#snippets of this tender life

[bloomingsalma]

dyke march toronto 2024

[slasheddreams]

The Boardwalk by the Shoreline - Spook Shack Stories: Rondo City

content warning for: [ minor mentions of blood and scraps from falling ]

They say that the boardwalk has the power to help people find true love. The wind has the power to blow you right into the arms of your forever one.

Her fingers reached out, the tips of her nails just narrowly missing the edge of her hat. Watching as her mother's hat was swept away by the wind, the girl huffed as she bunched up the bottom of her white summer dress. Her sandals slammed against the concrete as she chased after the rouge hat.

She swore if the wind were a sentient person, it surely would have been playing with her.

Her fiery red hair blew in the wind as she ran, as fast as her little legs would take her. It was something she was well-known for, her soft, bright red hair. Not many people in Rondo City had that same, striking red hair, after all.

People watched as she chased after the runaway sunhat. Did it never occur to them that... maybe... someone could help her catch it? Twilight never understood how people's minds worked.

Her fingers grasped at air, just narrowly missing it every time. At this point, it had to be comedic timing. It just had to be.

...

The sidewalks were always a little uneven around the arcade strip of the boardwalk. The elevation shift was hard to notice at an eye level, yet, the shift was drastic enough that people walking routinely would trip when walking over it. Twilight had tripped over it a couple of times herself. (She swore, the shift always seemed to move. It was like magic.)

"Shit..!"

The shift caught her off guard, sending the already stumbling girl crashing into the concrete. The concrete shredded her wrists and her knees, a spotty red color staining the sidewalk. Pain shot through her nerves like a hot knife through butter.

"Ow...."

Her body trembled slightly as she lifted up her arm, a crimson liquid dripping down it. Her eyes welled up from the sharp pain that accompanied every injured limb. She knew she couldn't lie on the floor forever, even if it hurt.

Her hands trembled as she forced herself off the floor. Her lips pursed as she gleamed the bottom of her favorite, white summer dress. Crimson blood stained the white satin fabric and the overlaid white lace. She lifted up her trim, taking a glance at her knees. The skin there was shredded, blood dripping down towards her sandals. Oh. That fall fucked her up badly.

Her eyes scanned the area, tears pricking at the edges of her eyes. Her fist gripping into a tight ball, trying to simply bear through it. The pain. Her mother's hat, where was it?

Her eyes swept across the boardwalk, and then, a heaviness sank deep, deep inside her chest. It was gone. It was gone. The tears welled in the corners of her eyes, threatening to fall at any moment. No, not fall. Pour.

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"My sweetheart, my darling angel!"

Her mother's hands held onto the young girl's cheeks, a gentle kiss placed on her forehead. The young girl laughed, reaching outward to the older woman. Out... to mother.

"Oh, we're going to the beach today! Mama knows you love the beach!"

The beach... Twilight has always loved the sea, even from a very young age. She loved to feel the sand beneath her feet as she ran towards the water. That crystal, blue water, with that captivating, white sea foam.

"Can we have a picnic by the sea, mama?"

"Of course, my angel! But... before you can go, we need to buy you a sunhat!"

Her head tilted to the side in confusion, her red curls swaying with vigor. Wave blue eyes stared at her mother, reflecting her mischievous smile. Her fingers curled, pointing towards the woven beige hat on her head, decorated with a simple, but gorgeous yellow ribbon.

Her black hair curled slightly as her mother leaned in, her hands gently clasping around her own face.

"A sunhat, just like the one mommy is wearing. We can get you one just like this one! Oh, but we can get it with a blue ribbon."

Twilight's hands, small but mighty, reached out to the top of her head. She patted the top of her head, feeling the strands of her hair in her little fingers. She reached out with one of her hands, grazing over the woven fabric of the sunhat her mother wore. It didn't feel like her hair.

"Sunhat..."

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"-ss? Miss?"

A foreign voice, thick and vicious as honey, reached Twilight's ears as she blinked back tears. Using her good arm as she feebly tried to dry her tears, she squinted through blurry vision.

A head of long, straggly beach blonde hair broke through the tear-blurred vision, a large black hat perched on the back of his head. Dark sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, slightly obscuring the grey eyes that sat hidden behind them.

Twilight grimaced, pain rising in her knees. Trembling slightly, she tilted her head to the side, her red hair swaying with the movement. Her eyes scanned the mysterious man up and down, taking note of his appearance.

What kind of person wears a long double-breasted black coat in the 90-degree summer heat? How he hasn't passed out from heat exhaustion was a mystery to her... but, she supposed she didn't look all that hot herself. Maybe she shouldn't be judging....

"I do apologize for disturbing you, but..."

His arm shifted slightly, drawing attention to his hand. In his hand, he held something... a woven straw hat, with a yellow ribbon around the base.

"Is this yours? I couldn't help but notice your... rather unfortunate fall chasing after it."

"Oh, uhm... yes, that is mine."

A polite smile formed on the man's face as he nodded gently. Extending his arm gently, he held it out towards her. Reaching out for it, Twilight hissed in pain.

"Ow... ow..."

Terrible time to forget which arm you injured. Pain shot through her nerves, a crippling feeling rising in her body like boiling water. Her legs trembled, her own weight suddenly feeling too much for her to shoulder. She swayed slightly from side to side, the ground feeling unstable beneath her feet. Her eyes drooped slightly, her head feeling light. She couldn't even brace herself for another fall.

...

Her hair curled against the gentleman's shoulder as he cradled her in his arm. Still clasping her hat in his hand, the man's brows furrowed. His grey eyes flickered between the blood on her knees and her sudden faintness.

"Are you okay, miss? You're bleeding pretty badly too... does seeing blood make you lightheaded?"

His fingers gently pressed against her forehead, her lips pursing in embarrassment. She raised her good arm, weakly patting him against the chest. Her voice was so soft, it was almost like a whisper.

"... very."

Her voice quivered. It was a little embarrassing for her to admit, but... the man chuckled softly as he shifted his hold, gently leading her to a nearby bench. Limping along, Twilight closed her eyes. The world truly must have had it out for her.

"Wait here. I'll go ask the arcade staff if they have a first aid kit."

Twilight's fingers trembled slightly as she shifted around on the bench. Her eyes fell on the straw hat that the man had placed by her side. Her mother's favorite sunhat. Picking it up, she observed the hat with careful scrutiny. Her fingers gently ran against the woven straw and the yellow ribboning, checking it for any tears or soot. Nothing. It's like he caught it before nature could take hold of it any further.

The sound of footsteps clicking against the ground rose to her ears, her eyes glancing up in response. The man carried a small, white first aid kit in his hands, a small smile on his face.

"May I?"

Gesturing to her knees with his arm, the man waited patiently. Nodding gently, Twilight watched as the man bent down onto one knee, popping open the first aid kit with his hands. Leaning forward, she peeked down at the man.

"I'm sorry... I'm sure this isn't how you thought your day was gonna go, huh?"

"Haha... no, not quite. Life is full of surprises, isn't it? My name is Emmerence. What's yours?"

"My name is Twilight. It's nice to meet you."

His fingers lingered along the back of her knee, gently wiping away the blood with a cotton swab. Humming, Emmerence cleaned the wound with an odd attentiveness. Something warm rose in her chest.

"Do you uhm... do you like walking on the boardwalk?"

"...? Ahh, it's a beautiful place, but the sun here is... a little too strong for my liking."

Shaking his head as he responded, his chest rising and falling slowly as he gripped her thigh tightly. Shifting the gauze and the wrap between his fingers, Emmerence leaned closer. He felt so... warm.

"Too strong? The sun?"

"I'm rather sensitive to the light, you see... on days when it's too bright, I get really lightheaded."

Reaching up with one of his hands, he pushed the rim of his hat with a cheeky smile. There was an odd gentleness in his voice. A small oh formed on Twilight's face, before she nodded gently. Lightheaded and sensitive in the light...

Her knees still ached, but his gentle and soft touches soothed the pain. Shifting off his knee, he stood up straight, dusting the boardwalk dust off his pants. Then, he slid onto the bench next to Twilight's side.

"Your arm?"

"Oh, uhm... here."

Holding her arm out shakily, Twilight managed a weak smile. The positioning was a little awkward; she wouldn't lie. Stretching her arm out like that made the already sore muscles even more sore than before.

...

She didn't realize how nice Emmerence smelled until now.

Well, not in a creepy way, of course. Snuggled between Emmerence and the beechwood bench, she couldn't help it. The boardwalk always smells like sea salt and firewood smoke... especially at night, when all the open-fire restaurants are in full swing. But... there's something about him that smells so... sweet?

Her hair curled against her neck as she leaned into his shoulder, her eyes fluttering as he continued to dress her wounds. He smelled like... was that cinnamon? It smelled like cinnamon.

Like one of those fall air fresheners you hang on your car that makes your car smell like a warm cinnamon pie fresh out of the oven... He smelled magnetic. Again... not in a weird or creepy way.

"Are you okay, Twilight?"

"You smell really nice. Do you use a cologne or perfume?"

Pausing a moment, Emmerence lowered Twilight's arm gently. Placing his hand on his chest lightly, his brows furrowed before he shook his head. Twilight's eyes widen slightly in response. He doesn't use anything?

"No... I just... smell like this? I suppose."

"Really? You smell really nice, I just thought..."

Rubbing her chin in deep thought, her lips pursed in confusion. Maybe she really was mistaken...

His fingers brushed against her forehead gently, Emmerence leaning in with a smile. Her face flushed slightly as she averted her gaze. They were strangers, and yet... she felt so comfortable around him. It was... odd, she thought.

"You smell rather nice yourself, Twilight. Do you wear something?"

"Huh? Uhm..."

Her fingers twitched slightly as she averted her gaze, her fingers scrunching around the white fabric of her dress. She did wear something, yes, but... she never imagined someone would have noticed it. She felt unreasonably embarrassed by the thought.

"I do. It's apple and champagne scented perfume."

"Apples and champagne... It smells delightful. I'll have to look into buying one for myself."

Twilight could feel her face becoming even redder. It wasn't embarrassing, but, she wasn't even sure what it was. She'd attempt to run away, but she was sure she'd trip and fall and skin her knees even worse. She felt she had already made enough of a fool of herself for one day.

"Hey... you're not doing much tonight, are you?" Emmerence's voice snapped her back from her seemingly never-ending embarrassment... He spoke with such grace and elegance. She had totally forgotten what it was he even asked her. "No, I don't think so...??????"

"Then... would you like to stop by a diner and get some dinner with me?" Her face flushed. He was quite forward and rather charming, too. "I'll carry you~ I'm worried you might fall, and bust your knees up again."

"Okay, that was unnecessary... but dinner...? I think I'd like that. Uhm, if you're. willing to take me. That is. Uhm. You're paying, though."

"... if that's what you wish, my dearest partner."

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They say that the boardwalk has the power to help people find true love. The wind has the power to blow you right into the arms of your forever one.

They say wishes travel along the wind, and it's those wishes that help the wind bring people together with their forever one. Wishes from the lonely, the longing, wishes from those long gone.

The sea carries hopes, like bottled messages drifting in the stars. It may be staggered for a while, but eventually, it'll wash up, right where it needs to be seen.

A wish from a mother who only wishes for someone to care for her daughter the way she deserves to be treated. Even if a true "forever" is still several years away.

Even we believe that... even reformed criminals can be allowed a happy ending. And it carries that along the wind, sounding off like wind chimes, with a slight scent of apples and cinnamon to boot.

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[yeyinde]

appetite | Alpha!Simon Riley

it's been decades since Alpha!Ghost had a rut. something that's probably for the best, really. his want is as hideous as he is. as ugly as his goddamn mug. it's best kept tucked away, secured under lock and key.

but then he finds you. and you're all alone. unclaimed, on the verge of heat. poor thing. it triggers a voracious rut. decades worth of want spilling out over you. you're it, he knows. feels the certainty in that statement simmering in his hindbrain, in his essence. he'll have you—now, forever. non-negotiable. where you go, he will follow.

but you run from him. stupid girl. didn't anyone teach you not to run from a starving wolf?

dubcon. size kink. size difference. a/b/o dynamics: knotting, rut. breeding kink. spit kink. implied virgin!reader. obsessive behaviour. possessive!Ghost. semi-public sex. reluctant reader bullied into submission lmao. forced bonds. implied kidnapping. basically, you're hunted down and fucked by Alpha!Simon who growls in your ear about how he's waited his whole life for you. and lucky him. he finally found you

AO3

It's been years, decades, since he had a rut. 

(Broken Alpha. Ruined.)

Trauma, they tell him, will do that. Sever the drive in the back of his head, the one that rears—vicious and angry—each mating season, bringing with it the urge to breed. To claim. Own. 

A form of self-preservation. It pitches a plexiglass of protection between him and his instincts, not letting them merge. Join. Done so because to be in rut, to want, to need, is vulnerability. It costs hypervigilance. Turns man into beast. Animal. 

This bodily reaction makes an alpha extend themselves, like an overarching limb, to shield the omega they pick as a mate. Bearing their own neck to save another. 

Naturally, they say, if he couldn't help himself, how could he ever hope to protect a fragile little omega? 

They tell him it could be as permanent or temporary as he allows. Healing, they say. Time. Laughable, really. And utter nonsense because Ghost is fine. 

Trauma tampered. Revenge sought, found. There's no one out there who could ever harm him, and still—

His last rut was before the mission that buried him alive. That turned him into the living dead. A mockery of man. Frankensteinian beast. 

It's not something he cares much for, anyway. From what he remembers of his youth—vague snippets of memories, disjointed, blurred sensation; a profound need, an urge, to sink his cock into something, to plug them up, to bite—ruts have always been a nuisance. In the way. An annoyance that took time away from what he'd rather be doing. 

And as Johnny enters his—skin pallid, waxy; cheeks flushed, eyes darkening like a brewing storm on the horizon; snapping at anything that breathes, whining like a dog, miserable and hot, all the time (ahm’a bleedin’ furnace, s’what ah’m)—he finds he doesn't care very much to go reclaim what he lost. 

No skin off his nose. Nothing to concern himself with. 

Besides. Omegas know better. 

Even before he lost himself, dying, rotting in a tumulus, pretty little omegas with their soft hands and bashful smiles always went out of their way to avoid him. Miserable alpha. His scent alone wards them off—burnt leather, charred bones; sarcophagus dust, dirt—and he found himself alone during his burgeoning ruts more often than not. 

No pretty little thing to tender the sweat on his brow, or bend over and present for him—offering up a sweet little cunt he got to bury himself inside, tie up nice and tight on his knot. 

It was usually his hand. A bottle of bourbon. A printed porn stash he swiped from Tommy, who nicked it off their old man—

And when he did find a partner, it was always transactional. Hand to hand, an exchange of money. All clinical and detached. Empty. Fucking into a concept instead of a person; a vacuum eating away at his soul because he knew, then, that they wanted to be there almost as much as he did. 

But what choice did either have when their home was the rotted gullet of a dying beast?

(Simon told them to stay away from shitty men like him, who broke bones in the throes of his heat, snapped his jowls at anything that got too close, and had to be chained to the bed like an animal during it—)

Nothing to miss. Nothing to mourn. 

And it's not like he doesn't get the urge. Wanting to sink his cock into something warm, wet, is as recurring as a sweet tooth. A prickle in the back of his head after he devours his dinner that says, dessert might be nice. 

He can fuck, but his knot never pops. A worry the doctors had—unsure what the consequences would be in the long run for such a virile, young Alpha already experiencing nature's version of erectile dysfunction so early in life. 

(“pity the poor omega who has to deal with that rut,” they whispered. “might not be much of anything left of them when he's through.”)

Inconsequential now because he's pushing forty and his last rut was a false trigger. One dragged out of him by drugs and torture. The last true rut, natural and instinctual, was when he was eighteen. 

It's doubtful he'd suddenly be cured at his age. 

This is what he tells Johnny when he asks, pries. Broken fuck, ain't he? Unmated. Can't knot. Piss poor excuse of an Alpha. Doesn't he think it's—

“a shame,” Johnny grouses, words muffled slightly by the way he's hunched over the cheap plastic table in the canteen. His fingers dig harshly into his temple. “Alpha like you—” it's enunciated in clipped Queen's English, the barb makes Ghost scoff. “—ack! a waste. ma mam would be livid. no grandbabies t’show off? sacrilegious.”

—funny. If he's being honest. Laughable:

because for as long as Ghost can remember, he's always had a predilection to ruin his favourite toys. slaking his unquenchable lust on their tender skin, biting down to the bone, sipping on their marrow—

not really the sort of thing omegas today go for, is it? 

his want is as hideous as he is. as ugly as his goddamn mug—

Instead, he shrugs. “hardly.” 

“yer no’ missin’ it?” 

“missin’ what, Johnny?”

“knottin’, ye surly prick.” He jeers, then, jabs his elbow into Simon's arm. “a bonnie omega to stick yer prick in. ain't missin’ th’, no?”

“no,” Simon gripes. The last thing Price needs is another order of protection against his Lieutenant. But to humour the alpha in an early stage of rut, he jabs out, hollow and full of wretched derision. “i can barely remember what it felt like. must be heaven, though. is that your plans for tonight, Johnny? gonna go and knot some sorry omega?”

It's meant to prod, poke. Sharp barbs aimed at Johnny's threadbare control, the same one held in place by a fraying, unspooling knot. Alphas in the early stage of rut are considered safe enough to be around. Not yet mindless drones, hosts to an ugly little parasite; a being forced to obey a single, instinctual drive to mate, to gorge themselves into a post-rut stupor. 

Safe. Or so they say. 

