#like.. a fragile doll and a rough werewolf

[jojocure]

@oumasaiweek day 4!! i was busy on another blog since today it’s ouma’s birthday bUT here’s my post for today, prompt was his birthday of course! these kids are cute

[theirtears]

SKYLAR (STELLA) FORTIER  is a 85 year old PANSEXUAL, CIS FEMALE, SHE/HER here in Upper America. People say they look a lot like MARGOT ROBBIE. They are DAUNTLESS but can be STUBBORN. They are a TRUE WEREWOLF. They belong to the FORTIER FAMILY. They do not belong to one of the COUNCIL FAMILIES in the city living in The Underbank and work as a PERSONAL TRAINER.

BASICS;

NAME: Skylar Fortier WOLF NAME: Stella (meaning “star”) ALIASES: Sky AGE: 85 SPECIES: True Werewolf FAMILY: Effy Fortier (Mother) OCCUPATION: Personal trainer (mostly for hand-to-hand combat)

PREFERENCES;

ORIENTATION: Pansexual D/S/S: Switch, but mostly dominant LIKES: Rough sex, biting, scratching, choking, hair pulling, knife play, rope play, orgasm denial & control, humiliation DISLIKES: She’d try just about anything with the exception of urine and scat

PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES;

HAIR: Ash blonde EYES: Blue HEIGHT: 5'4 GENDER: Cis female WOLF FORM: White fur with small spots of dark grey and glowing golden eyes

ABOUT;

Skylar was the result of, well, a one-night stand of some sorts. It wasn’t necessarily out of love or something that ever truly bothered her too much thinking about, but she certainly is grateful to have resulted out of it.

Having been raised by a warrior wolf like her mother, she grew up to be a big tomboy. Playing tea and house? Playing with dolls? It all seemed too boring and practical to her, and so she would often look towards more physical things, whether it be playing some type of sport or even roughhousing with other wolves.

She never cared about her size or how fragile she may have looked. If anything, she would get all the more riled up when others underestimated her. Proving everybody wrong was what fueled her. She wanted to make a name for herself the same way her mother had.

With the help of her mother, she accomplished many things, and this included becoming the person who she is today: strong, steadfast, dauntless, and ready to take on whomever may come in her way.

She might come off as intimidating to some, but she’s actually quite the opposite. She’s kind, protective, charismatic, optimistic and enjoys bringing out the best in others. Well, most people. Having been raised the way she was, she has a natural hatred for vampires and is quite stubborn in changing her views on them.

Just as light shines in the darkness, stars are often considered a symbol of truth, spirit and hope. Hence, he name “Stella” was given to her as her wolf name, meaning “star.”

Skylar has never gotten an official mate due to her fear of commitment. She’s not so much afraid of being in a relationship, but rather getting hurt one more time while being in a relationship. She knows she wants pups one day, but she’s afraid of what motherhood might bring to her, thinking that she perhaps won’t be a great mother. Each time she’s asked about it, she claims motherhood isn’t for her, simply because she doesn’t want to admit to her fear.

Most of her flings are just that, a one-time thing. Though she has kept a few around for when she does feel extra needy. Currently she’s trying to focus on bettering herself and her flaws to perhaps one day become ready to settle down and start a family.

[ilosttrackofthings]

hungry love (1/1)

A birthday gift for my favoritest Mir in the whole wide world, @safelycapricious. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Jemma wakes in pain. This isn’t the foggy headache caused by an ICER round; it’s sharper, more localized to the base of her skull. It’s a struggle to lift her arm, seems to set her completely off balance even though she’s lying on a bed, but when she brushes her fingers against the source of the pain, stars erupt in her vision. The pained whine and its uncertain origins escapes her notice completely as something large and warm and animal immediately crowds close to her.

With that, the whole terrifying ordeal comes back. The power was interrupted by a Trojan horse Hydra sent them in the form of a supposed 0-8-4. Vault D’s secondary defenses were compromised and perhaps that would have been fine if the full moon hadn’t just risen.

His eyes are the same brown they always have been. That inane thought—more than the ice pick pain in her skull—is proof she must have a concussion. Thanks to him, naturally. He came at her while she was struggling to contain Hydra’s weapon in the lab. She expected, when he came hurtling at her, to die a rather gruesome death and end as his next meal, not to wake up in what appears to be Vault D—whyever would he come back here?

Maybe he considers it his nest? Maybe he’s brought her here like a squirrel storing nuts for the winter? She’s afraid she never studied werewolf psychology as she ought, but on the Bus she trusted Ward’s judgment and she never cared to bother afterward.

He snuffs at her, his fangs coming uncomfortably close to her face, moving around to examine the knot at the back of her head.

“Don’t-” she says, for a brief moment expecting a werewolf to do as she asks.

He whines, more lowly than the one she heard earlier.

“Simmons?”

And he’s off her. So quickly it makes her head spin. His forepaws slam against the opposite wall, so close to the camera mounted there that Jemma doesn’t doubt he could reach it if he were intent on more than intimidation. He follows it up by racing up the stairs in two quick strides, hitting the door so hard with his shoulder that the hinges groan. After that he leaps to the floor, as light on his feet as a deer, and circles the empty space left by the barrier’s absence.

