Lee

⋆ ˚

He didn’t weigh much.

You expected him to be heavier, but his limbs were all wiry muscle and sharp bones under skin too thin, too warm. Carrying him was awkward, not hard—he clung to you without making a sound, breath hot against your throat, chest heaving shallowly as you hiked back toward the cabin.

The whole way, he didn’t say a word.

Didn’t ask where you were going. Didn’t beg or resist. Just held on. Like a dying thing too tired to fight anymore.

The cabin door creaked open with a groan. You nudged it with your boot and stepped inside, the cold snapping off the back of your neck. The woodstove was out. You set him down on the couch, still wrapped in your jacket, and went straight for the firewood.

He watched you.

Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just followed you with those swamp-green eyes like he needed you in his line of sight at all times or he’d stop breathing.

Once the fire was lit and crackling, you knelt beside him.

“I need to clean you up,” you said, voice low. “You’re bleeding all over my damn blanket.”

Again, no answer. Just that stare.

You peeled the soaked jacket off and winced. His chest and stomach were a mess of bruises and lacerations. Something had really done him in. The slashes weren’t clean—some looked like claws, others like bites. Not animal. Not human, either.

You got a bowl of warm water and some rags. Peroxide. Thread and needle. Sat down beside him and got to work.

He didn’t flinch when you touched him. Didn’t wince at the sting of antiseptic. Just watched you, lips parted, eyes tracking every movement of your hands like your care was a language he didn’t understand but wanted to memorize.

“You’re a quiet one,” you muttered, dabbing blood from his collarbone. “Probably how you ended up half-dead on a trail. Quiet and stupid.”

A soft breath escaped him. Not a laugh. Not quite. But close.

You looked up. His eyes were glistening. Not from pain.

“Don’t cry,” you said, sharper than you meant to. “Not like I’m doing this for you. I don’t need a corpse in my woods.”

His lips moved then. Barely.

“…you smell good.”

You stilled.

“What?”

He blinked slowly. “Warm.”

Your fingers flexed on the rag. You exhaled and turned back to the wound on his side.

“Don’t get weird,” you muttered. “You’re not staying long.”

But he just watched, quiet and pliant as you sewed his skin shut—like even your insults were holy. Like every second near you was a gift he didn’t deserve.

—

The storm had rolled in overnight. Thick fog clung to the windows like breath, and the trees outside groaned under the weight of cold rain. Inside the cabin, it was quiet—just the crackle of fire and the occasional creak of settling wood.

You stood at the stove, frying pan in hand, flipping eggs and watching the yolks settle. Bacon sizzled beside them, curling at the edges.

You could feel him watching behind you.

He sat at the little table by the window, knees drawn up, blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders. Bare-chested. Bruises fading, skin still too pale. Hair damp from the wash you'd forced him to take that morning. He hadn’t said much—he rarely did—but his eyes followed you like always.

Hungry. Not just for food.

“Smells good,” he murmured.

His voice was always like that now—low, hoarse, careful. Like every word had weight. Like he didn’t want to speak unless you earned it.

You set the plate in front of him and handed him a fork.

He didn’t move to take it.

Instead, he looked up at you like he didn’t know what to do. Like the offering was too much. Hands curled in his lap, knuckles strained.

“You are gonna eat, right?” you asked, crossing your arms.

“…if you feed me.”

You raised a brow.

“Don’t push it.”

His eyes dropped instantly. “Sorry.”

That got you. That quiet apology, small and raw and not manipulative—just true. It sat heavy in your chest.

You sighed, pulled the chair out beside him, and sat down.

“Fine. But this is the first and last time.”

You picked up the fork and speared a bite of egg, holding it up. He leaned forward without hesitation—mouth open, slow, careful. His lips brushed the fork, and he hummed softly when he chewed.

You watched him swallow. Watched his lashes flutter.

“Good?”

He nodded.

You fed him another bite. Then another. He never looked away from your face. Even when you weren't looking directly at him, his gaze never wavered—like the food was just a means to stay close.

“Why do you look at me like that?” you asked softly, feeding him a piece of bacon.

He blinked. “Like what?”

“Like I’m gonna disappear.”

