loves a good chase and the thrill of the hunt, prefers to play with you at night, doesn't hide his demon form from you for added thrill, bites, can't help but follow through to the end and things can get...a little messy
"Little Hunter, hear my song..."
You stifle your gasp behind your hands, bringing them up to your mouth in hopes of them muffling your noise. It's useless, because of the heaviness of your panting and because it's him, but you're desperate at this point.
A trash can clattering to the ground towards the end of the street you're stopped on forces your heart up into your throat. A warning, a chide. He's done it on purpose, this you know. He'd never be so careless.
You hear him chuckle from your right then. No, your left? Maybe he's in your head. You don't doubt he'd go that far.
The richness of his voice, the edge of cruelty you detest you enjoy so much, forces you to bite down onto your lip. Your belly clenches in anticipation, adrenaline, and something much, much more pleasant.
"You know you don't have long..."
You take off in a mad dash down the road, focusing on avoiding alleyways and light posts, footsteps impressively quiet considering the rattling of your breaths. The stillness of the night, even in the city, makes you more aware of what little noise there is.
His breathy and confident sigh feels as if it's the wind, wrapping around your neck like you know his fingers itch to, a brush before a squeeze. You're ashamed to admit your next set of breaths hitch in your throat, coming out more like whimpers in response.
"What a pleasant surprise my Little Hunter wanted to become the hunted..."
He's definitely in your head.
Fuck.
You turn and hop a fence, letting it carry you back north where you had originally come from.
"So very pleasant," he all but moans in your ear, and you stumble, his noise of appreciation landing directly on your already throbbing core. You barely keep your footing as you attempt to keep up your pace.
"I'm going to make sure this is a lesson to you, darling. That you should never keep something like this from me, that I should never have to find something like this out on my own..."
You can't see him, but you can feel him then. His presence. Your body nearly locks up from the profoundness of him near, just as it always has, just as it did since the first time you locked eyes.
You know he's near.
You dig your heels into the pavement harder, ribs aching from how far you're pushing yourself to get away from him.
"So, let this be a plethora of reminders to you, Little Hunter–"
You see him out of the corner of your eye as you pass another alley, the looming outline of his body, the breadth of his shoulders and glow of his eyes impossible to mistake.
You whine, legs turning to jelly, yet you refuse to give up.
"Do not keep such delicious, delicious secrets from me. Me, the one who can give you everything the depraved, shameful side of you could ever want."
You make a mistake and turn down an alleyway, the haziness in your brain from overexertion and arousal becoming harder and harder to ignore.
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is the least vocal of them all and it adds to your feeling of helplessness and neediness, you have matching collars, he always wants a hand on you, PROTECTIVE AF, he enjoys that you must ask to do things like sit on the couch, go to the restroom, etc.
“Look how eager you are, Little Hunter…”
The praise melts down your neck, hotter than the skin of his hand dug into your hair, more comforting than the leather clasped around your neck. You rub your turned cheek into his thigh, the denim of his jeans scratching against your skin pleasantly. You mewl when the fingers in your hair tighten, when he chuckles darkly and lifts the leg that’s pressed between your thighs.
With your hair pulled taut, he bends, placing his lips on the shell of your ear–
“You know I love it when you’re eager, pup.”
His voice. Deep, rich. Gravelly. He’s feeling generous tonight and it’s a line you’re always nervous to push. You want his praise, you want his touch and his dominance, but you don’t want to cross a line. Lines are admittedly blurry though, just like your eyesight is. You’re feeling more than you’re hearing and seeing, feeling more than you’re talking.
If you were allowed to talk, that is.
You whine helplessly, nuzzling and wiggling until your cheek presses against his bulge. Oh yes. When he indulgently spreads the leg you’re not busy rubbing yourself on, you whine even harder, yipping quietly as you mouth at him over his jeans.
“Shit, so fucking eager. What am I supposed to do with you?”
You find it hard to stop yourself then, to not take the awe and appreciation in his voice and let it lead you. When you thoughtlessly bring your hand up to push up his shirt, eagerness making you dumb, the sharp noise he lets out feels like a slap to the face.
“You know better.”
Your hand smacks down to the floor at the reprimand, the force of your correction stinging your skin, the pain of it almost stronger than that of his disappointment. You nearly choke on your set of whimpers, the noise of them coming out like a sob. He likes this noise, purrs when he hears it, and you know what’s coming.
A test.
When his fingers curl around your collar, you fight to not cross your eyes.
He pulls, tugs, forcing you to scramble up without the use of your hands. When your eyes zero in on the black collar clasped around his neck, the one that matches yours identically, your moan is inescapable. When your eyes land on his chin, it takes what feels like physical strength to not reach forward and dig your teeth into it. When your eyes lock onto his own eyes, you feel what’s left of your self-respect and awareness drain from your body.
You so enjoy seeing him as affected as you are, as if his unyielding erection wasn’t a sign of that enough. Eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed, lips slick; there’s no doubt he’s aroused. And oh, that feels good.
“You know better than that, don’t you?” he murmurs against your lips, grasp on your collar unrelenting. “I trained you better than that, yes?”
Don’t talk, don’t talk, don’t talk.
You nod your head, give a small noise of confirmation.
He shakes at your collar, at his grip on you, tilting his head in a menacing way.
“Dogs don’t hum, Little Hunter. I’m losing my patience. Tell me you don’t need to spend some time in your cage.”
