#hsm fanfiction

[friday-iam-in-love]

HSMTMTS: Season 3 - How I Wish It Was.

A while back, after watching the third season of High School Musical: The Musical: The Series, which was a little frustrating for me, I decided to write down how I wish the third season, and honestly the entire series, had been conducted. Here are some loose ideas for Season 3:

First, some important points:

The entire storyline of a Disney+ documentary doesn't exist;

Val and Maddox were made into one character;

Kourtney will have a similar but deeper storyline that is not described below, but involves Howie;

The character Emmy, who appeared in the third season, had her storyline completely changed;

I would still like to write more about Miss Jenn and Nini (in a narrative where Olivia Rodrigo was still part of the main cast of the series).

The timeline is not complete (some scenes like the beginning of the season, before camp, and the day of the presentation are not in this piece)

Hope you like it. And sorry if you find any grammatical errors, English is not my first language.

Ricky is conflicted about which camp activity he should choose. He tells Carlos that he feels he only joined East High's drama club because of Nini and he can't see himself doing a musical without her. Ricky states that he will focus on what he has always loved to do and, on the first day of activities, he chooses to join the campers in the skating club.

EJ introduces the campers to the musical that will be staged that summer: “Camp Rock: The Musical”. Everyone is extremely excited about the announcement and EJ asks everyone to prepare for the next day's auditions. At the end of the first rehearsal, EJ and Val talk and the boy confesses that he is afraid of appearing biased since his girlfriend is in the cast. Val comforts him, saying that EJ is now a camp trainee counselor and must know how to separate his personal life from his professional life.

Seeing the joy in Carlos, Ashlyn, Gina and Kourtney's eyes with the musical, Ricky remembers the good times he spent with that group in the productions of “High School Musical” and “Beauty and the Beast”. He confesses to Carlos that he is afraid of joining a musical without Nini and Carlos says that he needs to do what he wants, regardless of who will be with him.

The next day, the campers are ready to audition for the musical and EJ announces that the group audition will be with the song “We Rock” and then the individual auditions will begin. As per tradition, Ricky, at the last minute, decides to audition, claiming that he remembers seeing "Camp Rock" once.

After the group audition, Ashlyn, Kourtney, Emmy and Gina audition for the role of “Mitchie” while Ricky and Carlos compete for the role of “Shane”. Almost at the end of the auditions, Jet appears and surprises everyone with his voice when he sings “Gotta Find You”.

That night, older campers are taken to a clearing where they will tell traditional camp stories and sleep in tents for the night. Val is the counselor in charge of telling a traditional story through song, but she has a hard time getting everyone's attention when Jet interrupts her with continuous jokes. Embarrassed and frustrated, Val ends her song and asks another counselor to follow up with the activities around the campfire.

At one of the activities, Gina and Ricky are teamed up, which makes EJ uncomfortable. The two seem to be very in tune during the activity and end up developing a friendship that, until then, they thought unlikely. Gina claims that Ricky has changed a lot since the end of the school year and breaking up with Nini.

While everyone else is busy with the campfire, Carlos sneaks into the theater to find out about the cast. He finds Val's clipboard and sees Kourtney as "Mitchie", Ricky as "Shane", Emmy as "Caitlyn", Gina as "Tess", him as "Nate", Jet as "Brown" and Ashlyn as a member of the ensemble. Angered by Ricky being cast as the lead again, he erases the boy's name and swaps his role with his.

At that moment, Val enters the theater and questions what Carlos is doing with the list. She sees that Carlos tried to swap his and Ricky's roles and says that this situation should be brought up to EJ and Dewey. Dewey leaves it up to EJ and Val to decide whether Carlos should stay in the musical or not. Both argue and EJ has the final say, stating that Carlos must publicly apologize to the cast.

As Val and Carlos leave Dewey's office, the camp manager asks EJ to stay behind to discuss something important. He claims that, at the request of the camp's board of directors, Emmy should be the lead in the play. EJ argues that the cast is already chosen, but without elaborating, Dewey won't budge.

Ricky and Jet end up sleeping in the same tent, but Ricky is uncomfortable after seeing how much Jet has hurt Val. Ricky argues that Val is one of the biggest worshipers of Camp Shallow Lake and that something special to her, like campfire night, was ruined by Jet. Jet claims that he didn't want to be there and that his parents forced him to go. Ricky then says that he shouldn't be there either, but he saw the camp as a place to start over after a troubled year and, like him, Jet should give the new experience a chance.

The next day, EJ and Val are ready to announce the casting and Dewey stands at the back of the theater, watching. EJ swallows hard at the memory of Dewey's order, but decides to go with his intuition. They distribute the roles (with Kourtney playing the lead) and, at the end of the rehearsal, Carlos confesses to everyone that he tried to change his and Ricky's roles and that he feels sorry.

Ricky asks Carlos why he tried to switch roles. Carlos vents, stating that Ricky is not committed to the show, but always ends up being cast as the protagonist while he, who breathes musical theater, ends up being the character with just over three lines. Carlos, in a jealous rage, confesses that he was completely against casting Ricky as "Troy" and "Beast" in past productions. The two are distant for the next few days.

Ashlyn isn't happy with her part either. After having played “Belle” in “Beauty and the Beast” and having won the Alan Menken Award for Best Actress, she hoped that her next work would also be as a leading lady. She tries to hide her displeasure, but lets her heartache show when she arrives at the cabin by not congratulating either Gina or Kourtney on their parts.

When the mail arrives the next morning, Gina receives a letter from her mother letting her know that she is moving to Salt Lake City for good and that Gina won't have to leave East High. The news is received with great joy by Kourtney. EJ also receives a letter from his father where he says that now that EJ is in his last year of high school and has given up a guaranteed place at Duke University, he will have to prove his competence to his father who will no longer help him in any matter from then on. The man still writes harsh lines disapproving of his son's new girlfriend.

EJ confides in Val and shows her his father's letter. He says he doesn't have the heart to tell Gina anything since her father doesn't approve of her.

It's Color War Day, the most traditional activity at the camp, where campers are divided into four teams (blue, yellow, red and green) and compete in different sports. In private, Val asks Jet not to screw up like he did on bonfire day, as this is the most important day for her. Jet, embarrassed, decides to prove to her sister that he has changed.

Jet ends up on the yellow team, with Kourtney and Carlos under the leadership of Val. On the blue team, Ricky, Ashlyn and Gina compete together under EJ's leadership. The entire camp joins singing “It’s On.” On their lunch break, EJ calls Ms. Jenn for theater directing advice, but the teacher senses that something lurks beneath EJ's cheerful facade, and soon the boy opens up. At the end of the conversation, EJ invites Ms. Jenn to see the performance of “Camp Rock: The Musical” at the end of the summer.

Jet guides Ricky to the clearing where they became friends on the first night of camp. Jet picks up his guitar and says he prepared a song for Ricky and sings “Introducing Me”. At the end of the performance, Jet tries to kiss Ricky, but Ricky backs off and, confused, he flies into a rage, humiliating Jet and leaving him alone in the clearing.

Carlos sees Jet crying and sees an angry Ricky running away. Carlos approaches Jet and asks if everything is okay and Jet tells him what just happened. Carlos tries to talk to Ricky, but the boy is rude to Carlos and asks to be left alone.

It's the day of the performance of "Camp Rock: The Musical" and Ricky's 18th birthday.

EJ asks all the actors to get together so he can give them last warnings before the performance. Jet asks for the floor and publicly apologizes to Val, saying that he finally understands why she loves Shallow Lake so much, a place that truly transforms lives. As he says this, he glances at Ricky, who quickly looks away from him.

After the successful performance, Dewey catches up with EJ and congratulates him, but questions why his orders weren't followed. EJ claims that Kourtney deserved to be cast in the role of "Mitchie" and that he doesn't regret his decision. Dewey says casting the lead role was something bigger than EJ and put the camp's future in jeopardy. Dewey claims that Emmy's mother is one of the board directors of Camp Shallow Lake and that it had been a special request from her to cast her daughter in the lead role, which EJ did not comply with. Furthermore, Dewey says that a formal complaint from Mr. and Mrs. Pratt, parents of former camper Emily, reached the board after the family found out that EJ had been hired as an trainee counselor. Emily told her parents about EJ and how he fed her rotten devil eggs to get her out of last summer's musical. Thus, the camp management decided not to promote EJ as a full-time counselor and was dismissing him. EJ argues that his lifelong dream has always been to become camp counselor, but Dewey's hands are tied and he asks EJ to leave camp right after the Farewell Ball.

Carlos finds Ricky sitting on the porch of the cabin and Carlos dryly congratulates him on his performance. Ricky, wanting to seal the peace between the two, asks him to sit next to him and the two talk. Ricky says he's scared to come out as bisexual and Carlos comforts him, stating that everyone has their own story, but that he should apologize to Jet. The two make up with a hug.

So as not to cause too much of a commotion, EJ prepares to quietly leave camp right after the ball. Val is the only one who notices EJ's crestfallen behavior and confronts him. He tells her of Dewey's decision to fire him. The two hug, and for the first time in years, EJ cries. Gina, who was looking for EJ, watches from afar the two hugging and assumes that they are finally together, just as she predicted.

Ricky accepts his feelings for Jet and decides to make a grand gesture of apology.

During Farewell Ball, all the counselors come together to honor another successful season at Shallow Lake with the song "Hasta La Vista." Everyone watches with emotion a retrospective video of the best moments of that vacation with the song “Play My Music (Acoustic)”.

EJ calls Jet onstage, stating that the boy has something to say. Jet says that, like him, his sister also always liked grand gestures. Jet sings "Wouldn't Change A Thing" and Val joins in. The two put their past differences aside and hug under a round of applause.

Taking advantage of the moment, Ricky goes on stage and, with a beautiful self-acceptance speech, sings “This Is Me”. Jet joins the boy in a duet and the two are greeted by applause from all the campers and counselors.

Moved by Ricky's gesture, Gina confronts EJ. She vents about feeling left out all summer. EJ argues that he, as a camp counselor, could not show any romantic relationship with Gina, a camper, as it would be professionally unethical. Gina doesn't want to admit she's wrong and EJ goes back to his cabin to finish packing.

Ricky and Jet walk back to the cabin and Ricky formally apologizes. Ricky says that what he is feeling is something he has never felt before and that for a moment he was in denial, but now he sees clearly what he really wants. Jet accepts the apology and the two share a kiss. They smile and Ricky tells how Camp Shallow Lake really changes lives.

After the Ball, EJ leaves camp without telling anyone. The boys are confused when they return to the cabin and do not find their counselor. Gina bumps into Val, who asks if Gina is okay. Defensive, Gina shares that she saw her and EJ together and Val explains why EJ left. Gina realizes how unfair she has been to EJ over the summer and decides to confront Dewey.

Dewey explains that EJ has suffered the consequences of his actions and nothing can be done, after all, summer vacation ends on the next day.

Summer ends with a bittersweet feeling, everyone transformed by their experiences at camp. Ricky and Jet say goodbye to each other, and the promise of a more serious relationship hangs in the air. The distance, however, is a challenge they must face.

Ricky grows closer to Carlos, who encourages him to come out to his family and to the other students at East High when he's ready and not under pressure. Carlos, on the other hand, is even more ambitious about the winter musical, and as soon as he gets home, he calls Ms. Jenn stating that he will forgo his assignments as an assistant director to focus on being cast in the lead role.

Hearing about the vacancy for an assistant director, Ashlyn offers to fill it.

EJ, arriving home, contemplates his losses: camp, college, and his dad and girlfriend's trust. Later, Gina knocks on her door, but is Mr. Caswell who answers and say EJ doesn't want to see her and suggests the girl stay away for good. Devastated, Gina calls Ricky.

[troy-boltons-pink-jelly]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: High School Musical (Movies) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Troy Bolton/Gabriella Montez, Troy Bolton/Chad Danforth Characters: Troy Bolton, Chad Danforth, Sharpay Evans, Taylor McKessie, Jason Cross Additional Tags: drunk teenagers on a playground, Underage Drinking, Cheating, idk what to call but i sure did write it, Inspired by Fanfiction, bisexual disaster troy bolton, Everyone Is Gay, jason doesn't know why he's here Summary:

“You’re sort of a bitch, you know that?”

-

Five teenagers having a playground afterparty.

[netherfeildren]

Honey, Stomach, Mine ; 1. Genus: Tragedy

Series Masterlist ; Part 2.

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Existence is a needful thing. Choice is fickle, nature inescapable. Run to the end of the world, Joel, all those things will still find you. 

She'll still come for you. 

-OR-

the A/B/O outbreak AU 

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Dystopian Society; Outbreak not Cordyceps AU; Light Angst; Slow Burn; Shocking Considering the Implications of Me and This Trope but Alas; Biologically Assigned Soulmates; Power Dynamics; Topping From the Bottom; Government Controlled Reproduction; Segregation of the Designations; Institutionalized Sexism; Vaguely Handmaidien Undertones; Incredibly Soft Despite the Tags; Be Not Afraid, Dear Reader!; Yearning; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Competence Kink; Alpha Joel; Omega MC; Very Soft Joel; Older and Jaded Alpha; Young and Needy Omega; Age Gap; Size Difference; Size Kink

A/N: I've found there is an absolutely shocking lack of A/B/O in this fandom, and this is my contribution to begin rectifying that. I swear that despite the way the tags read, this is entirely and sickeningly sweet soft, comfort, caretaking fic.