But Ghost knows what Johnny's feeling in the same sense as a phantom limb. A broken, fragmented memory. So, he twists his mockery in deep. All in jest, of course. 

And Johnny pales suddenly. Wavers in his seat. The affirmative comes after a bout of contemplative silence. A jagged, choked yeah slips from his Sergeant’s mouth as he drops his head to the table, and groans. Miserable. 

“go fuck yerself, Lt.”

Simon intends on taking Johnny up on that offer, lazying out on the futon with his hand stroking lazily along his flaccid cock, thumbing through the latest series of snapshots Johnny—ever the photographer—snapped up during his previous rut. Images of pretty omegas dressed up in fine silk, blood-red lingerie, and coy little grins on their faces, a vixen pastiche of demureness. Jejune appeal in all its coquettishness.

Innocent sluts—Johnny's preferred type. Ones who'll bat their eyes at him, nervous and full of faux modesty, while they rock back and forth on his face, tugging on his mohawk to make him lick their cunts just the way they like. Sweet, like candy. Dressed in sin. 

He likes to take before and after photos of them—often with the pretty models unaware (adds to it, aye, Lt?). Ones with them batting their eyes at him, soft and shy in all their twee delight, and then fucked out, ruined and chewed up like a broken toy when he finishes with them. Bitten off more than they can swallow. Cheeky brats sobbing for mercy on his bed. 

Likes, even more, to send them to Ghost. A little tease. One he has no compunction about partaking in. Enjoying to his heart's content. 

Or—

Intended to, of course. Because what ends up happening is this:

Price calls just as he's getting into the new series sent to his phone—the tear streaks streaming down this omega’s face are particularly appealing, bound in intricate Celtic knots (Johnny, the artist), and gagged with their own panties—and tells him he has a job for him. 

Something simple. Discreet. And local, too. Bears have been sighted in town—a mama and her cubs. Dangerously close. 

The prelude to the phone call is a clipped take care’a it before the line goes dead. 

Ghost doesn't need to pack much—he can't remember the last time he unpacked his duffle bag, anyway—and stays in the recliner until the mission file comes in, idly stroking his thumb across the pixelated, tear-streaked face of the omega in Johnny's clutch. Moussed. Messy. They make the prettiest picture, don't they? Drool dripping down their chin, a spillover from what the lacy, white panties couldn't catch. 

Flesh peppered with jagged circles, bite marks. Johnny knows better than to claim them, and their neck is bereft of his teeth. Smooth. Unblemished. 

To claim is to bond. To bond—

Well. 

His earliest recollection of a relationship is his parents’. His mum, tied and trapped to a man she wanted no part of, but stuck. Unbondings, divorce, were rare during that time. Unheard of. Even now. 

And under his old man's influence, he's always seen claiming as ownership. As possession. A lingering remnant he’s told is wrong, but can't shake. Can't change. It glues in the fibrils of his mind. A rotten, pulsing scab that no amount of sanctioned reconditioning can ever seem to get rid of, to scrape out of his skull. 

(one he knows would be there no matter what because his sole purpose is exsanguination; bloodletting— 

in his warped desire to protect the things he cares about, he ends up smothering them in the end. a child holding a firefly too tight in its chubby fist.)

But Johnny knows better. Good Catholic boy. Knows to keep a muzzle on himself when he sucks desperate kisses into the small omegas' sweet neck, breaking apart the blood vessels of their scent glands, soaking himself in their musk—potent pheromones of a needy omega in heat. Aching for a bite. To be held down and conquered. 

It's wrong, they say. This ugly mass sits inside his chest like a foreign body. Scandalised eyes drilling into the side of his head like he's a monster for thinking this way. 

And he is. 

(always has been)

But he knows better. Knows to keep those uglier, rotten parts of himself hidden away from prying eyes. Got good at it, too. Enough that they let him into the brothels time and time again. 

Still—

He can remember the closest he'd come during a rut to biting a shrill omega who screamed in his ear until his head rang, ached. Nearly did it, too. Teeth razoring over their jugular, pinching delicate skin. 

Clarity came like a gunshot when he tasted blood. Chiselled a hole through his delirium, broke up the haze, and snapped his jaws up tight, locking them as he finished with a muffled growl, tongue swirling over his teeth for another taste. Another drop. 

His ruts have always been messy. Bloody. Got him banned from several centres, brothels, where they offered up betas drenched in the artificial musk of an omega in estrus. Ones resilient enough to withstand the harsh coupling of an unhinged Alpha in need. 

He had a problem, they said, with treating their workers like chew toys. Biting to break skin, drilling in deep enough to scratch his teeth on their bones. 

Deranged, they hissed. Fuckin’ mental, mate. Stay the hell away!

Some are just prone to violence. Need to be half-sedated before they can mate without ripping their partner to pieces. Ghost has always been that sort. Aggressive. Hard to control. Rabid. 

His appetite is bigger than the expanse of their skin. He sometimes thinks he could eat the whole world and still starve. 

He hums, thumb sliding to cover the omega's neck. Trapped in his hand, his clutch. They're cute when they're ruined like this. Begging. Whimpering. 

His cock gives a half-hearted twitch. His work phone chimes, signaling the end of his leisure. 

shame, he thinks, squeezing his hand until the metal dents, the screen cracks, splinters. Pops. Hairline fractures split across their distorted, tear-stained face. He closes his fist over it until it breaks. Goes black. 

really. such a goddamn shame. 

Some things are just not meant to be—

—but they have a habit of falling into his maw, anyway.

It's a simple set up. 

Man—

beast, monster, thing

—with his empty, growling stomach and teeth made to bite, tear, goes out hunting for a meal. In that search, he finds you. 

You, Persephone personified: damned (eternal), standing beneath a spruce tree. Limned, halo gold, in the waning sunset's bashful kisses, you lean on the rough bark, idling your timelessness away. 

Postcard beauty. Pinup demure. Alluring. 

(creature of sin

and oh, do you reek:

The air is saturated in the tantalising scent of honeybush, roasted hazelnuts, and clove. Saccharine—almost nauseatingly so—but with a hint of spice, black cardamom, cinnamon. He drags in lungful after lungful until it tangles deep within his chest, nearly suffocating. Smothered in this earthy sweetness. Drowning. Drowning—

the perfect dessert)

It unleashes something in him. Chips at the lock buried deep in his mind, cudgelling through the hinges until they pop. Rusted, slick with oxidising oil. It peels back from the gate, unveiling this gaping, ravenous chasm, polluted and gangrenous, rotten down to the marrow. Noisome. Noxious. This frothing pit sloshes, geyser-like, and greedily foams at the maw, the mouth, aching for a taste. Something to quench this gnawing hunger. 

This bottomless abyss hadn't seen light since he was eighteen, and—

The hollow space where his rib once sat throbs, aches. phantom bone. He holds his chest with his hand, feeling for the gap, the chasm, stolen from him. Ripped away, taken.

By you. you—

—so,

it's only fair that he steals something back. 

(quid pro quo, or something, right?)

You greet him with a small nod when he wanders close, eyeing him warily under the black rim of your ballcap. Tense. Small hands curl into fists, partially hidden under the rain-soaked windbreaker nearly two sizes too big. It smells like you—honeyed milk, molasses; lilac, lavender and warm bread—and he fights the urge to pull his mask down, to shove his misshapen nose into your neck, and breathe it in right from the source. Drinking, feasting, on it. 

This want is visceral. It coils in his guts, bubbling in his veins. His musk—heavier than yours, pungent—beads along his scent glands, mushrooming into the air like a fine mist. 

Your nostrils flare. He takes a step closer, eyes skewering into you, taking in everything you have to offer. The rucksack left at the bottom of the tree, stained with dirt and leaves. A sprig of Saskatoon berries peeks out from the lopsided flap. And—

Ah. 

Foraging is off-limits in this area unless granted a permit. One you don't seem to have based on the skittish way you keep avoiding his eye.

His scent thickens, tainted sour with faux suspicion, and you wince, ducking your chin, tucking it close to your chest, hiding from his spearing gaze. 

All it does is give him a voyeuristic view of your fragile nape, your vulnerable neck. 

His teeth ache. Jaw clenched up tight. 

It looks so bare. So naked. 

(Be a shame to keep it that way forever, wouldn't it?)

“Hi,” you stammer, seemingly oblivious to the musk you leak into the air, into his lungs. Forcing some sense of staid indifference into your tone. Like being here, out in the middle of the forest is normal. “Did you need something?” 

On the verge of a heat like this, wobbling where you stand—

He wants to chew you up. Spit out the pieces on the pavement. Drink from the gash he'll rip into your jugular,

quench this unbearable thirst. 

He doesn't know how you made it out here as long as you have, smelling like you do, and the thought burrows through the haze spuming, clotting, on the fringes of his muted periphery. Anger is an icy deluge of white water raging through his veins. 

Under the mask, the remnants of his scarred lip curls. His hands close into tight fists. Balled up. He feels the tension crackling along his muscles, his body. Coiled spring. Ready to leap—

But:

There's clarity. Focus. Where he was meant to become a mindless monster, driven by instinct, he instead feels the pieces of himself snap back into place. Missing puzzle pieces. It shifts. Settles. Locks. 

He wants you. Will have you. It's non-negotiable. Ironclad. You just—

Belong to him, don't you? Pretty little thief. And wandering around like this, reeking like you do, you must want him, too. Need him. 

(protect, protect, protect—)

Honed in, drilling into your face to catch every expression that flickers past, he sees the moment you take a sniff, when realisation blooms in the inkpools of your gaze that you are less than an arm's length away from a starving predator. Supple, soft. All plush flesh seated seamlessly against brittle bone. Fragile. 

“hi,” he echoes, and it sounds hollow. Garbled. Like he's speaking underwater. Thinks, for a moment, that he's buried again. Drowning under the crushing weight of dirt. His own tumulus. Suffocating. Choking on dirt—

But you twitch. Feral little thing. It breaks him out of this nightmarish obtundation; shaking the cobwebs loose. He tracks it like a viper. Attention narrowing, shrinking, into nothing but the way you move. Smell. You anchor him in his place, keeping him stable amid this horrific onslaught of emotions that rip talons down his chest. 

“I–” you breathe in again, lashes fluttering. Strains of silk batting over your etiolated cheeks. You breathe him in. Deep. He sees your chest grow, expanding with his air. His musk. Has to bite down on a growl before it forms, the lash of a whip in his throat. Aching. 

There's something spellbinding about you—caked in a layer of grime, briny sweat clogging your natural scent; wild and untamed. Uncharted wilderness, untouched by man and their dirty hands. A corrie after a rain shower. Snow melt. He wants to bathe in it. Carry it with him wherever he goes. 

As if scenting this thickening desire, your eyes widen. You take a step back, swallowing audibly when he follows. Marionette on strings. Your shadow. 

“I should go—”

And he knows he can't let you do that. 

Won't. 

He hums, a fickle, brittle thing in the far reaches of his chest. 

“Go?” he flicks his hand toward your bag, head cocking to the side in a mockery of contemplation. “Don' think you got a permit for that, do you?”

“A permit…”

He has you. Your eyes lower, falling to the badge on his chest. Game Warden. You stare at it, eyes widening. Swallowing thick. 

With you distracted, he leans in. Curves his body over you mockingly, like he's bending down to whisper a secret in your ear. Cupping a pretty little firefly in the palm of his hand. 

When his shadow falls over you—dark and damning—you flinch back, fists trembling under the hem of your jacket. Brows furrowed, knotted tight. Your lower lip wobbles. You try to hide that, too, by sinking your teeth into your flesh until it floods white under the strain. 

He wants to pry it apart with his own teeth. Take the bruised flesh into his mouth until you start to drool, whining from the abuse he inflicts on you in a mockery of a kiss. 

(wants to tear through it, taste your blood on his tongue—)

“An’ I don't reckon tha's a good idea, pet.” 

You shiver when he places his hand on the truck above your head. Boxing you in completely, nothing to spare—not even an inch. 

He hums at that, cock giving a vicious jerk inside his trousers at the almost impossible dearth between your sizes, at the way he swallows you up in an instant. Has to take a deep breath to steady himself, to keep the inkblack tendrils swirling, gathering, at the edges of his periphery from bleeding in. This starving murder of crows. 

When he speaks again, it's low. Deep. Kittenish licks from the tongue of a tiger; abrasive, rough. Mocking baritone of a shifting canyon, a mountainside, before it buries anyone alive under rubble. 

“Not reekin’ the way you do. Might ‘ave every alpha in a one square mile radius frothin’ at jaws for a taste. Ain't safe out there.”

And it's definitely not safe with him. 

He watches, transfixed, the moment this clicks. When your eyes waver between the hard bulk of his body—spread out, laxed; plumage unfurled—and the noisy clatter of the town just within reach. It's this thicket that cups your scent, that protectively curls over you, and keeps the Alpha's prowling about the market square from sniffing you out. A beaten trail. Hidden desire path no one was supposed to wander down. 

Except the bear problem in the woods, infringing on town, and him, the gun bolstered on his thigh still hot from his warning shots into the bush.

(lost little Lamb—

wandered too far from the herd.)

You take another step, cautious. Small. It brings you flush against the tree. Your polyester jacket whines at the friction. He can see indecision play out on your face. Oscillating between the badge on his uniform shirt, the gun on his massive thigh, and the clamour of muted noise from the town just within reach. Alphas prowling. Their acrid scent is unmistakable even through the dense foliage spreading around you.

It's an impasse. Neither option affords you much choice in the long run—it's either stay here with him, with the heady scent of want, of an Alpha on the incipient cusp of a voracious rut; or risk yourself in town. There are police officers patrolling. Ones who can sedate an alpha who gets too out of hand, but still. 

The mimesis of desire pooling around you might send you into heat sickness. That, or you'll get in even more trouble for fleeing a pursuing officer. Resisting arrest. Jail time, certainly. 

The pendulum wavers. Your knotted fists wobble. 

Then—

Your eyes leave his chest, the gun, trailing over his shoulder. Widening in surprise at whatever is there in the distance. 

He ought to commend you, really. The rouse is quite believable—

But: 

“Not bad,” he murmurs, leaning down further. If you won't jump, he'll push you—

He sees his mistake as soon as it happens. 

As he bends, you drop. Waiting until his attention seemingly drifts elsewhere, to when he's distracted and off balance. Lured in by your faux attempt at distraction. 

And it might have worked on a lesser being, but all Ghost has ever been is raw, unadulterated instinct.

He lashes out as soon as you move again, palm curling over your wrist in an instant. Snapping jowls of a defensive snake. Shackled. Locked. He tugs—

But the movement costs momentum. You use this against him, going limp. Forcing him to take the brunt of your weight on the spread of his fingers. Tricky little minx. His mouth breaks out in a feral smirk, tugging harshly on scars, on burns. Stretching skin. Distorting it under the mask, ugly and vicious. 

Your scent plumes up around him, sickly sweet. His jaw aches, gums itch. He wants to bite, snap his jowls around the scruff of your neck, chew on your skin until you sob out his name—

In seconds, you twist. Swinging your body back in a beautiful pivot, clumsy as it is. You're all animal now. Reckless in your pursuit to escape. Throwing out pheromones at him—purposeful, he realises a moment too late. 

And it works. Distracts him long enough for his grip to slacken. Your arm slips out of his grasp, and you're on your feet in an instant, darting through the thicket in a maddened dash to escape the heavy, starving alpha and his burgeoning hunger. 

Escape, or—

Weighed down by the afterbirth of his sudden rut, a prickle of his old self buoys, brims, from beneath the mess. He shouldn't chase you. Should leave you alone, call someone—Price, perhaps. Bark out between a clenched jaw that he needs a tranquiliser and chains. Will have to break Simon's teeth to stop him from biting into you like a man starved, famished. Tie him to the back of his pickup truck, drag him to the edges of the forest. Knock him out. Knock his teeth in. 

Anything.

Because they said this might happen. The doctors’ who poked and prodded. Therapists—all mandatory, non-negotiable, when he signed his name on the dotted line—murmured about unravelling. His self-control snapping like a twig. Sense of self retreating. All hiding away, protecting itself from the torrent of chemicals flooding his hindbrain. A heavy, unrelenting accumulation of a decades-long bout of rut celibacy all washing over him, all at once. 

Said to lock himself up if it happens. Chains. Shackles. Nuts and bolts. Heavy tranquiliser. Immediate sedation. 

And in Price’s office, in that messy filing cabinet he keeps, is a folder. A playthrough of everything that's supposed to happen if this happens. 

(“but that won't happen, will it, Simon?” 

and he'd rolled one massive shoulder in an easy, effortless shrug. 

“no.”)

The failsafe is that he's meant to call in if it does. Precious seconds of clarity, cognisance, enough time for him to dial the number, to bark out the order. To be hunted down, rounded up, and thrown in a pit. 

where he belongs. 

He should. Should. It's the book. Rules. Coloured in red ink. No option to negotiate. 

But as you slip through the dense foliage, angelic gold against the phthalo green bosky, the knot in his shoulders abates. Uncoils. In this sense of ease that permeates within him, he finds that he's shockingly cognisant. In full control. The plexiglass shatters, and in the ruins he finds purpose. 

You smell good. Too good. Any alpha will scent you in an instant, will claim you. Take you. It makes something in his broken, moulted head shift. Crack. He can't let that happen. Has to protect you the only way he knows how—

To wrap his paws around your throat before any other Alpha has the chance to sink their teeth into you. To claim you. 

All his. Little Persephone tucked tight against his ribs where you belong. 

And if the way the air clots with your cloying smell—heady, potent; the unmistakable ripeness of an omega in heat—then you must want him to chase you. Want him to follow. 

(escape, or—

a game.)

