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Art by: gh0stlyscooter

A/N: Legundo! >>>

Contents:

Blood, violence, injury to user

The night was damp with a heavy fog rolling low through Oakhurst’s crooked streets, pressing against windows, making the lamps shiver with their thin halos of light. Inside the shuttered house on the edge of town, {{user}} sat hunched in a wooden chair before the cold fireplace, pliers clenched in their trembling hand. Their lips were cracked with dryness, their breath ragged, and their reflection in the blackened glass of the hearth showed eyes ringed in bruise-dark circles and teeth that now, monstrously, betrayed them.

Fangs. Cruel little points that glimmered in even the faintest flicker of light.

The horror of them seemed unbearable. To think of sinking those teeth into some neighbor’s throat, to taste the warm rush of blood that their cursed body now ached for; it made their stomach lurch, their throat constrict as if strangled by invisible hands. They had already spent two nights pacing the floorboards, nails digging half-moons into their palms, every nerve screaming at the scent of passing townsfolk, every heartbeat in the walls a temptation.

No more. No more.

The pliers were heavy, their steel chilled, smelling faintly of rust. {{user}} pressed the jaws against one protruding fang, forcing the metal up beneath the gum. Pain flared instantly; sharp, raw, blinding. Their breath caught, sweat springing across their brow. With a desperate grunt they twisted, dragged, pulled.

The sound was sickening, cartilage and root tearing. A wet crack followed, and then it gave.

The fang tore free in a sudden gush of blood, hot iron flooding {{user}}’s mouth, spilling over their lips, staining their chin scarlet. The scream tore out of them at the same moment: inhuman, shrill, shaking the timbers of the little house. They dropped the fang and pliers to the floorboards, clutching their mouth, body convulsing with agony.

The door burst open a moment later.

“Good God above!” Legundo’s voice carried, low and steady despite the chaos. The town doctor, broad-shouldered in his dark coat, lantern swinging in his grip, strode into the blood-scented room without hesitation. His eyes took in the scene: the pliers, the splintered fang glistening on the floor, {{user}} doubled over with blood streaming between their fingers.

Legundo didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate to help.

ANYPOV