Goldie- Bite Marks & Apple Cores

The sun sinks lazily over the pasture, painting the grass in warm amber light as you settle onto the old wooden bench in the farmhouse, out of the sun. Right outside, the flock grazes peacefully, some nibbling at clover, others snoozing in little woolly piles, their gentle breathing a quiet rhythm beneath the chirping crickets.

And then there’s Goldie.

Your little lamb boy, your favorite, is perched cross-legged on a blanket on the wooden floor beside you, his fluffy white hair tousled by the breeze as his knitting needles clack-clack-clack with questionable skill.

"It’s almost done!" he declares, holding up the disastrously lopsided scarf he’s been working on for weeks. One end is somehow twice as wide as the other, and there’s a suspicious hole near the middle where he definitely dropped a stitch. But he beams at you like it’s spun from gold and you find yourself smiling without realizing.

"You’ll… wear it, right?" he asks, voice small, fingers nervously tracing the uneven stitching.

You take it gently, draping it around your neck with exaggerated ceremony. "Obviously. It’s revoltingly ugly," you say, grinning when he gasps. "Exactly how I like my scarves."

Goldie laughs, high and bright. Later, as the moon is higher and you walk the perimeter of the field, checking for weak spots in the fence line, you catch movement out of the corner of your eye.

Goldie is sneaking, or at least trying to, tiptoeing toward your abandoned lunch sack with a bright red apple clutched in his hands. His ears twitch as he glances around, oblivious to the fact that sheep are terrible at stealth. Especially him.

Everyone is watching and Old Missus Woolcott, the eldest ewe in the flock, pretends to be deeply invested in chewing her cud as Goldie stuffs the apple into his handknit bag with all the subtlety of a fireworks display.

"Ahem," you say, suddenly behind him.

Goldie squeaks, whirls around, then wilts under your raised eyebrow. "...It might have fallen in there? It was magic.."

You pick up the apple and take an large bite, ruffling his hair as you hand him the rest. He giggles.

As you finally settle into the barn for the night to read your book, surrounded by your loving flock, Goldie drapes himself across your lap like a contented cat, his head resting against your chest as you stroke his curls.

"Will you teach me more tomorrow?" he murmurs, barely awake. "The… the spinning wool thing? And maybe the star names again?"

You hum, low and soft, curling the scarf (your hideous, perfect scarf) around him like a shield against the coming chill. "Yeah, lamb. Whatever you want."

Somewhere beyond the fence, the wilderness waits, preachers and butchers and hungrier things, but for now, the barn is quiet.

---

The older ewes wear their marks with quiet dignity. Neat, faded punctures along the curve of their necks, just under the fluffy curls. Missus Woolcott's is the oldest, nearly hidden by her thick fleece. Daisy still flaunts hers like a badge of honor, tilting her head proudly whenever the lambs stare.

It had started simple: a sip for shelter. A bite for safety. Now, it's something deeper.

Every evening, one steps forward, sometimes volunteering, sometimes nudged gently by the others. You never take much, just enough to remind your fangs what home tastes like. Tonight, it's Juniper, the stout merino with the perpetually sleepy eyes. She butts your hand impatiently until you sigh and sink in, her wool muffling your face as she leans into it with a contented baa. The lambs watch, wide-eyed, as you wipe your mouth and press a kiss to the mark, just like you always do.

Goldie tugs your sleeve. "When do I get mine?" he whispers, too loud.

The flock erupts into laughter. "When you stop tripping over your own hooves!" teases Daisy.

You ruffle his curls. "When you're ready," you lie, because you'll never mark him. Some hungers aren't meant for lambs. He pouts. You toss an apple to him and he catches it, smiling shyly as you lie back, holding Juniper in your arms as she settles into the hay.

---

The night air smells like dry grass and distant storms when the werewolf preacher steps onto your land.

You smell him before you see him, wet fur and copper, the tang of anger and violence clinging to his threadbare cassock. The sheep shift nervously behind you, their soft wool brushing your legs as they huddle close. Most vampires keep humans for blood. You keep sheep, gentle demi-folk with round eyes and softer throats, who hum lullabies to each other at dusk.

"Y-You should take me tonight," stammers Goldie, again, clutching the hem of your sleeve. His fluffy white hair catches the moonlight like dandelion fluff, his big eyes too earnest for his own good. *"I-I’m old enough now. And the older ewes say the butcher’s wagon comes for slow lambs first, *"

You cup his face, thumb brushing his cheek. His pulse flutters under your cold fingers, so warm. "Hush," you murmur. "My flock doesn’t feed wolves."

The preacher howls at the fence line, rattling the posts with each step. "Abomination!" he snarls, spit flying from his muzzle. "Shepherds who drink their flock are cursed!"

You sigh, roll up your sleeves. Goldie tugs at your arm. "P-Please! I want to help!"

You turn, grip his chin, and make him meet your gaze. "Listen here," you say, voice like the edge of a blade. "You are precious to me. Not food. All of you are."

Your fangs gleam under the moonlight as you step forward, but not toward the preacher. Toward the fence.

The werewolf tenses, hackles rising as you grip one of the wooden posts. With a single yank, you pull it free from the earth, splintering it like kindling in your hands.

"This is my land," you say, voice dropping into something inhuman, something that vibrates through the soil itself. The flock quiets behind you, even Goldie going still. "My flock. My rules."

The preacher lunges, claws first, and you let him.

You sidestep at the last second, letting his momentum carry him past you, then swing the splintered fence post like a bat. Wood cracks against ribs with a sickening thud. He goes down hard, snarling, blood spraying dark across the grass. The scent hits you like a punch, hot iron and wild musk, rich and tempting. Your fangs ache.

The preacher rolls onto his back, panting. His cassock's torn open, revealing the jagged wound in his side, the way his fur matts red as he moves. His yellow eyes flicker with something older than fear. "F-finish it, bloodsucker," he rasps.

Your grip tightens on the post. You could. One more strike. No more sermons. No more threats to your flock. And the blood, god, the blood,

A small hand clutches your sleeve.

"Shepherd."

You whirl around. Goldie stands there, eyes wide, lower lip trembling. Behind him, the flock huddles together, lambs pressed to ewes, breaths coming too fast. Scared.

You exhale, long and slow, then toss the post aside. It lands with a dull thud near the preacher's head. "Leave," you say, voice rough. "Now."

The preacher doesn't need telling twice. He scrambles up, clutching his side, blood dripping between his fingers as he staggers toward the tree line. Halfway there, he glances back, not at you, but at Goldie. A flicker of something unreadable passes over his face before he vanishes into the dark.

Your hands shake. The hunger burns. Then Goldie presses his face against your side, his little arms wrapping around you as tight as he can manage. "...You didn't," he whispers. "Even though he was mean. You didn't."

You kneel, pulling him close, burying your face in his stupid, soft hair until the scent of sun-warmed wool drowns out the blood.