★

It was certainly interesting to watch soccer football become a thing in your home city because of the World Cup. Los Angeles has always been a place for the Lakers and Dodgers in which you had a fair amount of ticket stubs and merch to prove your loyalties to the sports but soccer never did catch on for you. Even though you played growing up, LA Galaxy was kind of just a billboard to pass by whenever you were home.

However that seemed to change overnight as thousands of fans from all over the world flooded to the streets of North America to watch their home country battle it out for a global title. You remember watching the last season while still in college, staying up late in the dorms to follow along, so it was nice now that all the fun was in your area.

Thankfully your career as a successful fashion model made it easy enough to grab tickets to the first USA game. Being in that crowded was such a blast you immediately checked your modeling schedule to see if you could catch any other games. Safe to say you were obsessed. Not even with any particular team but just the culture around it. You were lucky to be well traveled being a model but it was so amazing to see all walks of life navigate the areas you were used to calling home.

Lucky for you, your photoshoot for Calvin Klein happened to overlap on the week England played Panama. And if you timed it correctly you could be back in your NYC apartment from Paris fashion week just in time for the final in July. You texted some of your friends in New York asking if they’d be interested in watching the game. Unfortunately most of your friends were traveling for the summer except one, Vanessa who was an influencer. 

Vanessa

Well the Knicks won the championships and I no longer have more basketball to watch so maybe this could fill the void.

You

I hope you’re ok with non court side tickets lol

Vanessa was dating a CEO of a tech start-up, Phillip, in New York who loved to spoil her with sports tickets and designer bags even though Vanessa made enough to get by herself. You thought it was sweet and secretly wished for a similar relationship but the dating scene was rough for you. Not that you had any problem with being approached, it was normally the events after that made you single for the past few years.

Male models lacked personality and ended up getting really competitive. Business men also scared you with their finance talk. You tried dating a “regular” guy but he ended up being so weirded out by your popularity and status that it was better to end than keep going. You've been hit up by a couple of actors that were way too old to be having Instagram. And athletes were another dimension you felt you didn't even want to step foot in. A few of your friends had been caught up with football (America) and basketball players and those relationships never ended well for the girls. 

Vanessa

You think so lowly of me. I was a big frequenter of nosebleeds until I met Phillip. Also I heard the England team is hawttttt.

You

I don’t know if I should tell Phillip about this. My loyalty is to you obviously but Phillip is great competition in Catan.

Vanessa

Glad it was a board game that finally made you warm up to him. But he agrees with me and is sad can't make it. Search up player 10 on England ;)

You giggled at Vanessa's text but still let your curiosity get the best of you. On a Google tab you searched up the England roster and scrolled down through the line up.

Number 10 - Jude Bellingham.

Oh shit.

Vanessa was right. A headshot image of Bellingham stared back at you. Pretty eyes, good facial structure, and a gorgeous pair of lips. 

You looked at his stats out of curiosity and had to check your eyes seeing how accomplished he was at such a young age. Technically he was your age but models always started out young so being as successful in your industry at 22 wasn’t something out of the ordinary. 

You spent the night stalking his Instagram page and watching clips of the England team practicing. Based on the interview clips you’ve seen of Bellingham you could tell he carried himself with a humble mindset and a passionate drive. 

Handsome and talented. Dangerous combo. You had to click the follow button making you slightly embarrassed to be a fan. But it was safe to say you now had a tiny celebrity crush. 

The day of the match finally came as you and Vanessa eagerly navigated the MetLife stadium. The decision to put New Jersey/New York was one you still found funny.

You were repping a plain England jersey which you justified with the fact you had studied abroad there in college. London was a pretty awesome part of your life and it was where you had gotten scouted as a model. Your dream was to have a permanent place there once you settled more into your career. But for now you enjoyed crashing with friends during the London fashion weeks.

“Man it’s hot,” Vanessa hummed, fanning herself, “These seats are great. Don’t know why you were making it seem like we were miles away.”

“I know you’re just used to players running into you sitting courtside so I had to prepare you that you might have to squint to see the players this time,” you joked.

“We’re on the screen!” Vanessa laughed, pointing to the Jumbotron.

Sure enough a larger image of you and Vanessa was projected on with both your names and occupations. You smiled and held up a little finger heart you had started doing with your friends.

“Looks like this game brought some models out of the runway,” the commentator said, which made you and Vanessa laugh.

Only because the next fashion week was next week in Paris which was definitely going to be a week for sure. You were glad that being more established now you could be a bit more flexible with how many shows you walked. Also you were recently signed onto an acting agency, so a majority of your career priorities have slightly shifted. 

Meanwhile on the field Jude was catching his breath as he rushed to get water for the hydration break. He looked up at the screen to see some fans for moral support but he ended up nearly choking on his drink.

Because there on the screen was the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. Wearing an England jersey.

