The Wonderful World Of Random

“come on,” he scoffs, “are you a tour guide now? what major are you anyways? isn’t it something really nerdy? something along the lines of biochemistry? a minor in genetics or some bullshit like that?”

“i think you’re thinking of some other girl you’ve fucked because that is nowhere along the lines of what i’m studying. you weren’t even in the right college. some partner you are.”

sitting right across from you, was the star recruit of the university of coruscant. a lacrosse player who transferred from mustafar central. he was the reason why the team was expected to qualify for nationals. why they were supposed to even make it to the championship.

over the summer, it was almost as if the entire campus was buzzing about it. after all, it wasn’t often that the university was able to snag such good athletes. well, it was a division one school so of course it was a given that everyone was pretty good in their respective sport.

however, the zabrak sitting right across from you was utterly exceptional.

in almost every way.

all everyone raved about was his looks. which, you had to admit, the zabrak was gorgeous. with rich crimson skin, complemented by inky tattoos, sharp cheekbones, a dashing smile, and eyes that were pools of pure honey, it was difficult to deny the fact that he was attractive.

however, it was not hard to accept the other truth, either. he was quite acquainted with a majority of the women on campus, matching with almost every single one on tinder. that was if you were a part of a sorority or part of a sports team, of course.

what made matters worse was his intelligence. so, when you were paired with him for a project in your astronomy class, you learned fairly quickly that the zabrak was quite the smartass. and not a nice one, either. he seemed to enjoy harassing and berating you with his jokes and punchlines during every encounter.

he was everything you despised in a man. cocky, stubborn, and careless.

so why were you so attracted to him? you had absolutely no idea.

there’s a beat of silence, and the only noise the zabrak emits is a quiet exhale. the sound of his breath as it whistled through his teeth. yet, it’s followed by a quiet huff.

“you wish you could fuck me. you’ve mentioned it before, to that nautolan friend of yours, hmm? kit, right? he’s on the lacrosse team. your name may have come up a few times.”

heat flourishes through your cheeks as you glance upwards, any last remnants of focus completely crumbling away. your breath hitches in your throat at the smug smirk plastered on his lips, incisors poking against his lower lip.

golden eyes scour you, almost analyzing the sheer and utter shock plaguing your features. satisfaction glints within the depths, and you blink, scrambling to formulate some sort of response.

leaning forward, the zabrak tilts his head, so close that the tip of his nose grazed yours. this time, the words are a low rumble, harsh and gravelly.

almost like a growl.

“you told your little friend kit that you wished that i would just take you right here, in the library, and fuck you senseless. i find that interesting though, because you’ve been feeding me this little premonition that you absolutely loathe every aspect of my existence. now, do you actually want that little wish of yours to come true, or are you going to keep putting up the act and we act like this never happened?”

shrinking in your seat, you could almost feel the eyes searing into the both of you. there’s arched brows and low murmurs, a few giggles ringing through the space. swallowing thickly, you pull the collar of your hoodie over the lower half of your face, in a vain attempt to conceal your obvious embarrassment.

of course your fellow peers were staring. in the corner of your eye, you witness a group of girls roll their eyes. from the decals on their laptops, along with the other memorabilia, you pick out they’re chi omega girls, a popular sorority on campus.

you squeeze your eyes shut as you hear them whispering amongst each other. there’s a few points, and you were dead sure the dusty rose twi’lek in the black nike hoodie wanted to end your life right there.

maker, were you so flustered.

and he had you right where he wanted you.

“m-maul,” you stutter, fidgeting in your seat, “pe-people are s-staring.”

“do i look like i give a fuck?”

“i’m pretty sure the chi omega girls over there are going to send me death threats once they find my instagram,” you grumble, burying your head in your hands, “it’s your fault they’re all looking, you know.”

“hey!” the taunting tone in his voice sent your eyes wide open, strands of curses flowing from your tongue as he called over to the group, “i know we may have matched on tinder, but i’m not yours. i’m not territory to lay a claim on. i’m my own zabrak, you know. i can talk to other girls.”

letting out an exasperated sigh, you bury your head into your arms, laying your head on the table.

getting any work done with him was a lost cause.

“you okay? you gonna make it?”

for a moment, you melt under the tenderness in his tone, the way the words just sounded so gentle. he lays a hand on your shoulder, and you look up, the heat in your cheeks lingering as your eyes lock with his.

“we could get out of here, you know,” maul murmurs, “i live in an apartment with a few other guys on the lacrosse team. they’re all out, though. we could get some peace and quiet. and i could get you away from those chi clowns. i think they already found your twitter. i don’t like the way they’re looking at you either.”

i don’t like the way they’re looking at you either.

“um, sure. i don’t have anything else tonight. at least, i don’t think. i cleared my schedule so we could get this project done.”

“don’t worry about packing up your stuff. act like you’re on the phone or something and i’ll grab your things. i made this mess so i’ll clean it up,” it takes a moment to register the suggestion, but you knew it wasn’t a suggestion.

he wasn’t going to budge.

clearing your throat, you press your phone to your ear, “hello? oh hey! no, you didn’t catch me at a bad time. i just need to leave the room really quick.”

carefully, you weave your way through the maze of chairs and tables, pushing open the door. moments later, you’re outside, inhaling the brisk january air, grateful for the coolness as it seeps into your skin.

“you okay?”

you nod, probably a little too quickly, “yes.”

maul’s brow furrows, yet he doesn’t press any further, adjusting your book bag, “don’t worry about carrying this. i got it. i feel bad.”

“don’t feel bad i mean, you were just teasing--”

“i do,” he cuts in, “i feel bad because i know how you much you dislike unwanted attention. you always get so flustered when the professor calls on you with no warning. you either stutter just a little bit or you pull the sleeves of your hoodie over your hands. i was a little bit of an asshole back there, and i apologize for that. i took care of everything with those chi omega girls too.”

in the darkness, you nearly trip over the sidewalk, “you.. you notice that?”

“i sit right by you and have been for the past two weeks,” he snorts, “i pick up on a thing or two. take a left here.”

all around you, the lights of campus glow softly, illuminating the surroundings with a warm golden glow. the night sky is clear, a few stars glittering over the light pollution of the city. you follow the zabrak, unsure of what to say.

“were.. were you serious about what you said earlier? did kit really say something?”

your knees buckle at the sound of his laughter. how it was so sweet and melodic as it rang out into the night.

“he did say something,” the zabrak raises a hand, pointing to a complex just a few hundred feet ahead of you, “i’m right here. you still up for the offer? i mean, we still have a week and a half but i don’t want to waste your time. you have a lot going on with your classes already. how’s chemistry going?”

“how do you know about chemistry?” you arch a brow, a shudder coursing through you as the breeze rolls through the campus.

“you bitch about it all the time on your instagram story?” the zabrak holds his id next to the door, pulling it open, “regardless of what you may think, i do pay attention to you sweetheart.”

“and what’s that supposed to mean?” your tone shifts, “i’m not sure what you’re referring to, maul.”

“well,” a hand finds its way to the small of your back, just above the curve of your ass, pushing you gently. realizing that you have to go up the stairs, you begin to trudge upwards, his hand still lingering.

“you have this belief that you’re unattractive because you don’t possess conventional beauty set by the standards of social media and society. i know this because you’ve talked about it on your twitter and your instagram. also, your comment about ‘some other girl i fucked’ really took me aback because i don’t just sleep with anyone. you know that, right? i have standards. and i have goals too, outside from ‘how many bodies i have.’ you also said that to kit, which made me upset. is that what you really think of me?”

in that instant, it was almost as if your heart dropped. you stop at the top of the flight, the clammy sensation coating your hands only growing. wiping your hands on your leggings, you dodge his gaze, clamping your mouth shut.

gods, were you in deep shit now.

fingers grasp your chin, forcing your head to the right. maul takes a step forward, pushing your back against the wall. the concrete sends goosebumps lining your arms, hairs standing on end.

“i asked you a question,” your heart thuds as he leans forward, “is that what you really think of me sweetheart?”

“i-i--” you stammer, heat flourishing to your neck, “t-that’s not i think of you. i was just frustrated because i didn’t know how to process the feelings i had and i’m sorry.”

“feelings?” maul’s lips were practically brushing against yours. and gods, were they so tantalizingly soft, “what kind of feelings?”

“i may have a crush on you.”

“a crush? what is this, fifth grade?” the tease was edged with somewhat you couldn’t quite place your finger on. what was it? lust? want? hunger?

“a crush,” you affirm, “i have a crush on you, maul.”

“you wanna know what i told those chi omega girls?” he inquires, one hand on the wall, the other reaching for your face, cupping your cheek.

“what did you tell those girls?” fuck. were you in deeper shit now.

“i told them we were talking. that you were my girl,” your lashes flutter at his touch, “and you know wanna know what else i told them?”

“what else did you say?” puckering you lips, you take his thumb into your mouth, sucking lightly.

the sound that you hear is nothing like you’ve encountered before.

“i-i,” you feel your lips curve into a smirk as he grits his teeth, “i told them that i was going to fuck you after this. that i was going to completely destroy you.”

“you didn’t---”

his mouth connects with yours for an open-mouthed kiss. it’s electrifying yet blissful, something that would sweep you off your feet yet keep you grounded, keeping you wanting more and more. gods, was it such a craving. to stay in this stairwell, to cherish this moment.

it’s gratifying, enough to make you light-headed with giddiness.

it’s everything you’ve ever wanted and more.

yet, he pulls away, panting ever so slightly.

“fuck.”

“fuck?”

his jaw clenches, “you have no fucking idea how much i’ve been wanting to do that. ever since i met you. fuck, i need more. i need more of you. ‘taste so good.”

“we could always--”

“finish this in my apartment? yeah, i want to. but i don’t want to force anything on you and i don’t want to make you uncomfortable. i’ve just -- i’ve just been having dreams about you.”

“dreams?” you watch as the zabrak’s eyes squeeze shut, his body shifting away from yours. he’s heading towards the door now, nearly throwing it open.

“dreams about being inside of you. fuck. i need to know how you feel. if you’re as tight as i imagined. and fuck, i need to feel how wet you are too. how wet you get for me. have you ever tasted yourself before?”

you shake your head, “i haven’t.”

maul practically stalks down the hallway, finding his door. sliding the key into the lock, he steps inside, placing your bags on the floor, “would you rather study or would you rather let me express how i feel?”

thumbs loop through the pocket of your hoodie, pulling you close to him. fuck, you could feel him against your body. the stiffness of his cock underneath his sweats. how hot and bothered he was for you, practically aching for some sort of release.

“what do you mean ‘express how you feel’?” carefully, you dip a hand into the waistband, hand wrapping around the outline, squeezing gently.

“oh fuck,” maul throws his head back, moaning ever so slightly, “i-i may have a crush on you too. and i wanted to express how i felt. i-i’m not good with words.”

“why don’t you show me then?” your clit throbs as you feel along his shaft, fingers grazing over the ridges, thumb pressing against his tip.

“bend over the fucking counter then and i’ll fucking show you then, princess. you better not utter a single fucking word about this fucking project because it’s my turn to study you.”

☆☆☆☆☆

He’s not a teenage boy.

And yet.

It feels like it.

And what disturbs him even more is how young you were compared to him. The difference gnawed at his conscience… 

And yet.

It didn’t stop his mind from imagining you in every position imaginable. How easy it would be for him to just lift your indecent skirt and—

“Nanami-san?” you tilt your head, your voice snapping him back. You set a neat stack of papers on his desk.

His eyes snap to your face… reluctantly. 

Because even if your face was pretty—more than that even, it feels like God took His sweet time with you. Every curve, every ridge of your body was calling his darkest desires. Your plush thighs languidly wrapped in those white laces and the faint hit of garter beneath your ridiculous miniskirt was appealing him more than everything else.

You were exactly his type.

If it weren’t for the ten years separating you and you being his subordinate, he would probably have hit on you the second his eyes landed on you.

“Hm?” he hums, a bit lost, his mind overflowing by lust thoughts. Which was a first for him. Never did he ever was driven by his desires. But here he was.

“New clients came in this morning. Their requests are on top.” You talk with sweet in your tone, luring him deeper in his obsession. Just where you want him.

“Ah, yes. Thank you.” His eyes darted from your mouth back to your eyes. You smiled inwardly. All this game was the most delightful thing you’ve ever played to. 

Humans were so easy.

But him specifically: Kento Nanami. He was a masterpiece of restraint. The dark circles under his eyes, the calloused hands, the measured movements… he was easily the most alluring human you’ve seen in years. Everything about him radiated control: the straight posture, the immaculate suit, the precise knot of his leopard-print tie. Even his silence carried weight. 

Nothing about him softened—not his expression, not the steady set of his jaw. Not a single smile occurred in your presence—his lips stayed drawn in a thin line. It was just his deep almond eyes scrutinizing you.

But you were okay with that. Overworked minds were the easiest to crack. The ones who acted as though the whole world depended on their focus, were usually the loneliest of all. They carried invisible burdens and convinced themselves they were strong enough to bear them. All they ever needed was a whisper of distraction—someone to make them remember they were still made of flesh. 

Plant one seed of temptation, and the mind would nurture it for you—the succubus. 

To that, add your provocative outfits and be sure they’ll suddenly remember other things exist than the soul idea of saving people.

Just like now.

With your long-sleeved t-shirt, plunging neckline—it gives a view that leaves nothing to the imagination. A miniskirt so small, it hugs your ass perfectly and lets Nanami glimpse the lace panties glamming like a secret meant to be discovered when you bend over.

Probably, if he just… stretched out his hand, he could cup your ass or maybe slap it—

“Oh, lord—Get yourself together, Kento.” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as though it would clear the thoughts away.

You try so hard to hide your smirk as you sit down on your desk, crossing one leg over the other, the picture of calm patience.

And, oh, patient you were.

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

“Is that how you like it, Nanami-san?” your voice drips with a taunting sweetness, the kind that tastes like poison on his tongue. 

Your body’s sprawled on his bed. He hasn’t even had the chance to step fully past the doorstep of his room after a long, exhausting day before he’s greeted by the sight of you—lounging there like sin made of flesh. 

“How did you get here—” his voice is a low murmur. His mind’s running everywhere trying to find an explanation to how you’ve found your way in his apartment—past the security system—and straight to his bed with clothes, underwear, made of thin scraps that reveal more than they conceal.

“That’s not my question, Mister Nanami.” Your eyes drag slowly over his tall frame, unhurried, before you roll onto your stomach. You prop your ass up, wiggling your legs and looking over your shoulder. “I asked if that’s how you like it?”

Nanami’s hand hovers near the doorframe as though crossing the threshold might somehow break the spell. His heartbeat is too loud, a steady drum he can’t silence and that holds him back from answering your simple question.

“Nanami-san,” you purr, drawing his attention back to you. The air around you seems thicker, humming faintly. Shadows cling to the corners of the room, stretching closer to your skin. 

He blinks, mind struggling to process what’s happening, his throat too dry to even occur a single word. Instead, he takes a step forward.

His body moves first, his reason trails behind, dulled and dizzy. You tilt your head, smiling as if you can hear the war in his mind. Nanami opens his mouth, but nothing comes out—his throat locks.

The temperature drops, the dim light glints red for a single second, and suddenly it feels as though the air itself has wrapped around his wrists. 

Or was it the air? He drops his gaze and freezes when he feels pressure tightening, pulsing in sync with his heartbeat. His breath catches, invisible threads seem to draw him forward, pulling him toward you. Every instinct scream to resist, yet his muscles refuse. 

