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And his warm palm, steadying you on your wobbly legs is the only anchor you get amidst this storm. 

“Might be.” he murmurs noncommittally and deflects instead of looking in your searching eyes, “You ready to get some rest?” Jim asks, his smile widening when you whine in protest. 

His thumb strokes your hip bone absentmindedly, the touch burning through your clothes and god, you shouldn’t think about it too much, not when chances are, he is not even noticing that he does that.

But in a moment he looks up at you and in the warm light of the fireplace, with his fingers giving you a fraction of what you want, you can’t help but wonder how would it feel to have his hands on you, his back pressed to yours as he – 

“You look a little flushed”, Jim says, concern bleeding into his voice at the long silence stretching in between the two of you, the breathy “im fine” and quick blinking definitely not helping your case. “Hold on, I will get you some water.” He stands up before you can even answer, steadying you with a warm palm on your elbow. 

So helpful and cordial, sometimes you wish he was less of a gentleman. Sometimes you want to push him just to see what happens. 

If the slow stroking of his thumb would morph into a grip, holding you in place or pushing you down.

Reminding you to behave and be good for a man you know so little about, but still want to eat alive. Lord, that’s a good thing that he cannot read your thoughts. 

“Jim–” you protest and when he steps away to the kitchen sink, the drunken moment of bold urgency takes over. “No. No water for me.”

It doesn’t sound as stern as you were hoping for. 

Maybe, because you don’t feel like being stern with him. 

Or, maybe, because you mumble it in his chest, arms wrapped around his torso.

He is warm, much warmer than you expected – pleasantly stiff in a way that makes you want to stroke down the line of his spine like he is a big hound. A pet for you to shower with affection. 

“I’m alright, I promise.” you just say into his shirt and force down a shiver when his arms tentatively wrap around you. 

Barely holding, but this right there is already so much more than he has given you days prior. 

Not your fault he makes your gums itch with the strange intense hunger, with the need to climb into the crack of his armour and make home there, with the urge to draw some blood so you can lick him clean.

Not your fault he so rarely takes the first step.

You nuzzle into his chest, wine clouding your head, Jim’s body stiffening under your touch before he breathes out a shaky breath and hugs you back a little tighter. 

Easing himself into your touch like you are a hot bath and he has been out in the cold for so long that he can’t feel the tips of his fingers anymore. 

“You are so warm.” You sigh quietly and under your cheek, his chest rises for him to take a deep breath, his palm stroking your back slowly, his other arm wrapped around your waist.

A little more and it would be almost possessive. 

Only you know he is not the possessive kind. Not the Jim that you know.

When he speaks again you can swear that he is smiling, his voice cracking like you finally found a way to climb a little closer to his heart and he is ticklish. 

“Thank you.” He murmurs and the way his voice dips lower makes another surge of heat hit your head. “I’ve been liking how warm you are too.”

Damn him for being handsome and nice and cordial.

What are you even supposed to do with a guy who has this amount of self restraint? 

“Should really go to bed, shouldn’t I?” You lean on him, warmth of the evening and heat of his touch doing absolutely nothing to soothe the wine dancing through your bloodstream.

Yeah, better you go sleep it off before you do something you’d feel mortified about in the morning. Only his fingers twitch to grip the fabric of your shirt, before he catches himself, his eyes slipping awfully low for a gentleman he has been these past few days. 

“What?” you grin wider and try to catch his eyes. “Do I have–” “Would you like a spare shirt?” Jim’s voice is so soft that you barely catch it, gears slowly turning in your head as you look down and oh- 

Oh, no. 

The familiar sight of darkened wet fabric, sticking to your skin, outlining the hardened bud of your nipple. 

You swallow, trying to think of a way out of this when your eyes slide higher and you notice the faint wet imprint on Jim’s shirt. 

Oh fuck. 

So…apparently you won’t even have to wait for the morning to experience a mortifying ordeal of revealing too much to your handsome neighbour.

“I am…so sorry.” The apology sounds less like a steady “can you believe that happened” with half a chuckle that you were going for and more like a whine, Jim’s Addam’s apple bobbing when he jerks his head up. “It’s aight.” Which also sounds like he is very far from being alright, shadow falling over his eyes when he tilts his head to the side and you feel like having the ground open so you can jump in the hole and die there. Fucking Christ. “It’s none of my business, but you are…?” his eyes slip lower for just a moment and you swear that his cheeks get a shade pinkier. 