You were doing some strange hand gesture to the camera which he realized was a tiny heart making him smile. He read out your name and occupation to himself. You must’ve been a big name in the States as the crowd cheered loudly as you smiled and the commentators talked about your surprise appearance at the game.

You gave one last encouraging tap to the three lion crests on your jersey before you and your friend blew a kiss to the screen.

That’s when Jude knew he was a goner.

“The athleticism is kinda crazy,” Vanessa commented, peering over to watch the players indulge in the last few moments of their hydration break.

“Yeah I mean they run three miles if not more per game,” you said, “I did not enjoy those running drills back in high school.”

“Did you ever think you’d play professionally?”

“Oh god no,” you laughed, “I was really happy to be on the bench.”

“Who knows instead of being the face of Dior you could be playing for the US in the World Cup,” Vanessa teased.

“And embarrass my country with how unathletic I am. These legs were made for walking in heels, not running.”

Your eyes drifted back to the large screen where they were panning to the players. The camera lingered on Jude in the middle of him wiping his face with the bottom of his jersey. Giving the audience the perfect shot of his toned stomach.

“Fuck me,” you whispered as a couple other women around you also smiled and clapped at the view.

“Told you,” Vanessa teased, “I heard he’s single.”

“God that makes it worse,” you sighed, “If he was taken then he’s literally not unattainable and I could just admire innocently.”

“You could totally pull him,” Vanessa said, “You’re literally getting paid because of how good looking you are.”

“Yeah and he is literally the top player in the world right now,” you said, “Ugh I’m not even going to entertain the idea I’ll just get upset.”

“I believe you can do anything you put your mind to,” Vanessa encouraged, being her usual positive self.

You rolled your eyes but appreciated the comment. The game was starting again as your eyes shifted back to the field where the players began to run up and down the field.  

The thing about football was that nothing really happens for the majority of the match but when things pick up they pick up fast. That’s why you enjoyed the sport because it felt like anything big was huge. Vanessa disagreed, remaining loyal to the constant intensity of basketball but at the end of the day both of you were entertained by any sort of thing that involved a ball. You both once watched Phillip’s local league tennis final with the same excitement as Wimbledon.  

The first half of the game ended with no goals which made Vanessa decide it was a perfect time to take some photos for her social media. You spent the half time break posing in front of the field and taking selfies in your seats, picking out the best shots for Instagram. 

Someone in your section recognized you and asked for a photo which you happily posed for. She was a younger girl gushing about how she loved your runway walks, especially the one you had done for Victoria Secret a couple months ago. While being a model never guaranteed a level of fame as famous as an actor or athlete it was small moments like that which made you feel you had truly made it in your career.

“Ooo this is such a good photo of you,” Vanessa squealed, zooming in on her phone, “You look absolutely stunning.”

You looked over and vainly had to admit she was right. Vanessa always knew how to get the right angles. The shot was a perfect mix of cute and sexy with your shirt tucked up to reveal your own toned waist sculpted by the hours at Corepower. You smiled at the camera, the lighting capturing the shine of your gloss.

“Wow you really know my angles,” you said, liking the photo for later.

“I should probably post something on my story now,” Vanessa said, always making sure to update her millions of followers. 

You both decided on sharing a cute selfie of you two from your seats and a view of the game. Despite having much more of an internet presence than you, Vanessa was eager to tag your handle. Only recently you started working on your social media, before just using it to repost your runways or photoshoots. But now the industry was changing and with the help of your manager and other influencer friends you were slowly raking up the follower count.

“Posted!” Vanessa said, “Oh just in time they’re coming back out!”

The two of you joined the crowd’s cheering as the two teams re-entered the field once again with a bit more energy than when the half-time ended. In between, making fun commentary on the game and joining in on the cheers, things were actually picking up. 

You shifted onto the edge of your seat as you watched England prepare for a corner kick. Saka kicked the ball, allowing the curve perfectly straight to Bellingham. As if it were fate, Bellingham effortlessly kicked the ball into the net.  

The crowd went wild. Even you and Vanessa stood up jumping in your seats despite being the most American girls ever.

“That was awesome!” you squealed.

You eyes tracked Bellingham’s jersey as he directed himself to the crowd and did his signature pose. His arms outstretched, jersey hugging his toned body as he looked up to the stadium with a proud look on his face.

God he was attractive. His teammates embraced him in hugs and pats on the back as you felt silly crushing so hard on this random football player. As Bellingham walked back to the field, the camera still paned on him and his gorgeous face. For a moment, Bellingham smiled up at the screen and produced a small finger heart gesture.

“No way,” Vanessa said, watching the whole scene play out.

“Yeah that was a crazy goal,” you sighed, sitting back down.

“No, did you not see the heart gesture he did,” Vanessa said, “That was totally a sign for you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you scoffed, “That is a universally hand gesture just like the peace sign.”

“Ugh you are no fun. I’m calling it now that tonight you’re getting a follow from him.”