“What—” his voice cracks, and the word dissolves into the air. 

You rise slowly from the bed, fluid as water. “You’ve been carrying too much,” you whisper, taking a step closer. “So much weight on your shoulders. So much restraint.”

He swallows hard. “Whatever this is—stop it.”

“I can’t,” you stop right in front of him. Tip-toeing, his frame swallowing you whole. But the physic dynamic is far far away from representing the power mental play happening. “You called me.”

“I did not—”

“Not with words.” You lift your hand, hovering over his shirt feeling his heart stutters as something unseen tightens its hold. “You wished for relief. For something, someone, to take away that endless ache of duty.”

The hum in the air grows stronger, vibrating through his chest. 

“And now,” you rise on your toes, your voice brushing his ear like a breath, “I’m simply answering your demand.”

“Don’t,” he warns again, though his voice carries less authority this time. His hazel eyes mirroring your lust just as much.

“Don’t what? Don’t listen to what you want? Don’t let yourself breathe?”

He exhales through his nose, incapable of pushing you away. 

“You wear control like armor,” you continue, circling him slowly. “Polished. Unshakable. But it’s only metal. Heavy… and cold.” You stop behind him, your voice brushing the edge of his ear a second time. “Even steel rusts when it’s left to weather too long.”

And was it ok for Nanami to feel a strange and strong attraction toward you? He wonders if he’s imagining the way your voice coils around him. It shouldn’t sound beautiful, yet it does. 

“You think you can tempt me.” He manages, but it doesn’t quite sound like defiance. 

“I don’t need to,” you reply, hand travelling up his shoulder, taking off his suit. Your hands trail down on his blue shirt, travelling lower and lower. “You’re already tempted.”

You catch the edge of his shirt just above his belt, freeing the fabric with a slow pull. Your hands flatten against his back, fingertips drawing idle patterns that make his composure fractures—just a sharp breath slipping through his teeth.

“You’ve been tempted for years. You just call it discipline so it doesn’t sound like hunger.”

Your hands move to his abdomen, your fingers playing with his soft happy trail. You follow the line from his navel to where his pants allow you to touch. You reach the edge of his belt, the faint clicks of metal breaking the silence. He tenses, a shallow breath catching in his chest as you work at the clasp. You fumble with his button and open his zipper in instant. 

Your palm moves under the pant, hot palms resting on his boxer moving lower and cupping his hard-on proudly pressed and straining the fabric. You remove his pants, letting it drop to the floor.

“So… that’s how you like it? Mhh?” The smile in your voice is impossible to mistake.

“I—uh,” Nanami’s nerves circuit. As simple as that. It’s a thought he’s chased alone too many times to count.

Your fingers' nails touch his sensitive tip through the fabric going all the way up to his base, a feather-light touch on his whole length. The sound of his breath breaks the quiet—one shallow, shuddered inhale. 

“Come on, Ken’. Be honest.”

His heartbeat drums in his ears, drowning out reason until all that’s left is the dizzy edge between wanting and fear. And maybe—no, he’s sure—the want is taking over his senses. He becomes clearer.

He succumbs.

In one quick motion he turns on himself—facing you. Pants still around his ankles, his underwear wet with pre-cum. The warmth of him feels like it could burn, his jaw as sharp as a razor.

The weakness or the fear he might have had shown earlier has suddenly evaporate. Nanami’s gaze locks onto yours—no longer uncertain, no longer hesitant. There’s now something dangerous in his stillness, a tension coiled too tightly.

His voice comes rough around the edge. “You want a real answer?” 

A calloused hand travels up your almost naked body, palm grazing slightly on your breast covered with your white lace, before cupping your neck. Long fingers wrapping around soft skin. 

His thumb rests just under your jaw tilting your face up as his hazel eye pierces through you. “Infiltrating my apartment, dressed up so suggestively and displaying all your attributes on my bed,” his gaze drops down, his cock twitching. “That’s bold.”

He suddenly pushes you to your knees. So fast and so unexpectedly that a squeak breaks in the thickened air. And, this time, it's not from him.

“I like bold thing.” His pupils burn with envy. 

“That so?” you smile with all teeth, looking up at him through your lashes, licking your lips with anticipation.

One rough hand yanks your head closer to where he needs you the most while the other push his boxer down. His engorged tip taps against your chin, leaving a translucent trail in its path. But it doesn’t go any higher than that. 

It’s so big and heavy that only the base rises before turning downward. A beautiful arc filled with thick veins. 

You can’t help but lick your lips at the sight. A thick bubble of arousal forms in your panties. Your eyes almost pop out of place. 

“You look delicious.” The words are out before your brain can even catch up. Your hands move, confident. Your face coming closer to his length, and you do the most unexpected thing he thought you would.

Your nose buries into his pubic hair, both hands pressing onto his full ass. 

Nanami growls when he feels a hot trail of saliva twirling around his base. His digits close harder on your hair as your tongue flattens underneath his cock, before your lips wrap around the fat tip.

And the tip only. 

“Fuuuck, that’s so good,” he whispers, breath ragged and thighs flexing under the pressure.

You play with the reddened tip, one time giving kitten licks and other times sucking it like a damn lollipop. You moan helplessly when he forces you to take more inches onto your mouth. 

“Yeah—Yeah, fuck. Just like that,” he whimpers, Adam’s apple bobbing as he looks at you from above. Spit all over the corner of your mouth, drooling down your chin and mixing with his pre-cum.  

“Take it juuus’ like that.” His pre-cum is heavy on your taste buds, both hands fisting your hair viciously now. You find struggle to breathe with how deep he’s stuffed in your mouth. You glance up at him, eyes heavy with lust, trying to take more of him. 

“I’m gonna—gonna c-cum,” he pants, and you take this as a signal to roll his fat balls in your palm. You suck him deeper, tongue swirling sloppily around his length before hallowing your cheeks at the tip.

And just when his monstruous cock twitch on your hot tongue, hips jerking forward—

Nanami jolts awake. 

The room is dark, quiet except for the low hum of the city beyond his window. Contrasting with the thumb thumb of his heart against his ribcage. His breath comes in sharp, uneven pulls—still trying to process what the hell just happened.

Sheets are tangled around his legs, damp with sweat. His boxer is nothing but a ruined fabric, wet around his tip, sticky. The ghost of warmth covering his cock refusing to fade, as if you were still with him, having him. 

“The fuck. . . I just came in my pant—” his voice is ragged, beautiful blonde eyebrow frowned to the impossible. He drags a hand over his face, pressing his palm against his eyes until the world steadies. 

“Ridiculous,” he mutters under his breath. “I’m losing it.” His mind replays the dream against his will. The teasing glint in your eyes, your filthy mouth playing him. It felt too real to ignore.

He swings his legs off the bed, feet meeting the cold floor. There’s work in a few hours.

…

With you.

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

A soft knock at his office door interrupts his thoughts. He’s still snagging on the dream..

A dream he swears he refuses to think about between reports and half-finished coffee. 

You step in with your usual calm smile, the office light catching the faint curve of amusement at the edge of your mouth. 

“Good morning, Nanami-san,” you say, voice a little rougher than usual. 

He looks up from his desk, a wrinkle forming in between his brows. “You sound unwell.” He says matter of fact. 

“Ah, must’ve overused my throat last night.”

Nanami’s pen pauses above the page for a short moment before continuing like he holds it all together. “You should take the day off if you’re sick.”

“I’ll be fine,” you answer, stepping closer until he smells the faint scent of something familiar following you. It’s oddly familiar to the scent of you in his dream that his body reacts before his mind can stop it. A single vein runs down the side of his neck, ricocheting with the one bulging in his forearm. He feels his heartbeat stutters, and all the blood in his body rushing down south.  

Your fingers graze his sleeve. Bold move for someone who’s only his subordinate. You stay like that, smirking at his helpless form. 

“But… try to get some rest,” you say softly. Then with more playfulness in your voice you add: “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Mister Nanami.”

The room tilts. His breath catches.

The word mister echoing in his head again and again. Because you never called him like that… not once. Not before the vivid dream he had hours ago. Before he knows what he’s doing, his hand closes around your wrist.

“What are you?” his voice is too calm, every syllable measured.

You blink up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. “What do you mean?”

His grip tightens a fraction. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” you ask, tilting your head. “You look pale. Maybe you really have seen a ghost.”

Something flashes behind his eyes—confusion, frustration and… desire. His fingers are practically burning holes on your pulsing point. 

“I don’t have time for your stupid games.”

You’ve never heard Nanami this serious. The shift is sudden—the mild curiosity in his voice evaporates, replaced by something cutting. His eyes narrow to slits behind his glasses as he leans in. He’s not asking anymore. He’s… prying. Prying with intent on pulling the truth out of you piece by piece. 

“I’m playing no game Nana—” a stunned exhale fills the room as he stood on his feet and pushes you fast enough against his desk—leaving you no time to react. His hand closes around your throat. And you're met with the deepest hazel color as he leans over your body. Pressing every rough inch of his against every soft inch of yours.

“People testing how far they can push with me,” his breath fans on your face. His muscular thigh finding its way between yours, the motion causing your tight miniskirt to lift. “I don’t like that. You know that.”

Your hands rest on the side of his immaculate shirt, smirking right into his face despite yourself. “Well, I do like that.” You sing song. “…Unfortunately.”

For a heartbeat, the corner of his mouth shifts—and there it is. 

A dimple.

The first you’ve ever seen from him, and somehow, it’s more dangerous than any glare he’s ever thrown your way. 

“Oh?” his voice dips, velvet tone wrapping sweetly around you. A different sensation running through you. Far more different than the thumb applying pressure right under your jaw. “You like that.” He’s not laughing, but there’s something in his tone that feels like the echo of one.

His thigh flexes. Your mouth falls open and your eyes almost roll back from how perfect it grazed your clit. 

“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” he murmurs, adjusting his glasses with the other hand. 

“Wouldn’t be any fun if I did.” Your chin lift and your lips touch. Nothing less, nothing more.

Nanami’s faint smile deepens, that same and unique dimple flashing once more. “Do you always toy with people this way,” he speaks against your lips. “Or am I supposed to feel special?”

And, if you were honest with yourself, it was hard to keep your world straight. His scent was all over you, consuming you alive. His bulge was clearly hard to ignore by now. His digits, closing around your neck, let you only the strict necessary to breathe, was blurring your view. 

You try for nonchalance, tilting your head to press deliberately harder on his lips. “Maybe you’re just easier to provoke than I thought.”

His eyes gleam behind his glasses. There’s a pause, the kind that stretches until it almost snaps. That rare smile turning into something deeper—a dangerous kind of amusement.

“Tell me something, then,” he says. “If you enjoy testing limits so much… what happens when someone tests yours?”

He inclines his head. Waiting.

“You’ll have to try to know that… Nanami-san.”

He only chuckles before opening your mouth with his. His tongue inserts between your parted lips. Hot and claiming yours. He easily moves his hand from your neck to your soft hair, pushing you harder against him. 

His tongue sweeps deeper, alternating between licking and sucking your bottom lip. You fight to keep your moans into your mouth, not wanting to give him any satisfaction. But when he suddenly presses his leg harder on your already drenched panties a little whimper is out. Quickly swallowed by his eager mouth.

“Let them all out,” he rasps, lips swollen and covered with your spits. “I want to hear them.” His teeth move lower, ghosting a sensitive spot near the base of your neck. Thicks fingers splay over your breasts, calloused thumbs finding your nipples through your thin shirt. 

The thick weight of his cock is trapped in his pants—grinding on your lower stomach as he synchronizes the back and forth of his thigh with his tongue dancing on your skin. 

“C’mon, pretty, lemme hear them.” 

Your hands crumple his suit. Your hips move without you really realizing it. A pathetic whimper echoes through the room when his tongue leaves a trail of spit all the way from your jaw to your ear. He licks without shame your earlobe, biting it just to feel your cunt press harder on his muscle and your muffled moans filling his eardrums. 

And just as both his hands travel lower to grope your ass and guide you a strong shrill pass through the thickness of his office door. 

“NANAMIIIIIIIN—” And the tall blond man can easily recognize the annoying voice of his white-haired man. You can hear a loud click despite your mind being in a pleasurable fog. 

But that doesn’t stop Kento. He still has his palms on your ass and presses you harder on him. He can’t help himself when your head falls back, a desperate moan ripping from your chest—he open-mouth kisses all the sensitive spots he can reach.

“Na…” Gojo voice trails off as he takes in the sight before him. “…namin??”

“Get out,” He only replies, completely ignoring the intrusion of his friend. 

And Gojo is quite frozen in place. The blond man has the lower part of his face covered of spit and your lipstick... all while big hands are helping you grind on his lap. 

“Huh, that’s a way of saying hello to a friend, nanamin. And, if you want my opinion—”

“Get. Out.” Nanami snaps. A sound vibrating against you and going straight to your core. 

“Fuck, Ken’” you pant in a sob, legs wrapping harder around his, eyes rolling back. 

“Get out. Now, Satoru.” And to make sure Gojo gets right that he’s not joking, he throws a glance over his shoulder. But the silhouette of his friend was hard to make through his fogged glasses.

“Okay, okay, no need to get all scary on me…” he slowly backs toward the door, hands raised in mockery, muttering something under his breath about ‘grumpy serious types’ before slipping away. 

“Think we should head out to my place.” He pulls back, panting and searching his breath. 

──────ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The door of his apartment clicks brutely shut behind you. He shamelessly presses your body against it, caging you and claiming you; forgetting all the fever restraint he’s been forced himself into for the past years. 

His palm easily finds its way underneath your skirt. A firm hand pressed onto the dripping inferno of your pussy, cupping you through your panties. His mouth quickly finds yours like if he didn’t crash into you; he would combust into dust. 

A long index pushes—with an agonizingly slowness—your ruined underwear to the side, freeing the present he’s been dying to devour. 

When you look up at him his pupils are blown wide, his chest rising and falling. His tie completely forgotten on the floor with the first three upper buttons of his shirt open. You have a full view on the soft patch of hair displaying on his flushed chest. 

His thumb grazes your clit, circling with maddening precision. His eyes focusing on you, drinking on every reaction you’re succumbing into. Nanami lets the pad of his fat thumb rubs and flicks slooowly your sensitive nub. 

“You have no idea how perfect you are. . .” he almost whispers to himself. 

His other hand removes your shirt. 

And he’s surprisingly pleased when he sees—actually, doesn't see—a bra on. 

He smirks, something deep inside him just awakened. And, oh, he’s so ready to ruin you like you deserve. “That’s my little slut right here.” His finger eases in, past the resistance, his knuckle makes a perfect stretch making you clench helplessly around him. 

You gasp when he adds a second finger and pumps them steadily, grazing with perfection your tight walls. Your body fights to adjust only to this. And when he curls them and hits suddenly that little spongy spot.. You’re sure a whole constellation is forming in front of you. 

“Kento—” your voice has the effect of a fuel on wild flames. It consumes him completely. It’s the only encouragement he needs to quicken his pace. He’s roughly fucking you open, expertly and effortlessly hitting all the sweet spots.

Your arousal is dripping on his hand, and he coaxes more out of you with every push and pull. His eyes are glued on your nipples, his mouth going down before his mind could catch up. 

He harshly wraps his mouth around one, letting the soft nipple rest on his tongue before swirling around it and pulling it softly. 

Tears are flowing your eyes, gathering at the edge from the overwhelming sensation. And, from the feral need in his eyes and the wet patch pressing on your skirt, you could only guess that Nanami Kento was also overwhelmed. 