Share thoughts, please. It's sort of a different one.

Word Count: 6.3K

Read on AO3

Tip Jar

Genus : Tragedy

To a one Mr. Joel Miller,

500 Sheahan Road

Clallam Bay, WA 98326

United States 

We are writing to inform you that as of January 8th, 2015 there remain two weeks until your designated omega’s twenty second birthday, and a year since she has come of age. We have made several attempts to contact you with no response. As mandated by the federal government, you must collect her by January 22nd, 2015 or she will be distributed to another individual of the designation alpha who would be willing to accommodate her. 

The omega’s evaluations are all up to date, and she has displayed pristine results in both health and behavioral tests. It is estimated that her first heat will occur soon, and we strongly encourage you to collect before the fever starts and our facility is forced to place her with another willing alpha that may see the process through. As she is part of the Federal Alpha/Omega Pairing Program, and is biologically paired to an alpha already, that being you, if not collected she would be placed in the bidding pool and distributed to the highest offer. 

Again, we strongly encourage you to contact our facility with a response on your decision as soon as possible so that we may prepare the omega. We would like to remind you that these creatures are delicate, and unexpected changes to their habitats and surroundings cause high levels of distress. It is of the utmost importance that we proceed in accordance with the omega’s nature. 

Enclosed is a brief note from your omega that she has requested to attach:

Dear sir,

I hope that you are well. I have been told that you have not decided if you will come for me, but I ask that you please do. I have been waiting, but they have told me I cannot wait anymore, and I do not know what will happen to me if you don’t come. I promise that I’ll be good if you do. 

And at the bottom, in a pristine and swirly pen, and kindly, her signature, there for him to see. The name of the woman, or girl, who seems to have taken all of Joel’s choices from him. He follows the letters with the nail of his thumb, scratching at the ink as if he could make it disappear, make the reality of this poor thing out there in the world waiting for him, disappear. 

At the outbreak of the designations, twelve years ago, there had been mass hysteria, mass chaos, a terrible uncertainty of how the world could continue on, segregated into biological designations as it had suddenly become. Thought to be a product of the dwindling population rates, some whispered a government experiment gone awry, a freak genetic mutation had begun to appear within the biological markers of certain people. 

Designations: Alpha, Beta, Omega. 

It was not that society had unfolded, lost sight of itself, it was more so that from one day to the next, a new and unknown sort of hierarchy had been established, those that were, those that were not. Those that could live their lives as they’d always done, unruled by their biological urges, and those now marked as something new and different and set by a different sort of mandates. 

Joel had been one of these people. 

The designations had become controlled, weaponized, systemized, almost immediately. Almost. Before the government had mobilized and taken stock and hold of the situation, there had been a momentary lapse of order. Chaos wearing the names and faces of the people he’d once known, people that should have been safe or protected, protective. The true nature of the dynamics were quickly revealed. Obvious: an unmated alpha in need of an omega was a volatile thing, quick to aggression, hungry for violence. Less so: an omega, once thought self sufficient, independent, autonomous, was found to be at times fragile, vulnerable, full of necessity. Both connected by that string of desperation that could only be soothed in a pairing of the two. The desperate drama of being no longer only yourself.

It should have been an obvious thing, the mutation, a byproduct of the dwindling population levels, reproduction rates, was in service of something that would correct this misdirection of nature. Alphas and omegas were, are, idealized pairings for one another in terms of reproduction, in terms of biological pairings. It should have been obvious that this would be wielded as a means of control. It should have been obvious that this was an untenable situation that would cast people into roles that left no choice for autonomy, for freedom. 

It should have been obvious to Joel, who almost immediately, and even though he had been well into adulthood, a father to a young daughter, presented as an alpha, growing pains once again this late into his life. It should have been obvious that this was a situation that should have necessitated greater care, vigilance, protection. After all, this was the role of an alpha. He should have listened to this new nature of his that was suddenly, demandingly, presenting itself, acted quicker, stronger, with more wisdom. But he’d failed, he’d continued to fail for years to come after that terrible night when the world had turned back to its base nature in a hedonistic attempt for the preservation of humanity. 

Alphas were immediately feared, ostracized, and above all else, obvious. A designation was not a thing a person could hide, especially not an alpha, the truth of their nature. Many were gunned down in the streets at the start, imprisoned, experimented on and sold, debased and tortured. They’d been caught, him and Sarah, separated from Tommy trying to escape the madness. She had, in her innocence and without designation, still only herself, still only his little girl, been caught in the crossfire of a world's desire to tame or trap something it could not understand. 

Joel had, in many and the worst of ways, been caught in the crossfire too. 

With time, years and the sort of suffering that can only be forced upon anything that is different or out of the norm, a system had been created. Government mandated programs, laws, registries that kept track of the designations. A hierarchy in which those that were essentially and biologically considered stronger than what a normal human should be, were ostracized, exiled, denigrated, muzzled, and those that would be considered weakest, left without any voice at all, without freedom either. 

The Federal Alpha/Omega Pairing Program had been established for the continued preservation and furthering of reproductive rates. A registry was created in which all those with the designation either alpha or omega had to present themselves on, biological markers determined, all choices stripped. The program served as a match making machine, when two biological markers presented themselves as compatible, as mates of one another, an omega was assigned to an alpha for keeping. To do with as they’d see fit. 

He had gotten word of her only last year. Twelve years of solitude, of nothing, of running from a girl with green eyes he’d not been able to protect and the reality of himself he detested, the what and why of who he was. He’d left Austin, wandered and hidden and groveled in the dirt like a worm until he’d finally found a quiet place to settle. A place alone, undisturbed. And for so long, he’d not been happy, surely, but he had been. Joel had been.

He looks down at the letter in his hand, dragging his thumbnail over the swoop and slope of her signature once again. This was a person who, as mandated by law or biology or fucking whatever, had been deemed as his. His other half, mate, ball and chain. The terrible reminder of what he really was and could not escape, in the form and shape of his perfect opposite. 

Last year, when he’d gotten word of her existence, that she’d reached the age of twenty one and was now ready and available for his retrieving, he’d balled up the letter and thrown it with such weightless force into the fireplace in his living room that the air filled wad of paper had fallen limp and nothingful just shy of the flames, rolling in the ashes and dust, coating the reality of this imposed, undesired fate in dark soot. He’d been so angry he’d gone out and howled at the moon like the beast the world would have themselves believe he truly was. 

He did not want to be an alpha. He did not want an omega. He did not want to live off the coast of Clallam Bay alone in this house he’d built with his bare hands because he had no other use of them now, no other function or purpose or meaning. He did not want it to be now, he wanted it to be twelve years ago. He wanted to still be a father. 

He did not want to be an alpha. 

He did not want an omega.

He crumples the letter in his fist, looking out at the bay over the edge of the cliffs from where the cabin is perched. From his spot on the deck he can see as far out as the sea allows, sight stopping suddenly as if the edge of the world had dropped off a ledge. Sometimes he longed, so, so badly, to go find that edge, to drop off it as well. He had only tried once. Never again. The grizzle of scar tissue at his temple, a testament to yet another one of his failures. 

The first summons had come two weeks before her twenty-first birthday, and he’d laughed, after the anger, he’d laughed. A girl-woman of only twenty one years, deemed of age, for the role the government or God had deemed her ready for, served up on a platter to him for his own ravaging. For the correction of what nature told was an anomaly that only their coming together could solve. It was sick, disgusting. He wanted no part of it. And so, despite the knowledge that this poor thing was out there, in some government facility, places they took omegas, many orphans, but also, oftentimes separating them from their families for so called safe keeping, just another word for kidnapping. Rearing and breeding and no choices, no choices for any of them ever. 

He’d ignored it, turned a blind eye and a revolted heart away from it all, and shirked the supposed responsibilities he owed this omega who he knew nothing about, who knew nothing about him. But nature is, after all, a terrible and inescapable thing. And not even so much the nature of his designation, although that did, unfailingly, play a part in his demise, surely, but the nature of his character, of Joel’s heart, that was the true heavy player. He was not the sort of man who could turn away from someone who’d rely on him, who’d need him. A responsibility. That was, he convinced himself, all he should or could see her as. And for a year there’d been a sort of tugging of a string from behind his navel, an umbilical cord connecting him to his ignored fate. He hated it all. He wanted nothing to do with any of it. He wanted to rot in his aloneness and misery and bitterness, fester in the fear that lived around him from the world. It’s why he’d come here, it’s why he’d exiled himself. Balanced on the tightrope border between the Salish Sea and the Makah Reservation on this high and pristine cliffside cut from the crust of the earth; he was left entirely alone, at peace with only his own chaotic demons to torment him. He wanted it this way, he wanted this; please, please, he’d already given away so much, lost so much of himself. Should he also be forced into this too? To sacrifice the terrible peace of his solitude to save this poor creature that was being forced on him. He wanted to say no, that he didn’t give a fuck, that what would happen to her could, it was no business of his. But those words… another willing alpha, bidding pool, highest offer… they made him see, not even red, black, black and devastating anger or rage or something horrible and base, and what could only be a product of mother nature railing against him for ignoring what he truly was. Something that whispered terrible words of mine, mine, fucking mine. A hiss he did not recognize, did not want to admit he recognized. 

He was old, weathered and beaten and past his prime. Unmated. At the end of his line and unmated and purposeless, and his bones were tired, but itching and clamoring within the confines of his skin that this was wrong, that he was wrong, and that he needed to right this immediately. 

That she’s waiting, and dear sir, I do not know what will become of me if you do not come. I promise that I’ll be good if you do. 

And so Joel goes to her because he knows she is waiting, because fate or purpose or nature is not a thing to be ignored forever. 

-

“It’s her birthday today,” the caretaker says, voice ascetic and cold and direct. Not a voice, Joel thinks, for soft things; cadence that has his teeth on edge, hackles raised. “You’ve arrived just in time. She’s been asking for you, and we’d just set her name in the pool, ready to release for auction tomorrow.” That black rage muddies the corners of his vision, and he focuses on the cold shock of the blank white hallway they’re making their way down. Hospital-like, barren and hard, this place, facility, prison, they keep them in, the omegas in the program. He feels slightly sick, uninhibitedly angry as if his teeth would fall out of his skull, as if he could throw himself to the ground as a child throws a fit, spew his anger for the world to see how much he does not want this, how vehemently he’s opposed to it all. 

“She may seem young and small, but she’s twenty two now. She’s ready, and she’ll take it as you wish. It’s what she was made for.” 

Joel seriously considers, just for a moment, killing the cretinous little man beside him. Take it, he says as if he has any right to speak of you taking anything that Joel would give you, as if it’s any of his business, anything he could ever understand if the beta stench oozing off of him is any indication. He hums nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement. If he parts his teeth he’ll take out a chunk of flesh. He should behave, there are easily frightened things nearby. 

White doors with a small circular window at the center line the hall on either side, endlessly down the length of the seemingly endless corridor. The caretaker, white scrubs, pristine like the rest of everything here, and Joel feels suddenly huge and bestial and brutish, marring and dirtying this place that is supposed to be of peace and quiet for the fragile things locked inside. 

A terrible place that makes him desolately depressed. You’ve been here so long, and he had not come, and it’s all just one more tally of failure on his rap sheet. 

When they finally stop before a singular door, the number fourteen emblazoned in large black, bold print just beneath the small viewing window, Joel suddenly feels– he can’t say for certain, he doesn’t know, or doesn't want to acknowledge the truth of the voices and sounds ringing in his ears, but he knows, recognizes it for the sound of the moment Sarah died all those years ago. His past and present suddenly clashing to meet here in this antiseptic white void, before the door to this fate that’s clamored in quiet waiting for exactly a year today. The sound of her voice, calling his name, saying it hurts, Tommy, his shouts ringing loud and then ebbing soft and as lifeless as she was while the reality of what they were living came to pass before Joel too, could realize. He’d left too, his brother, ran from the truth of Joel at the first easy opportunity. And she’s just there, her voice and her eyes and the feel of her is just there in his mind, on the tip of the tongue of his memory, and then the man opens the door and then there you are. 

He feels worse now, hulking, deformed, malformed like he was born wrong. “I’ll give you a moment,” the man says low, that cold voice monotone and almost too quiet to bear now. Joel feels he needs something loud and shocking. He fears he won’t fit through the door. “It’s better if you meet for the first time without distractions. She knows you’re coming.”

He thinks he asks if you’re sleeping, he can’t be sure, but he feels the vibrations of his throat work, his jaw move as if it’d come unhinged, his tongue swollen in his mouth, gums fat and painful, full of bile and terrible memories, and he is a badly made thing in need of some goodness in this moment. And then a shift of the small lump beneath the blankets, the reality of the moment snaps into focus, he steps inside the white box cage you’re kept in. The door shuts behind him, and then it is only him, the thing he would not be, and you, the thing he would not want. 