He chewed slowly. Licked a bit of yolk from his lip.

“…because you could.”

Your throat tightened. You shoved the last bite toward his mouth more roughly than necessary.

“Eat.”

He did. But when you set the fork down and stood to grab another plate for yourself, his hand caught your wrist.

Not hard. Not demanding. Just… asking.

“Thank you,” he whispered, eyes wide. “For helping me.”

You stared down at him, heartbeat slow and heavy.

“Don’t make me regret it,” you said flatly.

But you didn’t pull away.

⋆ ˚

You woke up to the sound of breathing that wasn’t yours.

Shallow. Close.

Your fingers curled around the knife under your pillow out of habit before your brain caught up with the familiarity of it. The warmth near your leg. The slow, anxious inhale.

You turned your head.

He was on the floor beside the bed, curled up on a blanket like some half-starved dog. Watching you.

Not asleep.

Just watching.

Again.

“How long have you been there?” you asked, voice flat.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched your face like he was trying to memorize it in the dark.

“…Since you came to bed.”

You sighed, rubbing at your eyes. “Boy, you have your own damn couch.”

“You’re safer this way,” he said. “I can tell if something comes for you.”

There was no reasoning with that. Not the way he said it. Like he really believed there was something coming—something worse than him.

You sat up, blanket falling from your chest. His gaze dropped for a moment, but not with lust. With reverence.

You could almost feel the weight of his stare on your collarbone.

“Get back on the couch,” you muttered.

He didn’t move.

Instead, he whispered, “I like being close.”

Your jaw tensed.

But you didn’t force him. Not this time.

You laid back down, turned your body away from him, and tried to ignore the way his breathing steadied as soon as you did. How the air shifted—less like fear, more like worship.

⋆ ˚

A few days passed like that.

He was good. Quiet. Obedient. He followed your rules—washed when you told him to, ate everything you fed him, stayed inside even when the woods called to him through the windows. He stayed close. Always close.

Until one afternoon, when you came back from town.

You dropped your pack by the door. The cabin was too quiet. The fire was low.

“Hey,” you called, stepping inside. “You better not be bleeding on the rug again.”

No answer.

Then you heard the floorboard creak—just past the kitchen.

You moved slowly. Quiet. The air felt wrong.

When you turned the corner, you stopped cold.

He was standing by the sink. Wearing one of your shirts.

It hung loose on him, neck stretched, sleeves too short. He was barefoot. Damp—like he’d just showered. His hair was combed down, parted like yours. His expression blank, but his eyes—

His eyes were glowing.

You didn’t speak. Just stared.

His lips moved, mimicking the way yours had curled that morning when you tied your boots.

“I wanted to see,” he murmured. “What it felt like. Being you.”

Your pulse climbed.

“You think that’s normal?” you said, voice like ice. “Digging through my clothes? Copying me?”

His fingers clenched at his sides. He looked ashamed. Or scared. You couldn’t tell which.

“…I want to understand you,” he said. “If I can be more like you, maybe you’ll keep me.”

That last part?

It didn’t sound pathetic.

It sounded sad.

He wasn’t trying to scare you. He didn’t even seem aware of how disturbing it was.

He just wanted to stay.

Even if it meant becoming you.

It didn't get any better. He stopped asking before following you from room to room. You’d shift in your chair—he’d shift too. You’d open a drawer—his eyes would follow your hands like they were divine. You’d sigh, and he’d mimic it seconds later like he could feel what you felt, even when you didn’t say a word.

But tonight—it snapped.

You had just stepped out of the bathroom, towel clutched to your chest, steam curling around your shoulders. You were tired. The hot water had done nothing to ease the tension that built up from his staring, his watching, the constant pressure of his presence brushing too close, too often.

He was in your bedroom again.

Sitting on the edge of your bed like he belonged there.

“Get out,” you said without looking at him. “I’m not in the mood.”

But he didn’t move.

You felt him rise behind you as you dug through your drawer. The heat of him at your back, chest bare, breath unsteady.

“I am,” he whispered.

You froze.

His hand touched your shoulder—light, trembling. Like he didn’t know whether to worship you or break you open just to crawl inside.