“Lactating.” You try for a smile but it feels too tight, your skin squeezing you to curl in on yourself and become a forever ball of shame. “I’m not pregnant or anything! That’s just…something that happens. It’s normal for me. I’m very sorry about your shirt, I’d be happy to wash it–” “No.” The short cut off is not what you expected, Jim’s tone raising hairs on the back of your neck, rejection sliding down the back of your throat with a tea too cold and vulnerability not welcomed, some small childish part of you curling away. Fuck, okay, you are probably talking too much and he must be uncomfortable as it is and–

“You don’t gotta think so hard.” his thumb presses to the crease between your brows to smoothen it out and Jim looks at you, again calm and settled, pink flush still on his cheeks. “I will bring you something to change into. I’m fine, I promise. Nothing’s wrong with a little splash.” he tries to joke despite the tension stretched inside of your belly. One wrong move and the string is going to snap. 

But Jim sidesteps it with the practiced efficiency of a man used to all kinds of things, his palm warm on your lower back when he gently herds you back in your bedroom. He doesn’t mention it when he comes back with a spare shirt, breaking his silence only when you mumble something about the possibility of ruining this one. 

“That’s fine. Just get it back to me if something happens again and I will take care of it.” Jim says, tongue quickly wetting his cracked lips. A nervous habit, perhaps?

And that should be it, with him being nice and understanding and offering his shirt. Only that night you can’t sleep at all, the howl of the wind and the distant sound of Jim getting out to chop some wood wrapping you inside and pressing you down into the mattress. 

You will stay with me, a creature with thousand arms and thousand wishes rumbles when you sleep, its roots curling lovingly around your legs, its presence stroking your head. You will stay and you will be mine. A perfect sustenance, a perfect bride. 

You don’t know why, but you let it grow through you, blooming in the bursts of ancient desperation, cracking with the hundred-year longing and licking into you – its teeth scraping your inner thigh, the shining light of its eyes – merciless ice and endless winter – looking into yours to find the reflection of shared desire. 

All mine, the creature rumbles into your chest, its touch everywhere and nowhere at once, darkness swallowing you before you open your mouth to counter that you are your own and not someone’s.

In the morning you are sweaty and flushed, Jim’s shirt sticky in the front. 

Again. 

You groan, pulling it off, cold air hitting the warm sensitive skin on your back like a whiplash. Enough to force you to hiss and feel some more pity for the state you find yourself in, pulling out the oversized sweater from the depth of your luggage. 

The door to your bedroom slightly ajar, even though the prey part of your brain pounds on the walls of your head saying that you closed it yesterday. 

But have you really? 

Jim’s home is an old cabin, perhaps you didn’t close it tight enough. And he has been so perfectly nice to you, the other part says, phantom feeling of his fingers curling around your wrist, his lips slipping below your collarbones to suck through the shirt, to–

“Good morning” cuts you off almost in time, Jim’s curious eyes landing on your sweater that you definitely weren’t wearing when you went to bed and you feel a little bit like throwing yourself out of a cabin window and burrowing in the snow. 

You swallow down the fantasy of his thin lips wrapped around your nipple and try not to think about the blush spreading from your neck up. Good morning, indeed. 

“Morning, I…” you helplessly look on his shirt in your hand and he thankfully gets the hint, something in his face changing almost imperceptibly, like a big fish passing under the tiny boat you find yourself in, surface rippling for a moment before the water is smooth as a glass again. “I’m sorry about the shirt.”

Jim hums and places a mug with something herbal on the table, giving a curt nod for you to sit down. “That’s okay.” His voice is bunny paw soft, barely leaving an imprint on the snow on your perception. 

Only when you pass him the shirt, his fingers twitch, curling into the fabric immediately. Squeezing it, before Jim notices your eyes on them and relaxes  his grip, folding the shirt to drape over his arm. Motions now almost mechanical in their efficiency. 

“Can I help you with breakfast?” you chew on your lower lip and when Jim’s eyes shift to watch your face now, you tilt your head to the side. Subconscious placating gesture. 

Showing a big quiet man your throat so he doesn’t assume disrespect and makes it his mission to teach you some.

Jim is not like that, you tell yourself, heart pounding when his gaze dips to your lips. 

Jim wouldn’t be into it, you try to laugh, only the silence between the two of you stretches, his thumb absentmindedly stroking the wet spot on the shirt you gave him back. 

