“no mans land”

It didn’t matter where you were running to. The only thing that mattered was the distance you managed to put between you and Mark. 

No. Calling him Mark felt wrong. It felt like an insult to your friend. Your Mark would’ve never pinned you to the ground and forced himself against you like that. The Mark you knew would’ve never said such lewd things to you, whispering dirty thoughts and desires in your ear while kissing your neck…

No…No that wasn’t Mark. Not your Mark.

That man was someone entirely different. A man whose mere presence can fill you with dredd. The type that would seek out that which he covets most with no reckless abandon. The kind of person who would simply take whatever he wants…

And he wants you. 

You don’t turn back as you run. Your kick to the groin didn’t do much, but it did enough. All you needed was an out. Just a small window to try to escape from him.

 He hits the ground with a heavy thud, his fists colliding with the dirt as he’s doubled over in pain.  A few choked out coughs and dry heaves just barely catch your ears as you veer off the trail. 

Deciding that your best chance is to lose him in the woods, you force the memory of all those warning signs that you passed when you started your jog this afternoon out of your mind. You only have two options, take your chance with rocky and unsteady forest terrain or take your chances with a (possibly) mentally unstable Viltrumite… 

Yeah, the woods have it.

Sliding down a steep embankment, you struggle to keep your footing as you venture further into the woods. Wading through the shortest part of the brush, your legs get scratched as you run deeper into the vegetation, thorns and sticks from inside the bush catch on your clothing as you tear yourself from the foliage desperately as you run. 

You’d been on an inclined portion of the trail when you’d met your…admirer…and are now forced to descend without a proper path.  

Hissing in pain, you feel a few tears prick to your eyes as the branches and thorns dig into your skin. Your left foot gets caught on the stem of the last bush before your path clears, losing your balance as you try and wiggle your foot free, you slip and collide onto the forest floor. Bracing yourself as best you can, you land awkwardly on your right side, your wrist twisting roughly beneath you as you let out a quick sharp yelp. 

In your struggle, you’d neglected to pay attention to whether or not you can hear him. 

Sitting up as best you can, you reach down and wrap your fingers around the twisted stem of the bush that’s ensnared you, halting your attempt to run away. Mildly recoiling your right hand, you wince as you force yourself despite the throbbing pain coming from your hand to tighten your hold of the stem. Your right hand is already noticeably weaker but that doesn’t stop you from trying. The rough wood digs into your fingers as you tug the root, clumps of dirt kicking up with each pull as you force the stem from the ground. 

Pulling your leg forward, you free yourself from the bush at an agonizingly slow pace but its the best you can do. The skin of your fingers and palms are already raw from the rough bark while the underside of the root digs into your ankle, somehow having wrapped itself around your foot when you fell but soon you’re free. 

Small cuts litter the lower part of your legs while an already darkening bruise has formed halfway around your ankle, your low cut sneaker having done little to protect you in the struggle. 

Your chest heaving as you struggle to catch your breath, you start to get up to continue further into the woods but are stopped in your tracks when you see him…

About 300 feet away, floating down the embankment you practically fell down, Mark has his back to you as he scans the area off in the distance. His hands resting on his hips, his head cocked to the side slightly, and there’s a barely audible hum coming from him…Like he’s amused by the whole thing. 

Just barely off the forest floor, Mark silently moves through the air as he almost lazily looks around for you. By some divine intervention, the wind kicks up and the trees bend and give way to the breeze. The more fervent sounds of the trees and bushes rustling and shaking around acting like a cover for you. 

Your unsteady hand slowly rises to your face, covering your mouth and nose to try and silence any gasps or audible breath that might give away your not so hidden position. Pushing yourself down and to the side, you lay nearly flat behind the brush you’d just freed yourself from. Through the entangled branches and thick leaves, you can just barely see Mark’s hovering form slowly moving away from you.

By some grace of god, he never turned around…

Pretty soon he’s out of your sightline, having disappeared beyond some trees as he searches in the wrong direction for you. Slowly lifting yourself, your eyes feverishly scan where you last saw him, hoping that there might be enough distance between the two of you now so that you can get up from your hiding spot. 

Bringing yourself to your feet, you bite your lip as you feel your left ankle buckle from its budding injury, a sharp pain radiating up as you limp away. With steps as light as you can muster, you fumble through the woods. The densely populated treeline turning to a more spacious outcropping, tall trees and various bushes, shrubs, and tall rock formations still surrounds you but it’s more open than before. You can navigate through the woods better with far greater visibility than you could in the more dense area you’ve just escaped from. 

You can see better. 

But so can he. 

Having had no luck in playing fair, Mark flew up into the sky after he lost your trail when you ran off. Looking down into the forest from above, he simply hovered just above the treeline to search for you, still contently humming as he did so. Quickly locating you, a small smirk slowly spreads across his face. The humming stops and instead becomes a soft whistle.

It’s devoid of all rhythm and all tune. Noise…It’s simply just noise. 

Watching you from above, he whistles idly as he sees you make your way deeper into the woods. Your limping form shakily ducks behind trees and bushes, your head moving back and forth as you scan for something that you can’t seem to find. 

“Awww…Somebody misses me~” Saying to noone but himself, Mark smirks as his own sing-songy voice echoes away from him. And he doesn’t miss the way it catches your attention. He can see your head whip to the side, staring intently in one direction as you hide yourself behind the tree you're practically clinging to. 

To your credit, that is the direction he’s in. It’s just that he’s about 45 feet higher than you’re looking.

You don’t see him and you’re hoping all you heard was just his fucked up attempt to find you—some sick version of marco polo— but in the back of your mind you’re almost certain that’s just wistful thinking. Deciding that sense you can’t see him that it might be safe for you to venture further. Pushing yourself from the tree, you limp between the next batch of brush, internally cursing yourself for the direction you picked when you notice how the ground starts to decline soon in the distance. 

“Damn it…It really is all downhill from here…” You mutter to yourself as you shift your weight, wincing as you tweak your already weaker ankle as you start down the slope. 

A now familiar dark snicker cuts through the otherwise quiet air. 

“Someone’s more sour than sweet…” 

Your breath hitches in your throat and your heart stops when you hear him. You don’t need to look back to know who it is but you can’t stop yourself. Throwing your head over your left shoulder, your eyes widen when you finally see him again. 

Slowly descending from the air with his hands still resting on his chest, Mark smirks when he sees just how much your legs are shaking as you look at him. He raises an eyebrow when he sees you take a hesitant step backwards, your foot kicking a few loose pebbles around before it plants itself…almost like you’re planning something. 

This is a true fight or flight moment…But there’s no way you win in a fight with him. 

“M-Mark…I…”

“Shhh, shhh…Baby, I’m not mad.”

“You’re…not?” Your confusion plain as day in the way your voice wavers and your shoulders shake as you look at him. 

Licking his lips, Mark drops down onto the ground for the first time since he started lurking after you before he takes a slow, nonthreatening step towards your frozen form. You should by all accounts just swing for it and run away from him, but there’s something in the way he’s looking at you…Something almost familiar in those brown eyes. 

Whatever it is, whatever is hidden behind those eyes, is managing to keep you right where he wants you. 

“Course not. Baby, I’m so fucking excited…” 

With as much sternness as you can muster, you force a glare towards him with a furrowed brow. “Why?”

His shoulders shake lightly as he lets out another chuckle while he walks towards you. With each step he takes in your direction, you flinch everytime you hear small twigs snap under his boots. He slowly closes his eyes as he reaches forward and removes a leaf from your hair, tossing it off to the side before he moves his hand down to your chin, tilting your head to look up at him properly. 

As he opens his eyes, a strong chill runs up your spine as your pupils dilate. Taking in a sharp breath, you lip quivers as your gaze is held hostage by his. You feel your shoulders stiffen and your knees lock as his dark eyes radiate an unwavering sense of cruelty, undercut by the thin smile spread across his face. 

Those piercing eyes feel like they’re burning right through you. He’s looking at you like you’re nothing more than meat or a plaything…Whichever suits him better at the given moment. 

“You know I love chasing you like this…I love it when you run from me.” 

His head now cocked to the side, Mark runs his hand from your chin up to the back of your head, his fingers lacing in your hair before he forces himself closer, you still staying locked in place as he whispers in your ear. 

Whatever words you might’ve said are caught in your throat as he speaks. His voice low and steely in your ear. 

“Don’t let me catch you so quickly…I want a real game this time.” 

He bends down just enough to drag his tongue along the side of your exposed neck, ignoring the bit of dirt speckled on your flesh from the fall. Pressing his lips to the tender skin, Mark starts slow as he kisses against your neck. You think he’s only going to suck a hickey into you, but when you feel him pull back his lips, another jolt of nerves rushes through you. 

“Ahhh-! Fuc-FUck! Mar-Mark!” Crying out you press your palms into his chest as you try to push him away from you but it’s no use.

Slowly, he sinks his teeth into the side of your neck, his sharp canines piercing the tender flesh easily. Despite your thrashing and protests, once he has his teeth embedded in you, he holds you there as you cry out against him, tears running down your cheeks. 

Abruptly ripping his teeth from your neck and pulling away, he lets you force distance between the two of you as you back away. Your back hitting the trunk of a tree while you watch him bewildered, a hand coming up to cup the wound that’s still bleeding as you look at him shocked. 

A proud grim smile on his face as he brings the palm of his hand up to his chin, a small trail of your blood rolling down as he wipes his chin before he brings his hand to his mouth.  Tongue lapping out to swipe up the excess, he never once breaks the gaze you two are sharing. His tongue still poking and prodding around, licking over his lips excitedly as he watches you with growing anticipation. 

“W-why…”

“You.” Pointing towards you, he lulls his head to the side playfully as he cackles at your question before he answers. “Are my prey…I needed to remind you what’s gonna happen when I catch you. So…” Trailing off at the end, he closes the gap between the two of you, and rests one hand on the side of the tree beside your head. 

Moving his head towards the opposite side, you can feel his breath tickle against your neck as he snickers after he sees you flinch when he fakes going in for a second bite. 

“There you are…I just wanted you more into it before we played again…Understand?” 

Instead of answering him with a yes or a no, you simply nod your head slowly before he smirks, seemingly in approval or agreement at your acknowledgment. 

“Good…So…” 

Standing up straighter, he pulls himself from your personal space before he holds up his hand. 

All five fingers spread apart. 

Then he curls his thumb in slowly. 

Then next in is his pinkie while he looks at you expectantly. 

When you don’t move, he gives another dark chuckle before speaking. “Guess you wanna get caught again, huh?” 

That’s when your brain finally registers what he’s doing…

You push yourself off the tree and run down the slope as fast as you can, trying your best to ignore the sharp pain that seemingly gets worse every time you force your left foot down as you run. Barely managing to keep your balance as you run you let out panicked and choked breaths as you struggle to keep your composure. 

You make the mistake of turning your head while you’re running away to try and see where Mark is. He’s standing right where you left him, but only for a second. It’s like he was waiting for you to turn back to look at him. His eyes catch yours right before you blink and when you reopen them he’s gone.

Only for a second though because the flash of blue and yellow and the sudden gust of wind to your left tell you everything you need to know. Snapping your head back around, you see Mark not even 10 feet ahead of you, a sinister grin plastered across his face as his shoulders shake from his stifled laughter. Dirt and leaves kicked up behind him in a plume showing just how fast he was going, just to abruptly stop to get you. 

Your legs slide out from under you as you try to stop, slamming into the ground before you clamor to your feet again and take off in a different direction. Limping with every step, tears brim in your eyes as you fumble through the woods. Shoulders clipping bushes as you’re barely able to get up to a jog now.

Your legs feel heavy and your vision starts to blur from exhaustion as you run, all the excitement and stress, the pain and the not too insignificant blood loss all slowly catching up with you. 

An unruly laugh echoes all around you in the air as you run. You’ve got no way of trying to decipher where he might be coming from next. With yours clenched tight, you don’t even care where you’re running to now…

Every bump or trash into a tree directs you in whatever direction it does. 

You can’t focus on where to run…all you know is that you need to run…That’s all you can do now.

But that won’t last long. 

You don’t know how long you ran like that for but it wasn’t going to be an option anymore. Whether it was your ankle finally succumbing to its injury or your legs finally giving out from this overzealous amount of cardio, you collapse to the ground just as you start going down another slope.

Your exhausted body hits the ground and starts tumbling down and sliding along the steep slope. Tucking your body in as much as you can for your own protection, you curl your arms in tight and try to protect your head. Fallen branches and twigs snap as your body rolls, a string of cries can be heard as you’re tumbled against the rough terrain. Your already hurt ankle taking quite the beating and your other leg not faring much better in the ordeal. 

Your 1v1 with mother nature is cut short, your back slamming against a fallen tree as your body finally stops rolling down. A cacophony of low anguished groans just barely above a whisper leaves your lips, in your weak state you’re just barely able to lift yourself up enough to sit up against the fallen tree trunk. 

A long gash along the side of your right leg drips blood as your left ankle throbs in pain…Your upper body actually fared much better, the only injury above your waist is the dull ache slowly spreading out from your back and the small cut over your eyebrow that looks allot worse than it actually is. 

Despite the blurry vision plaguing your drained state, you manage to lift your head enough to look up at the figure slowly approaching you slowly. You can make out the blue and yellow and can’t help the pit that forms in your stomach when he kneels down in front of you. 

Surprisingly, a gentle hand comes forward to wipe away some of the dirt and blood splattered across your face, the blood smearing more than actually getting off but still the attempt was made. 

“AH-Fuc-fuck…” Mewling in pain, you wither against the fallen tree, the only thing you can do is look at the man infront of you before you’re almost too gently shushed by him. 

“Shhh…Shhh…Just take it easy…” Hushed and restrained, this is the most muted you’ve seen him. 

Your breathing slowly steadies out as you lean back, your eyes slowly closing as you try to get some rest, even though that’s probably not the best idea given the head wound…

“Hey, no sleeping. I’m not…I’m not losing you again…” 

You force the smallest chuckle you can out before you slowly open your eyes to look at him. That’s the most genuine or heartfelt thing he’s said throughout this whole endeavour. 

“Gue…Guess that means the ga-game’s over…” 

When did you even start playing…When did this switch from you terrified of this man to actively playing into his delusions? Truth be told you don’t even know. But right now, he’s the closest thing to comfort you can get ahold of and you’re not letting go. 

“Yeah and I won.” The slightest bit of amusement laces his voice as he reaches his hand forward to push a strand of your hair out of the way. Your hair clinging to the blood and sweat on your forehead 

“H-huh? Bu-” 

“What do you want then, sweet’art?” Simon asks you directly, his voice even more gravelly before he exhale a plume of smoke.  

Smiling, you give a little shrug. “What do I want?” You chuckle, feeling bold enough to crack a joke for once. “How about a fat baby and a husband who’s utterly obsessed with me.” 

And suddenly, the office goes eerily quiet; tension skyrocketing as your face begins to heat up furiously within seconds. Now too embarrassed to even look up, you miss the severe look all four share with each other, as if you’d just spoken some forbidden words—or given the permission to cross a line they’d drawn themselves. 

“Uhm,” you clear your throat awkwardly, tapping a neat stack of papers on the captain’s desk, “I mean uh... just some chips and–and a sandwich maybe?” 

But it’s too late, they all heard you loud and clear—noticed the underlying truth and longing in your words, even if you tried to mask it with humour.  

Both Johnny and Simon stare at you like they’ve finally locked eyes on their target, and while Kyle can nudge Johnny hard, the young Sergeant can only debate to throw a boot at the Lieutenant to snap him back to reality, but then Price clears his throat and takes the lead. 

“Right,” he says gruffly, “sandwiches sound good, darlin’.”  

The leather of his office chair creaks as he leans back leisurely, regarding you with a strangely soft look and a friendly pat on the back of your hand, like he’s soothing a bristling kitten.  

“Would you be a dear and call the sandwich shop to have ‘em prepare our order? I’m positive Soap or Gaz will pick it up for us later.”  

“Yes, sir,” you answer tentatively, and you catch how both Sergeants nod all too obediently, flashing toothy smiles at you with a rather suspicious glint in their eyes while Simon lights another cigarette with his broad back now turned towards you, now holding an awkward tension in his shoulders. 

“Brilliant.” Price clears his throat again and you suddenly feel lout of place, like they’re having a fully non-verbal conversation about a secret you’re not briefed on. It’s feels entirely different than the times they talk about anything classified—like this is personal. 

“Now, darlin’, if you have all the signatures you need, I’ll have some intel to share with the team.” 

It’s his polite and roundabout way to tell you to leave, so you give a quick nod as you gather the files you’d brought, and you hate how your hands are trembling with adrenaline, feeling like you’re watched by four apex predators. 

And when the door to the captain’s office closes behind you with a final click, it echoes inside the empty hallway along with the shaky exhale of a deep sigh as you curse yourself for cracking that joke and making the men uncomfortable. 

Meanwhile, just behind a heavy door and thick walls, the core of TF-141 is already planning their upcoming mission, now determined more than ever since knowing you to fulfil your greatest wish— 

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Mainstream Mark You try to play it cool and act like you’re just walking into the kitchen to kiss him, but your hands suddenly slide to his hips. Mark’s mid-sentence when he freezes, eyes narrowing with mild confusion and a flush creeping up his neck. He chokes on air. Like, actually makes a startled noise because he doesn’t expect it—you lifting him?! “Wait—woah—are you trying to lift me right now?? Babe??” He ends up doing a little hop to help you, laughing nervously, and then sitting there grinning while you kiss his nose like you just won a prize. And you do it! You actually manage to get him up there with a grunt and a full-body lift. That’s enough to make him freeze in awe, stammer a protest, and then immediately try to take over. He's bashful but secretly really into it. His legs swinging like a kicked puppy who just found out he’s got a hot girlfriend with strong arms and intentions. He keeps glancing down at you, smiling like he’s trying not to make it a Thing™… but he’s definitely thinking about it during sex later. Internal Monologue: She’s… trying to lift me? She’s actually—wait, she’s serious. Okay. Okay, don’t make a sound. Don’t ruin it. Act casual. Act like this isn’t the hottest thing that’s ever happened to you. Is it weird if I help? No, don’t help, she might stop. Holy shit—she’s strong. I’m marrying her. We’re already married. Is it weird if I say thank you? I’m gonna say thank you. Oh my god, I’m hard—how am I already hard?! FOCUS.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

Mark immediately tries to help you. Like, sweet-boy trying to do a little hop into your arms. When it doesn’t work, he laughs, wraps his arms around you, and says, “You trying to carry me or climb me?” And then he picks YOU up, kisses you stupid, and places you on the counter instead like the princess you are. You’re upset, but this is less embarrassing than the way your knees knocked when you tried.

You two doom-scroll until you’re caught up on the latest trends, his camera roll is FILLED with videos.