“I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t want you. I do everything you ask. I sit by your bed like a dog, I eat when you feed me, I let you touch me when you clean my wounds—”

“You let me?” you snapped, whipping around, eyes hard.

He flinched, but didn’t back away.

“I need you,” he said hoarsely. “You don’t get it—I don’t know who I am anymore if I’m not touching something that belongs to you.”

You shoved past him, heart racing.

He grabbed your wrist.

Not hard—but with intent. His fingers curled, grounding himself on your skin.

“Please,” he whispered. “I won’t ask again. Just—just let me have something. Let me touch you. Let me show you that I can be what you need too.”

You stared at him.

Wild, half-naked, shaking.

His jaw trembled. “You belong to me, don’t you? Just a little?”

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t soften either.

He looked wrecked—eyes glassy, lips parted, hand still trembling around your wrist like you were his only lifeline. He didn’t know how to hide anything. His need sat open on his face like a wound.

You stepped into him.

And kissed him.

Just once.

Quick. Firm. Your hand at his jaw, mouth warm but unyielding, like you were closing a circuit instead of offering comfort.

When you pulled back, his mouth chased yours.

You stopped him with a look.

“Go to bed,” you said.

He blinked, dazed.

You stepped back and watched him swallow it. Watched him obey.

Barely.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The woods behind the cabin were overgrown and quiet. You made him chase you through tall grass and loose trails, laughing as he stumbled, panting like a beast that hadn’t tasted meat in days.

He was fast—stronger now—but never caught you unless you let him. And sometimes you did. Just enough for him to grab your arm, breathe hard against your throat.

Then you’d twist away.

“Down, boy,” you’d mutter.

He’d drop to one knee like he couldn’t help it.

Like his body was wired to obey you even when his hunger told him to tear your clothes off.

⋆ ˚

You went straight to the shower when you came back—sweaty, flushed, loose with adrenaline. He tried to follow you in, but one look was enough to send him sulking back down the hall.

When you opened your bedroom door, he was waiting again.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders tense, jaw clenched, eyes blazing.

“I need you,” he said.

It wasn’t a whisper this time.

“I need you. Now. I’ve done everything. I’ve waited—I’ve let you tease me. You kissed me, you let me sleep in your bed, you call me names like you don’t know what it does to me—”

You raised a hand and he stopped.

Stewing in the silence.

You walked right past him. Grabbed a fresh shirt from your dresser. Looked over your shoulder once, and said:

“No.”

Then left him there. Hard, desperate, too strung out on want to move.

He didn’t talk to you for an hour.

Didn’t look at you either.

Just stayed curled up in the corner of the room like a pet thrown outside.

You waited until it was dark before you got up and went to him. Watched the way he tried not to lift his head. The way his throat bobbed when he heard your steps.

You ruffled his hair. No apology.

Then started cooking.

His favorite. The only thing he ever asked for more than once.

You didn’t have to look when you heard him get up.

Didn’t even blink when he appeared in the doorway, standing there with bare feet and glassy eyes, watching like he couldn’t decide whether to bite you or beg.

His voice was low, rough around the edges. “You’re not mad?”

You stirred the pot.

“No.”

“But you left.”

“You needed to cool off.”

“I need you,” he bit, hands fisting at his sides. “You don’t get it—I can’t—you’re all I think about, you smell so good, you taste—”

You turned your head just enough to see him, lifting a brow.

That shut him up fast.

But he didn’t leave.

He came in slow, circling behind you. No more talk. Just breath—hot, wet, frantic—against the back of your neck. You felt the shift before he touched you. The way his body lost its rhythm, gave into instinct.

Then—

His hips pressed flush to your ass.

His dick was already hard, straining through his pants.

He thrust once. Slow.

Twice. A little harder.

You didn’t stop him.

Didn’t help him either.

He grabbed your hips, fingers trembling, and started grinding in earnest. Ragged, animalistic, dragging his clothed dick up against you again and again like his brain had short-circuited.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “Feels—feels s’good—oh my god—please. Please just let me, I—I can’t—”

You rolled your eyes.