For God’s sake, Jim doesn’t even like wolves, you reason in your head, only he still watches you out of his dark corners and still manages to quietly follow you and still circles you ever since you accidentally dropped in on his hermit existence. 

“Sure.” Jim says instead, smiling like you did something right and turns away. “I will put the shirt away and we can start.” 

He doesn’t ask what happened and doesn’t act weirded out, something so grounded in a calm way he handles you in this situation pulls you down from your anxious clouds. 

Maybe, you think to yourself, he has been alone for so long that nothing really surprises him anymore.

When he comes back to the kitchen, his hair is tied low at the base of his neck and you get so curious counting moles on his neck that you don’t notice his wet lips. 

Or the way he now stands a little bit closer, leaning over your shoulder to show you how to properly cut wild mushrooms.

Second time it happens, you just couldn’t sleep – the circling cold freezes the tip of your nose and toes, climbs to cuddle up behind your back, breathes down your neck even though you try to wrap yourself in the blanket tighter. 

After another half an hour of suffering, you hiss “fuck it” and climb out of bed. You already helped yourself to Jim’s tea once, it probably won’t be much of a big deal if you did so again.  

Only when you crawl out of the door, he is there, just…standing. 

Watching the snow or watching the woods, you assume automatically.

Or watching something in the woods, the imaginative part of you comments and the chill that runs down your spine has nothing to do with the cold. 

“It’s late.” Jim says, without turning, so sharply attuned to your presence that he always knows where you are, what you are looking at and what else he can do for you. “You shouldn’t be awake.” His thumb traces the crack in the wooden handle of the carving knife you only now notice in his grip. You don’t say anything, but step closer, tilting head to the side in some old forgotten habit when his eyes slip down to the slope of your neck and he swallows, his whole body hunching over you to stand as close as he can. 

In the moment he is the lonely tree in the forest, the snow, laying on top of the mountains and the paw left in the closed steel trap. Jim is the part of something bigger, something meaner, only in the moment he looks at you like your warmth tortures him. 

Like he has always wanted to be seen but never expected anyone to actually look.

“Are you cold?” his tone is almost gentle, weirdly nervous when you still don’t respond, instead. “Have spare blankets in my room if you get too uncomfortable. They are nothing fancy but they will do the job and–”

He falls silent only when your palm cups his cheek, something tender spilling in your chest, aching with the need to make it better. To warm him up too. 

“Can I kiss you?” The question hits him square in the chest and when his brows furrow you almost expect him to pull away and storm out to chop some wood. 

But you look up at him expectantly, fingers curled into his shirt to keep him in place and in the moonlight you are so lovely, that Jim just gives you a jerky nod and shuffles closer. 

Leans lower so you can reach his lips, blush already climbing up his cheekbones when your eyes crinkle and he feels like a teenager on his first date.

“Not fair that you still look at me like that.” He breathes out, eyes impossibly soft when you hum in return and press your lips to his, pulling him in and pulling him under, the ice under his legs finally cracking.

Jim makes a small wounded sound when you pull back and he has to chase your lips, his eyes still closed when you kiss him again and he can feel your smile under his lips, letting out a shuddering gasp when you pull him back with you. Herding him out of the cold hallway back into the bedroom. 

You break the kiss again to take a look at him, making him groan, his hands pulling you back by the hips when his mouth crashes into yours. 

Finally snapping enough to admit what he wants. How much he craves. 

“Mine”, Jim breathes out in half a while and it is everything and more, when he holds you closer, when he sucks the mark in your throat, when his fingers sink in the fat of your sides, finally allowed to touch. “You don’t even know what you do to me. How I…could’ve eaten you alive when you looked at me like-” he takes a deep breath, flushed and aching for you, “Like you wanted me to eat you. I couldn't sleep properly that night.” 

Jim rubs his nose on your cheek, the gesture more animal than human, more wolf-like than you expected, but it still makes your heart flutter. 

“And then do you remember what happened?” Jim murmurs, letting you feel the teeth of his smile when you squirm in his hold. “You pressed into me.” he says softly, breathing it out in your ear like you shouldn’t have. Like opening this particular door was not your smartest idea. “Could feel your breasts.” he mumbles in your cheek, curling around you like a serpent, bringing his coils closer, “Could feel when you started leaking.” Jim breathes out and you half expect his mouth to open wide enough for him to sink his teeth into you, his arms holding you in place. 

Pretty bunny, you aren’t going anywhere now, are you? 

“And you got so shy”, is breathed in your ear like a whine, his lips pressing to your cheek in a desperate affection of a beast that is afraid to snap you in half if he pushes any harder. “Covering up, like I wouldn’t’ve crawled for a taste.” 

The air between you is almost electric, your skin buzzing with the need to finally get him to touch you properly – kiss, bite, grope like he means it. 

Like he wants you half as bad as he says he does.

“Could let you taste with no crawling required.” you blurt out for some fucking reason and he tilts his head to your eye level so slowly, that you half expect to hear a pop when he snaps his neck. “If…if you want to.”

Jim looks at you for a few very long moments, completely still, his pupils blowing wider than you thought was possible. “You sure ‘bout that?” 

Were you sure? To let him see this much, to let him actually…taste. 

This would be something you would not be able to take back. Whatever happens later, this would be something he will always have. A little piece he can fiddle with on cold winter nights like one of his wooden trinkets. 

“Yeah.” You nod, throat dry when he leans in closer and tug at the collar of your sweater. “If you want to, that is.” 

He doesn’t even think after, not that you notice him pausing when he slides down on his knees and wiggles himself between your thighs, perfectly level with your chest, big palms stroking your tensed up thighs.

“Won’t take more than you will give me.” Jim murmurs quietly and the moment you aren’t sure whether he makes this promise to you or to himself, something hungry in him squeezing the meat of your thighs, something needing dragging his hot lips over your skin.

Barely holding back, keeping himself on a short leash like a good pious boy his mother must have made him be until he wasn’t anymore. Until something else started living under his skin and looking through his eyes. Sucking the drops of your milk through the thin fabric of the short, savouring every sinful bit he was not permitted to enjoy. Only something else won when you looked at him with big nervous eyes and when the creature in his head purred “should just steal our bride away” he didn’t say no for the first time since it made home in his head. 

Look what you do to me, Jim wants to say, but he is mute and drooling, everything in him dulling down to focus on this one singular point existing in this new reality of his. 

Only you and the soft creases of your nervous smiles and the soft shirts you keep wearing around him and the soft tits of yours leaking over him and on his fucking things. 

Like your body knows what you need better than your head does, calling out to him to finally do something, to take off some of that pressure, to relieve the heavy tender feeling he knows you must experience. 

After all, what is it, if not him being helpful? Being good even. 

You clearly need it. 

Jim licks his lips, swallowing, sound thick in the quiet of the room. He would lie if he said he won’t savour it. He would lie if he promised to try and not enjoy it. 

You drag your sweater off slowly, stomach tensing up at the whiff of cold air and the act in itself is so endearing Jim feels like wrapping himself around you and always keeping you warm. Close. His. 

“Come ‘ehe, baby.” he murmurs, tongue thick in his mouth when he pulls down the blanket to throw over your shoulders. Kissing each before he covers them. Savouring every tender bit of skin he can get his lips on. 

You are sweet with warmth and his herbal soap, almost decadent on his tongue. 

Like butter, you melt when his tongue dips in the hollow of your throat and you make a needy beautiful sound. 

Might get used to it quickly, Jim thinks to himself, pulling you closer and sharing his warmth. Making sure you are comfortable enough for him to start. 

The thought of actually getting to taste you scorches him from inside out, ravages through the tendons of his self-restraint, yanks the chain and feels his mouth with phantom warmth. 

If the drops of your milk tasted good, should he try to imagine how drinking his fill is going to feel or would he be better off not driving himself mad before he even started?

His tongue drags over your nipple, slow and torturous, not nearly enough stimulation but a promise of it – wet and molten – it drips down your body between your legs, pools there like a secret you can’t tell and can only show. 

Jim is slow with you, big palms stroking your sides, his hair tickling the skin of your front. He is meticulous and careful, settled in between your legs, knees pressed to the hardwood floors of his cabin. 

Perhaps, this is how he repays his god for the luxury he should never be able to afford and should not be allowed to think about. For you. 

For a taste.

Jim presses closer to you, fingers stroking over the warm expanse of your skin, mouth dripping with the need to devour, to take, to be selfish. To remake you into something new. Something of his own, something that he would get to keep deep in the woods. 