｡𖦹°‧ No Goggles Mark You don’t even get a chance to lift him. The moment your hands settle at his hips and you square your stance, his head tilts slowly, lips curled into a "what the fuck are you doing?" grin. He stands there like a little shit, just barely helping, making himself heavy on purpose so you struggle. When you get him halfway and grunt in frustration, he’s already giggling. “Oh no, my weak little arms, I’m too precious to be carried—” BUT he lets you do it ABSOLUTELY. And sits up there all relaxed, legs dangling, eyes wide like you’ve just unlocked a new level of hotness he wasn’t prepared for. He’s biting his lip, watching you like you just grew a second head.  “Dude… that was so hot, I think my dick twitched. No, wait, it definitely twitched.

”You finally get him up there and he melts. Full on spreads his thighs, hands braced behind him, eyes half-lidded like he’s beckoning you to challenge him. He leans in all cocky, asks if you’re manhandling can be a daily occurrence, he strives to irritate and entice. Internal Monologue: Oh my god. Oh my god, she’s doing it. She’s gonna lift me. This is it. This is the moment I fall in love again. God, I love this woman. Look at her face—so determined. So serious. She’s feral. She’s hot. I should say something gross. No, worse. Feral. Say something feral. Should I ask her to grip me while she’s at it? No, wait—what if I fake being heavier so she gets mad? Yeah. Yeah, this is peak romance.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

He laughs, obnoxiously loud, and then says, “Okay, wait, no no—do it again. I swear I’ll behave. Kind of.” When you give up through bated breaths, he leans down, “You know what happens now, right?” Then he just drops to his knees, palms on your hips, mouth already moving toward your inner thigh. Failure means nothing. He's thriving.

凸( •̀_•́ )凸 Mohawk Mark You don’t ask or warn, more or less appearing like an apparition to try. The second you do, he plants his feet and makes it difficult on purpose. “The hell are you doing?” he mutters, brow arched, not moving an inch. He’s gonna make you work for it. Full smirk, arms crossed, with an amused gleam in his eyes. He wants to see if you’re serious. “You think you can move me? C’mon, then. Show me.”  If you get him even halfway up? He’s shocked—but laughs.

The second you groan, he grins and not in a mocking way, but like he’s daring you to earn it. Eventually, you throw your full weight into it and manage to boost him up, and he lets out a sharp exhale like he wasn’t ready to be dominated like that. But now? His eyes are locked.

“You trying to flip the script on me, babe?” he mutters, grinning. “That’s cute.” He doesn’t move. Just pulls you between his legs, forearms on your shoulders, already hard from the show of strength. He loves when you challenge him. His chin nuzzles within the splayed hairs of your mohawk, utterly plotting. Internal Monologue: Ain’t no way she’s trying this. There’s no way. She knows I weigh like 180, right? All muscle? What is she—wait, is she gritting her teeth? Oh shit, she’s serious. Okay, hold on—do I let her? Nah, make her work for it. Just a little. Play it cool. Act smug. Maybe flex a little. She likes the fight. And when she gets me up there? Game on. She’s gonna regret this—in the best possible way.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

He stares down at you with an amused smirk and doesn’t budge. “Oh, babe. You're adorable.” Then he scoops you up like you’re nothing, walks you over to the counter, and spanks your ass as he sets you down. A genuine cackle crawls from his throat as he watches you squirm. Somehow in that amount of time you produced a bucket of sweat.

This is now free rein for you two to begin mischievous plots together. ദ്ദി/ᐠ｡‸｡ᐟ\ Omni Mark 

He blinks… slowly, then squints. He knows what you’re doing the second you square your stance. And he lets you try with a silent but palpable curiosity, his expression unreadable. “Are you lifting me?”

Your hands slide to his hips. You push and grunt once before he finally eases up just enough for you to get him seated. He lets you do it, but there’s a heavy pause—like he’s trying to figure out why it’s affecting him so much. He’s used to being the strongest, but this? This little moment of tenderness?

He ends up gripping your waist. Staring at you for a few long seconds with that haunted, love-struck look. Then says, very softly: “Again. Do it again.” He almost uses this as a form of training, his quiet ego making him believe you shouldn’t be able to lift him even an inch, but you’ve made him grow soft… so much so, that he’s willing to give into you. Internal Monologue: Is this a power play? She's reaching for my hips—intentionally. No hesitation. That’s bold. I like bold. Is she trying to prove something to me? Or to herself? It doesn’t matter. She's close now. She's warm. Her heartbeat’s fast—excited. Not afraid. That’s… rare. God, she doesn’t know what this is doing to me. I haven’t felt this way in decades. Don’t moan. Don’t grab her. Don’t break the counter. If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

He watches you try and fail with an unreadable expression. Then he slowly smiles. “You tried,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face. Just what did you expect? He's almost pure muscle and you quiet after a few seconds. “Let me show you what that earns you.” And then he lifts you onto the counter as if you weigh nothing but touches you like you’re everything.

ूाीू Sinister Mark There’s two possibilities: He sits himself up there the second you try, smirking the whole time and watching you like prey. Or… your lucky latter where you catch him off guard. You make your move when he’s lounging, of course. And of course, he lets you. Because Sinister Mark? He wants to be put on the counter. Not because he’s submissive, but because it means he gets to lean back, legs spread, hands behind him, smirking down at you like you just set a trap for yourself. “Go on, then,” his expression says. “You touched me first. Let’s see how far you take it.” “Make it worth it,” He says with a cocky drawl. He’s already hard before he sits. And the moment your fingers wrap around his waist, the moment your breath hitches, he’s watching you unravel with strain and loving every second.

And once he’s up there? He stares at you like you just became his favorite obsession all over again. He taps his thigh like it’s an invitation. Come kneel, sweetheart. You started this. Internal Monologue: Ohhh. Look who wants to play alpha. That’s adorable. She really thinks she can lift me? She doesn’t even know what this is gonna awaken in me. Look at her go. Little grunts. All that effort. Shit, it’s hot. Alright, I’ll help her just enough. Give her the win. Let her think she’s got the power for a minute. And then? I’ll spread my legs and watch her come undone trying to handle it.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up: He’s smirking the whole time. He won’t help AT ALL. Just watches you strain with a low, lazy look like “You’re adorable when you try.” Your teeth grind together and just as you’re about to blow the lid, your hands droop to your sides.

And when you give up? He instantly grabs your neck, walks you back three steps, and lifts you to the counter with one smooth motion. “See? That’s how you take control.” Then he spreads your legs. Your plan just backfired beautifully.

♛ Viltrum Mark You’re subtle about it... or so you think.

But before your fingers even graze his hips, Viltrum Mark’s gaze locks on you. He doesn’t move, not even the quirk of his facial expression. Just tilts his head like he’s already dissected your plan six moves ahead. It's usually unnerving, but somehow endearing during displays of affection. He lets you try, but every motion is being filed away with every tug.

You lift, push, and egregiously strain. And finally, he helps, just barely, so you can get him onto the counter. He sits there, legs open, gaze cool, and an imperceptive smirk. Like he’s letting you play at control while deciding how long he’ll indulge you.

But there’s something in the way his knees tighten around your hips… the way his fingers graze your wrist just a little too slow. He’s not mocking you, he’s considering you… and that's somehow scarier. You walked in thinking this was a game. Now you’re between his thighs while he decides whether to devour you or play the long game. Internal Monologue: ...She’s making contact. Hands on my hips. Interesting. Is this an attempt at dominance? Or flirtation? Or both? She knows she’s mine, right? She knows touching me like that wont work, right? And she’s still doing it. God, I want to ruin her. She’s lifting me. She’s lifting me? I should snap her in half. I should worship her. I should bend her over the counter instead. No—I’ll let her have this. It’s killing me.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

He watches you strain and your muscles flex as your arms tremble with visible veins. And when you fail, he just steps closer—silent—gripping your jaw like a warning, leaning in until his lips barely brush yours. “Try again,” he’d whisper if he ever needed to speak. But he doesn’t, he’ll wait and let you squirm. Then push you back against the nearest surface and remind you who the apex predator is.

He’ll indulge in these silly trends just to see your reactions.

ᕙ( •̀ ᗜ •́ )ᕗ Shiesty / Hooded Mark

Lets you with a raised brow, hands relaxed at his sides, like he’s judging your form but not stopping you. He wants to see how worthy you are, after all, you’re dating him. The second your hands touch his hips, he knows. He doesn’t help you either, just stares, obviously amused. His eyes showing faintly beneath that veil, teeth flashing beneath the smirk he’s not bothering to hide.

Once you do it, he leans forward, forearms on his knees, staring right into your eyes. “You always this bold?” He rasps, “Mmh. You wanna show off, huh?” he’d say if he were feeling generous. But instead, he just stares until you squirm under the weight of his limp body.

You get him up there—eventually, with him purposefully being deadweight. And now he’s fully manspread, head tilted, fingers tugging on the hem of your shirt with teasing violence. “You wanna be in charge?” his body language says. “Then do it. Impress me.” Internal Monologue: Is this foreplay? It feels like foreplay. It feels like she’s trying to do something reckless and pretend it’s casual. Mm. She’s touching me like she thinks I’ll just let her. Should I let her? Nah. Not yet. Gotta make her work for it. Look at her muscles flex. Look at her face. God, she’s hot like this. If she gets me up there? I’m flipping this whole kitchen upside down. She wants dangerous? I’ll show her dangerous.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

You’re frowning before you know it, staring up at him as if this is his fault for instigating. He absolutely lets you fail. Then he chuckles before grabbing the back of your neck and dragging you flush against him, whispering against your jaw like a threat and a promise. “What a shame. You started this, too.”  He loves that you think you have control. He’s about to take it back too.

He totally endorses testing out strength related trends, this starts a series of public embarrassment of him carrying you.

(╥‸╥) Masked Mark 

He lets you and he actually melts. He tries not to show it, but the moment your arms wrap around him and you lift, even just a little— His cheeks flush. You don’t even make it to his hips before he starts getting nervous. Not scared, just flustered, like his brain short-circuited the moment he realized what you were trying to do.

He says nothing but sits there, blushing, fists clenched on the counter beside his thighs. Like if he says one word, he’ll start whimpering. He’s obsessed with being handled like that, or even, the idea that you want him, even like this? It wrecks him in the softest way possible. His fingers grip the edge of the counter as he stares down at you with a pleased and light chuckle. He watches you like you’ve become something dangerous and perfect.

Internal Monologue: She’s… she’s touching me? Oh my god. She’s trying to lift me. That’s—it’s cute. It’s hot. I don’t know what to do. Should I help? Should I just melt? I don’t want to mess it up. Her hands are so warm. She’s so confident. She’s going to break me. This is embarrassing... I think I’m in love again. I want her to ruin me. I want her to carry me into the sun. Oh god—I’m gonna lose my mind if she grips me again.

If You Can’t Pick Him Up:

He sees you try and panics—“Wait, no no, don’t hurt yourself—” He laughs. He looks down, ashamed. But when you kiss him? Tell him it’s okay? He drops to his knees, hands shaky, mouth open, ready to serve. “I can’t be lifted,” his body says, “but I can worship you just fine.”

A/N: let's be real... everyone's a freakzoid with how much Mark and Eve get it on in the show.

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚ SCRIPT FLIP - What if the reader doesn't struggle at all?

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ Mainstream Mark 

You wait until he’s brushing his teeth, humming some tune, and mumbling to you. You're mid-convo while he's rambling about something innocent, maybe a new spare costume from Art, maybe breakfast—and you just… scoop him. You sidle up behind him, say nothing, and just lift him, legs tucked under your arm, shift your hips, shoulder to his waist, like a perfect Olympic carry. Before he knows it, you’ve hoisted him over your shoulder like a sack of sex-starved potatoes.

“Wha—babe?? I—I can fly???” He’s flailing a little, holding onto your shoulder like “why is this working???”  He can’t believe this is happening. He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t know how. “You can’t just—! I mean, you can, obviously, but—holy shit."

You set him on the counter like you just bought him for sale at a warehouse, and his jaw drops. His face is beet red. His muscular thighs press together instinctively; shocked, SOMEHOW fully hard and ashamed but proud. His fingers run over his eyes, sighing to himself before staring at you through his lashes.

“...Okay. That was kind of hot. Are we gonna talk about it, or…?”

He’s not okay, no, he’s better. You’ve just revealed a strength kink he didn’t know he had. You lean in, hands on the counter beside his hips, and smirk. He’s speechless, eyes wide, trying not to let you see how turned on he is. He fails as his head turns at lightning speed to rinse his mouth in the sink, he returns to his place on the counter like a good boy before his hands roughly reel you in, his minty fresh tongue prodding your lips without hesitation.

His Inner Monologue: Okay, okay, don’t panic. She’s strong. She’s insanely strong. I didn’t know that was possible. I mean, I guess I always suspected but like—DAMN. Is it weird that I’m into this? No? It’s fine. Totally normal. Don’t get a boner. Don’t—oh god. Okay. Smile. Play it cool. Act like you didn’t just get bench pressed like a cheerleader. CONTROL YOURSELF. Everything about her is so… Sweet boy is on his phone the second it’s over, scrolling TikTok with you, stammering the entire time. “I mean, I guess… I didn’t know that was a thing? But yeah, yeah—it’s kinda cool. Cool-cute. Cute-cool. Shut up.”  He’s red in the face. Can’t stop thinking about it.  Absolutely let's you do it again. He now peers over your shoulder whenever you scroll social media. He isn’t sure whether he should prepare himself mentally or physically…or even at all for the charades you might pull. He’s playfully terrified, but oh so enthralled.

｡𖦹°‧ No Goggles Mark

He clocks it instantly, and his head tilts, mouth quirking into a suspicious grin—like a cat who knows he’s pretty. Of course, he would. It's lensless Mark, and let's be honest… he's definitely pulled pranks and made memes out of your reaction to send you during arguments.

You just walk up like you’re on a mission. He doesn’t move when you grab him, in fact, he makes it harder—just to be a shit with no assistance. Just a dry, "this oughta be good" look on his face. But then… his grin falters. “Wait—what are you—Dude. Babe. Babe. You’re not gonna—OH MY GOD—”

You lift him like ITS NOTHING, one arm under his knees, one across his back, like some twisted bridal carry—but halfway through, you grab him by the waist and shoulder, and in one powerful motion, you toss him over your shoulder instead. You sling him easily like you’re about to carry a sack of bricks to hell. He loses his mind. “Oh my god. Okay. This is real now. You’re actually carrying me. I—I think this is working??? I might be in love.” “THIS IS A CORE MEMORY.” “Dude. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I need you to do that again. Take me.”

He’s laughing and moaning and definitely trying to grind against your back simultaneously. Even spitting out things he KNOWS will irritate you. It's like he’s short-circuiting, fighting the urge to beg you to spar with him and wanting to grind himself into a puddle. You drop him on the counter, and he just stares at you—eyes wide, hair tousled, pupils blown.

Inner Monologue: Holy shit. Dude. DUDE. I’m being carried, like, full hoist. I should be fighting this. Or saying something hot. But I’m close to whimpering. Is this what being prey feels like? I like it. I hate it. No, I love it. This is love. This is lust. This is spiritual. Am I about to propose? God, I’m so gone. She’s gonna use this against me forever. ...I hope she does.

You give him a smug once-over, hands on your hips like you just completed a flawless routine. He’s already panting, fingers twitching against the counter, legs spread instinctively. You lean forward, close enough to feel his breath hitch. “Still think I’m too soft to handle you?”

He groans really loud “Okay, wow. That was weirdly hot. That’s it. You’re coming home with me.” He goes full gremlin, and I mean more than usual. He teases you relentlessly about it for a week and starts fake-limping like you injured him. But secretly? He’s watching his back. “Dude, next time just say you wanna dom me. I’ll throw myself into your arms, easy.” He’ll search “dominant girlfriend lifting boyfriend trope” on Tumblr at 2am.

凸( •̀_•́ )凸 Mohawk Mark 

He’s posturing, arms crossed, smirk heavy. You wait until he’s talking shit. He’s leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, mouth mid-rant about something some other variant did wrong. Probably threatening violence or about to call you a smartass.

Something about how you couldn’t handle him and about your “cute little arms,” and how he’d break you before you got the chance to try anything bold. That’s when you step in close, hands sliding around his waist, a dangerous little smirk on your lips.

“You gonna try to lift me again?” he asks, almost with an amused gleam but something that encourages you regardless. 

You don’t give him time to finish. You grab him by the thighs, shoulder into his stomach, and he’s airborne before he can blink. He hits your shoulder with a grunt, eyes wide, palms on your back. He was hauled as if you’d done this a dozen times before.

“The fuck—HEY—what the hell?!”

He yelps, yes, Mohawk Mark yelps. The way his hands grab at your back says he hates how much he likes it. You walk him across the room and drop him on the kitchen counter like he’s not 180+ pounds of alien muscle and attitude. His ass hits the granite with a thud, and he stares at you with a raised brow.

And then he grins, obviously impressed. You were always his favorite version of you. “You really gonna manhandle me like that?” He snorts, licking his lips. “You better fuck me after this, or I swear—”

Inner Monologue: No way. No fucking way she just did that. You let one woman pick you up and suddenly your dick’s got a mind of its own. Nah. Hell no. That’s hot though. Shit. Look at her face—like she didn’t even break a sweat. Damn. Okay. This is happening. Don’t get soft. You are not the prey. You’re the damn predator. You’re just letting her win. For now.

You stared down at him as if granting yourself a tribute. You lean forward, slide your fingers under his chin, and tilt his face toward you. His pupils blow wide. His smirk twitches, more like slants, very obviously. “And if you don’t… I’m gonna rail the shit outta you for that,” he mutters, already half-hard.  “...And I’m still gonna let you do it again.” Acts like he’s over it, but you catch him doing push-ups in the middle of the night. He keeps testing you: “Bet you can’t do it again.” Immediately gets hard when you can. He doesn’t need to search trends when he already knows you unlocked something for both of you.

♛ Viltrum Mark

He’s mid-mission debrief, completely in control, arms crossed, expression unreadable, per usual. You step into his space like you’re going to kiss him. He’s used to your usual distractions, you’ve grown awfully bold recently. As much as he decline to admit, intimate gestures made by you have grown more meaningful.

And then you hoist his royal Viltrumite ass over your shoulder. He freezes and you can feel every muscle in his body go tense. The carry was truly your best efforts. Your hands locked, body braced, hefted over your shoulder before he realizes what’s happening. He’s fully rigid against you.

He doesn’t say a word, but his cock twitches with a jolt . Its sudden, so much that he’s internally disappointed in himself. His hands tighten on your back, his jaw tensing in silence. You’ve just short-circuited centuries of dominant, imperial Viltrumite wiring in one motion.