You rolled her eyes at your friend’s crazy prediction but you didn’t think too much of it as Harry Kane soon scored another goal for England.

The game ended with England winning 2-0 which had you and Vanessa celebrating as if the two of you had lived in London your whole lives. Still you claimed to study abroad and Vanessa claimed her father’s British roots. You sang along with the rest of the English travelers to “Wonderwall” with the players all together facing up and singing right back at you. Your eyes couldn’t help but stay on number 10 as he smiled widely up at the crowd.

Later, you and Vanessa met up with Phillip for drinks as you gave him a rundown of the game.

“Never thought I’d be into soccer but Phil we HAVE to go to the next game,” Vanessa begged, “It’s the start of the knockout rounds.”

Phillip chuckled and promised to look at tickets the next day. You also laughed at your friend, scrolling through Instagram to see how your post was doing. Vanessa had to take your phone and hit the post button before you siked yourself out but it was a good call because it was blowing up. 

Even a few celebrity tabloids reporting on your appearance, not realizing what a fan of the sport you were, now being spotted at two games. You scrolled through until your eyes nearly popped out of your head seeing the two notifications.

@ judebellingham liked your post

@ judebellingham started following you back

“Holy shit,” you exclaimed, “He fucking noticed me.”

“What!” Vanessa shrieked, making Phillip very confused.

You turned your phone to show her the notification which had her squealing and saying “I told you!”

“What’s happening?” Phillip asked, “Did you get that beauty contract with Chanel?”

“No. Even better,” Vanessa said, “Jude Bellingham followed her on Insta.”

“What!” he exclaimed which made you laugh at his enthusiasm.

“This is crazy,” you sighed, “How did he even find the account?”

“I told you he noticed you from the game,” Vanessa said.

“Maybe it’s just because I’m a model and it’s networking,” you said, a bit nervous, “He’s an ambassador for LV.”

“Ughhhh just accept the win and the fact Jude fucking Bellingham wants you.”

“He only liked one post.”

“Yeah and I bet he’s crafting a slick way to slide into your DMs right now.”

This time you didn’t roll your eyes because you really hoped Vanessa was right. But you put your phone away so you didn’t think too much about it.

–

Jude was still running off the high of winning the game and scoring his first goal this World Cup. After the press he celebrated with his teammates in the locker room as the exhaustion slowly started to hit all of them. Thankfully the knockout round was in a few days so he had time to relax before the next match.

Once settled in his hotel room, he kicked off his slippers and opened up his phone to the flood of news and coverage on the match. He tended to avoid reading articles about his games right after a match as they would mess with his confidence seeing everyone insert their own opinions on him. 

However, one article stuck out to him. 

American girls betraying their country! Fashion models spotted at England vs Panama match showing their support for England

There was an image of the jumbotron showing you and your friend smiling at the screen, making him smile remembering your face. He curiously clicked on the article to read about how this was the second match you had actually gone to, surprising the American press with your interest in football. He read that you were a famous fashion model getting ready to walk in Paris week. 

As he scrolled further down the article, it had linked your Instagram post from the game and a story of your selfie from the bleachers. Damn you looked so good that he clicked the link and gave it a like and follow.

He found himself on a deep dive of your social media. Most photos were from photoshoots and runways but there were some snippets of your daily life. Photos of friends and travels that made him smile as he looked through the candid pics of you laughing and dancing. 

Maybe it was because he was still feeling on top of the world after tonight’s game but Jude decided to take a chance and shoot his shot. Just in a different way.

–

After drinks you finally got to settle into the silence of your NYC apartment. Vanessa, Phillip and you spent the rest of night talking about various topics like your mutual  friend’s evil ex and the new intern at Phillip’s start-up. The conversation about Bellingham soon became a background thought as Vanessa agreed that you shouldn’t dwell on it with Paris fashion week coming up.

Once tucked under the covers in your soft pajamas, you opened Instagram one last time for the night for a quick bedtime scroll. It seemed there was a new message in your inbox, meaning it had to be from a mutual.

You clicked on the icon to see Bellingham’s profile picture and half of a message. It was just you in your apartment making the message feel like a secret. You weren’t sure whether to inform Vanessa but you ultimately decided to keep it to yourself incase the message wasn’t really anything.

@ judebellingham 

Replied to your story: Hoped you enjoy the game! You and your friend looked like you were having fun

Your jaw dropped, heart beating fast as you tried to come up with a response that was witty enough to be cool but not off putting

@ yourusername

Do you normally check in with fans afterwards? But great game btw

@ judebellingham 

If they look like you then yes. Are you from New York? I’m looking for recs to spend my day off here

@ yourusername

Depends on what you’re looking for. I’ve lived here for two years so I kinda know my way around

@ judebellingham 

Any good first date spots?

@ yourusername is typing

© PLUVOiA 2026

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⋆ ˚

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