He doesn’t decide it until he finally peers into your eyes, that he can’t, will not, keep you. 

Wide, luminous and wet, but not afraid, wholly curious, peering up at him from above the edge of a thick wool blanket. Something drab and gray and stiff looking that immediately sets him on edge, brings that anger back, just the simple sight of the blanket. The two of you stare at each other in silence, the weight of that thing that tells of what you are, sitting heavy between the two of you as he looks down at you from his great height, presence that should be intimidating and cowing, looming over your prone and small form on the bed. But despite his stance, something swelling within him causing him to puff up like an angry dog and want to bear his teeth at you, despite the curtain of tears in your eyes, there’s nothing of the stench of fear. 

He shuts his eyes to the sight of you, huffing long and bullish through his nose, mistake, the scent of you, God, help me, and he listens to the rustle and shift of the blankets, opens his eyes to see a little nose peeking out from beneath the gray, drab thing to sniff primly at the air he’s now filling with his presence. 

Soft and warm and woman, the smell of a cunt that belongs to him. That’s what it is at its basest. More complexly: vanilla, bergamot, juniper berries, sweat and fever and salt. Taking a plunge off the cliffside, bypassing the sharp teeth of rocks that would kill you, waiting for the dark ice shock of sea and finding nothing but molten life. This is what you smell like. 

Worst of all, there is something in you that smells of him. His, yes, but not what he means, not his, him. Something that smells of recognition, like the two of you are the same. 

Something chained inside of him rattles at the bars of its cage, desperate to be let out and quenched. 

He steps back, frightened at your movement, at the reality of what the two of you are, so obvious here in this cage, at your perking up, your recognition of who and what he is, what he’s come for. You don’t speak, but you tell him. You wriggle beneath the covers, shimmying to turn and face him more fully, still clutching the blanket up high over your mouth, still covering half of your face, and he wants to bark at you to let him see, that he needs to see, but he grinds his teeth together. Molars going to dust down his throat, muscle wrapped around his mandible strung so tight he fears the fibers of it might burst and pop. 

You settle on your side facing him now, and then something to beguile him, to bring him to his knees muzzled and obedient and calm, the sweetest, sultry little crooning cry. Something provoking, alluring, something to beckon him to you in surrender and acceptance and welcome, come from your chest up your throat to his ears. He jerks back at the sound, your big eyes still expectant and wet but demanding now. I am here waiting for you. I have been here waiting for you. Come now. He steps back to your bedside, a too small, too stiff metal railed cot he’s going to wrap around that fucking guard, caretaker, idiot, whatever he is when he comes back, falls to his knees, and your little fingers peek out and up and over the edge of the blanket now. And you surprise him doubly, tenfold, more than he can comprehend – but he already decided he will not keep you, he already made up his mind – when you say: “You came. You remembered me.”

He could never have forgotten.

A low hum, a sound to make your eyelids flutter and your legs shift beneath the heavily draped blankets. “Today’s your birthday, sweetheart, is it? Would you like to come home with me as your gift?” 

He could never have forgotten.

-

The house that the large man who you’d waited your whole life and then a year for, brings you to – and you can’t be entirely sure, for you’ve so little experience or knowledge – but from what you can think you’re feeling now, from what you can decide, is lovely. 

He had taken you in a car, a truck, you like the sound of the word, —ck, —ck, —ck, and driven a long while, through the big city which you’d seen little of, between forest and beside sea, and then finally up a long and winding road and more forest, more trees and green than you’d ever seen in your entire life, until you’d come to a cliffside, the backyard a drop off of air and rock and endless dark water, and a small house perched just there at the edge. Wooden slats, weather beaten and salt lashed, a copper sloped roof, and two pert chimneys, despite the not large area of the house, cabin. It looks, very much, as if it had grown straight from the cliff rock, sprouted by the forest, strong bones that spoke resolutely of remaining where they were no matter how hard the wind howled. 

“How did it get here?” You ask the man, alpha, who’s name is Joel who has finally come for you after a life and a year of waiting. 

“I made it,” and his voice is rough and demanding of attention, demanding of you, even if you don’t know, although, you do understand, what it is he’s demanding. 

And you think, yes, of course. It looks a little, a lot, like him. Obvious, that it came from him. 

It would be easy to think that you’re nothing but young and stupid and untried. Just a little omega kept in a cage. But you feel, after this life, not life, of being you and the thing you are, that you’re none of those things despite it all. You had lived, you had been out in the world at one time, even if briefly, even if only as a child, green and inexperienced and innocent, and although you still remain all those things, you had been out there at one point. You had never had a mother or a father, dead when you were an infant, killed in the outbreak, but you had lived with your aunt, your mother’s, many years older,  sister, until you’d been ten years old. So you see, and he should see too, this man now before you, this alpha, that you were untried and inexperienced and young compared to him, but you’d had a decade of real life, even if it was the life of a child, even if afterwards it was a not life, but the before, that counted very, very much to you and so deserved respect and acknowledgement. And he should see that, although you do not know, you do understand.

After your aunt had died, and they’d taken you, first to the orphanage, and then to the place for omegas, after you’d started to mature and develop, perhaps that real life had ended. Or been put on hold, waiting for him, this alpha who seems, for all intents and purposes and from what you can gather from his sullen silence and dark looks, nothing like pleased at your presence here now. But then there was the: today’s your birthday, sweetheart, is it? And yes, yes it is your birthday. 

It’s your birthday, and you’re free. And yes, you’d lived the not life in the white box for so long, and yes, you are, in fractions, so afraid and knowing so little of the world, but you do know that you want to live and to see the sky. 

You want to see the sky every single day. 

His big clunking truck rolls to a slow stop before the house, a wide deck wrapping around the entire boxed thing of it, and he starts to move, unclipping his belt, grabbing the bag he’d brought with him stuffed with his clothes he’d promptly tucked and folded you into when he’d shuffled you into the cabin of his truck, and you’d been all thank you, sir, to which he’d given a shake of his head, only Joel. Only Joel. No other words, no other directions, only his hands pulling your strings like a puppet. You had accepted it for the chance to feel his touch, to familiarize yourself with the closeness of him. 

You want to know things. You want to know him. 

He’d barely said a word the entire drive here, but you could be patient, and they’d prepared you for this, after all. They’d prepared you long and well and told you all they thought you’d need to know. So you find yourself, and not at all shockingly, as you’d waited so long for this, for him, for freedom and the sky, and look, now there’s even sea too, not even a little bit afraid, only anticipatory in bated breath, stuttering heart, excitement. 

You had never seen the sea before, and you want to know things. You want to know him. 

He jumps heavy and thudding form the truck, and you start to shift, something suddenly frantic and clawing rolling in your chest when you realize he’s leaving the confines of the small space the two of you had found yourselves encased in together, the warm heat from the vents blowing his smell, his smell, all around you. You’d never encountered anything like it before. Salted vetiver and warm cardamom, something sweet and musked and heavy like what your fingers taste like after you’ve pet long and needy at that soft wet place between your legs when the hurt was so tight you felt nothing would sate it. It’s a scent that you think would devastate to have taken away now that you’ve tasted it. And it’s everywhere as the two of you’d sat in his staunchly imposed silence on the truck ride to this place he was bringing you to, his home at what seems like the end of the world. It’s in your nose and down your throat, heavy and cloying and sweet on your tongue, wrapping around your waist and covering your skin and your hands so that you’d even pressed your palms entirely over your face and rubbed yourself like a cat, coating yourself in him. 

The door slams, bringing you out of his scent induced reverie and back to the present, and you scramble to undo your buckle too, even though when he’d clipped it for you he’d very sternly said to not take it off, desperate to follow him wherever he’d go. But you realize quickly he’s coming around the front of the truck to your door, and then he’s there pulling it open and letting in a biting gust of wind come off the sea and up the cliffside to slash you across the face with its icy rancor. You shiver, teeth clattering and chattering in your mouth, trying to gather the blankets he’d cocooned you in, his too big, so soft clothes, more tightly around yourself, and find your feet. 

He gives a rough but soothing noise, and easy as anything, plucks you up and out of the seat and into his arms, kicking the door closed behind him as he goes. Into his arms. You hold yourself stiff and wide eyed, chewing on the tips of your frozen cold fingers, and staring at him this closely, it’s shocking. Large, had been the first thing. Tall and broad and thick the way they’d said alphas are. This you had expected. The rest, you had not. The eyes, you think, more than anything. His eyes, a strange mix of hazel and brown, but dark. Eyes, that even in your greenness, you can recognize as sad and angry. And the creases at the corners, between his brows, the gray threaded through the lush, dark curls and at the corners of the hair along his jaw. He looks like he would be someone’s father. The patch of bare skin, heart shaped, amongst the whiskers. He’s beautiful, and unthinkingly, or perhaps entirely intentional, you stick out one of your saliva soaked fingers and poke him gently there, only a small prod, to feel what the heart feels like. His gait stops instantly, that permanent frown he’d worn since you’d first laid eyes on him, deepening. “Don’t do that,” he gruffs, continuing his steps up the porch now, the dark, heavy boots you’d noted as he’d taken you from the facility falling thunk, thunk on the wooden boards beneath. He’d not given you shoes of your own. And at his tone, the grumpy look, you have the inexplicable urge to laugh. To laugh at him. Surly, you want to tease, but swallow it, itchy fingertips back into the warmth of your mouth to stop yourself from touching again.

Another gust blows against the two of you as he somehow transfers you, cradled into only one arm, to pull the jingle of keys from his pocket, and you’re jarred with painful shivers, huddling closer into the unbelievably broad expanse of his chest, the unbelievably steaming warm slab. At the touch of your cheek against his collarbone you realize all he’s wearing is a simple, green flannel, no coat, nothing warm. “Aren’t you cold?” It seems suddenly, supremely important you ask, head shooting back up. He peers down his nose at you, finally getting the door open, and his eyes are a very peculiar sort of dark, you cock your head at him, a very strange sort of creature this man is, who’s come to collect you, who you’d waited all your life and a year for. 

“I’m fine,” he says. 

You don’t believe him.

He sets you down on a large, dark leather sofa, chocolate, the hide smooth and worn and lived in. The rest of the house, not only a house, also a home, for it’s obvious in the way of his things, the way they’re arranged and fixed and the way they too live here, not only exist here. I’ll be like that too, you think. It’s all comfortable, it’s all warm, like a den and a place to relax and be protected, juxtaposed by the sight beyond the large windows, nothing but dark, violent sea as you’ve never before seen. 

He really had found a perch at the edge of the world, brought you here to perch as well. 

There’s a large fireplace, inlaid with large slabs of dark stone and thick beams of wood, and yes, this too is also obvious in a peculiar and particular way. The house very much looks like it was made by the hands of a single man in some way that you cannot specifically say, but can obviously see the truth of. He made this house, and then he came for you and now he’s brought you here, and you feel, suddenly, so pleased and warm and right. Everything feels so, so right. You sigh dreamily, suffused at once with a tight, deep heat at the pit of your belly, the scent of him everywhere, bubbles floating up from the bottom of you and seeming to pop out your ears. You lean back into the deep couch, wiggling this way and that, rubbing your bottom into the soft cushions to snuggle up, bringing the neck of his sweater he’d put you in up to your nose to breathe deep and long. 

He’s moving around, arranging things this way and that, a thick log in the slumbering coals, a pillow here, another blanket atop you, not looking at you, setting a wide berth once he’s settled the throw, not talking to you. It’s fine, let him do as he pleases and needs, you’ll sit here and watch. You can tell he doesn’t like to talk, that words cost him something, and you know so little, but you understand this. Words do cost something, truths, the truth of your before life and your not life. The truth of those realities cost. So, yes, you understand, and he doesn’t have to talk if he doesn’t want to yet. And looking at him, you realize that everything inside of you feels soft and bruised and little. And yet, despite all that, ready, in want and need of him. Ready to be big. 

Joel.

You must say the word out loud, his name, for he stops and finally turns to face you. There is something vibrational within him. Different. You’ve never seen a creature as such. You’d never seen an alpha before, not since you’d presented, you’ve never been around one. The caretakers were all always betas, people who would not be affected by the omega’s presence and fluctuations. 

He swallows once, twice, twitches and jerks and heaves a big sigh. He’s so full of energy as you, suddenly, in opposition, feel so sleepy and drowsy and ready to close your eyes and only feel warm and relaxed. You like his house, you might love it, even. 

Your eyelids droop low, slow blinks, and you watch his face fold into a frown. You want to laugh, he does that so much. They’d said that alphas could have big tempers, that they could be brash and aggressive and loud, but that the omega would naturally temper that. You think it may be true because as you watch him through the weave of your lashes, his frown deepening the longer he stares at you slowly drowsing on his couch which you hope he’ll never make you move from, the jitters and the shakes and the trembling that he’d seemed, just a moment ago, to be so full of, begin to quietly abate. 