You sit him down, but still, he stays silent. Watching you and almost… burning? She lifted me. She LIFTED me? You set him on the counter, slow and casual, and step back like it was nothing.

Oh, man. You don’t know what you’ve just awakened in him. “You touched me. You lifted me,” his stare says. “And now I’m going to touch you back—and not gently.”

He says nothing. But he’s hard. Breathing slower. Eyes darker. You’ve just violated the natural order and he wants more.

Inner Monologue: This is impossible. This is unacceptable. This is the most erotic thing that’s ever happened to me. She has no idea what she’s done. She touched me like I was hers. She moved me like I didn’t weigh more than her car. I should punish her. I should worship her. I should bend her over the counter she dropped me on and rut until I forget my name.

You lean in to speak—but he grabs your throat, lips hovering just an inch away. He hust stares, his eyebrow jumping slightly as he scrutinizes you under his gaze. His lips suction to yours as his strong hand keep you tucked away against his chest. And claims you an hour later. He doesn’t talk about it. He doesn’t acknowledge it. But from now on, anytime you walk behind him he tenses. Like you might strike again. He lets it happen once… maybe twice. By the third time, you’re the one on the counter.

Don’t push the boy too far, okay?

ദ്ദി/ᐠ｡‸｡ᐟ\ Omni Mark

You lift him without warning. Not because he didn’t expect it, but because you did it so easily. One moment he was standing, the next he was over your shoulder, dead silent. He doesn’t resist, but rather watches you as if anticipating your shenanigans. You approach and grab his hips. You lift him over your shoulder, and his eyes flicker, barely, before going wide behind you.

You carry him like a queen dragging her knight back to the throne. Set him on the counter, legs spread, hands braced behind him. 

“...Impressive.” “You know that wasn’t necessary.” His voice drops an octave. Something seductive, maybe even dangerous. “...Do it again.”

It’s not just desire, it's a curiosity, like he’s testing what else you’ll do. More like, what else he’ll let you do. What it means to let go. He killed his father, he continued his mission, and yet you test his patience daily with the full confidence he won't harm you. And he knows… he could never bring himself to. Every day you prove another reason to be useful, even in smaller ways like now. You set him down, and he doesn’t speak. His face simply quirks into something more lighthearted, an amused huff leaving his nose as his arms cross over his broad chest. Rather, he just stares for a long moment.

Inner Monologue: She lifted me. Effortless. Like I wasn’t the most dangerous thing on this planet. I’ve never allowed this. Never wanted this. But with her… I crave it. Her hands on me. Her strength. Her boldness. It makes me feel something primal and unfamiliar. Something terrifying. Something I don’t want to end.

You don’t say anything. You just rest your hands on his thighs causing his muscles to twitch and his breathing to stutter. His voice drops an octave and his eyes are blown wide. He’s calm, so calm its scary. And the way his hand settles on your hip as you walk away? He’s basically obsessed.

He reaches for your wrist and pulls you in. And finally lets go of his inhibitions. He now sits in chairs you can’t reach from behind. He’s not afraid, but every so often, he says—dead serious— “You’re going to do it again. Aren’t you?”

ूाीू Sinister Mark

He knows, you haven’t even touched him yet and he’s knows. That twitch in your fingers, the way your eyes narrow with a plan, or the barely-concealed grin trying to ruin your face.

“You’re thinking about something dangerous,” he hums, not even looking up as he leans back against the counter. “That little face you make when you’re frustrated? Precious. I love that look.” Your funny prank suddenly became something to prove. His eyes followed the line of your jaw, watching as it tensed. “Look at you. All attitude and no plan. It’s honestly impressive how consistent you are.” You don’t answer. You just step forward, plant your hands on his thighs, and hoist him up—full shoulder carry, deliberate, not asking for permission. He doesn’t flinch when you grab him and doesn’t blink when you lift him like a plaything. He lets you as his arms relax, cock already hard against your shoulder.

He doesn’t struggle, albeit he’s surprised, but his all-masking smile is like a customer service blanket from him raging internally. And when you drop him onto the counter like you’re mounting a prize, he stays still for a second. Just looking at you. Grinning slow. “Ohh… oh, sweetheart. That’s dangerous.”

He chuckles in your ear. Voice low. Teeth sharp. “I hope you know what you’ve just done.”

“You lift me. I break you. That’s the new arrangement.” His eyes read, are you trying to start something or finish it? You don’t respond, only smirking, which is worse.

His hands slide behind him on the countertop. Legs part, slow and lazy, welcoming but a trap nontheless. He tilts his head, studying you like you’re a riddle he already solved—but wants to hear you tell it wrong.

“C’mon then. You had all that confidence when you picked me up—let’s see what you do with me now,” he murmurs, gaze growing heavier. Then, smiling, “I like my toys begging and breathless.” You really thought he’d let you get away without consequences? You start, and he finishes; that’s usually how this goes. You were so pretty when you pouted at his light jeers. He was afraid you’d grown boring, yet every interaction pulled something new, something worth taking. He finds this all adorable, but is honestly... kind of a chatty brat during the whole ordeal. Not for long anyway.

Inner Monologue: Oh, she’s bold today. I like it. She wants to flip the script? Let her. Let her think she’s got control. I wanna see how far she takes it before she starts shaking. God, her hands feel good. Confident. Dangerous. Maybe I’ll let her think she won. She didn’t… did she? No. ...Then I’ll pin her down and make her beg to lose again. He lets you lift him again. Why? Because he knows where it ends. If you ever approach him with another trend, expect it to end covered in sweat and tears. It seems you’ve gotten the roles confused on who’s dominant... or did you? (PEG THAT MAN)

ᕙ( •̀ ᗜ •́ )ᕗ Hooded Mark

You wait for the exact moment when he’s halfway into a smug line, something like “You always act brave before you break”—and then you grab him mid-smirk. You two are constantly at odds over who’s stronger without the use of powers. The obvious answer is him, sure, but your ego doesn’t allow you to submit. He doesn’t flinch, but you can feel the slight hitch in his breath as you hoist him over your shoulder, one arm under his thighs, the other bracing his back.

“You’re not—” whoop “Shit—okay.”

He lands on your shoulder upside down and utterly speechless. He respects and resents you currently. Yet, he’s amused. “Oh, this is new. You better start prayin’ once you put me down.”

You drop him onto the counter, and he stays seated, head tilting, smirk twitching. “Fuckin’ hell. You strong now, huh? Pick me up once and suddenly you run shit?” His hand proceeds to keep down your lower back. You nod in response, proud of yourself. “Yeah? That supposed to scare me, babe? ‘Cause all it did was make my dick twitch.”

He doesn’t stop you, nor does he stop the raunchy gestures. Just grinds against you the entire time with lazy amusement. Your perseverance is something he never shies away from, even in the bedroom when you’re determined to match him. Something about it awakens something feral within him. 

When you set him down and he was already scheming. Already licking his lips. There’s a glint behind the lenses of his mask—something hot, wild, and very aware. “Alright. You win this round.”

He leans in, lips brushing your jaw.

“But just wait ‘til I’m on top next time.”

Inner Monologue: Okay. Interesting play. Sudden. Clean form. Surprising core strength. I respect it. She's trying to flip the power dynamic? Bold. Noted. But how far will she go? Is this a one-time power move or a recurring kink? …Is it mine now? I might make it mine. She doesn’t know what she’s started. She’s so hot when she doesn’t ask for permission. He’s acting normal, cocky and unbothered. But the next day, he’s straight petty. He’s watching his back… but he’ll never admit he kinda liked it. (He absolutely jerked off thinking about it.) After a while he accidentally conditioned this as a form of foreplay. Your bedframe is in danger.

(╥‸╥) Masked Mark

He’s mumbling something under his breath. Sitting on the edge of the bed, unarmored, quiet, vulnerable. Which makes it the perfect time to strike. You lift him without warning. You bend down, arms around his thighs, and hoist upwards. His breath catches, and he yelps, a soft and shocked sound, arms flailing for a second like he forgot what stability was. His body locks. “Wait—wait—you’re not really—oh my god.”

He melts physically, emotional… maybe even spiritually. You shoulder him effortlessly and strut toward the counter. He says nothing else. Just goes completely limp in your hold, like a captured princess with bloodlust.

You set him down gently. His fists clench against his thighs, his chest rises and falls like he’s panicking, but also… vibrating. You’re not even halfway done teasing, but he’s almost certain he’s pitching a tent. Sure, he loves you and all the qualities that come with but his body and mind can’t seem to communicate properly. He sighs, this isn't something to be hard about.

He looks up at you like you just saved his life before dropping his head in his hands. “No one’s ever done that before,” he whispers in his head. “Please do it again. Please do anything. I’ll let you. It doesn’t just have to be because of a trend. Deal?”

He doesn’t look up. But if you do, you’ll see the most pathetically hard, desperate expression he’s ever worn.

Inner Monologue: She touched me. She lifted me. I was off the ground. I didn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe. She just manhandled me like I wasn’t dangerous. Like I was safe to touch. Like I was hers. Holy shit I’m gonna cry. I’m gonna cry AND cum. Can you do both? What if I sob into her shirt? Is that hot? Please do it again. Please do worse. Please never leave.

The Set Up...

The thing about being home alone was that it gave you the rare chance to get things done.

No overprotective Viltrumite boyfriend hovering the moment you touched anything over ten pounds. No “babe, let me do it” every time you reached for the step stool. Just peace, music, and the triumphant satisfaction of moving the bookshelf to the wall it should’ve been on this entire time.

You’d nearly gotten it there, too—angled just right, towel under the bottom, scooting it across the floor one slow, squeaky inch at a time.

Main!Mark

You were mid-push, maneuvering the big bookshelf across the floor with a towel under it for glide, when you heard the familiar whoosh of a landing behind you.

“Hey, I’m—whoa.”

You turned around, sheepish but proud. “Hi!”

Mark stood there, mask off, still in his suit, eyes flicking between you and the halfway-moved bookshelf. “Were you… moving that by yourself?”

“Technically yes. But, like, strategically. No lifting. Full physics. Minimum chaos.”

He blinked. “That’s… kind of impressive.”

You beamed. “Thanks!”

He nodded slowly, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean, yeah, no—super cool. Really cool. Totally capable. Independent. You got this.”

You tilted your head. “You okay?”

“Me? Yeah. I’m good.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Mark.”

He scuffed his foot across the floor, eyes cast down. “It’s just… you didn’t wait for me.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to help me push furniture around after flying halfway around the world.”

“Still,” he muttered, glancing at the bookshelf. “It’s kind of my thing, y’know? Being helpful. Picking up stuff. Making your life easier. Super strength is kind of… my niche.”

Your chest ached a little. He wasn’t mad—just quietly, adorably bummed. Like a golden retriever watching someone else throw the ball.

So, naturally, you took two steps back, turned just slightly, and just happened to stub your toe on the side of the coffee table.

Loudly.

“OW—oh my god, ow, okay nope, I’m dying,” you yelped, grabbing your foot and hopping in place.

Mark was instantly at your side, arms out. “Wait, what happened?! Are you okay?!”

“Stubbed my toe,” you whimpered. “On the corner. I think it—ohhh nooo it’s broken.”

He crouched in front of you like a concerned EMT. “Which foot?! Can you walk? Want me to carry you to the couch??”

You blinked at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Would you?”

He was already scooping you up, like a knight cradling a wounded princess. “Of course. I’ve got you.”

You let your head fall dramatically against his shoulder, hiding your grin. “My hero.”

He smiled. A real one this time. “You can move bookshelves, sure. But I’m still the toe-stubbing emergency response team.”

You kissed his cheek. “See? Still irreplaceable.”

A pause.

“…You faked that, didn’t you.”

“No comment.”

Viltrumite!Mark

“…Sweetheart?”

You froze.

“Are you… are you moving that? Alone?”

You turned to see Mark standing in the doorway, uniform still on, brow furrowed in a mix of horror and disbelief, like he’d just caught a toddler wielding a chainsaw.

You opened your mouth to explain—but something in his expression gave you pause.

So instead, you took a slow, shaky breath… and rested the back of your hand against your forehead.

“Ohh…” you sighed. “You’re right. That was… so reckless of me.”

He was at your side in a blink.

“[Y/N],” he murmured, already cradling your face in his hands, inspecting you like you might crumble. “You should’ve waited for me. What if you got hurt? That shelf is solid wood.”

“I just… I didn’t want to bother you,” you said softly, leaning into the moment. “But I feel so faint now…”

He gently brushed your hair from your face, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “You shouldn’t be lifting a finger. Not when I’m here. Let me take care of you.”

You almost felt bad.

…Almost.

Mark pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Go sit down. I’ll finish this.”

You gave him your best helpless nod, then flopped dramatically onto the couch as he lifted the bookshelf with one hand and carried it across the room like it was empty.

“Okay,” he said. “Where do you want it?”

You sat up, pointing. “Against that wall, just—yeah, right there. No, wait—actually a little to the left.”

He adjusted.

“Hmm. No, sorry, more to the right.”

Another adjustment.

“Okay, now turn it a bit. Clockwise. No, my clockwise. Yeah, okay—wait, back a bit.”

He tilted his head. “Back? Or back back?”

You squinted. “Like… scooch it. A half scooch.”

He sighed (very soft, very loving), and scooched.

You stared.

“…Okay, I think it’s—wait. Nope. Now it’s too far.”

Mark blinked. “Sweetheart...”

You gave a long-suffering sigh and dropped your head into your hands. “This is why I just wanted to do it myself.”

He chuckled—low and warm—then gently tapped your knee. “And miss out on being treated like royalty? Why deprive yourself of such a treat?”

You smiled softly "Very good point..." Then you paused, glanced at the shelf and looked up at him again. “If I’m royalty, does that mean I can tell you to move it back to where it was?”

His face went stony for a moment, but then was already turning. “Only for you...”

You smiled. “I love you so much.”

Mark was ready to move planets that point.

Sinister!Mark

You were halfway through dragging the bookshelf across the floor when your body stilled.

The hair on the back of your neck rose. The air shifted. Then you heard his voice. Smooth. Amused.

“…Interesting choice of project.”

Your blood froze. No. There's no way he's already back, is he?

You turned your head slowly, painfully, like a horror movie character about to meet their doom.

There he was. Standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes glowing faintly red, with the kind of cold smirk that said “so this is how you betray me.”

Without even thinking – no hesitation, zero shame – you let out a gasp, dramatically tripping over the edge of the towel you’d been using to slide the shelf on and falling down in what felt like slow motion.

The entire bookshelf tipped sideways with you, crashing to the floor with a thunderous BOOM.

Books everywhere. You sprawled in the wreckage like a tragic Victorian heroine struck down by an airborne piano.

“OHHH NOOOO!” you wailed, arm flung across your face. “Why did I think I could do this alone?! I was so foolish! I was so fragile!”

Mark was in front of you before the dust even settled, crouched low, eyes narrowed as he looked over the scene. Not at the bookshelf. Not at the mess.

At you.

You peeked between your fingers. “Is it bad? Am I concussed? Paralyzed?”

He tilted his head. “You’re not hurt.”

“I’m emotionally hurt.”

“You don’t have a scratch on you.”

You whimpered. “But what if I had? I—I thought I was strong enough, but I’m just a weak little thing, aren’t I?”

He leaned in close, his tone syrupy and sharp. “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying.”

You gave a broken little sigh. “You were right. You were so right. It was arrogant of me to think I could do things on my own.”

Mark finally smirked something deep and you felt a wave of relief rush through you. “Well. At least you’ve learned something today.”

He gently lifted you into his arms, stepping over fallen books like they were debris after an explosion. “You won’t be lifting so much as a fork without my help from now on.”

You clung to him like a damsel in distress. “Oh nooo, what a shame.”

He paused at the doorway and looked down at you.

“You’re not lying to me, are you?” he asked, voice suddenly low and flat. “Because you know I’ll find out.”

You blinked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Mark. My bookshelf fell on me. I’m lucky to be alive.”

His eyes searched your face for a long, unnerving moment… then he smirked again. Kissed your forehead.

“Good girl.”

You sighed dramatically, burying your face in his chest as he floated you off to the couch.

Another day, another tragedy avoided. Except for your bookshelf, you supposed...

No Goggles/Lensless!Mark

You were really just starting to make progress on the move when you heard it.

Click.

Thud.

“Hey,” Mark said casually, suddenly perched on top the bookshelf and looking down at you with a lazy grin. “Didn't realize you were this strong, babe. You ever think about joining the Viltrumite army?”

“Wha—Mark!” you gasped, heart racing just a bit. “W-What the hell are you doing?!”

“Just watching you work, babe! Gotta say—I’m impressed. Keep going. Show me whatcha got.”

You flushed a bit. “…But you’re sitting on it.”

Mark gave you a dramatic blink. “Yeah, and? I mean look at you! You’re so strooong, move it with me on it.”

“Mark...”

“C’mon!” He kicked his feet a little. “Let’s see that strength. I’ll just stay here and supervise.”

“…Can you get off please?”

“Nope. You’ve got this. I believe in you.”

You furrowed your brows, pouting for a bit. “Alright. Fine.” You braced yourself and tried to nudge the bookshelf forward, only for it to not move an inch under the added weight of your lovely, idiotic boyfriend.

He grinned even wider. “Aww, is the strong woman struggling?”

You scowled, leaning back off the piece of furniture. “I can’t do it with you on it. Get off.”

“Nah, I’m comfy.” He shrugged. “But if you really need help, I guess I could show you how it’s done.”

Before you could say anything, he jumped down and scooped you up in one smooth motion, plopping you onhis shoulder like you were a prize.

“Don’t worry, baby girl,” he says with a sigh. “I got this.” He reached over with one hand and picked the bookshelf up like it was a cardboard box.

“Wait, but—I didn’t even tell you where to put it!”

He grinned as he moved it toward the far corner of the room. “Right here’s perfect.”

“Noo, I wanted it on that wall.”

“Ehh, I’m feeling this spot more. Looks better, don’t you think?”

“Mark, I’m serious, that’s not—”

“You’ll love it,” he said with a laugh, already walking away from it and towards the sofa. “Trust me. I’ve got an eye for these things.”

You thought about arguing but stopped yourself short, realizing there was no point. He wasn’t even listening.

Mark kicked the couch aside with a careless boot and dropped down into the cushions like a king on his throne, moving you smoothly to straddle his waist. His grin was wide and feral, hair a little messy, pupils blown.

He looked very pleased with himself.

“Yup,” he said, hands sliding to your hips, smug as hell. “Pretty strong, babe. Got, like... crazy stats.”

You couldn’t help but look a bit amused. “….Stats?”

“Oh, you know,” he said casually, voice dropping as his eyes dragged slowly over your body. “Strength. Speed. Stamina. Core control.”

You bit back a smile.

