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You recently bought some new perfume, a thick rich scent that only serves to amplify your own natural musk, and ghost is obsessed.

Worse than that is how you love to reapply it all the time, subtle to humans but he's practically choking on that delicious scent from you. Anything of his that you touch picks up the scent, as if you were some coy wolf trying to get a sense of ghosts mating prospects.

He raises his brow when you stay back after a meeting to reapply, hovering just a touch too close so he can smell the minute change it takes on upon touching your skin "new perfume, sergeant? It's nice."

"Hm? Oh, yeah! I like the earthy stuff," you tell him, dropping the tiniest bit of oil onto your wrist and rubbing them together. The sight has ghosts stomach turning, knowing if you were a wolf hybrid the room would reek from that action. "Do you want to try some? It's pretty strong."

"Hm—?" Before ghost can even speak, you're already slipping a hand under the hem of his balaclava to rub a bare wrist into the skin of his next. "Fuck–! Ohh...hm....!"

A deep, pleased rumble spills out of ghost, and not seconds later you're being pinned to the meeting table, ghosts whole body on top of yours with lidded eyes. "christ love, do thst again."

"What...ghost?" You mumble, dazed, hand still under the mask. "I– I mean– you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Ghost whines, ears pinning. A large, clawed hand wraps around your forearm, manually moving your wrist against his skin. His whole body shudders "fuck! Mhhh keep going. Like that."

"Holy– is this like...a thing for you?" You grin, ignoring the stretch of your thighs being pushed so far apart for him to grind his bulge against you. Ghost rumbles and grunts, all animal.

He couldn't explain the fact you're practically claiming him as your mate, or at least your breeding bitch, not like you'd care much when his eyes go all glossy under the mask "please– please, love, please. I need–"

"Go on, ghost, I want to see this." You urge. that one chat about soaps partners coming to mind, you shove a hand into ghosts pants and wrap a firm grip over his knot.

"Fuck! Holy– hmmm! Thank you!" He pants, tail thrashing behind him. You watch, enraptured, as a large wet patch forms in the front of his jeans. Christ, that's a lot of cum.

There's a small hiking trail a few miles out from his home, one he likes to observe every so often. He likes to see other humans walking around, wishing his team could come and visit sometime, he's so lonely but civilians don't understand him.

It's on one of these observations that he sees you. You, a hiker who stopped to scoop up a butterfly with bits of It's wings torn off. Ghost observes as you frown over the thing, mourning the insect while you search for a good place to sit it.

In your search for it's final resting place, you wander off the path to a delicious flower. Ghost, only a few feet away, watched you place the poor bug on the flower, stroking a finger over it's broken wing. He drags a hand across the gash over his face.

You're perfect for him.

He moves swiftly, covers your mouth. You fight like hell, as any prey animal would, and ghost smiles at the blood bites over his palm.

When you wake up, it's in a soft pile of blankets separating you from a cold floor. Your hands are bound together, and a collar chains your neck to the wall with only enough slack to turn a circle in your 'bed'. The room is hard to comprehend, head still pounding, body feeling weird and fuzzy.

You only notice the man in the corner when he stands up. Heavy boots thunk against the floor, and when you try to yell at him there's thick leather clamped around your face, muzzling you.

"A bit scary, I know," he rumbles, petting your head and ignoring the flinch "new places are a lot for pets. But I know you'll acclimate fast, yeah?"

You don't know what to do, any sound you try to make sounds like whine through the leather, and you feel too weak to fight him.

But the mantlepiece is dedicated to their middle child and only boy.

Photos ranging from a bairn squealing in his mammy's arms, face scarlet and arms blurry as they flail, to a teenage boy getting held down by two girls as two younger lassies stick Tinkerbell clips in his hair, to a young man with a ridiculous haircut passing a bottle of Blue Label to his dad.

A poorly knit baby hat, a familiar light blue that made his eyes pop before he'd had enough and lobbed the thing out of his pram.

An award from a football game he'd played in primary school when he was still wee.

A birdhouse he built in his secondary school glass that has a cock scratched into the back of it because God forbid teenage lads let something go unvandilised.

There's a Chirstmas card with a poorly drawn tree that stays up all year long with "To Uncle John" scribbled on the front. It was never opened by the intended recipient.

Mary won't dare put his rosary up, she keeps that in her jewellery box. It's a twisted reminder that he clung to his faith, even when they turned his back on him for disrespecting it.

He was done for the first time he met you- the moment you smiled at him, something locked into place. He knew then he’d keep you, that he wanted a life with you, a house full babies he bred into your cunt.

He knows everything about you: your favorite foods, your exact coffee order, the dreams you only admit out loud at night, even the name of the cat you had growing up.

He worries about you constantly thanks to his job, carries that quiet, gnawing fear with him, but all it takes is pulling out his phone, checking your location, seeing that you’re safe to calm his nerves. On the really bad days, he’ll glance at the security cameras at your place, just to see you moving around, alive and okay.

He’s counting down the days until he can see you again- until he can trade a worn photograph for the real thing in his arms.

Vs