He takes a step toward you, another and another until his shins meet the edge of the sofa, and you snuggle deeper into the cushions, making yourself into as little a ball as possible, so full of sleepiness. 

“How do you feel?”

“I like your house so much,” you slur, head drooping, lashes drooping. 

He clicks his tongue, makes that rumbly noise you think is an alpha thing because it has your eyes suddenly clicking open, sleep haze clearing momentarily so that you can look up at him again, and he’s looking at you so peculiarly. You scrunch your nose up at him, there’s no need to look at you so, you’re only an omega, only a little tired, nothing to stare at so strangely. 

“I’m–” he clears his throat, makes that rumble, growl, huff sound again, “I’m glad you like it. I wanted you to be comfortable while you’re here.”

And oh, he’s so nice, you tell him, and, “I am. I’m so comfortable.” You melt further into the couch, and he crouches down to peer at you more directly, pulling a soft pillow from the opposite end and tucking it under your head, the large, rough cup of his paw cradling your skull, big fingers weaving through your hair. He arranges you so gently, like he’d take care of you. Like you’re here, finally, finally, you’re here to be taken care of. 

It’s what they’d said would happen, and you’d waited so long. You’d waited too long to be let out of the white box, for him to come, to see the sky. And now there was so much; of him, of the house, of the sky, of your whole life and the sea.

You nuzzle your head into his big hand, the heat of it searing your scalp, your ear tucked into his palm. “Brave girl,” he hums. He has such a deep voice, a good voice for an alpha, you think, a very good voice. You feel it vibrating in your toes and in your eyelashes and in your belly. “You’ve been through a great deal, haven’t you?” You want to say yes, you want to remind him that you’d waited for him for so very long, and that when you woke up, if you remembered, you’d be very cross with him for taking so long to come for you. 

“You rest now,” he says. “It’s all alright now.” Yes, a very good voice.

2. More Intelligent Than a Face

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog

[valiantlyannoyingbread]

good news: i just wrote the best work of my life, with truly some of the funniest and most touching dialogue i've ever written

bad news: it's a high school musical fanfic

[sankta-starkova]

LETTERMAN

summary: andy kennedy has struggled a lot during her life, but she struggled the most in losing EJ Caswell as a friend. when years later they are playing love interests in the play, they may end up coming back together.

pairing: ej caswell x fem!oc

wordcount: 85,000 words

notes: I started writing this when season two came out and although my writings changed a lot, I still love this fic. also, I cast Meg Donnelly as andy in 2020 before season three so just pretend val is played by someone else

SEASON ONE

— the one where ej and andy reunite after years, finally rekindling their friendship and maybe getting something else out of it as well

SEASON TWO

— the one where ej and andy realise that there may be some romantic feelings between them that hadn't been there before, or had they?

SEASON THREE

— the one where ej and andy get to spend time together in the camp until his work gets in the way, threatening to ruin their relationship

SEASON FOUR

— the one where ej and andy have to navigate the documentary outcome, him leaving for college and the rest of their lives together

𝐄𝐉 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋 — matt cornett

𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐀 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐘 — meg donnelly

𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐘 — tom hiddleston, uncle

𝐒𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐄 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐘 — sophie di martino, mum

𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐘 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐘 — trevor tordjman, big bro

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐄 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐘 — florence pugh, big sis

𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐘 — keirnan shipka, big sis

MOODBOARDS

[generalwildcat]

have you written fanfics on here or any other place :D

Not on here but YEARS ago i wrote on Fanfiction.net, specifically focusing on Chad and Taylor. I haven't gone back to those stories or even that account in so long i think partially because of personal circumstances and partially because where i am now as a person, writer-ish person, and also what i learned about myself. And when it comes to writing, it's very easy to say that if we rewrote something from like ten years ago it's be VASTLY different now which plays a part in my feelings. In the last few years i have written Frozen fanfics, but if you compare that now to my HSM fanfics from like 10, 12 years ago i feel like it'd be a HUGE difference...although my approach is more or less the same which is, "let me just start writing crap and see where this goes" 🤣

That being said, i've toyed multiple times with different fanfic ideas and getting back into writing HSM somehow especially when it comes to thinking about their potential futures and kids. And i always wonder if those are ideas worth exploring, if i'm the person to write them, but also it'd be a LOT of characters and a LOT of time and effort to not only write but also really think about what i'm writing. (Although one of my friends recently tried to convince me i should write the futurefic and i may or may not have jotted down super basic ideas for the nextgen of characters 😆)

[rileytownsc]

i started a rina twitter au yesterday and got inspired by how to lose a guy in 10 days. idk where i'm heading yet but it's fun and if you'd like to check it out here's the link 🫧💗

https://x.com/g4yrodrighoe/status/1698827543522976001?s=46

Singer Ricky Bowen and actress Gina Porter dislike each other but after being cast together, in a book adaptation, things have to change fast to make it work. When they get in another argument, they bet with their friends about getting the other to forgive and forget the past. So when both have the same goal, you might think, things will get easy. But even actors can't lie, when there are feelings involved.

[pelledorso]

So, I guess I started writing a Chyan fanfiction in the year of the Lord 2023

[cannonball5]

Thought of an idea for a Rina fic that I’m too busy to even attempt writing and wanted to share in case someone else wants to take a stab at it:

Ricky and Nini wrote a song together that blew up online and made them famous. Marketed as a duo they wrote an entire album together. After breaking up their label decided to drop Ricky and keep Nini. Forced to find a new label and producer he eventually starts working with Jaime Porter.

Meanwhile Jaime in an attempt to give his little sister Gina some stability for at least the majority of her high school education, becomes her guardian.

Ricky and Gina meet, fall for each other, drama ensues. You know the drill.

Any one want to give it a shot?

[notebookpapers]

Fandom: Promare (2019) Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Lio Fotia/Galo Thymos Series: Part 2 of GaloLio Week 2023 <3 🩷💙

Galo radiated warmth, before and after the Promare, both in his personality and in everything he’d do. He would smile and play with the burnish kids, would play games with them to keep their minds off the tragedy. He would smile, even as his eyes drooped, after days and days of backbreaking restoration work.

Galo, his brain supplies. Galo will make you feel better. Galo will make you feel safe.

-

Or: Lio is woken up by nightmares. Luckily, everyone’s favorite firefighting idiot is here to help.

Fic for @galolio-week 2023 Day 2: Warmth!! Featuring a first kiss, a little bit of angst, and some snuggles! (Because, listen, I KNOW Galo gives good hugs, alright? I feel it in my SOUL)

[illogicaldisplay]

OK OK HEAR ME OUT RN

CHYAN TANGLED AU

NO I WILL NOT ELABORATE

ok i kinda love this. which one would be rapunzel?

i feel like i have to think abt this a lot now. ill keep yall updated!

[jesslainspiringwriter]

Welcome & My Blogs' Info

Hiya! My name is ╰☆☆ Ⓙⓔⓢⓢⓘⓒⓐ ☆☆╮ and I am in my early 30's. I enjoy the simplest things but love luxerious things. My all time favorite things are

*Fanfiction Reading and Writing > Troyella (HSM) ^ Bellarke (The 100, Tv Show) ^ Rogan (Gilmore Girls) so if you want to see some examples of mine, sneak peeks to enjoyed stories, and more head to my blog, ^^ This one.

*Trying to live a happy and HEALTHIER lifestyle, so for all things like BUJO/My Happy Planner Inspo, Inspiration, quotes, articles, meal plan samples, weight check ins, and what's most important to me on this journey> MANAGING MY TYPE 2 DIABETIES on a Budget and in a Small Town with no gym. Go to > jessicashealthylifejourney BLOG

*For all things CREATIVE and Happy & Organization Tips & Tricks & Productivity and MORE. Go to > planningwithjessa

[netherfeildren]

Honey, Stomach, Mine ; 3. I Was a Child Once, I'm Not Any Longer

Series Masterlist ; Part 1. ; Part 2.

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Dystopian Society; Outbreak not Cordyceps AU; Slow Burn; Soft!Dom Joel; Sexual Inexperience; Small booby worship; FLUIDS — like lot’s of fluids forreal omg; Tummy Bulge; Heat Sex; Knotting; Biting; Mating; Blood Mention; Loss of Virginity; Squirting; Pussy Slapping; Breeding Kink; Size Difference; Size Kink; Power Dynamics; Creampie; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Older and Experienced Alpha; Young and Needy Omega; Possessive Behavior; Age Gap

A/N: It's raining here right now and feels really like a perfect morning to post this, I hope you like it.

Word Count: 12.4K

Read on AO3

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3. I Was a Child Once, I'm Not Any Longer

When you make your way into the kitchen a while later – he’d left you with clear instructions of bathroom and teeth, thinking to give you some privacy to adjust to yourself once again after what you’d done together this morning – you’re nothing more than a little omegan mess. Hair a birds nest, his too big t-shirt sliding over one naked shoulder, and worst of all, almost bringing him to his goddamn knees, in the bright morning light shining in through the big bay windows, he can see the glossy mess of your slick smeared all down and along your pretty thighs, almost reaching your knees. 

Jesus fuck, but he’s in trouble. His teeth hurt, his gut aches, his cock – a mind of its own. It’s all starting, and he’s afraid and unprepared and too desperate to put into words. He wants it all now, he realizes, despite his fear, he can’t help himself but want it all. 

You step into the room primly, nose turning up in the air to sniff curiously at the smell of what he’s making you for breakfast, and when your eyes swing around the room to him, shy. Shy as if you’re remembering your modesty only after you’d let him finger your cunt and slicked his cock. The look makes him want to be gentle, a thing he often is not. And when his eyes move further down, something goes soft and shy within him as well: two of his too big socks, mismatched and sagging around your ankles. 

There’s something about you that’s impeccably vulnerable and honest, something he needs to guard fiercely. 

He blinks away, looking back at the cooking sausages he’s got sizzling in the pan. No one had ever cared for you before, not in any real and true way, and he’d received you here with nothing but promises of more uncaring gestures, threats to send you packing. The wrong foot indeed. He’s such an asshole. And he’d not seen to his responsibility properly last night, hadn’t made sure you’d had a rich and filling dinner, left you in bed alone and cold and without him, entirely unequipped for this little life that had suddenly been placed in his hands. But you’d also scared him last night, out on the cliff, more scared than he’d been at the simple notion of you, that of losing you, like with the letter, the bidding pool and the threat of you being given away, there was something wrongly terrifying about it all, the sudden possibility of you not being with him. Scared into want, into wakefulness, perhaps. 

Out of the corner of his eye he watches you tip toe into the living room, making your slow exploration around, to the big window where you pause to watch the outside world for a long moment, palm splayed against the glass as if you could reach out and touch it all, pluck the world into the cup of your hand. Then to the fireplace, bending in half to peer into the hearth and watch the flames pop, the sofa next, where he’d brought out another stack of blankets. You’d start nesting soon, and he needs to make sure you have the things you’ll want. 

He watches as you bring the corner of one of the quilts to your nose, smelling the scent of him that lingers there, rubbing it against your face, and then moving to the stack of his sweaters he’d left beside, you bend to bury your face in the soft, worn wool. His heart thumps and thumps and thumps within him. You pull one blanket first, laying it before the warm hearth in the spot of rug he’d cleared for just this. And then another and another, some pillows on either side, sweaters tucked and stuffed between, starting to build your nest. He’s hard, knot tight and hot and ready, and he has to take a few steadying breaths, force himself to look away and pull the biscuits he’d made from the oven, flipping the gas on the stove off and pulling the eggs and sausages from the heat, grabbing the bowl of oatmeal he’d readied for you as he moves towards the bar. 

“I made you some oatmeal, c’mere,” he calls, voice graveled with strangling want, but he appreciates the look of bright curiosity you swing his way. He’s coming to realize he finds everything about you, everything you do, devastatingly arousing, even just a simple look, the shift of your jaw. He pulses beneath his jeans as you approach, remembering the leak of your cunt against the throb of his cock from earlier and wanting more of it already. 

He hoists you onto the bar stool when you reach him, he’d draped a folded throw over the hard curve so you’d have something soft to sit your sore little cunt on, and turning you to face him, he slots you between his spread thighs on his own stool, close as he can get you. You stretch towards the spread of food, and give a little sniff, scrunching your nose at him in distaste. 

“Don’t gimme that face. Look, whatever you want–” He shows you the eggs and sausages and the oatmeal. He’d wanted to give you options. “I put honey and milk and cinnamon in it. Berries–” He pulls the bowl of blackberries closer. “You’re gonna be a good girl and eat all of it, and I’m gonna sit here and watch you do just that. C’mon, sweet thing, do as I say.” You look at him suspiciously, but with those words, as if your obedience were a foregone conclusion when he asks the right way, you start to eat. Slow little kitten licks and sips from the spoon of honey milked oats, and he has to force himself to turn and not burn you with the intensity of his gaze, piling his own plate high with biscuits and gravy and eggs and sausages, gut roiling with hunger not for food, he forces himself to eat, one palm still gripped at the back of your stool right up against your ass. He needs to feel you, to keep you close, it’s all starting now. 