“Wanna see what else I can do?” he grinned, and didn’t wait to hear your answer. You suddenly became very aware of the repeated tapping between your thighs.

He was making his dick jump.

You choked.

“Mark!”

Omni!Mark

You were halfway through dragging the bookshelf across the living room when his voice cut through the space like a blade.

“You shouldn’t be doing that.”

You froze, hands still on the edge of the shelf. “Jesus—Mark?”

He stepped into view from the hallway, calm and unreadable, but his gaze was locked on your hands. On the effort. On your shoulders straining beneath your t-shirt.

“I thought you weren’t getting back until tomorrow,” you said, breath catching just slightly.

He said nothing to that. Just looked down at the shelf. Then back at you.

“I’m fine,” you offered, trying to keep your tone light. “Promise this might come as a surprise, but humans move furniture all the time. There’s a whole job field for it, actually. Movers. Crazy, right?”

The corner of his mouth twitched downward. Clearly not amused.

“I know you’re capable,” he said, stepping closer. His voice dropped a little. “Of more than you’ll ever give yourself credit for.” You blinked. “But this?” His gaze flicked to the shelf again. “You shouldn’t have to do this. Not with your hands.”

“My hands are fine.”

He reached out and gently took your palm in his — and suddenly, the shelf didn’t exist anymore. The room didn’t exist. Just his fingers wrapping around yours, warm and impossibly careful.

“These hands,” he said, brushing his thumb along your knuckles, “shouldn’t be calloused from dragging wood and steel. They should stay soft.”

You opened your mouth — probably to argue, maybe to scoff — but no words came out. Just heat. Everywhere.

“I don’t protect you because I think you’re weak,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “I protect you because I can. Because you’re the only softness in a world that doesn’t deserve it.”

And just like that, you were putty. Your entire body went slack under his gaze, your throat thick, breath gone. Your fingers curled a little tighter into his without even meaning to.

“…You’re not playing fair,” you whispered.

His other hand lifted to your face, thumb brushing just under your cheekbone.

“I never said I was fair,” he said quietly. “Only that you’re mine.”

You nodded, helplessly. Of course. Obviously.

And when he leaned down to kiss you — slow, reverent, like you were something holy — you realized the bookshelf could stay exactly where it was.

Forever, even.

Didn’t matter anymore.

Shiesty!Mark

The bookshelf barely budged as you leaned your weight into it with a frustrated grunt. You were so close to getting it where you wanted it.

“You tryna remodel or build muscle, bae?”

You froze at the very familiar but very unexpected voice.

Mark stood in the doorway, one brow raised, smirking like he’d walked in on you cheating with another man — who just so happened to be made of plywood and frustration.

“You weren’t supposed to be home yet,” you said, trying not to sound as guilty as you felt.

“Clearly,” he said, strolling in like he owned the floor (and the ceiling, and probably you). “You out here grinding furniture across the floor like a damn forklift. Did I miss the call for backup?”

You sighed. “It’s not that heavy. I’ve almost got it.”

Mark leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you like a man enjoying premium entertainment. “Oh no, go on. Don’t let me stop you. I love a strong woman. Grrr,” he teased, flexing his bicep in mock solidarity.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the shelf. “It’s just gotta slide like three more inches—”

“Oh you tryna get precise with it,” he cut in. “Okay, okay, I see you. Interior design. Feng shui. Heavy lifting. Very sexy of you.”

“I swear to God, Mark—” Before you could finish, he was already behind you.

“I got it,” he said, voice suddenly softer, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Don’t hurt yourself, pretty.”

You stepped aside reluctantly as he crouched, rolled his shoulders back, and—because of course he did—lifted the bookshelf with one hand.

You blinked. “Did you... just curl it?”

He grinned, looking at you over his shoulder. “You like that? That was rep one. Want me to rack up a few sets? Maybe do a little shoulder press while you admire the view?”

“Mark.”

“Say it again like that and I’ll drop this bookshelf just to carry you to the bedroom instead.”

You would’ve choked if you’d been drinking something.

He moved the shelf exactly where you’d wanted it, then turned and leaned in close, mouth brushing yours. “See? I do listen. Sometimes.”

You melted. A little. Maybe a lot.

“So,” he said casually, already lifting you like a backpack, “wanna rearrange anything else while I’m warmed up? Your guts, maybe?”

“Mark!”

“Babe, I’m just tryna be helpful.”

Mohawk!Mark

You braced both feet against the floor, gave the bookshelf one last stubborn shove, and managed to move it a grand total of two inches.

You stepped back, breathing heavy, hands on your hips.

“Gotta ask,” came a gravel-rough voice behind you, “you movin’ that thing for fun or outta spite?”

You jumped. “Jesus—Mark! Warn a girl!”

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, suit already halfway unzipped and his hair looking a little messier than usual.

“You weren’t supposed to be back yet,” you muttered, brushing your hair out of your face.

“Clearly,” he said, pushing off the doorframe and strolling in with that easy, heavy gait. “Figured I’d come home and find you curled up on the couch. Not out here goin’ to war with a damn bookcase.”

“I wasn’t—I am perfectly capable, thank you.”

“Sure you are,” he said, like he was humoring a toddler insisting they could drive.

“I am!”

He stopped in front of you, looking down at your flushed face and dirt-smudged palms. His gaze dropped to your hands, then back up to your eyes.

“Babe,” he said, voice lower now, quieter. “You don’t gotta play tug-of-war with your furniture every time I’m not in the room. You miss me? Call me. I’ll fly in, carry you and the couch if you need.”

You opened your mouth as if intending to explain your reasoning, but he was already moving. Already crouching. Already sliding one hand beneath the bookshelf like it weighed nothing.

With a casual exhale, he lifted it off the ground and nodded toward the other wall.

“Point where you want it.”

You furled in your lower lip, trying to ignore how hot this was. “...There,” you mumbled.

He walked it over. No strain. No effort. Just raw, grounded strength like it was part of his muscle memory now.

He set it down exactly where you needed it before turning to you again, rubbing sorely at the back of his neck.

“You good now?” he asked. “You wrestled the inanimate object. I showed up to finish the job. Domestic bliss achieved?”

You smiled, trying not to laugh. “I’m good. Thanks.”

He gave you that familiar crooked smile. “Next time just call,” he muttered. “You think I won’t drop a whole planetary threat just to come move furniture? Priorities.”

You snorted. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

He stepped a little closer, lifting your chin with two fingers. “You’re never a bother,” he said, voice just slightly softer now. “Maybe a bad decision, sometimes. But never a bother.”

You were biting hard into your bottom lip at this point, really trying to hold back your smile.

“…Bet you want me to carry you around now, too?” he asked, already bending to hook an arm under your thighs.

All you could do was squeal and giggle as he hoisted you up bridal-style, with a dramatic grunt that was absolutely just for show.

“There we go,” he muttered, planting a kiss on your temple. “Soft hands, remember? You keep ‘em pretty. I’ll do the heavy lifting. And the thinking. And the rescuing. You? You just sit there and look smug.”

You melted into his chest with a sigh. “Well, I was doing just fine before you showed up.”

He snorted as he lowered onto the couch, pulling you into his lap. “Yeah, you moved it a whole two inches. Might as well call NASA.”

You leaned back slightly, lips twitching. “I did move it though.”

He gave you a slow, unimpressed blink.

Then muttered, “You want a trophy or a chiropractic bill?”

It’s likely why he ends up being referred to an endocrinologist specializing in hormone disorders in alphas when an overproduction of androstenone turns his ruts violent. Over the years, they’ve been steadily getting worse, even with a partner to help see him through the worst of it, the overproduction of hormones making him a little too mindless, a little too frenzied. 

“It’s not especially common for men your age, if I can be frank,” the doctor tells him, flipping through his chart. “Not uncommon, but low enough that I want to send you for a couple tests just to be safe. You’re still unmated?”

John nods. “That’s right.”

It’s not that the option hasn’t ever presented itself, but the timing has never felt right. Even marriage hadn’t sweetened the deal, and maybe that’s why he’s just north of forty-five and already divorced. The fault lies with him alone; he’s man enough to admit that. Maybe if he’d been more attentive, less likely to disappear for months at a time; if he’d swallowed his reluctance and just bit his omega instead of dragging his feet through his marriage like a prisoner marching to his own doom—maybe things might be different. 

“Any plans to change that?”

“‘Fraid not.”

The truth of the matter is that, though he’s waited a lifetime for that special someone to cross his path, no one has ever come close to smelling right. Even his ex-wife had only come so close—good enough to turn his head, but not enough to keep him. Or maybe he hadn’t been enough to keep her. These days, it’s hard to say which feels more like the truth. 

Sometimes John thinks that it’s simply not in the cards for him. That for whatever reason, destiny or God or the universe or whatever force that decides the fate of all things, has deemed him unfit for the other half of his soul. 

It’s just that it’s been—

It’s been a long time without anyone to call his own.

The doctor scribbles something down in John’s chart. “Alright.”

With his rut coming up in just a few days, the timing couldn’t be better. It sizzles like a low grade fever under his skin. He works up a sweat more easily, even a couple flights of stairs leaving the pits of his shirt dark and damp. There’s a little extra padding around his midsection, a bit more bulk on his arms and thighs; his beard a little thicker than usual, forcing him to trim it twice a day to keep it from growing out of control. Even though it happens every year, it sneaks up on him, the added mass making him a bit lethargic in the weeks before his rut. 

“We won’t have the results in time for your next scheduled rut, but I’d recommend asking a trusted partner to help you out. And wear protection. We have extra mouth guards and other paraphernalia if you need anything.”

John holds up a hand when the doctor goes to open a drawer. “I’ve got plenty at home. Appreciate the advice though. Any medication I should be taking?”

“I don’t want to start you on anything this close to your rut, but maybe after. I’ll have the front desk set up a follow up appointment for you for two weeks from now.”

He nods, making a mental note. 

There are a couple girls he could call up on short notice, but the thought sits like a dull weight in his chest. The decades of casual heats and ruts have left him with little appetite for that sort of thing these days. What he wants—craves really, needs really—is something permanent, something meaningful. John’s been around the block enough to know that he’s looking for something more. 

He’s had good ruts and bad ruts. Ruts spent in the warm embrace of another, filling up a soft, wet hole again and again until his spend leaked down their thighs, lost in a daze of pheromones and heat-slick. Ruts spent entombed in his own frustrated lust, mindlessly rutting into a cum-filled fleshlight to slake a thirst that never ebbs, only flows and rushes over the guardrails, dragging him further under. 

This one might end up falling into the latter category.

“Right, well, thanks for stopping by, John. You have a good rest of your day, alright?”

“Same to you.”

His nostrils burn the second he walks back into the main corridor, which is teeming with activity, children climbing over their parents’ laps and people still waiting to see a doctor slumped over in their chairs. Two interns wheel a bed down the hall, forcing everyone to scoot to the side and cling to the wall to get out of the way. There’s always too many people in the hospital. Too many smells. 

This close to his rut, everything reeks. Congealed sweat and antiseptic; plastic chairs that smell simultaneously of sick and Lysol wipes, confusing his nose. Stale body odour from those in the waiting room on their sixth hour of waiting on loved ones or on an available doctor. It’s a bludgeon to the senses, particularly when they’re more sensitive than usual. 

An elevator takes him down to the first floor, which is even more chaotic than the one John was just on somehow. Patients and doctors spilling out of rooms, announcement after announcement blaring over the intercom, and always—always—the sharp scent of isopropyl, astringent against the inside of his nose. 

“I don’t understand—did she leave?” 

The voice catches him like a fish on a hook on his way towards the main entrance, beadhead soaring through the air and slipping under the surface of the water just as he’s angling to leave. 

When John turns around, you’re standing by the front desk with your chin tucked into your chest. You make a pitiful sight like that, with your lips pursed and your eyebrows pinched, and you hold yourself almost delicately, hands gripping the edge of the desk to stabilize yourself. 

He takes a deep inhale. Though admittedly he’s not close enough to get a good whiff, your scent is muted, likely dampened by the effects of several painkillers and the anesthetic still running through your system. The stench of pain is strong too, which accounts for the way you hold your body and move so gingerly, the brace on your arm a good indication. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am. If she’s not here, she must have left. You could try calling her?” the nurse at the front desk says, almost apologetic. “We can’t let you leave without an escort to take you home.”

“Okay, um…” you whisper, and now your scent is pungent with panic, acerbic. “Let me call her and ask her to come back.”

The sound of your voice is stronger now that it’s had time to travel. Again he feels it pinch him like coming out of a dream.

It’s so unremarkable that John nearly carries on down the hall towards the entrance, nothing about the interaction sticking out. 

Something keeps him rooted in place though. Intuition or a sixth sense or finely honed instincts. So instead of leaving, he turns around and walks right back to the front desk, stopping when he’s within arm’s length of you, eyes soaking up the sight of your tensed shoulders.

He doesn’t know the words are going to come out of his mouth until they do. “Lost your way home?” 

When you turn your eyes up to look at him, he feels the breath get knocked out of him. Prettier than anything he’s ever seen, the lure at the end of a fishing line drawing him in. 

And yet, for as pleasant as you smell, it’s nothing dissimilar to the countless omegas John has come across before. It evokes nothing primal—no deep-seated urge to sink his canines into a plump gland and bind you to him. 

You simply smell nice.

It’s difficult to articulate the devastation that courses through him. He’d hoped against hope that it would happen, that someday he would turn a corner and his fated mate would be there, looking at him like what took you so long? But how long can a man be expected to wait? How many years of disappointment can he be expected to weather by himself, his hopes dashed repeatedly? 

In less than a second, he makes a decision. 

One too many times, he’s hoped for fate to intervene and reward him for his patience. It never has. That responsibility must fall on him. 

There’s nothing new about trying to immanentize the eschaton, but John has faith in himself. If fate won’t do what must be done, then he will instead. 

“Excuse me?” you ask. So polite. 

“Heard you talking to the nurse about your ride home; sounds like you’re in a bit of a fix.”

“Yeah, I…um…” You seem torn on whether or not to keep up the conversation, likely finding his attention a bit intrusive, but gentility prevails in the end. Good. He was just starting to like you. “My friend was supposed to drive me home after surgery, but it looks like she might’ve bailed. She’s not answering my texts, but someone else said they saw her leave.”

“Sorry to hear that. Not fair, putting you in a spot like that.”

“I’m trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, but…uh…” You laugh, a touch derisively. “This is kind of screwing me over. I’m trying to get another friend to come pick me up, but it’s short notice and most people can’t just call out of work at the drop of a hat.”

There’s a vulnerable note in your voice almost masked by the touch of annoyance in your laugh but still plain for anyone attentive enough to hear. John is nothing but attentive.

“Don’t let her screw you over and get away with it,” he says, positioning himself on your side. “Short of someone dying, there’s no reason she should’ve left you on your own after an operation.”

“You’re probably right,” you murmur, too tired to put up a fight. “It just sucks. I wish she hadn’t told me yes in the first place—I could’ve asked someone else and given them more notice.”

“If you’re looking for a way home, I’d be happy to give you a lift.” John shrugs a shoulder when your lips open, the polite refusal already bubbling up your throat rebuffed by his next words. “I’m headed out now anyway. Just came to get some bloodwork done, nothing serious. Wouldn’t be an imposition at all.”

Your eyebrows pull together, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. 

“I’m not sure if I should be accepting rides from strangers.”

There’s a teasing lilt there, but also an undercurrent that he’s become familiar with over the years. A tempered kind of caution. One that says the words with a smile but prepares to sprint the other way. 

He smiles and holds out his hand. “I’m John.” When you take it, he knows he’s got you. “Not strangers anymore, are we?”

You answer that with a coy shake of your head, giving your name just as readily.

“So, how about it? Can I take you home?” John asks, repeating the invitation. His blood simmers when you take too long to answer.

“Ma’am,” the nurse suddenly interjects from the front desk, taking your attention away from him. It’s surprising how much that displeases him. “Have you gotten in touch with your friend yet or do we have to put you on the list for the drop-off service?”

John can see you warring with the options in your mind, eyes flitting between him and the nurse. 

“Actually, I found a ride home. Can I sign out?”

“Mind if I ask what you were in for?”

The drive to your house is mostly uneventful. He plugs your address into the GPS and hits save when something outside the window catches your attention. 

“It was just a little procedure.” His ensuing silence must make you nervous because you volunteer the reason for your stay after just a few short seconds. “Carpal tunnel release. My job involves a lot of typing, so I couldn’t keep putting it off; can’t wait to go back to living normally.”

He clocked the splint and the bandage around your hand and wrist when he approached you at the hospital, but it’s good to put a label on it. John makes a mental note to look up the post-op protocol for carpal tunnel surgery when the two of you get home. It’ll help him to better understand and address your needs in the coming days and weeks, and what he’ll need to watch out for when his rut finally sets in. 

He’ll clue you in on all of that later when he’s had a chance to explain himself. 

“Shame that your friend didn’t stick around to get you home. Probably still in a bit of pain, aren’t you?”

“Not yet. The painkillers they’ve got me on are really good.”

“Hm. I bet.”

You’re not that loopy despite being on painkillers though. More tired than anything. 

“I probably could’ve planned this better. I didn’t even get groceries before leaving for surgery.”

“You want me to stop and pick you up a couple things?”

He can see you turn to look at him from the corner of his eye. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve got time. Do you know what you need?”

You rattle off the couple items that you need and John merges into the left lane while listening, heading towards the nearest grocery store. 

He makes you stay in the car while he goes in to pick up a couple things, his number plugged into your phone in case you need him to rush back. The few items you rattle off aren’t sufficient enough for what you’ll need over the coming weeks, so John takes the liberty of purchasing a few extra things. Cured meats, fruit, a box of pastries for breakfast, and a couple frozen microwaveable meals. Baby wipes, lotion, and a multivitamin. All the essentials for a rut. 

There are things back at his place that he’ll need for his rut, but he’ll ask Simon to pick those up whenever he has a chance. It’s why John gave him a spare key after all. 

When he wheels the cart out of the store, he comes around by the back of the car, popping the trunk before you have a chance to see the sheer amount of bags in his cart. There will be a time later to talk you through what’s going to happen. 

“Sorry if my list was complicated,” you apologize when he gets back into the front seat, the cart in the corral. It doesn’t change where things were already heading, but it makes him look at you a bit differently. There’s a sweetness to you, one he hadn’t noticed before. 

He likes it though.

“Wasn’t complicated in the least,” John says, brushing off the apology. “Just took me a while to find everything. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

Your eyes crinkle when you smile. “I’m not in any hurry.”

John’s always liked docile things. Sweet, simpering things with nervous eyes and gentle demeanours. 

Moreover—

what isn’t already tamed is his to break. 