Jemma has never been so aware of her own fragile humanity as she is in this moment. He’s a wild thing, a creature capable of ending her life with a single snap of his jaws. The most careless of movements from him could break her like a china doll.

So it’s really no surprise, given how the voice angers him, that she flinches when it returns, crackling over the vault’s loud speakers.

“If you’re okay in there—other than the werewolf prowling around—turn your head to the left.” It’s Skye’s voice, Jemma realizes now she has more of it to go off of. She trusts Skye. Skye will never ask her to do anything that would cause her harm.

And yet, it is a supreme effort to turn her head to one side, taking her focus, however fractionally, off of the monster in the room. He’s growling and snapping at the air, angry at Skye for invading his territory in this intangible way. Jemma wonders what he must think of her.

“We can’t get the barrier up yet,” Skye says. “And ICERs don’t work on werewolves anyway so…”

Due to their transitive state, it’s nearly impossible to knock a werewolf unconscious unless you can somehow manage to get a steady supply of sedative into their system. There are always silver bullets of course, but Jemma imagines her team is disinclined to open the—very loud and slow-moving—door to shoot wildly into a room she currently occupies. She’s afraid then that she can guess the unspoken end to Skye’s statement and sadly proven correct when the crackling worsens and May’s voice takes over. This, Jemma can hardly hear at all as Ward begins howling over it after only the first two words, but she hears enough. “We’re looking at our best bet for getting you out being waiting until sunrise.”

Sunrise, when Ward transforms back into a man and is a manageable threat. Jemma studies the wolf, wondering if she’s lucky enough to have slept through the better part of the night. It was barely an hour after sunset when the 0-8-4 was activated and they’re well into autumn now. Can she survive whatever measure remains?

With the return of silence, Ward’s attention is back on her, his eerily human eyes piercing. He’s beautiful. She’s always thought so, whether he was a man or a wolf. But here and now that beauty is almost unseemly. All that destructive power and animal instinct wrapped in grace and strength.  She can’t help it that she begins to shake.

His dark coat shimmers under the lights as he turns, padding closer. It takes all her self-control to settle her weight more deeply into the bed; perhaps if she feigns sleep, he’ll-

She eeps when the weight of a giant paw on the mattress threatens to send her spilling into him. And then she lets out a gasp when he bounds up, one fluid motion taking him from the floor to the bed.

He looms over her and her eyes are caught on those teeth. They draw closer and she hears the whine again, realizes it’s her own voice, then that massive jaw is nosing her head to one side and she feels his wet breath on her hair and he’s- oh. He’s licking the wound.

If he were anyone else, if he hadn’t caused it, she might think that slightly adorable. This great beast so concerned with her hurts when by all rights he should be eating her. As it is, she still laughs. Gulping, watery laughter that’s just edging on hysteria when a snap of Ward’s jaws, suddenly inches from her face, shocks her into silence.

She holds herself perfectly still, not daring to move a single muscle. Once he seems satisfied she won’t be starting up again, Ward huffs and folds himself down atop her. He’s not as heavy as she would have thought; he must be mostly fur. He’s warm too. If she closes her eyes, she might even be able to pretend he’s nothing but a slightly stiff heated blanket. So she does just that and hopes to sleep out the rest of the night.

.

.

He is not dumb or slow. He does not speak, but he has no need for words. They clutter things up. Action is better.

But he understands.

He knows what words mean.

He knows what the one who tried to kill him plans. They will wait until the sun steals his strength and then they will come and steal her.

He knows too that the one who the man wants is scheming. She wants to steal her from him sooner.

That pleases the man. He thinks it means she’s jealous of his affections. He thinks if he can only lure her down often enough, she will begin to want him as he wants her. He thinks because he took her once and she hated him, that he must trick her and win her the way humans do or he will never have her at all.

The man is a fool.

.

.

She’s warm and heavy and knows that if she comes out of her doze any further, the distant pain will return full force. Her fingers drag at coarse fur, unable to hold him down when he’s intent on rising to his feet. He’s examining her again, her soft, meaty parts this time. She pushes aside the fear and clings to hope he’s moving because he can feel dawn coming.

The hard edges of teeth at her stomach draws her fully awake. “Wha-” she gasps. He’s nipping at her sweater. Then his wet nose is on her bare skin, warm and tickling. She’s just considering whether asking him what he thinks he’s about will do any good when his jaws open wide and she gets a brief glimpse of razor sharp teeth before they dig into her.

Her scream is still echoing off the walls when his rough tongue starts lapping at the wound the same way he did at her head. It hurts—but it also doesn’t. The strange, animal ministrations are somehow soothing. The pain fades to a dull ache in a few short minutes and he drapes himself over her once more, the pressure helping more than anything else.

Her breathing is still ragged, a stark counter to the even rise and fall of his back over her. She can’t help but study every inhuman inch of him. The warm fur, the ears that twitch after sounds she can’t hear, the quadrupedal alignment of his skeletal structure draped across hers. 

She bites her lip to stifle another whine. A month from now, she’ll be just as much a mindless beast as he is.

.

.

The man is a fool.

He wants the one who hates him.

He won’t take what he wants.

So it’s up to the wolf. To choose the one who still warms with desire even when she fears him. To take her. To make her his for always.

The man will learn to live with it.