Jim looks up at you and murmurs “baby”, lips stretching out in a tentative smile when your face heats up. When your heart starts pounding and this close to you he can hear the exact moment when it happens. 

He waits for your permission, you realise. 

A green life to be self indulgent, to allow himself something he never expected to have, but has always dreamed of in the dead of the night. 

“It’s fine”, you breathe out and something in you – sweet and aching – tightens when he tilts his head to the side and gives your sternum a kiss. Impossibly gentle when you want him to stop being such a gentleman. “Jim, come on-” you whine, thighs tensing to squeeze his sides and you could have sworn that the man breathes out a chuckle, pressing another kiss just a little lower. “You can get a little rougher”, you murmur and try not to flush any darker when he looks at you like you are tormenting him. “You will need to get a little rougher, if you want to get the milk out. Please,” you give up, the phantom feeling of fullness, you have not experienced yet, pressing out the embarrassment, “Just take it.” 

That seems to do the trick, because Jim licks his lips, eyes dark and hungry, breathes out “thank you” and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you a little closer. 

Close enough for him to be eye-level with your tits, groan building up in his chest – rich and raspy, it sends shivers down your spine when he presses another kiss to your areola. 

Jim sucks your nipple in his mouth, eyes flickering up to your face for a moment. Checking in, if he can still keep going and when you give him a shaky nod, he laves at it with his tongue, his hand gently massaging your breast. Coaxing out the milk.  

Warmth of it spreads through your chest, heat coating your lower abdomen when the milk finally hits his tongue and Jim moans, his fingers for a moment digging into your tit just a tad rougher. 

Not enough to hurt, but enough to make you clench around nothing. 

Greedy and positively possessive he shivers when your fingers card through his hair but instead of pulling him away from your chest, you just tug him closer, gripping his hair when he opens his mouth to let out a shaky breath and milk dribbles down his chin and onto your stomach. “Fuck me-”, Jim breathes out and instead of wiping it off just hunches lower to lick it off of you, his eyes a little gone at the sound that you make when his tongue collects the the drop dangerously close to the waistline of your sweatpants. “Bad manners, baby, shouldn’t’ve eaten with my mouth open.” he murmurs and licks off the bead of milk on your nipple, his voice dipping lower – rough hunger of it rubbing the inside of your thighs like a big hand. 

When you look down at him – half exasperated and needing something you cannot ask for there is a crack in his smile, crow lines in the corners of his eyes sending butterflies in your stomach. “Getting impatient now, aren’t we?” Jim says in the tone so soft you want to whine again, yanking him closer by the hair. Only, as if sensing it, he leans in and sucks your other nipple into his mouth, lids fluttering shut when you grip his hair tighter and whine at the feel of his teeth scraping your areola. 

Just as hungry for him, aren’t you? Got you good, that much he certainly did, Jim thinks and drags his tongue over your nipple, licking off the dribbles before they go too low. 

If gets his head any closer to your mound it would be real hard to say if he can choose between dessert and dinner. 

“Always had a sweet tooth.” Jim shares conspiratorially and massages your other breast, drinking in the way you melt in his arms, eyes unfocused, your heart pounding right under his lips. 

Some always aching part of him impossibly gleeful when you whimper “please” and pull his hand down. Between your legs. 

His teeth scrape your cheek when he nibbles it, smiling so wide it should be impossible. Only you beg for him and suddenly he can breathe again. 

How can it be bad if you need him so much? How can it be wrong if he gives you such a relief with just a little bit of touching?

“Beautiful”, he breathes out, his words scorching on the tingling skin of your neck when he nuzzles into you and slides his palm under the waist of your sweatpants, first caress barely there, barely pressing. “You are so beautiful.”

First caress an introduction to his touch, an appetiser to get your appetite going so you can devour him in turn when the time for it comes.

And his tone is devotion incarnate, eyes impossibly warm for a man who looks so much like winter and lives in a place so cold. Jim is warm all over, you realise, sluggish mind of yours refusing to think too hard with his lips kissing your cheeks and his hand between your legs. 

Everything in him makes you burn – the molten heat of his mouth, the insistent press of fingers dipping in the curls at the apex of your thighs, finding slopping wetness that coats him like syrup. 

“Could drink ya down, baby.” Jim shares, when his finger circles your clit and the air between you is impossibly hot, impossibly humid when he breathes out on your nipple and sucks it back into his mouth, eyes crinkling in satisfaction when your hips roll into his touch. 

