█ WOLF FUCKER.

                 at first worry strikes roman; wondering who did this. who she had to punish? elegant, long limbs move sharply. well-dressed, prim. immaculate. nearly the exact opposite of the other seated lazily on her couch.  ‘ don’t get blood on the sofa. ’  she says it, but her voice sounds far off. as if it was someone else vocalizing how expensive it was to get blood out of grey fabric. she knew well enough due to incidents in the past. gracefully roman settles to her knees, just between the other’s own. bony digits reaching delicately to grip wounded palm; diamond hues briefly asking permission before leaning forward. wet muscle lavishing each red seared crack. electric kisses fleeing the expanse of roman’s spine. no stranger could battle such a taste; decadent. lost, momentarily her tongue traces every arch, curve, trickle. free palm lightly grasping peter’s thigh; conveying that she’d stop whenever peter wanted.

                       vibrant gaze never removes itself. ‘ who did this? ’

             it’s almost harsh. if she were anyone else, it would be harsh. ( it’s distant—an afterthought, and one that’s brewing something else behind roman’s eyes. there’s a wry quip on her tongue that’s about to tell her that she sounds just like her olivia. but one that she crushes. and for a moment, she’s tempted to press quivering flesh into the grey scape, but she relents. ) free fingers curl at the butt of the cigarette, and she buries the wince which twitches the corners of her lips down into a grimace for a moment, before a weak attempt at prising her hand free from roman’s is made. ( half-hearted. she’s fine either way. )

             LIPS PURSE,  brown eyes settle on his. She could begin to explain how she has reached this conclusion, how she can firmly say he’s a werewolf, why she believes they exist && that is not only a childish dream of her to encounter something unnatural. But, again, she’s exhausted of expllaining, of telling people how she has come to love reading about them, how she has come to believe they exist, vampires, werewolves, creatures of the night, that could kill you if you represent a threat. Or if they are hungry.              A HUF  leaves her lips, && she looks at the window. At some point, she will have to call her parents && tell them where she is. && why she left them a note. But she makes no move to leave, instead, she just softly smacks his arm.  ❝  No need for you to be sarcastic, thank you. Besides, werewolves don’t always howl.  ❞  Sometimes, it even scares her how much she knows about these things, as interesting as they are. 

             LIPS PART,  && she’s close to kick him in the shin for refering to twilight as her source of knowledge. But a smirk appears on her lips && her thigh hooks at his hip.  ❝  My dreams are not exactly about you, or being ravaged by you. Now that you mention it, i’m going to think about it. But please, tell me about your fantasies, i would love to hear about them.  ❞

                 ‘ you know you sound ridiculous, right? go on then. tell me why i’m a werewolf and i’ll tell you why i’m not. starting with the fact that they don’t exist. ’ it’s an adamant statement which brushes over pursed lips as he glances down at her. ( it’s unnerving how many people believe in shapeshifters; he’d never seen anything like this before now. rumours had snowballed into something that people deemed truth. it wasn’t carelessness which shifted attention onto him—just sarcasm-laced truths that ended up in the hands of a fourteen year old. )

‘ you don’t have to tell me anything about your dreams. you just seem so set on me being some sorta werewolf that i think you’ve been thinkin’ about me. ’   with a quick i think you’ve watched twilight too many times quip, he’s often able to put rumours like that to bed. but this is different. margaery is studious. she researches. he can count the amount of people who know about him with three fingers. he doesn’t want to add a fourth. he can’t afford to add a fourth.

                      ❛ so you’re sayin’ we’ve got FUCK all ?! ❜

                  knuckles are grazed. there’s the slightest trickle of red crowning the cracks down the backs of her hands, which she brushes the pad of her thumb over and smudges. it stings and throbs at the same time, underlying an ache which is shrugged off with the flick of a lighter, and the pursing of a cigarette between her lips.

                         there’s an acceptance of his offering,         soon flame  sparks    (  an orange  &&  yellow flower blooming in time-lapse  )         &&  her cigarette is burning.         she inhales nice  &&  long,           WAITING  until her lungs are filled with smoke to give him an answer,           so that when it comes,          it comes with a plume of grey escaping between a row of grinning,       slightly chipped white teeth.

                                                                 ‘ when i got something that needs  LIT.  ‘ 

               ‘ you need that often? ’ there’s a grin and he gives her a quick once-over. ( she’s tall. strange-looking. not bad, but not like anything he’s ever seen before. she looks jagged—ripped jeans, dark leather, suited-and-booted. she looks like she could put him on his ass and still have time to finish her cigarette. he’s not sure how to feel about that. )

@vargulfic liked this post for a starter

Margaery felt a bit lost. She was in a new place once again thanks to her father’s job.