“You really can’t control yourself for five minutes, can you?” you muttered, letting him use you, body staying still as he rutted into your backside with frantic, shallow thrusts.

He whined. Actually whined.

You smirked.

“You really are just an animal, huh?”

A low, ragged groan vibrated from his chest. He rutted harder—slow, desperate. His head came down and layed on your shoulder, breath heavy and hot against your neck.

“You’d fuck me right here if I let you.”

"Mhmm," he managed to hum, still grinding into you.

He started to pant.

“You wouldn’t even last a minute, would you?”

You turned your head, barely glancing at him. “You’re so filthy. I thought you were a good boy, baby.”

He growled at you words, grip tightened at your waist.

Hips stuttering, breath catching, face probably twisted into something obscene behind you.

“Fuuuuck—fuck—oh my god—thank you, thank you, I needed—”

You felt him start to shake.

And then he came.

Hard.

Hot through his pants, his whole body curling around yours, pressing tighter as he spilled in his clothes with a broken, needy sob.

You didn’t turn around.

You just stirred the food, like he hadn’t just humped you like a dog and made a mess of himself on your ass.

“Dirty boy,” you said, calm, low. “Go clean yourself up.”

You heard him whimper.

“Then come eat.”

⋆ ˚

He came back ten minutes later.

Showered. Damp hair. Clean clothes.

But his face was still flushed, eyes holding so many mixed emotions, hands slightly shaking like the shame hadn’t washed off. He sat down at the table across from you, eyes flicking up, then down, then up again—starving, but not just for food.

You placed the bowl in front of him, slow and steady.

He didn’t say a word like he hadn’t just stained himself moaning your name under his breath.

But you watched him.

You watched the way his hand trembled slightly as he reached for the spoon.

The way he kept stealing glances at you, hungry and anxious, like he thought you might still be mad—or worse, like you might do nothing at all.

“You always eat so fast,” you said, voice smooth as cream.

He froze.

Chewed slow.

Swallowed.

“…sorry.”

“I didn’t say stop,” you added. “It’s cute. Like you’re afraid I’ll take it away.”

He blinked. A small sound caught in his throat.

You leaned your elbow on the table, resting your cheek in your palm.

“And earlier? That was cute too.”

His entire face shifted.

You tilted your head. “Making a mess in your pants like that. Just from a little pressure.”

He put his utensil down, hands balling into fists in his lap.

“Stop,” he whispered.

“Oh? Is that too much for your dirty little brain?” you murmured. “You hump me like an animal and now you want to pretend you’re shy?”

“I said stop,” he snapped, low and trembling.

You smiled, slow and sharp.

Silence stretched between you. His jaw clenched. His breath was shallow, like he didn’t know if he wanted to scream or fall to his knees.

Then—

You asked it.

Calm. Quiet.

Like it was nothing.

“What are you?”

His eyes shot to yours. “What…?”

You didn’t blink, just stared for a second longer than usual. “You heard me.”

He stared at you, frozen. Something in him recoiled—but something else thrummed. Deep. Dark. Animal.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, voice cracking.

You leaned in just a little, watching his pupils swell.

“You’re not human.”

“No.”

“But you’re not just some beast either.”

He shook his head slowly, lips parted, like the words had nowhere to go.

“I’m yours,” he said finally. “That’s all I know.

The words hung in the space between you.

“I’m yours.”

You let them sit. Heavy. Undeniable.

He was trembling, barely breathing—waiting to see if you’d reject it. Laugh. Walk away.

You didn’t.

You sat back in your chair, eyes never leaving his face. And softer now, more curious than cruel, you asked: “…Is that all you want to be?”

He blinked, chest rising and falling faster now. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first.

Then: “I don’t know what else I can be.”

You watched him carefully. He wasn’t lying.

“Do you remember anything? Before I found you?”

His jaw tensed. Shoulders too.

“I remember pain,” he said. “I remember running. Hunger. And hands—people—trying to cut something out of me. Like I wasn’t supposed to have it.”

“What?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t know. Something inside. Something that made me wrong.”

That quiet hung between you again. Thicker this time.

You took a slow breath, eyes drifting over his features—how human they seemed, and how they weren’t. The eyes were too still. The mouth too soft when he looked at you like that, worshipful and wrecked all at once.