You can feel the physical representation of him losing his patience, can feel the heat of his body fighting a shift, can feel the sudden sharpness of his claws on your neck.
You bark without a second thought.
His noise of approval is basement deep and immediate, a noise of relief and arousal. It’s such a nice noise, you yap again, whimper for more praise.
He reaches for your jaw then, holding it in a harsh grip as he breathes his next set of words.
“There’s my good girl.”
Both of you moan into each other’s mouths.
“Who’s my good girl?” he asks, voice showing signs of a tremble, and you latch onto the cracks in his resolve. You bark and whine again, trying your damndest to rub up against his torso and chest, wiggling like an impatient pup.
“You're my good girl?”
Always, you want to say. Forever.
Instead you bark into his open mouth and clamber into his lap when he shows the first sign of loosening his grip on your collar, the sensation of spreading your thighs around his waist pulling another moan from your mouth. You grind against his cock, the bulge of it feeling enormous and impossibly hard, your dizziness intensifying alongside your need.
He sucks on the skin of your neck then, right above his fingers, the pain of it forcing your hips down into his lap harder as you gasp.
You turn and drag your tongue up the side of his face once he’s done marking you up.
Could do without the intimacy or even sex but loves the power dynamic, feeds off your shame and will go to great lengths to make you feel it in order to get his fill, barely lets you kiss him, tells you to go to one of his brothers if you're needing aftercare
He’s forced himself between your spread thighs, the heat of his body overwhelming, the physical presence of him above you damn near suffocating, when he suddenly stills.
Teeth digging into your neck, fingers delved through your hair holding you still, you swear he stops breathing when his eyes suddenly snap to yours.
He looks you over, eyes momentarily roving your face, before the corner of his mouth begins to curl up. Your breath hitches in your throat at that look, that sinister look, and his smirk only grows at your obvious discomfort.
“Oh,” he purrs, voice vibrating against your body at every point of connection. “Oh, Little Hunter. Why didn’t you tell me…?”
Your discomfort morphs into confusion and it must be obvious on your features.
“Keeping secrets from me?” he tuts into your mouth, a hand sliding from your hair to grasp tightly at the front of your throat. “Did you forget that I can hear you?”
Oh.
Oh no.
The shock of his rhetorical question, of the reminder that he can easily push his way into your mind, rocks you to your core. You stiffen where you lay in bed underneath him, body going both hot and cold all at once. No, surely he isn’t referring to what frightens you most. You’re overreacting, giving him just what he wants– your fear. He frequently taunts you like this to feed off just that, your uncomfortableness. He isn’t talking about that.
He chuckles slowly, the sound of it twisting its way into your core, a dark noise that makes you want to submit.
And in an instant his wickedness is gone and in its place is–
No.
Youth. Innocence.
Desperation.
How–?
The whine he lets out is something straight from you wildest and wettest of dreams. It’s desperate, veering on a sob. His eyes are suddenly wet, his body becoming looser on top of you, neck going lax. You swear his cheeks turn flushed as well.
The instinct to comfort him is something that is pulled from the deepest, most hidden depths of your being.
You barely resist this unique urge, fight it until your toes curl, until—
“Mommy…please.”
Your reaction is two-fold: excitement in a way you’ve never felt before and denial.
When you shove at his bare chest, he doesn’t move in the slightest.
“No.”
He breaks character only to press against you further, to physically overwhelm you as he hisses between the clenched teeth of a smile.
“Oh yes.”
He rolls his hips down into you, the shocking hardness of him pressing against the most intimate part of you knocking the air from your lungs. You know he’s hard only because of your blush, your choked-off noises, your inability to face what you’re secretly aroused by.
You know he’s only hard because of your shame.
He’s back in character within seconds, ducking his head and nuzzling his way into your neck, sucking at the slope of your shoulder. He humps at you as if he’s forgotten he has on briefs and that you’re still wearing your panties, rolls his hips against yours as if he can’t wait any longer.
That hitch is back in his breath, that desperate stutter.
“It…it hurts, Mommy. Please make it better. Make me feel good, Mommy.”
Your eyes fight to roll back in your head as you grit your teeth.
Damn him.
When you don’t respond, he brings his hands down to cup your ass, to lay on top of you fully as he ruts into you.
Damn him back to hell.
“Help, Mama,” he groans into your ear, his basement deep voice forcing your toes to curl where they are in the air. “You’re the only one that can make it better. Please.”
The way his voice goes whiny and nasally makes your insides shake, makes your hands find their way into his hair where you then tug at two fistfulls of it. You can feel him grin into your shoulder before his teeth dig into your skin in retaliation. The pain mixed with the shame mixed with the deepest, most purest sense of arousal you’ve ever felt pushes you to a tipping point.
He feels it too.
He sucks your earlobe into his mouth.
“Want you to make me feel good.”
You don’t fight when he tears your panties down your legs, don’t fight when his briefs are gone just as quick. You barely fight when he selfishly brings his hand between your legs and comes back with two glistening fingertips, showing them as proof of your reaction to him finding your darkest fantasy. You nearly sob, letting your eyes fall closed. He lets out a low warning noise though, and you’re opening them obediently upon instinct.
When he slips them between his lips, his eyes flash momentarily yellow before he scrambles overtop you once more.
If he wants your shame he’s going to get it.
“C’mon, Mama. Make us feel good, make it stop aching. Let me in…”
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