The Pennsylvania Steel Town her father had moved was small. Too small. She felt stifled here in this place. Like they could and would trap here.

She happens to take what she had been told by the other kids was a short cut home. Just through these woods. It would be picturesque and lovely if she didn’t get such a bad feeling in her stomach.

She slipped down a hillside scraping her hands in the process. Lifting them to her chest, she heard a crack behind her. Turning, the girl looked around.

“Who’s there?”

           maybe he can’t help himself. maybe it’s the wry grin that stretches across his face and hands tucked into his jacket. he’s following her—quietly, slowly, sticking to her shadow on his way home. ( he’s not far from the trailer now—it peaks through the trees and still sits just on the outskirts of town. )

                    ‘ the big bad wolf. ’   he’s grinning for another moment—a challenging one, and one that reeks of self-assured, twisted charm. but then he falters—topical joke. he raises a hand and laughs.

( @vargulfic яєqυєѕтє∂ α ѕтαятєя ❞ ▬ ησт αccєρтιηg.

             SHE ROLLS  her eyes, eyebrows raise && eyes meet his. On one hand, she’s dissapointed he doesn’t give her the benefit of the doubt, on the other hand, she just wants to prove him wrong, to make him tell her the truth. She needs proves, && she only heard rumours, from people other considered crazy that werewolves && vampires && other supernatural things are not real. Perhaps it’s only out of curiosity, perhaps she’s as far from the truth as possible, perhaps,as everybody told her many times, it’s only a childish thing to believe such things are real. But she’s not going to him him the satisfaction of giving up, she knows she’s right.

             A SIGH  comes from her lips, as she sits against the headboard.  ❝  I’m not been ridiculous.  ❞    It sounds as a joke, but he has the features the books described as someone who had the werewolf dna. && casually, they were never together when the full moon appeared. Perhaps she should have to check in a few days.  ❝  && how do you know there’s not someone out there who could be a werewolf ??  ❞  A smirk appears on her lips, && she plays with his hair to keep his attention.

                    he hasn’t been to many places who actually believe in werewolves. they’re not real. i’m not a werewolf. but there’s genuine surprise when people suggest it. ( are you a werewolf? your index and middle finger are the same length. that makes you a werewolf. ) --- he wouldn’t have thought that had any bearing as to whether he sheds skin, eyes and teeth, and breaks near enough every bone in his body in the span of one night.

                                      ‘ listen to yourself. sure, i am. howling at the moon and running around through the night. that’s it. that’s what i do. big secret revealed.’   it’s wry. sarcastic. coupled with the rolling of his eyes and glancing back up at his company. laugh it off. make her realise how stupid she sounds. that’s his plan. ( but the last time he did that, rumours spawned links to animal attacks and his involvement. it’s possibly not the best strategy, but oh well. )

@vargulfic;

                                       cigarette dangles unlit from between her lips  –  DISTRACTION  caught in her steely gaze  &&  lighter  FROZEN  in her palm.       the dirty,     tattered jeans look good hugging the lines of his hips  –  &&  she could say the same about his HAIR  hanging disheveled  &&  lank around a rather  FINE  bone structure  (  though that was hidden beneath a layer of stubble perhaps three days old  ).      he looked a mess  –  he looked like  FUN.

                                                                                     quick as a flash,       the lighter is stowed in her pocket  &&  long legs have carried her directly in front of the stranger,       cigarette still  PERCHED  precariously between crookedly grinning lips.     ‘  you got a light for me ??? ‘

                            he hasn’t slept much recently. there’s still a stiff ache that thrums through his bones with each movement—the full moon takes it out of him, and leaves him curled up on his couch with a well-deserved nap. ( but he’s got work to do now. ) so he lurched and yanked himself out of slumber and threw on whatever creased and crinkled he’d found on the floor.

                                                  he’s taken by surprise—huh? before a hand fishes out a lighter from his pocket. people don’t talk to him much. ( they tend to stay away from his kind. with werewolf rumours, and the gradual die-down of fucking manhunts after him, and being one of the only two romani in town—the xenophobics kept to themselves. that’s fine. )

                    ‘ that’s what i thought. ’

       it’s spoken with no small dose of irony – more wry than bitter in its        execution. at first glance ( only at first glance ; arya doesn’t know        enough about him to gauge anything else ), she almost thinks she        could like him and his cheeky grin, and it’s irritating. not knowing        what he wants from her – irritating, too. still, cautiously, the knotting        bristle of her fist uncurls ; the feeling of a beast backed into a corner        ebbing, slowly, but her eyes still flick with barely disguised wariness        to the offered cigarette and back up. why are you doing this? what        do you want?

       she spends a few seconds more in consideration before accepting.        it’s just a cigarette. she can leave whenever she wants – and she’s        killed men bigger than him before, when she’s had to – if he tries        anything she doesn’t like or doesn’t want. the roll of paper and        tobacco is held in one hand, the other striking a match into life        against the inner curve of her teeth ( an old trick, learned from        some other delinquent a few years older than she’d been then,        and a dangerous one, but matches are cheaper than lighters )        and touching it to the end of the cigarette before passing it, still        lit, across the way. take it before it goes out or don’t, i don’t care.        it’s a sort of truce, though. quid pro quo.

       what’s your name. arya horseface. arya underfoot. arry.        lumpyhead. rabbitkiller. weasel. nan. squab. wolf bitch.        cunt. arya blinks, shrugs, exhales a cloud.

