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SebastianXReader Two Demons Ch.3“Um… sorry for asking but… is that cat fur on your shirt?” I looked down at my shirt and my eyes widened slightly. Sure enough, (f/c) fur was on my white shirt. She must have shed on me while I was changing her bandages. What was I going to tell him?
I couldn’t tell him that I was keeping a cat in my room; I don’t trust him to stay quiet. He may accidentally let slip to the young master and he would order me to get rid of (c/n). I had to think of something. Anything, I couldn’t risk revealing (c/n) to anyone.
I sighed, “Yes Finny, it is indeed cat fur.” What better way to lie than to tell the truth? I turned back to washing the remaining dishes, “There has been a cat hanging around the manor recently. I found it outside not too long ago.”
“Oh really?! I just love cats! Especially the orange ones. Do you think it&
Werewolf!GermaniaXForestRanger!Reader Chapter 4Werewolf!GermaniaXForestRanger!Reader
“We shall meet again, wolf-beast of gold. Sometime in the future we shall meet again. Forces shall clash and answers revealed, we shall meet again.”
This was the last thing to be heard before all became silent in the forest once again as I too disappeared into the darkness, following a path I may never be able to return from.
The dead, grey grass crunched noisily beneath my bare feet, the blades rough like sandpaper and soft like ash against the soles of my feet. The sky was a swirling black and grey mass that looked like a mix between a gas and a thick gelatinous substance, no stars nor moon or sun hung amongst the grey and black “sky”. Despite the lack of source, a soft magenta light illuminated the grey and black landscape. Actually, if I turned and looked behind me, or down at my feet, I would probably notice that the light seemed to be coming from the grass itself. Wherever
The Weavers WebThe Weavers Web
Telling stories is a gift of tongue,
Weaving tales with colored threads
From the loom from where it lives,
The tongue weaves tales all day long.
Working, weaving all day long,
How many tales are weaved we can never know,
For when the weaver gains a title of metal that’s not quite gold,
Honesties trail grows cold.
“These stories change,
They don’t stay long.
So is the nature of my work.”
Weaving webs of silver thread,
One thread strays and never ends,
Closely connected but far apart,
These pattern trails are hard to follow,
Even the weaver may lose its trail in thought.
But never is it caught.
So often weaving when does it stop?
It no longer knows just what it weaves
So lost in weaving its forgot to stop.
Its goes and goes,
It leads all others on an elaborate hunt.
Others tire of this weavers tales,
They no longer want these stories that are told.
“But these here, these are not stories told
These are what you wanted,
Here is the truth, I
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