He tracks your movements, honed in on the rustle of the underbrush. When you're out of sight, Ghost flexes his hand, curling his gloved fingers over the leather on his palm. There's an itch in the back of his head. Festering. Rotting. He wants to reach in, rake his claws down the mass, shred it to pieces, but it affixes one simple truth inside of him: 

you need him. want him. why else would you run in the opposite direction of help if you didn't want him to give chase?

And so, he does.

You're a crafty little thing. To throw him off of your trail, you leave scent markers on the tree trunks you pass, doubling back to run in the opposite direction. 

It might have worked on someone else, but Ghost has spent half of his life buried in this thicket, and knows better than to follow smells in the forest. A vacuum, a great chasm; it plays tricks with sounds. Distorts scents wafting through the canopy, mingling with the natural loam, the disturbed humus underfoot. 

Instead, he hums at your cleverness—his smart little omega—and shifts his gaze to the forest floor, roaming over the footprints sinking into the soft soil, the peat and moss. A breadcrumb trail leading right to you. Broken twigs, crushed bushes. 

Ghost follows it. Places each foot down carefully, nose angled upward to catch the fresh wave of your heat leaking through the tangled furze. It beckons him forward. Calls out to him. 

(come, come, come—)

This lost little lamb needs a shepherd. 

He intends to give you just that. 

(—find me)

The path you cut through the forest is a twisting sawtooth meant to throw him off your trail. Traps laid out in tall tussocks, weaved through sweetgrass all drenched in your scent. Pieces of your clothing torn at the hem, the shorn fabric pressed on pine needles and tangles furze. 

These breadcrumb trails—a neat nest of wile, it seems—are cunning, he'll give you that. 

Even with his eyes to the forest floor, he finds himself throwing a wayward glance in the opposite direction, snagged in your webbed subterfuge. Somewhere between the visitors centre and the first trail meandering into the thick taiga, you seemed to have realised that your boots leave indents in the mor. He follows the deep impressions in the podsol until he finds them shoved under a Saskatoon berry bush. Another dead end. 

Clever little thing, aren't you?

But even when strays from the path, he's right on your tail. Confident in his scenting abilities. His prowess has always been tracking down wily little rabbits when they try to flee, picking them off in stasis from high above. The layout might have changed—his perch closer to the ground instead of a deer stand—but his eyes are just as keen. Your winding trail is ingrained in his mind. A long loop through the eastern trailhead, and he knows, instantly, that you'll try to throw him off at the placard where the west trail branches off through the dense conifers, and the east meanders downslope to the hidden stream where hunters like to trawl. 

He feels a pinch of pride simmering low in his guts. Anyone else would have lost you three pitfalls back. He's enraptured by this pursuit. Smitten by you. Your clumsy little escape. Your sweet little ploys. He wants to chew into you, let his teeth leave jagged scars, false starts, on your bones. Permanent. Starlight—dusting meteor showers in milk white. 

Ghost’s belly gives a tremendous growl. He huffs at the ache clawing against tissue, ravenous and unbearably empty. 

He'll have you soon. All to himself. 

The thought makes fresh blooms of pleasure spume from the rot in his chest, prickling through the layers of muskeg and peat, etiolated little sprout. Germinating in wet gangrene. Feasting on necrotised flesh. 

He swipes his hand over a honeybush, catches the lingering scent clinging to the leaves. You must have fallen here. Tangled yourself in the furze, overcome by your heat. 

Poor thing. Tired already. 

He holds his hand up to the fading gossamer of twilight trickling through the dense canopy, clenching the lingering remnants of your scent in his fist. It's fresh. He wants to tuck it in his pocket, carry it around with him. 

He finds you in a small clearing, bent down with your palm resting on the trunk of a tree. Nails digging into the rotting bark, desperately struggling to catch your breath. Your heat is a wildfire. It scorches the earth. Burns his nose. 

You're no longer on the cusp of it anymore, but in the throes. 

His rut, he finds, isn't too far behind. 

Perfect synergy. Meant to be. You call to him, and the gaping, gnarled chasm inside of him answers with a growl—

Before you can blink, he moves.

He falls over you, felled timber. The earth shakes under his indomitable weight. Palms slam into the rough bark of the gnarled spruce you've taken respite against, boxing you in. 

You fall against it with a gasp, hands pushing against his broad chest as he backs you into the tree. Little fists pounding on his sternum, mouth pinched, twisted in a snarl. There are pieces of bush caught on your clothes, tangled in your hair. Leaves. Sticks. A spot of dirt on your nose. 

It's mesmerising. 

The ballcap falls first. Morning sunlight over a boscage in bloom. Pitfalls, ravines. The canyons of your eyes quiver; this new topography shifting, sliding. Tectonic beauty in muted midnight. 

He wants to reach in, feel these granite walls of yours with his bare hands. Clamber up the colluvium, the scree, until he reaches these rugged peaks gleaming at him, angry and feral, in fading twilight. 

Time is endless. There's no limit to how long he has to know you—drink from your rivers, feast on your valleys; find all the hidden nooks, the crannies, shaded under the towering monoliths of your body. Chart your couloir. Defile your flume. Bathe in your estuary. Tangle himself inside your dells. Tame your chaparral. 

Fastidiously. Expertly. Until no part of you is unknown to him. 

Your chest heaves, mouth open as he crowds you further. Pressing into you. Over you. 

He wedges his broad thigh between your legs, presses it tight against your pussy. Your thrashing stills when he touches you, when he angles his knee up, up—

There. Through the layers of clothing that separates his bare skin from your cunt, he feels the heat bleeding out against him. The wetness from your sodden panties. Undeniable proof of how much you want him. Need him. 

 “All wet f’me?”

“Fuck you—!” You spit, angry and feral, but you arch into his touch, pushing your pussy onto his thigh. Aching for friction. 

It makes him hum. A low growl caught in the back of his throat. 

“Reckon I'll be the one fuckin’ you, pet.” 

And he will be. This is fact. 

You shudder, brows notching together in a vicious glare. “I don't want you.” 

It's hissed between the sliver of your clenched teeth. Full of heavy conviction. Forging truth out of lies—

And that's all it is. A lie. A fallacy. 

(and even if it wasn't, unlikely considering the way you arch into him, needy despite the disdain dripping down your brow—he really just can't find it in himself to give a fuck; he'll make you want him—)

Ghost leans down, muzzle pressed against your neck. He inhales deep, audible. Chest expanding, lungs swelling. Full of the aroma bleeding out of your pores. Proof of just how much you do, in fact, want him. Betrayed by your own body. 

He huffs out, paints the air with his derision. “Is that so?” 

Ghost drags his hand down the solid line of the tree, dropping it to rest against the jut of your hip. He ducks his head, watching. Staring at the way his palm nearly swallows you up when he rests it over your waist. Spanning nearly the entirety of it—hip to hip. 

It bludgeons into him. Knocks the air clean from his lungs. 

He's always had a hunger for things he can cup in his palm. The barrel of his rifle. The hilt of a knife. Your wrist in his hand. The curve of your hip. 

His gloved fingers slip under the hem of your shirt. Pads ghosting over your skin. Warmth bleeds through the leather, an unmistakable tell of your heat reaching its first equinox. It'll be all fire, all smoke, from this point onward. Desperate. Feral. 

Groaning deep, wanting, he pushes into you further. Chest rumbling. Eager. 

It takes a great deal of effort to pull his hand away. To bring it up to his mouth, fingers hooking over the edge. 

The fight in you abates—marginally—and you watch him with a keen look of suspicion dancing in the moulted dirt spread over your nullah. Wary. Anticipatory. 

He fights the urge to laugh—deep and delirious—and instead works on prying his mask down over his crooked nose, his mangled mouth. Letting the hem snap under his chin, kept there. Bearing himself to you for the first time. Naked. Exposed. 

Your eyes widen, trailing down the jagged lines, mauled ridges of scar tissue. Drinking in everything he offers in the fading embers of a summer twilight. 

He grins—a rivened, ugly thing—when you let out a heavy, quick breath, and your hips drop, rutting your sopping cunt over the wide heft of his thigh. Gyrating subconsciously. Quietly pleased by the way he looks—as maimed, as beastly as he is. He lets you. Lifts his knee, pressing his cap tight into the bark, and bumping the top of his flexing quadriceps at the apex of your groin, right where he knows your clit sits. 

The breath you take is pulled in through clenched teeth, biting on the rind of a moan. Its shapeless silhouette ducks, hides from sight. 

He lets you have it. Lets you run. 

But it's not without recompense. 

With his upper lip curled, he sinks his teeth into the leather tip of the glove above his middle finger. Letting you see them for yourself—these thrawn teeth he'll bury into your neck. Claiming you entirely as his. 

Your pupils start to eclipse your irises. Lagoons of liquid black blotting over rugged peaks. 

Ghost slowly tips his head back, dragging the glove with him. Eyes setting along his lashline, he drinks in the sight of you swallowing thickly, your gaze darting between his teeth, his mouth, and now—his bared neck. Voracious, greedy, in the way you feast on him. Drilling into the stretch of skin slowly unveiling itself to you. 

The muscles in his neck flex against rimy skin. Adam's apple bobbing with his slow swallow. 

You follow it all, but your gaze seems to fix itself on the brawny arch of his neck, falling—and then glueing— to the thick vein protruding from his flesh, pulsing with the steady rhythm of his heart, and the small, swollen bump of his scent gland beneath it. 

Hunger, he finds, paints such a pretty picture on your face. The greedy, anfractuous glances a bludgeon into him; so heavily affixed with desire that the shake of your head when he pulls the glove free, letting it dangle from between his teeth, and drops his hand back to your skin, is minute. Meaningless. 

You want him as much as he wants you. 

The clause in this, the axiom, is ironclad. Irrefutable. Bound in brass when you shiver at the touch—feverish skin on feverish skin—and arch into his palm for more. Panting through clenched teeth, each hiss striking against that fraying coil leashing his threadbare control. To distract himself from the unspooling knot, the ache in his gums, he charts the first inch of skin he passes with his thumb, committing the sloping plains of your body to memory. The jut of your hip, the stutter in your breath when he runs the rough pad of his forefinger over the slope of your underbelly. 

It's easy to marvel at the sheer enormity of his size compared to yours. Simon hitches his thigh firmly into your clothed cunt, nearly lifting you up off the ground. You teeter on the tips of your toes, falling forward into his chest to stabilise yourself. Little fists curling into the fabric of his jacket, knuckles tight against his the last rungs of his ribcage. Your head lifts, a glare chiselling into the soft fields of your face. 

You hiss something at him—feral and scathing. He drops the glove, leans down to meet you in the middle, and eats your feeble protests from your lips in a bruising kiss. Scorching. His teeth knock into yours. Tongue lashes out to catch the vitriol dripping from your fangs. You make a noise in the back of your throat, and he swallows that, too. Devours it all. 

It's a vicious kiss. All teeth, tongue. Bullying. He lets you sink your teeth into his tongue, huffing into the seam of your lips when you coo, victoriously, at the first drop of blood spilled. 

In retaliation, he sets his hands over your ribs, and lifts you up off the ground. Making you gasp. Mewl. Your legs kick out as the back of your head catches on loose bark, raining it down over your shoulders in flakes. He doesn't stop kissing you throughout. Eyes half-mast, still open, as he drinks in the sight of yours rolling back in your head when his thigh, one the width of both of yours—fuckin’ hell—catches the perfect angle on your clit. 

Loose-limbed, caught, you have no choice but to wrap your ankles around his waist, curl your arms around his broad shoulders. Clinging to him desperately to remain grounded, held aloft. 

His hand falls down, cups the back of your thigh, fingers spanning the entire curve of your cheek. Held tight in his palm. He bucks into you—quick, hard. Letting you feel the unmistakable bulge of his stiffening cock, leaking spend already in the tight confines of his trousers. This groin, inner thighs, already sticky with the mess dribbling out. 

You fall apart at this. Head tipping back, crown thudding against the truck of the tree. He has your lower lip between his teeth, and it pulls, skin stretching until he huffs out another breath, mocking, and unhinges his jaw, letting you go. 

Mewling, whining low in the back of your throat, you clumsily rut your cunt into the hard press of his cock. Eyes hazy, liquid, with your blooming heat. 

Its approach is quicker than he thought it would be, and he hums, tongue rolling over his teeth to catch the lingering taste of you. Under his hand, your skin burns. Singing with the urgency of your desperation. He answers it with a grunt, falling forward to smother you under his weight. 

There's a flash of clarity in your eyes when they crack open. Brief. Fleeting. He feels your sluggish attempt to push him away, to free your hands from between your chests, and he has to dip his head to stifle another groan. It feels good to have you under him like this. Covered entirely in his bulk, his shadow. 

His hand pulls away from your flesh, snaking between your bodies to catch your wrists in the palm of his hand. Only one swallows them up, and the easy way he subdued you—effortlessly—has him nearly coming undone in his trousers. Untouched. 

“Fuck, want it bad, don't you?” he snarls, hips bucking into you. Chasing pleasure. He pulls your hands out, lifting to arm to trap yours in the shackle his fingers make high above your head, and—

It's devious, this. 

Somewhere in the loosening agency of his self, his autonomy, he knows this is becoming dangerous. Something that ought to be stopped before he rips into you with a rabidness that promises nothing at all will remain intact when he's finished. When he's had his fill. He needs to clear his mind. To get away from the way you fit against him so perfectly. Tiny in his wicked embrace. 

Like you were made to fit between his ribs. His teeth. 

He gnashes them together, trying to stem the ache in his gums. 

He wants to fuck you. Needs to—

But as ripe as you smell to him now—tender melon, warmed honeycomb—he knows that you're not yet ready to take him. 

Ghost steps back, letting your feet drop to the soil below. With the sparse inch of space between your bodies, he breathes in the lingering scent of your breath—sharp, burning; imbued with a heady thrum of adrenaline electrifying your nerves—and finds the musk a near-perfect pantomime of ozone. The arid tang in the air just before the air. A lightning strike. It rolls over his tongue, tastes of wet pennies in the back of his throat. Heavy with anticipation. 

Something he feels very keenly as well. An eagerness he hasn't met in decades. Absolutely famished for it, for this familiarity of want. Potent desire. 

He mourns the loss of the way your ass fits in the cradle of his hand when he pulls it free, fingers trailing over the feverish skin of your hips, your belly, as he goes. He doesn't stop until he comes to rest on the button of your trousers, eyes flickering down to catch your gaze. Purposeful, now. Intent clear. 

Nothing is stopping him from taking. Your protests are paper-thin, dissolving the moment it touches the dense blanket of humidity in the air, but he wants your submission. Wants to see your resolve break, crushed by your own hand. 

The gossamer wings of a butterfly, crumpled up in your palm, and offered to him for the taking. How sweet—

You seem to realise his intentions when his thumb dips below the hem of your pants. Just a tease. Brushing against the soft skin he finds there with the curve of his nail. 

Your glare is instant. The sharp tug of a drawstring pinching tight between your brow. Mesmerising as it closes over your lax expression. A fierce snap. He wants to pry it apart. Wedge himself between the seam. Create a gap wide enough for him to fit. 

“I won't beg,” you grind out, acidulous. Firm. 

He huffs, quietly amused by the fight still sparking in you despite the evidence of your arousal, your want of him, evident in the stain at the seam of your pants. His other hand rests on the trunk of the tree above your head, boxing you in when he leans closer. Taunting. “That so?” 

You don't respond, but your glare sharpens, mouth tugging downward in a harsh frown. Displeasure sparks in the air. Cutting into him like fine glass shards. He lets it graze his naked flesh, the warning ghosting over him in needlepoint pinpricks. Entirely too captivated by you to notice the sting. 

Your ire is a heady, tangible thing dripping down your brow, slashing over your cheeks. Anger, however misguided it might be, paints a pretty picture over your face. Darkens the inlets nestled in the corner of your eyes. Drenches the ravines, gorges in a startling chiaroscuro. Limns the alpines, the valleys, in a halo of golden starlight. 

He wants to drink it down. Hold your fury in the palm of his hand—

Crush it between his fingers. 

Because despite the dissent, your desire cuts through, and hews the air in a thick tapestry of want. 

mutinous, teeth bared, but your eyes burn, rage against the prison walls, and scream, please—

His fingers dig into the bark above your head, catching flecks of sap between his nails. Knuckles turning white under the flaxen hair dusting over them, strained. The grip is unintentional. Unconscious. He keeps thinking about you beneath him. The heat of your thighs around his waist was a mere tease. A morsel when he wants a meal—

The pressure in his knuckles grounds him. Cuts through the phosphenes blanketing the edges of his vision, smothering the clarity, the cognisance, that lingers in the centre. Threadbare as it is. 

There’s an ache in his jaw. 

(the need to bite—)

He pulls it off, and shoves his hand tight between your thighs, cupping your cunt in his palm. Feeling the heat bleed through the gusset of your pants. The touch is harsh. Firm. He bullies his fingers into your flesh, letting out a mocking chuff when he feels the fabric dampen.  

“Somethin’s’ tellin’ me otherwise.” 

Your hand lashes out, grabbing the thick of his wrist. Holding firm. It should be a warning, but the obvious gap between your middle finger and thumb makes him groan instead. 

“You're wrong.”

“Am I?” 

You twist away from him when he leans down, chin ducking to your shoulder. Hiding. Denying him your mouth, your taste. This meagre measure of control you grapple for is easy to give. He presses his lips to the shell of your ear instead, letting you run. Flee. For now. 

His voice is thick when he continues, husky. He pitches it low, lets it swirl into the seashell coil of your inner ear, earning him a shiver in response. Your nails biting into the skin of his wrist. Holding tight. 

“‘m a lot of things, pet—” rucked gravel, sodden with his derision, spills into your ear. Your shudder makes him want to bite, to maim. “Wrong ain't usually one of ‘em. But you'll learn that soon enough.” 

Your breath hitches. Expression morphing, shifting. Changing into something adorably beleaguered as he encircles you like a tiger, eyes drilling through the tussock, aimed directly at your head. With his body boxing you in, coiling over you like a hideous shadow, he has you trapped, caught. Little lamb writhing between the paw of a tiger.  

You seem to be keenly aware of this. Your eyes are shrewd, searching, as you probe around for any escape route, but he's a bulwark around you. Inescapable. 

Finding none, you suck in another breath, and slowly lift your chin, glancing up at him through your lashes. The look on your face is—

Enigmatic. 

Something changes in the morphology of your mien. Fracturing. Cracking. 

“Yeah?” You breathe, soft and goading. Your hips buck into his hand, rutting shallowly against the tops of his fingers. Unconscious. Like you just couldn't help it. 

And he supposes you can't. 

A fine sheen of sweat has been building since he took after you into the forest. Gathering around your temple, your hairline. The harsh reminder of your festering heat, once dammed by your raw disdain for him—hatred, he'd say, and doesn't the thought just make him want to laugh; you're all bark, no bite, and he knows he'll have fun breaking you in, breaking you apart—but flooded over by the primal drive to mate. 

And he's perfect for you, isn't he? 

Hideous bastard that he is. It's a sharp juxtaposition to your prettiness, your earthly beauty. 

Under the spinel sky, you break. The hand on his wrist tightens, your hips flexing into his palm. Seeking friction. Needing pressure. Needing him. And pissed off about it. Delicious. 

“Prove it,” you snap, irritation blanching the corners of your eyes arsenic white. Edging into a frenetic desperation hot enough to burn the threads of your resolve. But there's a gleam of reluctance pushing through the syrupy murk folding over you, heavy molasses. You want to give in, but there's something about him, his appetite, that makes you hold back. That makes you visibly sick at the sight of him—

Unfortunately for you, he has no such compunction to shelf his barbarity. To leash his desire, to muzzle the overwhelming urge to crush you under the weight of his accumulated need. It's decades of listless apathy. Divorced from anything resembling human emotion at the root. Carved out, scraped off bone. He was left to stagnate. A misfortunate creature submerged in a bog, dead but unable to rot. 

The deluge of his savage, bestial hunger rages in his veins. It's corrosive, vile, and—

unrestrained. 

Ravenously esurient. He wants to sink his teeth into you and never let go—

but first: 

he needs to eat. 

His meal is a feast, it turns out. Simon gorges himself until he's full. Promises that he'll stop as soon as he's satiated. 

(but he's lying to himself, and to you, because he never is—

never will be.)

Tears pebble along your lash line as he feasts on your sopping cunt, licking at your fluttering rim, slurping up your slick. Your clit is pressed tight against the crooked arch of his nose, sliding and catching on the jagged ridge each time he moves his jaw to dig deeper inside of you as if he's trying to taste the seal of your womb. You pant, whine. The noise muffled half-heartedly behind your palm. Teeth sunk into your skin, lodged against your bone. 

Angry rivulets rain down your cheeks, dangling like fine beads, gems, on your jaw. He wants to taste them next, as soon as he fills his gullet with the earthy tang you release. 

Your tears remind of that pretty omega Johnny sent to him—a brat, he'd said; the best, Lt—and it churns in his stomach, dredging up something awful. Terrible. He wants to make you weep harder. Wants you sobbing, begging. His own little brat to take over the knee whenever he wants—

But that's where the uncanny resemblance ends. 

You're not a brat. No. You're a headache. The kind that will have him written up, sat like a bad dog in his best suit, as they level him with charges, and orders, and the like. The sort of thing that even the old man wouldn't be able to string him out of—not that he would. Price is three days away from a much-deserved retirement to the mountains and sitting on his hands to keep from snatching up the pretty conservation officer who moons at him whenever he passes by. 

He won't be much help to get Ghost out of trouble. That leaves only Gaz and Soap. And while he's sure they can swing it, he doesn't really want to be under their ahh, guess ye/ya owe us one, Lt/Riley. 

So—

It stands to reason then that he should have you tamed before dawn. Shackled down, locked up tight. Only right considering he's the best in town to keep bears at bay. Do you really want to deal with a mama grizzly and her defenceless cubs? Or a starving male clumsily pawing his way out of hibernation? 

Probably not. 

So. So. 

He pulls back, rests his chin on your thigh. 

“Gonna be good for me, pet?” He asks, lowering his tone considerably until it catches on the gravel below. 

He's not surprised when you hiss through a cloud of tears. “Go fuck yourself—”

Ghost tips his head, suckles your clit into his mouth. Tongue laving over your flesh. Blunt teeth pressing flat against the swollen bead, a tease. You tense, gasping. Hand pushing his head back, back—

“Don't, don't—” you're mewling, nails raking over his scalp. Hips bucking, pulling back. Struggling to get away. The bite marks along your thighs weep fresh blood in your struggle, filling his nose with the heavy scent of iron. 

They serve as a harsh reminder of what he can do with these jagged teeth of his. 

He chuckles, mouth still closed around your clit. The vibrations have you choking, spine curving into a beautiful arch. 

Fingers digging into your hips, keeping you still. Trapping you. He's not quite done with your cunt, yet. And all this wriggling is something he can do without. With his hand pressed to your hips, he notches the other down your thigh. Tracing his index finger over your soft skin, dragging it close to your outer lips. Catching the tacky slick drying on your flesh with the tip. 

Tiny fists rain down over his shoulders. Urging him forward, eager for more. Selfish, spoiled little thing. 

What a monster he's made—

“Patience, pet,” he coos, mocking and mean. Likes the way you react to the patronisation in his tone. All taut shoulders, shaking fists. Bearing your teeth at the slight, the stinging barb. Shaking in an amalgamation of embarrassment and shame. 

You seem to like it when he's a little awful to you. A little mocking. Cruel. 

“Shut up—!” You hiss, lips curling as you glare down at him. “I'm not your pet—”

He ignores you. Bends down to sniff at your cunt instead, and finds his answer is the white hot desire he can taste in the back of his throat when he breathes you in. 

His fingers pry apart your folds, and he greedily drinks in the sight of your drenched hole, clenching down on nothing. Poor you. His heart thunders in his chest, rages. He wants to sink inside of you—impossibly deep—until the beginning of him and the end of you ceases to exist. Rolled into a single being, atoms merged. Bodies fused. He wants to take everything from you. All of it. Eat it out of the cup of his hand like pomegranate seeds, let the skin get stuck in his teeth. 

He wants to devour you whole.

(to eat—)

Settles, instead, for pawing at your cunt. 

Pressing the width of it against your slit, feeling the heat of your core on the palm of his hand. Branding himself with the intensity of your desire. Another scar among many. An uncountable number of jagged asteroids cratering along his flesh, making a home out of a ghost. A shell. 

Reinforced, too, by the absurdity of how terribly contrasted his flesh is to yours. Monstrous. His scarred hand rests over your pussy, encompassing it entirely with extra digits to spare. Folding each finger on top of the other to wedge between the basin of your thighs. And as his gaze comes to rest on the way he swallows you up, he is struck by the garishness of his hand—hideous scar tissue, burns—falling over your pretty cunt. 

Sinful. Frankensteinian beast palming the sweet pussy of a pretty, human woman, and—

Fuck. 

His cock twitches, spits out a thick glob of pre-cum.

Ghost has never wanted to ruin something as badly as he wants to ruin your cunt. You. Mess you up so badly that everyone will know you belong to him, and him alone. To brand you with the tattoo of his teeth on your mons; force a claiming bite on the pillowy skin above your clit. His ownership bracketed between your thighs, at the very apex of your hip bones. Buried into tissue right under the bulge of your womb. A fecund valley for him to lay waste; for you to grow beauty from the rot, the ash. 

Cinder scraps over his nerves. Fells his resolve in a brutal sweep. 

He comes undone at the seams, unravels. 

Simon curls his fingers into a loose fist, passing the rugged peaks of his bone over your soft flesh. Gathering slick on thick, scarred knuckles. He holds it there, folds pried apart by his hand, content to luxuriate in the softness of your flesh, the scorching heat.

Possessively, he unhitches his thumb from the coil of his fist, and swipes it over your clit. More slick leaks out as you keen. 

“Sweet omega like you should ‘ave been claimed by now,” he rumbles evenly despite the sour twist in his guts at the thought. “Might not ‘ave ended up ‘ere, would you ‘ave? Beggin’ the first alpha you see to fuck this sweet little cunt.”

“Begging?” 

“Practically gaggin’ for it, weren't you?” And even though the words are his own, they sit in his gut like a stone. An angry knot tangled in his intestines, snaking its way up his gullet. Bitter. It's quelled by the sight of your bare neck. Ripe for his teeth. And his alone.

But even if you had a pretty ring made by another alpha, Simon knows that wouldn't have stopped him from taking you, anyway. Biting over the claim. Breaking it between his teeth. Precious, loving union shattered by his crooked greed. He'd have relished in it, too. Basked in the way you sobbed as he tore your alpha into pieces. An obstacle turned into a pretty effigy at his feet. Wicker pyre burning to keep him warm.

(he'd have caught dinner for you, too; hunted caribou, moose, and roasted it over the open flame. Fucked you under the blume of orange. Let the fire lick across your skin as he sunk in deep—)

He rocks back on his haunches. Mood labile, quicksilver, as his rut grows. Festers. 

You deny it, breathless, as he slips the mountainous peak of his bent middle finger into your hole, stretching your rim around the scarred cartilage. You pulse around him like the fluttering wings of a hummingbird. Rapid, quick. Wanting. It draws him in. Makes him want to spit on your pretty pussy, and then break you apart on his cock—

“Such a needy cunt, eh? Starving for a good knot, ain't it?”

You hiss out your protests, but clench tight around his knuckle. He chuckles, and it's liquid. Wet rot. Lungs polluted, spitting nocuous, black smoke into the air. 

“I'm not—”

“You are.” 

He pulls back, pursing his mouth, and spreads your lips apart, opening you up wide and vulnerable to his prying eyes. Saliva puddles on his tongue. He gives you a moment to clue into what he's about to do, your fingers tightening, nails digging into his scalp as you do on a shallow gasp of disgust. Then, brutish, he leans forward, and spits. Lets the glob hit your clit, and he has to hold you still when you jerk, cringing away from him, snarling out your displeasure.

“You're disgusting—”

The protests are weak. Your knees tremble, giving away the growing slickness gathering on the insides of your thigh. 

He hums, watches as it oozes down between your folds, over your fluttering hole, before it falls to the ground between your legs. He lets his hand fall back over your cunt, middle finger gathering his spit. Rubbing it around your pebbled clit. It's done detachedly, perfunctory. A means to an end with hardly much concern for your pleasure. Not yet, anyway. 

You've given him nothing in return yet. 

He intends to change that soon. 

As you grapple with the harsh reality he presents to you—one of ownership, humiliation, and pleasure on his whim—he drags his finger down, sliding it between your soft lips until he reaches your hole once more. Petting around the drenched entrance slowly, softly, humming under his breath about how wet you are. 

Your hips drop, greedily chasing after his finger. You won't ask—not yet—but he likes the way you rut against him: all hateful, spiteful. Like you can't decide on what you want more—to bash his head in, or keep it locked tight between your thighs. Sweet thing. 

“Need me, don't you?” He sinks his finger in. Nearly whites out at the pressure, the tightness, he feels. Soft, wet. Squeezing him in a vice as you yowl, whimpering into the stretch like it matters. Like his thick, scarred finger is the most you'd ever taken before. Sweet girl. So naïve. 

He drinks in the sight of your flesh forcibly being parted around his knuckle, matting the wisps of blond on his skin as it leaks down to his wrist, until that, too, is pushed up into you. His whole finger now engulfed in the wet heat of your body as you squirm around the stretch, pulsing around him like a heartbeat. 

He groans when he tastes your discomfort on the back of his tongue. 

“Don't worry, lovie. M’gonna take good care’a you.”

You watch him with slitted eyes as he pushes you down to the forest floor, glaring over your shoulder as he adjusts you the way he wants. Maneuvers you around like a little toy. Forearms braced against the trampled grass, knees sinking into soft moss. Thighs spread. Cunt bare, drenched. Ready to be claimed. Taken. 

He drops to his knees, shuffling close from behind you. His hand drops to your lower back, pressing your torso down further into the ground below. His cock aches between his thighs. Heavy, fat. He reaches down with his other hand to where it droops, smearing pre-cum over his inner thigh. He catches it in his fist, flushed the colours of a fresh bruise—angry red, purple—and strokes along the sensitive skin of his shaft, dragging it up and over his engorged head. Pre-cum weeps from the tip, drools long strains down to the forest floor. Puddles thick between your knees. 

A prelude, perhaps, for what's to come. When he has you tied like a bow around his knot, milking all the pent-up spend from his heavy, full balls. 

It's been decades since he had this—

(���shame.”

he concurs.)

Simon pulls his cock up, taps it against your pebbled clit. Drinks in the sight of you keening, cunt gushing more slick out of your empty hole, dribbling down your thighs. Mingling with the mess he already started making. 

It shocks him how good it feels just to tap his cockhead on your pretty pussy. To drag it through your slit, teasing it against your fluttering hole that drools copious slick over him. 

He wants to make a mess of you. Fuck your pussy until you cum, until all you can feel is the split of him inside of you. Filling you. Ruining you. 

Until all you can think about is the thick drag of him against your stuffed walls. Empty without him plugging you up. Desperate for his cock, his knot—hungry little slut just for him. All for him.

He presses the head of his cock against your rim, letting it catch. Holding it there. A tease. Just a little taste. 

Likes when you whimper, head hanging between your shoulders, fingers curling into the moss below. You make such a pretty picture like this—the expanse of your back bare for his eyes to roam, locking on the dimples of your hips, the curve of your waist. The plump shape of your ass inviting him in—eager for a bite. Your flesh looks bare, lonely, without his mark. The contrast of his own inked palm—fingers webbed with faded lettering, some slogan he picked up in his youth. Hands etched in black. Lines bleeding, bulky. The unmistakable tremble of an incipient artist’s first brush of a needle on real skin. Jagged, garring. Ugly. He lets his hand rest against the small of your back, groaning at the way it looks. 

Sinful.

You're made for soft silk and a fluffy bed. Head resting on a plush cushion instead of your arms, forehead braced over the uncomfortable squeal of your polyester windbreaker that he didn't even have the courtesy to let you take off. No. Just trousers. Panties. Pushed haphazardly down your legs, left in a pile by the spruce tree so he could throw your ankle over his broad shoulder, feasting on your cunt. 

There's a spot of dirt on your asscheek. The curve of it is scraped from the bark, red and raw. 

The glare you aim at him from over your shoulder is venomous. There's a smear of moss on your cheek. 

You're made for epsom salt baths. Being tended to by a besotted alpha who treats you like fine china, only to be taken out on special occasions. Brushed, always, in a fine layer of dust from disuse. Sweet, tender lovemaking under the waning summer sky. Your alpha apologising for ruining you like this, for making you take the brunt of his rut. Poor thing. Gentle kisses, and hands clasped together. 

He can see it so vividly in his eye. So viscerally that it almost feels like a crime when he glances down at his cock, the weeping, engorged head almost comically too big for you. The thick of him could easily swallow your cunt up if he flattened his length against you. Covering you wholly by his girth. 

It's a thought that makes his hand tighten, and nearly chokes him on a moan. 

Even his thighs bracketing the backs of yours is hideous to look at. Bigger, broader—there's a considerable gap on both sides of his legs that he thinks nearly his whole fist can fit there, notched against the outside of your thigh, covering the expanse of his own. Garish. 

He can't wait to lay you down on your belly, lock his thigh tight on either side of your own and rut into you like that. Crushing you under his weight. Swallowing you whole. Until anyone misfortunate enough to wander by thinks he's fucking the cold ground. 

His thumb strokes along your fevered skin, collecting the sheen of sweat building up on the pad. Rubbing it in. He feels it too. This unrelenting swelter. A cage, pushing down from all sides. Inescapable. 

The only way to quench it is on you. In you. 

“Ready for me, pretty girl?” The words are mangled in his throat, thick with want. 

Your shoulders tremble. In worry, he thinks. Scents the air like a viper, letting your emotions curdle in the back of his throat. “Just get on with it—”

He meets you in the middle of that taunt, teeth against your throat. 

Ghost pushes inside with a groan, eyes rolling back at the way you swallow him up. Stretching around the considerable girth, fluttering around him. Pulsing like a heartbeat. 

It's heaven. 

Nirvana nests between your thighs, bracketed by rings of blood. Red. Absolution imbued in tender flesh, parting perfectly around his cock in a loving embrace. 

You haven't confirmed it for him, but the tightness of your cunt around his fingers, the heady scent of discomfort burning the back of his throat when he buried them inside of you, make him mutedly aware that you're inexperienced. A fact he pockets for later because if he thinks about being the first alpha, the first man, to ever claim you, take you, then he might lose his mind, he might fall down that yawning chasm that reeks of damnation, of brimstone and ash, and never recover—

So, he doesn't. Won't. 

Can't. 

His pace is slow as he feeds you the fat length of his cock, eyes drilling into the way you swallow him up. Rim stretching taut, flesh paling under the strain of taking him. With one hand anchored against your hip, holding you tight, and the other curled over your shoulder, fingertips resting on your collarbones, he slowly, slowly, sinks inside of you, bottoming out with a deep groan. 

The outstroke drags with it an iron scent in the air. He huffs, nostrils flaring. Greedy for more. There's discomfort leaking from your pores. His girth is more than you can conceivably take, even with the preternatural help from your heat, leaking slick down your inner thighs in thick rivulets. 

He holds himself there, breathing—heavy, tremulous—through his nose. His hands shake. The pressure, the pleasure, is indescribable. It coils in his guts, spumes liquid bliss in his veins. The way you feel pulsing sweetly around him is—

Equilibrium. 

Every misfiring synapse inside himself is slowed. Imbued with a potent sense of ataraxia. His mind comes to a standstill. Thoughts looping over themselves, tangling into the gossamer threads of control floating in stasis. Unmoored. You unravel him. 

It's further proof that you are his missing part. His ruts in the past have been calamitous. Snarls wrenched from the trenches of his chest; a gluttonous feast—a sacrifice to Hēdonē. Violent, vicious. 

But this—

It's drinking ichor from the vein of Anteros.

There's a crack in the back of his head. The sound of everything, all of it—

Falling into place. 

His hands tighten. Tighten some more. He holds you, sure and firm, keeping you nestled in the anchor of his embrace, unable to run, to flee. You're his. Settled. The caveat is ironclad, bound in permanence. 

And Simon moans. Deep, and low. The noise jutters out of his chest, and seeps into the evening air. Fine mist, crystallising in front of him. Phosphenes of ice cemented his decision, gluing to his cheeks. The nape of his neck. 

His ears burn. 

“Fuckin' hell, sweet thing,” it's a guttural growl in the hollow of his throat. “Where ‘ave you been all my goddamn life?”

It's a nauseating confession, one scraped out from the vacancy between his ribs. It peppers the air in a soft, saccharine kiss. Makes you shiver beneath him, gasping in lungfuls of loam, dirt in your throat. 

He grunts. Stills. He doesn't want that for you. Ever. Would rip off his own limbs before he ever let you feel the crushing weight of dirt congealing inside of your lungs. 

The way he arches over you is damning. Nauseating. He curls his arm around your shoulder, your chest, traps a heaving breast in the palm of his hand, holds tight. The other falls from your hip, closes over your mons. Greedily feeling your slick, hot sex pulsing wildly around him when he passes over your clit, toying with your stretched, swollen rim. It's perfection, this. 

He pulls you up, up, leaning back on his haunches until you're balanced on your knees, nearly sat on his lap. Taking him deeper than before. He drops his head back with another moan when he feels your slick gather, dripping down to coat his balls. 

Everything about you is just—

Perfection. Absolution. 

Your hands fly up, curling over his forearm, mewling when he pinches your nipples between his middle and ring finger. 

“C’mon,” he rasps, leaning forward to press his face into your nape. You smell sweet. “Play with ‘em for me, pet.” 

Nails bite into his skin. You whimper. Squirming around on his lap. But you do as you're told. Slowly, slowly, reaching up. Touching yourself the way you like. Fingers ghosting over your flesh, brushing across your nipples. Pulling, petting, the way you like. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, watches. Devours. Commits each movement to memory. Every sound, every breath. Everything. 

He keeps a slow, languid pace like this. Content to just feel you pulsing around him, listening to the slick, wet squelch of him filling you up. Over and over again. A lazy rut. 

It's unexpected, he knows. You've been bracing yourself this whole time, fingers digging into the podsol, spine tightening up. Waiting for the savagery to befall you. 

When it doesn't come, he feels your quiet acquiescence come in a soft breath. In the way you slowly drop down to meet the deep rut of his hips. Taking your pleasure, pulling him in deeper. There's an edge to your voice, one still dipped in threads of discomfort, a waning pain that rings out, shrill, in the satin spill of moonlight over the indigo forest. 

It's good like this. Tender. Not something he'd have ever imagined for himself, and the reality of it is dizzying. 

Reedy, he groans. Nuzzles his misshapen nose into your scent gland. His gums pulse, ache—

But he ignores it. Swallows it down. 

He's not sure what compels him to do so. Spellbound, maybe, by this unnatural softness that spools silken threads between you. Sutured in tenderness—so unbefitting of the man he is. The monster—

His hips stutter. Jerk. 

“Simon—!”

You whine into it, arching back. Sweat gathers, drips down your spine, smears into his chest, belly. Matts the thatch of hair running in sparse, patchy clusters down the thickness of his midsection. A bountiful spring fattened him up. Made him soft and pillowy over his abdomen. Something you can't seem to get enough of—pressing the flat of your back against him, leaning into it. Groaning when his arm shifts, boxing you in. Crushing you to him. 

Wily little kitten, purring so sweetly in his lap. 

He draws lazy circles over your clit, grunting with each clench of your cunt. You're soft in his arms. Malleable. He slides his hand up from beneath your breasts, catches your jaw in his palm. Fingers spanning from cheekbone to temple and, oh—

Doesn't that just make him preen. 

He drags your chin to the side, catching your mouth in a sickening kiss. All tongue, teeth. He wants to taste, to devour, every part of you. Bones and all. 

It's a fight, though. You tense in his grasp, lidded eyes snapping open, wide and around. Cheeks bulging between his fingers when you twist, trying to pull away. 

“Don't—I don't want to—” he bites the protests from lips. Messy, sloppy. He flicks his tongue over yours, wrapping it around you like a satiated snake burrowing in after a heavy meal. “Don't—f–fuck—”

It earns him a nip. Teeth digging into his bottom lip. Drawing blood. 

He huffs into the seam of your mouth. Only fair, he supposes, and then pulls you down—hard, fast—onto his cock. The air is punched out of your lungs, flooded into his esophagus. 

“Be a good girl for me,” he warns, bucking into you. It's harder this time, deeper. Tempo increasing. Growing. He feels himself thicken. Knot fattening up. Each piston of his hips seems to knock something inside of his head loose. Common sense, maybe—

The fraying knot of his self-control winding tight. Pulling taut. 

He huffs again, feeling himself slip. Lost in the sensation dripping down his spine, the unified pleasure blooming in the pit of his stomach. 

The air plumes with the thickening tang of your arousal—all sweet, spice. You can take it, now, he knows, and tries not to growl when you hiccup his name wetly into the air. 

The muscles in his thighs bunch tight. Corded and powerful. He arches up, up, forcing his cock deep inside your cunt, splitting you apart. Rutting desperately, edging into something animalistic. 

It runs a knife along the thin skin of his hindbrain. Come out, come out, come play—

He moves you again, pulling his hand away from your jaw and pushing you back down the forest floor. He stays glued to your back. Tucks his arm under your chin, and smothers you under his bulk, groaning when your thighs give out, sliding on the sweat-slicked moss below.

“Simon, ah—” your voice tapers off into a breathless cry when he pulls his hand free from beneath you, wrapping it around to join the other. Holding on, clinging to you. Keeping you locked tight against him, under him. You can't move at all like this—

The swell of his knot bumps against your stretched rim. He presses the brunt of his weight into each thrust now, spurned on by the needy way you yowl into his forearm, drooling all over his skin. Begging for it. 

“Please, please, please—”

Your body is jostled forward with each harsh buck of his hips as he gives you everything he has, feeding his cock into your sopping cunt over and over again. Eager now to fill you up, to flood you with his cum. Make you swell with it. Overstuffed. 

Perfect little omega, you rut back into him with each thrust, taking his thick cock to the root. Mewling sweetly when his knot begins to catch. Too much, he thinks. It might just wreck you for good—

pomegranate seeds splitting over your teeth, blood red juice leaking from the tear. spilling into your mouth. just a drop. just a drop, and Persephone is all his

—Perfect. 

He teeters on the edge of ferality and control. Spinning, spiralling. Loosefooted on the wobbling chossy. Coming undone in a magmatic end—wicked heat, ashes, brimstone; he catches fire, and smoulders you under his heat. Letting the flames lick across your skin until you whine his name, desperate and needy, in the back of your throat. The thrill a bludgeon against his skull, spilling pleasure, bliss, in the broken hole you wrought. 

You tighten like a vice around him—tight, tight—and he pistons into you, burrowing deep. Deeper still. Until you thrash around beneath him, soundlessly screaming his name into the dark forest. Begging for mercy, mercy, please—

He won't. Can't. 

He can't get enough of the way you feel wrapped around him like this. Silken, whitehot. Tight. Tight—

It squeezes the air from his lungs. Static in his head—

And then you let go. Pulsing, throbbing around him. Pulling him in deeper, blanketing his mind in white noise. In nothing but magmatic pleasure. 

“Fuck—!” He snarls, almost angry. Vicious. Chasing after his end in the aftermath of yours. Instincts are at war within him, banging against his skull. Demanding recompense. Paid it's pound of flesh. 

It's what he's promised. What it's owed. 

(and he always keeps his promises, doesn't he?)

Most describe their ruts as mindless, driven by instinct. No control. But Ghost has never felt more present, more alive, than when he sinks his teeth deep into your nape, nearly choking, drowning, on your blood.

For the first time in decades, he feels the crater inside himself, suffused with spare, broken parts, seal when you yield with a mangled yowl of his name, raw and fractured as it splits between your teeth. Pretty pussy swallowing up his knot when he bullies it in deep, locking you together.

pretty little lamb—

a perfect fit between his teeth.

His rut is a voracious thing. 

Ghost has you on your back for the second and third round, heels resting on his shoulders as he bucks into you. Makes you stare at him—don’t look away from me, pet—as he commandeers your body with an ease that seems to break apart all demurrals as they form, rendering you sweet, malleable, beneath him to do with as he pleases. 

And you are, aren't you?

So fuckin’ sweet. 

(“gonna give me a cavity,” he rasps, thick with pleasure, into your ear. he has you on your belly now. holds you down with his weight, crushes your chest against the soft moss below, thighs squeezed tight between his own. you can barely make a sound with his forearm digging into the dirt right above your crown, swallowing you whole under his bulk. 

(owns you like, he finds. no one would be able to see you beneath him if they wandered by. encompassed wholly by every iota he has to give—

he cums like that. nose buried in your crown, moaning low, scorched, in the back of his throat as you twitch beneath him, unable to move at all—)

It's early in the morning when he finally finishes, when his rut begins to slowly recede, and a fresh bloom of clarity yawns over his periphery. Moonrise peppers soft kisses over his aching shoulders as he glances at you curled up against his side, sleeping soundly. Exhausted by the hours and hours of mating, fucking. Taking him, his knot, drinking down everything he has to offer. 

The sight that greets him is gnarled fingers wrapping around his rotting heart, affection peeking out between the brackets of his ribs. His appetite for you is dizzying. Unquenchable. He wonders if he'll ever be able to look at you without wanting to crawl inside your body. To reshape your tender flesh around his bulk until it is indiscernible from himself. 

This want is agony. It's dread, desire. Greed. 

His shoulders bite back in protest when he reaches up to drag his dirt-crusted nails through the prickly hair on his scalp. As dawn slowly unfurls across the midnight blue aether, he knows he'll have to leave soon. Can already feel the creeping heat gnawing in the pit of his belly. His rut starting anew. The scant hours he has of mental clarity, moments meant to eat, to feed, and regain strength for the next marathon of fucking, are needed to feel out his next move. 

He glances at you again, and feels the same covetous tug in his chest as he did before, when he was thickly entrenched in the urge to mate. But as the burnt orange of the sun smears hazy fingerprints across the moulted sky, he sees you in a new, cleaner light. You're young. Much younger than he is. 

It's something he ought to worry about. To feel some shred of shame, of despondency over shackling you to himself—a defective alpha with more scars than morality—when you're in the burgeoning bloom of your freshly untethered youth. All jejune beauty outclasses nature itself. Snow melts on the alpines, trickling down to feed the valley below. Life itself—

But you are his. 

The ugly rings around your throat—mangled tissue swelling in the morning dawn, caked in a thick river of blood—all signify that you belong to him. And while it's a little extreme as far as claiming bites go—one would suffice, but he buried his teeth in you over and over again, biting down on both sides of your neck, your jugular, your nape; inner thighs, mons, wrists—it’s proof enough that you are meant for him. Made for him. 

His pretty omega. 

The rest doesn't matter. He ought to feel shame, but instead he luxuriates in it. Stares down at you with a needy sort of possession spuming in the putrid remains of his chest, mapping out the marks he put on you. And the ones he'll add to later, not stopping until covered in the perfect impression of his crooked teeth. Tattoos of his ownership all over your body. 

Mutual, of course. There's a scant patch of skin, restive and empty, above his heart, save for a fine, jagged line from a serrated dagger. He'll have you bite down on the flesh until your teeth meet inside his muscle. Scarring down to the bone. He'll go, then, to the man who inks him up whenever he has the whim to desecrate scar tissue, and have him etch midnight black against fine silver. Permanent, forever. Always. 

And anyone who kicks up a fuss—stupid as they might be—he’ll sort them out. Prove to them that you are meant to be his. 

(unshakeable:

his spend leaks out of you, drying, tacky and thick, on your thighs. under the sleepy citrine of the dawning sun, it's tinged pink, and looks just like pomegranate juice.)

Ghost rolls his shoulder, and reaches for his discarded trousers. He's covered in a thick layer of dirt, and reeks like soil. But the thought of being buried alive is miniscule compared to the want of being buried inside you again. The urge. Insatiable. He groans with it, cock throbbing already. 

He leaves you naked. No point in dressing when he plans on going home and sinking back inside of you before midday, anyway. An unneeded obstacle, really—

The clearing is close to his truck, and he sets a leisurely pace, yawning into the dawn, as he gathers you into his arms. Carrying you to it as you drool on his chest, brows pinched at the soft jostle of him trudging through the thicket until he reaches it. 

He's not in a rut when he stretches you out in the back seat, spreading your sticky thighs around his hips, sinking inside, bottoming out just as you come to, waking up with a gasp. 

The intense fucking from before lingers in the air. You're soft, molasses; arching into his chest, whimpering out the name he hissed into your nape only hours ago, folding into him with a somnolent submission. It won't last, of course—

You're a vicious little thing, and his back and chest twinge with the rivers you carved into his flesh when he didn't move the way you liked. Wolfish, aren't you? Spitfire hiding under the soft pelt of a slain lamb. He wants to devour you, bones and all. 

He takes his fill of your malleable concession, rutting into you with a sluggish ease. Mapping out the starlight sparking in the depths of your glossy eyes. Magnetic. It pulls him deeper. Unravels him at the seams. 

His hand spans the expanse of your jaw from ear to ear. He holds you like this, thumb buried in the tender embrace of your soft tongue, and begins to understand the reason behind Johnny's niche appetite when you toy with his flesh, coquettish and sweet, suckling him in—pretty seductress—and then mewl when he pushes in too deeply, bringing crystalline gems to corners of your eyes. 

Angelic innocence. The type that demands he prostrates himself at your altar, let his bones be picked clean when you so wish it. And he'll give it to you—body, blood, tissue; all of it. The entirety of him, however broken, shattered the fragments might be. 

He promises it all to you without a word, drilling holes in the gaps of your eyes, chasms wide enough for him to fit. When he cums, it's to a songbirds sonata. Your moans are a whisper, your pleasure swallowed down as it ghosts over his lips, clenching around him like a vice. Pretty bow. He doesn't hold back—groans, baritone; woodsmoke, into the gathering symphony, filling you to the brim. Thick, copious. He wants it to stick. To root. 

When the blood sputters back to his head, he gathers you in his arms once more. Keeps you seated on his lap—shush, pet; s’alright, jus’ close your eyes an’ I'll ‘ave us home in a bit—as he starts the old pickup, and puts it into drive. One hand on the wheel, knuckles blanching white in the glimmering sunrise; sparse forests of muted blond catching, limned in the coruscating light. The other is placed on the small of your back, holding your belly to his. 

Quietly, your body eases. Melts. You press your face into his chest, fingers curling into the fabric, and nuzzle into the heady scent of his sweat, his musk, still clinging to his shirt. Signing, soft and twee, in the cup of his embrace as you slip back to sleep. 

He drives home like this. Mind a quiet place for once. Silent in its contentment, it's comfort. There's an itinerary still left to do, but he pushes it back for now, gaze roaming the dense green of the forest bracketing the road. 

You'll like it, he knows. There's a fen on the outskirts of his territory, a little pond where wild rabbits have been known to make burrows. Deers, elk. Bears. They all come and go. You'll amuse yourself in the untamed wilderness of his abode, drawing delineations of your own as you carve out places in his home just for you. 

And as he makes the turn to his hidden driveway, this buried sanctuary, he can't help but glance down at your crown, and think—

Persephone, finally home.

He finds your identification in your rucksack, nestled underneath the contraband you smuggled from the park—mushrooms, berries, bark, feathers—and sears your name to memory. Every part of you will be unravelled in the coming days, pulled from the depths of your being until it's all ingrained in his head. A gaping chasm chiselled into bone just for you. All for you. 

Your address is a rental. He'll have to call them later today to cut your lease. Your job, too. They'll need to be notified on both your off time for his rut (and your burgeoning heat), and to update your contact information. 

But that's later. Now, he just wants to get home. Sink down into his bed with you beneath him, and fuck you until sundown all over again. Stain the house with the scent of you. With the potent tang of your coupling. 

It's yours too, after all. Should smell just like you. 

And when you wake up later to him fucking his tongue into your drenched hole, fingers toying with your pebbled clit, Johnny will be busy packing the rest of your things into the pack of his pickup truck. The majority of it is already stacked on the porch, waiting for you to rearrange it all in your new house. Lease cut. His name added to your contacts as spouse, husband. Address updated. Marriage certificate laying on the table, only one line unsigned. Waiting for you. 

Maybe it's too fast. You'll certainly protest like it is, bearing your teeth and hissing at him from across the room about too much, too fast, slow down, you don't even know his last name—

(“Riley,” he grouses, arms folded over his broad chest. Eyes burning in the cresting twilight. “S’your last name now as well, pet.”) 

Fast—sure. He might think so too for a brief moment when he as you purring against his chest, submissive and docile after he fucked the fight right out of you, bullied you into agreeing to everything—it's for the best, after all. No one could ever protect you like he can. 

Made for each other. Reinforced when he presses your fingers to the soft spot where his last rib once hung—

(“stole it,” he murmurs into the seam of your lips. “right from under my nose. only fair that i get to steal somethin’ right back, ain't it?”

the look on your face is rapturous when you press your hand to your side, eyes widening when you feel the extra rung—)

He's had decades of waiting. Waiting. And now that he's found you—

He's never letting go. 

You're it, he knows. Feels the certainty in that statement simmering in his hindbrain, in his essence. He'll have you—now, forever. Non-negotiable. Where you go, he will follow. 

(after all, there's something about three-headed dogs and their bones—)

[uzurakis]

HOW THEY LIKE TO HOLD YOU CLOSE!

featuring: geto suguru. megumi fushiguro. itadori yuuji. gojo satoru. nanami kento.

n. a short drabble for each! had fun thinking about each of ‘em :]

GETO SUGURU has always been the type to grab your waist without notice, maybe even by belt if he’s teasing you. when he captures your waist with a daring grip out of the blue, you feel the world fades away, leaving just the heat of his touch to electrify your senses. his sudden hold sets your heart racing, awakening desires that linger in the air with an irresistible allure. in that fleeting instant, you feel a sense of belonging, as if you've found your home in the curve of his arm, knowing that with him, every moment is filled with passion.

MEGUMI FUSHIGURO doesn’t say it, but he enjoys the intimacy of interlaced fingers. in the quiet moments between conversations and stolen glances, he finds solace in the simple act of intertwining fingers. he isn’t the physical type and has a hard time to express his feelings, yet with every touch, he conveys the depth of his affection, a silent confession of his longing. his attentiveness is also shown every time he switches his hand to lace your hands together from the back just to make you walk first easily. in the delicate dance of intertwined hands, he discovers a language of love, where every gentle squeeze tells a story of connection and warmth, one that only you can teach him.

ITADORI YUUJI won’t let you get away when he pulls you in for a shoulder lock. when he grabs you, it's not just about the physical closeness; it shows his presence and protective nature. he communicates his desire to keep you close, to shield you from harm, and to stand by your side through every challenge. sometimes, he also mushes his cheeks onto yours together as he pulls you in, feeling the heat of your skin sliding with his. he ensures that you feel safe in his embrace, knowing that you are cherished and safeguarded in his arms.

GOJO SATORU takes your arm with a gentle wrist-grab. in a world where the ordinary intertwines with the extraordinary, his gentle wrist-grab is a tender reminder of the protection he offers. as he guides your arm, feeling the warmth within, a sense of security and comfort envelops you both. it’s like the weight of the world seems to fade away, replaced by the assurance that you have each other, ready to face whatever adventures life may bring.

KENTO NANAMI always offers for you to lace your arms together. in snippets of moments, he extends his hand, inviting you to join your arms with his, a subtle yet profound gesture of a gentleman. his offer, tender and sincere, also though seemingly simple, carried a weight of closeness amidst the chaos of the world around you. as both hands lock, a subtle fondness spreads through your heart, reminding you that even in the midst of uncertainty, you are not alone.

@uzurakis

[monstersflashlight]

The commander's mate (part 1?)

A/N: Two SFW stories in a row, sorry, my brain is not really horny this week. That said, part 2 of this lil snippet everyone loved, enjoy!

Alien x fem!reader|| SFW, hurt/comfort || tw: kidnapping

"You are going to take the million and shut up if you don't want your brain blown for keeping a commander's mate imprisoned on a pet shop," he replied, his gun already out as your brain spiraled with the info he just let out.

What did he mean by “mate”? Did aliens talk in Australian lingo? You highly doubted that, and your brain was already scrambling to get a response. Maybe… Maybe your monsterfuckery books weren’t so wrong after all, maybe he was talking about that kind of mate. But that couldn’t be, could it? There was no way you got kidnapped from earth and thrown into a monster pet shop just for an alien to find you and claim you as his mate. That couldn’t be possible. Your life wasn’t like that…

It was a dream. That was it. Everything you just saw and experienced was a dream. You didn’t get kidnapped. You didn’t wake up on a pet cage with a very angry gobling-pet-store-owner screaming at you in a language you didn’t understand. Nope. A dream. That explained it. That explained everything.

You pinched your side and pressed your eyes shut tightly. Wake up, wake up, wake up… You repeated to yourself over and over.

A warm big hand touched your bicep and you almost shoot into the stratosphere when you jumped up, scared. You opened your eyes in a rush and found the alien staring back at you, his eyes tender. “Little human, it’s time to go.” His voice was a lot sweeter than before, equally deep, but soothing in a way.

Your scared brain couldn’t work properly and a thousand questions piled in the front of your mind, but the first that escaped your mouth was: “How do you know my language?” He didn’t have an accent, but you knew he didn’t learn English at school like you did.

He covered your hand with his much bigger one, he was crouching in front of the cage, but still towered over you by far. “I’ve been to earth many times, little human,” he explained. He was rubbing soothing circles over the back of your hand, and your body was slowly melting.

It ached, you ached, to be closer to him. But you denied yourself of that, you didn’t understand what your body was feeling, maybe it was Stockholm syndrome or something. Even if that syndrome was bullshit and he wasn’t the one who kidnap you.

“Why?” You asked. You didn’t exactly know about what you were asking, you only knew… need. Need like no other. To know. To meet. To touch. It was driving you slowly made not to be as close to him as possible. You crawled to him, and he helped you out of the cage, but you were still on the floor as he crunched next to you.

“Political affairs. I know your world leaders very well,” he said with a chuckle, his mouth tilting in something that (you hoped) was a try to smile but looked more like a grimace. That only answered part of your confusion, but at last it was something.

“Who are you?” You finally let out, your brain clearing enough to question him on the important part. Being closer to him made your mind clearer, and that should scare you. But it didn’t, you couldn’t be scared when he was so close.

“I am the commander of the intergalactic alliance,” he let out in a formal tone, just to go back to his shooting one when he added: “and I’m your mate, my lovely human.”

“Like the Australians?” You asked, trying to make sense of something.

He laughed, throwing his head back and arching his neck in a way that made your mouth water to bite him. Where the fuck did that thought come from? You stepped closer, his body so close to yours that you could feel the heat emanating from his colorful skin.

“No, little human. Not like the Australians,” and that was everything he said as he took your hand, and helped you up, leading you away from the creepy monster pet shop.

[spaceyaemonds]

Jack would be so tender with his daughter. I bet the reason she’s such a daddy‘s girl is because he just is always there. A silent protective figure, such a beacon of safety and I think Jack, even in his bad moods, he needs to be with his daughter. Even to his surprise because he’d think he was terrible company (would want to spare her) bc he’s moody and cynical. Even though she’s a baby they have a crazy understanding where they’re just at peace with one another, they kinda crave this silent closeness. It’s very cute/jealously inducing to mom.

I also think PittFest would be something hard for him to swallow because even though his family is safe, (they never went) it’s an event he can see his (eventual) wife and daughter going to and the knowledge that the world is kind of getting more crazier frankly terrifies him.

i love these future snippets of the cute domestic family. I’d love to see any more HCs if you got them. Like he comes home from a day shift and takes a bath with her while mom gets bedtime ready. He’s just in awe of her little baby toes and little rolls of fat as she splashes around getting out all that energy. He gives a big kiss on the head as she squawks in annoyance because he interrupted her playtime.

Or Jack and Robby trying to build a playhouse and absolutely flailing because there’s so many instructions and pieces. they end up taking the entire afternoon and rage cleaning several times, but after a couple of beers, they managed to complete it. of course, bug is annoyed the whole time she can’t play with her toy but playing princess tea party with her daddy and uncle Robby soothes her a bit.

Or Mama is getting a postpartum check up and Abbott going down to the ER to bother Robby with the baby, said baby getting whisked away by Dana, Perlah and Princess as they coo over her doughyness and gummy smile. Abbott is kinda like…they just stole my baby as he chats to Robby.

also like a little blurb of Collins and what she thinks of Mama and Bug. She was very present in the beginning of her life as she was still with Robby and she still has that closeness, but she did take a step back during the break up. Maybe it was her experience with bug that helped hee realize she wanted motherhood and during the Season 1 shift she sees Bug being a precocious toddler and it’s a bit of a tough pill to swallow. There’s like a complex feeling of love and jealousy, but then shame because of the jealousy, but overall love and sadness. She doesn’t regret her decision of abortion obviously because it was a right thing for her to do for herself at the time (and the optics of her relationship with Robby as her senior and honestly who knows if Robby could’ve handled it). But there’s always that ‘what would’ve happened’ especially as she’s facing infertility and since it seems that mama had a similar thing happen to her and made the opposite decision. Maybe as she’s driving home, she calls Mama and mama gives her her perspective about what she was feeling in deciding to keep Bug/how Abbot at that time was honestly a very reliable person and that helped her making her decision and how she thinks Collins is going to be such a great mother.

it’s not an over exaggeration to say I’m obsessed with this universe, and we’re constantly getting fed. You’re such a great writer and you really bring these characters to life. Thank you so much.

hi friend!! ahhh okay i’m answering this below the cut!!!

Jack loves his girl. Literally the second he sees her, his whole life is changed. He doesn’t leave her side unless he absolutely has to, which is more often than he would like for it to be. It’s a big reason why when he gets time with her, he just sits and holds her, at least while she’s still small enough to just want to be held. Before they all lived together, some mornings after a really rough shift, he just shows up at readers place, asking in a really solemn voice if he could just see her for a few minutes. Those mornings, he tends to spend the whole day with her while reader works unless she’s still being breastfed, then mom gets her for feedings. I definitely agree that he thinks he’s bad company! Especially as she starts getting older! But even then, they can just sit in silence, him watching her color or play, and her just wanting to be close to her daddy. Mom absolutely adores it, but can’t help but wish her baby wanted to do that with her too (even though bug literally goes to her mom all the time and they do almost everything together LOL).

When he goes home after PittFest, all he wants is to sit on the couch with his girls. When he heard the news, they had been getting ready to go to the aquarium, and he knew they were disappointed. He had to beg them to just stay in the house until he called. All he could think about was what would have happened if they had gone to the aquarium and it happened there? It shakes him to his core, and he spends that night extremely quiet with his baby on his chest and reader gripped to his left side.

I love them too!! This is just so much fun for me, I genuinely could not have imagined the amount of love that this is receiving, and I just am so glad to do and share all of this with you guys!! I have LOTS of headcannons!!

I think he craves doing the bedtime routine (feeding her, bathing her, putting her jammies on) after working a day shift because 1) it gives mom a little break but 2) that’s all the time he gets with her when he works days usually. He feels like he misses SO much that he just craves it. He also loves the baby smell mixed with the nighttime lotion, he’ll never admit it, but it helps him sleep at night too. He definitely also does interrupt whatever she is doing when he walks in, and though she sounds annoyed, her little laugh makes the annoyance worth it to him!

I’m gonna do separate drabbles for Robby and Jack building a playhouse, Jack taking the baby to the ER while mom gets a checkup, and the dynamics with Collins!!! Keep an eye out for those, I have lots of thoughts on them!!!

friend😭🥹🩷 this is so so sweet and i love how much you love it! your (and others who leave comments and asks) kind words keep me motivated to write! i know i said earlier, but i genuinely could have never imagined all of this positivity and kindness coming from my lil idea! thank YOU so much for your kind words!! i am so so SO excited to keep sharing it with you!! please feel free to send ANY and all thoughts/headcannons, just anything like this!!

[eloiseloves]

My Robby x Abbot Season 2 Hopes:

it’s Abbot running the show on night shift and he’s been dreading it for weeks, knowing the Fourth of July is a tumultuous time for him. Torn between wanting to stay home and forget about it or go to work and hopefully be distracted.

Robby is off, done with his day shift and ready to sleep, but he can’t turn his brain off, well aware what day it is and what the ER will look like for Abbot. He worries, he worries a lot, and he can’t sleep. He knows maybe more than anyone else in Jack’s life how PTSD affects him though the other man is not very forthcoming about it and all he can think about is Jack shouldering everything alone tonight.

Robby passes the time watching tv, reading, watching fireworks on the news, etc. but he can’t stop wondering if Abbot is okay. His texts go unanswered but that can be chalked up to the ER craziness. Sleep does NOT come for him and eventually he gives up and decides he’s not going to be able to rest until he sees Abbot. So at 2am he makes his way back to the hospital, under the guise of popping in to help, or picking up something he forgot, he hasn’t decided his excuse yet but everything slips away when he shows up and Bridget clocks him with an immediate “Thank God you’re here.” And a nod to the roof.

Robby bypasses everyone, cuts through chairs, ignores the surprised calls of his name until he reaches the roof. Jack’s not on the edge, like he semi expected, and the absence of him sends his heart racing in a way the image of him ready to jump doesn’t. Has he already done it?

But no, Robby spots Jack tucked into a corner between the wall and a generator, knees pulled to his chest and eyes blank, thousand yard stare obvious a mile a way. His stethoscope lies across the ground like it fell there and went unnoticed. Fireworks are bright but muted noise on the horizon and Robby imagines it doesn’t help with wherever Jack's mind has taken him to. Robby instead places himself in Jack's line of sight, sitting cross legged on the ground across from him, large frame blocking out the fireworks behind.

Abbot still stares right through him, and Robby know better than to touch him, but he begins to talk to him, tells him a bunch of nonsense hospital gossip, the shenanigans his cat pulled lately, the dismal state of his favourite hockey team, until a little recognition begins to flicker through Jack's eyes.

Once Robby is sure Jack has recognized him and knows he's there, Robby reaches out and ever so gently pries his fingers, white-knuckled, from around his legs, and draws his leg out across his lap. Robby slowly and softly takes the pant leg of his scrubs and rolls it up, giving him ample time to stop him. This is intimate, even for them, close friends as they are, but it feels right and apprehension is no where to be found. When Robby's warm hands close around his stump, and gentle fingers begin unbuckling his prosthetic, Jack's eyes finally meet his, awareness fully back with him now.

Robby removes the prosthetic but doesn't let go of Jack's leg, dragging a gentle hand over his stump in a tender massage. A move that Jack - fiercely independent and proud - has never let anyone do. He doesn't say anything, just let's Robby touch him and breathes into the comforting space between them. "You can tell me about it, you know? If you ever feel like talkin'." Robby breaths. Jack never discusses his tours with anyone, beyond clinical facts or surface level details, but Robby knows he struggles with the things he doesn't say.

For a long time, Jack doesn't answer. Robby thinks he isn't going to say anything at all, but eventually, he murmurs, "I don't want you to have to bear this weight too, I don't want this to hurt you like it hurts me. I can't do that to you."

It takes Jack a long time to get out of this mindset, but he eventually brings himself to talk to Robby, first in little snippets, whispered between them to gauge his reaction, then eventually bigger, heavier experiences. Eventually one night, Jack shows up on his doorstep sweaty and wrecked from night terrors and Robby shepherds him inside, stands with him in the shower so he doesn't slip, and tucks him into bed. In the blackness of night, Jack begins to talk about everything and slowly, Robby becomes integral to his PTSD support system, figuring out how to manage and live with it, how to get Jack out of flashbacks, etc.

They evolve from friendship into a full blown relationship as they care for each other, but it seems like a small thing compared to everything else. It doesn't change much between them, nor does it change their day to day besides the addition of sex and moving in together. They don't tell anyone at work, but they do tell Dana because they know she'd clock it a mile away anyways, and they tell her by inviting her and her husband over for dinner, sharing laughs and gossip and wine, and it's not a big thing either, but the trust between them and between Dana is steady and reassuring, and Dana's grinning ear to ear because she saw this coming years ago.

[estcaligo]

Sebek's scales

x reader * romantic, dramatic, focusing more on emotions than scales * Sebek's hands, eyes and ears are done, see #Caligo's stories

"Shh… there, there…" you whispered softly, your hand tracing slow circles on Sebek's back. His low groan rumbled through the quiet halls of Ramshackle, a thunderous expression of his hidden agony. His head rested in your lap, face hidden - as if from shame. He had come to you for solace, seeking comfort from the gnawing, relentless pain he had never expected to experience.

Sebek was growing scales. At last.

A couple on his neck, a few on his cheekbones, some on his back, and on his shoulders too…

It was something he had long awaited, a sign of his lineage manifesting in him. But the joy of this long-anticipated change was marred by the unfortunate surprise of unbearable discomfort. It felt like a wound trying to heal but never quite managing to, a constant need to scratch at what could not be touched - if he scratched, he'd risk tearing them apart with his strength. At this point, the scales felt more like a curse than the proud mark of the Zigvolt bloodline they were meant to be.

But it wasn't just the physical torment… it was the disappointment that burned in him, perhaps even more than the itching and pain. His grandfather had mentioned that these scales, a mark of their crocodile fae heritage, were supposed to come naturally - painlessly, without effort.

But Sebek wasn't fully fae.

Some genetic trick must have occurred, the half-human part of him must have twisted what should have been a prideful moment into a painful ordeal. A stark reminder of his mixed blood. A shameful slap in his face. It felt like another betrayal of his heritage, another sign that he was different in ways he couldn't control. And it tore him up inside, almost as much as the itching tore at him on the outside.

There were days - and long, sleepless nights - when the pain became unbearable, so Lilia, ever perceptive, suggested he spend those times with you. He knew that only you would be able to comfort him in this situation. Your boundless patience and kindness were some of the many reasons why you and Sebek had grown so… close, after all.

Lilia knew as well as you did - Sebek could only truly let down his guard in your presence. Far away from any mention of Malleus. In the presence of his liege, Sebek could never admit to weakness. Never confess to discomfort, let alone agony. He couldn't appear vulnerable - not even in front of Malleus' portrait!

So, after much bluster and loud denial, Sebek had accepted Lilia's offer. And there he was again - in your arms - his most trusted, cherished, beloved human.

To be honest, you didn't know much about the process he was going through. Much? Rather, nothing at all. You'd tried researching it, but Sebek's case was unique, and none of your studies had brought useful results. So all you could offer was your support - your warmth, your touch, your tender kisses, your embrace, your presence.

And that was more than enough for him.

At first, he grumbled and huffed, of course, too proud to fully surrender to your care (the usual routine in your relationship). But inevitably, he would end up curled in your lap, clinging to you when the pain spiked, his fists clenched tight when the itch became too much to bear.

To distract him, you would sometimes read aloud, sharing poetry. Or even snippets of random stories that would ignite his passionate opinions. His voice would rise as he debated with you, his eyes flashing, and soon he'd be pacing the room, animated and alive, the pain momentarily forgotten. You watched him with quiet joy, delighted to see your dear Sebek so full of life again. His voice loud, his gestures grand - your beloved, boisterous crocodile...

Who was growing his scales, despite the price.

You were proud of him, proud of this important moment in his life. And you swore to yourself that you would do everything you could to make this challenge easier for him. After all, he was there for you too, even if he didn't always show it.

Some said Sebek was an open book, but the more you learned about him, the more you realized - not everyone could read what was written within him.

Just because a book is open does not mean everyone can understand it.

Of that, you were certain. And maybe these scales would be like symbols, letters, writing a new chapter in his story. A chapter of a different kind of strength - forged in his unique pain and held gently in the warmth of your love. At the very least, they were writing these intimate moments now - moments you hoped you both would one day look back on and smile.

Sebek was strong. He would overcome this, just as you knew he could overcome anything. And no matter the challenge - whether scales, studies, nightmares, or war - you would be by his side.

Forever and always.

[bloomingsalma]

sometime in summer of 2023 (second picture from bata shoe museum)

[whiskis]

The commander's mate (part 1?)

A/N: Two SFW stories in a row, sorry, my brain is not really horny this week. That said, part 2 of this lil snippet everyone loved, enjoy!

Alien x fem!reader|| SFW, hurt/comfort || tw: kidnapping

"You are going to take the million and shut up if you don't want your brain blown for keeping a commander's mate imprisoned on a pet shop," he replied, his gun already out as your brain spiraled with the info he just let out.

What did he mean by “mate”? Did aliens talk in Australian lingo? You highly doubted that, and your brain was already scrambling to get a response. Maybe… Maybe your monsterfuckery books weren’t so wrong after all, maybe he was talking about that kind of mate. But that couldn’t be, could it? There was no way you got kidnapped from earth and thrown into a monster pet shop just for an alien to find you and claim you as his mate. That couldn’t be possible. Your life wasn’t like that…

It was a dream. That was it. Everything you just saw and experienced was a dream. You didn’t get kidnapped. You didn’t wake up on a pet cage with a very angry gobling-pet-store-owner screaming at you in a language you didn’t understand. Nope. A dream. That explained it. That explained everything.

You pinched your side and pressed your eyes shut tightly. Wake up, wake up, wake up… You repeated to yourself over and over.

A warm big hand touched your bicep and you almost shoot into the stratosphere when you jumped up, scared. You opened your eyes in a rush and found the alien staring back at you, his eyes tender. “Little human, it’s time to go.” His voice was a lot sweeter than before, equally deep, but soothing in a way.

Your scared brain couldn’t work properly and a thousand questions piled in the front of your mind, but the first that escaped your mouth was: “How do you know my language?” He didn’t have an accent, but you knew he didn’t learn English at school like you did.

He covered your hand with his much bigger one, he was crouching in front of the cage, but still towered over you by far. “I’ve been to earth many times, little human,” he explained. He was rubbing soothing circles over the back of your hand, and your body was slowly melting.

It ached, you ached, to be closer to him. But you denied yourself of that, you didn’t understand what your body was feeling, maybe it was Stockholm syndrome or something. Even if that syndrome was bullshit and he wasn’t the one who kidnap you.

“Why?” You asked. You didn’t exactly know about what you were asking, you only knew… need. Need like no other. To know. To meet. To touch. It was driving you slowly made not to be as close to him as possible. You crawled to him, and he helped you out of the cage, but you were still on the floor as he crunched next to you.

“Political affairs. I know your world leaders very well,” he said with a chuckle, his mouth tilting in something that (you hoped) was a try to smile but looked more like a grimace. That only answered part of your confusion, but at last it was something.

“Who are you?” You finally let out, your brain clearing enough to question him on the important part. Being closer to him made your mind clearer, and that should scare you. But it didn’t, you couldn’t be scared when he was so close.

“I am the commander of the intergalactic alliance,” he let out in a formal tone, just to go back to his shooting one when he added: “and I’m your mate, my lovely human.”

“Like the Australians?” You asked, trying to make sense of something.

He laughed, throwing his head back and arching his neck in a way that made your mouth water to bite him. Where the fuck did that thought come from? You stepped closer, his body so close to yours that you could feel the heat emanating from his colorful skin.

“No, little human. Not like the Australians,” and that was everything he said as he took your hand, and helped you up, leading you away from the creepy monster pet shop.

A/N: Reminder that you can read all my other stories back in @monstersflashlight (all organized in this masterlist), thanks for reading!

[hufflepuffsthunderdome]

Acrylics Pt.2

Schlatt x girly!Reader Summary: A few cute snippets of Schlatt's life with a v. fem, lowkey high maintenance girl Warnings: none :)! Just fluff! Based on this request A/N: Can be a stand alone piece but here's part one

The music is playing softly from the speaker when Schlatt walks into your shared bedroom, done with streaming for the night and ready to just curl up and hold you. The light to the bedroom is off when he opens the door, but there’s a familiar, soft flow of light coming through the cracked door to the ensuite bathroom.

You’re a sight to behold for his tired eyes; back turned to him, sitting on the stool at your vanity, wearing that pink, frilly robe he got you ages ago, and a poor excuse for pj’s underneath. Jambo is curled up in your lap, as your fake nails scratch gently at the cat’s ears while you apply whatever creams and serums you’ve decided to use tonight. You look so at ease as you hum gently to yourself, he will never be able to shake the feeling of awe when he sees you like this. He wants to immortalise you in this moment, for the whole world to see.

He scoops you up gently as he walks over, catching your eye in the reflection of the mirror as he sits down and settles you back into his lap. His lips find your neck in a sweet, tender kiss as he whispers softly against your skin how beautiful you are.

Your soft smile in the reflection makes his heart stutter as you apologise for taking so long, “I won’t be much longer.”

He shakes his head as his arms wrap securely around your waist, sending you back a tired smile as he lays his head against yours, “take your time darlin, I’m perfect here.”

He walks through the crowds determinedly, pace fast and sure as he tries to beat the crowds to get out of the city as quick as possible. He feels your hand in his as he walks, dragging you along behind him so he doesn’t loose you, his pace slower than he would like to make up for your small gate. He lets go of your hand for just the briefest moment when the lights change to green and the crowd rushes across the street; it was impossible to keep holding onto you without sending one or both of you fumbling to the ground, but he trusts that you’ve kept pace behind him.

His attention is drawn back behind him once he makes it across the streets and hears the angry horns of New Yorkers in their cars, and your frantic apologies filling the air. He can’t help but laugh as he turns back to you, in your cute little dress, hobbling along in an attempt at a run as your arms flail at your side to keep you balanced. Your heels, adding another 3 inches or so to your height, do nothing to aid your mobility as you hobble across the road. Beauty is pain, you like to remind him, but right now, as he watches your bag bounce at your side, your necklaces jingling on your neck as you struggle to walk, he thinks he can feel your pain more than you can.

“Nice of you to join me,” he says with a smile as he shoves his hands in his pockets, letting you loop your arm through his to use him as a lamp post to give your feet a break. You ease your heel out of the shoe for a second, standing on his shoe as you let out a sigh as you’re able to stand flat for the first time that night.

He places a hand around your waist to steady you as you do the same for your second foot, letting you have a slight respite from the ache in your heels as he holds you. He pulls out his phone and looks at his maps while you lean against him, massaging your calves.

“Come on,” he says as his hands tighten around your waist, hauling you up and over his shoulder as he squats down to pick up your heels, “it’s not far.”

He ignores your squeals of protests, hand coming up to adjust your dress for you, pulling it securely over your ass as he resumes his fast paced walk through the streets, not even phased by the looks of people around you. There's no way this is the weirdest thing they've seen today.

He hears the giggling as he walks down the stairs, the familiar kitchen of his family home coming into view as he rounds the corner, met with the backs of his siblings sitting at the dining table, talking in hushed whispers.

"Did you see what she was wearing?" his sister says as she covers her mouth to hide her laughs as the rest of the table chimes in. "She was puked on by a my little pony," he hears his other sister say, the hushed laughs making his ears turn red with anger.

"I mean have some self respect," his brother adds with a huff, "I don't know how he lets her walk around like that, if my wife left the house like that i swear..." he trails off, whistling lowly as Jay watches him roll his eyes.

"I don't know what he sees in her," his sister chimes in again, her sentence falling flat when she turns from her seat and sees Schlatt standing there, watching.

He feels the anger start to rise in his chest as he runs his tongue along his teeth, trying to keep his cool as he walks into the kitchen. "Sees what in who?" he asks, trying and failing to keep the bite out of his tone. He knows the answer, but he asks anyway.

He's met with dismissive murmurs, nobody, nothing, don't worry about it, and it just makes him angrier as he turns to meet his siblings eyes already on him, watching him cautiously. "Who were you talking about?" he says firmly as he leans against the counter, arms crossed.

He stares them down, unmoving and unwavering as he waits for someone to say something, his jaw clenching slightly as the silence stretches out. His siblings exchange glances, their earlier confidence faltering under the weight of his stare.

"Jesus, Jay, don’t be so dramatic," his eldest sister finally says, waving a dismissive hand. "We were just talking."

His siblings shuffle uncomfortably in their seats, their eyes darting between each other like they’re waiting for someone else to take the hit. Schlatt doesn’t move from where he’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight.

"Well?" he prompts, voice low, dangerous. "Who were you talking about?"

His sister, the one who started it, clears her throat and lifts her chin like she isn’t the least bit intimidated. "Come on, Schlatt. You know she’s... a lot."

"So you were talking about Y/N?" he challenges, his voice sharp, "talking shit about my girlfriend? That's just chatting huh?"

His brother scoffs, "we’re just saying, man. You could do better."

Schlatt’s fingers tighten against his arms, the only sign of the fury simmering beneath his skin, "better? Better than what? Better than someone I love?"

His sister rolls her eyes, "it’s not that serious. She’s just... trying too hard. She’s always dressed like she’s walking a runway, and for what?"

Schlatt lets out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "For what? Because she likes it. Because it makes her happy. Who the fuck are you to say anything about her! You barely know her."

"It just feels like she's overcompensating a bit you know," his brother laughs with a shrug, trying to make the tone playful again, "like she mustn't have much going on if she has to parade around like that."

"What the fuck is that meant to mean?"

"It's a bit vapid isn't it?" his other sister adds quietly, a look of concern on her face, "we thought you'd end up with someone with more substance."

"You lot wouldn't know a fucking thing about substance," he spits as he clenches his fists at his sides, "you've made no fucking effort at all to get to know her, to include her in anything. Over what? Some dresses?"

Silence. No more hushed giggles. No more careless whispers. Just the weight of his words settling over the room.

He pushes off the counter, "if you've got a problem fucking come to me instead of running your mouths. She's gonna be around for a long time so you better make a fucking effort."

He walks down the hallway, the tension in his shoulders starting to ease as the distance between him and his siblings grows. By the time he reaches his bedroom, his anger has cooled into something more manageable, though the sting of their words still lingers in the back of his mind.

He finds her sitting on his bed, her legs tucked under her, the soft hum of her music filling the room as she swipes through her phone. The sight of her, effortlessly beautiful even in the most casual moments, hits him like a wave, sitting in a pile of blankets in his childhood bed like she belongs there. She looks up as he enters, eyes lighting up at the sight of him.

"Hey," she says, her voice as warm and genuine as always as she reaches for him.

Schlatt’s lips curl into a small, exhausted smile, his body sagging slightly with relief. He moves toward her, sitting down beside her and pulling her into a hug. She wraps her arms around him immediately, pressing her face into his chest, not aware of the storm that just passed.

“Everything okay?” she asks, tilting her head up to look at him.

He brushes a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her soft skin. “Yeah,” he mutters, his voice a little rougher than usual, “it's all sorted.”

She nods, sensing the change in his mood but not pushing him to explain. Her fingers trace small circles on his chest as they sit in comfortable silence for a few moments.

"You know," she says softly, looking up at him again, "you don’t have to defend me like that. I’m perfectly fine with who I am."

Schlatt huffs a small laugh, a bitter edge to it, “I don't like them running their mouths, calling you shallow and shit," he shakes his head, more out of frustration with his siblings than anything else.

She smiles, a soft, understanding look in her eyes. “I know. And I don’t need them to understand. It’s your opinion that matters.”

"All I care about is how you make me feel," he says softly as he pulls her closer, "dolled up or not you're a fucking work of art."

[heyimkana]

A snippet from Pillow Talk Part 2:

His tender tone soothes you, but it’s never enough to completely excise your past traumatic memories of nearly losing him. “It wasn’t like the last time, was it? The beast that put those wounds on your chest?” 

“No, nothing like that,” he answers with haste, not wanting you to worry even further (it’s just a stupid game he plays to get your attention, after all). “It was just Beru.”

As if being summoned, the shadow soldier materializes out of thin air, still in the shape of a small, floating head. “M-My liege,” Beru greets, the pitch black, smoggy cloak around him quivering just as much as his voice. He hovers close to his summoner’s face, beseeching him for forgiveness. “I can no more bear this guilt within mine own chest. To make amends for mine sins, I shall taketh mine own life. Though I shall be reborn through thy mystic powers, the anguish must needs be worth the price of thy fair skin I have besmirched with these abominable hands. I shall end mine existence a hundredfold, nay, a thousandfold—”

“Can you not waste my mana, please?” Jinwoo sighs, breaking away from you with a frown. All the romantic tension he’s been building before to sweep you off your feet? Gone. “And what did I tell you about not snooping into my private moments?”

“Mine most humble apologies, my liege!” he panics, flying back and forth as if a part of him begged him to flee. “I hath but come hither to bid thee good night! Naught did I desire to intrude upon thy sacred, amorous moment with thy lady wife, most especially when thou hast longed for her gentle caress all the livelong day—”

Your husband slaps a hand over his mouth, his large palm nearly covering the ant’s entire face, grasping it hard enough for Beru to start mewling under his hold. His smile is nothing but menacing, a warning for the shadow to for the love of God, shut. the fuck. up. 

Read Part 1 here.

Update: the chapter has been released! Read it here!

[aratribow]

For my BELOVED @itsredpaint !! ^^ And a LOVELY snippet from mah waif sarcassie!!

Dan Feng acts as if he doesn’t hear the subtle whisper of fur brushing against wood, nor see the sliver of light followed by a faint shadow as the curtain is pushed aside, nor hear the delicate steps approaching him until…

A tail—two, three, nine—appears in his lap, the fur as brilliant as the translucent traces of a first snowfall, the strands intertwined with the rays of the setting sun.

“And where might you have been?” Dan Feng chuckles fondly, turning the page of a manuscript he has been passing the time with.

Once more, he feigns ignorance as his hair is gathered with a gentle touch, claws tracing the skin of his neck in a featherlight tease. The life of a deity is often dull in its immortality, yet this unspoken game is a routine Dan Feng never tires of.

His response is a soft yet coy chuckle. “Have you come to miss your most loyal priest’s company so soon?”

Deft fingers thread through inky black hair, the movements so masterful it would be nigh impossible to notice if not for Dan Feng’s familiarity with the strokes.

“You are my *only* priest, Jing Yuan,” Dan Feng notes, amused.

“That only makes my words all the truer, does it not? The best—and the only one you will ever need.”

The deity breathes a laugh, which earns his hair a single sharp tug.

“Remain still. You would not wish to ruin my masterpiece, would you?”

“I would never display such disrespect to my most devoted priest.”

Several minutes pass in blissful silence, only interrupted by the occasional turning of a page or the relaxed swaying of a tail. Dan Feng sets to caressing the ones lounged in his lap.

“Are you perhaps attempting a distraction, Dan Feng?”

“I am deeply aggrieved you would accuse me of such a thing.”

Not long after, a pair of braids are let down Dan Feng’s shoulders, a clawed hand toying mildly with a tip.

“Is it to your liking?”

Dan Feng lifts the other braid for an inspection in spite of knowing he would love anything Jing Yuan created.

“Lovely as ever.”

The tails retract from Dan Feng’s hold in a satisfied twirl. The rules of the unspoken game dictate that he remains as he is, yet fond impatience makes him follow the movement with a turn of the head.

Jing Yuan’s ears twitch in the telltale manner they do whenever Dan Feng’s eyes are on him, and a tender smile curves his lips.

“You have missed me after all.”

Dan Feng smiles back. They may be bound by a contract—a deity and a priest, life force shared in exchange for servitude—yet their bond extends far beyond.

“I have, my darling fox.”

There is hardly a need for Dan Feng to be a deity with Jing Yuan.

[kaayyyys]

Daryl Dixon X reader

Fluff alphabet

A is for Arms: His arms. Strong, calloused, always ready. Ready to pull you close when a walker gets too close, ready to hold you tight when the nightmares come. They’re not always gentle, a little rough around the edges like the man himself, but damn, they feel like home. Sometimes, when he thinks you're not looking, he'll just wrap one arm around your waist, pulling you close enough to feel the warmth, a silent promise that he's there.

B is for Banter: Before you, Daryl didn't 'banter'. He grunted. Now, he teases. It’s subtle, a dry remark about your terrible aim (which isn’t that bad), or a playful jab about the time you tried to cook squirrels and nearly burned down the house. It's his way of flirting, his way of showing he's paying attention. You tease him right back, of course, because seeing that small, almost-smile flicker across his face is worth any risk.

C is for Comfort: He's not one for grand gestures, but he knows how to offer comfort. A silent hand squeeze when you're upset. Sharing his blanket on a cold night, even though he pretends he doesn't need it. Leaving you the last of the clean water. Comfort, Daryl-style, is quiet, practical, and fiercely devoted.

D is for Dreams: You share them now, whispered in the dark. Nightmares of what you've lost, yes, but also dreams of a future. A future where you can build a life, a home, a garden even. Daryl doesn’t talk about them much, but you catch him looking at you sometimes, a hopeful glint in his usually guarded eyes.

E is for Eyes: His eyes are a roadmap. They tell you everything he doesn't say. The worry when you're out on a run. The pride when you take down a walker. The raw, untamed affection when he looks at you like you're the only person in the world. You've learned to read them, to understand the language he keeps hidden from everyone else.

F is for Firelight: Sitting by the fire, the crackling flames painting dancing shadows on his face. It's in these moments, quiet and still, that you feel closest to him. He'll sometimes share stories, snippets of his past, things he's never told anyone else. The firelight makes him open up, makes him vulnerable, and you cherish every word.

G is for Grateful: You're grateful for him. For his strength, his loyalty, his unwavering presence in a world that wants to tear you apart. He’s grateful for you too, though he'd never say it in so many words. You see it in the way he watches your back, the way he always makes sure you're safe.

H is for Hair: The first time you ran your fingers through his hair, he tensed up, ready to fight. Now, he leans into it, closes his eyes, lets you card your fingers through the strands. It's a small intimacy, a quiet moment of connection that means more than any grand declaration.

I is for Inside Jokes: You have a whole language of inside jokes now. A raised eyebrow, a shared glance, a mumbled word that means something entirely different to the two of you. These tiny moments of shared understanding are what build your bond, what make you a team.

J is for Jealousy: He doesn't show it often, but you see it sometimes. A flicker in his eyes when someone gets too close, a tightening of his jaw when someone else makes you laugh. It's a possessive, protective kind of jealousy, born from fear of losing you. You reassure him without words, a gentle touch, a reassuring smile. He's the only one you want.

K is for Kiss: His kisses aren't soft and gentle, not at first. They're raw, desperate, like he's trying to pull you into his soul. But over time, they soften, become tender, a quiet promise of forever.

L is for Loyal: Daryl Dixon is nothing if not loyal. He'd walk through fire for the people he cares about, and you are at the top of that list. He's got your back, always, no matter what. That loyalty is the bedrock of your relationship, the foundation on which you're building your life together.

M is for Mending: You mend each other. He patches up your physical wounds, stitching you back together when the world tries to break you. You mend his emotional scars, slowly, carefully, with patience and love.

N is for Near: Just being near him is enough sometimes. Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder by the fire, walking side-by-side on a supply run, just knowing he’s there is a comfort in itself. His presence is a grounding force, a reminder that you’re not alone.

O is for Outdoors: You both find solace in the outdoors. The woods, the quiet, the sense of freedom. You often take walks together, just to escape the confines of the walls, to breathe in the fresh air.

P is for Protect: The need to protect each other is fierce, primal. You'd both lay down your lives for the other without hesitation.

Q is for Quiet: Sometimes, the best moments are the quiet ones. No words, no distractions, just the comfortable silence of being together.

R is for Respect: He respects you, your strength, your intelligence, your compassion. He sees you, really sees you, and values you for who you are.

S is for Scars: You both carry scars, both visible and invisible. They're a reminder of what you've been through, but also a testament to your resilience. He doesn't shy away from your scars; he traces them with his fingertips, a silent acknowledgment of your pain.

T is for Trust: Trust is everything, especially in this world. You trust him with your life, with your heart, with your deepest secrets. And he trusts you, completely.

U is for Understanding: You understand each other, on a level that transcends words. You see the pain behind his stoicism, the vulnerability beneath his gruff exterior. And he sees the strength behind your kindness, the fire beneath your gentle demeanor.

V is for Vulnerable: It takes time, but he lets you see his vulnerable side. The moments of doubt, the flashes of fear, the pain of his past. He trusts you enough to show you his true self, and that's the greatest gift he can give.

W is for Warmth: His warmth. Physical, in the way he holds you close. Emotional, in the way he makes you feel safe and loved.

X is for XOXO (Kisses and Hugs): He's not one for saying it, but he shows it in every action, in every glance, in every protective gesture.

Y is for Yearning: Even after all this time, you still yearn for him. For his touch, his voice, his presence. The yearning is a constant reminder of the depth of your love.

Z is for Zenith: You've found your zenith with him. Your peak, your highest point. He makes you a better person, stronger, more resilient. Together, you can face anything. Together, you are home.

[hyvyinjie]

hi! Can I ask for a headcannon about Minamoto teru x childhood friend reader? Where teru is really over protective and gentle towards the reader. Reader is a lazy person, and often sleepy, the things he likes are reading comics and playing game in their phone. They also refuses teru's invitation to join the student council. Thank you! :)

why of course! it’d be an honor to grant such an ask. apologies for taking quite a while to do so—though i hope my work meets your expectations, wonderful nonie!<3

—LOST IN THE HAZE OF YOUR DREAMSCAPE.

featuring ; minamoto teru & you as our star.

+ small akane & aoi mentions.

ah, minamoto teru; the very embodiment of perfection—as he was hailed and as he carried himself with utter conviction.

a master of powers, a paragon of academic prowess, and a maestro in all things extraordinary. could there be anything he did not conquer?

yet, his persona, a labyrinth of complexities, as if harboring a multitude of souls within his very being.

now, here you arrive in his peculiar life—meeting with the intricacies of his existence.

when your paths converged, it ignited a tempestuous collision, a clash of peculiar forces.

initially, your mere presence held no sway over him. in truth, he perceived you as an encumbrance, burdened by your languid nature. for he, a relentless pursuer of flawlessness, demanded nothing less.

but lo and behold. fate—that cunning trickster—wove its intricate threads, meticulously mending the frayed tapestry of your connection.

through the passage of time, a tapestry of happenstance encounters and the subsequent flourishing of interactions—a nascent camaraderie took root. he slowly, but surely grew attuned to your idiosyncrasies, harmonizing with your rhythm. while the power to surmount every obstacle at your side eludes him still, he persists, striving to offer his utmost.

oh please have mercy on this young man—forever enmeshed in the whirlwind of his exorcist duties. and yet, even amidst the chaos, his devotion knows no bounds when it comes to those he holds dear.

one might assume that quality time would be sacrificed for the trivial, but fear not, for you found yourself on the fortunate side—the one he’d willingly carved out moments to be with.

initially, your encounters were fleeting, brief snippets of time. however, as the sands of time trickled down, these fragments transformed into meticulously planned sleepovers. he meticulously orchestrated these occasions, ensuring they did not encroach upon his demanding schedule.

your bond thrived during these cozy gatherings, or tranquil rendezvous, where he wholeheartedly immersed himself in your passions—comics and video games.

though not extensively versed in these realms, one might imagine that you—with your infectious enthusiasm to the field—was the catalyst for his exploration and understanding of the realm of entertainment. this was evidenced by the gradual increase in invitations to game nights and his newfound willingness to engage in discussions about captivating narratives. perhaps, you both even exchanged recommendations for comics, as kindred spirits often do.

as the both of you and the world grew older—it became evident that he honed his social skills; presenting himself as a complete package. every aspect of his being held an irresistible allure, captivating the hearts of women, and even some fellow men. many yearned and openly expressed their desire to be the chosen one by his side.

however, even amidst the clamoring crowd, his gaze remained steadfastly fixed upon you.

of course, as the old adage goes; with great power comes great responsibility—the price of his popularity gradually revealed itself.

certain students, teetering on the edge of obsession, noticed the distinct tenderness he displayed towards you, surpassing his general kindness towards all. seizing upon this perceived vulnerability, they occasionally resorted to devious methods, seeking to eliminate you from the equation, taking advantage of moments when slumber claimed you.

naturally, he swiftly uncovered their plot, intervening before they could execute their nefarious intentions.

needless to say, the number of such audacious attempts dwindled significantly. what exactly he did to deter them remains a mystery known only to him and his would-be victims.

still, worried that the possibility of a recurrence and his absence to intervene, he took it upon himself to practically implore—some might even say beg—you to join the student council. this would ensure that he, or even akane if needed, could keep a watchful eye over you with greater ease.

however, true to your nature, you steadfastly rebuffed each futile attempt to persuade you. despite his persistent efforts, you remained resolute in your refusal.

eventually, your golden boy relented, recognizing that his endeavors were in vain…but that was just because he found an alternative solution.

he encouraged—forced—akane to be the one to look after you discreetly whenever he couldn’t. only choosing to partially reveal his intentions to avoid alarming you at the time, as you were unfamiliar with akane’s existence.

or so it had been until he observed that you and the school’s vice president shared a rather unique bond.

although akane would occasionally scold you for being so excessively somnolent, mistaking it for you being irresponsible, hence, occasionally comparing you to the greatness of his lady aoi—teru—ever vigilant and mindful of akane’s every interaction with you, ensured that his usual brutal tendencies were significantly tempered. still—it remained a part of the deputy’s essence, defining his very being, just albeit subdued in your presence.

it could be surmised that akane once attempted to tease—or rather, foolishly inquire, about teru’s subtle yet perceptible shifts in behavior whenever you were involved.

“it’s almost as if you like them.”

in an almost immediate reaction—the president paused, slowly turning his head to gaze at akane, a shadow casting a smile that concealed the upper portion of his closed eyes.

the ginger-haired vice executive, feeling an ominous presence despite the absence of visible eyes, found himself sweating profusely as he cautiously added,

“—to the point where anyone could mistake you for family!"

sensing the gravity of his words, akane mentally vowed to never broach the subject again. he restrained himself from ever mentioning it whenever he witnessed the two of you together.

curiosity gnawed at you as you noticed his all-knowing gaze transform into one of horror whenever you turned your head, as if peering behind you; at none other than the pretty blonde himself, who seemed to be doing nothing wrong, merely proven to have been innocently smiling the whole time, or so he put up whenever you looked back at him.

oblivious to the truth, you always dismissed it as ‘akane’s peculiar moments of ptsd flashbacks’ whenever he saw teru.

however, let me share a little secret with you.

did you know the true reason behind teru’s death stare? no? well, do you wanna know?

then do allow me to spill it for you.

it was simply because akane, using the keyword; "like," insinuated that teru had a ‘liking-only level’ romantic feeling for you. the misconception provoked such a reaction from teru, for he wanted to correct that statement because he loved you, not just liked you.

seriously, can’t people let him finish what he’s saying?

[borathae]

↳ Index [Snippet #53 - Adorable]

"When Jungkook is so cute by merely exisiting."

Genre: married life!AU, Slice of Life Fluff

Warnings: she thinks that he is the cutest, which he is <3, a cute sushi date with a beach walk afterwards, she bites his nose <3, he is also a lil shit because let's be honest he is, and we all love him so much for it <3, one (1) mention of suggestive themes

Wordcount: 1.1k

a/n: this is inspired by this gifset 🧡 i just love his lil pout and pretty eyes so much :( also, please bear with me. you besties are gonna get longer stories again. christmas time at work is just very stressful and time consuming and i rarely have energy to write :(

Jungkook is minding his own business. He is living his own life, enjoying the moment, existing. And you can’t take your eyes off of him. He isn’t even doing anything. He is merely and simply existing and you still think that he is the most adorable and handsome person that ever existed and ever will exist. 

He is wearing a white, oversized long arm shirt today, combining a black bucket hat with it. His bangs cover his forehead and his face carries no makeup. He is entirely comfortable with his look. It is simple, but you think that he is a work of art.  

You and he are currently on a fun and relaxing date to a costal restaurant. The theme of the restaurant is local fish and the chef specializes in sushi. She explains each serving in great detail and Jungkook is really enjoying his time here. You have never witnessed him listen so intently and with such attention for such a long time before. Now, don’t misunderstand, this isn’t supposed to be mean. You love him and you also love how easily his attention span can wander. Something as small and simple as a pretty bug by the side of the road can already pull his attention away. Sometimes, even something as simple as a random thought can completely beam him away. You never saw it as a negative trait, but you also have to admit that seeing him so deeply engrossed in sushi knowledge is surprising and wonderful to witness. He pouts his lips without noticing and his eyes are so big in wonder. You just love him so much.  His reactions to the food are almost better. You haven’t laughed that much during lunch in a long time. He is so cute. 

He would definitely whine if he knew that you are calling him cute. He doesn’t like to be called that way (a lie, he likes to tell you. He definitely likes it, you are sure of it). And the thing is? You can’t blame him.  

Jungkook is a strong and muscular man. He is pierced, tattooed and drives a huge Harley. He also knows how to knock someone out with just one punch and the multiple times he had you in his arms and on his cock at the same time are definitely haunting your mind from time to time. Jungkook is just such a Man and he shouldn’t be this cute in your eyes, but he is. He is so tender and beautiful and full of childlike wonder. When he talks to you, he talks in a soft voice and when he holds your hand, he always draws hearts on your skin. He greets and thanks the staff of whatever places you visit and whenever it is possible, he makes their jobs easier by helping out as best as possible.

He is just so warm. Yes, this is how he is. He is warm like a safe hug, warm like hot cocoa, warm like a blanket after a person laid under it for a long time.

And right now, you think that he is unbearably cute in his little outfit with his pretty eyes and pouty lips.

The sushi chef turns her back to you and him again, preparing the next course. Jungkook glances at you from the corner of his eyes. He has been feeling your eyes on him the entire time the chef explained her process. He is starting to get nervous. 

When you don’t seem to want to stop any time soon, he finally speaks up. 

“Is something the matter, my sweetheart?” he asks, turning his head to you and rubbing your back. You and he are sitting next to each other so it is easy to do. 

“I just think that you’re so cute.”

He furrows his brows and pouts, “don’t call me that.”

“I can’t help it. You’re just so…can I bite your nose?”

“No? Why would you wanna bite my nose?” he says genuinely confused and touches his own nose. 

“Because if I don’t get to munch on something soon, I will riot.” 

He pulls a grimace of judgement. 

“You’re a weirdo”, he says and turns his head away. 

“Please?”

“No. Not here”, he whines and then the chef returns with the new course.

The sushi date continues. Jungkook is mesmerised while you are mesmerised by him. How can such a masculine, strong man be so cute? And how will you survive not munching on him?

You and he take a walk by the pier after lunch, holding hands and enjoying the ocean breeze. You snap some pictures by the beach, some together and some of each other. Afterwards it is time for ice cream, which you enjoy sitting on a bench overlooking the ocean. 

“You are looking at me again”, Jungkook says.

“I can’t help it. You’re so cute today.” 

“You know that I could easily bench press you, don’t you?”

“I am aware. I still think that you’re cute. Gosh Kookie, this shirt fits you so well. You’re looking so snuggly.”

You cuddle into him, hugging his waist and resting your cheek on his shoulder. Jungkook drapes his arm around you, smiling shyly. 

“Can I really not bite your nose?” you mumble.

“Why do you wanna bite my nose?”

“Because.” You poke his nose. “No nose has ever nosed as hard as your nose does.”

He scoffs, “okay? Whatever that may mean.”

“It means that I wanna bite your nose. Please?”

“But why? It’s my nose, I need it to breathe.”

“I’m not gonna do it hard. Just a little nibble. Once. Please?” 

“What’s in it for me?”

“A cute nose bite?”

“Yeah.” He laughs. “That’s not convincing.”

“You get to take two bites of my ice cream?”

He squints his eyes, letting out a long, “hmmmmmm.”

“Three bites?” 

“Okay fine, we have a deal.”

“Yes! Oh my god, I’m so happy”, you exclaim and cup his cheeks to turn his head to you. 

With a racing pulse, you lean closer so you could finally bite his nose. You have wanted to do this ever since this date started. He has such a pretty and biteable nose. You make sure to be as gentle as possible. All you need is for your teeth to feel his nose just once. You don’t want to hurt him. 

Jungkook grumbles in faux annoyance, giving you a pout afterwards.

“Happy?” 

“Very. This was the highlight of my day, seriously.”

He chuckles, “if you say so. Now give me ice cream.”

“There you go.” 

Jungkook practically sucks in your ice cream like a vacuum, leaving you with an empty ice cream cone and an agape mouth.

“Jungkook!” You exclaim, “what the hell?”

He chuckles with a full mouth, eyes sparkling mischievously.

“You’re so annoying”, you whine, nudging his chest.

“You said three bites. Never said how big they can- ow, ah, brain freeze.”

“Serves you right, you ice cream thieving egg.”