“I could cum like that. Just from fingering you.” He rasps against your breast, a string of saliva connecting his mouth to your nipple. And your knees buckle from the pressure. But you want to tease him further, push him deeper in his entrenchments. 

“As long as you can use your little dick later,” you talk but it’s not as firm and mocking as you wish it was. 

“Don’t act like you hadn’t saw it already, lil’ brat.” he roughly chuckles before adding a third finger just to be mean. Just to feel your hands gripping his shirt and your body trying desperately to be closer to him.

“B-but I’ve—ken’ oh fuck!—never s-saw it—ah!” you sob out.

“I already told you not to play dumb with me. Wasn’t I clear?” 

If the air was thick, it is one hundred time thicker now. With his fingers still pistoning your pussy and his eyes burning holes through you—like he could read every secret you try to hide from him—your world is spinning upside down. 

The single thought of reaching your climax overshadowing your other senses. 

“Answer me. Use that smart mouth.” He, once again, curls his fingers and your thighs shake for his biggest pleasure. 

“Clear,” the word sounds more like a moan than an assembly of syllables—ripped right out of your throat. “You were c-clear.”

He hums, twisting his wrist to apply more pressure on your clit and graze you G-spot each time he thrusts in. 

“Cum for me.” He orders, voice rough and panting against your flushed skin. 

And your body can’t do nothing but obey. Your mind is completely at his mercy. His free arm wraps around your waist, forcing you to take everything he gives. His fingers dig into the flesh of your waist, lips sucking your neck—eager to see the bruises tomorrow.

His cock throbs painfully against the confines of his pant, getting off on this as much as you are. It’s lacking an insane amount of pre-cum when he feels your body spams with release. You break apart with a cry, shuddering and making a fucking mess on him. 

He slows down his digits, letting you enjoy the ride of your high. His jaw is clenched tight, his hazel eyes not leaving you once as your breath evens. He brings his index and middle finger covered with your juices to lick them clean—hot tongue darting out to suck them sensually. 

The moment your body stills in his arms—you fumble toward his collard, gripping hard on it and smashing your lips against his. 

The kiss is a battle of dominance, all tongue and teeth smashing. If he’s not occupied with biting your lower lip, you’re busy sucking his thick tongue. You’re sharing breaths and spits. It’s almost disgusting who messy it turns—his glasses completely askew as you practically climb on him.

He moves his palm toward your plump ass, biceps bulging as he lifts you up. Your legs naturally wrapping around him, your arms closing around his neck pushing him closer to you.

He walks toward the hallway—lined with the kind of quiet only his home seems to have. The faint rustle of his shirt with each movement brushes your skin, setting your nerves alight.

He pushes the door open with his shoulder and steps into his room with practiced ease. 

He brutally drops you onto the edge of the bed. For a moment, he simply lingers, cock still painfully twitching at your devilish sight. Panties completely soaked by your arousal, skin bruised and reddened at places he passionately gripped and kissed. Your skirt is bunched up on your hips, upper body completely naked. 

You’re panting and content when you speak. “What you doin’?”

“Nothing,” he replies, tone light and almost—almost—love-sick. “You’re beautiful.” 

He removes shirt, pant and glasses before leaning in to kiss you. 

It’s nothing like the previous one. Much more the opposite. 

It’s still deep and passionate but less animalistic. He slowly guides you, tongue licking and teasing with intent. 

Until you feel and hear a sharp riiip echoing in the room.

“What—” you pant into his mouth, breaking the kiss to look at him—eyes wide with surprise. 

“It was useless.” He grins, a tone borderline with playfulness and smugness. He shows you your now ripped panties dangling between his fingers. 

And, despite yourself, this side of Nanami sends goosebumps all over your limbs. The heat of him, his scent, his roughness,… It all crush into you with burning passion. 

“Your skirt is also useless,” he laughs, a sound vibrating through you and travelling between your thighs. “I should get rid of it too.” He says as his hand slides higher, thick fingers spreading you open, and ripping your piece of tissue.

Just like that.

And he lost no time to push your thighs up as he lowers himself to be eye level with your pussy.

“You’re some kind of rare species, Kento.” you say, half-joking and half-concerned from how quickly he spoons the table. Where he was once reserved and cold, he’s now expressive with a roaring heat radiating from every part of him. 

“And you are too. Ain’t you?” 

Your heart races. Your lips part before you can stop them, a startle sound caught somewhere between gasp and laugh—trying to play off his affirmation. 

His eyes flick to yours immediately, sharp and assessing. “Laugh all you want, pretty. We both know you’re not human.”

“Caught.” You taunt, straightening your shoulder and prompting up on your elbows. You mask the rush in your chest with a tilt of your chin. “What you gonna do ‘bout that?”

“Nothing,” the dimple appearing faintly for the briefest moment before his expression hardens. “For the moment.”

And it closes your little conversation as he dives right into your sweetness.

“Lemme take care of this,” his words muffled by your puffed lips. He flattens his tongue and licks a long slurp from back to forth, flicking your clit with the tip of his tongue. 

He looks at you from underneath, not missing a single reaction. Big hands are prying your thighs apart, making a place for his wide shoulders. Your nails graze his scalp, tugging in the soft strands of hair. 

He growls against your sensitive button, eyes closing when the soft nerve bends to his wants. Your taste explodes in his mouth; he’s completely and utterly wasted on it. He moves with an obscene expertise. Your slick is not only on his lips but also on his chin and dripping onto his sheets. 

Nanami’s eyes were heavy with lust, pressing his nose deeper into you just to smell better. Every satisfied hum he lets out was immediately ricocheting onto your sensitive cunt. His hips rut helplessly on the bed, trying to relieve himself. 

Your thighs twitch. He grips harder on your thighs, keeping you open for him. He sucks hard on your clit until he hears his name being cried out of your mouth. 

“Y-yeah, right here. Fuck—oh, fuck!—don’t stop!” you choke out, cheeks rammed with hot tears. 

His fingers dug into your ass, yanking you closer—he forces you to grind against his mouth. He doesn’t content of only licking and sucking.

No.

He teases your entrance, tongue drawing wet circles before plugging into your velvety walls. His pink muscle is so fat and girthy, he stretches you out obscenely on it.

“Too much—Ken! Too much!” you’re dripping on him. A damn waterpark happening down there but that doesn’t stop him. He only twirls his tongue further into your tight hole, a fat thumb flicking your clit side to side. 

He pulls moan out of you that makes his sensitive tip throb and throb, over and over again. Leaking heavy pre-cum in his boxer. A wet patch showing on the underwear and making his way through it, an absurd stain forming on his sheets. 

And if it was messy, the blond man is not of this opinion.

He detaches his mouth, and you see a trickle of spit connecting him to your pussy. He sticks out his tongue to lick it, looking proud of himself for putting you in this state. 

You see him collect a bubble of saliva between his lips before spitting on your most sensitive part. He dives back in, slurping it up and pushing the rest in your spasming cunt. 

When he hears a pathetic Kento for the first time, something inside him snaps. He goes from hungry to feral. A shot of adrenaline parkouring him in thrilling waves. He suddenly tongue fuck you open, palms moving to your breasts and knead them until you’re squirming underneath him.

“That’s right. Let it all out.” He growls hot and feverishly as he continues to eat you out like there’s no tomorrow. Like you’re the only plate left on this earth. 

Nanami Kento turned into a feral beast. He’s all heat and teeth. His arms caging you, forcing you to take everything he gives.

You’re overheated and overstimulated when you detonate. Your orgasm crashing into you like no other before. Your thighs tremble, cunt fluttering around his relentless tongue. His fat thumb is still drawing slow circles—extending your climax for a few more seconds.

He laps every drop with an eager and filthy lick. You try to blink out tears that blur your view. Only to be met with a now totally naked Nanami in front of you—and more covered with spit than not—his boxer discharged on the floor.

“You’re heavy,” your eyes are shining wet, your tone light and devoid of all teases. 

“Well, don’t you like that?” he spits in his palm, stroking himself lazily as he rests on his knees. And that’s only now you can see his happy trail from his belly button to the base of his cock. In the dim darkness of his room, only lightened by a moonbeam and the previous orgasms he pulled out of you, you had almost forgotten this precious detail. 

“I do,” you breathe out, eyes tracking every movement of his strong body. “And I missed that, too.” You add, your eyes considerably dilating as you graze his soft happy trail. He growls immediately at your touch, smearing more of his pre-cum around his shaft.

One of his hands roam over your hot skin, pushing one leg against your breast. “Mhh, I can only guess.” He taunts, pressing the swollen head against your entrance.

Your breath hitches at the new sensation. 

But he doesn’t push in… Yet.

He enjoys watching you squirm a little more. He enjoys watching your hips chasing him every time he stops playing your pussy. He enjoys watching your face frowns in frustration.

When he slaps the engorged tip against your swollen clit, your back arch. Ragged whimpers ridiculously falling off. Your nails fumble toward his forearms, diving crescents moons.

He leans over you as he slowly circles the sensitive button and flicks it side to side with his tip. His eyes are dark, a single ring of brown color left, and his mouth takes possession of yours.

“Ken—mmpfghh—Kento,” his fat cock-head slaps with the perfect rhythm to make you feel good and crazy all at once. Your body shakes uncontrollably against his, your arousal mixing and a filthy white string spills down the inside of your thigh. 

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” His voice sounds almost bored. He moves lower, moves where you need him the most. He slowly pushes.

And the world might as well have combusted right then.

Combusted until all that was left was the rush of sound and frantic heartbeats against each other.

Despite the previous orgasms, your cunt struggles to even accommodate to the few first inches of him. He was deliciously stretching you wiiide open and folding you in half. This position made it all hard for you to put some breathe onto your lungs. 

His chest crashes onto your thighs. Your ankles resting atop of his shoulders. His face’s buried in the crock of your neck, hot puffs stimulating you. His thumb doesn’t leave your clit, trying to help your cunt to relax.

“You can do it,” he says with a kind of desperation that shakes you. “That’s okay.” He tries to be calm, but he’s barely holding on, his body tenses. Veins are bulging on his arms, his neck, his cock—everywhere.

His cock was just too big to even hope getting past the half of his length. You’re focusing on breathing as your elastic muscles fight to welcome more of him.

Sweat drips between your breasts, legs flexing. He fills you so much your mind is reduced to mush. 

With incredible delicacy, as if you were made of glasses and everything he did before had never existed, he pulls off. So gently—and with such an agonizing pace—you feel each vein of his rigid cock rubbing against your soft walls making you cry out his name. 

“Take me. Please,” his presses his forehead to yours. And you can distingue tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. And, fuck, do you want to take everything of him. “Take me, pretty.”

Because if you think you’re reduced to mush… Kento doesn’t think better of him. 

His mind is completely upside down, your taste is still lingering on his taste buds. His cock is tightly squeezed by your warm. Your body so soft and so pliant under him he could actually die like this, and he’d be a happy man.

And when his eyes drop to where you both are connecting, and notices the ridiculous white ring circling the middle of his dick… He loses it. He could beg your cunt to take him fully at this point. A pathetic, needy sound escapes his throat.

“C’mon, lovely.” He whispers. His hands grip the underside of your thighs, anchoring him as he prompts himself on his knees, pushing in another angle. His length throbs inside you.

“Fuck, fuck—” he rasps, a single tear coming down his cheek and wrapping around his dimple that shows with how hard his biting his lips. “That’s it. You’re doing so good now.” he murmurs when your pussy finally accepts more inches.

He’s hypnotized with the way your cunt spams and leak more cum around his shaft. How you widely open for him. How obedient you are. 

Once he bottoms out, everything stills. 

Not a single sound is heard beside your shared breath.

His cock is so deliciously pressed in between your folds—fat lips circling his base—he feels like it’s heaven.

As for you…

You might just say he reached your throat. His cockhead grazing some sweet and unknown spots. He’s obscenely bulging out—an unmistakable print right there on your tummy. 

“You’re so—” you try to speak but you have nothing more than a thoughtless brain. “…big.”

And you say it almost as a reproach that you’re immediately met with worried eyes. One hand cupping your cheek as he asks: “You—You’re hurt? If it hurts you, we don’t have—”

“No!” you reply quickly. So quickly, embarrassment taints your face. “I mean, ‘s good. Really good.”

“Good. Really good, then.” He repeats, his voice’s heavy with primal need.

He rolls his hips once, dragging his dick through the sticky mess. At first, he thrusts slowly, every thick inch of him pumping in and out of you with maddening precision. Then he pulls out until only the tip remained inside, before slamming with a rough thrust. So hard and reaching so deep your vision blacks out for a moment. 

He throws his head back as he picks up his thrusts slightly. Adam’s apple bobbing and sweats travelling down his toned chest, down to his stomach and loosing itself on his soft pubic hair. 

“That’s so messy,” he pants. Filthy substance splashing everywhere around you. The lewd squelching of your cunt sucking him back in with every thrust, is the only sound that manages to make its way through his mind, landing in his eardrums. 

Loud and guttural growls are echoing in the room. He pulls out just to watch your hole flutters—slick mixed with his cum spilling out, glistening on your thighs and his heavy balls.

“Look at that, fuck.” He slams back in, one hand slapping your breasts only to see them jiggle wildly with the motion. Then, with more intent, his moves his hand toward your hair. But not before giving a slight squeeze to your beautiful, exposed throat. 

His grip tightens on your hair, yanking your head back until your mouth falls in this pretty O shaped he loves sooo much.

“Tongue out.” He commands.

You do just that. Darting out your tongue. You flatten it for him to spit right onto your mouth. “Atta girl,” he chuckles meanly. “Now swallow it. Would ya, mh?” You only nods in response… what else would you do ??

He slaps your tits again, mindful to have his digits hits your sensitive nipple. 

Both his hands are greedy, slapping and gripping. Your vision starts to black at the edge, and you pant harder. Your face is twisted with exhaustion, overstimulation and how much you cried until now. 

The impact, of his hips slapping against yours, jolt your body forward. His happy trail rubbing without fail your clit each time he bottoms out. 

“You cummin’?” He teases, all smug. A grin made with sin plastered on his face.

 You’re thrown off. “I’m not—”

But yes, you are.

Without you even realizing it, you’ve been driven in the abyss of pleasure. Your limbs are spasming for what seems the hundred times tonight. Only this time... it’s more brutal. Your walls spasm and spasm. So much that Kento can barely hold back any longer and that his weight drops on you. 

You still feel your muscles seizing when a heavy hand drops to your stomach, pressing on the bulge. You babble his name—not forming coherent words as he fills you up.

Thick hot ropes are filling your womb. And it’s crazy how you can feel it all over in your pussy and dripping around him. Nanami chokes on his breath, rhythm stuttering and cock twitching endlessly.

Nanami’s entire body is an inferno against your skin. Cock still buried in you when he flips you both over. Your legs on each side of his hips, head resting on his shoulder—you stay like that for a moment. Heavy breath slowly calming down, his hand stroking the few strand of your wet hair. 

“You know,” he starts, voice hoarse. “You kind of admitted you were present in my dream. If that was even a dream.” He chuckles, the sound revibrating against you. 

“Huh.” Your eyes are too heavy and mind too fucked out to even comprehend what happened. So, let’s not even talk about his raspy voice making your walls clamp harder on his dick.“Whatever you say, handsome.”

Encouraged enough to wrap your fingers around his horns and get a good grasp on them while drawing your hips high up above his length, that sloppy wet tip of his slipping out of you with something gooey oozing out of the centered slit already.