You stood.

He flinched slightly like he thought you might leave again. But you didn’t.

You moved around the table and stood beside his chair, fingers brushing lightly against his shoulder.

“I don’t want you to be nothing,” you said. “Even if you think you’re mine.”

He tilted his head back to look at you. His eyes were glassy again—but not just from need.

“…Then what do you want me to be?”

You didn’t answer right away.

You just stared at him, slow and searching, like maybe there was something hiding behind his ribs that you hadn’t noticed before.

“Something real,” you said at last. “Something more than just needy and obedient.”

You leaned down.

Brushed a hand over his hair.

“I think whatever they tried to take from you… it’s still in there.”

He exhaled, sharp and shaky, like the words hurt somewhere deep.

Like they freed something too.

“Are you going to help me find it?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You straightened. That same calm edge in your voice returned—but softer, tempered by something else. “I already started.”

⋆ ˚

The rest of dinner passed in a strange hush.

He kept glancing at you like he was trying to memorize the air between you. Like he didn’t quite trust that the moment was real—him, fed and wanted, not punished for needing more.

He finished the last bite slowly, his breathing still a little uneven. And when you stood to clear the plates, he followed with those same shadow-smooth movements, always one step behind, silent.

When you turned to face him in the doorway of the kitchen, he froze.

You studied him—warm and glowing under the low light, but his eyes looked wrong. Glossy. Dilated. His skin flushed, like the warmth was under his flesh and leaking out.

You reached up and cupped his cheek with your palm.

He leaned into it instantly.

"Come to bed with me," you said, voice low, calm.

His breath caught. His knees nearly did too.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead. It was hot—too hot.

He didn’t speak. Just nodded.

⋆ ˚

Later, you woke in the dark.

Your chest ached slightly—something heavy pressing you down.

You shifted.

Something moved.

There was a sound. A low, needy moan.

You blinked awake to find him curled between your thighs, head resting on your lower belly, arms caging your hips.

Sweat dampened his hair. His shirt clung to his back, soaked. His whole body trembled—small, helpless, uncontrollable tremors like something was trying to crawl out of his skin.

"H-Hey," you murmured, pushing your hand into his hair. "You okay?"

He groaned.

Not in pain.

It was… needy.

He rocked into you subtly, hips twitching against the mattress, breath coming in ragged bursts.

"You're burning up," you whispered, concern creeping in. "You might have a fever—"

"No," he choked out.

Your fingers stilled in his hair.

He shook his head against your body, breath hot where it hit the inside of your thigh.

“It’s not— I’m not sick. It’s heat. I know what it is now.”

You tensed slightly, confused. “Heat?”

He whimpered, the sound pitiful, but his body was grinding.

"I thought it was just obsession—just you—but it's in my blood. My skin. I need," he panted, teeth gritted.

“You should’ve told me,” you said, hand sliding to his shoulder. “Before it got this bad.”

“I didn’t know,” he snapped, but it was breathless, wet. “Didn’t know it would feel like this. Like—like I’m going to split open just to crawl into you.”

The silence between you stretched again, hot and trembling.

Then you whispered: “Get up.”

He froze.

You guided him up your body with firm hands until his face hovered above yours, wild and flushed and desperate.

“Let’s cool you down,” you said. “Before you burn a hole through me.”

You didn’t tell him what you were about to do.

You just slipped your hand between your bodies, your palm warm and steady against the thick, pulsing heat straining in his pants.

He choked out a sound—half whimper, half sob—and buried his face in the crook of your neck. You felt his breath catch, his body go stiff.

“Shhh,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You rubbed him through the fabric first, slow circles that had his hips twitching, his teeth sinking into your skin like he was trying not to fall apart. The bulge was hot—unnaturally so—and soaked at the tip where his arousal leaked freely.

“I can’t—” he rasped, but you cut him off with a shush again, stroking him now, firm and sure.

“Yes, you can. Just relax.”

He whimpered again and rocked his hips up, greedy. Needy.

“Please,” he panted. “Please touch it—please, I’ll be good, I’ll—”

You slipped your hand under the waistband.