“Do you eat meat?” He asks, taking a bite of the savory and fatty sausage. You scrunch your nose again, nothing but wide eyes and a bout of sweet timidity now that your greedy cunt had gotten what it needed. “No? You wanna try?” You shake your head no, shrug that bare and tempting shoulder, end on a nod, leaning forward to take a small nibble of the meat from his own fork. Plush blossom mouth opening to slick itself against the metal where his own mouth had just been – his cock leaks. You chew slowly, thinking, come back for more. He pulls you even closer, tugging the stool loudly against the hardwood floor, feeding you from his own plate and hand, watching the shift of your jaw, the bright of your eyes as you enjoy all the food he’s made just for you, until his plate is clear, and he’s so fucking hard he feels faint – all the blood that’s supposed to be in his brain pooling at his groin.

He could feed you forever. He will. 

Picking at the blackberries now, carefully choosing the fattest and shiniest one first, he presents it to you, watching your eyes shift from the berry to his eyes back and forth until you finally decide to humor him, plucking at his wrist with two tiny fingers, only a quarter of him in your grasp to pull him towards you, and opening your mouth so that he can place it on the dip of your tongue. Your mouth purses around it, they're sweet and tangy this time of year, and your nose scrunches again at the sour zing, and you’re so– he can’t help himself. Joel feels like a fucking animal, wholly himself. He yanks you towards him, up into his lap, head wrenched back and fucking eats at you, licking into you, tasting the fruit on your tongue, swallowing it down his own throat along with your spit. It’s disgusting only because it’s not enough, only because he wants more. And you– you respond to him immediately, little warbling song of a different sort of hunger in your throat, hitching higher in his lap, pressing closer, tugging and clawing at him. 

He feels insane. He feels insane. 

It’s a difficult thing to want so much, to be so confronted by the depth of your desire, your nature, to hold it within the palm of your hand as he is now. 

You climb over him, moving to straddle his lap, to rub that needy cunt over his lap, ravenous huffs as you push and pull him this way and that, kissing his face, his ears, his neck, smelling his hair. He has to plant his bare feet wide, steadying himself to hold the two of you upright as you lose control a little bit. It’s almost time, it’s so near. 

He lets you do as you need, grinding against him, marking him with your scent; your inexperience obvious in your desperation. For the life of him, he can’t fathom what his excuse is. 

His hands slide over your knees, “Look’t what you’ve done,” he tuts, passing a ghosting thumb over the skinned little cap, adventure wound from last night, up your thighs, beneath the hem of the t-shrit, no fucking panties, fuck, his fingers slip against your slick covered thighs to grip the meat of your ass, slippery, pulling your ass cheeks apart to feel all that glorious wet sliding everywhere. He needs to calm down, but he pulls you tight against the pulse of his cock, grinds and grinds and pants up into your own open mouth. 

You’re staring down at him now, wide eyed, and your frantic movements slow, hands on either side of his face, fingers clutching at the curls that wrap around his ears. He slides one hand lower to cup your sex, the smooth and bare little palm-full of it, the other sliding up your back, over your shoulder and down your arm to grip and squeeze your wrist tight, your eyes flash, and then he moves to cup your little tit, pinching and twisting the soft puffiness of your nipple, smiling up at your little gasp, and tucks the tip of his index finger inside of you, just a crook of the first knuckle, just to feel you tremble around him. You gasp, oh, and he wants to tie you up in strings and play with you, make you whatever he wants at that moment. Yeah? Just like that? He whispers up at you, and he wants you to give him so many things and everything, and suddenly, the possibilities of him are endless, so much potential to be born from you. He wants to fuck you full and breed you and keep you forever, and he feels insane and finally soothed. 

It’s the rut starting, he knows, and it should be considered a cruelty to want something so much, but you only feel like a gift. 

You sigh a shaky little exhale that makes his stomach clench with how sweet it sounds, lashes fluttering shut at the feel of him breaching you just this little bit. He bends his head to bite at your nipple over the worn cotton of his shirt, keeping his eyes on yours, on the shocked look you’re wearing. He gives one sharp tug with his mouth, and then shoots back up to press one more swift, hard kiss to your open mouth. When he pulls his finger from your leaking hole, he gives your pussy a gentle pat, right on the clit.

“We gotta calm down,” he says slow, can hear the sticky splash of your cunt against his patting fingers. You nod your head, but shift your hips side to side, trying to find friction. “Told you we gotta time it right – take our time. Didn’t I?” But his hand provokes you still, looking up at you with all the wonder of a man coming across something he’d searched for all his life and yet, at the final moment of discovery, is still shocked. 

“You need to eat too,” you say shyly, fingers still twined around his ears, one single tip laid flat against his right gland, applying soft pressure, pulling away, tapping twice, applying pressure again. Your shared want in a clicking language. 

You slide off his lap, back to your own stool, but keep your knees hooked over one of his own thighs, two little feet pressed against the other, fingers still shifting in his hair, petting him while he piles his plate again and digs in. You touch him everywhere you can reach, tugging on his ears, hand smoothing over the muscles in his arms, poking the soft of his belly, gripping his jaw on either side to count his chews, and then palm cupping his throat to feel his swallows.  

He feels suddenly, desperately impatient for the heat to start in full, to spread you wide on the ground and fuck into your slicked, open cunt, to pump it full of his semen and tie you to him with his knot. To own you in a way that only the thing you are and the thing he is would allow. 

You stare at him intently, focused concentration, like you’re reading his mind, brows furrowed and chin tipped. 

“Can I help you?” He crooks a brow at you. 

You shake your head, staring him down, chin to sternum. “No– You eat so much.”

“M’hungry,” he mumbles around a forkful of eggs, desperate to fill that hollow concaved feeling in his gut he knows is ravenous for something other than just food. But you nod solemnly, as if it were a thing of the utmost importance.

“I understand,” you say very seriously, still nodding. 

He swallows, tipping his head to look at you. And he realizes you’re right, in the obvious way of all such designated things, that you do understand him, and perhaps, for reasons other than just that mere designation. And on the tail end of that realization, another: he feels suddenly, starkly, like a victim. A victim in the same way you were, are, would have been, would no longer be. That same white box, that same perilous ledge, both of you trapped between precarious truth and free will. Both of you the same, and sitting here, side by side, now free, as well. Even despite your ties to each other. Of course you understand each other, you’re the same.

“How ‘bout we go down to the beach?” And your eyes go bright as that glowing comet, immediately throwing your arms around his neck and taking a bite at his ear, excited as a puppy. 

Oh, please, please, please, yes. Yes, let’s go, you squeal and strangle him, almost rip his hair out of his head, but it feels good. It makes him feel real. 

-

He’d dressed you in too many stupid, stifling layers, buttoned to the chin. Long thermals beneath your jeans, a sweater, a large puffer jacket, two pairs of socks, ridiculous, scarf wrapped around your throat you’re sure he’d use as a leash to stop you from galloping so far ahead of him across the wet sand if you gave him the chance.  

You want to run naked and reckless and free down the cold, battered shoreline. 

Everything is gray, everything is dark and cold and wet and so very unlike you. But you feel like it all allowed you to shed that blanket of shyness you’d donned at breakfast, after the kiss. All this: vast and endless and huge in a way you’ll never be. It makes you feel, for some reason, very steadfast in your smallness. Like, look how large the world is, look how unending, look how the sea crashes and prepares to strangle anything that would fall into it. What does it matter, my size in the world, my significance, when faced with all this? I might as well just be. 

You turn back to look at where he meanders slowly in the imprinted path of your bootprints, laughter in your throat you can’t help, holding the pail he’d brought down for you to collect treasures out of the sand. The sky is angry, and from this distance, lashed by the wind as he is, he looks as small as you feel. This is comforting; the two of you are the same.

You are the same. 

Standing still, you wait patiently for him to reach you, rolling the laugh like a stone over the surface of your tongue, enjoying the hurt of the saltspray, the biting wind that penetrates all the layers he’d insisted on. Soon there’ll be no part of you left unpierced. 

And when he finally reaches you, he pauses but two steps away, and God, he has eyes like mirrors, staring down at you from his great height, and silently puts the pail out for you to drop the new additions for your hoard, a sparkling shard of blue green sea glass, a two halved clamshell, the inside: a star hued lavender, cream and silver glow. Surely what the flesh of a dream must look like were it to come alive. 

Your thoughts turn suddenly, you spit the laugh out into the world and watch as it jars him, remembering how you’d read once, in all the many things you’d read in your many years of not life, that when a chest is split open during a traumatic emergency, that the procedure of splitting both halves of the sternum and ribs is called a clamshell thoracotomy. The process allows for access to both sides of the thoracic cavity – full exposure. 

And you can’t, for the life of you, explain why the thought comes into your mind now, staring at that little purple dream as you watch it fall from your sand wet fingertips into the pail he holds poised for you, but you’re sure that whatever the connection might be, it lies only with the idea that you’re prepared for him to do the same to you, that you’re ready for anything when it comes to him.  A splitting, a keeping – what more could be done to a creature used to only half measures? Half life, not life, half omega – not mated, full omega – mated. The intricacies of it all no longer matter, only the yes or no. 

“Will you still send me away?” He’d said he’d changed his mind, but you still ask anyways, voice sliding over the screaming of the sea, throwing him off kilter. You want to hear the words. It’ll storm soon, the waves tell of this by the way they throw themselves against the sea stacks. Poor things, you think, nothing but beaten. 

But you’re not like that. Let him say what he will, you feel buoyant and helpless and completely uncaring. 

And he’s very silent for a long moment, chewing on the possible rejection that you’ll spit right back at him if need be. But then: “Don’t you want your own life?” He asks, and his tone makes you pause, the look in his eyes makes you pause for the fear in it all, for the trepidation it’s made up of. You tilt your head at him this way and that, inspecting him very closely, reading him for all he’s worth. You wonder if he realizes how transparent he’s suddenly become to you. All his hurts, faults, strengths, nature, revealed to you with one question. 

Choice.

He’s asking you what you want. 

“Can’t I make a life here with you?” You counter. 

“Wouldn’t you like to see the world as only yourself?”

Further clarity – the marrow of all he is: afraid. 

You go very soft on the inside, all you are in light of all he is. “I already am myself, Joel.” The sea lashes and howls, his name off your tongue does the same. “Can’t you understand that? This is me, this is what I am.”

He frowns so darkly at that, “I do understand, but I–”

And you step to him, reaching up to cradle his face in your hands, size dwarfing you, fear not: “No. You don’t. But it’s okay, I’m going to show you,” and you turn to continue your path along the water, secure in your certainty now that he’ll follow regardless of anything else. 

Joel wants you to have choices. You’d failed to realize this before, you’d seen only his withholding. 

He moves alongside you after a while, after you’ve allowed him a moment of consideration, idling patiently while you dig through the sand, crouching down to hunt for shells and rocks and glass, fingers wriggling deep beneath the freezing cold sand to feel the burn of it. And after a distance longer, and with much bravery, you clasp two of his too big fingers in your sand crusted fist and hold his hand as you walk together, gently leading him down the path you choose, and he’s so grumpy, and you can’t help but be endeared. 

“I think that's the end of the world out there,” you say, pointing to that stopping point where your eyes won’t go any further.

 He looks out at the sea, eyes stopping as far as the world allows, swings back to your face. And you clutch at his arm, pressing your cheek against his bicep, taking in his scent which has deepened and swelled and grown a body within the last hours – the musked cardamom of him – staring out at all that immensity, personification of all you feel for him, this want that is violent and grown teeth, that exists as nature exists. This want that, yes, perhaps you did not choose, but is still what you want, is still what’s right. 

“The sea is so beautiful, and I’m so happy to be here.” No, you don’t want to go out and find another life. You want to find life here. 

You already have. 

When you turn your face up to his again, he’s staring down at you with that strange look from before, but changed now too. Devouring. No one has ever looked at you like this, and you don’t think anyone else besides him ever will. It’s only him, you see, with eyes like mirrors that reflect back your shared sameness. 

“Is that what you came out here for? To find the end of the world? To hide?” You don’t care if you shouldn't ask, you don’t care about any of the things you shouldn’t do, only about what you want in this moment here and now. 

Selfish, selfish, selfish. Yes.

“What does it matter?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “But it does.” It means everything.

He doesn’t respond, only more of that unfathomable look. You don’t care about this either, let him have his silence like a weapon or a punishment. 

“How old are you?” You ask now, realizing that no one had ever told you, that you’d never even cared to ask – bad of you. But not that it would have mattered or made a difference. 

“Too old. Old enough to be your father.” And this makes you angry, sparking angry. Your father – you’d had a father. A stranger father, but still yours. Joel is not that. So, this is anger like Leo’s. Anger at his offhandedness, anger at your own want, despite his words that sit like rust over your skin, anger at the violence of your own want. 

You fight to swallow it, roll your eyes at him. Insist: “How old?” 

“Forty eight.” And he says it like an admission of guilt, which you snort at blithely. 

You flash two held up fingers at him twice, mouthing the words, twenty two. 