"Fuck—damn human—I said.. wait," Dabura attempts to warn again. His voice comes out slow ‘n heavy, lacking the previous sense of mockery and amusement he had when this whole thing started. The syllables used to nastily glide off of his tongue but now they’re falling out with an almost pathetic rasp. Hands sliding up to hold your waist firmly, grasping at every stretch of skin available there, he then squeezes as if to warn you or something.

Do you heed said warning?

Fuck no.

Your grip on his horns gets even tighter and he's still trying to tug his head away from you, something suddenly fogging up his gaze as you maintain your hold on him and plop your warmth back down onto his firmly-standing cock. “Let go,” He groans deeply, the sound vibrating against his inked throat. Ignoring the poor alien, you smile and arch forward all sensual-like,

“Mmnh, see? I knew you could make other faces!” You exclaim all excitedly as you drink in the sight of his eyes failing to uphold that hardened look from before.

He couldn't keep up with his glares no matter how hard he tried, not when you've got your palms rubbing up pressed against his horns. No one ever touches them, especially not in a situation like this but, here you are.

He should've known better than to agree with you about doing all this for science or-, whatever bullshit it was you uttered to him before all this. “I demand you release my horns this-, hahh..." His lashes flutter rapidly and his hips begin to unconsciously lift up to meet yours slightly, "—this instant, angh.” Dabura groans.

Now you're the one smiling, “But, mmngh! You feel like you’re enjoying it,” You point out softly just as your hips come flush with his and you start to grind with his cock knocking around your insides, “I wonder what happens if I move my hands… up, like this,” With your little narration, your touch on his horns begins to travel in a way that's far too stimulating.

So much so that Dabura's jaw falls open and something whiny runs out of his throat. “Fuhh-, fuck. Don’t-,” Pausing to swallow thickly, “Don’t stroke them, slut—" He's cut off by the spinning of his own mind. Suddenly, he didn't know where to focus his attention. There was too much pleasure: the sensation of your hands caressing his horns, your pussy greedily gulping in every inch of his all the way down to his deftly sat base, and then the way you squirm in reaction to him being flustered. "Please? I… I meant to say please,” He corrects.

“Awwww," You mock, trying to get back at him for each time he'd done so earlier, "That was a cute attempt at trying to regain control here, really."

Dabura's eyelids lower a bit more, hiding the way his vision is slightly fogging over with something watery, “I could-, mngh.." His jaw tenses tightly enough to flash a vein decorating his sharp jawline, "I could have you under me within seconds. You’re already pushing your luck here, as if it was not you who begged for me like this.” He argues with a sudden thrust upwards.

The motion throws you off your balance for just a second, causing your voice to leave you all shaky-like, “I did n-not beg.”

“You did," He protests further, leaning-, no, slouching back and then letting his sharp fingernails dig into your skin, "You whined for me to let you play around with my cock and now that its toying around inside that sloppy pussy of yours, you’ve the nerve to get—fuck—bold with me.”

“Anh! Dabura-,” You're moaning again while he uses his firm grip on you to fuck himself deeper—impossibly deeper—inside you.

Something whorish splays out across his lips and you think he's drooling for a split second as his shaft ever-so-rudely thump! thump! thumps! against somewhere new, “You should be more appreciative of what I give you," He grunts hotly, maw beginning to dangle open whilst something feral coats his gaze, “Especially when my cock is so snug inside you like this. Can you feel that? The way I kiss the depths of this pussy?”

You hate how swiftly he had you looking like some stupidly-fucked whore on top of him, “Y-Yes, fuck! That feels s’good.”

His brows furrow with true curiosity, “Does it?” He asks, a faint softness caught in his throat. When you start nodding again, he pulls at your body so that you can resume your needy grinding, “Mmh. Prove it to me.” At that, its almost like you snap out of your daze. Your hands don't just grip onto his horns to tease him, no, no. This time around you roll your hips forwards and hold onto his horns just to keep yourself steady. Dabura tries prying his head away from you again, gasping, “Ah-, that’s cheating.”

You ignore him, of course, and with your perfect hold on him, you begin to bouce—frantically so—the sounds of your skin slapping down against his flying throughout the room and leaving everything to sound a slicked mess of sex. “Not my fault you’re sensitive here," You taunt.

“I am not—ohfuck," Dabura tried to fight back this time, he really, really did. But with the way you rut your hips back 'n forth and back 'n forth before switching to that up 'n down, hungry bounce of yours, he just couldn't keep up.

The rest of his taut frame falls into something submissive and he whimpers when you jerk him forward by the horns to match your pace. Husking, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” like a broken little mantra as his pupils blow out and he starts to lean into your touches, “Fuck me good, keep fucking me like this.” He encourages in between the hot flashes of something rigidity and heavy building up inside him, “Yesyesyes-, I’m gonna cum-," The alien gasps with abruptinly bucking hips, "I'm gonna-, mmmgh, fuck!”

You lose your balance again and almost flop forward entirely but his hold on your hips keeps you upright, leaving your hands to gravitate to his face just as a single tear of pleasure rolls out of his left eye. The moment he feels it and you notice it, he starts thrusting up faster in an attempt to distract you from it.

“Ah! Mmgh," You moan, feeling the way he tries exasperatedly to bring you to tears instead, only to fail no matter how many times his cockhead weeps tender thwaks! against your cervix. "Cum inside me?" You choke, "B-But—“

“Wanna stuff you with all of me,” Dabura pours out throatily. It was like talking to a brick wall at this point, he was already smearing something warm 'n creamy into you as he spoke, “You’ll be so pretty with my seed dripping out of you so, please,” Another pitchy gasp cuts through the air, “Take it, let it be yours—for... for science, remember?”

Just then, you almost laugh. You probably would've if you weren't busy agreeing to his babbled words, nodding your head and chuckling, “Uhuhh, cum inside me then. M-Mmnh! For science."

tags (people who showed interest):

Maul smirks, but his only answer is to gesture at the scrap of seat just in front of him. The parts of you that will be pressed into his body grow warm in anticipation. You take a slow step closer.

“Where are my feet supposed to go?”

“We aren’t going far. You can brace them on the frame.” And then he just leans back, grinning. Watching you and—you suspect—already knowing what you’re going to do. You give up resisting and climb on; you’re half in Maul’s lap, which makes it clear that he’s still more than half hard.

“Fuck,” you murmur.

“What was that?” Teasing, as if he doesn’t know.

You look at him over your shoulder and grind your buttocks gently back. His jaw goes slack for an instant before he schools his expression back into a grin. He pulls your hips back, a short, hard jerk, then reaches up for the speeder handles.

You do manage to brace your feet against the frame, but there aren’t exactly safety restraints. You rest your hands on the handlebar in front of you and wonder if you’ll just fall right out when the Razalon starts moving. It turns out to be a non-issue; when Maul shifts into gear, the frame tilts slightly back, and you’re pressed into Maul’s chest and hips by gravity and inertia.

You take off, through the heart-thumpingly narrow opening in the rocks, out into the open sands. Maul picks up speed, and you head in a straight vector out and away from the dig site. You catch the shape of more rock formations in the distance, and they only grow closer as the Razalon whirs along.

At the base of a rocky spine jutting from the dunes, Maul slows to a stop; his arm wraps around you as the loss of force threatens your precarious seating arrangements. He engages the landing gear and kills the engine before he releases his hold.

“Hmm… It’s running smoother than usual,” he murmurs wickedly, running a hand along the speeder’s grip.

With his mouth so close to your ear and his body spooned around yours, even the clunkiest innuendo melts you. Your voice is a little higher than usual when you find it. “We’d—um—better get going.” Before you turn around and straddle him.

Maul helps you to your feet, having no trouble dismounting himself, even in the uneven sand. He nods toward a break in the rock; when you look closer, you see the curve of a rock staircase, almost shielded from the stark white moonlight. Maul leads the way, up a flight’s worth of irregular stone-chip steps, to a small level landing above.

It’s not hard to guess what you came here for. In the crusted shoulder of rock is a round stone door, adorned with a pattern that you can’t make out in the dark. You move closer, reaching into a satchel you’re not wearing for a glow stick that isn’t there. You exhale, irritated.

“Do you have a light?”

“I do. But before that… can you feel this place?”

You look back, realizing that Maul hasn’t approached the door with you. Your brows furrow, thinking. You aren’t used to simply being open to the Force all the time. Unlike when you’ve felt Jedi, or Maul, for this you have to focus. Coax it, like blowing gently on a tiny flame.

When your focus is rewarded, what you sense isn’t a living creature. It’s a memory, like the hundreds you’ve seen and heard before.

We’ll store it here, Darth Plagueis. Away from the Republic.

You snap yourself away. You’ve heard that voice before. Where? You shake out your hands mindlessly, disliking the feel of the memory in your head.

“What?” Maul is standing just behind you.

“I heard something. Does the name Darth… Plagueis… mean anything to you?”

And you know it does, because at the sound of the name, Maul’s face turns blank as permacrete. Unreadable.

“Perhaps. I’ll have to think on it.”

“Right.”

“I was hoping you could help me.” Maul guides you to the side of the door, where a panel has been smoothed away in the stone. “I find I must open this door. But it takes two.”

“Two what?”

“Force users.”

“I’m not a Force user.”

Maul exhales and rolls his yellow eyes. You look away, back at the stone door.

“Not like that. I can’t do anything with it.”

“Have you tried?”

The answer was no. You don’t say it, because Maul wasn’t asking for his own benefit. You look at the smooth circle at the side of the door, at the matching one far on the opposite side.

“What do I do?”

Maul guides your hand to rest flat on the stone. “Call to it. I suspect it’s similar to your psychometry.”

He’s correct. You barely press through your hand—glowing with life—into the inert stone before it lights up in your mind’s invisible eye. It’s so sudden, you yank your hand away.

Maul walks to the other side and removes his glove. Sets his own bare hand on the opposing panel of stone. Looks at you. The implication is obvious, and you return your palm to the rock.

When you both activate it, the result is instant. Within the rock formation, there’s a ground-shaking, grinding whine—and the large circular door sinks straight down into a threshold.

You peer inside, dizzy with excitement. A hundred questions come to mind. “Who put this here? Tuskans? Why is it activated that way? Why would you fashion it to require two people?”

“To deter treachery,” Maul answers quietly.

You don’t even notice. You’re already on the threshold, ready to run straight inside.

Maul catches your shoulder before you can. “Wait—I’m expecting traps.”

Your jaw drops. “Traps? Like Tombs of Jedha traps?”

The corner of Maul’s mouth twitches. “I suppose you could say that.”

“Do you have a light? You said you had one, earlier.”

Maul raises an eyebrow, but digs a small-model illumi-droid out of his cloak. With the flip of a switch, it activates in his hand, sputtering a spill of yellow light from its round glass eye. The light stabilizes as it hums upward on tiny repulsors.

In the light, you examine the edge of the door, the smooth panels on the side, and the floor of the chamber within. You don’t cross the threshold—the traps of the Jedha sites were clearly unforgiving, and you aren’t interested in too close a look. But as you examine closer, the stone starts to look very familiar.

Your jaw drops. “These are the same as my ruins.”

Maul doesn’t answer. You spin to look at him; he shrugs.

“So it is.”

“This is the same stone! Who built this?!”

“I… can’t say for sure,” Maul replies, and you narrow your eyes. Is he telling half a truth or lying outright?

“Did you know?”

“Yes.”

“Maul—this is incredible. Another site—and this one above ground!” You run your fingers through your hair, overwhelmed.

“Not another site.”

“Yes! It is—it’s obviously the same stone, and the mortar looks the same—”

“Not… a different site.”

You look between Maul and the gaping open doorway. The implication dawns on you.

“The same site.” In your head, the sheer size of it… If this was one end… “It’s an entire complex! Professor is going to lose his mind!”

Maul crossed his arms. “If you tell him.”

Standing next to you, the illumi-droid has backlit his face, leaving it in darkness. You look at him, suspicious.

“I can’t not tell him. This is huge! This is—! It’s more than we ever dreamed of, and there’s an entrance right here!”

Maul nodded, agreeing. “But if you reveal it to your Professor and your associates, the Hutts, too, will know.”

“Well, yes.” That reality takes the wind out of your sails, just a little. “But that’s just part of the deal. They’re letting us dig here, so they insist on having their hands in everything.”

“I see.” Maul’s answer is conspicuously accommodating. His gold eyes slide sideways to meet yours. “I suppose it can’t be helped.”

“No, it can’t.” You try not to sound annoyed. Now that he’s reminded you of the Hutt rep—at this very moment sleeping in his brand-new tent back at camp—there’s a prickle of irritation stuck through the excitement.

“Can I ask you to wait a day?”

“Why?”

“There’s something inside I need to retrieve.”

“Ha! You are treasure hunting!”

“Not treasure, not in the sense that the Hutts think.” Maul is also looking into the darkened chamber. At the right side, you see the shadows swell as the ceiling tilts downward: spiral stairs. “Something was placed here, not long ago. I need only retrieve it. Before… anyone else finds it.”

“What is it?”

“Something very dangerous. It isn’t a part of the original structure, no use to you and your scholar friends at all. But it would be fatal for them to encounter it. In return, I’ll bring you back here tomorrow night so you can be the first inside.”

“Why not just do it tonight?”

“Tonight, after I take you back, I’ll return here and disable any traps. When I bring you back tomorrow, you can explore freely.” He gives you a conspiratorial smile. “You can beat the Hutts to any treasure inside.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “We aren’t looking for treasure.” But his offer has your interest. You could lie to him (maybe), let him take you back to camp, and then promptly tell Professor everything. But then what? Professor, being too proper for his own good, would announce it to everyone and their pet mynock. So far, the cartel representative was biding his time, waiting for something to crop up. Well, here it is. Who knows what he’ll do? Maybe he’ll even claim that since this isn’t officially the site they agreed on, you and the crew aren’t allowed to explore it at all, per the written contract. The thought shoots a white-hot spur of anger through your otherwise-rational thoughts.

“Sure,” you find yourself saying. “I won’t tell anyone yet.”

At that, Maul’s smile widens to show teeth. “It’s a deal.”

---

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It lands in a bubbling glob next to Marco’s corpse, marring the floor with a faint pink before it’s overwhelmed by the flood of ichor pouring from his yawning throat. Pearl white teeth peek out from between parted lips, now stained rose, and Simon scoffs at the sight of his canines. Sharp. Whittled down enamel. They’re fake—the mark of an alpha without control. 

Closing his eyes, Simon breathes in the scent of a fresh kill. Raw meat, thick in the air, wafting through his nose and plugging it full until his mind is spinning. Pheromones fade and are quickly replaced by decay. Wet foliage and fur caked with dirt beneath a shallow grave. 

This is what victory smells like. This is success. 

“O-Oh my god, y-you…”

Eyes like burnt umber lock onto you the moment your trembling words burrow through Simon’s brain. Sweet little omega with her back against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, and hands covering her mouth—you’re shaking with wide eyes focused on the scene behind him. Simon glances back at Marco’s body for a split moment to take in the gore and he mulls over how this must look to you. A senseless act of violence. Revenge in its most brutal form. You’ll realize that this is a gift in due time. 

“I told ya I was gonna take care of all this, sweetheart,” he patiently reminds.