He cried out.

Not loud, but broken. Like it hurt to be given this.

You wrapped your fingers around him and started to pump, slow and tight. He was thick, flushed hot, every vein pulsing against your grip.

“I'm not gonna let you fuck me,” you murmured against his ear, lips brushing the shell. “But I’ll help you. Just this once.”

He was trembling. Writhing. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, too far gone to speak now.

You shifted down and dragged his pants down with one hand. His dick sprung free, slick and twitching.

“Stay still,” you said, and he whimpered again, so obedient, even now.

You leaned in and took him into your mouth.

He nearly screamed.

His hands scrabbled for something to hold, finally settling in your hair, but he didn’t pull—he just trembled, lips mouthing your name over and over like a prayer.

You bobbed your head slowly, letting your hand do most of the work, saliva and precum making the slide wet and easy. He was panting, gasping, and when he got too close, too wild, you pressed your palm against his lower belly and held him down.

He jerked—twitched—then came with a broken moan, hips bucking helplessly, spilling down your throat with so much heat it almost burned.

You stayed there a second longer, swallowing him down, soft and calm, until he stopped shaking.

Then you pulled away.

“Dirty boy,” you murmured, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand as you looked up at him.

He blinked at you, dazed, wrecked, tears drying in the corners of his eyes.

You leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“Go clean yourself up,”

Two days pass.

You try to keep things normal—whatever that means, with a creature like him under your roof, one who pants when you touch his arm and whines when you leave the room. But his restraint is slipping. Badly.

He follows you everywhere now.

Not just quietly like before. Not just waiting in the doorway or sitting nearby.

No—he’s pressed to you, constantly.

When you fold laundry, he’s behind you, rubbing himself against your ass with soft, desperate ruts. When you sit on the couch, he climbs into your lap and noses at your neck, whimpering like you’re the only air he can breathe.

The worst is when you cook. Something about seeing you over the stove drives him mad—he paws at you, breathing heavy, rutting his hips against your thigh until you shove him off with a sharp, “Down.”

And still he stares at you with wet eyes like a scolded dog in heat, leaking into his boxers, throbbing with the weight of it.

You try to hold the line.

But his need is growing.

Worse, it’s mutating into something more feral.

At the store, it becomes undeniable.

He walks behind you, head low, hoodie pulled up, his steps wrong—off-balance and twitchy like his body can’t decide what to do with itself.

He breathes through his mouth, short and fast, and stares at everyone like they’re a threat.

Or a witness.

You catch him staring at your legs. Then your hips. Then the slope of your throat when you tilt your head to grab a jar from the shelf.

His eyes go black.

"You're sweating," you mutter under your breath, touching his arm. "You okay?"

He leans into your touch like he’s starving. “Can we go home? Please.”

You check out fast.

⋆ ˚

The second the door closes behind you, he snaps.

You don’t even get your shoes off.

He lunges—no hesitation—grabs your waist and slams you into the nearest wall with a desperate growl muffled into your shoulder.

“Hey—!” you gasp, startled.

But he’s already rutting against you—grinding with the force of a man drowning.

“Need you,” he pants. “Please—I can’t—I’ve been good, haven’t I? I’ve been so good—”

You shove at his shoulders, but he’s bigger than you, heavier, and right now he’s stronger too. Not hurting you—just wild.

“Calm down,” you hiss.

“I can’t,” he moans. “Smell you—touched you all day—I need—”

He grabs your face, kissing you hard—sloppy, wet, messy—and you taste the frustration on his tongue, the days of aching and whining and trembling.

You break the kiss, panting. His dick is grinding against your stomach through his sweats, thick and leaking.

“Animal,” you mutter.

He nods.

“Yours,” he whines, breath shaking. “Please let me—please—”

Your grip tightens in his hair.

And for a second, you consider it.

You shove him back, hard. Not enough to hurt—but enough to tell him: no.

And that does it.

His eyes widen, something unhinges in his chest—and he breaks.

With a snarl, he lunges forward, lifts you like you weigh nothing, and starts toward the bedroom with a single, choked, "I'm sorry—I'm sorry—I can't—"

"Put me—down!" you snap, but your body’s already reacting—heat flooding your thighs, breath caught behind your teeth. Because you've never seen him like this. Not completely.

