them without falling dizzy. At certain angles, they don’t seem to belong to her. Sometimes they look as if she took those deft fingers of hers, plucked them straight from the skull of an archfey and placed them, still bloody, beneath her lashes.

In the buzzing fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor, she ripples, appearing as if she was a reflection taken from the surface of the water and set free upon the land. Even the inhuman staff members cannot believe Anna truly exists.

“She must be a changeling, or some other kind of faerie,”says Joaquin, the vampiric head of the pediatric ward, with unshakable certainty. This is despite the fact that the fair folk have denied several times over that she is theirs. Fearfully, his eyes dart over to the entrance of the cafeteria. “There’s no two ways about it.”

“No, no, no,”replies Kida, shaking her head fervently. Her voice is conspiratory. “She’s a wraith of some kind. That’s why she stays around the hospital, see, to feed on the life of dying patients.”

This is not the first time this conversation has been had about her. It will not be the last. All throughout, they do not say Anna’s name for fear of catching her attention. It does not matter that she is nowhere in the room, or that she isn’t even on shift today. Just as the Mycenaean Greeks called dread Persephone by Despoina and the ancient Greeks called her Kore for fear of invoking her, it is common knowledge to never say Anna’s name, for she will hear and she will know.

(Anna pretends she is not aware of this. After all, what fun is there in shattering the illusion that keeps so many of the rowdy postgraduate residents in line?)

Few are there that are not instinctively wary of Anna. Comfort radiates from her like heat from the hearth fire, but so does power. Magic hangs thick in the air about her. Lead-weighted, its tendrils reach out and out, white-hot and ice-cold, and there is an unspoken understanding of volatility. Within a fraction of a fraction of a second it can swallow all in its path whole with the same effort of striking a match and letting it fall into a puddle of gasoline. This is neither on purpose nor by accident, simply an unconscious operation. Just as the magpie does not force the blue and green iridescence of her feathers or the flesh thinks to rot from bone; they simply do. Her form shimmers and flickers, an inward and outward contradiction. Human and yet overflowing with magic.

One does not throw themself into magic and come out untouched. Every inch is torn apart and remade, stitched together again with chthonic grace and savage edges. Ethereality blossoms in the bones. Such is the creation of a witch.

By all accounts, Joaquin had done it. He'd graduated as valedictorian, found a lifelong career working to help conserve both California redwoods and sequoias (which are not the same tree, thank you very much), and was a comfortable 925 miles from home. And sure, maybe that last one was still a work-in-progress, but to his credit it was all wrapping up nicely.

And then Joaquin got bitten. Not on the job by a rattlesnake or mosquito, or at home by a spider. He was walking home from the bar--he'd insisted he was fine to walk, keys stashed safely in his pocket to pick his car up in the morning--and he was bitten.

Officially? His admittance papers listed it as an unknown canine, possibly a coyote.

But that wasn't what Joaquin had seen. He knows what a coyote looks like. For God's sake, he grew up in Albuquerque--coyotes were about as common as seagulls on the boardwalk! A coyote wouldn't run directly towards someone, snarling so loud Joaquin could feel it in his bones. Coyotes weren't twice his size. They couldn't pin him to the ground with a paw that felt too much like a hand, or leave a bite mark so wide and deep his scapula had chipped.

The paramedics who found him drop by to see how he is. They arrive after his second round of rabies shots. He's tired and sore, but they tell him he's looking good.

"We just wanted to follow up,"says one, an older man with silver-blond hair and crow's feet. "Do you have any idea what bit you?"

Joaquin sits up, wincing at the burning pain in his shoulder and chest, and succinctly says, "It was a werewolf."

Both paramedics blink.

"Werewolf?" Asks the second, who looks to be Joaquin's age.

Joaquin nods. The two look at one another, then to Joaquin, and back again.

"Werewolf,"the younger one repeats. "You're sure about that?"

"Yes, I'm sure! It's not an easy mistake to make. I know what happened to me. It was a werewolf!"

The paramedics look at each other again.

"We haven't had any werewolves in Fresno since the 80's,"the older one says. "Are you really sure? You were pretty drunk."

Joaquin blinks. He had two drinks. He's seen his chart--his BAC was 0.04%. Below the 0.08% legal limit and barely a buzz, but Joaquin refused to chance driving. He was still aware. 'Pretty drunk' as the paramedic had described was 0.17%--which Joaquin was nowhere near.

"Please leave,"Joaquin asks, suddenly so very tired.

When a different nurse strides in to change his IV, she asks what happened.

"It was a werewolf,"he tells the nurse, who doesn't even look up from her clipboard.

"Don't be ridiculous,"she admonishes, clicking her tongue. "Werewolves and most supernatural folk are rare here. It's too hot."

"I live with a vampire,"Joaquin says. "It's not too hot for her."

The nurse lets out a sigh, fixing him with a look that screams 'what do you want me to tell you?'

When the surgeon that had done Joaquin's stitches comes by to check on him, he holds his chart and laughs.

"I'd never seen a dog bite that big!"

"It was a werewolf,"Joaquin says again.

At this, the surgeon tilts his head.

"You sure? Looks more like a pit bull to me. Here, see how the teeth are arranged?"

He holds a photo of Joaquin's injury out to him. With the end of his pen, he gestures to the width of the jaw and marks out the shape, and Joaquin can feel those same teeth tear into him again. It's still the exact same wound. But, somehow, it suddenly looks smaller in the picture.

"So, you see what I mean?" The surgeon asks. "It's an easy mistake, but it was just a dog."

"Then why does it say 'coyote' in my chart?"

From behind wire framed glasses, the surgeon glares at Joaquin. He's still smiling, although it's thinner than before and doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"It does?" Asks the surgeon an a cold, even voice.

"Never mind,"Joaquin finally says. "Just-- When am I getting discharged?"

"End of tonight, thankfully,"the surgeon says, "You'll have to come back next week for continued rabies shots."

He goes to leave just then, but turns on his heel, brows creased in some form of epiphany.

"By the way, have you ever been tested for an anxiety disorder?"

Joaquin had been tested. He didn't have anxiety. He had a dopamine deficiency, inattentive-type ADHD, not anxiety. Even if he was, anxiety can't produce a hallucination powerful enough to see a coyote or a dog as a werewolf.

And yet, Joaquin can't help but wonder, briefly, if his diagnosis was wrong.

When Joaquin goes to fill his prescription, the pharmacist looks at the painkillers and antibiotics. Bushy brows raised high, he reads it over and over again, shocked at the potency of the medication.

"Good lord! What on earth happened to you,"he gapes.

"I got bit,"Joaquin says.

"By what?"

Me, making this blog: Finally! I have a place to put my things! I'm gonna crush it! I'll figure out what to post when it's all done