The moment he steps towards you, your attention snaps to him. Blood still coats his face, wetting his maw, dribbling down to his chest. You know humans used to kill one another like this back before nature was deemed unsightly. Sharp teeth are meant for protecting, for fighting, for piercing sweet scent glands on the tender sides of necks. Still, the sheer carnage before you stuns you into silence. 

All Simon can think about is what a good omega you are looking up at him as you curl on the floor. It instills an aplomb that swells in his chest, heating his blood as it pumps throughout his body. You. Yes, you. It feels right. He can’t name why, he just feels the fact of it settle in his bones, a weight he doesn’t mind keeping around.

Kneeling before you, Simon’s hands reach for your throat and you only flinch a little bit when his fingers hook underneath your collar. Faux pink sears his retinas as he thumbs over the polymer. Real leather would be more secure, but this infantizes you. Belittles you. 

Teeth gritting, he begins to yank it apart. Plastic and metal strains and creaks underneath the pressure, and you squeak just as the collar splits open, claps coming apart and clattering on the ground. Simon discards it to the side, and your hands are quick to rub your naked throat as you sigh in disbelief. Your skin is ripe and smooth with perspiration, but you can’t help but trace the ghost of your collar. 

“Simon, I—thank you—this is—I can’t believe—oh!” 

Without warning his nose is in the crook of your neck, crooked curve rubbing at your scent gland. His breath is soft and long as he inhales you. Your gland pulses against his nostrils, white hot blood throbbing beneath your skin, and he huffs. Palms flat on his chest, instinct tells you to freeze as he continues to nudge against you, hot breath fanning against your newly revealed skin. 

There’s a pit that pulls just behind his navel when you tilt your head to the side; a snarling beast that compels his mouth to open. He nearly listens to it. That whining dog within him. Yet his nose catches the unsavory redolence of Marco, and how it still taints your skin, leaving you sordid and rotten, and he licks his teeth instead. 

“Sweet little ‘mega… you still smell like him,” he mutters into your collarbone. 

Blinking, your feet begin to scrape against the ground, body squirming beneath all of Simon’s attention. “I do?” 

He nods, then covers your hand on his chest with his own as he leans back to look at you. “I’m gonna fix that.” 

“You will?” 

Lips still twitching, still yearning for something, Simon leans forward without warning, mouth planting against the center of your forehead. The taste of your skin is muted because of Marco’s blood, which now stains the crown of your head, but it’s enough to satiate the growling in his stomach. 

“Yeah,” he assures as he rubs the blood off your face with his thumb. “Gonna take you home ‘n get ya all cleaned up.” 

Before anyone can stumble upon the mess he’s made, Simon escorts you out of Tsar Trading and shuffles you into his car before speeding off through the city. Your body is airy in the passenger seat next to him. Limbs filled with helium, skull packed with balloons, everything zooms by in a blur. Hands drawn to your throat, you can’t help but hold your tender skin. How long has it been since you last felt yourself like this without a barrier? 

Without Marco’s threatening teeth hovering over your neck? 

The dull drum of your hangover worsens the moment Simon pulls into the garage, and reality crashes down around you with the sudden weight of a tidal wave. Marco. Your debt. His corpse heavy on the floor of a grimy pawn shop. A hunk of flesh in Simon’s mouth. The alluring sheen in his eyes as he spat out fresh ichor onto his latest meal. 

“C’mon, sweetheart.” 

The door is open. Simon’s hand is waiting for you. Beckoning. Calling you home. You gently place your fingers against his palm and he brings you out of the garage and into the house. It’s darker than you expected it to be. Windows shrouded with thick curtains, all overhead lights snuffed out with only lamps and secondary lighting to illuminate the rooms—it’s warm. Comforting. A blanket of drowsiness swaddles you the very moment the door is locked behind you, pulling you beneath rocking waves and drowning out the vicious storm you’ve attempted to weather most of your life. 

Simon leads you through the living room around his comfortable sectional and coffee table littered with motorcycle parts to bring you into his bedroom. His mattress is huge. Large enough to swallow both you and him for dinner and still have enough room for dessert. Much like the rest of his house it’s dark with plain walls and a strong aroma of tobacco and musk. You breathe in and your brain begins to spin; gyrating until you’re unsteady on your feet. 

Algid air greets you in the master bathroom and it acts like water against your face, shocking you back into your body. Simon turns on the spout in the bathtub and runs his fingers beneath the flow, humming to himself as steam begins to waft and he yanks on the diverter until it’s spewing from the showerhead. 

“Oh, that was kind of you. You didn’t have to run it for me,” you excuse, attempting to thank him for his kindness despite how gauche it feels on your tongue. 

Straightening himself, Simon wipes his hand off on the front of his jeans before his attention is back on you. “Course I did.” Then, he motions at you, fingers flicking up. “C’mon. Clothes off, sweetheart.” 

His order restarts your brain and you find your arms absentmindedly crossing around your midsection, guarding your stomach, the most tender part of your body. “What? Like, right here? In front of you?”

“Is that a problem?” he asks with a raised brow. When you stutter through your answer, he puts you out of your misery. Stalking closer, feet moving with purpose, he gently closes in on you, body waiting to smother yours. “I told ya I was gonna clean you up, didn’t I?”

You swallow. “Y-Yeah.” 

The blood on his mouth has dried, but the scent is still just as strong. Intoxicating curor like red wine and honey mixed with brutal sweat. All discomfort within you dissipates when he looks at you—when he’s so close that you can smell him. Rewired brain, neurons learning new pathways, doors opening that you always thought were locked shut. 

“You’re gonna let me clean you up then, yeah?” he prompts. His lips quirk into a pleased smirk when you nod. “Good omega.” 

All shame leaves you the moment you begin to peel your clothes off. Shirt, pants, underwear—it all piles up on the floor next to your shoes until you’re standing nude in the mist, nipples perking in the cold. Simon pulls back the shower curtain and ushers you inside then shuts it before too much water can splash on the floor. 

Mindlessly, you stand beneath the pelting drops of water and let it cascade down your body, ignorant to the quiet thudding that hits the floor next to you. The next time the shower curtain moves, Simon is naked. His pallid chest dully reflecting the light still isn’t enough to blind you as you watch him climb into the tub behind you. You inspect him within a single instant. The thick muscles that flex in his thighs, ink spreading along his arms in swirling designs, a fat keloid that digs into his shoulder—

—and of course, him. 

You know what he’s supposed to look like. The videos and pictures from your health class ages ago were able to teach you that much at least. Still, it’s different seeing a cock in real life. Flaccid, it hangs lazy between his legs, foreskin stretching over the head and hiding it from view. Speckles of silver attempt to make their presence known from the underside of his shaft, leading all the way down to his puffy knot where it rests as a dormant shade of pale pink. 

As he snaps the curtain shut behind him, you distract yourself with mindless swaying while your arms wrap around your torso. Hands behind your shoulders, fingers digging into the anxious muscles unguarded. Simon dips his hand beneath the stream then wipes at his face. Beads of rosy water roll down his abdomen, tracing along his sternum before eventually diving to the tub where it vanishes with the flood. 

It isn’t long before his attention turns to you. Shower gel lathering in his bare hands, he guides you how he wants your body and scrubs you clean everywhere he can reach. The side of your neck, down the curve of your spine, between your legs—you giggle when he reaches your flank, nails scraping over your waist, tickling your ribs. He spends extra time on your wrists. Thumbing over the tiny scent gland that lies just over your pulse, he brings it up to his nose after each rinse where you can hear him breathe you in even over the roaring water clogging your ears. 

“Do I—erm… do I smell okay now?” you question cautiously. 

There’s a long stretch of silence full of Simon nuzzling your wrist before he finally answers. “You don’t smell like anythin’ at all.” 

“Oh, yeah,” you say with a sheepish chuckle. “I guess that… makes sense.” 

“Do you not have scent glands?” His question is blunt—near invasive. Far from a proper thing to ask, but his need to profile you is nettling too deep beneath his skin. The only person in the world he cannot smell, here before him, and haunting all his waking thoughts. Yet, you are not scandalized. Simon’s curiosity is not the first you’ve encountered. 

“No, I have them,” you admit. “They just… don’t seem to want to do their jobs. At first they thought it was late puberty, then a hormone imbalance, then a genetic condition… Now they’re telling me I might just be a little broken with no fix.” 

Simon’s eyes narrow at your explanation as if the very notion has him upset. “You’re not broken,” he insists. 

Backtracking, you shake your head. “Oh, I know. I guess. I-I mean, it doesn’t bother me. Like, I’ve never had any of the urges everyone else gets. Nesting, or heats, or…” Your tongue is loose, flapping against your teeth before you’ve fully comprehended your words. You stare at Simon as if he’s tricked you—transfixed you—before swallowing down the rest of your explanation. “It’s for the best anyway, I mean, with all that stuff going on with Marco I wouldn’t have the time to deal with biology anyway so… s-so, thank you. For—erm—taking care of him.”

Simon is quiet for a long time. He holds your gaze and it burns, red hot coals shoved into the pits of your stomach, poking at your navel, urging you forward. Instead, you stay still as he pulls your wrist up to his mouth just as his tongue lulls out to lick your gland. It sends a spark through your nervous system. It sizzles along each neuron until something hums to life in the long forgotten slice of your brain and you’re left staring at him with wide eyes. 

“Anythin’ for you, little ‘mega.” 

When the water shuts off and you’re met with the bite of brisk air, Simon dries you off with one of the largest towels you’ve ever seen. It dances over your skin, down your back and in the crux of your arse. He doesn’t bother to grab himself a fresh one before he dries himself off, then lazily wraps it around his waist. Enervation tugs at your eyelids as you lean down, fingers reaching for your old clothes on the floor, but your movements cease the moment Simon’s hand is on the back of your neck, scruffing you like a mangy cat. 

“Nuh uh,” he warns. You yelp as he pulls you back and you spin around to face him with a huff. “You’re not wearin’ those. They reek of Marco, and I just washed you up.”

As if wounded, you wrap your arms around yourself, skin puckering into gooseflesh as you shiver. “What am I supposed to wear, then?” 

Instead of giving you any proper clothes to change into, Simon retrieves a spare quilt from the hallway closet, wrapping it tight around your shoulders before dressing himself. Half naked, you sit on the edge of his bed with glassy eyes and scenes swirling in your skull as you’re forced to confront the day's events. 

Sharp teeth in tender throat. Fresh ichor spilling like pomegranate juice. The pretty corpse of a pretty man. A pink collar next to pallid fingers. 

“Hey.” Simon stands before you, fingers pressing beneath your jaw, prompting you to look up at him instead of your lap. “I’m gonna get you new clothes. Gonna be okay by yourself for a bit?” 

Your blink comes slow as you stare at him, nose flaring as his scent pierces through you like a bullet through ripe flesh. “Yeah. You can take the key to my flat, it should be in my pants.” 

“No baby, I’m buyin’ you new ones.” 

“What?” you breathe. “But I’ve got perfectly fine clothes at home!” 

The look he gives you turns your tongue into stone as umber eyes darken into onyx. Lips squeezing tight, you stare at him, hips readjusting on the edge of the bed as you wait for him to speak. 

“You’re not safe right now. Goin’ back to your flat is a bad idea while things are too hot, ‘n you’re safer ‘ere with me.” Pausing, Simon’s fingers wander away from your chin and down along your neck, ghosting over that sensitive nook that makes you quiver. “I asked you if you needed an alpha to take care of this for you ‘n you said yes, so you’re gonna be a good pet ‘n let me do this, yeah? Gonna let me take care of ya?” 

All fight and urge to argue is siphoned from your marrow, forced into dormancy too deep for you to reach. Everything goes fuzzy as mirth seeps from your brainstem and into your blood. It pumps throughout your body. Everything tingles. You’re warm in his touch. Content. Happy. 

“I’ll be good.” 

Simon makes quick work of his trip. After gathering your old clothes and throwing them into the bin, he spends his time meticulously gathering everything he expects you to need. Trousers, panties, shirts and pyjamas—he forgoes getting you any sort of bra entirely, not even attempting to eyeball your size. He doesn’t intend on letting you leave the house, anyway. Not until things cool down. 

He returns with his arms full of stacked bags that he haphazardly places on the kitchen counter before meandering back into the bedroom. Numbra cloaks the room, nearly obscuring his vision, but he’s still able to make out your form on the bed. As he stalks closer, feet silent on the floor, he notes you’ve slightly rearranged his bedding. Pillows strewn around your body, duvet bunched up in supporting places like you’re in the midst of a bowl. 

Eyes closed tight with the quilt pulled just under your chin, you’re fast asleep. He can hear the air in your lungs and how it expels through your nose, soft against the sheets, eyelids fluttering in the midst of a dream. Something stirs within him. A primordial growl that doesn’t quite bubble up in his chest—a content beast purring. 

He’s compelled forward, knees dipping into the mattress, movement gently jostling your form but not stirring you into consciousness. This feels right. His body next to yours, back pulled close to his chest, arm caging around you as he digs his nose into the back of your neck. You smell pure. A natural redolence like jasmine. With Marco’s scent expunged, he falls asleep within mere minutes. 

A few hours later, he wakes to the feeling of your nose pressed to his flank. 

His shirt is rolled up slightly, exposing the soft padding of his stomach during his slumber, but something sears through him. Your skin. Without the quilt to guard your body, you’re leaning against him without a barrier and he swears he can feel the quiver of your pulse. Your sniffs are soft and delicate, near pathetic little things—secretive and tense. 

Breathing in, Simon’s legs go rigid as he stretches and you freeze the moment he moves, retracting back into yourself as if you can’t afford to be caught. It’s impossible to hold back the simper on his lips as he sits up, movements slow and careful so as to not spook you. Still, you pull the quilt up under your chin again as his body twists, hands planting on either side of your head. His pupils swallow his irises. Black holes ready to consume you. 

“Why’d you stop?” he asks. 

Your lips curl inward before you press them against the corner of the blanket. “Stop what?” Simon doesn’t expand on his question, but the rise of his brows gets you to spill. “S-Sorry, you just… smell really nice.” 

“You’ve never been this close to an alpha before, have you?” he hums curiously. When your only response is to shake your head, his simper grows into a smirk. Before you know it, he’s lowering himself onto his elbows, body blanketing yours until his neck is presented to you. “Go ahead. You don’t even have’ta ask, baby.” 

The speed at which you give in is laughable. Nose against the underside of his jaw, diaphragm forcing your lungs to suck in mouthfuls of him—you dive into him. Arms curling around his neck, you pull him closer and he relents. You nuzzle into him as if you’re trying to dig through his throat with your nose. The longer he lets you explore, the more brave you become with your movements—reeling him closer, tugging on his shirt, legs squirming beneath him. 

Then, there’s the pinch. 

Dull teeth nip at his collarbone, forcing Simon to pull back with a growl. Teary eyed, you stare up at him, apology already slipping from your mouth. 

“I-I don’t know what came over me, I’m sorry,” you spew. 

He doesn’t say anything in response—he simply allows silence to shroud the two of you as he reverses the dynamic. His own crooked nose knocks against the side of your neck and you keen so prettily his hips roll forward instinctively as his lips hover over your scent gland. There are times in the past when he’s messed around with omegas like this before, toying with their most vulnerable parts just to feel them melt, but there’s something that’s weaving through his brain that muddles his thoughts. 

Jasmine. Ichor on flowers. Fur warmed by the sun. 

It lulls his teeth out from between his lips. They’re dry. Thirsty. Screaming for something to wet them, to put them out of their misery. Simon nearly gives in. Tender flesh on full display for him, quivering pulse within his grasp—he pauses. The scent flees just as quickly as it appeared. 