You’re a cagey thing as well though. At least, you get cagey when John gets out of the car and follows you up the front stairs on your porch instead of hovering a safe distance away. He keeps the subterfuge up by only carrying in the bags with the things you requested, leaving the rest in his car for now.

“I really appreciate all your help; I should be able to take it from here though,” you tell him at the door, the key still tucked in your hand. Your voice is infused with enough gratitude that a duller man might let it stroke their ego while you slipped inside and out of their grasp.

John smiles instead. “Wouldn’t be doing the right thing if I let you go without making sure you got to bed safe and sound. Open the door, sweetheart.”

He can see the hesitation on your face plain as day. Every instinct telling you not to let a man into your house, much less an alpha. 

But inevitably you let him in.

Good girl.

The house is saturated with your scent. He has to take a deep inhale right off the bat, committing your scent to memory. Without the overwhelming stench of antiseptic and sickness from the hospital, your scent is cleaner, richer. Preserved in amber. 

There’s something faint underlying your lived-in scent though. He can’t quite name it, but it sits on the tip of his tongue like a tune he’s heard before. 

“Mind if I put these away for you?” John asks, lifting the grocery bags in his hands. 

“Oh—yes, thank you. The kitchen’s that way.” You point towards the back of the house.

John carries the bags with just your groceries to the kitchen and unloads everything one by one into the fridge. The meager contents of your fridge speak to a frugal, solitary existence, and suddenly the faint smell permeating through your house has a name. Loneliness. 

A man hasn’t been in here in quite some time, if ever. Every single inch of the house has been scrubbed with your scent, not a trace of any former occupant remaining. No roommate or close friend or boyfriend. 

“Nice place you’ve got,” he comments when he walks back into the living room to find you fiddling around with the cushions on the couch, arranging them to make yourself a cozy spot to lie down.

You look up at the sound of his voice and smile, faintly flattered. “Thank you. I’ve only had it a year, but uh…I’ve been doing my best. Also—thanks again for driving me home. And stopping for groceries.” Your lips go round like you’ve remembered something. “I still have to pay you back by the way. Wait right here.”

“Let me go get the rest from the car first,” John says. 

“There’s more?” you ask, surprised. 

He nods. “I got you a couple extra things—on me. I hope that wasn’t too much of an overstep.”

You chew your lip but ultimately the uncertainty melts from your gaze the longer he stands there waiting for your approval. “…No, that’s…that’s fine. You didn’t have to, but thank you.”

His overstep is just a toe over the lip of the door, but it’s still a foot keeping the door from closing. 

On his way back out to the car, John happens to glance down while passing the table in the entryway and finds, much to his delight, your phone resting casually beside the vanity tray. It sits there like you purposefully left it for him to take. 

If not you, then fate. 

With deft fingers practiced at lifting, he pockets your phone, and then heads back to the car for the rest of the groceries, whistling the whole way there and back. 

You start to look at him a bit differently when he brings in the second round of groceries. The number of bags hanging from his forearms must strike you as odd, too many for what you asked him to pick up. John doesn’t bother making any excuses though. 

He can see your trust wavering, pulled out from the water and left belly up in the air, gasping for breath. It wouldn’t be hard to fix it. It wouldn’t be hard to go about this the right way—leave you with your groceries and pain meds, tuck you into bed before seeing himself out, and then waiting a couple days to ask you out for coffee. To leave now would mend your trust entirely. 

He considers it even, never one for turning down a potential strategy without considering its merit. But his alpha digs its heels in when he contemplates leaving, pushing every inch of its weight into rooting him in place. 

It doesn’t want him to leave; and truth be told, John can’t bear the thought either. 

The little trust you extended evaporates more and more as the minutes tick by and he shows no sign of leaving. You dance around it for a while, cautiously hopeful that he might be inadvertently overstaying his welcome, and John watches your descent into hopelessness from the corner of his eyes. 

It’s only when he helps himself to a snack from the fridge and turns the television on that you break, sweat beading on your upper lip. 

“John, I think maybe you s-should leave.”

The confidence you muster up to even just say that impresses him. It takes a lot out of you though, your body sagging when the words come out of your mouth, so much tension building up in your muscles that it literally weighs you down.

The hand with the remote drifts down to his side. “What do you mean, sweetheart?” John asks. 

“Well, I’ve—I’ve got it from here.” You switch to a more diplomatic tone, likely wary of worsening the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. Aware that you’ve invited him into your house, that your safe space now has another resident. “I don’t need any more help.” 

Though not as close to his rut as he will be in the coming days, the sentiment still makes him bristle. You don’t need any more help. Rich considering you let a strange alpha take you home not half an hour ago. 

He places the remote down and advances on you briskly, all of a sudden, quick enough that you only notice when he’s right in front of you, surprise overriding your fight or flight response. 

John cups the back of your neck with a big hand and tilts your head up until he can see the puffy, virgin mating gland sitting in the crook of your neck. Thumbs it too, ignoring the way your eyes go wide and horrified, and the way you try to wriggle out of his grasp until he tightens his hand around the nape of your neck. 

“Of course you do, sweetheart. Can't have you wandering around like this—wrong person might try to take advantage.”

Fear makes your pupils dilate. It stinks too, the stench wafting off you. A bit of initial unpleasantness is expected though, and understandable. It’ll be a lot to help work you through the worst of it, but it’s nothing he hadn’t already internally committed to. 

“You’re—you’re not going to leave?”

John shakes his head and smiles. 

Smart girl that you are, you don’t jump to screaming and shouting. Not that the urge isn’t there building in your chest, but you know the odds are stacked against you. You’ve already let him in. 

Your breathing picks up though, and your lip trembles. An anxious swallow follows, then another, throat too dry for you to speak. 

“Why?”

“C’mere, sweetheart.” John takes you by the hand, careful to avoid the bandaged one, and pulls you to the couch, where he takes a seat. “We can only have a frank conversation about this if you promise to be polite and wait your turn to speak. Clear?”

Your lips twitch with displeasure but you nod. 

“My rut’s coming up in a week.” He catches you before you spring back up to your feet, yanking you back down by your arm. “No, don’t try to run; this is happening, love. My rut’s coming up and I’m staying here for it, okay?”

“I can stay someplace else,” you offer weakly, voice breaking. 

His smile verges on pitying. “No, sweetheart. You’re staying here with me for it.”

Your scent goes sour. Ammonium sulfide and allicin. His nose would wrinkle if he’d been expecting anything less than your reaction, but you conform, as always, beautifully to his expectations. 

“You can’t…make me go through a rut with you.” Your throat constricts around the word rut. 

“Yes, I can,” he says simply because that’s what it is. Simple.

In a world of people riddled with guilt complexes and victim mentalities, he stands alone. He has no qualms about taking what’s owed to him, or with shaping the world according to the version of it that lives in his head. That’s how history is made. 

He can’t judge others for their nature the same way he can’t fault himself for his. 

“I thought you said you were in the army.”

“I did.”

“Isn’t this…—this is against the law then, isn’t it?”

“You’re thinking of American law, sweetheart.” He doesn’t bring up any similar protection against forced billeting enshrined in English law. Best to not get lost in the weeds. 

There’s a tick in your eyes that betrays you. John readies himself for a chase when your eyes glance over his shoulders towards the door, but you discard that plan as quickly as it entered your brain. Weighing the odds and finding them not in your favour. 

“I have friends,” you blurt out. “Family. People check up on me.”

“That’s fine, love. When they do, you’re gonna tell them that you’re taking a week off to rest and you don’t want anyone coming by in the meantime.” When you don’t respond, clearly thinking something different, irritation flickers in his chest. “Wanna know why you’re going to do that?”

“…Why?”

“‘Cause you know this could go one of two ways. We could either have a nice time together and I’ll be on my way afterwards…or I could bite that little mating gland of yours now and we can take that option off the table.”

There’s no point in telling you that he’s already made up his mind about that part. The allure of hope is too tempting; he has to give you something to latch onto. 

“Do we understand each other?” he asks. 

Your initial hesitation tells him all he needs to know. This won’t be an easy conquest or a city handed over to spare its citizens pain—you won’t hesitate to put up a fight. 

“Okay.” 

John makes himself at home like a fox laying claim to a rabbit’s burrow. 

Siege warfare. A lifetime in the military has made him well versed in poliorcetics. He knows of how the Romans once conquered the city of Fidene by launching false attacks from four different directions at four different times before breaching the city through a long tunnel that passed under its walls, and how Alexander captured the city of Tyre by building a kilometer-long causeway and besieging it for seven months.

Your phone was the first thing to go, confiscated lest you got any funny ideas about calling someone to rescue you. Not that you need rescuing; in the end, you’ll see that this was in your best interests too. The next thing to do is your laptop, tucked away out of reach until you’ve proved yourself to be trustworthy. 

He cuts off all trade routes and replaces them with his own, Simon showing up at the door the following morning with supplies. When you spot a man at the door, you must think saviour before foe, because you pound on the window facing the porch. At least John had the foresight to lock you out of the foyer before he opened the front door.

Simon cocks an eyebrow. “Noisy mouse, ain’t she?”

He shrugs. “She’ll learn. You got everything I asked for?”

“Check ‘n tell me if I missed anything. I ‘aven’t got time to get anything else today, but I can come back tomorrow.”

“Good man, Simon. Give me a minute, alright, lad?”

John gives the bag a cursory check, but just as he thought, Simon didn’t miss anything. He never does. 

Simon helps him install an electronic lock on the front door from the inside before heading off to work and John spends the next ten minutes programming it while you stare through the foyer door helplessly. The back door gets the same treatment later on, effectively rendering you a prisoner in your own house.

Then he takes stock of the property. 

You’ve made yourself a perfectly respectable home. It has all the charm of a simple family home, nothing like his ancestral estate on the Welsh border; there’s something real here, something designed with comfort in mind. You’ll have to live with summering there and wintering here in the city, but he won’t ask you to abandon the life you’ve made for yourself here. The stove’s at least thirty years old—one of those old brands made to last, likely passed down from a family member or bought secondhand. 

But John takes stock of the layout of the house because the longer he’s there, the more his instincts tingle. 

As well-decorated and maintained as your house is, it doesn’t feel ready for a rut. Too many hard edges and wide open spaces. Before humans became accustomed to single domiciles, instinct would’ve made them search far and wide for a burrow or cave comfortable enough to ride out their cycle. 

Like nest building for omegas, den making is inherent to alphas. It’s programmed in his DNA. Even out in the wild, he’d know how to make one—know what materials to look for in the absence of soft pillows and sheets—and feel that same urge to make a space suitable for his mate. 

Everything in its right place.

He starts by pulling the mattress off the bed frame and dragging it to the corner of the room. It makes your room feel like more of a den, a place to hunker down in, and that’s only reinforced when John pulls out every blanket and pillow from your linen closet and drapes them over the mattress. You don’t have blackout curtains, but he solves that by pinning a few sheets up on your blinds until barely any light passes through. 

Preparing for a rut is a little like preparing for a storm. One has to batten down the hatches to ready themselves for the worst of it. He installs locks on the cutlery drawers and stows the knife block away in the highest cabinet, locking that as well. He thinks of the worst case scenarios and plans accordingly. 

You don’t seem to appreciate his efforts though.

“Why are you—” you start and then abruptly stop, swallowing. “Please stop rearranging the furniture.” 

John pauses, putting the couch down gently so as not to damage the floorboards or upset you with any sudden noise. 

“Well, love, I’m not about to let you do all the backbreaking work, now am I?”

That response doesn’t seem to satisfy you, expression still twisted into a scowl. “Neither of us has to do any work. Why are you moving things around in the first place?”

“You really don’t get how these things are done, do you?”

Embarrassment makes you snappy. “No, and I don’t have to because it’s my fucking house either way. Stop moving my furniture.”

His eyes go half-lidded. Anger courses through his veins like floating down a lazy river. John has never liked being told what to do—it’s a personality quirk that’s been both a hindrance and a help to his career, but in his love life, he’s never allowed that sort of thing to fly. The dissolution of his first marriage speaks for itself. 

He lumbers around the couch towards you and you flinch, walking backwards in the opposite direction. He’s quick despite his size though, hand reaching up and cupping the back of your neck before you hit the wall behind you, and all you can do is stare up at him towering over you nervously. 

“Careful, sweetheart,” John murmurs, holding you firmly enough by the back of your neck that you whimper, only one hand able to press against his chest in an effort to push him away. The other you cradle limply against your chest. “Keep running your mouth like that and I might need to find a better way to put it to use. Ever had your mouth knotted?”

Nothing headier than the idea of pushing to the back of his omega’s throat and letting his knot expand until it’s trapped behind your teeth, keeping you locked on his cock until it’s softened enough to pull out. 

He stores the idea away for later. It wouldn’t do to knot your mouth for the first time during his rut when he doesn’t have the wherewithal to take it slow and keep you centred, but it’s an idea he’ll have to return to at a later date. When he has time to sit you on his lap and comfort you after something so intense instead of thinking only of his own urges. 

Rut isn’t a completely mindless state of being. Even in the thrall of his rut, John will still have enough cognizance to make somewhat informed decisions. It would be dangerous if alphas were susceptible to any influence during such a vulnerable period. Anyone could take advantage of someone in that state. 

There are some things that he doesn’t have complete control over. The closer John gets to the onset of his rut, the stronger the urge to scent his territory gets. 

It starts off relatively innocuous. He touches things more. Grips the doorframe when he enters a room and brushes against the wall when he turns a corner. Anything to leave a trace of his scent behind. But as the days progress and the urge to mark what’s his grows to monstrous proportions, the manner in which he chooses to do so shifts in kind. 

“Did you piss in the shower?” you seethe, fists clenched when you storm into the living room where John is seated at the couch watching Casablanca in black and white. 

He grunts. Nods. 

“You could’ve turned the water on to rinse it out,” you hiss. “Or used the toilet.”

“Not the point,” John says. 

“There was a point to pissing in my shower?”

“Never spent a rut with anyone, have you?” That pleases the lazy beast inside of him, but he’s not in any mood to explain himself. That’s what books are for. He prefers to teach through example. 

“What does it matter? That still doesn’t mean you can piss in my shower.” 

He takes a swig from the bottle in his hand. “Then you won’t wanna go around the side of the house.”

The screech gets all tangled up at the back of your throat, only the memory from the last time you sassed him staying your tongue. John can only smile to himself as you storm out of the room.

For all your resistance, he knows you’re not entirely immune to his presence, same as how he can’t shake the gnawing need to bury himself in you as deep as he can get. He’s a prime specimen of alpha—all thick muscle and dark tufts of hair, belly spilling over the top of his jeans and new notch on his belt from the mass he’s tacked on the weeks leading up to his rut. He’s been around the block enough to know his appeal. 

It’s why John doesn’t worry when you hiss and spit. Views the fuss you put up akin to foreplay, a little rough-housing before the situation gets serious. 

There are tells after all. It’s the way you look at him when you think he’s not paying attention. Furtive glances from the corners of your eyes. Shifting your hips in your chair when he sits across from you at meal times and spreads his legs wide, knocking his knees against yours. Eyes going hazy and lingering on the bulging muscles of his arms when you watch him move the furniture around in your house. 

He thinks sometimes about dragging you into bed early. Getting it out of the way now and getting you used to his touch before his rut sets in. It would be a kindness, in a way. 

But he relishes getting to see you squirm, the pseudo-heat sinking in day by day and making you more persuasive, less likely to bolt when your hand finally heals. Your instincts will do half the work for him. All he has to do is wait. 

Besides, the greater the effort, the sweeter the reward. 

Midway through the week, when his rut is close enough to be a thorn in his side but not close enough to have earned him the right to refuse to come in, Laswell has him come in for some inane reason. 

John still doesn’t trust you enough to leave you alone though, so he calls Simon and asks him to babysit you for a couple hours. Not a half hour later, the man’s on his doorstep, hands by his sides and expression deadpan. Even out of the service, he’s still a good soldier. 

It’s what makes Simon his favourite sometimes, though he’d never tell a soul. John knows it’s not right to play favourites with his men, but in the privacy of his own mind, he can face reality. 

“I won’t be gone long, sweetheart, but Simon’s gonna watch you while I’m out. You gonna be on your best behaviour for him?”

Your eyes cut to Simon and they look dangerous. Calculating. His lips almost twitch in amusement under his mustache. 

“Sure,” you say instead of arguing. It’s more of a red flag than if you had. 

The five hours he spends away from you are excruciating, and his temper suffers for it. These days, at his own insistence he’s been relegated to something of a desk job, but that still comes with its fair share of responsibility. There are certain strategic meetings that he can’t simply decline to attend, and though the hours pass by fast enough, he can still feel your presence like an itch at the back of his head that he can’t seem to scratch.

When he gets home, the itch finally dissipates.

“How was she?” John asks.

“Biter.” Simon holds up a forearm where your bite mark sits livid red against his pale skin. The imprint is deep, nearly piercing right through flesh near the canines. 

John whistles. “She did a number on you.”

Simon shrugs, unbothered. “Left the door unlocked and she tried to run. Fast on her feet.” Never did have his head on straight, that one. John feels no pity for the omega that’ll be his one day, but he has some sympathy.

He won’t discipline you just yet. That’ll be a project for another day—after you’re mated and hitched—and he can take his time training you. For now it’s enough that you’re still tucked away inside the den, not quick enough to outrun his lieutenant. 

Simon leaves with a few crisp bills folded in his back pocket and John claps his shoulder on the way out. 

The time is coming though. Every day pulls the sun thick off the horizon, the water dragging back from the shore. Soon, there will be a wave.

John knows his rut has started when he wakes up one morning as grumpy as a bear fresh out of hibernation. 

The first thing he hears is the sound of his stomach growling. Food. His first conscious thought. His stomach aches something fierce, like he hasn’t eaten in quite some time, even though John vaguely recalls eating supper the night before (though for the life of him he can’t remember what). 

His mind processes all of the information around him slowly and sluggishly, not in a hurry to make sense of anything. His vision still works perfectly fine, but his brain takes awhile to register what his eyes are seeing. Only base impulses make any sense. He sniffs the air to help guide him towards a food source. 

Something warm-smelling comes slinking out of the bathroom quietly. His head snaps in its direction and it freezes in its tracks. Prey. 

He sniffs again. No, not prey. Something different. 

Standing up feels strange, like he’s out of his body. It’s too big somehow. Heavier than he remembers it being. The thing trembling by the doorway doesn’t move as he lumbers over, smart enough to know not to run. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from chasing it down if it tried to get away, prey or not. 

It flinches when he drops his head, the bridge of his nose brushing against its temple. His scent’s all over this one. He must have come or pissed on it at one point, marking it as his own. His scent clings to its skin, buried deeper than the epidermis. 

It shifts to one foot.

“Don’t…move…” he growls, tensing up. It tenses up too, breathing out short, shaky breaths. 