His gaze is sad again, and you rub his arm gently, soothing. “I know.” 

And yes, you think, he surely knows so much, but not everything. “I’m not anything else but what I am, you know? What I want to be.”

“Too young–”

You ignore him, voice insistent, “And neither are you.” You turn to face him full on now, taking two steps away so you’re not forced to crane your neck up at him, he cants towards you as if he can’t bear the distance. Nature: he surges toward it hungrily, and just as quickly, surges away. The wind buffets his scent against you, washes you in it. “You can’t make me any of these things you’d thought I’d be. I’m only what I am, and you’re only what you are. Whatever the rest of it is you want to force, or the world wants to force, or the white box says I should be– I don't give a fig for any of that.” You swipe your hand in a cutting gesture through the salted air, and he looks like he might smile first, lands on a flinch instead. “I am not ornamental, Joel.” 

And he flinches again, jarred by his name, but then seems to remember himself, to be reminded of himself by the sound of it, and musters his strength, tightens his seams and says, “‘Nd I’m not here for you to impose yourself on. I’m going to make my own choices.”

“So will I,” you say slowly, and you suddenly want to cry. “So do I. This,” you, “Is my choice because I’m also an omega.” You suck in a tremulous breath. That truth, like a sea between the two of you. You’d thought he’d seen, understood, that he wouldn't have touched you as he had this morning, as no one else ever had, if he didn’t understand the gravity of that. “And if I’m not scared of that, you shouldn't be either.”

He swallows once, twice, devastated mask in place. He looks so forlorn, bearing a weight beyond his years on his shoulders. He turns out to face the water and asks it, “But what about what I want?” Not what he needs.

You close the two steps of distance, pressing against his side, circling his thick wrist in both of your hands, feeling the weight and strength of the bone beneath fevered skin. His sweater is thick, cable knit, soft and worn, a tiny fray at the edge of the sleeve, and a deep navy color, layered over a blue green flannel. No jacket again, he’d donned the colors of the sea instead, but you know now that he isn’t cold. It’s almost time. 

You’d felt so shy after this morning, as you’d walked out to face him in the light of day, sat in his lap and kissed him, newly made, newly minted. Now, you feel as if you know everything you could ever need to know about everything there is to know about you and him. 

“What about what you want? What do you want? Tell me,” you beg. “Say it out loud so we can both hear the truth of it no matter what it costs you.”

“Sweetheart, please,” he begs for mercy, looking down at you again, standing within the confines of your shackle, something further than devastation on his face now. Something like shedding years against your will, going back in time, stepping within a vehicle that would take you to the worst of it all, that point at the end of the world which he already stands on. 

The two of you feel, very much, like two unexploded bombs, existing with great care beside each other. 

The highs of his cheekbones and the tip of his nose are cold reddened, wind lashed, curls damp from the spray of the waves, burning with that dogged nature he fights and fights and fights. And he’s such a part of the world, standing here like this, tall and broad and vital. You want to be like that too, you think, large in a changing way. And he’s strong, strong in a way other creatures aren’t, strong in a way you aren’t. 

But weak in others. 

You release his wrist, forgo the shackle, remain in place. There’s a desperate plea coming from either of you, which though, you’re not entirely sure. 

And then suddenly, and you can’t even be sure from where it comes from because really, if you’re the most honest you can be, you know nothing of this thing. “Have you ever been in love?”

He goes so still that the sea seems to grow more violent in comparison, an offset to his freeze. “Yes. I have.”

“Will you–” swallow your fear, be the brave girl, “Will you ever love me?” You must ask. There’s no other recourse for you in this, you want all of it or nothing.

He bends to you suddenly, getting right in your face, cold nose to cold nose, teeth bared, animal. “I am selfish and jealous and cruel. And I will keep you in a strangle. Do you understand that? Can you even understand what it’ll mean to belong to me? To belong to a thing like this? Yes, I will love you.” So then there’s nothing else to care about. He spins away from you, paces, paces, “I’ve– I… fuck–” fights the dog fight – you wonder how long he’s waged it for, maybe his whole life – turns back to face you, and there’s the look of a boy now too, like Leo, lost and angry and faced with what he is in an insurmountable, unwinnable way. We are what we are, truth impossible to ignore. 

And then finally, fight lost, his face does a funny thing, a strange fracture and decision happening across the canvas of it, all at once. “I used to be a father. I used to have a daughter,” he tells you. 

Entirely unexpected. Entirely terrifying. “Used to?” You take an urgent step toward him, use an urgent tone, the memory of your aunt and of would-be parents flashes in your mind. You don’t want him to say what you know he’s about to say. “Where is she?” You aren’t so naive.

“Sarah,” and he says her name with so much love. “She died.”

You shake your head no, tears swept away with the wind, freezing salted on your lashes. “No,” you say again, louder. 

“When the outbreak happened – in the confusion. We were attacked ‘cause of what I was,” and he shakes his head once, hard and fast as if trying to jostle the confusion out of his mind, or perhaps knock it back into coherence, “Am,” voice limp at the end.

And then he’s the one coming to you, taking you up into his hold, cradling you more gently than the world could ever imagine a thing like him capable of. He finally understands what you are, you can feel it in the way he holds you. “Oh, no, Joel,” you cry into his neck, hugging him to yourself, pulling his head down to rest on your shoulder. “Oh, no. Oh, no.” Your poor alpha. Your poor alpha, he’d been so alone, so hurt and so afraid, and you realize now that you’ll have to be strong for the both of you, that you need to help him in ways only you can, that you need to be strong when he can't. And there’s only sameness here, of the most important sort. Both of you together, equal. When one could not, the other would. 

It’s obvious the way all truths are. 

“If I care for another thing…”

“I understand,” you tell him. It’s obvious the way all truths are: he’s afraid. 

You kiss his face, cup his ears to warm them, bring one of his too big, rough hands to your mouth, pressing your lips to his knuckles, letting him know you’re here now to protect him in the ways he’d never been and had always needed and would never want for again. 

-

He pulls you against himself in a hurt lock, tight enough he lifts you straight off your feet, face buried in your hair, teeth at your neck, biting hard enough you let out a bay of hurt. He can’t explain it, but there is so much care in the words you choose to wield against him, so much wisdom despite the innocent naivety, a clarity about the way you see him and all the rest of the world that sends him into such existential vertigo, makes him want to take a bite out of you so that he might swallow some of that innocence, some of that wisdom down for himself. An honesty about you that gives him no choice but to choose that which he knows he’s always wanted but has never let himself need. 

“I understand,” you’re whispering, letting him savage your throat as he needs. “But everything is going to be okay now–” a moan of pain, “–that we have each other, don’t you see that? We’ll take care of each other.”

He digs his teeth deeper at the fine tendon in your neck, and then slides his tongue up and over your gland, tasting the leak of pheromones there. It’s time now, he can feel it pulse and beat, glowing bright within you. He had been stupid and carelessly blind. He’d been a liar. “I see now – I see. It’s alright, sweetheart. Don’t cry. I’m alright now.” But you wrap your arms around his head, comfort and cradle him, and he has to have you with a desperation that brandishes teeth and boils. 

He shoves you back by your hips, keeping his grip on you steady, and turns to push you back down the beach the way in which you’d come. “Home. Now.” But you push back against him, rubbing your ass against the heft of his cock, presenting him with that cunt that belongs to him. 

“No. Here.” It’s a demand, you have an instinct for this. 

“Absolutely not,” but he’s gripping your hips hard enough to bruise anyways, grinding against you, tension vibrating his too big body, as if he were actually considering it, taking you here and now. 

Please.

“You’d let me knot you right here on the beach with the whole ocean and God watchin’?”

“Yes. Yes, I don’t care.” You try and turn in his arms, head craning back, hungry mouth seeking his own lips.

The insanity of the fever. Now, omega, he rumbles, and there’s no mistake in the burr of his tone, his nature on display, loud and clear – an alpha ordering his omega back to her nest so that he might have her there. He shoves you forward gently, setting you on your way, and picks up your pail full of treasures to stalk after his own. He takes in the sparkle of seaspray like gems in your hair as he follows, the shiver of your frame beneath the too many ridiculous layers he’d forced you into, the stumbling of your feet as you turn back to spy him hunting after you.  There’s wet on your face, and he doesn’t know if it’s the salt of your tears or the salt of the sea, and he wonders if when he drags his tongue across it he’ll be able to tell the difference. He’s sure he will. 

Your scent like a leash leads him, stronger and fuller and warm enough to burn. His gut is tight and aching, cock so hard he feels he can barely stand up straight. He’s sure he can smell the pouring of your slick from your finally readied cunt, the bloom of it obvious in the air around you, juniper berries everywhere – something warmer, spiced vanilla, earth. It’s so good he wants to swallow it down like liquid, drink from your well. 

He follows and follows, and if you weren’t already at the end of the world, he’d follow you there too. Up the stone steps etched into the cliffside, the steep incline sending you to huff and puff in strain. He’d feed you more, make you strong, feed you his cock and fill your belly with his come like honey. His breaths are bullish, bursting out in white clouds of steam, his neck hot and damp, skin boiling beneath his clothes. 

You keep turning back nervously, your left hand stretching back as if to reach for him, and then speeding up again in agitation, going as fast as your much shorter legs can take you compared to his. But he measures himself, lets you get there in your own moment, and eventually, he’s pushing open the cabin’s front door and shoving you inside, forgetting to measure his strength, lost in his delirium as he is, so that you’re stumbling, being snapped back like a rubber band with his fist wrapped in the back of your jacket. 

He rips it down your arms, uncoils the scarf, pulls the sweater over your head, hair a mess, all disoriented and malleable, and yanks you back and into his chest, heaving you up into his arms so that he can clamp his teeth at your throat again, laving his tongue over your gland, slicking you in his spit, sucking hard at the patch of skin, the burst of flavor on his tongue now, bubbling, carbonated almost, so strong his knees buckle and his cock is surely leaking a stream of precum down his leg. So fucking sweet, he’s growling, murmuring like a madman, grinding his erection into the lush of your ass, fingers sneaking under your shirt to squeeze hard and tight at your little tits. Your belly is a ball of embering fire, like you’d swallowed a comet, and he presses down on it gently, hand low on your pelvis over where your little womb is, this place he’s about to fuck full of his spend. 

“The way you smell – your scent – I’ll go fucking crazy, I swear I will.” His voice sounds not his – coming from some source outside of his body, ringing hollowly in his head empty of everything else except you. 

It’s started, it’s started, it’s started. 

You’re full of glorious heat, and he soothes at the soft swell of your belly with gentle circles, hand sliding down to cup the little palm-full of your cunt, rubbing back and forth over your jeans, and then goes to his knees behind you, pawing at the button, ripping them down your legs along with the leggings he’d forced you into beneath them, panties and all; the popping of seams – his or the clothes he can’t be sure. He traps you in the tangle, leaving them around your ankles, boots still on and takes a too sharp, too aggressive bite of your ass cheek, leaving teeth marks, leaving Joel marks, enjoys the sound of your baying that ends on a shocked little squeak, a little ah, ah, ah. He grips your asscheeks too tightly and spreads them wide, watching the delicious little wink of your holes provoking him, and licks the broad flat of his tongue from cunt to asshole, finally, fucking finally tasting you. 

He’s entirely lost to his madness from that moment forward.

He licks your ass again, again, pushes you forward to deepen the arch of your spine to eat at you better, and you mewl, whine, Joel, I’ll fall, but he can’t find it in himself to care. “Fall,” he tells you, “I’ll catch you.” But he spins you in his hands, fast and stumbling, trapped as you are, to face him on his knees before you as he is, as he should be, and you’re so small, morsel sized, perfect for swallowing whole, and open mouthed, he inhales at the mound of your cunt, tongue swiping out to find your clit swollen already. 

You smell like nothing he can describe, too delicious to allow him the choice of clear thought. He pulls you down to the ground, rips your boots and pants the rest of the way off, and right there on the floor by the front door, he spreads your legs wide and eats your cunt. 

Eats it. 

Nothing gentle or restrained about it as he probably should, this being your first time a man licks your pussy, small and innocent as it is, he fucks his tongue inside your shaky hole, sucks hard and sharp on yor clit, your first orgasm, sensitive as you are, trembling through you already. More, more, more, he wants more. He hunches over you like the beast he is, tiny thing, pulls you up, palm cupping your bottom, one knee knocking against his ear, the other leg splayed wide, sliding down his arm, so he can suck, suck, lick at your clit, a gentle kiss as a prize for taking it so well, and then his tongue is back into your cunt to taste the river of slick you’re spilling just for him. Your flavor, so musk heavy, sweet and thick like honey; he feels full and set to burst, no more hollow pit. And he wants more, to gorge and gorge like a glutton. You come again, a splash against his tongue, so wet you’re slipping and sliding in his grip. He can hear your high pitched cries and whines, your Joel, Joel, Joel’s he shushes, soothes with his tongue, little kiss to your little clit that pulses against his mouth. 