When you crack and finally ask for something more, thighs opening for him, giving way to some well-deserved pleasure. 

You took such good care of him, can’t he take some proper care of you? 

But you whimper “Jim, more”, grip on his hair tightening, face hot and sweat sliding down your spine, short hairs on the back of your neck wet, when you press yourself into the mattress and pull him down with you. 

Jim fingers you slowly, his tongue circling your nipple, sucking out every drop you can give him, licking up whatever he spills. 

Leaving hickeys on your tits when his teeth nibble the skin on your breast for the first time and your hips twitch. 

“That’s what you like?” His tone is a little wonderstruck, voice deep and rich, raising hairs on your arms, easing the way for his fingers when he dips a finger inside of you and it slips right in. It would have been embarrassing if Jim hadn't taken all the space and replaced it with his mouth, his fingers, his desperate all-consuming yearning. 

If the creature in your dreams is the big bad wolf of old then the Jim that you know is an owl, wrapping his wings around you, swooping in to steal you away. 

His teeth are always a little too sharp and his mouth is always drooling at the sight of your naked skin. 

Pleasure builds up gradually, warmth spreading all over and numbing your whole body until you are nothing but a buzzing presence in his arms, Jim’s eyes watching you – snow of his coating your mind, bringing sleep and peace and stuffing down your throat. 

Have you ever heard of hikers undressing high up in the mountains? The death zone suffocates them slowly until they are dizzy and lost, until they start seeing things – creatures with thousand arms and no names. Men with eyes like winter and sharp teeth.

Both of those come to wrap itself around the body, to claim and brand, to freeze out so you are forever perfect and forever preserved. 

Jim tilts his head dragging his tongue up your nipple, his eyes wild and gone, his name slipping from your mind and you are needing and clawing, waterline blooming because this is too much and not enough. 

Because you are just as privy to getting hungry and getting selfish and taking-taking-taking, scooping out his heart like ice cream and making home where it was. 

Greedy and wrong, but his fingers curl inside of you, his wet mouth slurping up your milk and leaving blooms of kisses, colouring you in red and purple. 

A pinch of spice with his eternal sweetness. 

A little pain for your troubles. A little treat. 

Orgasm raises from your body like a tidal wave, it falls down on your head and the pressure uncoils your spine and stretches you thin, the pressure so delicious you can’t help but drool and can’t help but devour, kissing Jim until all you can feel is heat and his blood dripping from a lip you bit too hard. 

Your woods. Your wolves. Your Jim.

His fingers are sopping wet, sticky with your need when he presses his face in your neck and makes a low hungry sound, his hair sticking to his forehead, his heart pounding against yours. 

Half a sacrifice the pair of you are. Half a monster. 

“Mine”, you breathe out in his hair, shivering when he has to pull his hand out of your pants and your thighs twitch – oversensitive. 

Silence stretches between the two of, ringing with torn strings and desires too big to be voices, his lips pressing to your sternum for a long moment. 

Almost devotional.

“Yours.” Jim admits as easily as he accepts your presence in his life, lets you pull him on the bed, so he can lean on the headrest and wrap himself around you. He is quiet and affectionate: pressing kisses behind your ears, draping blanket over your legs, nuzzling into you. His hair – stems curling around your shoulders and holding onto you. Keeping you close.

It’s warm. Even if you still can’t understand him at times and the dreams leave you with more questions than answers. “Perhaps”, he says, coarse thumb running over your nipple, eyes slipping to the space over your shoulder, to the window you know to be empty in the dead of the night, “I think I won this time.” Jim looks at you, something longing and old cutting through the ice of the endless blue of his eyes. “Think I got you to stay for a little longer, didn’t I?” You breathe out something between “yeah, of course” and “i’ll think about it”, already half way to the land of the dreaming, his touch a pleasant coarse affection that untangles wires in your head and leaves you pleasantly empty. “Yeah, baby.” Jim murmurs, some dark satisfaction bleeding into his tone when you lean on his chest, turning your head to hide your cold nose into the warm crook of his neck. “Think I got you to be mine this time.”

Somewhere on the edge of your consciousness there is a laughter – deep and gleeful, creature with thousand arms and no names happily breathing in the scent of your hair. 

Yeah, bunny, they whisper and the roots now coat your arms, cold white flowers blooming over your collarbones. Yeah, this time you are staying.