“J-John?” it says, voice like a bell in his head. It knows his name.

“Hungry,” he says instead of asking how it knows who he is. 

“I…I can make you breakfast.”

He herds it away from the bathroom door instead of answering, staring it down as it walks backwards down the hall and into the room that smells strongest of food. 

The house smells of him only vaguely. It smells mainly of the thing he herds into the kitchen, warm and spicy like cinnamon or cloves. There’s a faint trace of his scent though, as if he’s been here for enough time that it isn’t wholly foreign. His hackles raise at the thought of not being in his own territory though. 

But this must also be his. If you’re his, then your den must, in turn, belong to him. 

You scurry around the kitchen gathering all of the ingredients for breakfast while he stares from his chair, eyes tracking your every move. Part of him waits for you to try and bolt, on edge when you open the fridge and the sound makes his ears twitch. His muscles sit bunched under his skin, ready to pounce and chase. 

When you put the plate down in front of him, you make as if to take a step back, clearly meaning to give him some space. That won’t do. A firm hand on your forearm rectifies that; he pulls you down onto his lap before you’ve had a chance to register what’s happening. 

“Whoa,” you gasp, all turned around. 

The first piece of bacon he tries to pick up slips from his fingers. The next one he manages to pick up goes straight to your lips. “Eat.”

“I’m not—”

“Eat.”

Your cheeks bulge around the mouthful of bacon and eggs when he lifts another bite to your mouth. You chew quickly, swallowing before it’s fully chewed, nervous that his loose hold on his temper might slip. Only after you’ve had a couple filling bites does John allow himself to eat as well.

Some of his sense of self comes back with time. The pieces start coming back together. Your name, where he is, what you’re doing here. It comes back as his belly fills. 

His nature doesn’t allow him to feel pity, but you should at least know what’s ahead of you.

“It’s starting today,” he tells you, breaking the silence. You go stiff in his arms and then swallow the mouthful of food you’d been chewing.

“Today?” you repeat, your voice slightly hoarse. 

“Rut.” 

The word hangs in the air between him and you. John can almost hear your heart start to double in rhythm. 

You nod and whisper, “Okay.” 

The thing behind his eyes stares you down. It watches you chew and swallow your food until there’s nothing left on the plate, until your lips are tacky with grease and you have to suck your teeth to dislodge the trapped bits. 

With his belly full, other needs take precedence. 

It starts with him pressing his nose to the crown of your head, gliding it down to your temple and sucking in lungfuls of your scent the whole way, imbibing your scent. Spicy and musky; still pungent with sweat from the night before since you haven’t had a chance to shower yet, nothing to distract from your true scent. It makes his cock throb against his thigh. 

He drags his nose down your temple to your cheek, nuzzling against the side of your head. Rumbling when you go still, turning your head away from him when he tries to go for your lips, denying him again.

It agitates him. 

“Kiss me,” John growls. Demanding, not asking. 

He pinches your cheeks with his grip and twists your head towards him. The little resistance you offer flickers briefly before being snuffed out when he slots his lips against yours. 

What starts soft turns feverish in a matter of moments. Lips gliding and tongues twisting; the bridge of his nose pressed uncomfortably against yours, the whole kiss a mess of ache and teeth and hungry, greedy need. Spittle drips down your chin and you whine into his mouth when his beard scratches at the sensitive skin around your mouth. 

Need prickles at the base of his spine. For days now, he’s kept his hunger contained when all it wanted was to run rampant. He’s been so good to you—given you days to ready yourself for what was inevitably to come. He never tried to conceal the reason behind his presence in your house.  

And now it’s all coming to a head.

John slides you off his lap and down onto the floor under the table, planting his feet on the ground and lifting his hips to pull his sweats down, letting his cock flop out against his belly, heavy with blood. 

“John, do I have to…?” you whimper, trailing off like even saying it out loud might jinx you. 

“Want your mouth on my knot,” he says bluntly. 

Your eyes are sparkly with tears when he looks down, big and wide and helpless and it somehow just makes him even harder. When you sniffle, a bead of precum dribbles down his shaft. 

“Get it nice and wet,” John grunts, pushing your face into his dick. “It’s going inside you soon enough.”

“Please—” you whisper.

“It can go in dry too,” he warns. 

Your tongue pokes out of your mouth reluctantly, face all scrunched up and petulant, but eventually you do as you’re told. Shy, kittenish licks around the base of his cock, right over his knot. Lazy pleasure ripples up his spine, each drag of your tongue over his soft knot making his vision go blurry and his breath get heavier. Practically panting by the time you kiss a particularly sensitive spot on the underside of his knot.

“My hand’s getting tired, sweetheart—mind taking over?” 

He doesn’t wait for you to answer, letting go of his cock so that it droops, batting your nose on the way down. The affronted look on your face nearly makes him snort. 

Your fingers curl around his cock, lifting it up. It looks brutish in your hand, ruddy and thick, precum leaking from the flushed head and dripping onto your head. If he were a decent man, he’d peel your hand off his cock and replace it with his own, get himself off with a rough, dirty tug instead of leaving that responsibility to you. Spoil you instead with gentle love making, all sweet talk and slow thrusts, decadent, languid kisses pulling your attention away from where it hurts.

But John isn’t a decent man. Not even a good man. 

He lets you lick and kiss it all over until his knot is wet with spit. Every so often your teeth graze his knot, forcing a violent shudder up his spine, and he snarls down at you, teeth bared to get the message across. Don’t push too far. 

He’s indulgent to a point. 

“Suck it too,” he rasps. The hand on the back of your head tightens, angling your face until your lips are stretched around his rapidly filling knot and you have no choice but to gently suck the puffed skin of his knot, your nose pressed against the thatch of hair at the base of his cock. 

His cock aches the longer you kneel there mouthing at his knot. It’d be nice to paint your face with cum—your tongue to start and then your cheeks and chin. A little on your forehead too just to mark you as his. He’s close enough to the edge that it wouldn’t take more than a few well-placed sucks, but his knot is already big enough. Any more and he won’t be able to fit it in you at all, at least not for another hour or so.  

He clamps his hand around the back of your neck and pulls you off, a string of spit still connecting your lips to his knot. “That’s enough.”

You frown, bottom lip jutting out. “You didn’t like it?”

That soothes the tension in his shoulders a little, makes his lips twitch under his mustache. 

“‘Course I liked it, sweetheart.” The weeping tip of his cock is enough evidence of that. 

“Why—why’d you stop me then?”

“I’m gonna come soon, honey, and I’d like the first time to be inside you.”

Your eyes go wide. “Oh.”

It’s a challenge getting you onto your hands and knees after that, divesting you of your clothes too. He very nearly has to wrestle you down to the ground, but exerting even the slightest amount of force makes you instantly acquiesce, likely realizing that you won’t stand a chance fighting him. He shushes you when you choke back a sob, kissing the back of your neck soothingly. 

At least, he hopes it soothes you. 

John runs a hand over your rump and between your legs, finding your center damp and hot to the touch. 

“Well, that’s a bit more inviting,” he says approvingly. “Been wet this whole time, sweetheart?”

You shake your head desperately, shoulders hitching with your quiet sobs. When he dips two fingers into your hole though, it’s soaked. Squelches when he pulls his fingers out and thrusts them back in. 

If he didn’t have more pressing concerns, he’d be tempted to turn over onto his back and tug you down onto his face. That thought lingers for a moment and then takes root. 

“Hold on, love—gotta do this first.”

The mattress springs back when he drops down onto his back. Your back arches when John grabs you by the hips and drags you over his mouth, your knees planted on either side of his head, one higher up than the other from being dragged down the bed. 

“Wait, you never said—” 

The crack across your ass interrupts you. He flexes his hand and then palms that same ass cheek, rubbing over the hurt. If you swear at him, it doesn’t register because his eyes are locked on the slice of heaven between your thighs, transfixed by your dew-slicked lips parting for his gaze.  

“That’s better,” John murmurs, then digs his fingers into your hips and pulls you down onto his face. 

The smell of your sex is drugging, mind-numbing. Musky and warm and fragrant. The hood of your clit is drawn back to expose the swollen bud and it calls to his tongue, a call which he answers in kind, gliding the flat of his tongue over it and smiling to himself when it twitches. 

It satisfies every carnal urge breathing fire and brimstone in the back of his mind. His tongue saws up the seam of your cunt, parting the soft, delicate petals before drawing one into his mouth, humming around the mouthful. The vibrations must feel good because your whole body jolts in his arms. 

When he sucks your clit into his mouth, you nearly wrench yourself right off his face, hands clawing at the bedsheets. Firm hands dig into the flesh of your backside and pull you back down though. 

“Mm…you gonna cum, sweetheart?” he rumbles into your pussy, his words muffled. 

“I—I’m gonna—oh…oh…—” 

Music to his ears. He can tell it’s right around the corner when your breathing goes staccato and your thighs squeeze around his head, forcing him to move one of his hands to keep your legs spread. He can feel your hole clench around his tongue, hips jerking sharply. 

He loves watching a pretty girl come. Loves feeling it on his tongue even more. It doesn’t take much to work you up to it either, likely on a hair trigger since he bolted the doors to your house shut and made himself at home. 

Your upper body collapses onto the bed when you come, hips undulating over his tongue subconsciously, like you can’t help but chase your release. And who is he to deny you when you’ve been such a sweet girl? 

John scoots down the bed to slide out from under you and sits up, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing your juices from his mouth to his cheek, drops clinging to the bristles of his beard. Trapped there, he’ll smell it for days. 

Good. Better for him if he can. 

Taking his place behind you again, he reaches down between his legs and lines his cock up with one hand, the other holding your hip steady before pressing in one inch at a time, a smooth, slow glide to the halfway mark. You squeeze him like a vice, pussy all clenched up like a fist, too wound up and stressed to relax enough to take him to the root. Even coming has barely loosened you up. 

He topples over you until his chest is pressed to your back. The skin on your back is sticky with sweat, a tremor running through you and making you shake. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” John murmurs into the side of your head, planting a kiss there for good measure. The skin over your knuckles pulls tight when you fist the sheet beneath you. “Can you relax for me?”

“N-no?” It’s said like a question, like you’re looking to him for reassurance, like you need your alpha to help you relax, to loosen you up. 

It’s why he feels no guilt for the situation that you’re in. Trapped under your alpha, about to take his dick to the root. What would you have done if he hadn’t been around to take you home? Any matter of tragedy could have befallen you. 

“I’ve got you.” Talking both to you and himself. 

There’s nowhere for you to go but further up the bed when John forces the rest of his cock into you, gaining more ground with every thrust. That’s how soldiers make strides in new land, conquering new territory with every advance. Rigor and momentum. 

The flesh of your ass ripples with every thrust, hips clapping against your cheeks. He drives into you with a single minded intensity, grunting through each thrust. Reason falls to the wayside. All that matters is knotting and breeding the omega under him. 

Your cries echo through the bedroom in bright, clean bursts. 

He feels virile, potent; it’s his alpha running hot in his veins and his body thick with muscle and the way you all but disappear underneath him, just a sweet and soft omega for him to use and breed. Back arched just enough to let him sink in as deep as he can get. 

“John—” you wheeze. “T-too deep. It’s—unf, it’s, ah…it’s too deep.”

“Full, honey?” he grunts. 

“Y-yeah,” you respond, whimpering through the word. 

“I know, baby,” he says consolingly, contradicting his own sympathetic tone when his next stroke nudges against the seal of your womb. “Not very nice of me, is it?”

“Noooo,” you moan.

“Yeah, not very nice.” His laugh is breathless, mean. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Coherency is a luxury that slips from his fingers as quickly as it came. Like a shroud falling over him, it cuts him off from everything but what he touches. Even your mating gland is forgotten in his fervour, its siren song going mute against the backdrop of the blood pounding in his ears. 

His knot pops quick. Half a dozen more thrusts in and he feels it thicken and swell until he suddenly can’t pull out. It punches the breath out of him, making him bear down on you, trapping you both on his knot and under his weight. 

“Oh—oh—oh—” you gasp, overwhelmed. 

He hooks his chin over your shoulder and plants his hands on top of yours, twining your fingers together, an intimacy so staggering that he can feel it thrum through your body, your frame trembling underneath him. 

Knot thoroughly plugged inside of you, he can only grind his hips forward, nudging that same tender spot over and over until your pussy draws up nice and tight around him, dragged unwillingly to another orgasm. He sees stars when your channel squeezes around his cock, milking him for all he’s worth. 

Overwhelmed, your heart rate spikes and your scent intensifies, permeating the room and lodging itself into the deepest recesses of his being. Your hands claw up the mattress, ripping the sheet off the left corner, and you yelp when you realize that you can’t pull off his knot, truly trapped.

John’s hindbrain interprets your squirming as trying to get away and he reacts instinctively, forcing you down to the mattress until your arms collapse under you and pinning you there with his body. 

“Where d’ya think you’re going?” he growls, mouth pressed to your ear. 

You shudder, walls tensing up around his knot and making him spurt another wad of cum into you. 

“Oh god,” you whisper, grunting softly when he forces more of his weight onto you, the mattress depressing under your combined weight. 

Sticky, tacky skin. Laboured breaths. Dark. Tunnel vision. Everything narrows to a single point. In the crook of your neck, your mating gland pulses. He presses his tongue to your neck and drags it through a trail of salty sweat. 

The vice grip around his knot has him swimming in and out of consciousness, vicious instincts clawing up his throat. It thins the barrier between him and his alpha, one no longer distinct from the other. 

“Are you—are you going to bite me?” you ask through panted breaths. 

His alpha considers it. That’s what he is now, at least. Its consciousness has usurped his, or moulded with his, or risen to the ranks of human. It tilts its head through him though, two beasts sharing a body and an appetite. 

It runs its tongue over its lips. He does the same.

“Not yet.”

Voracious. 

No matter how many times he cums or makes you cum, it’s never enough. 

He still has to rest though. Much to his consternation, the body demands it, so he falls asleep with you resting against his chest or under the crook of his arm with your fist curled over his belly, and wakes to the damp clutch of your centre pressed against his thigh from when you rolled over in the middle of the night. Then wakes you up by grinding your hips down against the hard line of his thigh, sweet talking you through an orgasm that leaves you thick-tongued and cross-eyed.  

Days pass that way. Blunt fingers; rake of tongue. Skimming his mouth over the valley of your tits and down the channel between your legs, gorging himself on the slick dripping from your pulsing hole. Scraped a bit raw from his beard, so he’s careful now; spreads your folds with his fingers before thrusting his tongue all the way in. 

He comes back to himself every now and then, some memories easier to recall than others:

Your cheek smushed against the shower wall, hands clawing at the tile while he drives into you from behind, rivulets of water running down your body. 

The feeling of your throat flexing around his shaft, your eyes watering when your nose nearly grazes his pubes. Pulling you off his cock to let you breathe and leaning down to press his forehead to yours. 

Pinching your cheeks to open your mouth after cumming in order to watch it melt on your tongue. 

Indulging in kisses messier than sex itself, lips going swollen and numb, eyes so masted that they’re barely even open. Each glide of your lips liquid and svelte. 

Always wanting more and more and more. 

Heavy footsteps following you into the kitchen as you scurry around looking for something to eat, wary glances thrown over your shoulder to keep track of him. Always keeping him in your line of sight. Smart girl; clever enough to know not to turn your back to a predator. 

Occasionally, he loses track of you as a person again, thinking of you like an extension of himself instead. Your name disappears into the recesses of his mind, replaced by concepts like omega, mine, pup—

You cover his mouth with your hands to muffle his words and he bites your fingers one by one until you pull them away. 

And it keeps—

going and going and going and going

—thoughts shaking loose from his head, one by one; hours disappearing into thin air, nothing real except the omega on the end of his knot. When it whimpers, his chest puffs out and his breathing goes laboured, his only concrete thought to fill it with more of his cum, make sure that it takes. 

It will, if John gets his way. 

And he always does.

Another season over, this one different from the rest. 

You’re still in bed when he surfaces from his rut, low back cracking and popping when he sits up. His muscles will ache for days after this, the aftermath of any good rut lingering in the body longer than the rut itself. 

John scrubs a hand down his face and cracks his jaw open for a good yawn, stretching everything out. When he looks down by his side, he finds you curled into yourself, cheek resting against the back of your hand, sleeping soundly.

You’re so tuckered out that your toes don’t twitch even when he drags his finger down the line of your back, stopping at your sacrum. The slope of your ass underneath the bed sheet is tempting, inviting him to part your legs and settle himself between them again, but he’s put you through enough over the past few days. 

Later, he’ll want to check between your legs and see how much of his cum is still painted between your thighs. Either way, he’ll have to run you a bath with Epsom salt for you to soak in. 

That’ll have to wait until after breakfast though.

Right on cue though, his stomach growls. No amount of preparation for a rut is ever enough—not once has he ever come out of one feeling refreshed. It’s always aching joints and empty stomachs and bruises where bruises usually shouldn’t be. His age only makes it all the more noticeable. 

His future ruts won’t always be this way. Not when his hormones are tempered by his omega’s corresponding heat. In the future, proximity and cohabitation will align your heat and his rut cycles, making the whole ordeal far more pleasant. One to stabilize the other. You’ll put in for leave at the same time and slip into it quietly, like slipping into a gentle, welcoming stream. 

That’s a thought for another time though. For now, John pulls himself out of bed and saunters towards the bathroom, intent on running a quick shower before fixing himself something to eat. 

He takes a brisk shower under cold water, scrubbing his chest and letting the soap run down his legs for no longer than ten minutes before shutting off the water. It’s a shame that it washes your scent off of him, but he’ll rectify that later when you’re up.  

The smell of bacon frying in the pan permeates the kitchen, the sound of it as emblematic of morning time as birds singing in the trees or the soft sound of the radio on in another room. A cool breeze spills in through the cracked open window. 

It’s nearly time, but not quite. 

He waited because he wanted this to be deliberate. Intentional, as everything he does always is. 

It wouldn’t have been as meaningful in the throes of his rut. Easily chalked up to instinct or error, rather than seen as intended from the very beginning. 

An hour or so later, you start to stir. Though his instincts aren’t as sharp as they were in the midst of his rut, he can still hear the bed creak in the other room. 

The bedroom is bathed in light when he returns. In the center of the bed, you’ve turned over onto your back, the light cascading over you making you look almost angelic. His heart throbs in his chest. 

One day, he might even love you. 

“You awake?” John asks, resting his knee against the edge of the bed and slowly climbing over you. When you blink a couple times and nod, he leans down to draw you into a slow, drugging kiss. 

The taste of your mouth is familiar now; he’s tasted it so many times over the past few days that it’s etched into his memory now. 

“Hm? Yeah,” you sigh, then meet his eyes. You must register something there because you pause, squinting up at him. “Are you… Is it over?”