Humming, his lips quietly press against your scent gland and—for now—he ignores the tickle in the back of his brain that demands more. 

Weeks pass like this. You laze around on any surface you deem soft enough as you flip through the dusty books that lie on forgotten shelves throughout Simon’s home or solve sudoku puzzles in the paper. He tells you this is to keep you safe—just until Marco’s corpse has fully rotted—but by the time the weather warms into spring you’ve already carved your own spot into this house. 

Curled up into his side on the couch, nose suctioning to his side, digging into his ribs, wandering up to the pit, nesting in his bed, snoozing whenever you please, smiling more and apologizing less—you’re not sure you want to leave anymore. It’s safe here in the secluded den Simon has built. You tread past windows without the worry of camera flashes burning your sight, you don’t flinch when he touches you—and his smell. 

It sows something inside of you. An infinitesimal seed that’s burrowed deep into your gut and has germinated for so long it’s ready to bear fruit. Delicious, ripe with juice and skin so full it shears with the faintest pressure of teeth. The roots burrow so deep that they affect not only you, but Simon, too. He feels it churn through his offals, spearing through all things unnecessary; intestines, liver, spleen. 

The feeling haunts him worse when he’s not at home. Far in the depths of Terminus’s maw where a sickening concoction of scents assaults his nose. Even here in the VIP room it’s overstimulating. Sour musk, faux pheromones, greed and bitter lust; it all coalesces until his eyes are watering at the stench. There’s a twitch in his fingers that beg for a cigarette, but he bites the sensation back as the sillage of rosewater pierces through the wall of odor around him. 

“There he is. My husband’s favorite delinquent,” Aelin chirps. Simon’s growling chuckle sounds like blended metal when compared with the soft music playing in the room. Aelin grins as she leans against the wall next to him, heels tapping against the lacquered floor. “I do hope he’s taking things easier on you now after that whole mess.” 

Mess. He nearly scoffs.

“Marco was a sod. It was a pleasure to get rid of ‘im,” he hums. 

“Even without permission?” she questions, inflection curling around each word. 

His reply dances on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back. Of course it was worth it. He’d do it a million times over. Without permission, by himself, with a crowd, with his bare hands—the trouble he caused was worth it. Snuffing out the filth. Freeing you from your bonds. The sweet omega sleeping in his bed is just a secondary treat. 

“Chip didn’t come with you tonight?” Aelin reroutes when he doesn’t reply. 

He shakes his head. “Said she wasn’t feelin’ well.” 

“Ah.” An elbow brushes against his side; playful. “She seems to be staying with you an awful lot these days. Hardly even answers the phone when I text. Care to explain how that came about?” 

Truth is, he doesn’t. He thinks about your debt, and the secrets you’ve whispered to him about it, and he knows you couldn’t handle bearing your sins to Aelin. Not now, at least. Instead, Simon sighs as he rests the back of his head against the wall, looking at the crowd over the angled curve of his nose. 

“She likes the way I smell.” 

At that, Aelin smirks. 

The rest of the night moves at a snail's pace. Musk is tainted with liquor and hoppy beer, burning his nostrils until they feel void of hair. Simon remains at the edge of the crowd, eyes narrowing at each face that passes him by while something writhes beneath his skin. He thinks of you. Your skin on his. Nose on his neck. Gland in his mouth. It’s as if he has hives on his skin, they itch and burn, setting him ablaze, making him wish he could take his claws and rake it over himself until it stops. 

On the ride home he lights a cigarette to cleanse his palette of the filth he’s had to endure through the night. It swirls on his tongue and when he exhales he pushes it through his nose until the only thing he can note is tobacco and the buzz of nicotine. His dash reads 01:33 by the time he pulls into the garage and he’s groaning as he enters through the door, achy feet finally nettling too deep. 

The moment he steps foot into the living room, Simon knows something’s wrong. 

Thin fabric and glistening springs greet him as he stares at his barren sofa. Each cushion has been stolen away, leaving behind not so much as a throw pillow in its wake. Hackles raised, he carefully steps around the couch, eyeing it warily, as he enters the kitchen. The light is still on—you always keep it this way when you know he’ll be home late—but the island is a mess. Seven half empty water glasses are strewn about the countertop with no method to the madness, and he nearly slips right on his arse as he splashes through a puddle just by the sink. 

A piercing dither strikes his chest when he calls your name and he gets no response, sending him spiraling through the house until he’s bursting through the bedroom door. When he flicks the light on he freezes.

You’ve nested—properly. Damn near burrowed. A true hibernaculum. Sofa cushions line the wall and are held together by tucked sheets, and you’ve seem to have raided his spare blankets from the closet. His hamper is overturned, and he sees various articles of his clothing poking out from the medley of fabrics that you’ve buried yourself in. Even from the doorway he can hear your whimpering. Pathetic pules. The squeaking of a mouse or cries of a kitten.

Simon opens his mouth to grab your attention, but just as he does something hits him—a wall of thick air, something hardly permeable, yet strong enough to nearly bring him to his knees. He clasps a hand over his mouth as he stumbles toward you, but it’s not enough to smother the scent. 

Your scent. 

Jasmine and blood, fresh red oozing out of weeping meat, warm honey dripping onto a waiting tongue, the brine of needy tears spilling from a desperate cunt—

Your eyes flutter open as Simon seats himself next to your nest and the moment your gaze locks onto him, he knows he’s doomed. The sudden onset of your scent leaves his brain devolving until a demanding mantra plays on repeat—take. Take you. Take everything, all your pain and strife, and give, give, give. 

“Simon?” 

The crack in your voice sends his heart quivering as he leans forward, hands cupping your face. You’re febrile. It seeps through his skin and into his bones demanding that he purges it. “I’m right here, baby.” 

“S-Something’s wrong like- like, I feel really weird,” you whine. You reach up to wipe the sweat from your brow only for it to be instantaneously replaced by more perspiration and he has to fight back the urge to lick your fingers clean. “Everything’s so warm and I just- I can’t think straight… I-I’m sorry about your clothes, you just- it’s the only thing that seems to c-calm me and-and oh… Simon you… you smell so nice.” 

Each word you speak has his heart thudding in his chest, violent and raging like a storm. Your eyes are so heavy you can hardly keep them open, just peering up at him through heavy lids as you deliquesce in his grasp. He’s leaning forward, lips parting, tongue wishing to taste the delicate scent that teases his nose. 

“Did somethin’ happen?” Even his own voice sounds as if he’s under water—too far beneath your current to be saved. 

“N-No it just- I felt odd this morning but it just- it came out of nowhere sometime after you left.” You stutter as he breathes in against your scent gland. “Am I sick?” 

“You have a scent now,” he admits as the world seems to sway around him. It’s potent. So strong yet pleasant, smothering him in a way he wouldn’t mind asphyxiating. 

“I do?”

He hums in confirmation as he begins to traverse down your body. You’re wearing nothing but a dress shirt and a pair of panties, leaving your bare legs to spread wide for him as he slots himself between them. You listen to his touch, chest rising against his face as he trails down to your stomach. Then, he’s pushing at your thighs, giving himself enough room to shove his face against your clothed sex. 

Instead of exclaiming, you moan, hips rolling up as he inhales. There’s an intoxicating aroma that overwhelms him, sending all his blood straight to his cock where it aches against his jeans. You watch his eyes squeeze shut before he’s weaning himself off of you, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are warmer. There’s a new fire lit behind them and the sparks are jutting out to meet you—to know you, your skin, the softest parts of you, everything that makes you tick. 

“Poor little ‘mega,” he coos as he sits back on his haunches. “Can’t even tell when she’s in heat.” 

“What?” Everything you know crumbles around you as Simon’s words attempt to untangle themselves in your mind. “But I- no- I’ve never been in- they said I couldn’t!” 

“Might’ve been from the stress,” Simon offers, though it’s hard to think rationally when your scent muddles his thoughts. He attempts to recall any other omega who’s scent had this effect on him, yet nothing comes to mind. Something jovial purs in his chest at that revelation; that you’re special—his. “Owing Marco, workin’ yourself half to death the way you did, might’ve thrown your body into survival mode. Prioritized other functions besides scent and hormones.” 

There are tears in your eyes now. Frustration and fear clash head on in your chest, and you’re pawing at your eyes to will them away. “Fuck. No, no, I can’t—this cant—no!” 

Simon melts over you, elbows crashing into the mattress as he covers your body with his, sticking close to you despite the heat. “Shh, it’s okay baby.” 

“I dunno what to do! I’ve never… I can’t think, I just, it’s like there’s a hole inside of me, and it burns, and I just need it—I dunno what I need! I’m so-”

“Shh,” he coos again. He knocks your hands away from your face with his jaw before he’s presenting the side of his neck to you. Your sniffling slowly fades until you’re breathing deep, nose against his throat, drowning in his scent. “Poor thing. Need me to take care of you, yeah? Need your alpha to help you through your heat?” 

You hum, lips reaching up to grace against his Adam’s apple. “You smell… that’s not too much trouble? Helping me? Simon you—my alpha?—you smell so nice…” 

The keen in your tone has his fingers curling into your nest while the straining in his pants gets worse. He’s throbbing with want. It rattles inside of him so fiercely he fears you might hear the growling in his stomach. 

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

“No baby, it’s no trouble,” he assures. “Do you trust me?” 

You’re beginning to calm now, muscles no longer tense on the bed, yet still burning just as hot as you were before. But it’s better now. It’ll be enough—until it isn’t. 

But he’ll be right here to take care of his omega through it all.

“I trust you,” you eventually sigh. 

“Good. Now lay back and let me take care of my mate.”

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. 

“Saint,” you rasped, “there are people in on this…. The brass. I think König too. It’s a fuck-fight.” 

The doctor leaned back into their chair, eyes never leaving your jittering figure. The sigh that fell from their lips released none of the tension balled tightly in their shoulders. 

“Birdy…” 

You stood to your feet. You didn’t want to hear it. 

You were sick of hearing people say your name in that tone: placatingly, diminishing your thoughts and dismissing you as if you were the local crazy. 

Maybe you were the local crazy. 

Is that how everybody saw you? Did everybody truly think that you were so off-kilter that you’d hallucinate a coup? You were a victim of assault- not insanity. 

“Stop,” Saint put their pen down firmly on the table, drawing your attention back to the situation at hand. “I’m listening. I’m just a little…  hesitant. It’s a very serious accusation, Birdy, but I’m not doubting the source.” 

You shot the medical officer a knowing glare. “Oh,” you drawled sarcastically, “because everybody takes me seriously at this unit with my history, right?” 

“I don’t give a fuck about whether anybody else takes you seriously,” Saint’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I take you seriously, Birdy.” 

The room was doused in tension. Your fingers curled to form tight fists, skin stretching over your knuckles until they turned white. You don’t know why you were angry at their declaration, angry at their loyalty. 

Maybe it was because you knew it was misplaced. 

Maybe it was because you knew you’d disappoint. “Yeah,” you sighed softly, relaxing your hands as you turned for the door. “That makes one of us.” 

_______

The walk to training always held some anxiety but this time it was as if you were drowning in it. Each step felt like a death knell and sudden dryness in your mouth made you want to turn back and run to the safety of your room.

You thought that you were well and truly past this. 

Apparently, you couldn’t get past anything. 

As you approached the door you were surprised to hear voices. No one ever wanted to interact with König, let alone at 7 a.m. on a Saturday. The room was always booked for the two of you at this time, interruptions were specifically warned against by Price. 

It’s just a conversation. You took in a deep breath. Not everything required a downward spiral, not all mysteries needed investigation. 

Literally just a fucking conversation. Get a grip. 

You straightened your shoulders as you approached the door and the dialogue became clearer. 

“Birdy will be here soon.” König’s voice was as familiar as your own. “You need to leave.” 

You pulled up short just before the entrance, frozen like a deer in the headlights. There was a short silence before a soft thud echoed throughout the room. It sounded like a hand being clapped over the shoulder but you weren’t sure. Could have been a punch, could have been a really intense kiss, who fucking knew? 

All you knew was that they weren’t meant to be there. Maybe it was Sunshine. 

Although you hated the arrogant fucker, it would relieve you to know it was them. They were inconsequential and, although they were annoying, they wouldn’t be behind your assassination attempt. 

Sunshine would have made sure you were in the ground, no matter the cost. Sunshine would have succeeded. 

Instead, the voice that rattled in your ears wasn’t your fellow coworker. 

“Just be careful. Wouldn’t want to jump the gun, would we?” 

Your blood turned to ice.  

Graves. 

You could almost hear that snake-like grin in his words, you could almost see the look in his eyes that was nothing but predatory. Phillip was charming when he wanted to be, but there was something terrifying about him.

Like a trap lying in wait. 

Like a traitor waiting to strike. 

The sound of sure and steady footsteps snapped you out of your thoughts. Panic flooded your system, kicking your adrenaline into gear. There was nowhere to hide, not even a small nook in this god-forsaken hallway.

As Graves drew closer to discovering your presence, you bounced back a few steps from where you’d been frozen. Throwing your arms above your head as if you were stretching and squinting your eyes with an outrageous yawn was all you could pull together. 

Phillip rounded the corner with a cocky sway that made your heart race. You watched him scan your slowly approaching body, seemingly tired and unaware. You acted surprised to see him, carefully schooling your face to return to the usual lifelessness that it held. 

“Birdy!” Graves said, slowing his pace. With a flash of teeth, the corner of his mouth pulled upward into a knowing smirk. “Good to see you.”

“I bet,” you said monotonously, adding a dismissive nod at the end like a punctuation mark. 

Phillip’s smirk turned into a smile. 

“Enjoy your session,” the man said slowly. As he drew closer you could feel your chest tightening. He smelt fresh like he had just gotten out of a long, hot shower. You hated that he was close enough to smell the fucking body wash on his skin. 

His shoulder brushed yours as he passed by, setting your body alight with fear. You didn’t dare look over your shoulder as you trekked towards the gym door, eyes firm on that handle. His footsteps still echoed along the hallway by the time that you’d reached the entrance. 

“You’re late.” 

König’s voice startled you despite making direct eye contact with him. 

The man looked disgruntled, to say the least. His hair looked like he’d been running his fingers through it over and over, and your guess was confirmed when he roughly raked it over once more. König’s eyes were looking anywhere but yours. 

“I’m not.” You’d meant for those words to have some bite to them but you couldn’t muster up the venom. Not when he looked like that. 

“You are,” he insisted with a snarl. 

You raised your hands up in surrender, eyes narrowing at his hostility. The urge to leave grew tenfold and so did your distrust for the man before you. There were too many things that pointed towards his guilt in planning your assassination. 

The way he’d tried to blow off your concerns, the vehement way he’d shouted for you to drop it, and now, his interaction with Graves. You thought back to your time in the kitchen when Phillip had first encountered you both. 

“Now, who’d have thought that you’d both be so… close.” He had said.

The Shadow had watched with intrigue as König stepped in front of you as if protecting you from him. If you really thought about it, most of his smarminess was aimed at the man beside you, rather than yourself. 

You swallowed and choked on your own spit. It was a distant reminder of when it had been your own blood that you’d coughed on. 

König’s sigh tore you from your spiralling conspiracies. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. His tone was quiet but his eyes were genuine. 

“Yeah,” you cleared your throat. “No, it’s fine. I get shitty when I deal with Graves, too.” 

But why was he with Phillip in the first place? 