                    ‘ arya. ’ doesn’t quite know why she tells the truth, but                         there isn’t any backtracking once it’s out. ‘ what’s yours? ’

                                    ‘ you say that to every handsome guy who says hello? ’

                               he’s laughing now—let’s smooth over that bump… it’s an awkward laugh. one which curls a hand into the scruff at his throat and scratches idly. ( he’s unashamed, normally—but a part of him is still whispering that it really wouldn’t take much for her knee to land in his crotch, and he’d really prefer to not sit and ice his balls for the next hour or so. ) so he backs off on that front. some people like the trademark rumancek charm—others… well. others, not so much. but he’s gauged her. from what he’s seen, if he posed such a big threat, there’d be more thrown his way than a wry quip. plus—he knows she knows what he knows. you know i’m a wolf. you are too.

           ‘ peter. ’   he even offers her his hand. outstretched, formal—a stiff hand to shake, spit at, or whatever the hell she wants to do with it. you’re not like anyone else in hemlock grove. but that sits behind his teeth. a part of him’s impressed by her little trick—match on the curve of your teeth. nicely done. he takes the cigarette. touches it to his lips.

                                                                   ‘ yeah? ’

                  there’s a smile tugging at his lips, and a hand smoothing across hischest with the slight cock of his head. they’re piercing, changeling eyes; blueand startling, yellow and harrowing. they’re ripped from his skull every fullmoon and ingested, lens and all—so maybe that’s what’s amusing to him. but hekeeps that silent—tucked beneath his rib and away from any conversation.

                                ‘ well—thanklynda for that. rumanceks have pretty eyes. ’   an even bigger smile now.he’s not exactly used to free compliments. gypsy.wolf fucker. mutt. dog. fag—the people of hemlock grove aren’t the mostforgiving ( and aren’t the mostcorrect, either. ) but he’ll takeit, this time, with a slight lilt in his voice which suggests i know.

                ‘ yeah. me too. ’ each vocalization is clipped, he has no patience. he’s hungry. palms twitch; gripping marble counter top with an intense grip. ‘ tell me about yours– just in case they were different.’ an ugliness bites at his bones, he’s forced to swallow it down. roman doesn’t want peter to see that terrible monster boy– he’d leave again. or worse.

         the young godfrey tries to steady his tone, to be soft where he typically is sharp.                                              ‘ sorry– i didn’t sleep well. ’

        you look it. not his place to say, but something that almost curls off the tip of his tongue anyway. ( something that opens his mouth and peter has to physically restrain himself. ) they’re still on fragile ground—friendship reformed or not. he nods. takes a breath. awkwardly pulls his hands into his pockets. ( he hasn’t really had time to look around roman’s new place—only knows he feels out of place. but even now, he stands in the kitchen and doesn’t know where to be. )

                                                                               vargulfic​

     she had chosen this new nest too fucking close to the city, and had already had to fend off ONE trespasser. and, god, now there was another one! why. why did bad things happen to her? she was just trying to settle. moving was hard, especially for a shapeshifter. they built such intricate, safe little homes ( only to have them destroyed by the hunters. but avery was the only shapeshifter she knew, and so in her mind, the hunters were only after her. this nest should be safe, for a while ).

     avery was perched in a tree, not TOO high up, one leg curled up against her chest and the other hanging down – swinging. what kind of boy goes wandering around in the dead of the night? ( him, apparently ). he’d just encroached on some dangerous territory.

     ❛ you shouldn’t be here. ❜

                                                  he’s looking for something. possibly. if anyone asks, this is just a midnight stroll. he’s not too far out, and with boots scuffing over snapped twigs and humus, there’s soil trapped in the tread of his shoe. one hand’s curled into his jacket pocket, the other armed with taut knuckles wrapped around a flashlight.

                   and it makes him jump at first—makes his heart throb in his throat and makes a hasty, terrified step back away from the tree within a split second. ( he calms himself—a vargulf wouldn’t stop to say hello. ) so a hesitant hand crooks the flashlight up the trunk of the tree, with mind not to blind his company, only to get a good look at them, before dropping its glare once more.