John nods. It’s easier to just say yes than qualify that the rut hormones haven’t fully left his system yet, still present though in much smaller quantities. He’ll still be quick to anger for the next few days, in no shape to return to work just yet, but eventually his system will flush those lingering traces of rut and he’ll be back to his normal self. 

You smile, relieved. “Okay…that's uh, that’s good. Do you…do you mind if I rest a bit longer before I leave?”

“‘Course, sweetheart.”

He palms the side of your face, brushing the wispy baby hairs out of the way. All his life and he’s never seen something prettier than you. 

“In fact,” John murmurs, canines aching when he runs his tongue over them. “You can stay as long as you’d like.”

You must catch the double meaning in his words because your eyes go sharp. “Huh?”

His eyes flicker down to your neck and it hits you like a battering ram. 

It’s too late though. He gathers your wrists in his palm when you try to bat at his face, immediately going into struggle mode, and pins them down over your head with ease. With his other hand, he holds you by the neck and turns your head to one side, exposing the delicate skin of your neck. 

“John—wait, no, no—waitwaitwait, please—you said—”

Legs kicking out, back nearly arching off the bed, you put every last bit of your fight into trying to throw him off, only for him to force you back down, barely a grunt passing his lips. Then he ducks his head into the crook of your neck.

“John—John, please!”

John bites down. 

Under his teeth, your gland splits. 

The moment of connection is just as divine as he imagined. When your gland breaks under his teeth and your blood oxidizes in his mouth, his world reconfigures itself around this new reality, one where you flow through his veins like blood and swim through his mind like thought. 

He sees now what he missed before. All this time, he’s assumed that fate has railed against him, intent on him remaining alone. 

What he understands now is that—

(you whimper under him and arch up into his body, saliva gurgling in your throat)

—fate has always been on his side. 

After Ragnarok, the earth will once again bob out of the saltwater, dregs of ancestral seafoam lapping at the sides.

(he gnaws at the Yggdrasil’s roots)

In this life, nothing has ever been handed to him because he has needed to fight for it. Of course fate would have taken that into consideration when creating his mate. Baptism by fire. He never would’ve been satisfied with simply being handed his intended mate. He needed to leave the imprint of himself like chiselling into stone. Maker of his own fate.  

When he pulls back, teeth unlatching from your shoulder and blood leaking from the wound, you stare up at him through misty, filmy eyes, tears scorching hot lines down your cheeks. 

He can appreciate the shock this must come as. You thought you’d get off scot-free after all—just a few days of being fucked and knotted and then sent on your way—not kept like bounty from a sacked city. You are a prize though. His hard earned prize. 

His moral compass doesn’t allow him to see this as a pillaging. Not when his actions are led by his heart.

You raise a shaky hand to cover the wound on your shoulder, wincing when your fingers brush the raw skin there, coming back saturated in blood. “You—you bit me.” 

John hums. “It’s alright, sweetheart; it’s over now. Nothing to worry about anymore.”

“You said—you promised you wouldn’t,” you bleat. 

He shakes his head, voice still soft when he responds. “Never said I wouldn’t, sweetheart.”

“You said you’d leave. You promised you’d leave.”

“Aw, honey, you wouldn’t do that to an old man, would you?” He lies down beside you, pulling on your heartstrings like a marionette. Plenty have called him a decent soldier, but no one has ever called him a good person. “Why make me leave when you could have someone in your corner instead?”

Tears like diamonds on your cheeks. You’re the most beautiful creature that John has ever laid eyes on; there’s no wonder why he had to make you his. Had he turned around in that hospital and walked out that door after hearing your voice, life would have been less complicated but it would have been dull, colourless. He would have woken up today with his mind at ease, but his heart would have been empty. 

Now though—

“We’ll be good for each other,” John says, moving his hand over your throat, loose fingers simply resting there. Just enough to feel the thrum of your pulse under his palm. “I’ll prove it to you.”

He feels you swallow beneath his palm. It is easy to see why you might doubt his words.

But in the back of his mind, his alpha purrs, satisfied for once in its life, and when he tightens his fingers around your throat, you go still, all of your trust gathering there in the palm of his hand. He can live with that.

"Seriously...? I was fucking sleeping, this couldn't have possibly waited until the morning?" He blurts out angrily, but shame and regret tears through his chest when he watches your expression fall, your shoulders slump just that slight angle - he knows you're trying not to look as crestfallen as you feel. In your hands you clutch a pizza box with a round white grocery store cake in its clear plastic dome balanced on top. The icing echoes your words: "Happy Birthday Jimmy!" it reads in cursive, with little multicoloured heart shaped icing balloons and party streamer curlicues represented on the top.

He runs his hand over his weary face and pinches the bridge of his nose while he turns his head to the side, right as you begin to apologize in that small voice: "Oh, I'm sorry, Jim, I was just so excited... I figured you're usually up for at least another hour anyways and we've never-"

He sighs and wordlessly steps aside as he swings the door open, gesturing for you to enter the dark apartment. His face is turned to the floor, he's almost afraid to look at you, but still manages to meet your eyes, gazing up at you through his eyelashes beneath pinched eyebrows. And your expression softens again as you tentatively cross the threshold, a small smile, warm eyes. It hurts. It hurts because he's always waiting for the time when your eyes remain hard, brimming with pain. No matter how he fucks up, you always step willingly into his life. If only you would just turn your back on him, then at least he would know what the fuck to do.

But no. He's still following you blind, through life, into his apartment, into this impromptu birthday celebration, not knowing the boundaries until he inevitably crosses them. Your grace makes him all the more comfortable, just as it makes him want to bolt. He remains suspended exactly where he is, on a tightrope, in the air.

He flicks the lightswitch on as he closes and locks the door behind him, and meets you at his kitchen table where you've laid out the pizza box and the cake side by side.

"I wish I had gotten you a gift but... It was literally yesterday afternoon when Curly messaged me, 'so it's Jimmy's birthday tomorrow, what do you have planned?' and I was like, 'it's fucking Jimmy's birthday?! Tomorrow?!'" You turn to him, mirroring the incredulosity in your voice and expression that you must've had yesterday as you put your bag down on the floor - the bag you bring when you spend the night.

For a moment he doesn't respond, just looks at you as he feels the remorse creep uncomfortably up his throat. "I'm sorry," the apology comes out of his mouth, sticky like vomit. "For shouting at you." That's all he has in him.

You look up at him, a pinched smile on your lips. "Don't worry 'bout it. I woke you up, I would be pissed off too," you concede, reaching up to rest your hand on his arm. Then realization brightens your face: "Oh! I almost forgot!" You grin and reach up to the party hat on your head, moving to take it off but - there were two stacked atop each other, you lift the top one and release the elastic band from under your chin, and before Jimmy can even think, you sweep your arm out and place it on his head, snapping the elastic underneath his chin.

"OW! Fuck," he exclaims as his skin begins to sting, you cringe before him and hiss an apology through your teeth. He rubs at the tender line along his jaw, swallows down the barrage of curses that want to leave his lips. "At least these are more eye catching than the ones they provide on the Tulpar," he mutters, "been the same ones for years, we have to put them back when the party ends. I don't even wanna know how many years of strangers' hair grease is absorbed into those things."

"Your job only gets more glamorous the more you talk about it," you intone with irony as he scoffs, giving you a humourous side eye as he turns to lift the lid of the pizza box.

He feels a rush of simple pleasure, the greasy and savoury smell curling through the air, as he lays eyes on the pizza, laden with all his favourite toppings. "Wow," he drawls, "You remember." He pulls the chair out and takes a slice, drawing long strings of melted cheese out as he tilts his head to the sky, dropping the trails into his open mouth before he bites the tip of the slice.

"You order the same thing every time." You seat yourself beside him and take your own slice.

You eat in relative silence. Occasionally you share small talk, a tidbit from your day. Otherwise it's quiet. Jimmy likes that about being with you. Not having to be "on" all the time, not having to perform the constant babbling meaningless niceties that his every other failed relationship expected of him.

"...You know, I do wish you would open up more sometimes, Jim. I mean, when I think about it, it's kind of crazy that we've been together this long and I didn't even know when your birthday was until the day before. Had Curly not said anything to me, it would have just passed by."

He doesn't meet your eyes, just stares silently into the half eaten pizza, thinking, eyebrows drawn together.

"I'd have loved to do something a bit more special. I just kind of panicked, I was so short on time."

Jimmy feels so extraordinarily vulnerable as your words wrap around him. "Yeah, well, you've heard my sob story," he says, strained. "Doesn't take much to realize my birthday's always sucked." He gathers the strength to look you in the face, give you a smirk. "It's better not to expect anything, you know? Makes it easier for everyone."

It doesn't have the effect on you that he'd imagined. A look of poignant sadness crosses your eyes as you search him. It almost irks him, the last thing he wants is your fucking pity. He feels uncomfortable, pinned under your gaze.

"It doesn't have to suck anymore, you know? I want to help make it... not suck," you say simply, and he turns his eyes down to the table again. It was an option he had never considered. It had been nearly thirty years since he'd given up hope of having a nice birthday. He'd long since driven Curly away from celebrating, because he was never able to feel particularly celebratory, saddled with all the terrible memories, year after year after year of disappointment. Today was a sore day for him. But you have this strange tendency to make everything better. Maybe he could let you try.

"...I guess we can start by eating this cake," he yields. He turns his head when he hears you eject yourself from your seat, sees your beaming grin right before you wrap your arm around his shoulder and press a big kiss to his temple.

"Yes! I'll go get plates and forks. And a knife!" He watches you bounce around his kitchen from cupboard to drawer, before you return with the aforementioned supplies. You hold the knife out to him, gripping it by the blade between your fingers and thumb.

"You're the birthday boy, it's your cake. You gotta cut it," you state matter-of-factly. He snorts, drawing his lips together as he takes the knife, pushing the pizza box out of the way while he drags the cake container right in front of him. He takes the top off, it's deafening plastic ripping noise sounding out in the night as you take your seat next to him, putting his plate and fork next to the cake.

"Should I sing for you, Jimmy?" You tease with a smile.

"God, no. Please," he insists. "This... this is more than enough." He looks from the cake, to the pizza, to your fingers curled around the edge of the table, drumming expectantly. He lines up the knife and sinks it into the cake, cutting one slice, putting it on his plate. Cutting another, that he placed on yours. He watches you lift your plate gleefully and dig in.

He turns down to his own plate, takes a forkful and eats it, savouring the sweet and airy standard vanilla grocery store cake. 'It's good', he thinks, 'guess that's why they still manage to sell these things.'

Last time he got a "cake" from his own family, he had turned nine. It was a little cupcake, fresh out of the plastic wrapper, with a single candle unceremoniously stuck in at a lopsided angle. They'd stopped singing Happy Birthday for him a few years earlier. He blew out the candle and ate it down in three bites. Went to the kitchen to find that the other 5 that came in the box were already long eaten. Next year his dad figured since he hit double digits, he was old enough to not need a cake anymore.

He stares at the cake, its' white icing, the red heart shaped balloon piped onto the top (was it a design they offered or did you request them specifically for him?), the custard between its layers, the sliced off words, Happ Bi J, all of it swimming and wavering in his wet eyes. Was it as stupid as it felt to be so emotional over a grocery store cake?

It's been a long, long while since he'd let tears fall, and he certainly wasn't going to now. Still, he sniffles, thick and wet, and the sound is so obvious, he turns his head towards you and catches you just as you look away, nonchalantly slicing through the cake with your fork and eating the bite.

He puts his plate down on the table. "Hey," he says, quietly grabbing your attention. You look at him and hum in question, so very pointedly casual, even though he knows you know, and certainly you can see his gleaming blubbering eyes if you didn't.

'...Fuck it,' he thinks, and leans over to take you in a hug, wrapping his arms around you and drawing you close as he hides his face in your shoulder. He inhales, a shaky breath, no, he's still not going to cry, but he is going to bask in the warmth of your love as he rides through it.

"Thanks," he chokes out in an almost silent whisper against your shirt. "...I love you, y'know?"

He’s fucking you like he’s got something against you.

You can’t breathe, he’s going to fuck right through you, forcing himself into your airways until there is no room for anything but him. It’s invasive and piercing and cruel, his dick is so fucking mean, battering your insides, the tip grinding the fleshy opening of your cervix into a pulp.

“Jim…” Your voice won’t even come out, it feels like he’s in your throat, your breath comes out in short bursts each time his cock knocks into you. “Jimmy…” You place a trembling hand on his abdomen and hope he gets the hint, gazing up at him through your wet lashes. He looks so handsome right now. A rivulet of sweat drips from the slope of his long nose, hair sticking to his cheekbones, kiss-bruised lips—You would like to stop and admire him, but really, quite honestly you’re concerned about the state of your insides once he’s done with you.

“You want me to slow down?” Jimmy asks, he lowers his forehead to rest against yours, chests crushed together, puffy nipples brushing his. He’s burning up.

Yes, yes, god, please slow down before I need a colostomy bag.

You nod, pleading with him silently, hoping you can work your pout on him.

“Mm.” His teeth catch on your earring, pulling until it hurts and you whine in the back of your throat like a dog. “I thought you could take it.” Jimmy’s hips snap into you, bullying his cock past any resistance your poor cunt puts up. It stands no chance. Fuck, you should’ve done Kegels. “You asked for it so you’re going to take it.” He smiles down at you, all teeth, sharp canines catching the light.

“Jim—“ You brace your hands on his shoulders, face twisting as he takes on a quicker pace. It’s fucking brutal and you really think he is aiming to kill you. Maybe it’s on his bucket list. “Please, please, slow down.”

He seems to think about it, and then, definitively, “No,” and then, for good measure, “bitch.”

When you start to cry, expression contorting into something quite ugly, crumpled up like yesterday's newspaper, Jimmy snorts. “I like that face, do it again.” He fucks you harder, cunt squelching noisily each time he bottoms out, it’s literally fucking crying, you hope you go out before the rattling bed frame does.

“You’re gonna—gonna kill me, Jim,” you sniffle, pussy contracting as you try to eject him like a scratched up CD. You want him out. This feels more like a migraine than sex, the numbing pound of his cock in your womb.

Flashing lights danced across your face, hair whipping as you skipped to the nearest ticket booth with your friends. Loud giggles echoed to his ears, making his painted lips curl into a blushing smile as he watched you become antsy with excitement.

Jack had been rummaging around these fairgrounds for a couple of days, scoping out potential victims coming in to enjoy the seasonal summer event, lurking behind food stalls and blending into the crowd. He was good at that: staying hidden until he wanted to be seen, practically going invisible until the time was right. Humans had such a hard time with noticing things, noticing him, so even standing amongst them, their eyes never glanced at his towering self. It just made it easier to slip kids away from their occupied families, dragging them away with the promise of a game or a prize to be won, only to become giddy with the panic that ensued afterwards, mothers and fathers losing their grip as they scoured for their already deceased child. The clown was here for the fifth night this week, the summer breeze ruffling his feathered costume as he scanned a large group of elementary schoolers rushing towards a ferris wheel, picking his target out of the litter and moving in.

Until he spotted you, elbows wrapped tight around another girl’s right behind the kids, eyes wide as you picked out which rides you wanted to try first. A couple more friends filed in behind you, obnoxiously loud as they tried to impress you, daring each other to try the more frightening ones. Jack grit his teeth, jagged pearls clenching as he rolls his eyes, scoffing at the irritable sound of desperation. Your group pushed passed him, not a single eye batting in his direction as he tried to press through you all, distance gaining between him and the small group of children making their way to another set of rides. He looked down, making sure to avoid bumping any of you as even the tallest of your friends barely reached his chest, his size overbearing as he brushed past you, barely catching your eyes as you stopped.

Jack hesitated, feet planted into the ground as he turned over his shoulder, stunned as your eyes locked with his. At first, he wasn’t sure if you were just looking through him, neck craned in some odd position at something behind his head. But as you smiled awkwardly, nodding your head as a silent hello, Jack froze, eyes wide. You could see him. Before it became awkward, Jack nodded back, watching as you turned back and continued with your friends, all of them completely unaware of the exchange that just took place. There was no fear in your gaze as you glanced back again, smiling sweetly before friends pushed you towards the ticket booth and out of the clown’s sight.

He stood stunned, not knowing what to do but knowing he couldn’t let you slip, couldn’t let you out of his sight. It had felt like ages since someone had noticed him, actually noticed him. He had always chosen when he wanted attention, letting his appearance become visible to onlookers who otherwise wouldn’t have felt his presence at all, giving them a jump of fear at his arrival. But you saw him anyway, despite his invisibility, despite his ability to blend. For some reason, you weren’t afraid of his chilling appearance, brushing him off as another circus carnie and being more polite to him than anyone ever cared. Over the last several years, it had been nothing but screams and pleas, all music to his ears, of course, but some desperate tug on his nonexistent heart jumped at the civility you showed him. He needed more.

Pressing into the shadows of a taller fair ride, Jack watched you closely, the corners of his mouth jumping to a smile every time yours did. The group of kids he was after was long forgotten, intentions focused on following you towards the merry-go-round that sat in the center of the fairgrounds. He quickly followed, slipping through the unattended gates easily and hopping on the ride with you, seated on a plastic horse several rows back. As the ride started up, happy music played loudly as you giggled and slowly teetered up and down, joking with your friends. Your hair danced beautifully in the wind, bright lights and colorful tones dancing in your eyes and across your cheeks, a way that only really Jack could appreciate. 

There was no clear reason as to why you were able to see him when others couldn’t, pushing past his invisibility and meeting his gaze, but he didn’t care. For the rest of the ride and the rest of your time on the grounds, Jack made sure not to catch your attention again, watching you carefully how you interacted, your sweetheart personality pulling him ever-near. He couldn’t stand it, couldn’t focus anywhere else as he watched your group grow tired and begin to head towards the exit, a boy’s arm falling lazily over your shoulders and tugging you into his truck. 

Jack didn’t care as he left groups of potential victims behind, silently following you into the parking lot and hiding in the dark spots that even you couldn’t see him. He didn’t care as he followed you home, abandoning all instincts and mind becoming fogged as he watched you crawl into bed from your window, heart skipping as you curled in. You would be his. You had to be. You didn’t have a choice.

-

You had been unnerved for weeks.

It wasn’t anything serious. No traumatic experience or humiliating incident that kept you up into the late hours of the night, like most girls your age would’ve been. Maybe having to worry about what clothes you were going to wear the next day or who liked you at work would’ve been a much better thing to stay up and think about. No, it was something much more unenjoyable.

