I have a serious writer's block… I hope this helps me out…

AU: Musician Kozmotis Pitchiner always takes a shortcut to get home from work. One night, he bumps into someone that he would have been better off not bumping in to. werewolf!Bunnymund, human!Pitch

Warnings: creepy stalkerness, one-sided slash pairing of Bunnymund/Pitch, crappiness


Saturday evenings were a double-edged sword, and he was forced to walk among the blade barefooted.

Treble Clef was a famous, fancy restaurant and wine bar at the corner of Main Street in Downtown Burgess. The food and wine was top notch, with every entrée looking and tasting like it came all the way from the finest restaurants in France and the wine shipped from only the finest wineries in the world. Every weekend, from five in the evening until ten, a singer or musician would always perform and entertain the connoisseurs and business people as they dined and drank their fill. Kozmotis Pitchiner was a music instructor at the local community college and retired from some orchestra he used to play with back in Spain. Unlike most musicians that would perform at Treble Clef, Pitchiner was a regular. Every Saturday, at precisely 5:05, the raven-haired man would pull out his violin from its case and play a melody for the people, filling the usually-busy atmosphere with the sweetest melodies the strings would cry and giving the place a more peaceful ambiance. It was rumored that the only reason there was a bigger crowd on Saturdays were because of him, but Kozmotis was a humble man and credited the popularity of the restaurant on the day of the week and the wonderful food and drink. He always stopped playing at ten, collected his earnings for the night, and would put away his instrument before leaving the restaurant. Sometimes he would talk to the manager and pastry chef of the establishment if he wasn't busy, but more often than not the man left the place quietly to go home.

Pitchiner lived in the nice apartments of downtown, about a couple blocks away from the restaurant itself. Unfortunately, the usual street he took to get to Treble Clef was always packed with drunk or obnoxious people leaving the bars and ritzier clubs and cars from ten until about eleven-thirty, and he disliked large crowds and impatient drivers. Instead he took a shortcut that was only a block and a half away from his home, and took less time to get there since the street was usually empty. The only downside was that it was a seedier part of town with a large nightclub in the middle and a corner store at the end that has seen better days. Other shops were around the area, but they were only opened during the day. Sanderson Mansnoozie, the pastry chef of Treble Clef, would always scold him about taking that street to get home, seeing as the police had found a few dead bodies in an alley a few years ago. Accounts said the victims looked like they had been savagely mangled by a large dog, but no leads had ever been found. Pitchiner, however always waved it off, saying that he'd walked that street for a couple years now and the worst he had to deal with were a couple of drunks from the nightclub asking him for the time and a couple of women trying to sell certain services. He would be fine, or so he hoped…

Pitchiner sighed in exhaustion as he walked out of Treble Clef's warm, welcoming atmosphere and into the cold, windy February night. He shivered and tied his mustard-yellow scarf around his neck before walking down the sidewalk and turning the corner. The major shift in scenery from Main Street to Monkshood Drive was very apparent. Main Street was well-lit and free of graffiti, with the street-lamps showering everything in a golden glow. The buildings, though some still had a classic look, were well-kept and always bustling with people and a few security guards. Monkshood Drive was the total opposite; the brick walls where old shops had closed down were laden with graffiti, like weeds overtaking an abandoned garden. Only three streetlights functioned well, the other five either didn't work, or would flicker randomly. The main sources of light on the street were the lights bleeding through the shops' windows or the large, red neon sign from the large nightclub in the middle. It was called The Poisoned Apple, with music loud enough to be heard from outside. There were always two bouncers at the closed, wooden doors, but there was never a line to go in and he had never seen someone step out. Kozmotis never paid them any mind, and the two large men did nothing to him other than steal a small glance. Tonight, however, was different. As Kozmotis started to pass by the first alleyway between a tailor shop and the nightclub, his shoulder caught someone's arm. He stopped abruptly, swinging his violin case behind him so as not to hit the other person with it.

"Oh, I'm very sorry; I didn't mean to hit you." He apologized as he looked up at the man he bumped in to. He was a good head taller than him, with tanned, muscled skin and short, black hair with thick sideburns. He had a small beard on his chin, and his well-defined arms were covered in tribal tattoos. He wore faded jeans and a white, sleeveless shirt, but the only thing Kozmotis paid close attention to was the man's vibrant green eyes. Not waiting for a reply, Kozmotis excused himself and resumed his walk to his apartment. If the violinist had looked back, he would've noticed the man sniff the air he was once occupying, or the way his eyes had a reflective quality like a dog's when he stepped out of where he was and a car headlight hit his face. He would've heard the deep, sensuous rumble escape the man's throat or seen the way his lips curled into a dark smirk wide enough to show his sharp, elongated canines. Instead, Pitchiner continued on his way, too tired and eager to get home to notice he was being followed by the strange man. He made his way up to the second floor and into his apartment, unaware of the man staring at him from across the street. Walking into his home, Kozmotis pulled off his scarf and sweater and threw them onto the couch before making his way into his room. He placed his case down on the vanity with his sheet music before making his way to his drawers. As he pulled out his nightwear, he didn't hear or notice a figure land on his darkened balcony, or feel a set of eyes trail up and down his body as he pulled off his dress shirt and slacks and slipped into some lounge pants and a sleeveless shirt. After finishing his nightly routine, Pitchiner went to bed and fell asleep oblivious to the stalker he had just earned.

Werewolves chose their mates by their scent; they had to secrete a certain combination of pheromones. To Aster, resident alpha werewolf, Pitchiner's pheromones smelled like honey, sunshine, and a warm summer day.