Articulations of Aspen

Andy aka Floofy

Ari aka Slutty

Curtis aka Cranky

Jake aka Sunshine

Lloyd aka Diva

Ransom aka Cozy

Steve aka Cap

It hit him as he was walking through the Hallmark store, buying a stupid birthday present for some random person in the office. He was grumbling to himself, and then you were there. Not in person, no. But your scent. Drifting through the air conditioned breeze and stealing all sense from his system. A switch flicked.

His alpha demanded, and he was happy to comply.

Even with the bustling mall, crowds of people darting and perusing, he doesn’t lose your scent. Following past storefronts—even those that waft obnoxious colognes out their doors—and the food court—with the smell of food flooding the air. Your trail leads him to you.

He wonders if you know. If you sense him. The predator on your tail. Stalking after you on the hunt.

He pauses in front of the sporting goods store. Ari and Curtis exiting as he approaches. A wild, feral look in each of his packmate’s eyes. But they find him in the crowd. Without a word, joining him on his search to find you.

Three pairs of eyes scan their surroundings. Their combined instincts goading them on.

They find you in the parking garage. The breeze changing. Your scent still lingering. But they see you. The tension in your shoulders. The shiver of your figure. Your quick steps and swinging gaze. Looking for them as much as they’re looking for you. Distress sours your scent. Your feet scurry. Pace rapid as you try to get to the safety of your car. You know. You can feel them, smell them.

He and his packmates continue their pursuit.

A nod to the side separates them. Their formation fanning out. Corralling you wherever you’re going.

You shove your key into the door of your car, hands shaking, nearly fumbling them. Scratches form on the handle with your missed attempts. But then it notches in the lock and you nearly breathe a sigh of relief.

He’s at your back before you can. You whip around, pathetic growl rolling in your throat. His lips tilt in a smirk.

“No need for that, omega,” he says, holding up a hand to dismiss the sound. Ari and Curtis come into his periphery. Ari’s eyes softening at the growl in your throat, Curtis’ eyes hungry.

You’re too focused on him to notice. And he steps forward, crowding you into the cool metal of your car.

“Easy now,” he coos in a whisper just for you. One hand raises to cup your cheek, your eyes widening at the touch. “It’s nice to meet you.” Your scent fills his nose—even tainted as it is by your fear. “That’s Ari and Curtis,” he introduces with a nod to each at his side, “and I’m Andy. We’re your new alphas.”

how it works: send me an ask or reply to this post with an AU or canon era and i'll write something about how that version of Steve + reader would spend his birthday! for example, you could request fae prince Steve, or Avengers tower era Steve or, idk, meteorologist Steve! (please don't include additional details in your request.) i'll try to post these all on July 4th but some may be spill over into July 5th.

if you'd like to write something yourself, feel free to join in on the fun! choose any AU and write about how you think Steve and reader would spend his birthday. can be fluff, smut, angst, dark, whatever floats your boat! tag me + #SRBATM and I'll read/reblog your fic and add it to the event masterlist. let's keep these short and sweet: 2k word limit and deadline is midnight on July 5th.

rules: only one request/entry per person, please! if i receive duplicate requests, i'll only write one response and will tag everyone who requested it. otherwise, standard rules of my blog apply—you must be 18+ to participate; no rpf, grooming, underage, watersports/scat, incest, necrophilia or bestiality. no racist, homophobic, transphobic or fatphobic AUs.

to avoid duplicates, here are the AUs i'm already planning to write, so DO NOT request these (but feel free to write your own if you'd like!):

mafia au

CEO au

sugar daddy au

brother's best friend au

how it works: send me an ask or reply to this post with an AU or canon era and i'll write something about how that version of Steve + reader would spend his birthday! for example, you could request fae prince Steve, or Avengers tower era Steve or, idk, meteorologist Steve! (please don't include additional details in your request.) i'll try to post these all on July 4th but some may be spill over into July 5th.

if you'd like to write something yourself, feel free to join in on the fun! choose any AU and write about how you think Steve and reader would spend his birthday. can be fluff, smut, angst, dark, whatever floats your boat! tag me + #SRBATM and I'll read/reblog your fic and add it to the event masterlist. let's keep these short and sweet: 2k word limit and deadline is midnight on July 5th.

rules: only one request/entry per person, please! if i receive duplicate requests, i'll only write one response and will tag everyone who requested it. otherwise, standard rules of my blog apply—you must be 18+ to participate; no rpf, grooming, underage, watersports/scat, incest, necrophilia or bestiality. no racist, homophobic, transphobic or fatphobic AUs.

to avoid duplicates, here are the AUs i'm already planning to write, so DO NOT request these (but feel free to write your own if you'd like!):

mafia au

CEO au

sugar daddy au

brother's best friend au

Mercy!Jake

Mind Your Business!Andy (This is his cameo/intro in mob enforcer!Ari’s story)

Pound Town!Frank & Nick

“What kind of pickles come on the burger?” Bucky looked up at the waiter.

“Standard? Dill.”

“No pickles, then,” Bucky stated. “I’m allergic to dill.”