These dreams, wild and constant, happen every night at the same time. They would all start the same, you climbing into bed comfortably and snuggling in after a long day, desperate for a relaxing slumber. But then you would doze, senses leaving you in the darkness of your room, almost on the verge of slipping… and then you would hear it. The quiet, subtle echo of carnival music, almost like a music box was winding near your bed. You knew you were asleep, consciousness floating in that weird in-between, but you were somehow still fully aware, still active in your brain even though your body wasn’t. The first time it had happened, you were afraid, and confused if you were experiencing some weird lucid dream or having a seizure, but then it happened again the next night and the next.

After the music wound for what felt like forever, the same merry tune looping in your head, you would eventually see it, the tall figure. He would stay back in the haziness of your mind, in the shadows your brain couldn’t see, but you already knew who it was. 

The clown from the fair, smiling sweetly at you, stark-white face contrasted against the darkness of your dream. He was tall, like had to bend halfway down to reach your eye level tall, his limbs lengthy in comparison. He wore the same costume he did the first night you saw him, black and white striped and decorated with a feathered collar, like a sad recreation of a children’s entertainment piece. You didn’t know why you were seeing him, or why your brain was so focused on him, but it wasn’t like you could do anything to stop it.

The first couple of times, he just stayed at a distance, watching silently as you questioned him, trying to press towards him until you were abruptly awoken and left confused. Eventually, he started getting closer, refusing to speak but at least coming into clear focus, letting you see his painted face and chilling demeanor up close. But the more you talked, the more you questioned why he was here and why you were seeing him, the more eager he got.

The dreams started getting longer, more intense on your physical as you slept, constantly waking covered in sweat. The clown's hands began to roam, your body immovable against his curious claws as he rubbed and poked you all over, smiling at the reactions that came. They were sweet at first, tucking your hair behind your ear or caressing your small hands, but they soon became feisty. The touches grew to rubs, pressing his arms around your smaller body and pushing against your skin, gripping at your clothes and tugging them away, claws so realistically scratching against your warmth. With each dream, the intensity grew, your body waking up in a horny panic to settle itself out, panting against your pillow and trying to recollect yourself. It was boggling, so confused and pent up that you couldn’t do anything but fall right back to sleep, starting the cycle all over again.

Jack watched through every night. He perched in the corner of your room, lips curling to a smile with every flinch and tug of your body as he manipulated your dreams, making you see and feel what he wanted you to. He never let you see him, disappearing into the night whenever you would wake, but always arriving the next night to watch you again. It was his favorite, the little noises that squirmed from your lips when he would press his claws between your legs in your dream, making your thighs press together on your bed. He loved it, he loved you. But, he was becoming impatient, not satisfied with just having you in your mind anymore. He had coaxed you enough, driving you to expect him now, mind already conditioned to his looks and his touch; you would be familiar now. Your body would accept him now, even if your mind didn’t.

-

Pressed in the same corner as always, he was twisting your latest dream, giving you the wonderful experience of him licking against your neck, rubbing you through your panties as you wined and thrashed on your bed. Jack snickered, long arms crossed and claws digging into his clothes as he watched, licking his spikey teeth as you arched your back. 

He had decided tonight would be it, the first time you would see him outside of your slumber. Regardless if you were ready or not, he was, and he didn’t know if he could wait much longer to get his claws around you. The clown spent the better part of the day watching you, thinking about you, obsessing over your sickly sweet self. You were perfect, a complete contrast to him, but fitting his needs perfectly. 

When you suddenly rolled to your side, curling into yourself as you panted, cheeks flushed and dark as you whined, Jack’s attention came back. The darkness of your room was lit nicely by a small nightlight, the little sun and moon design shooting pastel colors across your warm skin and making you look so lovely, enough to make the clown press off the wall. 

Your bed was small, definitely going to be barely enough for the two of you as he kneeled onto your mattress, dipping the weight and making you shift, whining from your dream. “Hi, pretty.” Jack cooed softly, brushing your hair out of your flushed face and leaning down towards you, breathing in your lovely smell. He loved everything about you, every small detail that no human would ever notice, only his unnatural abilities could pick up on. You needed him, he could smell it, feel it. Pressing his body down onto the mattress, he curled around you, spooning you against him as he wrapped his arms around your small waist, tugging you closer. You immediately relaxed against him, back arching to accommodate his large stature and legs tangling with his long ones, breathing deep as he snuggled behind. The clown’s claws danced on your skin, tugging at your clothes and brushing against your hair, smiling as he placed small kisses against your tired face. You melted into him, mind completely unaware as he still mixed in your dreams, contorting your senses to automatically crave him. 

“So small… smells good…” He mumbled against the shell of your ear, a subconscious gasp slipping as goosebumps rose. Jack kissed against your neck, minding his long nose and nibbling against your skin, slowly fading your dream out and substituting it for real life. You whined, hands gripping onto his wandering arms and tugging at them, snoring lightly. Small mumbles fell from your mouth, little confused jabbers and sleepy questions that he couldn’t quite hear, but pressed his lips to the shell of your ear anyway. “Jack.” He whispered, kissing against your neck as your browns knitted, sleep heavy on your brain. “Jack…” You mumbled back halfway through a sigh, pressing your neck against his mouth, mindlessly feeding into the clown’s growing arousal. “Jack…” You whispered again, beginning to numbly repeat the name and let it settle in your mind, Jack’s excitement bouncing at the delicious way you said it. As you continued, he began to push your shirt up, palming at your tits and tugging the fabric over your head, letting the goosebumps rise as he ran his claws down. “Pretty girl.” He smiled, nibbling against your bare shoulder.

The clown’s cock was throbbing now, nestled comfortably against your ass as he began to slowly rut against you, long tongue lapping at your warm skin. He drew a claw up, wrapping it around your tiny throat and squeezing slightly, grinning at the sigh that he pushed out as he pressed his hips against your flesh. His cock slotted perfectly between your clothed asscheeks, hips jerking and stuttering as he chased his arousal, holding your hips still as he moved. Draped slightly over you, he pinned you in place, the sheer weight of the clown securing your hips as he moaned into your ear, panting his approval as he humped against you. Your body subconsciously pressed back against him, back arching to get a better angle of his clothed cock against you, letting his claw mindlessly rouse you from your deep sleep and slowly into consciousness. He felt you stir, wrapping a claw around your jaw and turning your head, watching as your eyes slowly fluttered open. He pressed his lips to yours, tugging your cheek and shoving your lips against his, forcing a desperate makeout that your tired brain couldn’t comprehend yet. Jack panted and groaned into your open mouth, lips occasionally catching but he was too focused on rutting his hips, grinding his clothed cock against your ass as you shifted, straining against his rough grasp.

“Jack…” You sighed again, the name repeating like a quiet mantra as your tired brain tried to figure out what was happening, hips instinctively leaning into it because you felt so good despite being so dazed out. “Jack..?” You began to question, hands pressing against his claw snagged onto your hip, cheeks squished together as the clown kissed against the corner of your lips, panting against the skin. Jack dug his heels into your sheets, long limbs contorting to fit around you as you began to squirm, trying to press out of his grasp now, trying to understand what was happening. “Lay still, pretty girl…” He hissed, tip catching on the band of your panties, tugging them up as he rutted, nails digging into your soft skin. You whined, pushing on the sheets and trying to turn around, trying to see who was behind you, but the clown held you still, beginning to guide your hips with his.

It helped that you were already aroused from your dream, body already hot and bothered and easily coaxed into his movement, taking little persuasion for you to open your legs and let his cockhead nudge against your clothed entrance. You mewled, hissing against his teeth nibbling into your skin, little welts appearing across your shoulder. “Feel how hard you make me… Can’t wait to be inside… Can’t wait…” Jack was huffing, burying himself into the crook of your neck as he pushed his hard cock against you, practically forcing your panties into your entrance as he nudged at your hole, trying to make himself inside despite his slacks covering him. He throbbed, claws desperate and tongue curling against your neck, lapping at your sweat and scent of excitement. You didn’t have to look anymore, didn’t have to guess as the ruffles of his collar pressed against the back of your head, long limbs swallowing you, dreams had revealed enough for you to know, enough for you to grind down against him. How he was here, how he had gotten into your bed, how he even knew where you lived, you were too tired to guess, too tired to do anything but let his claws guide you under him, his body sliding down yours. This dream was more intense than the others, it felt real, you tried to convince yourself you were still asleep, still dozing alone in your bed during this wet dream.

But as claws slipped into your panties and desperately tugged off of your soaked cunt, pulling them off of your ankles, you began to question. Jack’s large claw snagged around both of your ankles, holding them in the air as he kneeled, sliding his suspender straps off of his shoulders. You watched through sleepy eyes, eyelashes fluttering as he let the straps fall at his hips, unbuttoning his slacks and tugging them down, letting his angry cock slip out, balls tugged out and laid heavy between his legs. You gasped, whining as he kneeled closer, prying your legs apart and grinning at your sopping pussy. “Gonna eat you out, pretty girl. Gonna make that pussy cum, m’kay?” He chuckled, bright eyes roaming your tiny body compared to his, laying down on his chest as he wrapped his long arms around your thighs, dragging you closer.

You squirmed and whined, letting your hands run down your body and to his wild dark hair, snagging in the mess and tugging his face closer, letting your thighs press open. You had no fear, blissfully unaware of how real this situation was as Jack licked your folds open, long tongue twirling and flicking against your lips. He groaned, kissing against your soaked arousal before pressing his tongue in, nudging the muscle into your entrance and letting your back tug off the bed, curling your hips down onto his tongue as you moaned. Jack was so into it, so focused on pushing his tongue as deep as he could that he could hear you begin to panic, tugging his hair back as you realized that tongue was far longer than you anticipated. It jolted you out of your tired haze, the sensation of your walls stretching around the clown’s large tongue made you keenly aware of just how little this felt like a dream anymore, how real this all seemed. Jack just continued, curling and twisting his tongue along your plush walls, wanting only to soak in your lovely taste and get you ready for him, what he knew you needed. 

You began to jabber your sobs, mumbling against your moans and whining for Jack to stop, hips twitching against the overwhelming feeling. You could hardly breathe, every press of his tongue against your g-spot making you suck in a ragged breath and cry out, gasping for relief. Jack began to thrust his cock into the bed below, rutting against the soft sheets as he became so turned on by your noises, bright eyes clenched shut as he worked. He whined into your cunt, sloppy and messy movements pushing slobber and arousal against his chin, smearing it along your thighs and cheeks, Jack losing himself in your taste. “So tasty…” He babbled against your folds, sucking your lips as he gushed into your cunt, cock whining to be buried inside and stretching you open. You were clawing at the sheets, pushing against his head as you pleaded for him to stop, overstimulation rushing over you as you stuttered, clit pulsing as your thighs shook, begging to close. Jack wouldn’t listen, he could barely even hear you over the roar in his ears, his primal urge to stuff you ruling out any remorse he felt for your aching pussy. 

Despite your pleas, you were cumming quickly against his tongue. Walls clenching and hips spasming around the girth of his tongue, clenching down tight as your arousal soaked in. Jack whined, moaning loud into your folds as he sucked and lapped at your juices, claws dug tight into your thighs as he moved his head with your flinching hips, refusing to let up until he tasted every drop. You cried, sobbing into your hands as he held you still, breath heavy and chest panting as you rode your high, overstimulation pinching at your senses. Jack had rutted a wet spot into your sheets, cock leaking profusely as he lifted off, sliding his soaked tongue out of your dripping cunt and grinning, panting against your thighs. 

You could barely look through hooded eyes at the mess he had made, white face paint smeared across your thighs and folds, sweat and arousal smearing the paint against your skin. It was enough to make Jack cum, his cock twitching hard in the air as he sat back, admiring his paint all over you. You whined, pushing against his claws wrapped around your thighs as he tugged them open again, positioning his hips against yours.

He nestled his cock against your cunt, gripping the length and slapping it down against your clit and making you jump, sensitivity pulsing through you. “No… please…” You whined, trying to clench your thighs together but he held your ankles easily, holding them arm's length apart. “Why are you this turned on if you don’t want it, pretty girl?” He mused, dropping one of your ankles to line his tip with your entrance, the girth much bigger than any cock you had taken before and making your skin chill as he began to push. You frantically clawed at the sheets, trying to push away from the clown. “It won’t fit.” You whined, pushing your hands to cover your aching cunt as Jack laughed, abandoning your legs to wrap a claw around your wrists, pining them above your head as he repositioned, nudging himself in. “You’ll learn to take it…” He chuckled, using his free hand to hold your soft hips down as he pushed in, the tip popping in against the wetness and warmth of your cunt. It probably wouldn’t fit as comfortably as you wanted it to, but when your tightness began to squeeze around Jack’s already-about-to-cum cock, he didn’t mind hearing your desperation if it meant he got to feel you. 

“You were made for me, lovely.” Jack hissed against your ear as he lay on top of you, slowly guiding your hips down as he pushed in, stretching your cunt impossibly wide as you cried, sobbing into the lips that began to press against yours. This wasn’t a dream, not anymore, you realized. A claw held down your wrists above your head, the other sliding under your knee to push your leg back, opening your entrance wider to give the clown a better angle. He moaned loudly, laughing through whines as he began to shallowly thrust, the first couple inches pushing in and out of your cunt as you sobbed, straining against him. “That’s it. Let me in, let me fuck you like you need to be…” He smiled, lazy laughs and heavy groans filling your open mouth as he sucked on your lips, nibbling his teeth into your jaw. With every thrust he aimed to go deeper, to push his cock in further than the last one.

It was devastating for your cunt, the poor sensitive thing struggling to balance out the pleasure and pain that was wrecking you as you arched, trying to open up more. “Can you feel me inside? Do you even know how good you feel?” Jack laughed, moving to bite down against your neck, hissing as he licked against the wound, kissing down your shoulder. He was getting deeper down, cunt relaxing the longer he thrust, walls fluttering around the desperate length that begged to bottom out, getting ever closer. It was so deep you felt like you couldn’t breathe right, gut flinching and contorting with every press against your sensitive gut. 

Loud skin slapping echoed as Jack’s cock began to press against the deepest part of your cunt, nudging against your womb and fucking you open quickly. His balls slapped your ass, the heavy mounds smacking down as he leaned back, letting go of your wrists to cup his hands under your knees, pushing them back as you began to paw at his chest. “Mngonna fuck you so full… Milking me like you need it.” He panted between thrusts, tugging his hips out as far as he could before pushing back into your gushing cunt, loud squelches and soaked folds coating his length. He was close, bright eyes rolling softly as you gripped his ruffled collar, tugging against it as he snapped his hips, moaning against your skin. “You were made for me, pretty girl. Need to cum… Mngonna cum and show how good it feels in you…” He smiled, blubbering against his swollen lips as he pressed his lips with yours, whining into your mouth as he spilt.

His cum was hot and thick, pumping into your ruined cunt desperately like he truly needed you full, big with his seed. He groaned loud, eyes clenched shut as he thrust through his orgasm, milking his cock of all it was worth inside of you, twitching deep into your warmth. “That’s it… So good… Knew it would be…” He hissed, clawing into the underside of your thighs as he raised off of you, licking a stripe across your cheek and nibbling the flesh before leaning back.

You waited for him to pull out, to let his thick cum spill against your sheets, but he didn’t. He only turned you onto your side, leaving his still-hard cock nestled in your cunt as he tugged your right leg onto his shoulder, relaxing back against you. You watched through heavy, panicked eyes, clawing at your pillow as he began to thrust again, sensitive cunt screaming at you as his nudged his cum back in. You immediately began to kick your legs, pushing him away as he just pressed deeper, claw wrapping around your thigh as he wrapped around the other, tugging your body to his with every thrust. Tears spilt, the air from your lungs gasping out as Jack cried out, clenching his sharp teeth as he watched you come undone again, relishing in the way you stared back at him, eyes pleading. “Don’t close your eyes yet, pretty girl… Just one more, I need it, just one… You can take it, I know you can, yeah?” Through every thrust, he chanted some desperate coax, your answering whines and sobs combatted against your cunt that fluttered against his words, fucking his cum deeper into you. Even though your mind refused, Jack had conditioned you, preparing you for him. Even if you didn’t know it, your body wanted him, beckoned for him, needed him. He couldn’t let you down.

Pushing his chest down, he bent your leg on his shoulder, pushing it down and opening your cunt wider, shoving his hips so deep even he gasped against the tightness. “Jack-” You cried, palming against his claws and scratching at his shirt, trying to ground yourself as your body racked under his tugs, bones going limp under him. You were so tired, so delusionally overstimulated you couldn’t physically resist, only your unheard begs falsely wishing for relief, but you knew better, knew that every time your cunt strained around the girth it was a heavenly feeling. “What, pretty? C’mon, talk.” Jack whined, kissing against your calf and nibbling at the skin, turning you onto your back to tug your other leg up onto his opposite shoulder, pushing them both back. With every thrust of his hips, his cum leaked out of your entrance, pooling between your cheeks and mixing with your arousal.

You cried at the deepness, every slap of his hips pushing his cock against your g-spot, nails clawing against his shoulders as his claws rested on your tits, massaging the mounds as he thrust. “So big… Deep…” You gasped out, arching into the feeling as your stomach coiled, your orgasm teetering at the edge. Jack grinned, jagged teeth shining against your nightlight as he continued, spreading his knees to get a better push, skin slapping loud enough to echo against the small room. “Can you cum again, lovely? Cum for me?” You nodded, running your hands into his messy hair and holding stable, tugging as he grinned, speeding his thrusts to a nauseating pace.

You were cumming around his cock hard, hips jerking and slamming against his as you writhed, eyes rolling back as your cunt swallowed him deeper. “Just like that…” Jack mewled, letting his own thrusts become lazy as he grit, whining against the tightness of your cumming walls. The clown was quick to follow, spilling yet again deep inside, fucking his orgasm into you as he refused to stop, pushing your senses into overload as you sobbed, tears running down your cheeks. Jack let your ankles slip off of his shoulders, pressing his chest down against yours as he licked into your mouth, pressing his lips down as you milked his cock dry, tugging the last of his orgasm through with your own. 

You both panted heavily, desperate touches continuing against each other’s skin as you both made out, lying the afterglow of your mutual ecstasy. “So pretty… my pretty girl… mine.” Jack slipped between kisses, letting his cum leak as he slowly pulled out, popping the tip of his cock out of your tight rim. You whined, letting his claws feel your soft skin as he tugged you against him, letting your eyes flutter closed as you felt his cum spill onto the sheets below.

Sleep overtook you, the early hours of the morning tugging at your sore bones as you relished in the feeling of no more perverted dreams keeping you stirred. But when your bed lay empty the next morning, sheets askew and cum stained into the fabric, your friends would have no clue where you went. They would have no clue whose arms you were draped in, carried closely through the woods and out of sight and reach of anyone who wanted you. You were special, different from the mindless humans he preyed upon, you were his. He had claimed you fair and square.

No one wanted you as Jack did. And no one would ever get the chance to again.

This was an anonymous request!

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