Not gone.

He kicks the door open.

Throws you on the bed.

You're scrambling up on your elbows to shout at him again when he grabs your legs and drags you back down to the edge of the mattress. His strength is brutal. He flips you over like you're nothing and shoves your hips up until you're on your knees, spine arched, face pressed into the blanket.

“Don’t think you can act like that,” he pants, “push me away—smell like that—and expect me not to—”

He tears your bottoms down. Snaps the waistband in his rush. You try to turn your head, say something—anything—but he’s already there.

Behind you.

Hot, flushed, leaking.

You feel the weight of it on your ass, thick and heavy, dragging over your skin.

“F-fuck—‘s too much—” he groans.

You flinch as his dick—not just long, but wide, too wide—grinds against your entrance. Wet with slick and precum. Hot like a fever.

You reach back blindly, touch his hip. “You’re gonna stretch me too much—”

“I know,” he whimpers, voice ragged with guilt and craving. “I’ll go slow—I’ll—fuck, I can’t—I’m sorry—sorry—”

He doesn’t go slow.

He grabs your hips and thrusts in hard, stuffing the tip past your entrance, and your breath leaves you.

"Shit—!" you cry, fingers clawing at the blanket as your body stretches wide to accommodate him. It hurts—but good, deep, sharp, searing with pressure.

He keeps moving.

Not all the way in—just these shallow, frantic thrusts, rutting at your entrance like an animal trying not to break its toy.

His voice is cracked and frantic.

“I missed it—I missed your heat—I missed your smell—don’t tell me no again—please—”

His teeth found your neck, biting, sucking, leaving bruises blooming like dark flowers under your skin.

You’re dripping.

His size swallowed you whole, filled every inch until you thought you’d cry from the stretch.

He slams forward again—deeper this time—and you swear the breath gets knocked right out of your lungs.

"You're—so big—" you gasp.

"Yeah?" he pants, delirious. "Too much? H-hurts, doesn't it? You're too small—fuck, you’re perfect—"

He’s shaking.

Your legs tremble from how deep he’s hitting. Your pussy flutters around him, trying to mold to the impossible stretch.

"H-hey, slow down" you rasp.

He didn’t listen. His hips snapped into you fast and brutal, driving inside you with a hunger that knocked the breath out of your lungs. The room smelled like sweat and something bittersweet and him—feral, real, and alive.

His hands slammed down on either side of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. The force pinned you to the bed.

You swallowed hard, chest heaving, legs spreading wide for him.

He slammed into you faster—deeper. The stretch burned, the fullness screamed, but you clenched tight around him, dragging out his groans like prayers.

He pulled you back by your hair and kissed you then—hard, wild—tongue sliding over your lips, teeth grazing your jaw.

Then—

You feel it.

The swell.

Thick and round, nudging the edge of your cunt, threatening to lock you together.

He groans into your back. “Let me—let me knot you—need it—need to stay.”

You jerk away. "You knot me, and you’re gonna rip me."

He moans like your voice is pleasure, grinding harder, chasing it anyway.

His hands roamed your body, claws scraping skin as he fucked you with a desperate, filthy worship that made you feel like a goddess—and like prey all at once.

He spoke, voice broken, “please—please let me cum inside you.”

You nodded, tears stinging your eyes, chest tight. “Cum for me.”

His dick throbs. He’s leaking inside you, dripping down your thighs. His forehead presses into your shoulder blade. He huffs, shudders

Then snaps his hips forward once, hard—and goes still.

You feel it.

Heat floods inside you. You gasp as his load pours in—thick, heavy, and never-ending—while his body trembles above yours.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck,” he groans, humping in place, locked against you with a needy whimper.

You glance back, breathless, flushed, and say coolly: “Tch, unbelievable.”

He flinches like it hit.

You reach back and give his hair a tug. “Go clean yourself up.”

He breathes hard against your skin, dazed.

Then you add, voice sharp but indulgent—

"Then we'll try something new.”

Dividers by @elleisdesigning