“Oh,” Kevin responded, “I’ll be sure to tell the kitchen.”

You fixed Bucky with a look.

“What?” Bucky asked once Kevin left.

“You’re not allergic to anything, super soldier.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t change, but his ears turned pink. “If I say I’m allergic, they actually leave it off.”

You raised one eyebrow.

“I just… I hate them. Unless I’m particular, they throw them on anyway, and then the whole burger’s contaminated with dill pickle flavor.”

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You consider abandoning the mission, leaving the damn thing in the trunk overnight and feigning all knowledge in the morning, but you didn’t want to trap sapling so long in stale air and uncontrolled temperature. So, clutching the pot to your chest like a newborn, you brace yourself and walk up to your home.

You make it three steps up the walkway before the front door swings open and your alpha crosses his arms and stares at you. He doesn’t speak, just stands there, managing a sigh that’s both resigned and affectionate.

“Is there some sort of arboretum plan I’m unaware of?” he asks, voice flat but eyes bright.

You walk past him, gently nudging him out of the way with your hip.

“It was going to be composted,” you state, as if that explained everything. “I couldn’t just leave it.”

He trails you, looming, the scent of his aftershave mingling with skepticism and amusement. “We agreed on twelve,” he says, gaze flicking from the lopsided little trunk to the living-room jungle already bulging from every surface. “There are so many more than twelve in this room alone.”

You set the pot down in the corner by the window, the only sliver of space unclaimed by trailing pothos, pepperomias, monsterras, and a zz plant. It’s an ugly duckling—spindly, a little brown at the edges, the kind you adopt out of misplaced mercy—but you have faith.

You kick off your sandals and leave them sprawled beneath the ficus. You make a show of stretching, arms overhead so your shirt rides up and exposes a sliver of your belly, then turn and meet Bucky’s gaze. With deliberate slowness, unbutton your jeans and let them slither to the floor.

“What are you doing?” Bucky drawls, arms still crossed.

You smirk, peeling off your t-shirt so you’re standing in just your bra and underwear. “Distracting you,” you say, “so you forget about the new plant.”

His exhale is half laugh, half groan. He uncrosses his arms. You don’t have time to brace yourself before he’s advancing, the low warning rumble in his throat belying the fondness at the corners of his mouth. His hand curls around your waist just above the hip, thumb pressed into the divot where your skin is always warm, always his.

“You better get to work distracting,” he mutters, but when you reach for his shirt he doesn’t resist, letting you tug the fabric up and over his head in one rough motion. The look he gives you is equal parts exasperation and reverence.

“This is the last one,” you say, which is a lie, and both of you know it. It’s the understood game, the way you get away with your foundling plants, and the way he gets to pretend you might one day stop.

He lifts you easily, sets you on the arm of the sofa where the spider plant arches around your shoulders like a crown. “Liar,” he whispers, and you grin.

His hands find your thighs, fingertips kneading at the soft flesh, prying you open as if you were another of your stubborn orchids, roots tangled and in need of gentle untangling.

He crooks two fingers and tugs your underwear aside, the pads of his fingertips brushing against the slick heat of you, at once clinical and devastating. You clench around nothing, already pulsing, and he huffs out a laugh at your impatience.

“Terrible liar,” he murmurs, catching your mouth with his as he works a rhythm with two fingers, slow and deep. You gasp, legs falling open, toes curling. The spider plant dips a leaf into your hair as you tilt your head back, and he grins, eyes crinkling at the edges, delighted at how easy you make it for him.

You reach for his belt, and he lets you. You unfasten it, then the button of his jeans, then pull down the zipper. He kicks free one leg, never breaking rhythm with his fingers on you, and the heat of his body soaks into your bare inner thighs.

You barely get his cock out before he’s sliding into you, one slow, ruthless thrust. His cutting blue eyes hold yours, the way they always do, as if daring you to squirrel your attention away, but you can’t—never would, not when he’s inside you, coaxing you open, making your world collapse to the moment of his hips fitted to your own.

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

The guards along the wall jumped to attention, but their spears lowered the instant wide a spread of wings cast a shadow in a known shape.

A massive, majestic form followed. Scales harder than diamonds. Head with a crown of horns.

Golden eyes stared right at you as the dragon hovered. No guards came rushing. They knew not to come between a dragon and a person they chose.

Talons scraped along the sandy stones as the dragon curled its feet on the wide wall, resting its weight into a crouch as it brought its head closer to you.

Shaking, you slowly reached your hand forward. There was an instinct calling to run away in terror, but another pull tempted you to come forward. A new, unknown urge that you couldn't resist.

Witnesses saw. The word of it would spread within a day.

No one would stand between a dragon and its chosen rider. And you wouldn't step away.

The dragon's claws wrapped around your body with unexpected gentleness, though it was still scary to the point of nearly fainting as it lifted you and flew away.

In a few weeks you'd return to your people for a visit and proof of your new role, once the other riders taught you how to mount and communicate the dragon. At least, that's how the stories and rumours presented the process of learning the skill.

But when you're brought to the Dragon Mountains and into your dragon's lair, all of your previously formed imagines shatter into pieces.