“Y’taste so fuckin’ good, baby.” He lets you down, crawling over you, pushing your shirt up to get at your tits, sucking and biting hard enough to hurt. He wants you to feel it all for days after the heat’s over, to leave marks, to make sure he’s left in your skin forever. Forcing your jaw wide, he slicks his tongue along yours, feeds you the taste of your own cunt, salty, sweet, his, and you take it so well, half limp and yet still clinging to him weakly, two orgasms forced on your virgin pussy back to back. 

He scoops you up, belly to belly, spider limbs around his neck and waist, grabby hands yanking at his hair like you’re angry he’s not put you on his knot yet. His knees pop, his back aches something fierce as he heaves the two of you up, muscles in his thighs bulging to support you – he’s fucking old – and walks you over to your nest, setting you down on your back, spreading your knees wide, cunt ripe and blooming, so red, a wound of all the world says you’re meant to be.

Slicking his thumb over the soaked curve of it there’s a sticky string of omega drool that leaves him connected to you when he pulls back. He presses again at your swollen clit, thinks he can almost see the pulse of your rushing blood beat here at your spread cunt, slides down to the tiny winking hole and circles his finger there, giving you the slightest pressure, pressing in a tiny bit, up again to tease your clit. 

“I’m gonna fuck this soft little hole until it’s so full of my come I don’t fit inside no more. Would you like that, sweet baby?” He asks so gently, don’t spook the fawn, don’t spook the beast. 

Your eyes are fevered, face covered in a shine of sweat, your belly glows with heat, and you nod slowly, little smile playing tricks with him whispering across your face. His hands slide up, circle your waist, squeeze and squeeze and squeeze as if he could watch you burst, witness all that heat explode like a comet, then further up to your chest, two big hands covering two little tits.

“You’re so pretty, little omega.” And you preen, you glow, suffused with such vulnerable, honest pleasure. Joel has to be so careful, he has to be so good for you. He will be. You circle one of his wrists, tender little hand, fingers of vapor, he has to be so good for you, he has to be so careful. Again, remember, remember. He bends to press a soft kiss to the pretty tip of each nipple. 

“They’re too small,” you whisper in an even smaller voice. 

“No. No, baby, no.” He presses another kiss, drags his teeth over a peak, sucks on the other, switching back and forth. “They’re fucking perfect, so pretty and so soft. I love them– I’m fuckin’ obsessed with you.” He opens his jaw wide and takes the whole soft mound of it into his mouth, sucking on the whole thing of it. He probably shouldn’t say such things, he doesn’t give a fuck. “Look–” he says around the little globe, “Whole thing fits in my mouth.” He bites some more, kisses some more, sucks on them until you’re whining and pushing him away, until they’re sore and stinging and still he doesn't stop. He shows you just how obsessed he is.

He kisses you all over, your belly, your waist, the soft spot beneath your ribs, your thighs, and the pulse between your collarbones. Slow, slow. He has to be slow and gentle and patient for as long as his looming rut allows, he needs to ease you into this. Taking an ankle first in one hand, he presses a kiss to the gland just there on the inside of it, suckles a little, then the other, and watches as your cunt becomes more and more needy and swollen, red as a bloom, until you’re so desperate for it you’re writhing around wantonly in the nest of blankets, almost entirely lost to your fevered delirium, but not just yet, not just yet. 

“Will you– will you put your big thing inside me now?” You slur innocently.

And he laughs gently, a tenderness pinching his heart which if he was less lost to himself, he might cry for. “My big thing?”

Oh, please. “Please, I– I think– please, I think I really need it now.” You twist this way and that, pulling the blankets up to your face to hide yourself away. 

“Almost, sweetheart. Almost.” But he feeds you two of his fingers then, playing in your slick, the sticky wound of softness, and crooks his fingers to wedge them just inside of you. “Like that– oh, isn’t that nice?” He croons, pressing a little further in, feeling the stretch of you around him. Your eyes go wide and shocked, your back arching in a taught curve, hips opening for him to sink deeper until he’s palm to cunt. He leans over you, watching the place where his hand disappears inside and hooks his fingers, petting at the textured little place at the front of you, so, so sensitive. You keen loudly, a warbled sound that’s all fucking his. His control is so close to snapping. 

He pulls his fingers from your cunt suddenly, watches how it shudders while you screech at the loss, looking up to search for him with bleary eyes as he rips his shirt and sweater up over his head, and then he’s pressing his two fingers back inside, thrusting into you a little harder, the splash and slap of your cunt as he fucks in and out of your tight hole. “Perfect little thing that's all mine.” He has nothing but praise for you, his good girl, taking him so well. 

He pets and pets at that soft spot, molten heat pouring from your cunt, and when he starts to shake his hand, a little jiggle to knock your next orgasm loose inside of you, you give it up so, so nicely. Pussy going tight as a fucking fist, strangling his fingers, and then spilling loose and soaked, flooding his hand. When the contractions of your little womb have abated he stuffs a third finger in, forgoes some of that gentleness, and pressing a hand low on your pelvis, he shakes his hand hard and fast inside of you. “Want’cha to fuckin’ soak me,” he grits through clenched teeth, head slightly dizzy, slightly faint with want. And with pressure both from the inside and out, you do. Gush of come following your high pitched moan, tears soaking your hairline as much as your pussy just soaked the lap of his jeans. He pulls his fingers from your gaping hole, bends to lick through all that glorious omega slick and swipes his fingers through it from side to side, tapping on your clit harshly, slapping it a little, sucking on it again, fast, fast his fingers from side to side, forcing you into just one more little climax before he lets you rest. 

You’re all twisted in the blankets, face turned and buried in the pillows. He crawls up over you, contorted as you are, cunt splayed wide and pulsing, and unbuttons his jeans as he goes, finally, fucking finally letting his raging cock free. It hurts, it needs you so fucking badly, leaving a sloppy trail of drool slicked along the already wet curve of your belly as it drags heavily against you, bobbing obscenely from his open zipper. He buries his face in your neck, kissing and licking up the taste of you, sucking on your gland. 

“Please, please now. Please, now,” you keep mumbling into the blankets where you’re hiding. Please, now. Begging for his cock and his knot, so ready to take your first fucking like the perfect omega you are. 

“Not yet,” he soothes, petting your hair back from your steaming face, pressing a kiss to your sweaty hairline. Please, you whine high, and he lets his cock rest heavily against the curve of your red cunt, slicking it there, dragging it back and forth, giving you both the weight of what you’ll have so soon. You kick one leg out weakly. “Not yet, it’s okay. It’s okay, sweetheart,” he pitches his voice low, soothing, gathers you to himself. “Let’s rest a little. No, no – just for a little bit,” he says over your whines and cries. You cling to him weakly, hips rocking against him. “I know, baby. I know,” he hums, letting you rub your sticky, sore cunt against the wide head of his cock, nothing but a boneless little mass of omega, stuck to him with tears and slick and sweat. 

He rolls over with you on top of him, the brand of your cunt enveloping his erection between swollen lips, and his knot is ready to pop, it fucking hurts, his rut is near too. But he can tell you just need a little more time – a few more hours to soften and ripen just that little bit more, to lose yourself a little bit more so that he might fit himself inside of you, his too big body in your too little one. 

He gets up eventually, shucking his jeans, and getting a glass of water to force you to take, and leaves the large, cold glass near for when you’ll need it again with all the slick you’re producing. So much that it runs down your thighs, slides up your back and all over him and the blankets and everywhere; everything sticky and heady with your scent. This is, he thinks, right before he succumbs to sleep too, head and balls throbbing from not having come yet, the most singular way an omega claims ownership over an alpha. That scent like a shackle that would keep them together at all times, that scent that after long enough, is impossible to be without. He buries his face in your hair and breathes deep, letting your smell move through him like a tangible thing, a kaleidoscope through his mind until he finally falls asleep. 

-

Your hips move in a slow rocking swing over his belly, slicking the curve of it, making the hair covering him here clump sticky and soaked in this stuff that will not stop coming out of you. There’s so much, and you feel so empty, your head, your head is full of nothing but heat and bubbles and a throb that glows, and you don’t know why, but– oh, finally, he’s waking up. Yes, yes, alpha, wake up now. 

He shifts and rumbles deep in his chest, and you feel his big thing poke you in the butt; it’s so heavy and so thick and it smells so good. You’d sniffed it, and you’d tasted it a little too when you’d first woken up, but you need to make sure to remember to taste it more later again because it had been so yummy, and long too. You can’t understand how it’ll fit, but you’re sure you’ll make it somehow. And it has a funny soft bit of skin at the end, and thick veins that pulse under the warm, incredible softness that covers it. 

His left arm stretches out and over his head, he’s thick here too, big muscles under his skin that’s so burning hot it hurts to touch and feels good all at the same time. He has a dark vein that runs from his shoulder over the bulging muscle, and you’d tasted that too, then pressed your face into his hairy armpit to sniff him there also; gone all drunk and light headed at the scent.  You rock harder; the little nub at the front of your cunt – it belongs to him – it hurts and it’s swollen and when you press your fingers to it, it has a little tiny heartbeat that you’re sure beats to the sound of his name, Joel, alpha, Joel, alpha, and everything is so, so hot. 

You whine that sound you know he likes, the one that you know provokes him, rubbing your slippery cunt all over his stomach, grinding and sliding against him, trying to make the throb go deep and hard again like he’d made you do with his mouth. And oh, he’s so– he makes you so upset, and you feel big and little all at once, and that stretched soreness of your cunt, it’s all his fault, and the bruising around your nipples too, and he needs to put it inside. 

He stretches again, blinks open slowly, long lashes, dimple beside the corner of his mouth, and you dig your nails into the hard muscles of his chest, dragging your blunt edged fingernails down his skin as you slide lower, over his big cock – that’s what it’s called, and you love the sound of the word, think it sounds how you imagine it’ll feel, cock – and try to put it inside, shifting and rolling over it, trying to impale yourself on it. It’s so heavy, and you know the heaviness will make the hurt inside you, the bruised feeling inside you, go away, if only he’d just do it. 

You huff at him, cry a little, whine a lot, try and make it go inside again, slipping and sliding in all the slick that won’t stop coming out of you all while he blinks slow and patient at you, a little smile on his face, and he’s so pretty he makes you so, so upset. You bend forward suddenly and bite his nipple hard, yank on the hairs on his chest and thighs. Hard enough to hurt. He grunts, but lets you, only twinning his fingers in your hair tightly, letting you chew on him until you’ve released his skin on your own. 

“You upset with me ‘cause I haven’t fucked you yet? You gettin’ impatient with me?” You huff at him. “Think you’re ready, sweet thing?” Oh, please, please, please. 

You know that you’ve never been more ready for anything in your entire life. 

He rolls you over, spreading you wide to play with your cunt again, and you start crying for real. “It hurts, alpha, please. It hurts, and I glow.'' It's so hot everywhere. 

“You’re full in your heat now, baby. Don’t worry – knot’s gonna make you feel all better. You’re gonna be so full.” And his voice is so soft and deep and hard too, all at once. It floats away and it comes back, and he sounds like all the things and all the sounds that can have ever existed in the whole world, and also, just right enough to let you remember, only for a second, very calmly and in a moment of bright clarity, that you’d always known he’d come to fix it all. This is only the last part of that at last. 

“My brave girl,” and he pauses a beat above you, between your spread thighs, his cock hanging heavy, tip-slicked between his thighs, giving you a sticky kiss every time it bobs against your tummy. He drags the pad of his thumb at the hollow beneath your eye, catching fallen salt water there, only of desire, not the sad sort, you know the difference so very well by now. And his own eyes, they’re so dark, so full of all that heat that’s so chock full inside you too, but also different, something like cool and serene and full of knowing, full of patience. Eyes like mirrors. The two of you are the same. 

He wraps his big hand around his ever bigger cock, and smears the tip against your swollen, needy sex, pressing hard at the aching nub, sliding down and pressing hard at the bruised little hole. You growl an impatient quipping noise at him, but he returns it in kind, deeper, scarier, full of an order to settle. 

“We have to go slow,” he says, “It won’t fit just like that.”

But you rock your hips in hitching jerks anyways. “No, I’ll make it fit,” you promise, clawing at his chest to achor yourself, find the right angle, find relief. 

He shakes his head, continues to smear and press against you, and then oh, oh, oh, he’s just there, first a big stretch like from the morning, and it hurts, it burns, but not as bad as being without, and you make a sound like you’ve never made before, feeling a feeling you’ve never felt before and had waited your whole life and a year for. Inside, please, please, inside, alpha. He feeds you himself, makes the heat brighter, fans the flames and soothes them all at once, and oh, it really does hurt and feel so good. 

He’s panting like a bull above you, sweating and groaning, and the sounds he makes, the sounds he makes, rough and wounded, like you’re wounding him, like you have the power to wound a great thing like him. “Ain’t that so fucking good?” He coos and croons and pets at you, feeds you and feeds you and feeds you. It’s so big and it splits you, cleaves you wide and forces you into the place and thing you’d lived your whole life waiting to be. “Look at my girl,” he’s saying, “Look how well my little girl takes my big cock in her tiny cunt.”