You wanted to ask him, everything in you pleaded to seek out the truth. You needed to investigate-, you needed to know. Your mouth opened to get the answers you so desperately desired, but a thought made you stop in your tracks. 

What if you let on that you were suspicious of him? 

It was clear that you were no match against König. Your entire life had become interwoven with his and it felt like he was there in your every waking moment. If he knew that you suspected him, it would only put you in danger again. He’d busted through your bedroom door once and that was enough to tell you that you wouldn’t be safe from him anywhere you went. 

You distantly realized that König was watching you carefully from where he stood, jade eyes analyzing every quirk of your lips and every twitch of your brows. 

“What?” You said, feigning self-consciousness. “Admiring your handiwork?” 

The man shot you a glare and you prayed that was enough to shift his attention. 

“I hate it when you say things like that,” he hissed, pulling his jacket down his arms and throwing it aside. “Seriously.” 

“Yeah, well I hate having a chopping block for a face.” You tilted your head to shoot him a deadpan look over your shoulder. “Seriously.” 

“I cannot deal with you sometimes, Birdy.” König hissed. 

“I can tell,” you jerked your thumb towards your marred features. 

You knew that you were playing with fire. The way the man stood straight, his gaze narrowing and any sense of banter dissipating from his features, made it very clear that it was time for you to stop pushing that particular button. 

“Your attempt at deflecting is not as effective as you may think,” König said, his words slow and deliberate. Jade eyes bore into yours and your breath stuttered in your chest. 

You could lie to him, you could play dumb. He was dangerous and if you tipped him off you would be dead by morning.

You couldn’t make sense of that logic, though. If he wanted you dead, you’d well and truly have been dead by now. Your cheeks stung at the thought… you suppose that there wasn’t a lack of trying. Maybe it really had just been a failed attempt. 

“Birdy,” the soldier said, shooting a glance at the door. “I know what you are thinking and you need to put a stop to it.” 

Those contesting thoughts came to a staggering halt. 

“I don’t even know what I’m thinking,” you snapped. “What would you know?” 

König raised a brow at your tone, opening his mouth to deliver what you would assume to be an infuriating response. The words choked and fell from his tongue, though. There was a huff as he turned on his heel, stalking towards the exit and closing the door. 

You swallowed thickly. 

When he swivelled to look at you it was with a burning gaze that pinned you to where you stood.

“You bring attention to us in ways that will get us killed,” König whispered harshly, his accent was sharp and heavy with each enunciation. “You need to stop.” 

“Stop what?” You waved your hands at him. “You’re so fucking vague.” 

He flinched forward, pushing his finger onto your lips. You smacked his hand away like a cat pawing at something irritating. 

“Would you be quiet?” He snarled through gritted teeth. König took in a deep breath, casting another look at the exit. He was watching the light beneath the door, making sure there were no shadows tipping off an eavesdropper. Why was he suddenly the paranoid one? 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You lowered your tone but the urgency behind it was still present. 

“You need to stop chasing this lead,” König shook his head, gaze imploring. “You need to stop trying to find who planned the accident.” 

Your mouth went dry. 

“Is that a threat?” The words were a true whisper this time. Barely falling from your lips and only as audible as a soft gasp. 

König’s eyes widened. “What?” 

“Are you in on it?” You asked, taking a step backward. 

Bile roiled in your stomach as if mimicking a stormy sea. There was a distinct buzzing in your ears, numbing you to anything but the situation at hand.

“What?” König repeated. “What? No. That is not what I meant by that.” 

You shook your head, “the other day- the way you reacted says otherwise.” 

He reached out for your arm and you wonder if it was to comfort you or to detain you. You finched away from him but this time the man before you didn’t yield. He did not back down and he did not allow you the illusion of control. 

Instead, König held you firmly by your biceps. 

“I need you to listen to me, Birdy. We don’t have time for this back and forth thing that we do every time.” 

Rage tore through your chest at his dismissal and you would have told him as much had he not looked so desperate. Instead, you kept your mouth shut as the man watched you pleadingly. You would let him speak because maybe he had the answers you were searching for, maybe König would be the evidence to prove that these suspicions weren’t delusions. 

The man cast another glance towards the doorway before letting go of your arms. You straightened cautiously, being mindful to not rub at the skin he’d had contact with. 

“Well?” You whispered impatiently, waving a hand at him to continue. “You wanna manhandle me or do you want to talk?” 

“It’s not safe for us to talk here,” König’s words were barely audible. “You need to stop with your head-hunting. Stop asking questions.” 

His eyes were fierce, warning you not to challenge his demands but you couldn’t care less. He, of all people, had no right to be telling you when to chase answers.

He raised a hand before you could speak. “You are going to get us both killed because you gather intel like a child-” 

“What does that even mean?” You interrupted harshly.

“It means you have alerted everyone, Birdy!” König snapped, his voice harsh and his eyes flashing. “Whoever did this knows that you’re onto them. They know that we know.” 

You blinked dumbly, stunned. 

The man glared at you for a long moment, his chest heaving with laden breaths. The silence that eneveloped you both was anything but empty. There was a buzzing in your ears and you weren’t sure if you were relieved or horrified that he’d confirmed your suspicions. Blind rage filled your lungs as if you were drowning. 

“You mother fucker!” You hissed between gritted teeth, shoving at his chest with as much force as you could muster. “You fucking knew?” 

“Of course I knew!” König bit back as he stumbled for his footing. “I’ve been trying to find them and you have been hindering me every fucking step of the way, Birdy.”

You wanted to scream at the top of your lungs, you wanted to bash this man over and over just like he’d done to you. You weren’t insane but he was more than happy to intimidate you into thinking that you were. 

“How could you keep this from me?” Your fingers dug into the skin of his arms as you grabbed him. You wanted to shake the truth from the giant before you, rattle the honesty right from his mouth. “After everything that’s happened!” 

König didn’t so much as wince at your nails in his skin, fury simmered in his eyes like molten jade. “I was your main suspect and you outright told me about your suspicions while you were locked in a room with me, Birdy. What would have happened if I was actually everything you make me out to be?” 

You swallowed thickly, your fingers loosening their grip. 

“I could have killed you right there,” König continued softly, “at this rate you’ll die before you find them.” 

“You said I already tipped everyone off,” you rasped, almost meek in tone. “How have they not come for me yet?” 

The man rolled his shoulders, shooting another paranoid glance at the door. He continued talking as he scanned the room, searching for telltale signs of a third party.

“Everyone thinks you are disabled, Birdy, no one is taking your concerns seriously.” König straightened, levelling you with an evaluative glare. “But I knew better.” 

You drew in a deep breath, holding it in for a few moments before releasing just like Saint had taught you. Your heart squeezed in your chest at the thought of your therapist. You told them everything- König was right. You’d mouthed off your suspicions knowing that Saint and Price were close. What if Saint had told Price? Then Price would have told Shephard and Simon and then- God. 

You’re so fucking stupid. 

Of course everyone knew, you’d practically blasted it across the unit’s P.A system. 

“What now?” You managed to croak. “What do we do now?” 

König frowned at you, his body falling still. “We?” 

“You’re not leaving me out of this,” you ground out. 

“We are not doing anything together,” he said, eyes roaming over your features quizzically. Your heart lurched desperately, there was no way you’d let him do this without you. You deserved to be a part of this, you deserved to get your justice and whoever did this deserved to die.

“You owe it to me!” You nearly raised your voice, fear trickling down the expanse of your spine. Not a fear of the man before you, but this time it was a fear of being left behind. Left to paranoia, left alone with your thoughts and suspicions and no one to hear them. 

König shook his head, “we cannot work together.” 

“We have to!” 

“We can’t!” 

Your eyes were wide and your chest was heaving as the man before you gripped your shoulders. He lowered down to a knee, drawing close enough that you were only a breath apart. You opened your mouth to offer a shaky response but the way his gaze ran over your features stole the words straight from your tongue. 

Logistically as a sniper, it meant you frequently held a much more distant role in missions. By watching from a scope you could ensure that infiltrations, covert ops, and other hush-hush kinds of operations that typically the 141 wouldn’t have the luxury of. Being the skilled marksman you were, it made sense to take advantage of your talents and also extend you a job that progressed past what you’d experienced in your “standard” military career and multiple tours overseas. However, that meant communications were essentially the backbone of your usefulness aside from your rifle. Next to nothing else, your daily and mission-based work almost exclusively went through Lieutenant Ghost. Which… often proved to be the largest obstacle that you faced aside from making sure that your scope didn’t get bumped off sight the -often- rough flights and drives to insertion points.

The Lieutenant was particularly mean… he certainly didn’t give a single thought to if anyone thought that he was a little too harsh of a personality to swallow. That went for everything you came to learn about Ghost. From his lack of willingness to speak unless required of him, to his unique ability of appearing and disappearing from anywhere without the slightest sound or hint of where he’d come from or gone to. Trained as a distance marksman, even you were impressed that such a massive man could move around like smoke on water. That and his physical appearance; good god above. Surely a man like Ghost had never graced the face of the Earth before, else he’d have been just as mythical in his legendary life and would’ve been known by thousands of people. He stood towering over just about everyone, in whatever room he was in, and compared to your own height it was downright laughable the difference between the two of you as operators.

The one thing that made the biggest impression on you after meeting the Lieutenant was his voice and how he spoke. That thick accent always sounded rough and a little gritty. His deep timbre gave such a commanding authority that if given the choice between getting yelled at by Captain Price or Ghost… there was no choice you’d sit for hours listening to Price threaten you over Ghost. He just sounded so scary and attractive all at the same time. Unsurprisingly, it developed into a subconscious dynamic where you saw Ghost as such a superior officer -and human- that no matter how much you liked to daydream about Ghost in less-than-professional situations… You gave him the utmost respect at all times. Easiest of all to recognize was that from day one, you had never addressed Ghost to his face as anything other than ‘sir’. Not even his rank gave enough nuance to his character and presence, so for you, Ghost was inextricably attached to the name.

Ghost however… didn’t like it.

Such a simple address actually made Ghost grit his teeth beneath the shield of his mask. When he heard you call him that, he automatically related it to how he had called General Shepherd ‘sir’ as a subtle sign of mockery and defiance. Thinking about that made him more than necessarily angry and confused, but he couldn’t really accuse you of having ever been given much of a reason to detest him. Therefore, he had to come to the conclusion that you were doing it out of some kind of respect that a drill sergeant or boot camp instructor had bashed into your brain so hard that it stuck permanently. Not surprising since you were much different from the rest of the task force. Yet he had to revise that after the first six months of you being with them permanently. You had gotten settled in. Enough so that you called the Captain, ‘Cap’… Soap, ‘Johnny’… and Garrick, ‘Gaz’ like everyone else did. Exceptionalities only appeared when it came time for you to be around him or have any sort of interaction that wasn’t the occasional silent nod of acknowledgment when walking past each other in the hallways.

He honestly tried to ignore it and you altogether for that matter in an attempt to keep his bitter anger at a minimum. Seeing such a small and fucking happy woman always lingering around somewhere in the corners of his sight couldn’t be anything but a distraction waiting to happen. A bad habit that he didn’t have the mental capacity or emotional willingness to take on. Fuck… he already had to worry about the 141 as a whole, to begin with. Now you on top of that? It was more responsibility than he’d signed up for initially. Hearing you call him ‘sir’ day in and day out began to take its toll on his self-control. Ghost needed to either find out why you were hellbent on calling him that, or at least be enough of a bastard to you to be reassured that you did it because you wanted a polite way to tell him to shove it up his ass sideways.

The Lieutenant had been being nothing short of a prick in the last few months.

He was making paperwork back at HQ a nightmare that couldn’t be solved alternatively through someone like Gaz or Soap who often didn’t mind playing the part of the unbiased third party. Refusing to sign things when you stopped by his office, outright ignoring your necessary questions, and stonewalling you at every single stop along the way just to yield at the last moment and do everything you’d been asking for so the both of you wouldn’t face heat from any higher-ups. That alone was enough for you to consider talking to Soap privately since he knew Ghost the best… but you’d kept putting it off hoping that it was just a passing phase of shitty attitude.

Your patience and emotional strength fell through the floor after attempting for the third time in a week after something so fucking simple as trying to get his approval and official signature on a post-mission report Price had delegated to you after being called to Washington D.C. for a meeting. It wasn’t a major task, but knowing that the Captain had given you the responsibility first over anyone else made you want to impress him and take care of business without incident. God forbid you do something as simple as ask Ghost to pick up a pen and scribble his name at the bottom of a page so that you could send it on through the higher-up channels. It resulted in the Lieutenant straight-up yelling at you in the middle of the hallway outside his office when he’d found you standing there patiently waiting for him to show up. He wasn’t threatening physically, but it cut much deeper into your pride and feelings than it should have.

With every word that dripped venomously out of his masked mouth, you lost a little extra peace of mind on having such an untouchable and unshakably good opinion of Ghost for so long. This moment of undeserved verbal punishment was enough to make the corners of your eyes burn with inner disgrace, self-doubt, and plain old sadness which motivated you to get the hell out of there before the Lieutenant saw you cry. When you turned your back and walked away right in the middle of his berating for you being “too fucking annoying to tolerate”, your only destination was your personal quarters on the other end of the building where a lock on the door could shut out the entire base for as long as you saw fit. Upon the first estimation, it would be after Captain Price returned so that you could have at least one single chance at not getting a second punishment or dismissal from the squad. The sound of your door slamming shut and your back sliding down against it on your way down to the floor silenced the entire room around you, leaving just enough room for the papers clenched to your chest to flutter onto the ground and your weak cries to sounds amplified.

It was hours before you could drag yourself off the floor and into bed, too tired and wanting to fall back on the trained and instinctual desire to hide away somewhere isolated and not move for hours on end. Being a long-distance marksman gave you the talent of patience insurmountable to the average person, allowing days to pass by without you needing to do more than go to the bathroom before coming right back to a motionless position. That’s what you wanted tonight. You needed to focus all of your energy into your brain alone and use it to sort through the hurt burning through your eyes and throat, and the questioning that gave such a sickening feeling a chance root in your stomach. Questions of if it had been foolish to trust Ghost as much as you did the others, knowing how you’d been warned that he would be difficult to work with. Hoping you hadn’t been truly so ignorant of judging behavior to think that the Lieutenant was something much greater than his behavior had been not only today but for the past months.

The next two days were spent laying near motionless… not hungry or thirsty.

Just thinking, sleeping, and staring at the wall across from your bed.

A solid knock on your door was the first human sound that hadn’t been made by you in over forty-eight hours. You’d not looked at your phone or any communications since locking yourself inside, and there was a good chance someone from the squad had come searching for you after such a long period without seeing or hearing from you. When you refused to answer right away, another harder knock banged on the door twice and rattled the steel in its doorframe. Impatient. Testy. Quite familiar with everything you’ve been through lately. Recognizing the Lieutenant was the one outside made your gut churn all over again. Questioning whether to get up or not wasn’t hard. Laying perfectly still in bed, you waited. If you were being honest though, it’d been a long time since you’d spent so long restricting yourself from basic needs for the purpose of acting like a living phantom. Close to three years since any sniper position had left you utterly abandoned without resources. Only this time it was self-induced and nothing short of a trauma response you wanted to hide away from. Truthfully you couldn’t tell if walking to the door was an easy feat or not. After not drinking anything, using the bathroom wasn’t necessary and the last time you’d stood up didn’t cross your memory clearly.

Ghost slammed his fist against the door again one last time. But he didn’t wait long enough for you to answer before rattling the handle to the door with a heavy sigh that was audible through the cracks separating you. Metal on metal gritted softly and moved the door handle a bit further. Recognizing that as nothing short of Ghost picking the lock to your quarters without the slightest care of how he’d be breaking multiple stipulations laid out for them living in HQ. Either your physical or mental state kept you from giving a damn when the handle gave way fully, leaving a bright fluorescence light flooding in from the hallway into your pitch-black room. It made your eyes water and the urge to turn your head away was strong enough to budge your head into the blankets and pillow surrounding. Heavy boots made the paperwork scattered on the floor crunch softly and the sound of his deep breaths gave away his current state of frustration. Clearly not appreciating being locked out of a room that he had no fucking business being in. A long pause led to shuffling around, and the sound of your desk chair creaking under his weight.

“Gonna say somethin’?” He sounded no less irritated than the last time you’d spoken.

It made your throat burn to even think you’d allowed his to get in your head so deeply just to utterly rip every last bit of security and respect away from you for no damn reason. Your silence made quite the statement, even if the actual task of speaking hadn’t been a totally voluntary one. You’d not moved your jaw in days at this point.

“You’ve missed five drill sessions, two mandatory meetings, and one phone from General Shepherd.”

Listing off your offenses hardly bothered you. The consequences of this had been fully accepted days ago, and Ghost would have to do a lot more to get you up from this bed. You’d trained for hell, and no matter how badly Ghost had ruined your almost loving and patient view of him there weren’t enough men on the planet to make you get up voluntarily. Drastic… yes. Satisfying to your own pride… undoubtedly. When you didn’t even let out a single breath loud enough for Ghost to hear instead of that instant apology or willingness to appease him… please him even, with that little quip of ‘sir’ ready on your tongue, the Lieutenant was up out of that chair so quickly you heard it roll into the wall behind him hard enough to thud against the drywall.

“Goddamn it Brass, I demand a fuckin’ answer!” His loud bark caught your attention, but the feeling of your blankets being ripped off your body was a far more startling sensation.

Baring you to the cold air of the room, all your body managed was to raise chills on your skin in a feeble attempt to keep you warm or alert you to seek out that heat again. Tension exploded into shocked silence when Ghost didn’t utter more than a sharp inhale after getting one, shadowed glimpse of your body totally frozen on your stomach. You knew it couldn’t look great. Snipers could come back looking like skeletons sometimes after a long mission if they were given the orders to stay put. You’d not been laying nearly long enough for that to be the case, but dehydration was certainly a symptom you were ignoring quite easily, as well as the possibility of some minor pressure ulcers that would linger for a few weeks if you didn’t move soon. Ghost wasn’t as familiar with the sight of how you felt internally. Snipers weren’t commonly used or in collaboration with Task Force 141. You’d been their first real look at how the inner workings moved or didn’t, and much of your personal way of doing things had dispelled or blown away any misguided assumptions they’d made about your skills early on. Viewing a sniper after days of doing literally nothing, of her own free will…? That wasn’t healthy or accepted in general military companies. Lucky Ghost got the front-row seat though.

When you heard his movement next to you, weight pressed down the mattress at your side in the shape of his hands, and a low sigh registered.

“Brass…” Failing to even say something, you wondered if your own assessment of yourself wasn’t accurate. “It’s been five days.” His faltered tone was truthful, and it destroyed your semblance of time that had been misled by the absence of sunlight coming in through your room.

You thought about trying to say something, resolve falling flat when swallowing felt difficult. A gloved hand rested against your thigh and Ghost almost growled again, sounding a lot more like he was resisting the urge to squeeze you hard. Only his fingers traced along your hip and over the curve in your waist with a tense and heavy swallow. He was being gentle beyond your concept of his depth of emotion and understanding. Nearly loving as he paused over your ribcage with another pinched sort of sound. Staying like that for what felt like hours, you struggled to keep yourself awake. It had been a struggle to move your tongue in your mouth, testing what mobility you’d lost in the short term. Only Ghost wasn’t leaving like you expected, and suddenly his voice returned it its normal stature.

“This’s Ghost. Get a bay ready now, I’m bringin’ someone in.” The reverb of his voice crackled in a radio you knew hooked to his vest. A backup short-range alternative in the case that SAT couldn’t be established or wasn’t clear enough to rely on in the field. Apparently, he used it to keep in contact with someone on base. Or multiple people for all you knew.

“Copy Ghost.” A static voice could be heard and quickly the room was pitched back into a silence you wanted to remain in, but Ghost was adamant to keep infracting alone with a whole list of other rules that, for whatever reason, just didn’t fucking matter or apply to him.

His other hand searched around the dark until he found your face resting amongst the fabric of your bed, curling his hand around your head and meticulously lifting you so very slowly away from the bed with his other arm steadying your legs that had also been taken up off the mattress. You’d never touched Ghost once in all the time you’d known him. Understanding that with his sour attitude, there couldn’t be a single chance in Hell that touching him was an acceptable action. Whereas with Soap, Gaz, and even on occasion Price: hugs, handshakes, shoves, and other physical touches were common, Ghost totally ignored all human contact. Maybe Hell had frozen over outside of your quarters for your weak and still motionless body to be lifted up against the Lieutenant’s chest and carried preciously outside of your room into the burning light of HQ. His chest heaved deep and quickly against you. Both hands curled around you and flexed tighter each time you were able to hear another set of shoes approaching closer to you. Possessive like a soldier. Silent like a Ghost. Determined.

He takes you straight to the medical hall where three nurses and two of the on-shift doctors are fast to respond to your condition. Only Ghost refuses to let them take you away from him for any reason. Stoically stonewalling them just like he habitually did to you as they begged him to lay you down on a transport bed so they could take you back to a room for assessment. The Lieutenant took you there himself, with the group of nurses and doctors hot on his heels and surrounding your bed once Ghost had you settled down inside a private room.

The whole place smells sterile and like alcohol. It’s not the first time you’ve been here, but these are far different circumstances. You’re still too sensitive to open your eyes, but hands are all over your body, gloves fingers touching around the sore places on weight-bearing points on your body, pricks in your fingertips, and a needle poke to the back of your hand. It’s overstimulating, to say the least, and you’re worried they’re going to think you’ve tried to starve yourself to death or decided that living altogether wasn’t worth it and simply wasting away into your bed was the solution. Right away, one of the voices of the medical professionals breaks that worry in your mind by calling for some of the tests to be staggered, needing time between them for nothing other than your own benefit.

“Treat this no differently than prolonged active reconnaissance,” The female voice states softly. “Being on-the-gun for this long is detrimental to all senses, and she’s going to need a while to wake up in a meaningful way.” She added, voice coming clearer the closer she got to your head.

“You’ve been working very hard, I suspect. Maybe not in the field… but you’re one tough lady.” She commented to you quite personally, her hand falling to your shoulders. “We’re going to get you plenty of fluids and start you on a vitamin drip to get everything running as it should again. You’ve also got some slight bedsores, but as long as we take care of them now, you’ll be right as rain soon, sniper.”

Tests were run, treatments began, and nurse after nurse was brought in with both doctors running rotations in and out of your room for the rest of the night. All of them were under the hard watch of Ghost who’d not moved from his position sitting in the corner of your room where he could see not only you but anyone approaching the door. He’d been very quiet throughout the process, watching and waiting for someone to give him some news about your condition with actual certainty. Stewing over the guilt he felt knowing damn well he was the reason you’d shut down so far and were still unable -or unwilling- to come out of it yet. You’d been nothing but the perfect little woman, doing her job with skill and grace, making everyone around you happier just with one glance in your direction. But fuck, he couldn’t stand seeing someone do the callous profession of killing people with one single squeeze of her finger and still have so much innocent and emotional humanity inside such a small body. Ghost couldn’t wrap his mind around it. So instead of trying to do the right thing and figure it out, he did what a man so out of touch with empathy did: Try to snuff it out.

You threatened him whether you or he realized it in the beginning.

But now he could see it with that crystal fucking clear hindsight. How monstrous he was for punishing you with no foundation other than his own selfish fear of seeing a dynamic he didn’t know was possibly wrapped up inside of you. Sweet and little you, never saying anything to him other than a ‘yes sir’ or ‘no sir’. Goddamnit Ghost knew he’d nearly killed you in a way. Seeing days of neglect in your sallow expression, darkened under eyes, and weakened body was more than even his cold heart could take all at one time. Wasting away for someone as useless as himself, all because he’d never given you enough credit for finding something worth liking in him where no one else had. Screaming at you. Cursing your existence. Right in your face, while he’d been too big of a pussy to even take off his own mask he hid behind every day as he utterly destroyed your meaningful position and life working alongside of his and his squad. Owing you his life wouldn’t nearly cover his offenses. Laughably, Ghost admitted his own life or death couldn’t measure up to yours. So instead of saying any kind of bullshit apology, he sat in the corner of your room and denied himself sleep, food, and water because there wasn’t anything else he could do until you’d been considered healthy and strong again.

Almost one week to the day you had been signed off for return to duty with zero restrictions. Your physical and mental evaluations came back clean, and with both Price and Ghost signing off on the doctor’s orders, you returned to your quarters where you expected to see your room exactly as you’d left it before Ghost brought you into the medical wing. Only nothing was as you’d left it. All the paperwork left on the floor was gone, as well as the other documents that had been left on your desk that still needed finishing. All of it was gone. Your bed and all of the bedclothes you’d been taken from were also missing. Replaced with totally brand new bedding in dark hues of dark green and navy blue with a decidedly feminine pattern on the quilt. Items you didn’t own. Or have any idea where they came from. Even the smell of stale air was traded for a woody, and familiar smell that wasn’t of a candle, or room spray; It was from a person. The person who sat in the corner of your room in your desk chair with his massive arms crossed over his chest and dark eyes staring at you through the painted visage of a skull gracing a black compression mask.

“Sir,” You greet hoarsely, still working through some of the non-significant parts of your recovery that lingered. Ghost stood from his seat and met you halfway across your room with a silent nod, his hand reaching out and motioning for you to step closer to him. Warily but complicit, you make the few steps forward and watch his hand turn to slide against your jaw and stay there firmly. “I expected you to be at drill.” You say with a tinge of surprise at the touch of his bare hand resting against your cheek.

“Should be,” He replied flatly. “But I’m not.” You nod a little, biting your tongue when his fingertip rubs over the curve of your ear. His eyes were soft and his unarmored physique was highlighted by the shadows made by the lamp on your side table. He’s inspecting you, you know as much. Clear by his thumb pressing over your pulse point and the minute exactly that he waits before speaking again.

“Do you like the color green?” His question knocks you off guard and his eyes slide over the quilt laying neatly over your bed. You were quick to answer honestly out of mere habit.

“Yes, sir.”

His hand stiffens against your cheek, and Ghost takes another step closer. His boots graze the tips of yours and his chin is nearly tucked against his chest to look down at you properly. You’re breathing a little harder, anticipating another break of his patience and an onslaught of screaming all directed at your apparent mistakes made right in front of his face. Judgments you’d still be unable to solve no matter how much you thought about it or what you did to try and find a solution of healthy -or not- motives. Ghost doesn’t yell though. He actually lowers his face down to yours, eyes locked right on you and an intensity burning there.

“Why do you call me that?” His low growl made you shiver, especially when his hand dropped lower to your throat. Now squeezing, but holding your gaze steady on him, reminding you of his strength. The power over you he’d always held, and given you the instant to call him ‘sir’ in the first place. Everything about Ghost was overwhelming, and you’d always been one wave away from drowning under him.

“You deserve the honor…” You answer, certain. Even if he’d broken your spirit and came back in the aftermath with questions you still believed to be much too complex for a single-sentence answer. Hopefully, he understood a little bit better but the way you leaned against his hand, letting him actually feel the pressure of your throat pressing into his palm. Literally offering your trust in him over again, testing the Lieutenant and watching as his eyes widened. His other hand came up to your face, counteracting the pressure you’d applied to keep your breath and blood flow uninterrupted. His face is still only inches away from yours but unflinching at the close contact.

“Brass,” He murmured, masked face teasing closer with his own lack of control. “I’m not what you think I am.” Your chest tightens with his words, soaked in desperation that heats your lips and cheeks.

“What’s that, sir?” You question, earning another flinch of his fingers against your skin.

“Safe… Trustworthy… Honorable.” He replies, getting even closer. The smooth material ghosted over your lips, and his breathing fanning over you wetly through the damp material. You sigh, feeling lightheaded. Weak in his hands, confused yet happy to have your life held in the palms of his hands. Confused about where his mistrust comes from, but gaining perspective every time he flinches when you address him in the way you always believed he’d feel the most revered and… loved.

“You’re wrong,” You challenge, hands moving from your sides to run up the thin shirt covering his chest. “You’re a man of fear. One that death shakes at the mention of. Even looking at you through my scope a mile away is enough to remind me you’re capable of inhuman things…” Your voice lowers, hearing thoughts straight from your soul escaping without filter from your brain. “Yet you’re human. So much more than anyone sees. Because it’s not evil that keeps you going. It’s the fear and hatred of losing anything that means something to you.” Your hand rests over his chest, hearing his heart thundering against his ribs.

“You’re not a monster, you are terrified of losing everything. That is why I call you ‘sir’, is because you’re a man unlike any other, Ghost.”

Hearing your own voice say his name like that feels so foreign. Coming off your tongue with the letters not fitting together in a way that you’d experienced. But Ghost… he reacts differently. His hands tightened around you and he hugged you against his chest tightly. His chest heaves up and down and the thunder of his heartbeat impossibly quickens until your left ear can’t hear anything but the repetitive thrum of blood coursing through his body. Heavy arms snake around you, one around your head to secure it to him and the other clinging to your waist with his hand fisting into your shirt until it’s skin-tight on your stomach. The Lieutenant practically shakes against you, using your much smaller frame to steady himself.

Yet he’s dropping to one knee on the ground, bringing you down with him until he’s nearly cradling you and softly rocking your weight back and forth. Soothing himself in much the same way a child would after scraping their knee on the sidewalk and the tears have begun to dry up. God, it made the massive man feel so weak; much like you did after he’d yelled at you a week ago. Both of you kneeled on the floor now with all of your wounds opened up to each other and had silently found a calm within the eye of a destructive storm that had been raging against the pair of you while everyone on the outside had been simply looking on with bated breath to see how the ending would play out.

“Brass - I…” Ghost’s voice choked up again, his arms tightening around you. “God, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t ignore you anymore… I’m losing my mind.”

You lean into his chest harder, arms struggling to reach all the way around his wide back in an attempt to support him a little bit. You understood through the way he was grabbing at anything on you he could desperately. So you did all you could and rubbed your hand up and down his back quietly allowing him the time to work through his thoughts. Both of you had been hurt by this, and while the Lieutenant’s form of apology came in the way he’d ushered you for help when you needed it most and unquestionably been the reason behind the way your quarters looked. Now it was you, cradling a man who’d never shown a single crack in his armor, feeling the weight of so many emotional wounds that he was practically bleeding out with pain and palpable regret.

“You don’t have to…” You whisper, resting your forehead against his.

Ghost just nods his head, panting heavily and giving a low sort of whine. “I’m so sorry…”

You smile sadly. “I’m sorry too.”

His eyes soften more, blinking away at wetness brimming at his waterline. “Say it again… please. I need to hear it. God, please.”

“It’s okay…” Your hands cradle his cheeks, feeling the sharp lines and hard muscles. “I’m right here, Ghost. We’re going to do this over again… Together, Ghost.”