He pushes a little more, touches a thing inside of you that is swollen and bruised and so sensitive, and, “Oh, you’re in my belly,” you gasp when he finally stops pushing in. You cup your hand over your tummy, pressing down. “I can feel you,” there are tears slipping form the corners of your eyes, and your cunt feels so full it’ll burst or swallow him whole or a little of both, “I can feel you from outside.” You press down harder, rub over the bulge of him inside you; a cock in your belly under your palm. 

So good, just like that, he’s murmuring and you close your eyes to better listen to the dip and hum of his voice. “I am. I am – gonna fill your little womb. And we’re gonna do it just like this for now,” he starts to move, “Just half so you’ll let me in all the way.”

“There’s so much,” you hitch, breath quivering, chin trembling, tears leaking, cunt leaking even more. 

I know, I know, he rubs your belly, soothes you so well, rocks and rocks and rocks, a cock rocking inside of you. He kisses your jaw and your shoulder and your breast, and then changes something, and you finally open your eyes. He touches something so raw inside of you, something that screams and sings and throbs, and there’s something going swollen inside. He’s so beautiful, silver streaked, creased, lines over his forehead, alongside his eyes, his whole life painted in roadmaps and metallic patterns across him. Other places slicked and wet, red and flushed and sun touched, and you make him look like this, and then he presses the swollen thing again, and it bursts. Your cunt flutters, goes so tight it hurts, forces more tears out of your eyes, you claw at him, your body feels not your own, only his. Oh, fuck yes. Good girl. Fucking come for me. For him, for him, for him. 

You shiver and shiver, there’s only hot air and the rocking cock in your belly, the heartbeat inside of you everywhere, and when he finally presses once more, finds the end of the world inside you, he’s all the way in, making a sound that you’ll have to force out of him for the rest of forever; a perfect sound. He tugs you up onto his thighs, sits up, belly to belly and heart to heart and glow to glow, and he fucks you like he said he would. Hard. You finally understand what it means. His cock punches the bruised thing that lives inside, that has you keening a wounded sort of noise, clawing at him, mouth searching for his gland, sliding across his clavicle, up his neck until it’s there, swollen and throbbing and it tastes so, so good you can’t help it when you sink your teeth into the softness of it, the salted rust of his blood sliding over your tongue, down your throat and into your belly like a promise. He makes that glorious sound again, and he fucks you so rough it hurts in only the way fucking a man so much larger than you can hurt. He splits your cunt wide and ruts into you like a beast, and you take it because you want it, because you were made for it, because it’s so right. And you suck on the pierced gland, swallow the taste of him and when a pressure worse than what you could have ever imagined starts to swell within your battered and bruised opening, he pulses and pulses and spills inside of you, filling your womb like he’d said he was going to also. 

Then there is his knot, finally, within you. “Again, baby. Come on my knot, sweetheart. You’ll feel so much better if you do.” And he’s right, as you shiver into it once more with only his command to prompt you, his knot swollen like a lock, connecting you together, it soothes the bruise and the heat from the inside out. He rips your teeth from his neck by your hair, swallows your protests, tasting his own blood on your tongue as he comes inside of you, fills you with a heat more potent than anything the glow had ever made you feel. 

When you fall together like felled weeds, knot tugging gently, mewl falling from your lips, he soothes you so patiently while he continues to spill inside of you, all plugged up as you are, belly set to burst full of semen. He suckles at your nipples, bites and pinches and makes them hurt, and you can do nothing but let him do as he pleases. And you don’t sleep this time, for the throbbing is so strong inside of you, his soft groans sometimes turned to whimpers so wonderful you need to be awake to listen to them forever.

 There’s nothing of the not life anymore, there’s only him here with you. 

He does sleep though, after a while, or he goes very still and very quiet. His lashes quiver and his eyes move beneath their lids as if he were watching a dream, and his body steams and shudders, but eventually, the knot softens enough that you can shift and wiggle over him, and his eyes flash open, predator gaze zeroing on the little omega trying to leave her trap, he presses a big hand down on your tailbone, grinding your cunt that feels raw and full and bruised and right against his pelvic bone. “Where do you think you’re goin’?” Voice a deep burr. 

You give him a shy, appeasing look, nuzzling his belly, his thick pectoral and shift and shimmy up towards his face, feeling the heavy weight of him fall wetly from your bruised sex. It stings and flutters madly, clenching around the too large space he’d made inside you. Shuffling up on your knees, you peck at his chin, his mouth, suck on his lip. And when you look down between the two of you, there’s a puddle of thick white semen slowly drooling from between your legs onto his belly. 

You shuffle down now, licking up the mixture of slick and sweat and come, tasting the crease between his thigh and pelvis. You move lower, and resting your head on his thigh, you mouth at his cock, wet and slobbering, pressing a kiss, tasting the flavor of your cunt. 

“I feel so lovely,” you sigh dreamily, pressing another kiss.

He groans low, “A little more tongue– there you go. Oh, fuck– omega, that’s so good.” He threads his fingers through your hair. “It’s because you’re full of everything I just gave you. You’ll need more soon.”

You open your mouth wider, try to swallow him down, enjoying how his come slips out of you, making the tops of your thighs, your ankles you’re sitting on, all sticky wet. All mine, you mumble around his thick length, and his answering laugh is so vital, oh, everything really is so wonderful. He tugs you up by the roots of your hair, jaw hanging wide and spit slick so he can stick two big fingers in there and rub at the slimy surface of your tongue, grunts a hungry sound. 

-

He pushes you back, hand still fisted in your hair to spread you wide and inspect the wreckage he’d left between your thighs. “Lemme see–” he murmurs. “Look at how red and swollen you are, baby. Little cunt’s all fucked open.” He gently scoops his come back inside, smearing it along your cunt. 

Ah– Ah– You protest when he presses his fingers inside to feel the slip of his semen along your walls. Poor, baby, he coos. His cock stirs at your little sounds of hurt, soaked as it is, streaked with come and slick and a little pink tinge of blood. The sight makes him fully hard again. “You did so well, first time taking a knot. It’ll be easier next one.” You writhe and arch as he pets your cunt, spreading your legs wider despite your limp sounds of protest. Head rolling back against the blankets, you grip your tits in both hands and squeeze, whimpering at that too. 

When you lift your head to look down at them, lifting the two little handfuls in your palms to take in the sight of your chafed, swollen nipples your eyes go wide. “Look’t what you did to them – they hurt now.” And although he’s sure you intend to sound like you’re cross, the moan you end on, the way you’ve begun to rock your hips, tells of different things. 

“My poor girl, lemme kiss ‘em.” He stretches over you, taking your hands away to press a barely there kiss to the tip of each breast. “Poor little tits – poor little pussy too, all split open.” And he bends to kiss your blood tinged cunt, the flavor of lost innocence and come on his lips. 

He kisses you again, nibbles on your thighs, and your eyes are hazy, fever full, and you sigh a fluttering sound of oh, “Everything’s so lovely,” you say again. “And you’re so beautiful, alpha. We should eat green apples. I love green apples so much.” Delirious, a little nonsensical. 

“We will. We will– whatever you want,” he says, but he’s already mounting you again, wedging his fat cock into your tiny, battered hole, enjoying the sound of your half pleasure, half pained keen. And he doesn’t give you the grace of going slow, the rut is full on now – he fucks you into your nest hard, fucks against your womb until he’s filling it again. Only gentles once when you mumble into his ear, slurred and almost drooling, I want to watch it go in and out of me.

And despite his ferocity, the way he uses and abuses your cunt, he knows you need it from the way you open that little blossom mouth and try to swallow him whole, hungry thing. You yank at his beard and pull on his hair and scratch at his skin, bite his gland again and again, and he shocks himself by being nothing like afraid, nothing like uncertain. No, he only feels settled now. Joel only feels himself. 

He realizes that he had always needed this, but now, he wants it too. The distinction is stark and important beyond measure like some sort of primordial state of consciousness. He is only himself, dog fight lost and left victorious for it. 

You pass the days of your heat and his rut locked on his swollen knot, a steady stream of his come being pumped into you constantly. There’s no way he hasn’t bred you by now, and it makes something pleased and terrifyingly savage swell within him. 

He’s forced to shove an ice pack between your legs on the third day, between bouts on his knot, during a moment of clarity for the both of you while he feeds and waters you. But then later, after he’s given you one of the strawberry cream popsicles he’d made and frozen for you the day before you’d arrived, you sit, swollen cock buried deep, slowly rocking back and forth while he watches with an almost sick sort of rapt fascination as you eat the popsicle in little kitten licks, leaning back on his lap ever so often to bare your cunt to his gaze, slick and split wide, red as the strawberries in your sweet treat. 

“How is it?” He doesn’t specify which, the popsicle or the cock rocking inside of you, but you peer at him with the brightest and keenest sort of gaze, a look that tells him all he needs to know about himself, all that you see within him which is everything. You flash him a huge, cheesy grin, all the answer he’s getting, and you’ve got a tiny gap between your two front teeth that he finds so, so endearing, and his answering laugh is so vital, so alive, it’s like he steps into himself again after twelve years of vacancy. 

And with that bright light of clarity, a blink, blink, you seem to come fully awake for a moment. “Tell me of the things you like,” you order, taking a large bite of the iced treat and pressing your cold mouth to his, passing the flavor of strawberries onto his tongue.

He takes the moment and tastes it, pulls you close, “I like how the fire plays over your skin,” a palm ghosting down the slope of your naked back to the place where you’re connected. “How it makes shadows and shows me that glow inside.”

And as the fever fades, he switches to handling you with carefulness, gently stroking at your sensitive, come-filled pussy, careful of the stretched soreness of your little hole and the bruising around your nipples. With more awareness you remind him that he’s a big, stupid alpha with a big, stupid knot and that you hurt and want more.

But there’s still time and heat to take advantage of, and on the day he knows will be the last day of this animal lust, he stretches you out flat on your belly, his weight completely over your back, and he fucks you prone and immobilized, caged in by his bulging arms, telling you of how you own him now, how he belongs to you, how he’s going to keep you full and happy forever. “Make me come. Clench – good girl. Again,” he orders, and when his knot swells for what he knows will be the last time of this rut, relishing in the last whispers of your heat filled belly, he sniffs through the curtain of your hair and finding the still swollen gland at the nape of your neck, he slowly sinks his teeth into the vulnerable patch, binding your mating. 

-

Dawn peeks over the horizon like a faint suggestion, and you’re married on the cliffside one bitingly cold winter morning, the sea as your witness. Ellie and Dina are there, and they’re your friends now. You have friends, real friends, no more half life, no more half friend.You have friends, and you are important and significant and as vital and alive as Joel is. You’re real, and he helped make you so, yes, but really, you always had been. 

You wear flowers in your hair and a dress the color of the sky, and he has mirrors in his eyes, and the two of you are the same. Equal and only yourselves, and you love each other more than anything in only a very true way, nothing soft about it. 

When you know you’ll have a baby, he swallows your fear and your worry, marks your gland again as a reminder of all he is, all you are. And when you ask, for you can’t not share with him, “Will they come one day, to check if we did what we were supposed to? To see if we had a baby?”

He tells you, “Yes, they might,” very solemnly.

“What if–” a difficult thing to say out loud, now that you understand the thing you are and the way of the world so well, now that he’s shown you all there is to be shown, “What if they’re an omega like me – will they take them?” Give them their own white box and a not life to be nurtured by instead of a mother. 

But like all obvious things, he shares with you, always, only truths. “Never.” And the look in his eyes is so serious, eyes like mirrors, that you know his words are fact. “I’d never let that happen, I swear to you.” 

And the glow still comes, and the heat still takes you, but he’s always there now and nature is still an inescapable thing, but the perilous edge is no longer such a danger when you’re protecting each other. 

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog

[thstarsofsilver]

Summary:

EJ finally reached the room and started speaking before he even entered. “So sorry I’m late; my meeting ran way o—”

The words died in his mouth. He could not quite believe his eyes.

The wedding planner his fiancée had been raving about? It was Gina Porter.

.

i know i promised this many months ago, but chapter 1 is finally here!!!! for anyone needing a fun future portwell au, this one’s for you!

[sankta-starkova]

SEASON ONE

— the one where ej and andy reunite after years, finally rekindling their friendship and maybe getting something else out of it as well

001; the auditions

002; the theatre

003; the read through

004; wunderstudies

005; blocking

006; just for a moment

007; homecoming

008; what team

009; thanksgiving

010; the tech rehearsal

011; sandbags

012; opening night

013; act two

PLAYLIST

MOODBOARD

[generalwildcat]

Trying to figure out if trying to write HSM again even in small quantities is something i should seriously do.

As far as the OGs go, i've primarily focused on writing Chaylor.

The current NextGen Wildcats i'd imagine writing come with absolutely no plot in mind. Just names, relations, and personality traits. In the case of both OG and NextGen, i wouldn't turn down any writing prompts.

I'm not including HSMTMTS in the poll primarily because that would be completely new territory for me and i don't feel confident doing any of the characters justice.

So in the spirit of indecisiveness, opinions, and most of all, writer's block: