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razbunz · 5 months ago

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V A M P

Sephiroth x Fem!reader CW: Blood and light gore, A teaspoon of smut, Petnames (Angel, Doll, ect) , Fangs used as an aphrodisiac, Sephiroth is OOC, takes place mid 1800s, slight angst, 6k WC.

It's desolate on the streets, no surprise from the recent stormy April weather. You can hope it's going to boost the flowering process in your garden. Just enough for some early daffodils to sprout from their buds into full flowers, for sweet smelling roses to travel with each draft.

Even as a creaking stagecoach slows to a stop in front of your house.

“Madame!” A voice breaks up your thinking, you look at the man who calls for you, He has short jet-black hair that compliments his striking green eyes- they shine with the little sun that peaks through the clouds.

“Ah! Monsieur!” You bow your head and fix your posture “Need some assistance?” you inquire.

“Nothing but a letter for me to deliver ma’am.” He retrieves an envelope from his back pocket, it's dotted with a gold and green wax stamp.

“Why thank you.” Courteously thanking him, taking the letter cautiously and flipping it a few times over searching for a name; but there's nothing.

“Can I help you with anything else though Sir?” You ask as he shakes his head and offers a respectful bow. Giving you his name- Zack Fair.

“Thank you Mr Fair, see you around.” You wave gently as he turns to the wagon.

You close the front gate and enter your house looking for a letter opener, the glint of metal catching your eyes, going over to slit the letter open.

Oddly eager to see what's inside- you can hope for payments from your last event! But it's unlikely. Instead you're met with neat cursive written on crisp paper and reads…

Dear Ms L/N, I appreciate the floral centerpieces you made for us a few months back, Though the flowers are wilted my mind is still stuck on you. No dame I've seen has shun as bright and vibrant as you, With your smile and wit I have fallen. In love with your nurturing care towards others and the way you hold yourself. I acknowledge that you own the Wespritz Grove, so humbly I ask of you to join me at DawnField Castle for this next week.

Spend it by my side and perhaps you can see if palace life is befitting of you. As I can hope.

On April 23 I will send Zack to retrieve you, Please pack what you need to be comfortable- Though I assure you I will have most estentails.

-Sincerely S.

What? You can hardly believe you read it correctly. Questions run rampant throughout your head. What if he’s old and hideous? Or he just wants an heir? You shiver at the thought, But you’d be a fool to not give whoever they are, a chance.

After all, you've briefly been past DawnField before, And nothing life threatening was mentioned.

Even if April 23d is only two days from arrival.

Waking up on that dewy morning is stomach wrenching, your head spins and twirls with every nauseating thought that passes through. So you try to keep yourself busy with dusting and pruning your flowers.

Ding ding

The door buzzes with life, you freeze up and carefully peak through the door jam. It's Zack, wearing a gray frock- his satchel gone in favor of a green pocket square.

“Are you prepared?” Zack asks and offers you his hand, It's gloved in a soft satin fabric.

You look around once more- picking up your small suitcase.

“I suppose so.” A nod in confirmation is all you get before he leads you outside into the crisp morning air. Where a carriage rests outside the cobblestone street- He takes your bag and steps up into the Coach box, lifting you up inside the carriage where lush velvet seats meet you.

He tells the driver to take off and the horses are set.

For hours you look listlessly outside, Peaking over wooden bridges to gaze at the rushing waters underneath and the trunks of trees.

Until the path becomes rocky and strewn with pebbles, and tall steeples of a palace grow from the ground. Seeing it from here makes you imagine how big it is once your feet hit the floor.

Clinking chains and aching wood is enough of a realization to peer out the windows to view the outer castle grounds.

Hash footsteps fill your ears, you reach for the door but Zack gets there before you, swinging it open to the cooler mountain air.

“Let me do that m’lady.” He gives a soft smile comforting your racing heartbeat.

Stepping down on the hard gravel it crunches beneath your feet.

You could never imagine that a castle would ever be this big.

It towers over you with panes of meticulously crafted stained glass, it depicts an angel holding up a rising star. Two giant oak panels serve as doors engraved with paisley swirls.

Doormen hold them open closing with a boom as Zack leads you in. High ceilings painted like the Sistine Chapel decorated with tiny cherubs and sirens line the marble pillars which hoist the ceiling up.

You could have only dreamed of seeing this as an adolescent.

Large decorative paintings adorne the weathered walls, many depict vast nature scenes though many fade into desolate towns.

With him opening a lighter door in front of you, light green walls and a large canopy bed with tulle drapes is what you're met with. It smells dusty like the rooms never been opened.

“His highness has invited you to dinner, do join. Though if you need anything ring the bell- it'll bring someone to assist you.” He nods and turns away, not before you stop him.

“Do you need something?” he asks, tilting his head.

“No I- thank you.” You fumble with your words, he seems worried as you say it.

“Don't mention it.” as he leaves with haste.

Sudden, is the only way you can describe his exit.

Your bag is dropped off shortly later and you unpack the few clothes you have, A small tea dress and some other more worn ones. You wish you had something better to present yourself in- to the King? Lord? Someone with money and power whatever he is, it'd be for the best to look nice.

Knock… Knock… You scramble up from your bed to answer the door,

“Hello Madame, I'm Miss Davenshaw- Your personal maid. I’ll be here to help you throughout the week.” She curtsies even when you stand awkwardly at her.

“Umm much appreciated.” You attempt to form a shaky curtsy back.

“No need.” she shakes her hands in front of her.

You move out of the way for her to enter your room, she bustles past and goes straight to the large wardrobe in the wall.

Whipping it open to reveal dresses of different lengths, fabrics and colors are sitting in the closet. Unlike the room they smell new, and fresh.

“Ahh there it is, He's requested for you to wear the emerald one, All your options are open though.” Miss Davenshaw hands it to you.

It's gorgeous, decadent emerald silk that almost melts in your hands. It's a color that only appears in your Zinnia’s. Never in cloth.

“Does it suit your fancy?” she asks and wipes her hands down on her skirt awaiting your response.

“It's absolutely gorgeous.” you let out a soft chuckle, and look over the fabric once more.

“Then let's get it on?” she ensures and once you nod she starts to assist you getting you out of your road clothes.

To your surprise dress fits perfectly, It holds and hugs your curves and doesn't scrunch up much when you sit down. Once you're in your dress with a little bit of hair tasseling she leads you to the dining room.

Arriving at the dining room the doors are locked with Zack standing guard out front, he greets you with a nod and looks you up and down, Quickly- as if it's a crime to look at you.

You bite the inside of your cheek, wondering if you don't look enough to be meeting whoever rules this castle.

He opens the doors, taking you into the space. Just like many rooms of the castle you've seen everything is fit, well for a king. A huge center table with a glistening candelabra lights up the room, while through the windows you can view the mountains off in the distance.

Someone sits at the end, it feels like a mile away.

He pulls out his chair walking up to you- gesturing for Zack to leave. You almost don't want him too. Shockingly, the person who approaches you is young. And let out a smirk with the small cursty you give him.

Long silky hair that sways with each movement he makes, with bangs that cover some of his face- and as he stands in front of you his deep green eyes meet yours. They watch your hands twitch and the goosebumps that raise on your arms.

“Relax.” a cold hand covers your shaking one.

“I apologize for the wait, I had business matters to take care of.” He straightens his collars and looks back down at you. “I am Sephiroth, Lord of the castle, writer of the letter.” You look up at him, towering over you- it’s hard to muster an answer when he looks at you like that.

“Oh, it was very sweet… thank you.” You attempt to compose yourself.

“Sit with me?” he gestures to the table, walking to one end where you match him at the other.

Sitting down you adjust the dress, waiting patiently for him to begin to eat the food in front of him.

“Go ahead, I'm not hungry.” He reassures you as you open the cloche to eat the lean meat inside, it looks like venison. Bloody but delightfully warm- enough to keep you seated.

Sitting across from you he asks you questions, along the lines of ‘How was the trip?’ or ‘I hope this all accommodates you.’

Sephiroth is kinder than you thought, He's patient and unbelievably attractive.

When you finish your plate, you see Sephiroth approaching you, he adjusts his gray vest and offers his hand out. You reach your hand out- his skin frigid and places a gentle kiss onto the top of your hand. It makes your cheeks heat up. You hope he can't tell in the candlelight

“Will you let me escort you back for the night?” His face is still so close to you, he smells like jasmine.

“Please?” you pout up at him, begging without words. He takes your arm into his and walks you up the stairs infront of your door where he lets you go.

“Au revoir che’rie” And waves you off as you enter the room. Hastily,you ring the bell for Davenshaw to undress you.

Once she leaves though the castle is eerie and dark, windows once bright in the day are now shadowed over with tall pine branches that curve and crack with the wind outside.

The entire place, once dark, has a sense of uncanniness. The oil lamp in the room is still going strong, and its light comforts you as you let down your hair.

You blow out the lamp and crawl into the sheets, the smooth cold fabric is easily recognizable as silk, you almost laugh to yourself imagining how much sheets cost.

It makes it easy to fall asleep.

Sunlight seeps through the flimsy curtains, without a doubt they are only there for decoration. Standing on the stone floors sends shivers up your spine, at least the ones near the windows are warm with the sun's grace. You don't believe anyone is up, at least not if they had a choice. Shimmying on a pale yellow tea dress, with little frills on the sleeves and hard buttons you place outside.

Closing the door with a soft thud, the castle sprawls out before you. Unlike night, it's much more homey.

“Miss!” a shout echoes from down the hall, and you whip around to see a lady running after you. She carries a nude pair of flats as she sprints toward you. “I'm sorry to disturb you but I was sent for you this morning!” She explains as she attempts to catch her breath. “I'm just here to chaperone you around the castle, DawnField is much larger once you're inside I assure.” You tuck on the pair of flats she offers. You wait for her to fill her lungs before you continue walking, to join you it's best to be on good terms.

“I didn't know I needed a guide, sorry” you apologize to her.

“It's okay! He just wants to make sure you're safe. And since you're a guest it's my job to give you some direction, no?” She confirms.

Normally, walking around aimlessly isn't something you do, but given this morning. You cant help but see what the day could bring.

The girl explains a lot of the doors you go past, lots of them being spare bedrooms how many could you need? You ponder to guess- I mean there's even an indoor flour mill.

One room though that catches your attention is the library, you've never really had the opportunity to visit one.

“Can we go there?” You ask.

“To the library?” She questions back to you “We can go.” she opens up the doors revealing endless shelves of books, reading seems like the perfect thing to do to pass some time.

You scrounge around looking for any novel to catch your eyes. A light rosette color with a faded gold lettering seems to be today's pick, you take it over to a tiny alcove with a daybed inside, laying down on the cushy fabric and adjusting the pillows.

“Can you read?” the girl asks you, while an innocent question it reminds you of what outsiders of the palace must appear as.

“That I can.” You chide and open the book.

‘Tales of the supernatural, Chapter one: Undead creatures.’

Pages after pages you read, clocks ringing with the hourly reminder of times passage. By the time you look up from your book it's 10 o’clock, sun is fully out.

Heavy footsteps take you out of your thinking.

“There you are!” a familiar man approaches you, its Zack with another guard by his side “His Majesty was wondering where you two ran off too.” Something about his voice sounds anxious, his fingertips twitch against his halberd.

You profusely apologize, “I wasn't trying to cause any trouble, what do you need Mr Fair?” you sit up dog-earring the page.

“You are invited to eat breakfast with the palace, if you are hungry?” The guard next to him moves forward, offering a hand. You take it and he helps you up.

“I'd love that.”

All three lead you into a dayroom, a different area than where you ate dinner prior, increasing your questioning of how big is the castle really? The room is full of people who you haven't seen yet. As they follow you with their eyes, it's difficult to believe you're different from any of them.

In the midst of the people you spot Sephiroth, wearing simple dress pants and an overcoat. From where you stand you dont think there's a shirt underneath.

He gestures you over, a maid pulling up a chair on the other side of the table. You're closer than last night- maybe only 4 feet apart. Upon sitting, conversations return to normal, and the room less tense.

“How did you sleep?” He smiles, leaning in to ask.

“Rather well, Thank you.” You take a plate passed to you.

“Is everything to your liking so far?” He takes a sip of juice from his glass.

“It's a beautiful castle you have, Your majesty everything is so pristine~” The castle is truly dreamy, if you're ignoring it at night…But you're not going to mention that.

“This makes me wonderfly happy to hear.” he claps his hands together and leans back into his chair. His skin almost glows in the sunlight, he still appears sickly pale though.

“Not trying to intrude, but are you not hungry?” All he has is a glass of juice.

“Oh no, I ate with a merchant earlier, a ‘good deal always comes out of a meal’ is something I live by.” You laugh at his joking manner.

“I just want to see that you're alright, No harm meant but you're quite pale-”

His nails clink against the glass “No harm done, it's hard to catch some sun when I'm cooped up all day in here.”

He suddenly lights up “Speaking of going outside, we have a garden on the grounds! If you'd join me on a walk after breakfast…I'd be delighted.” His voice is honey smooth, dripping with elegance and charm.

“There's gardens!?” You ask, sitting upright and listening with full attention.

“Why of course, no castle is a castle without a garden, Darling.” He takes another sip. “And I'm sure one as familiar with plants as you are, might even be impressed.”

“That could be plausible.” You smile at him, enjoying the rest of your plate in a comfortable silence.

After breakfast, many servants retreat to their tasks while maids clean up whatever mess left behind, having someone do your dishes in front of you is different.

sephiroth waits for you under a large engraved oak arch, if you look closely the engravings are flowers, Angrec flowers…Maybe the gardens have some.

“Ready?” he awaits your reply, staying a step behind him even as your lead outside. Two guards stand mere steps behind you as well, so quiet you didn't notice them until they opened up outer doors.

“Sir, your coat?” one offers a long black coat, and Sephiroth takes it instantly.

“And one for the lady.” Sephiroth requests moments later “It looks blustery.” One guard goes away to fetch Miss Davenshaw.

The guard returns with a white cotton jacket, complementing your dress. You thank the guard as he helps put it on. Sephiroth takes your hand as he leads you down the marble stairs, he wouldn't want to risk you falling of course.

Giant cypress trees make a wall of evergreens, smaller boxwood shrubs lining the path.

Moving past the wall of trees, it opens up into what you can only assume is acres of land.

In the front are flowering roses, in the back you can imagine an orchard from the way workers are climbing up trees and shaking the branches.

“Thoughts?” he asks.

You wouldn't know how to even begin to explain to him the beauty of his gardens, not when you can smell the fruiting pomegranates from afar, not when you feel the chilled wind against your skin. And definitely not as he gently lifts up the furred hood of your jacket as you shiver, his fingers swiping against your cheek ever so slightly.

“Captivating.” you breathe into the morning air, turning just in time to see his mouth twitch up in a smile.

“I am overjoyed to hear this.” He claps his hands together, the guards behind you coming to attention. Sephiroth ushers one over going to whisper a few words to him before both of them leave, and suddenly it's just the two of you left alone in the garden.

“I- where are they going?” you watch as they walk away.

Sephiroth speaks up “I'd just like some time for us, me and you. Unless that's a problem?” quirking an eyebrow he asks, focusing on your face.

“Nono, no problem, I was just wondering.” You stare at the ground, clicking your flats against the soil.

“Then you'll come with?” his eyes glisten with hope, meeting you soft gaze when you whisper a yes. He leads you through the garden through each row of blooming flowers to bushels of fruiting berries.

“Is the castle your familys?” you ask looking at the ivory pillars supporting large potted ivies, large white feathers engraved in the smooth stone, you rub your fingers over it- feeling how with each cut it dips under your fingertips.

“It is.” he pauses to think “Why do you ask?”

“Everything has a sense of cohesiveness, of royalty. All of the paintings I've seen are all gorgeous If I can add.” you continue to walk.

He nods “I appreciate that, But what about you?” A brush against your lower back guides you closer to him, his touch is soft- addicting. You clear your throat after his gesture.

“Well, what of me?”

“I want to know all about you, everything and anything that I can, your quite… what's the word?” he rubs his temple “Intriguing.” You beam at his complement, humming thinking of where to start.

“Hmmmm, Well when I was young I used to play with the earthworms when my mother asked for my help in the garden.” you scoff at yourself, looking up to Sephiroth for his reaction.

“She said it was ‘unbefitting’ of a young lady, that didn't stop me from laying them on a rock and naming them though.” you sigh at your reminiscing.

“That's oddly adorable” he chuckles “I can still see some of that in you today.”

“Is that right?” you question him, all while he nods and smiles.

He lets you go on with your tales, some recent, some old. He comments on them and laughs along with you as if you are old friends.

He's surprisingly easy to talk to, not once does he talk of his rank or power.

Right now, you're just two people on a walk.

Before you know it you're on the other side of the garden, laughing with him.

He leads you into the wooden building in front of you, he ushers you inside- and for the first time you're walking in front of him.

A neigh and trotting in the back confirm the smells of hay and dirt, they have stables.

“My Liege! What do you need?” A stablehand approaches him, bowing.

“Two of our finest horses, and a saddle for the lady.” The stablehand bows before going to get what's asked.

Sephiroth shows you around the barn in the meantime, introducing you to the exterior staff.

He picks up a small pair of riding gloves, taking your hands in his- buttoning them securely onto yours. He lifts your now gloved hands and kisses the backs of them.

“Comfy?” He grins and lets them go, You can only nod dumbfoundedly. It doesn’t help that he chuckles at it either.

Luckily the stablehand comes in time to prevent you from an untimely death.

“I’ve brought Beau and Hazel sir, with a saddle for her.” The stablehand bows at you as well,

You thank him with a smile.

Sephiroth approaches a woodsy colored horse combing through his mane whispering his name. The horse whinnies at him and trots in place, he appears happy.

Sephiroth turns to you offering Hazels bridle to you, you take it albeit confused.

“Sir?” You attempt to gain his attention

“Yes?” He responds by turning towards you.

“I've never ridden before, I don't really even know how.” you rub the back of your neck.

“Oh that's no issue.” He brushes off “I’ll give you a steady hand, if you need it.” he assures you.

One of the stablehands helps you onto hazel, showing you where to put your feet on the stirrups, sitting there anxiously as Sephiroth switches to his riding gear.

“Are you ready to depart?” He hoists himself on the horse, taking the reins with confidence and sitting up straight.

“Now or never, I guess.” You try to imitate his posture and attitude, as many equestrians believe horses smell fear.

Sephiroth leaves the stable first, and you attempt to follow after him. The horse is jumpy, jolting at you taking the reins. You hope it’ll understand your inexperience. Later down the path he waits for you, giving a few pointers to be more comfortable in the saddle.

“Is that an improvement?” he notes, watching you keenly as you roll your shoulders.

“Definitely better.” you remark and gently kick the horse to get it to move. Hazel and Beau stick by each other even as you try to guide them away.

Sephiroth guides down a winding woodsy path, only small strips of sun peaking through the canopy. Chittering of chipmunks and other small creatures can be heard underneath Sephiroth's low whistling. He whistles a tune that you've never heard of, and he hums some parts. And as the air gains a chill to it a stream pops into view.

You both dismount from your horses, staying behind Sephiroth like a lost puppy. He keeps walking alongside the river, something silvery in his hand, it's a knife. You stay a little further back, silent.

“Are you okay? You're rather quiet.” he mentions as he digs through some brush.

“I'm just wondering why we’re down here. It's getting dark.” You look through the forest, you don't want to imagine what creatures might wander the woods.

Like some of the ones you read about- like a zombie, or even a wraith! His voice loops you back into reality.

“Oh, I didn't say?” he chuckles and shakes his head “ We are collecting water chestnuts for tonight's dinner.” The release of tension in the air is palpable and suddenly you feel like a fool.

“If you want you can help me, I have a spare knife in my saddlebag” he points to Beau.

You jog over there to fetch the knife, rubbing off the sticky rust-red substance on it.

“Glady.” and you go the opposite way of him, moving along the water looking for bushels of stalky leaves. Almost immediately you find some, digging it up with the flat end of your knife.

“These right?” You lift a bunch of them up for him to see. He squints before shouting a yes, moving towards you.

“Those are perfect, It takes me plenty of time to even find small ones.” He sheathes his knife

“Though I suppose I am working with an expert.” He winks at you and takes the bushel from your hand.

“Well,I wouldn't-” you attempt to defend yourself.

“Don't sell yourself short darling.” He claps his hands to cut you off. “No need to humble yourself around me, please.” You nod slowly, trying to make sense of what he's said, but his words are crystal clear.

Grabbing the leather sheath for your knife you attempt to slide it in, but it catches one of the seams, slitting your palm open. You nurse your hand to your chest while inspecting the damage

“Are you alright?” he comes up to you, gently taking your injured hand into his.

“It's just a little cut, it's not deep.” You try and fail to assure him. Sephiroth digs through his pocket, fetching a tiny handkerchief, Wrapping it over your palm tightly- his teeth digging into his lip to where it draws blood.

“Is that better?” He rubs the top of your hand- looking at you intensely as you move it with caution, nodding moments later.

The crimson seeps into the white fabric, staining it red. He turns away from you, gripping the reins to Beau until his knuckles are white.

“I think we should call it a night.” he barks out, there's no room for suggestions. You shuffle onto your saddle wondering if you did any wrong.

The ride to the castle is eerily silent, and once you arrive Zack hustles you to your room, where you're quickly dressed for dinner as another washes your face.

By the time your sat and served at the tables, he's not there.

“Zack?” you raise a question to him.

“Madame, what is needed?” he bows slightly.

“Where is Sep-”

“He is feeling ill.” Zack interrupts you, letting the servers aside to place down your entree.

The doors slam with an echo,Only two guards guard the entrances.

It's silent.

Every bite you take seems to echo, the meal is warm and tastes amazing. But it's different from before. Either way you finish up the stew and let someone in armor bring you back to your room. Your seamstress undresses you quickly with no words spoken.

Once she leaves you slump down in your beds burying your face into a pillow.

You didn't mean to fall asleep especially before bathing, but you do.

When you do wake up it’s too the sound of glass shattering next to your room. You peek outside the door to look at the commotion, but nothing is broken at all.

Remembering you didn’t take a bath yesterday you ring your bell for Ms Davenshaw to run a bath for you. The bath smells of lavender and warms your skin as she helps find an outfit for you.

She pulls from the wardrobe a lacy lilac dress with puffy sleeves.

Your day goes by rather slowly, mostly full of dragging your chaperone from the library to the garden, plenty of ways to waste time in a castle this large.

Sephiroth isn’t present again when dinner rolls around. You try to act cordial about it but it’s frustrating.

By now the dark night outside your window and a flickering oil lamp you sit and fiddle around with the corners of your bedding.

Tip tap

You pause, looking outside.

Scratch

You stumble towards the window holding a blanket to your body as makeshift armor, grabbing the dying oil lamp for comfort.

Holding the lamp to the window it shows nothing but the tall evergreens outside.

You pace around the room, listening keenly for each groan the wind seems to travel with. By now it’s not the wind that’s in pain.

Without a second thought you race into the hallway feet barren to the cold stone.

You follow the sound to a wall, to a wing you’ve never entered. Ignoring your more coherent thoughts you push the doors open and walk up the stairs lined with foreign rugs and the walls hung with extravagant tapestries that go ceiling to floor.

A giant chandelier made of silver and emeralds gives it a green lighting.

This must be where Sephiroth stays, right? If he’s in pain an attempt to help is better than none at all.

Entering his room it’s even more apparent that it’s his, Feathers of every creature imaginable are interwoven to create a canopy that covers the ceiling.

His bed is messy with blankets strewn everywhere, Your eyes travel to the floor where his clothes are doused in blood so much that it sticks to the floor.

Scratch marks are splintered into the golden wallpaper.

“Sephiroth?” You call out for him, hoping for a response.

“Leave.” His voice rocks you to your core.

“Where are you? Let me help you.” You beg him, looking around the room.

“Just go.” He repeats, this time with more vigor. You stand still reaching out to where you hear his voice.

In a blink of an eye he appears in front of you, his dress shirt open and legs covered in the same baggy fabric. “I need you to leave.” His body shivers and he’s deathly pale, blood covers his mouth where two white fangs stick out- eyes slitted and pupils red.

You fall back at the sight, you would know if he was a monster!

“I didn’t need you to see me like this.” He gestures towards himself.

His nails are clawed from this angle, inhumane.

He looks you up and down staring at your face- his pupils dilate at the sight.

“I just need you to help me.” He takes a breath “Help me Angel, please.” a whine leaves his throat, his nails gentle closing into the fat of your cheek, blood drips down his face with his skin sheened with a cool sweat. His shirt clinging to his chiseled body.Every atom in you begs to scream and run, but you don’t. He holds you in place and you nod, giving up to the vampire in front of you.

He lifts you onto the bed with him easily, lifting you onto his lap and brushing away any hair restricting his view of you.

“You're such a sweet girl.” you grimace at the feeling of his tongue tasting your skin.

“So smart yet so naive.” He huffs “Gorgeous.” He peppers kisses on your collarbone and neck.

“Will it hurt?” you ask, trying to fight off the warmth his tongue offers your body.

“Only for a second, my sweet girl.” He assures you as his teeth graze your skin.

“Promise?” a childish wish you ask upon him for reassurance.

“Of course darling, I promise the world to you.” He whispers into your skin a puff of air blows over your skin, creating goosebumps in its wake.

“Relax for me, okay?” His voice is honeyed with hunger and bite, fangs glistening in the warm light.

He splays one hand over your stomach pinning you to his chest, while the other rubs over your inner thigh. And then he bites, everything in your body erupts into flames. Charring your skin and bones in an unstoppable fire- one that isn't real.

“Shhhh shhhh, you're okay- it’s over now okay?” He gingerly laps up the warm blood seeping out of you, moaning at the taste. He sinks them once more into you, egging a whine from your limp body. It feels good.

You rut against him experimentally, gasping at the feeling it draws from you. Soon you're grinding on his thigh with no shame, biting your lip to quell any loose moans.

Until you feel a large hand rub against your clothed cunt pulling your panties to the side, fingers slipping into your wetness. You freeze up breathing heavily at the foreign feeling as they curl up into you. Rolling your hips into his hands meeting his slow pace, moaning unabashedly as his thumb rubs the letter S onto your puffy clit.

He groans as you clutch onto him, breathing a low- “Make yourself feel good for me,Angel.” into your skin. Waves of pleasure continue to build up inside you, tears glistening on the corners of your eyes. His fingers rhythmically curl and scissor inside you- bringing you closer and closer to the edge. A pleased hum leaves him “Let go, let go for me.” he whispers to you.

It's all it takes for you to climax, releasing on his thigh with a sharp cry of his name.

He's all that you can think of, as he rubs your back in comfort.

Your eyes are hazed over in pleasure where only his name enters your mind,Sephiroth, Sephiroth, Sephi-

Too far gone to realize it's your neediness that's etched into the words spoken around the room. Everything spins slowly, drooping into his arms as if you're drunk. Though only one is drinking, it's your consciousness that slips.

Everything hurts…

Is what you realize when you come to your senses, You can hardly move without feeling aching soreness. Opening your eyes shows Sephiroth clung to your almost bare body- your face burns red in shame. You try to shake away from his grasp “don't go, please.” His voice is soft but hoarse with the morning wakeup.

You avoid looking at the bloodbath on your right shoulder, taking every ounce of energy you have left to not gag. Even when you know it's yours.

“My dear- what have I done?!” he reaches out to hold your face, but retracts as his blood covered hands reach his vision. Cries of frustration echo in the room as he throws on whatever robe he could find. You try to follow him out but he gives you a harsh look, surprisingly the sheets are mostly undamaged which you're sure when he returns he’ll be thankful for.

Soft padded steps reenter the room, long white hair following the figure that comes into view.

“They are heating up a bath for you, they know as much as I told them.” His voice is curt, leaving no room for any questions. “You can leave now.”

He points towards the hall.

Arguing feels pointless against him, everything is nothing at once- Biting your lip is the easiest option. Miss Davenshaw escorts you outside as she covers you with an oversized sleeping dress, The blinds are closed in the hall leaving everything in a darkened veil, No words are spoken as she undresses you for bathing.

Warm water rolls over your skin loosening the blood stuck onto it with each scrub, By the time you exit the water the scent of lavender is what fills your senses now.

Zack drags you to your room and tells you to eat and rest, standing guard outside your room.

The heavy cloud of sleep over your eyes ushers you into your bed, sleep comes easy.

Upon Waking up you find that it's dark outside- ringing eerily similar to last night.

A knock comes from your door creaking open to show green eyes meeting yours, but it's not Zack, Zack doesn't soften his eyes when he looks at you, and those eyes don't plead with you to let him in. And it works- your resolve crumbling as you let out a shy nod.

“I'm sorry, so sorry my dear.” he shuts the door quietly behind him, taking your hands into him. It's gentle, sincere. “They didn't tell me you’d be here, I promise I'm not here to harm.” he lets out an airy laugh “I want to apologize…tremendously for everything. If you desire to leave I cannot and will not stop you- Just don't lead the mobs back to me though I suppose I can't stop that either.” He shakes his head.

“I don't want to leave here, leave you.” You urge him.

“I am a monster, a beast that hides away for a reason, I shouldn't have ever brought you into this.” He furrows his brows and sighs.

“I- not to me.” you beg him to listen to you.

“Then you're wrong.” He finalizes and rolls his shoulders “Why don't you see what I am?” His voice is cracked,outlined in pain.

He takes off his jacket, black inky feathers falling from the coat he grimaces and in a blink of an eye black covers your vision. Feathers fall from every angle in the room, covering the floor in them. Sephiroth looks away as you scan his body and the wing that's sprouted from his skin.

There are droplets of blood where the wing came from, he hisses as you touch the line but lets you do so anyway.

Fangs peek out from his pursed lips, as him nails dig into the coats fabric-

“I told you.” he shakes his head and tucks his wing into his body using his hands to preen away any loose feathers.

“You didn't tell me.” you argue “You didn't tell me that the man I see in front of me is the same caring and beautiful man I've met over the last few days.” only breathing is heard in the silence.

“Not a monster, that's the last thing you are.” you put your hand by your side. “That's how I view you.” He looks at you with a gaze full of mixed emotions, and shakes his head.

“You're stubborn, and a little naive. Both traits I've happened to fall for-” he scoffs and beckons you closer. He wraps his wing around you suddenly, pushing you closer to his tall frame. “I was taught to not reserve the same fate as others before me. But with someone like you it has become difficult to not make another ‘mistake’ as many would say.” he looks down at you, cheeks flushing a light red. “If I ask you to stay though… would you?” his wing twitches and lets you go.

“I-” you can think of the rumors and speculations when your garden grows over, its unchanging.

“I would.” His wing instantly pushes you to his chest, an arm wrapping around your waist, You find your lips parting themselves.

“I'll forever cherish you my love, I promise.” He leans down closer to your face, brushing your hair away from your lips. And as the feeling of sharp fangs dig into your lips, you smile.

Finis.

A/N- This was for shits and giggles at first, clearly that changed. If you enjoyed it support my ao3! Thank you, Razzy <3

#sephiroth x reader #sephiroth #ff7 #final fantasy 7 #final fantasy fanfiction #female reader #sephiroth smut #one shot #x reader #by ioveartfilm #love razzy

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razbunz · 6 months ago

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please please please please reblog if you’re a writer and have at some point felt like your writing is getting worse. I need to know if I’m the only one who’s struggling with these thoughts

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razbunz · 6 months ago

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razbunz · 7 months ago

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appetite | Alpha!Simon Riley

it's been decades since Alpha!Ghost had a rut. something that's probably for the best, really. his want is as hideous as he is. as ugly as his goddamn mug. it's best kept tucked away, secured under lock and key.

but then he finds you. and you're all alone. unclaimed, on the verge of heat. poor thing. it triggers a voracious rut. decades worth of want spilling out over you. you're it, he knows. feels the certainty in that statement simmering in his hindbrain, in his essence. he'll have you—now, forever. non-negotiable. where you go, he will follow.

but you run from him. stupid girl. didn't anyone teach you not to run from a starving wolf?

dubcon. size kink. size difference. a/b/o dynamics: knotting, rut. breeding kink. spit kink. implied virgin!reader. obsessive behaviour. possessive!Ghost. semi-public sex. reluctant reader bullied into submission lmao. forced bonds. implied kidnapping. basically, you're hunted down and fucked by Alpha!Simon who growls in your ear about how he's waited his whole life for you. and lucky him. he finally found you

AO3

It's been years, decades, since he had a rut.

(Broken Alpha. Ruined.)

Trauma, they tell him, will do that. Sever the drive in the back of his head, the one that rears—vicious and angry—each mating season, bringing with it the urge to breed. To claim. Own.

A form of self-preservation. It pitches a plexiglass of protection between him and his instincts, not letting them merge. Join. Done so because to be in rut, to want, to need, is vulnerability. It costs hypervigilance. Turns man into beast. Animal.

This bodily reaction makes an alpha extend themselves, like an overarching limb, to shield the omega they pick as a mate. Bearing their own neck to save another.

Naturally, they say, if he couldn't help himself, how could he ever hope to protect a fragile little omega?

They tell him it could be as permanent or temporary as he allows. Healing, they say. Time. Laughable, really. And utter nonsense because Ghost is fine.

Trauma tampered. Revenge sought, found. There's no one out there who could ever harm him, and still—

His last rut was before the mission that buried him alive. That turned him into the living dead. A mockery of man. Frankensteinian beast.

It's not something he cares much for, anyway. From what he remembers of his youth—vague snippets of memories, disjointed, blurred sensation; a profound need, an urge, to sink his cock into something, to plug them up, to bite—ruts have always been a nuisance. In the way. An annoyance that took time away from what he'd rather be doing.

And as Johnny enters his—skin pallid, waxy; cheeks flushed, eyes darkening like a brewing storm on the horizon; snapping at anything that breathes, whining like a dog, miserable and hot, all the time (ahm’a bleedin’ furnace, s’what ah’m)—he finds he doesn't care very much to go reclaim what he lost.

No skin off his nose. Nothing to concern himself with.

Besides. Omegas know better.

Even before he lost himself, dying, rotting in a tumulus, pretty little omegas with their soft hands and bashful smiles always went out of their way to avoid him. Miserable alpha. His scent alone wards them off—burnt leather, charred bones; sarcophagus dust, dirt—and he found himself alone during his burgeoning ruts more often than not.

No pretty little thing to tender the sweat on his brow, or bend over and present for him—offering up a sweet little cunt he got to bury himself inside, tie up nice and tight on his knot.

It was usually his hand. A bottle of bourbon. A printed porn stash he swiped from Tommy, who nicked it off their old man—

And when he did find a partner, it was always transactional. Hand to hand, an exchange of money. All clinical and detached. Empty. Fucking into a concept instead of a person; a vacuum eating away at his soul because he knew, then, that they wanted to be there almost as much as he did.

But what choice did either have when their home was the rotted gullet of a dying beast?

(Simon told them to stay away from shitty men like him, who broke bones in the throes of his heat, snapped his jowls at anything that got too close, and had to be chained to the bed like an animal during it—)

Nothing to miss. Nothing to mourn.

And it's not like he doesn't get the urge. Wanting to sink his cock into something warm, wet, is as recurring as a sweet tooth. A prickle in the back of his head after he devours his dinner that says, dessert might be nice.

He can fuck, but his knot never pops. A worry the doctors had—unsure what the consequences would be in the long run for such a virile, young Alpha already experiencing nature's version of erectile dysfunction so early in life.

(“pity the poor omega who has to deal with that rut,” they whispered. “might not be much of anything left of them when he's through.”)

Inconsequential now because he's pushing forty and his last rut was a false trigger. One dragged out of him by drugs and torture. The last true rut, natural and instinctual, was when he was eighteen.

It's doubtful he'd suddenly be cured at his age.

This is what he tells Johnny when he asks, pries. Broken fuck, ain't he? Unmated. Can't knot. Piss poor excuse of an Alpha. Doesn't he think it's—

“a shame,” Johnny grouses, words muffled slightly by the way he's hunched over the cheap plastic table in the canteen. His fingers dig harshly into his temple. “Alpha like you—” it's enunciated in clipped Queen's English, the barb makes Ghost scoff. “—ack! a waste. ma mam would be livid. no grandbabies t’show off? sacrilegious.”

—funny. If he's being honest. Laughable:

because for as long as Ghost can remember, he's always had a predilection to ruin his favourite toys. slaking his unquenchable lust on their tender skin, biting down to the bone, sipping on their marrow—

not really the sort of thing omegas today go for, is it?

his want is as hideous as he is. as ugly as his goddamn mug—

Instead, he shrugs. “hardly.”

“yer no’ missin’ it?”

“missin’ what, Johnny?”

“knottin’, ye surly prick.” He jeers, then, jabs his elbow into Simon's arm. “a bonnie omega to stick yer prick in. ain't missin’ th’, no?”

“no,” Simon gripes. The last thing Price needs is another order of protection against his Lieutenant. But to humour the alpha in an early stage of rut, he jabs out, hollow and full of wretched derision. “i can barely remember what it felt like. must be heaven, though. is that your plans for tonight, Johnny? gonna go and knot some sorry omega?”

It's meant to prod, poke. Sharp barbs aimed at Johnny's threadbare control, the same one held in place by a fraying, unspooling knot. Alphas in the early stage of rut are considered safe enough to be around. Not yet mindless drones, hosts to an ugly little parasite; a being forced to obey a single, instinctual drive to mate, to gorge themselves into a post-rut stupor.

Safe. Or so they say.

But Ghost knows what Johnny's feeling in the same sense as a phantom limb. A broken, fragmented memory. So, he twists his mockery in deep. All in jest, of course.

And Johnny pales suddenly. Wavers in his seat. The affirmative comes after a bout of contemplative silence. A jagged, choked yeah slips from his Sergeant’s mouth as he drops his head to the table, and groans. Miserable.

“go fuck yerself, Lt.”

Simon intends on taking Johnny up on that offer, lazying out on the futon with his hand stroking lazily along his flaccid cock, thumbing through the latest series of snapshots Johnny—ever the photographer—snapped up during his previous rut. Images of pretty omegas dressed up in fine silk, blood-red lingerie, and coy little grins on their faces, a vixen pastiche of demureness. Jejune appeal in all its coquettishness.

Innocent sluts—Johnny's preferred type. Ones who'll bat their eyes at him, nervous and full of faux modesty, while they rock back and forth on his face, tugging on his mohawk to make him lick their cunts just the way they like. Sweet, like candy. Dressed in sin.

He likes to take before and after photos of them—often with the pretty models unaware (adds to it, aye, Lt?). Ones with them batting their eyes at him, soft and shy in all their twee delight, and then fucked out, ruined and chewed up like a broken toy when he finishes with them. Bitten off more than they can swallow. Cheeky brats sobbing for mercy on his bed.

Likes, even more, to send them to Ghost. A little tease. One he has no compunction about partaking in. Enjoying to his heart's content.

Or—

Intended to, of course. Because what ends up happening is this:

Price calls just as he's getting into the new series sent to his phone—the tear streaks streaming down this omega’s face are particularly appealing, bound in intricate Celtic knots (Johnny, the artist), and gagged with their own panties—and tells him he has a job for him.

Something simple. Discreet. And local, too. Bears have been sighted in town—a mama and her cubs. Dangerously close.

The prelude to the phone call is a clipped take care’a it before the line goes dead.

Ghost doesn't need to pack much—he can't remember the last time he unpacked his duffle bag, anyway—and stays in the recliner until the mission file comes in, idly stroking his thumb across the pixelated, tear-streaked face of the omega in Johnny's clutch. Moussed. Messy. They make the prettiest picture, don't they? Drool dripping down their chin, a spillover from what the lacy, white panties couldn't catch.

Flesh peppered with jagged circles, bite marks. Johnny knows better than to claim them, and their neck is bereft of his teeth. Smooth. Unblemished.

To claim is to bond. To bond—

Well.

His earliest recollection of a relationship is his parents’. His mum, tied and trapped to a man she wanted no part of, but stuck. Unbondings, divorce, were rare during that time. Unheard of. Even now.

And under his old man's influence, he's always seen claiming as ownership. As possession. A lingering remnant he’s told is wrong, but can't shake. Can't change. It glues in the fibrils of his mind. A rotten, pulsing scab that no amount of sanctioned reconditioning can ever seem to get rid of, to scrape out of his skull.

(one he knows would be there no matter what because his sole purpose is exsanguination; bloodletting—

in his warped desire to protect the things he cares about, he ends up smothering them in the end. a child holding a firefly too tight in its chubby fist.)

But Johnny knows better. Good Catholic boy. Knows to keep a muzzle on himself when he sucks desperate kisses into the small omegas' sweet neck, breaking apart the blood vessels of their scent glands, soaking himself in their musk—potent pheromones of a needy omega in heat. Aching for a bite. To be held down and conquered.

It's wrong, they say. This ugly mass sits inside his chest like a foreign body. Scandalised eyes drilling into the side of his head like he's a monster for thinking this way.

And he is.

(always has been)

But he knows better. Knows to keep those uglier, rotten parts of himself hidden away from prying eyes. Got good at it, too. Enough that they let him into the brothels time and time again.

Still—

He can remember the closest he'd come during a rut to biting a shrill omega who screamed in his ear until his head rang, ached. Nearly did it, too. Teeth razoring over their jugular, pinching delicate skin.

Clarity came like a gunshot when he tasted blood. Chiselled a hole through his delirium, broke up the haze, and snapped his jaws up tight, locking them as he finished with a muffled growl, tongue swirling over his teeth for another taste. Another drop.

His ruts have always been messy. Bloody. Got him banned from several centres, brothels, where they offered up betas drenched in the artificial musk of an omega in estrus. Ones resilient enough to withstand the harsh coupling of an unhinged Alpha in need.

He had a problem, they said, with treating their workers like chew toys. Biting to break skin, drilling in deep enough to scratch his teeth on their bones.

Deranged, they hissed. Fuckin’ mental, mate. Stay the hell away!

Some are just prone to violence. Need to be half-sedated before they can mate without ripping their partner to pieces. Ghost has always been that sort. Aggressive. Hard to control. Rabid.

His appetite is bigger than the expanse of their skin. He sometimes thinks he could eat the whole world and still starve.

He hums, thumb sliding to cover the omega's neck. Trapped in his hand, his clutch. They're cute when they're ruined like this. Begging. Whimpering.

His cock gives a half-hearted twitch. His work phone chimes, signaling the end of his leisure.

shame, he thinks, squeezing his hand until the metal dents, the screen cracks, splinters. Pops. Hairline fractures split across their distorted, tear-stained face. He closes his fist over it until it breaks. Goes black.

really. such a goddamn shame.

Some things are just not meant to be—

—but they have a habit of falling into his maw, anyway.

It's a simple set up.

Man—

beast, monster, thing

—with his empty, growling stomach and teeth made to bite, tear, goes out hunting for a meal. In that search, he finds you.

You, Persephone personified: damned (eternal), standing beneath a spruce tree. Limned, halo gold, in the waning sunset's bashful kisses, you lean on the rough bark, idling your timelessness away.

Postcard beauty. Pinup demure. Alluring.

(creature of sin

and oh, do you reek:

The air is saturated in the tantalising scent of honeybush, roasted hazelnuts, and clove. Saccharine—almost nauseatingly so—but with a hint of spice, black cardamom, cinnamon. He drags in lungful after lungful until it tangles deep within his chest, nearly suffocating. Smothered in this earthy sweetness. Drowning. Drowning—

the perfect dessert)

It unleashes something in him. Chips at the lock buried deep in his mind, cudgelling through the hinges until they pop. Rusted, slick with oxidising oil. It peels back from the gate, unveiling this gaping, ravenous chasm, polluted and gangrenous, rotten down to the marrow. Noisome. Noxious. This frothing pit sloshes, geyser-like, and greedily foams at the maw, the mouth, aching for a taste. Something to quench this gnawing hunger.

This bottomless abyss hadn't seen light since he was eighteen, and—

The hollow space where his rib once sat throbs, aches. phantom bone. He holds his chest with his hand, feeling for the gap, the chasm, stolen from him. Ripped away, taken.

By you. you—

—so,

it's only fair that he steals something back.

(quid pro quo, or something, right?)

You greet him with a small nod when he wanders close, eyeing him warily under the black rim of your ballcap. Tense. Small hands curl into fists, partially hidden under the rain-soaked windbreaker nearly two sizes too big. It smells like you—honeyed milk, molasses; lilac, lavender and warm bread—and he fights the urge to pull his mask down, to shove his misshapen nose into your neck, and breathe it in right from the source. Drinking, feasting, on it.

This want is visceral. It coils in his guts, bubbling in his veins. His musk—heavier than yours, pungent—beads along his scent glands, mushrooming into the air like a fine mist.

Your nostrils flare. He takes a step closer, eyes skewering into you, taking in everything you have to offer. The rucksack left at the bottom of the tree, stained with dirt and leaves. A sprig of Saskatoon berries peeks out from the lopsided flap. And—

Ah.

Foraging is off-limits in this area unless granted a permit. One you don't seem to have based on the skittish way you keep avoiding his eye.

His scent thickens, tainted sour with faux suspicion, and you wince, ducking your chin, tucking it close to your chest, hiding from his spearing gaze.

All it does is give him a voyeuristic view of your fragile nape, your vulnerable neck.

His teeth ache. Jaw clenched up tight.

It looks so bare. So naked.

(Be a shame to keep it that way forever, wouldn't it?)

“Hi,” you stammer, seemingly oblivious to the musk you leak into the air, into his lungs. Forcing some sense of staid indifference into your tone. Like being here, out in the middle of the forest is normal. “Did you need something?”

On the verge of a heat like this, wobbling where you stand—

He wants to chew you up. Spit out the pieces on the pavement. Drink from the gash he'll rip into your jugular,

quench this unbearable thirst.

He doesn't know how you made it out here as long as you have, smelling like you do, and the thought burrows through the haze spuming, clotting, on the fringes of his muted periphery. Anger is an icy deluge of white water raging through his veins.

Under the mask, the remnants of his scarred lip curls. His hands close into tight fists. Balled up. He feels the tension crackling along his muscles, his body. Coiled spring. Ready to leap—

But:

There's clarity. Focus. Where he was meant to become a mindless monster, driven by instinct, he instead feels the pieces of himself snap back into place. Missing puzzle pieces. It shifts. Settles. Locks.

He wants you. Will have you. It's non-negotiable. Ironclad. You just—

Belong to him, don't you? Pretty little thief. And wandering around like this, reeking like you do, you must want him, too. Need him.

(protect, protect, protect—)

Honed in, drilling into your face to catch every expression that flickers past, he sees the moment you take a sniff, when realisation blooms in the inkpools of your gaze that you are less than an arm's length away from a starving predator. Supple, soft. All plush flesh seated seamlessly against brittle bone. Fragile.

“hi,” he echoes, and it sounds hollow. Garbled. Like he's speaking underwater. Thinks, for a moment, that he's buried again. Drowning under the crushing weight of dirt. His own tumulus. Suffocating. Choking on dirt—

But you twitch. Feral little thing. It breaks him out of this nightmarish obtundation; shaking the cobwebs loose. He tracks it like a viper. Attention narrowing, shrinking, into nothing but the way you move. Smell. You anchor him in his place, keeping him stable amid this horrific onslaught of emotions that rip talons down his chest.

“I–” you breathe in again, lashes fluttering. Strains of silk batting over your etiolated cheeks. You breathe him in. Deep. He sees your chest grow, expanding with his air. His musk. Has to bite down on a growl before it forms, the lash of a whip in his throat. Aching.

There's something spellbinding about you—caked in a layer of grime, briny sweat clogging your natural scent; wild and untamed. Uncharted wilderness, untouched by man and their dirty hands. A corrie after a rain shower. Snow melt. He wants to bathe in it. Carry it with him wherever he goes.

As if scenting this thickening desire, your eyes widen. You take a step back, swallowing audibly when he follows. Marionette on strings. Your shadow.

“I should go—”

And he knows he can't let you do that.

Won't.

He hums, a fickle, brittle thing in the far reaches of his chest.

“Go?” he flicks his hand toward your bag, head cocking to the side in a mockery of contemplation. “Don' think you got a permit for that, do you?”

“A permit…”

He has you. Your eyes lower, falling to the badge on his chest. Game Warden. You stare at it, eyes widening. Swallowing thick.

With you distracted, he leans in. Curves his body over you mockingly, like he's bending down to whisper a secret in your ear. Cupping a pretty little firefly in the palm of his hand.

When his shadow falls over you—dark and damning—you flinch back, fists trembling under the hem of your jacket. Brows furrowed, knotted tight. Your lower lip wobbles. You try to hide that, too, by sinking your teeth into your flesh until it floods white under the strain.

He wants to pry it apart with his own teeth. Take the bruised flesh into his mouth until you start to drool, whining from the abuse he inflicts on you in a mockery of a kiss.

(wants to tear through it, taste your blood on his tongue—)

“An’ I don't reckon tha's a good idea, pet.”

You shiver when he places his hand on the truck above your head. Boxing you in completely, nothing to spare—not even an inch.

He hums at that, cock giving a vicious jerk inside his trousers at the almost impossible dearth between your sizes, at the way he swallows you up in an instant. Has to take a deep breath to steady himself, to keep the inkblack tendrils swirling, gathering, at the edges of his periphery from bleeding in. This starving murder of crows.

When he speaks again, it's low. Deep. Kittenish licks from the tongue of a tiger; abrasive, rough. Mocking baritone of a shifting canyon, a mountainside, before it buries anyone alive under rubble.

“Not reekin’ the way you do. Might ‘ave every alpha in a one square mile radius frothin’ at jaws for a taste. Ain't safe out there.”

And it's definitely not safe with him.

He watches, transfixed, the moment this clicks. When your eyes waver between the hard bulk of his body—spread out, laxed; plumage unfurled—and the noisy clatter of the town just within reach. It's this thicket that cups your scent, that protectively curls over you, and keeps the Alpha's prowling about the market square from sniffing you out. A beaten trail. Hidden desire path no one was supposed to wander down.

Except the bear problem in the woods, infringing on town, and him, the gun bolstered on his thigh still hot from his warning shots into the bush.

(lost little Lamb—

wandered too far from the herd.)

You take another step, cautious. Small. It brings you flush against the tree. Your polyester jacket whines at the friction. He can see indecision play out on your face. Oscillating between the badge on his uniform shirt, the gun on his massive thigh, and the clamour of muted noise from the town just within reach. Alphas prowling. Their acrid scent is unmistakable even through the dense foliage spreading around you.

It's an impasse. Neither option affords you much choice in the long run—it's either stay here with him, with the heady scent of want, of an Alpha on the incipient cusp of a voracious rut; or risk yourself in town. There are police officers patrolling. Ones who can sedate an alpha who gets too out of hand, but still.

The mimesis of desire pooling around you might send you into heat sickness. That, or you'll get in even more trouble for fleeing a pursuing officer. Resisting arrest. Jail time, certainly.

The pendulum wavers. Your knotted fists wobble.

Then—

Your eyes leave his chest, the gun, trailing over his shoulder. Widening in surprise at whatever is there in the distance.

He ought to commend you, really. The rouse is quite believable—

But:

“Not bad,” he murmurs, leaning down further. If you won't jump, he'll push you—

He sees his mistake as soon as it happens.

As he bends, you drop. Waiting until his attention seemingly drifts elsewhere, to when he's distracted and off balance. Lured in by your faux attempt at distraction.

And it might have worked on a lesser being, but all Ghost has ever been is raw, unadulterated instinct.

He lashes out as soon as you move again, palm curling over your wrist in an instant. Snapping jowls of a defensive snake. Shackled. Locked. He tugs—

But the movement costs momentum. You use this against him, going limp. Forcing him to take the brunt of your weight on the spread of his fingers. Tricky little minx. His mouth breaks out in a feral smirk, tugging harshly on scars, on burns. Stretching skin. Distorting it under the mask, ugly and vicious.

Your scent plumes up around him, sickly sweet. His jaw aches, gums itch. He wants to bite, snap his jowls around the scruff of your neck, chew on your skin until you sob out his name—

In seconds, you twist. Swinging your body back in a beautiful pivot, clumsy as it is. You're all animal now. Reckless in your pursuit to escape. Throwing out pheromones at him—purposeful, he realises a moment too late.

And it works. Distracts him long enough for his grip to slacken. Your arm slips out of his grasp, and you're on your feet in an instant, darting through the thicket in a maddened dash to escape the heavy, starving alpha and his burgeoning hunger.

Escape, or—

Weighed down by the afterbirth of his sudden rut, a prickle of his old self buoys, brims, from beneath the mess. He shouldn't chase you. Should leave you alone, call someone—Price, perhaps. Bark out between a clenched jaw that he needs a tranquiliser and chains. Will have to break Simon's teeth to stop him from biting into you like a man starved, famished. Tie him to the back of his pickup truck, drag him to the edges of the forest. Knock him out. Knock his teeth in.

Anything.

Because they said this might happen. The doctors’ who poked and prodded. Therapists—all mandatory, non-negotiable, when he signed his name on the dotted line—murmured about unravelling. His self-control snapping like a twig. Sense of self retreating. All hiding away, protecting itself from the torrent of chemicals flooding his hindbrain. A heavy, unrelenting accumulation of a decades-long bout of rut celibacy all washing over him, all at once.

Said to lock himself up if it happens. Chains. Shackles. Nuts and bolts. Heavy tranquiliser. Immediate sedation.

And in Price’s office, in that messy filing cabinet he keeps, is a folder. A playthrough of everything that's supposed to happen if this happens.

(“but that won't happen, will it, Simon?”

and he'd rolled one massive shoulder in an easy, effortless shrug.

“no.”)

The failsafe is that he's meant to call in if it does. Precious seconds of clarity, cognisance, enough time for him to dial the number, to bark out the order. To be hunted down, rounded up, and thrown in a pit.

where he belongs.

He should. Should. It's the book. Rules. Coloured in red ink. No option to negotiate.

But as you slip through the dense foliage, angelic gold against the phthalo green bosky, the knot in his shoulders abates. Uncoils. In this sense of ease that permeates within him, he finds that he's shockingly cognisant. In full control. The plexiglass shatters, and in the ruins he finds purpose.

You smell good. Too good. Any alpha will scent you in an instant, will claim you. Take you. It makes something in his broken, moulted head shift. Crack. He can't let that happen. Has to protect you the only way he knows how—

To wrap his paws around your throat before any other Alpha has the chance to sink their teeth into you. To claim you.

All his. Little Persephone tucked tight against his ribs where you belong.

And if the way the air clots with your cloying smell—heady, potent; the unmistakable ripeness of an omega in heat—then you must want him to chase you. Want him to follow.

(escape, or—

a game.)

He tracks your movements, honed in on the rustle of the underbrush. When you're out of sight, Ghost flexes his hand, curling his gloved fingers over the leather on his palm. There's an itch in the back of his head. Festering. Rotting. He wants to reach in, rake his claws down the mass, shred it to pieces, but it affixes one simple truth inside of him:

you need him. want him. why else would you run in the opposite direction of help if you didn't want him to give chase?

And so, he does.

You're a crafty little thing. To throw him off of your trail, you leave scent markers on the tree trunks you pass, doubling back to run in the opposite direction.

It might have worked on someone else, but Ghost has spent half of his life buried in this thicket, and knows better than to follow smells in the forest. A vacuum, a great chasm; it plays tricks with sounds. Distorts scents wafting through the canopy, mingling with the natural loam, the disturbed humus underfoot.

Instead, he hums at your cleverness—his smart little omega—and shifts his gaze to the forest floor, roaming over the footprints sinking into the soft soil, the peat and moss. A breadcrumb trail leading right to you. Broken twigs, crushed bushes.

Ghost follows it. Places each foot down carefully, nose angled upward to catch the fresh wave of your heat leaking through the tangled furze. It beckons him forward. Calls out to him.

(come, come, come—)

This lost little lamb needs a shepherd.

He intends to give you just that.

(—find me)

The path you cut through the forest is a twisting sawtooth meant to throw him off your trail. Traps laid out in tall tussocks, weaved through sweetgrass all drenched in your scent. Pieces of your clothing torn at the hem, the shorn fabric pressed on pine needles and tangles furze.

These breadcrumb trails—a neat nest of wile, it seems—are cunning, he'll give you that.

Even with his eyes to the forest floor, he finds himself throwing a wayward glance in the opposite direction, snagged in your webbed subterfuge. Somewhere between the visitors centre and the first trail meandering into the thick taiga, you seemed to have realised that your boots leave indents in the mor. He follows the deep impressions in the podsol until he finds them shoved under a Saskatoon berry bush. Another dead end.

Clever little thing, aren't you?

But even when strays from the path, he's right on your tail. Confident in his scenting abilities. His prowess has always been tracking down wily little rabbits when they try to flee, picking them off in stasis from high above. The layout might have changed—his perch closer to the ground instead of a deer stand—but his eyes are just as keen. Your winding trail is ingrained in his mind. A long loop through the eastern trailhead, and he knows, instantly, that you'll try to throw him off at the placard where the west trail branches off through the dense conifers, and the east meanders downslope to the hidden stream where hunters like to trawl.

He feels a pinch of pride simmering low in his guts. Anyone else would have lost you three pitfalls back. He's enraptured by this pursuit. Smitten by you. Your clumsy little escape. Your sweet little ploys. He wants to chew into you, let his teeth leave jagged scars, false starts, on your bones. Permanent. Starlight—dusting meteor showers in milk white.

Ghost’s belly gives a tremendous growl. He huffs at the ache clawing against tissue, ravenous and unbearably empty.

He'll have you soon. All to himself.

The thought makes fresh blooms of pleasure spume from the rot in his chest, prickling through the layers of muskeg and peat, etiolated little sprout. Germinating in wet gangrene. Feasting on necrotised flesh.

He swipes his hand over a honeybush, catches the lingering scent clinging to the leaves. You must have fallen here. Tangled yourself in the furze, overcome by your heat.

Poor thing. Tired already.

He holds his hand up to the fading gossamer of twilight trickling through the dense canopy, clenching the lingering remnants of your scent in his fist. It's fresh. He wants to tuck it in his pocket, carry it around with him.

He finds you in a small clearing, bent down with your palm resting on the trunk of a tree. Nails digging into the rotting bark, desperately struggling to catch your breath. Your heat is a wildfire. It scorches the earth. Burns his nose.

You're no longer on the cusp of it anymore, but in the throes.

His rut, he finds, isn't too far behind.

Perfect synergy. Meant to be. You call to him, and the gaping, gnarled chasm inside of him answers with a growl—

Before you can blink, he moves.

He falls over you, felled timber. The earth shakes under his indomitable weight. Palms slam into the rough bark of the gnarled spruce you've taken respite against, boxing you in.

You fall against it with a gasp, hands pushing against his broad chest as he backs you into the tree. Little fists pounding on his sternum, mouth pinched, twisted in a snarl. There are pieces of bush caught on your clothes, tangled in your hair. Leaves. Sticks. A spot of dirt on your nose.

It's mesmerising.

The ballcap falls first. Morning sunlight over a boscage in bloom. Pitfalls, ravines. The canyons of your eyes quiver; this new topography shifting, sliding. Tectonic beauty in muted midnight.

He wants to reach in, feel these granite walls of yours with his bare hands. Clamber up the colluvium, the scree, until he reaches these rugged peaks gleaming at him, angry and feral, in fading twilight.

Time is endless. There's no limit to how long he has to know you—drink from your rivers, feast on your valleys; find all the hidden nooks, the crannies, shaded under the towering monoliths of your body. Chart your couloir. Defile your flume. Bathe in your estuary. Tangle himself inside your dells. Tame your chaparral.

Fastidiously. Expertly. Until no part of you is unknown to him.

Your chest heaves, mouth open as he crowds you further. Pressing into you. Over you.

He wedges his broad thigh between your legs, presses it tight against your pussy. Your thrashing stills when he touches you, when he angles his knee up, up—

There. Through the layers of clothing that separates his bare skin from your cunt, he feels the heat bleeding out against him. The wetness from your sodden panties. Undeniable proof of how much you want him. Need him.

“All wet f’me?”

“Fuck you—!” You spit, angry and feral, but you arch into his touch, pushing your pussy onto his thigh. Aching for friction.

It makes him hum. A low growl caught in the back of his throat.

“Reckon I'll be the one fuckin’ you, pet.”

And he will be. This is fact.

You shudder, brows notching together in a vicious glare. “I don't want you.”

It's hissed between the sliver of your clenched teeth. Full of heavy conviction. Forging truth out of lies—

And that's all it is. A lie. A fallacy.

(and even if it wasn't, unlikely considering the way you arch into him, needy despite the disdain dripping down your brow—he really just can't find it in himself to give a fuck; he'll make you want him—)

Ghost leans down, muzzle pressed against your neck. He inhales deep, audible. Chest expanding, lungs swelling. Full of the aroma bleeding out of your pores. Proof of just how much you do, in fact, want him. Betrayed by your own body.

He huffs out, paints the air with his derision. “Is that so?”

Ghost drags his hand down the solid line of the tree, dropping it to rest against the jut of your hip. He ducks his head, watching. Staring at the way his palm nearly swallows you up when he rests it over your waist. Spanning nearly the entirety of it—hip to hip.

It bludgeons into him. Knocks the air clean from his lungs.

He's always had a hunger for things he can cup in his palm. The barrel of his rifle. The hilt of a knife. Your wrist in his hand. The curve of your hip.

His gloved fingers slip under the hem of your shirt. Pads ghosting over your skin. Warmth bleeds through the leather, an unmistakable tell of your heat reaching its first equinox. It'll be all fire, all smoke, from this point onward. Desperate. Feral.

Groaning deep, wanting, he pushes into you further. Chest rumbling. Eager.

It takes a great deal of effort to pull his hand away. To bring it up to his mouth, fingers hooking over the edge.

The fight in you abates—marginally—and you watch him with a keen look of suspicion dancing in the moulted dirt spread over your nullah. Wary. Anticipatory.

He fights the urge to laugh—deep and delirious—and instead works on prying his mask down over his crooked nose, his mangled mouth. Letting the hem snap under his chin, kept there. Bearing himself to you for the first time. Naked. Exposed.

Your eyes widen, trailing down the jagged lines, mauled ridges of scar tissue. Drinking in everything he offers in the fading embers of a summer twilight.

He grins—a rivened, ugly thing—when you let out a heavy, quick breath, and your hips drop, rutting your sopping cunt over the wide heft of his thigh. Gyrating subconsciously. Quietly pleased by the way he looks—as maimed, as beastly as he is. He lets you. Lifts his knee, pressing his cap tight into the bark, and bumping the top of his flexing quadriceps at the apex of your groin, right where he knows your clit sits.

The breath you take is pulled in through clenched teeth, biting on the rind of a moan. Its shapeless silhouette ducks, hides from sight.

He lets you have it. Lets you run.

But it's not without recompense.

With his upper lip curled, he sinks his teeth into the leather tip of the glove above his middle finger. Letting you see them for yourself—these thrawn teeth he'll bury into your neck. Claiming you entirely as his.

Your pupils start to eclipse your irises. Lagoons of liquid black blotting over rugged peaks.

Ghost slowly tips his head back, dragging the glove with him. Eyes setting along his lashline, he drinks in the sight of you swallowing thickly, your gaze darting between his teeth, his mouth, and now—his bared neck. Voracious, greedy, in the way you feast on him. Drilling into the stretch of skin slowly unveiling itself to you.

The muscles in his neck flex against rimy skin. Adam's apple bobbing with his slow swallow.

You follow it all, but your gaze seems to fix itself on the brawny arch of his neck, falling—and then glueing— to the thick vein protruding from his flesh, pulsing with the steady rhythm of his heart, and the small, swollen bump of his scent gland beneath it.

Hunger, he finds, paints such a pretty picture on your face. The greedy, anfractuous glances a bludgeon into him; so heavily affixed with desire that the shake of your head when he pulls the glove free, letting it dangle from between his teeth, and drops his hand back to your skin, is minute. Meaningless.

You want him as much as he wants you.

The clause in this, the axiom, is ironclad. Irrefutable. Bound in brass when you shiver at the touch—feverish skin on feverish skin—and arch into his palm for more. Panting through clenched teeth, each hiss striking against that fraying coil leashing his threadbare control. To distract himself from the unspooling knot, the ache in his gums, he charts the first inch of skin he passes with his thumb, committing the sloping plains of your body to memory. The jut of your hip, the stutter in your breath when he runs the rough pad of his forefinger over the slope of your underbelly.

It's easy to marvel at the sheer enormity of his size compared to yours. Simon hitches his thigh firmly into your clothed cunt, nearly lifting you up off the ground. You teeter on the tips of your toes, falling forward into his chest to stabilise yourself. Little fists curling into the fabric of his jacket, knuckles tight against his the last rungs of his ribcage. Your head lifts, a glare chiselling into the soft fields of your face.

You hiss something at him—feral and scathing. He drops the glove, leans down to meet you in the middle, and eats your feeble protests from your lips in a bruising kiss. Scorching. His teeth knock into yours. Tongue lashes out to catch the vitriol dripping from your fangs. You make a noise in the back of your throat, and he swallows that, too. Devours it all.

It's a vicious kiss. All teeth, tongue. Bullying. He lets you sink your teeth into his tongue, huffing into the seam of your lips when you coo, victoriously, at the first drop of blood spilled.

In retaliation, he sets his hands over your ribs, and lifts you up off the ground. Making you gasp. Mewl. Your legs kick out as the back of your head catches on loose bark, raining it down over your shoulders in flakes. He doesn't stop kissing you throughout. Eyes half-mast, still open, as he drinks in the sight of yours rolling back in your head when his thigh, one the width of both of yours—fuckin’ hell—catches the perfect angle on your clit.

Loose-limbed, caught, you have no choice but to wrap your ankles around his waist, curl your arms around his broad shoulders. Clinging to him desperately to remain grounded, held aloft.

His hand falls down, cups the back of your thigh, fingers spanning the entire curve of your cheek. Held tight in his palm. He bucks into you—quick, hard. Letting you feel the unmistakable bulge of his stiffening cock, leaking spend already in the tight confines of his trousers. This groin, inner thighs, already sticky with the mess dribbling out.

You fall apart at this. Head tipping back, crown thudding against the truck of the tree. He has your lower lip between his teeth, and it pulls, skin stretching until he huffs out another breath, mocking, and unhinges his jaw, letting you go.

Mewling, whining low in the back of your throat, you clumsily rut your cunt into the hard press of his cock. Eyes hazy, liquid, with your blooming heat.

Its approach is quicker than he thought it would be, and he hums, tongue rolling over his teeth to catch the lingering taste of you. Under his hand, your skin burns. Singing with the urgency of your desperation. He answers it with a grunt, falling forward to smother you under his weight.

There's a flash of clarity in your eyes when they crack open. Brief. Fleeting. He feels your sluggish attempt to push him away, to free your hands from between your chests, and he has to dip his head to stifle another groan. It feels good to have you under him like this. Covered entirely in his bulk, his shadow.

His hand pulls away from your flesh, snaking between your bodies to catch your wrists in the palm of his hand. Only one swallows them up, and the easy way he subdued you—effortlessly—has him nearly coming undone in his trousers. Untouched.

“Fuck, want it bad, don't you?” he snarls, hips bucking into you. Chasing pleasure. He pulls your hands out, lifting to arm to trap yours in the shackle his fingers make high above your head, and—

It's devious, this.

Somewhere in the loosening agency of his self, his autonomy, he knows this is becoming dangerous. Something that ought to be stopped before he rips into you with a rabidness that promises nothing at all will remain intact when he's finished. When he's had his fill. He needs to clear his mind. To get away from the way you fit against him so perfectly. Tiny in his wicked embrace.

Like you were made to fit between his ribs. His teeth.

He gnashes them together, trying to stem the ache in his gums.

He wants to fuck you. Needs to—

But as ripe as you smell to him now—tender melon, warmed honeycomb—he knows that you're not yet ready to take him.

Ghost steps back, letting your feet drop to the soil below. With the sparse inch of space between your bodies, he breathes in the lingering scent of your breath—sharp, burning; imbued with a heady thrum of adrenaline electrifying your nerves—and finds the musk a near-perfect pantomime of ozone. The arid tang in the air just before the air. A lightning strike. It rolls over his tongue, tastes of wet pennies in the back of his throat. Heavy with anticipation.

Something he feels very keenly as well. An eagerness he hasn't met in decades. Absolutely famished for it, for this familiarity of want. Potent desire.

He mourns the loss of the way your ass fits in the cradle of his hand when he pulls it free, fingers trailing over the feverish skin of your hips, your belly, as he goes. He doesn't stop until he comes to rest on the button of your trousers, eyes flickering down to catch your gaze. Purposeful, now. Intent clear.

Nothing is stopping him from taking. Your protests are paper-thin, dissolving the moment it touches the dense blanket of humidity in the air, but he wants your submission. Wants to see your resolve break, crushed by your own hand.

The gossamer wings of a butterfly, crumpled up in your palm, and offered to him for the taking. How sweet—

You seem to realise his intentions when his thumb dips below the hem of your pants. Just a tease. Brushing against the soft skin he finds there with the curve of his nail.

Your glare is instant. The sharp tug of a drawstring pinching tight between your brow. Mesmerising as it closes over your lax expression. A fierce snap. He wants to pry it apart. Wedge himself between the seam. Create a gap wide enough for him to fit.

“I won't beg,” you grind out, acidulous. Firm.

He huffs, quietly amused by the fight still sparking in you despite the evidence of your arousal, your want of him, evident in the stain at the seam of your pants. His other hand rests on the trunk of the tree above your head, boxing you in when he leans closer. Taunting. “That so?”

You don't respond, but your glare sharpens, mouth tugging downward in a harsh frown. Displeasure sparks in the air. Cutting into him like fine glass shards. He lets it graze his naked flesh, the warning ghosting over him in needlepoint pinpricks. Entirely too captivated by you to notice the sting.

Your ire is a heady, tangible thing dripping down your brow, slashing over your cheeks. Anger, however misguided it might be, paints a pretty picture over your face. Darkens the inlets nestled in the corner of your eyes. Drenches the ravines, gorges in a startling chiaroscuro. Limns the alpines, the valleys, in a halo of golden starlight.

He wants to drink it down. Hold your fury in the palm of his hand—

Crush it between his fingers.

Because despite the dissent, your desire cuts through, and hews the air in a thick tapestry of want.

mutinous, teeth bared, but your eyes burn, rage against the prison walls, and scream, please—

His fingers dig into the bark above your head, catching flecks of sap between his nails. Knuckles turning white under the flaxen hair dusting over them, strained. The grip is unintentional. Unconscious. He keeps thinking about you beneath him. The heat of your thighs around his waist was a mere tease. A morsel when he wants a meal—

The pressure in his knuckles grounds him. Cuts through the phosphenes blanketing the edges of his vision, smothering the clarity, the cognisance, that lingers in the centre. Threadbare as it is.

There’s an ache in his jaw.

(the need to bite—)

He pulls it off, and shoves his hand tight between your thighs, cupping your cunt in his palm. Feeling the heat bleed through the gusset of your pants. The touch is harsh. Firm. He bullies his fingers into your flesh, letting out a mocking chuff when he feels the fabric dampen.

“Somethin’s’ tellin’ me otherwise.”

Your hand lashes out, grabbing the thick of his wrist. Holding firm. It should be a warning, but the obvious gap between your middle finger and thumb makes him groan instead.

“You're wrong.”

“Am I?”

You twist away from him when he leans down, chin ducking to your shoulder. Hiding. Denying him your mouth, your taste. This meagre measure of control you grapple for is easy to give. He presses his lips to the shell of your ear instead, letting you run. Flee. For now.

His voice is thick when he continues, husky. He pitches it low, lets it swirl into the seashell coil of your inner ear, earning him a shiver in response. Your nails biting into the skin of his wrist. Holding tight.

“‘m a lot of things, pet—” rucked gravel, sodden with his derision, spills into your ear. Your shudder makes him want to bite, to maim. “Wrong ain't usually one of ‘em. But you'll learn that soon enough.”

Your breath hitches. Expression morphing, shifting. Changing into something adorably beleaguered as he encircles you like a tiger, eyes drilling through the tussock, aimed directly at your head. With his body boxing you in, coiling over you like a hideous shadow, he has you trapped, caught. Little lamb writhing between the paw of a tiger.

You seem to be keenly aware of this. Your eyes are shrewd, searching, as you probe around for any escape route, but he's a bulwark around you. Inescapable.

Finding none, you suck in another breath, and slowly lift your chin, glancing up at him through your lashes. The look on your face is—

Enigmatic.

Something changes in the morphology of your mien. Fracturing. Cracking.

“Yeah?” You breathe, soft and goading. Your hips buck into his hand, rutting shallowly against the tops of his fingers. Unconscious. Like you just couldn't help it.

And he supposes you can't.

A fine sheen of sweat has been building since he took after you into the forest. Gathering around your temple, your hairline. The harsh reminder of your festering heat, once dammed by your raw disdain for him—hatred, he'd say, and doesn't the thought just make him want to laugh; you're all bark, no bite, and he knows he'll have fun breaking you in, breaking you apart—but flooded over by the primal drive to mate.

And he's perfect for you, isn't he?

Hideous bastard that he is. It's a sharp juxtaposition to your prettiness, your earthly beauty.

Under the spinel sky, you break. The hand on his wrist tightens, your hips flexing into his palm. Seeking friction. Needing pressure. Needing him. And pissed off about it. Delicious.

“Prove it,” you snap, irritation blanching the corners of your eyes arsenic white. Edging into a frenetic desperation hot enough to burn the threads of your resolve. But there's a gleam of reluctance pushing through the syrupy murk folding over you, heavy molasses. You want to give in, but there's something about him, his appetite, that makes you hold back. That makes you visibly sick at the sight of him—

Unfortunately for you, he has no such compunction to shelf his barbarity. To leash his desire, to muzzle the overwhelming urge to crush you under the weight of his accumulated need. It's decades of listless apathy. Divorced from anything resembling human emotion at the root. Carved out, scraped off bone. He was left to stagnate. A misfortunate creature submerged in a bog, dead but unable to rot.

The deluge of his savage, bestial hunger rages in his veins. It's corrosive, vile, and—

unrestrained.

Ravenously esurient. He wants to sink his teeth into you and never let go—

but first:

he needs to eat.

His meal is a feast, it turns out. Simon gorges himself until he's full. Promises that he'll stop as soon as he's satiated.

(but he's lying to himself, and to you, because he never is—

never will be.)

Tears pebble along your lash line as he feasts on your sopping cunt, licking at your fluttering rim, slurping up your slick. Your clit is pressed tight against the crooked arch of his nose, sliding and catching on the jagged ridge each time he moves his jaw to dig deeper inside of you as if he's trying to taste the seal of your womb. You pant, whine. The noise muffled half-heartedly behind your palm. Teeth sunk into your skin, lodged against your bone.

Angry rivulets rain down your cheeks, dangling like fine beads, gems, on your jaw. He wants to taste them next, as soon as he fills his gullet with the earthy tang you release.

Your tears remind of that pretty omega Johnny sent to him—a brat, he'd said; the best, Lt—and it churns in his stomach, dredging up something awful. Terrible. He wants to make you weep harder. Wants you sobbing, begging. His own little brat to take over the knee whenever he wants—

But that's where the uncanny resemblance ends.

You're not a brat. No. You're a headache. The kind that will have him written up, sat like a bad dog in his best suit, as they level him with charges, and orders, and the like. The sort of thing that even the old man wouldn't be able to string him out of—not that he would. Price is three days away from a much-deserved retirement to the mountains and sitting on his hands to keep from snatching up the pretty conservation officer who moons at him whenever he passes by.

He won't be much help to get Ghost out of trouble. That leaves only Gaz and Soap. And while he's sure they can swing it, he doesn't really want to be under their ahh, guess ye/ya owe us one, Lt/Riley.

So—

It stands to reason then that he should have you tamed before dawn. Shackled down, locked up tight. Only right considering he's the best in town to keep bears at bay. Do you really want to deal with a mama grizzly and her defenceless cubs? Or a starving male clumsily pawing his way out of hibernation?

Probably not.

So. So.

He pulls back, rests his chin on your thigh.

“Gonna be good for me, pet?” He asks, lowering his tone considerably until it catches on the gravel below.

He's not surprised when you hiss through a cloud of tears. “Go fuck yourself—”

Ghost tips his head, suckles your clit into his mouth. Tongue laving over your flesh. Blunt teeth pressing flat against the swollen bead, a tease. You tense, gasping. Hand pushing his head back, back—

“Don't, don't—” you're mewling, nails raking over his scalp. Hips bucking, pulling back. Struggling to get away. The bite marks along your thighs weep fresh blood in your struggle, filling his nose with the heavy scent of iron.

They serve as a harsh reminder of what he can do with these jagged teeth of his.

He chuckles, mouth still closed around your clit. The vibrations have you choking, spine curving into a beautiful arch.

Fingers digging into your hips, keeping you still. Trapping you. He's not quite done with your cunt, yet. And all this wriggling is something he can do without. With his hand pressed to your hips, he notches the other down your thigh. Tracing his index finger over your soft skin, dragging it close to your outer lips. Catching the tacky slick drying on your flesh with the tip.

Tiny fists rain down over his shoulders. Urging him forward, eager for more. Selfish, spoiled little thing.

What a monster he's made—

“Patience, pet,” he coos, mocking and mean. Likes the way you react to the patronisation in his tone. All taut shoulders, shaking fists. Bearing your teeth at the slight, the stinging barb. Shaking in an amalgamation of embarrassment and shame.

You seem to like it when he's a little awful to you. A little mocking. Cruel.

“Shut up—!” You hiss, lips curling as you glare down at him. “I'm not your pet—”

He ignores you. Bends down to sniff at your cunt instead, and finds his answer is the white hot desire he can taste in the back of his throat when he breathes you in.

His fingers pry apart your folds, and he greedily drinks in the sight of your drenched hole, clenching down on nothing. Poor you. His heart thunders in his chest, rages. He wants to sink inside of you—impossibly deep—until the beginning of him and the end of you ceases to exist. Rolled into a single being, atoms merged. Bodies fused. He wants to take everything from you. All of it. Eat it out of the cup of his hand like pomegranate seeds, let the skin get stuck in his teeth.

He wants to devour you whole.

(to eat—)

Settles, instead, for pawing at your cunt.

Pressing the width of it against your slit, feeling the heat of your core on the palm of his hand. Branding himself with the intensity of your desire. Another scar among many. An uncountable number of jagged asteroids cratering along his flesh, making a home out of a ghost. A shell.

Reinforced, too, by the absurdity of how terribly contrasted his flesh is to yours. Monstrous. His scarred hand rests over your pussy, encompassing it entirely with extra digits to spare. Folding each finger on top of the other to wedge between the basin of your thighs. And as his gaze comes to rest on the way he swallows you up, he is struck by the garishness of his hand—hideous scar tissue, burns—falling over your pretty cunt.

Sinful. Frankensteinian beast palming the sweet pussy of a pretty, human woman, and—

Fuck.

His cock twitches, spits out a thick glob of pre-cum.

Ghost has never wanted to ruin something as badly as he wants to ruin your cunt. You. Mess you up so badly that everyone will know you belong to him, and him alone. To brand you with the tattoo of his teeth on your mons; force a claiming bite on the pillowy skin above your clit. His ownership bracketed between your thighs, at the very apex of your hip bones. Buried into tissue right under the bulge of your womb. A fecund valley for him to lay waste; for you to grow beauty from the rot, the ash.

Cinder scraps over his nerves. Fells his resolve in a brutal sweep.

He comes undone at the seams, unravels.

Simon curls his fingers into a loose fist, passing the rugged peaks of his bone over your soft flesh. Gathering slick on thick, scarred knuckles. He holds it there, folds pried apart by his hand, content to luxuriate in the softness of your flesh, the scorching heat.

Possessively, he unhitches his thumb from the coil of his fist, and swipes it over your clit. More slick leaks out as you keen.

“Sweet omega like you should ‘ave been claimed by now,” he rumbles evenly despite the sour twist in his guts at the thought. “Might not ‘ave ended up ‘ere, would you ‘ave? Beggin’ the first alpha you see to fuck this sweet little cunt.”

“Begging?”

“Practically gaggin’ for it, weren't you?” And even though the words are his own, they sit in his gut like a stone. An angry knot tangled in his intestines, snaking its way up his gullet. Bitter. It's quelled by the sight of your bare neck. Ripe for his teeth. And his alone.

But even if you had a pretty ring made by another alpha, Simon knows that wouldn't have stopped him from taking you, anyway. Biting over the claim. Breaking it between his teeth. Precious, loving union shattered by his crooked greed. He'd have relished in it, too. Basked in the way you sobbed as he tore your alpha into pieces. An obstacle turned into a pretty effigy at his feet. Wicker pyre burning to keep him warm.

(he'd have caught dinner for you, too; hunted caribou, moose, and roasted it over the open flame. Fucked you under the blume of orange. Let the fire lick across your skin as he sunk in deep—)

He rocks back on his haunches. Mood labile, quicksilver, as his rut grows. Festers.

You deny it, breathless, as he slips the mountainous peak of his bent middle finger into your hole, stretching your rim around the scarred cartilage. You pulse around him like the fluttering wings of a hummingbird. Rapid, quick. Wanting. It draws him in. Makes him want to spit on your pretty pussy, and then break you apart on his cock—

“Such a needy cunt, eh? Starving for a good knot, ain't it?”

You hiss out your protests, but clench tight around his knuckle. He chuckles, and it's liquid. Wet rot. Lungs polluted, spitting nocuous, black smoke into the air.

“I'm not—”

“You are.”

He pulls back, pursing his mouth, and spreads your lips apart, opening you up wide and vulnerable to his prying eyes. Saliva puddles on his tongue. He gives you a moment to clue into what he's about to do, your fingers tightening, nails digging into his scalp as you do on a shallow gasp of disgust. Then, brutish, he leans forward, and spits. Lets the glob hit your clit, and he has to hold you still when you jerk, cringing away from him, snarling out your displeasure.

“You're disgusting—”

The protests are weak. Your knees tremble, giving away the growing slickness gathering on the insides of your thigh.

He hums, watches as it oozes down between your folds, over your fluttering hole, before it falls to the ground between your legs. He lets his hand fall back over your cunt, middle finger gathering his spit. Rubbing it around your pebbled clit. It's done detachedly, perfunctory. A means to an end with hardly much concern for your pleasure. Not yet, anyway.

You've given him nothing in return yet.

He intends to change that soon.

As you grapple with the harsh reality he presents to you—one of ownership, humiliation, and pleasure on his whim—he drags his finger down, sliding it between your soft lips until he reaches your hole once more. Petting around the drenched entrance slowly, softly, humming under his breath about how wet you are.

Your hips drop, greedily chasing after his finger. You won't ask—not yet—but he likes the way you rut against him: all hateful, spiteful. Like you can't decide on what you want more—to bash his head in, or keep it locked tight between your thighs. Sweet thing.

“Need me, don't you?” He sinks his finger in. Nearly whites out at the pressure, the tightness, he feels. Soft, wet. Squeezing him in a vice as you yowl, whimpering into the stretch like it matters. Like his thick, scarred finger is the most you'd ever taken before. Sweet girl. So naïve.

He drinks in the sight of your flesh forcibly being parted around his knuckle, matting the wisps of blond on his skin as it leaks down to his wrist, until that, too, is pushed up into you. His whole finger now engulfed in the wet heat of your body as you squirm around the stretch, pulsing around him like a heartbeat.

He groans when he tastes your discomfort on the back of his tongue.

“Don't worry, lovie. M’gonna take good care’a you.”

You watch him with slitted eyes as he pushes you down to the forest floor, glaring over your shoulder as he adjusts you the way he wants. Maneuvers you around like a little toy. Forearms braced against the trampled grass, knees sinking into soft moss. Thighs spread. Cunt bare, drenched. Ready to be claimed. Taken.

He drops to his knees, shuffling close from behind you. His hand drops to your lower back, pressing your torso down further into the ground below. His cock aches between his thighs. Heavy, fat. He reaches down with his other hand to where it droops, smearing pre-cum over his inner thigh. He catches it in his fist, flushed the colours of a fresh bruise—angry red, purple—and strokes along the sensitive skin of his shaft, dragging it up and over his engorged head. Pre-cum weeps from the tip, drools long strains down to the forest floor. Puddles thick between your knees.

A prelude, perhaps, for what's to come. When he has you tied like a bow around his knot, milking all the pent-up spend from his heavy, full balls.

It's been decades since he had this—

(“shame.”

he concurs.)

Simon pulls his cock up, taps it against your pebbled clit. Drinks in the sight of you keening, cunt gushing more slick out of your empty hole, dribbling down your thighs. Mingling with the mess he already started making.

It shocks him how good it feels just to tap his cockhead on your pretty pussy. To drag it through your slit, teasing it against your fluttering hole that drools copious slick over him.

He wants to make a mess of you. Fuck your pussy until you cum, until all you can feel is the split of him inside of you. Filling you. Ruining you.

Until all you can think about is the thick drag of him against your stuffed walls. Empty without him plugging you up. Desperate for his cock, his knot—hungry little slut just for him. All for him.

He presses the head of his cock against your rim, letting it catch. Holding it there. A tease. Just a little taste.

Likes when you whimper, head hanging between your shoulders, fingers curling into the moss below. You make such a pretty picture like this—the expanse of your back bare for his eyes to roam, locking on the dimples of your hips, the curve of your waist. The plump shape of your ass inviting him in—eager for a bite. Your flesh looks bare, lonely, without his mark. The contrast of his own inked palm—fingers webbed with faded lettering, some slogan he picked up in his youth. Hands etched in black. Lines bleeding, bulky. The unmistakable tremble of an incipient artist’s first brush of a needle on real skin. Jagged, garring. Ugly. He lets his hand rest against the small of your back, groaning at the way it looks.

Sinful.

You're made for soft silk and a fluffy bed. Head resting on a plush cushion instead of your arms, forehead braced over the uncomfortable squeal of your polyester windbreaker that he didn't even have the courtesy to let you take off. No. Just trousers. Panties. Pushed haphazardly down your legs, left in a pile by the spruce tree so he could throw your ankle over his broad shoulder, feasting on your cunt.

There's a spot of dirt on your asscheek. The curve of it is scraped from the bark, red and raw.

The glare you aim at him from over your shoulder is venomous. There's a smear of moss on your cheek.

You're made for epsom salt baths. Being tended to by a besotted alpha who treats you like fine china, only to be taken out on special occasions. Brushed, always, in a fine layer of dust from disuse. Sweet, tender lovemaking under the waning summer sky. Your alpha apologising for ruining you like this, for making you take the brunt of his rut. Poor thing. Gentle kisses, and hands clasped together.

He can see it so vividly in his eye. So viscerally that it almost feels like a crime when he glances down at his cock, the weeping, engorged head almost comically too big for you. The thick of him could easily swallow your cunt up if he flattened his length against you. Covering you wholly by his girth.

It's a thought that makes his hand tighten, and nearly chokes him on a moan.

Even his thighs bracketing the backs of yours is hideous to look at. Bigger, broader—there's a considerable gap on both sides of his legs that he thinks nearly his whole fist can fit there, notched against the outside of your thigh, covering the expanse of his own. Garish.

He can't wait to lay you down on your belly, lock his thigh tight on either side of your own and rut into you like that. Crushing you under his weight. Swallowing you whole. Until anyone misfortunate enough to wander by thinks he's fucking the cold ground.

His thumb strokes along your fevered skin, collecting the sheen of sweat building up on the pad. Rubbing it in. He feels it too. This unrelenting swelter. A cage, pushing down from all sides. Inescapable.

The only way to quench it is on you. In you.

“Ready for me, pretty girl?” The words are mangled in his throat, thick with want.

Your shoulders tremble. In worry, he thinks. Scents the air like a viper, letting your emotions curdle in the back of his throat. “Just get on with it—”

He meets you in the middle of that taunt, teeth against your throat.

Ghost pushes inside with a groan, eyes rolling back at the way you swallow him up. Stretching around the considerable girth, fluttering around him. Pulsing like a heartbeat.

It's heaven.

Nirvana nests between your thighs, bracketed by rings of blood. Red. Absolution imbued in tender flesh, parting perfectly around his cock in a loving embrace.

You haven't confirmed it for him, but the tightness of your cunt around his fingers, the heady scent of discomfort burning the back of his throat when he buried them inside of you, make him mutedly aware that you're inexperienced. A fact he pockets for later because if he thinks about being the first alpha, the first man, to ever claim you, take you, then he might lose his mind, he might fall down that yawning chasm that reeks of damnation, of brimstone and ash, and never recover—

So, he doesn't. Won't.

Can't.

His pace is slow as he feeds you the fat length of his cock, eyes drilling into the way you swallow him up. Rim stretching taut, flesh paling under the strain of taking him. With one hand anchored against your hip, holding you tight, and the other curled over your shoulder, fingertips resting on your collarbones, he slowly, slowly, sinks inside of you, bottoming out with a deep groan.

The outstroke drags with it an iron scent in the air. He huffs, nostrils flaring. Greedy for more. There's discomfort leaking from your pores. His girth is more than you can conceivably take, even with the preternatural help from your heat, leaking slick down your inner thighs in thick rivulets.

He holds himself there, breathing—heavy, tremulous—through his nose. His hands shake. The pressure, the pleasure, is indescribable. It coils in his guts, spumes liquid bliss in his veins. The way you feel pulsing sweetly around him is—

Equilibrium.

Every misfiring synapse inside himself is slowed. Imbued with a potent sense of ataraxia. His mind comes to a standstill. Thoughts looping over themselves, tangling into the gossamer threads of control floating in stasis. Unmoored. You unravel him.

It's further proof that you are his missing part. His ruts in the past have been calamitous. Snarls wrenched from the trenches of his chest; a gluttonous feast—a sacrifice to Hēdonē. Violent, vicious.

But this—

It's drinking ichor from the vein of Anteros.

There's a crack in the back of his head. The sound of everything, all of it—

Falling into place.

His hands tighten. Tighten some more. He holds you, sure and firm, keeping you nestled in the anchor of his embrace, unable to run, to flee. You're his. Settled. The caveat is ironclad, bound in permanence.

And Simon moans. Deep, and low. The noise jutters out of his chest, and seeps into the evening air. Fine mist, crystallising in front of him. Phosphenes of ice cemented his decision, gluing to his cheeks. The nape of his neck.

His ears burn.

“Fuckin' hell, sweet thing,” it's a guttural growl in the hollow of his throat. “Where ‘ave you been all my goddamn life?”

It's a nauseating confession, one scraped out from the vacancy between his ribs. It peppers the air in a soft, saccharine kiss. Makes you shiver beneath him, gasping in lungfuls of loam, dirt in your throat.

He grunts. Stills. He doesn't want that for you. Ever. Would rip off his own limbs before he ever let you feel the crushing weight of dirt congealing inside of your lungs.

The way he arches over you is damning. Nauseating. He curls his arm around your shoulder, your chest, traps a heaving breast in the palm of his hand, holds tight. The other falls from your hip, closes over your mons. Greedily feeling your slick, hot sex pulsing wildly around him when he passes over your clit, toying with your stretched, swollen rim. It's perfection, this.

He pulls you up, up, leaning back on his haunches until you're balanced on your knees, nearly sat on his lap. Taking him deeper than before. He drops his head back with another moan when he feels your slick gather, dripping down to coat his balls.

Everything about you is just—

Perfection. Absolution.

Your hands fly up, curling over his forearm, mewling when he pinches your nipples between his middle and ring finger.

“C’mon,” he rasps, leaning forward to press his face into your nape. You smell sweet. “Play with ‘em for me, pet.”

Nails bite into his skin. You whimper. Squirming around on his lap. But you do as you're told. Slowly, slowly, reaching up. Touching yourself the way you like. Fingers ghosting over your flesh, brushing across your nipples. Pulling, petting, the way you like. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, watches. Devours. Commits each movement to memory. Every sound, every breath. Everything.

He keeps a slow, languid pace like this. Content to just feel you pulsing around him, listening to the slick, wet squelch of him filling you up. Over and over again. A lazy rut.

It's unexpected, he knows. You've been bracing yourself this whole time, fingers digging into the podsol, spine tightening up. Waiting for the savagery to befall you.

When it doesn't come, he feels your quiet acquiescence come in a soft breath. In the way you slowly drop down to meet the deep rut of his hips. Taking your pleasure, pulling him in deeper. There's an edge to your voice, one still dipped in threads of discomfort, a waning pain that rings out, shrill, in the satin spill of moonlight over the indigo forest.

It's good like this. Tender. Not something he'd have ever imagined for himself, and the reality of it is dizzying.

Reedy, he groans. Nuzzles his misshapen nose into your scent gland. His gums pulse, ache—

But he ignores it. Swallows it down.

He's not sure what compels him to do so. Spellbound, maybe, by this unnatural softness that spools silken threads between you. Sutured in tenderness—so unbefitting of the man he is. The monster—

His hips stutter. Jerk.

“Simon—!”

You whine into it, arching back. Sweat gathers, drips down your spine, smears into his chest, belly. Matts the thatch of hair running in sparse, patchy clusters down the thickness of his midsection. A bountiful spring fattened him up. Made him soft and pillowy over his abdomen. Something you can't seem to get enough of—pressing the flat of your back against him, leaning into it. Groaning when his arm shifts, boxing you in. Crushing you to him.

Wily little kitten, purring so sweetly in his lap.

He draws lazy circles over your clit, grunting with each clench of your cunt. You're soft in his arms. Malleable. He slides his hand up from beneath your breasts, catches your jaw in his palm. Fingers spanning from cheekbone to temple and, oh—

Doesn't that just make him preen.

He drags your chin to the side, catching your mouth in a sickening kiss. All tongue, teeth. He wants to taste, to devour, every part of you. Bones and all.

It's a fight, though. You tense in his grasp, lidded eyes snapping open, wide and around. Cheeks bulging between his fingers when you twist, trying to pull away.

“Don't—I don't want to—” he bites the protests from lips. Messy, sloppy. He flicks his tongue over yours, wrapping it around you like a satiated snake burrowing in after a heavy meal. “Don't—f–fuck—”

It earns him a nip. Teeth digging into his bottom lip. Drawing blood.

He huffs into the seam of your mouth. Only fair, he supposes, and then pulls you down—hard, fast—onto his cock. The air is punched out of your lungs, flooded into his esophagus.

“Be a good girl for me,” he warns, bucking into you. It's harder this time, deeper. Tempo increasing. Growing. He feels himself thicken. Knot fattening up. Each piston of his hips seems to knock something inside of his head loose. Common sense, maybe—

The fraying knot of his self-control winding tight. Pulling taut.

He huffs again, feeling himself slip. Lost in the sensation dripping down his spine, the unified pleasure blooming in the pit of his stomach.

The air plumes with the thickening tang of your arousal—all sweet, spice. You can take it, now, he knows, and tries not to growl when you hiccup his name wetly into the air.

The muscles in his thighs bunch tight. Corded and powerful. He arches up, up, forcing his cock deep inside your cunt, splitting you apart. Rutting desperately, edging into something animalistic.

It runs a knife along the thin skin of his hindbrain. Come out, come out, come play—

He moves you again, pulling his hand away from your jaw and pushing you back down the forest floor. He stays glued to your back. Tucks his arm under your chin, and smothers you under his bulk, groaning when your thighs give out, sliding on the sweat-slicked moss below.

“Simon, ah—” your voice tapers off into a breathless cry when he pulls his hand free from beneath you, wrapping it around to join the other. Holding on, clinging to you. Keeping you locked tight against him, under him. You can't move at all like this—

The swell of his knot bumps against your stretched rim. He presses the brunt of his weight into each thrust now, spurned on by the needy way you yowl into his forearm, drooling all over his skin. Begging for it.

“Please, please, please—”

Your body is jostled forward with each harsh buck of his hips as he gives you everything he has, feeding his cock into your sopping cunt over and over again. Eager now to fill you up, to flood you with his cum. Make you swell with it. Overstuffed.

Perfect little omega, you rut back into him with each thrust, taking his thick cock to the root. Mewling sweetly when his knot begins to catch. Too much, he thinks. It might just wreck you for good—

pomegranate seeds splitting over your teeth, blood red juice leaking from the tear. spilling into your mouth. just a drop. just a drop, and Persephone is all his

—Perfect.

He teeters on the edge of ferality and control. Spinning, spiralling. Loosefooted on the wobbling chossy. Coming undone in a magmatic end—wicked heat, ashes, brimstone; he catches fire, and smoulders you under his heat. Letting the flames lick across your skin until you whine his name, desperate and needy, in the back of your throat. The thrill a bludgeon against his skull, spilling pleasure, bliss, in the broken hole you wrought.

You tighten like a vice around him—tight, tight—and he pistons into you, burrowing deep. Deeper still. Until you thrash around beneath him, soundlessly screaming his name into the dark forest. Begging for mercy, mercy, please—

He won't. Can't.

He can't get enough of the way you feel wrapped around him like this. Silken, whitehot. Tight. Tight—

It squeezes the air from his lungs. Static in his head—

And then you let go. Pulsing, throbbing around him. Pulling him in deeper, blanketing his mind in white noise. In nothing but magmatic pleasure.

“Fuck—!” He snarls, almost angry. Vicious. Chasing after his end in the aftermath of yours. Instincts are at war within him, banging against his skull. Demanding recompense. Paid it's pound of flesh.

It's what he's promised. What it's owed.

(and he always keeps his promises, doesn't he?)

Most describe their ruts as mindless, driven by instinct. No control. But Ghost has never felt more present, more alive, than when he sinks his teeth deep into your nape, nearly choking, drowning, on your blood.

For the first time in decades, he feels the crater inside himself, suffused with spare, broken parts, seal when you yield with a mangled yowl of his name, raw and fractured as it splits between your teeth. Pretty pussy swallowing up his knot when he bullies it in deep, locking you together.

pretty little lamb—

a perfect fit between his teeth.

His rut is a voracious thing.

Ghost has you on your back for the second and third round, heels resting on his shoulders as he bucks into you. Makes you stare at him—don’t look away from me, pet—as he commandeers your body with an ease that seems to break apart all demurrals as they form, rendering you sweet, malleable, beneath him to do with as he pleases.

And you are, aren't you?

So fuckin’ sweet.

(“gonna give me a cavity,” he rasps, thick with pleasure, into your ear. he has you on your belly now. holds you down with his weight, crushes your chest against the soft moss below, thighs squeezed tight between his own. you can barely make a sound with his forearm digging into the dirt right above your crown, swallowing you whole under his bulk.

(owns you like, he finds. no one would be able to see you beneath him if they wandered by. encompassed wholly by every iota he has to give—

he cums like that. nose buried in your crown, moaning low, scorched, in the back of his throat as you twitch beneath him, unable to move at all—)

It's early in the morning when he finally finishes, when his rut begins to slowly recede, and a fresh bloom of clarity yawns over his periphery. Moonrise peppers soft kisses over his aching shoulders as he glances at you curled up against his side, sleeping soundly. Exhausted by the hours and hours of mating, fucking. Taking him, his knot, drinking down everything he has to offer.

The sight that greets him is gnarled fingers wrapping around his rotting heart, affection peeking out between the brackets of his ribs. His appetite for you is dizzying. Unquenchable. He wonders if he'll ever be able to look at you without wanting to crawl inside your body. To reshape your tender flesh around his bulk until it is indiscernible from himself.

This want is agony. It's dread, desire. Greed.

His shoulders bite back in protest when he reaches up to drag his dirt-crusted nails through the prickly hair on his scalp. As dawn slowly unfurls across the midnight blue aether, he knows he'll have to leave soon. Can already feel the creeping heat gnawing in the pit of his belly. His rut starting anew. The scant hours he has of mental clarity, moments meant to eat, to feed, and regain strength for the next marathon of fucking, are needed to feel out his next move.

He glances at you again, and feels the same covetous tug in his chest as he did before, when he was thickly entrenched in the urge to mate. But as the burnt orange of the sun smears hazy fingerprints across the moulted sky, he sees you in a new, cleaner light. You're young. Much younger than he is.

It's something he ought to worry about. To feel some shred of shame, of despondency over shackling you to himself—a defective alpha with more scars than morality—when you're in the burgeoning bloom of your freshly untethered youth. All jejune beauty outclasses nature itself. Snow melts on the alpines, trickling down to feed the valley below. Life itself—

But you are his.

The ugly rings around your throat—mangled tissue swelling in the morning dawn, caked in a thick river of blood—all signify that you belong to him. And while it's a little extreme as far as claiming bites go—one would suffice, but he buried his teeth in you over and over again, biting down on both sides of your neck, your jugular, your nape; inner thighs, mons, wrists—it’s proof enough that you are meant for him. Made for him.

His pretty omega.

The rest doesn't matter. He ought to feel shame, but instead he luxuriates in it. Stares down at you with a needy sort of possession spuming in the putrid remains of his chest, mapping out the marks he put on you. And the ones he'll add to later, not stopping until covered in the perfect impression of his crooked teeth. Tattoos of his ownership all over your body.

Mutual, of course. There's a scant patch of skin, restive and empty, above his heart, save for a fine, jagged line from a serrated dagger. He'll have you bite down on the flesh until your teeth meet inside his muscle. Scarring down to the bone. He'll go, then, to the man who inks him up whenever he has the whim to desecrate scar tissue, and have him etch midnight black against fine silver. Permanent, forever. Always.

And anyone who kicks up a fuss—stupid as they might be—he’ll sort them out. Prove to them that you are meant to be his.

(unshakeable:

his spend leaks out of you, drying, tacky and thick, on your thighs. under the sleepy citrine of the dawning sun, it's tinged pink, and looks just like pomegranate juice.)

Ghost rolls his shoulder, and reaches for his discarded trousers. He's covered in a thick layer of dirt, and reeks like soil. But the thought of being buried alive is miniscule compared to the want of being buried inside you again. The urge. Insatiable. He groans with it, cock throbbing already.

He leaves you naked. No point in dressing when he plans on going home and sinking back inside of you before midday, anyway. An unneeded obstacle, really—

The clearing is close to his truck, and he sets a leisurely pace, yawning into the dawn, as he gathers you into his arms. Carrying you to it as you drool on his chest, brows pinched at the soft jostle of him trudging through the thicket until he reaches it.

He's not in a rut when he stretches you out in the back seat, spreading your sticky thighs around his hips, sinking inside, bottoming out just as you come to, waking up with a gasp.

The intense fucking from before lingers in the air. You're soft, molasses; arching into his chest, whimpering out the name he hissed into your nape only hours ago, folding into him with a somnolent submission. It won't last, of course—

You're a vicious little thing, and his back and chest twinge with the rivers you carved into his flesh when he didn't move the way you liked. Wolfish, aren't you? Spitfire hiding under the soft pelt of a slain lamb. He wants to devour you, bones and all.

He takes his fill of your malleable concession, rutting into you with a sluggish ease. Mapping out the starlight sparking in the depths of your glossy eyes. Magnetic. It pulls him deeper. Unravels him at the seams.

His hand spans the expanse of your jaw from ear to ear. He holds you like this, thumb buried in the tender embrace of your soft tongue, and begins to understand the reason behind Johnny's niche appetite when you toy with his flesh, coquettish and sweet, suckling him in—pretty seductress—and then mewl when he pushes in too deeply, bringing crystalline gems to corners of your eyes.

Angelic innocence. The type that demands he prostrates himself at your altar, let his bones be picked clean when you so wish it. And he'll give it to you—body, blood, tissue; all of it. The entirety of him, however broken, shattered the fragments might be.

He promises it all to you without a word, drilling holes in the gaps of your eyes, chasms wide enough for him to fit. When he cums, it's to a songbirds sonata. Your moans are a whisper, your pleasure swallowed down as it ghosts over his lips, clenching around him like a vice. Pretty bow. He doesn't hold back—groans, baritone; woodsmoke, into the gathering symphony, filling you to the brim. Thick, copious. He wants it to stick. To root.

When the blood sputters back to his head, he gathers you in his arms once more. Keeps you seated on his lap—shush, pet; s’alright, jus’ close your eyes an’ I'll ‘ave us home in a bit—as he starts the old pickup, and puts it into drive. One hand on the wheel, knuckles blanching white in the glimmering sunrise; sparse forests of muted blond catching, limned in the coruscating light. The other is placed on the small of your back, holding your belly to his.

Quietly, your body eases. Melts. You press your face into his chest, fingers curling into the fabric, and nuzzle into the heady scent of his sweat, his musk, still clinging to his shirt. Signing, soft and twee, in the cup of his embrace as you slip back to sleep.

He drives home like this. Mind a quiet place for once. Silent in its contentment, it's comfort. There's an itinerary still left to do, but he pushes it back for now, gaze roaming the dense green of the forest bracketing the road.

You'll like it, he knows. There's a fen on the outskirts of his territory, a little pond where wild rabbits have been known to make burrows. Deers, elk. Bears. They all come and go. You'll amuse yourself in the untamed wilderness of his abode, drawing delineations of your own as you carve out places in his home just for you.

And as he makes the turn to his hidden driveway, this buried sanctuary, he can't help but glance down at your crown, and think—

Persephone, finally home.

He finds your identification in your rucksack, nestled underneath the contraband you smuggled from the park—mushrooms, berries, bark, feathers—and sears your name to memory. Every part of you will be unravelled in the coming days, pulled from the depths of your being until it's all ingrained in his head. A gaping chasm chiselled into bone just for you. All for you.

Your address is a rental. He'll have to call them later today to cut your lease. Your job, too. They'll need to be notified on both your off time for his rut (and your burgeoning heat), and to update your contact information.

But that's later. Now, he just wants to get home. Sink down into his bed with you beneath him, and fuck you until sundown all over again. Stain the house with the scent of you. With the potent tang of your coupling.

It's yours too, after all. Should smell just like you.

And when you wake up later to him fucking his tongue into your drenched hole, fingers toying with your pebbled clit, Johnny will be busy packing the rest of your things into the pack of his pickup truck. The majority of it is already stacked on the porch, waiting for you to rearrange it all in your new house. Lease cut. His name added to your contacts as spouse, husband. Address updated. Marriage certificate laying on the table, only one line unsigned. Waiting for you.

Maybe it's too fast. You'll certainly protest like it is, bearing your teeth and hissing at him from across the room about too much, too fast, slow down, you don't even know his last name—

(“Riley,” he grouses, arms folded over his broad chest. Eyes burning in the cresting twilight. “S’your last name now as well, pet.”)

Fast—sure. He might think so too for a brief moment when he as you purring against his chest, submissive and docile after he fucked the fight right out of you, bullied you into agreeing to everything—it's for the best, after all. No one could ever protect you like he can.

Made for each other. Reinforced when he presses your fingers to the soft spot where his last rib once hung—

(“stole it,” he murmurs into the seam of your lips. “right from under my nose. only fair that i get to steal somethin’ right back, ain't it?”

the look on your face is rapturous when you press your hand to your side, eyes widening when you feel the extra rung—)

He's had decades of waiting. Waiting. And now that he's found you—

He's never letting go.

You're it, he knows. Feels the certainty in that statement simmering in his hindbrain, in his essence. He'll have you—now, forever. Non-negotiable. Where you go, he will follow.

(after all, there's something about three-headed dogs and their bones—)

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razbunz · 7 months ago

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STAY SAFE!! [ID: the Gilbert Baker pride flag with the words “Happy pride to all those who are unable to celebrate openly and safely. You are loved and seen!” in all-caps black text over it. /end ID]

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razbunz · 8 months ago

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inspired by boop day, reblog this post if its ok for people to send you random asks and interact on your posts with no judgement. i want to talk to people.

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razbunz · 8 months ago

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I’m going to write in MLA format now for my fics‼️ /j

#thoughts

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razbunz · 9 months ago

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Hello, finished my second Miguel art >:D

Currently working on the third one. I’d say I’m decent with anatomy, but this one got me super frustrated. Had to try several times to get it somewhat right.

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razbunz · 9 months ago

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I believed this ☹️

i can’t believe he’s back!

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razbunz · 9 months ago

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Best of the worst (Pt 2)

Toji x Fem Reader CW: Drinking/Smoking, Older Toji, Gets a little spicy, Shiu and others are mentioned, Cursing. Word Count: 5K (I cooked on this)

Husband Toji! Quickly packs for a honeymoon to Spain, A whole AirBnb for a week on the island of Ibiza, The warm waters rolling over your skin as you swim with your husband taking in the salty air of the coast.

Husband Toji! Splashing you aggressively with water when diving into the balearic sea, Soon taking you to a seafood dinner. Candlelit with flames wavering with every warm breeze that passes through the gazebo It's easy to gorge on crab legs and to chat playfully with your freshly wed husband. The wedding band on his finger shining in the moonlight as cicadas hum an evening tune.

Husband Toji! Gifts you a sundress, and goes grape picking at a local vineyard in the summer heat. He helps you reach the tallest vines by lifting you up by the hips; gripping them tightly so you stay sturdy in his arms. He holds the basket of grapes collected and once you reach the rim of the wicker pail he's coated in sweat- looking nothing less than ethereal. Toji hands over the grapes to the vine assistant, who suggests that they can make a small batch. It's heartily agreed it will be your ‘honeymoon’ blend.

Husband Toji! Eagerly taking the opportunity to get wine drunk with you at the rental house- laughing as you get more whiny and needy with each sip. Toji can't help but pout and tease you during your hazy state, eventually he will show kindness though- it's your honeymoon afterall.And will lay you on the bed gently, kissing and suckling at your supple flesh until you beg him to do something more, until your crying of pleasure.

Husband Toji! Trying not to pout as he boards the plane, internally he fears that you're only sticking around like some fucked up ‘honeymoon phase’. He will never admit to you but it really hurts his feelings, you're not sure he knows just how serious you are about him.

Husband Toji! He goes back to work soon after, he's heard your complaints that his field is dangerous and he shouldn't be doing that, More than ever now that he's married.

But in his head it's the only way and the best way to make money to support the both of you, Though he doesn't want to hurt your feelings It's something that must be done.

Husband Toji! He goes to work with his hands covered in leather gloves so his ring doesn't rust with blood he has to deal with on a daily basis. His gloves are drenched in a sticky maroon substance as cuts the hands off of a victim. It doesn't make his stomach feel bad anymore… it hasn't for a while. He offers it to the commissioner as some sort of sick gift- they hand over a briefcase of money and he's back home to being your loveable bear of a husband.

Husband Toji! But because of his job it's easy for him to help you during your period. He knows you try to avoid him during that time, And he laughs when you explain why. It pisses you off to the nth degree but he reassures you that he isn't disgusted. His hands are a warm safety when you're cramping, he runs his fingers up and down your stomach until the pain goes away. Even once when you stain the sheets while you expected him to be mad he races to the corner store to buy you snacks, as he sets the sheets into the wash. When he comes back he watches whatever film you want as he stirs up hot cocoa which he is a master at making.

Husband Toji! Hearing you throw up one morning, He rushes to the bathroom to see you spill your guts out; Lifting up your hair he pats your back soothingly. He's groggy but it comforts him to know that you're okay. But this pattern continues... Morning after morning you start to feel nauseous and ill, It's starting to scare him.

He's making dinner one night, suddenly noticing that you've been in the bathroom for almost an hour. He calls out your name and as he walks closer to the bathroom his ears prick up as they catch your sobs.

“Princess?” he calls out into the hallway awaiting a response. Your chest racks and you stop crying, trying to compose yourself to respond.

But he knocks on the door “Are you okay, pretty girl?” The silence echoes throughout the house.

Behind the door you're biting your lip to stop a sob.

“Princess, Open up please.” His voice itches with anxiety, He's growing impatient pacing through the hallway until he breaks open the door with a sharp CRACK the lock splintering immediately.

“Baby?” He sees your figure on the floor clutching something to your chest.

“There you are pretty.” his voice makes you shiver into the ground-he reaches out to you but you shrink back, whimpering in fear.

“M’sorry m’sorry toji.” you sound more pathetic than you ever thought.

“Sorry?” he scoffs “For what?” Standing back to give you some space, Instead of words you pass what's clutched to your chest. With one glance it makes him want to hurl.

Soon to be father Toji! Turning the blue stick in his hands, Two blue lines staring up at him like daggers.

“M’sorryyyy Toji” by now you're hyperventilating, as he acknowledges the weight of it all.

“Baby it's okay!” He crouches down and offers you a hand brushing your hair back.

“You're gonna kill me.” he shakes his head, you’re being dramatic.

“I'm not going to kill you princess.” pressing a kiss to your hand.

He chuckles for the second it takes you to realize that he is not made, he's rather happy.

Lifting you up he hugs you tight, peppering your wet cheeks with kisses, wrapping his hands around your waist.

“God I love you so much.” he confesses to you “Always wanted a little brat, hmm?” he looks down to see your face.

“You want one with me too mama?” you nod enthusiastically before admitting to Toji

“I thought you didn't want one!” you breathe a sigh of relief now knowing that you were wrong,

“Of course I did!” he pauses “I didn't think you wanted one with an old man like me!” He blushes and combs through his hair to reveal more of his face.

“Well clearly you're not that old.” You gesture to your body.

Laughs fill the bathroom.

Soon to be Father Toji! Goes to every single one of your doctor visits, He can just be back from a mission with bloody clothes in the back of the car but will be there. Holding your hand throughout the first ultrasound. When a heartbeat shows up on the monitor he squeezes your hand, smiling cheesily as a tiny baby shows up on screen-He keeps an ultrasound photo in his wallet now.

Soon to be Father Toji! If you thought he was protective before, When you're pregnant he might as well be a guard dog. Holding your hand everywhere and when people come up to gush about having a kid he is only 4 seconds from committing another murder. You're his wife and that's his kid. They shouldn't touch you.

Soon to be Father Toji! Ikea shopping with you as your due date approaches, By the end of the trip you’ve got a Crib, Dresser, and changing table with plenty of storage.

When they arrive at the house he sets an entire day aside to build it all, yelling at the instructions while you sit down. Admiring him hammering everything together- his biceps taut as he holds pieces together. Needless to say, you're happy to watch.

Soon to be Father Toji! Who looks at you odd when you hand him a tiny gift bag, When he opens it to see pastel pink onesie with a card saying ‘Its a Girl’. He's ready to be a father right then; letting you find names for his little girl. And with some guidance you both decide on the name Tsumiki, A beautiful name for his baby to come.

Soon to be Father Toji! Adores stepping into stores with his pretty little wife in his hands, buying whatever your eyes even flick over. When you paint the spare room an ash blue he asks

‘Would you ever share your plushies with her?’ The look you give him shuts him up immediately, he’ll take that as a no.

He still loves you even when you woke him up at the asscrack of the morning because you were craving Auntie Anne's Cinnamon sticks, dragging himself out of bed because he wants to see you happy. When he gets them (and a cinnamon roll for himself).

You eat them in the car, music low so you can talk to him. He chuckles when you mention that this scene looks so familiar- Time has passed, but you've only gotten more irresistible to him (especially when your swollen with his child)

Soon to be Father Toji! Whereas as soon as the slight wince of discomfort leaves your lips, he's dragging you to the hospital even when you say you can wait it out a bit longer, he'd rather be safe.

He enters the Maternity Ward with you trying to calm your nerves to the best of his ability. Toji has seen lots of morbid things before…Torture victims and bodies without heads, but its different when its his precious wife screaming in agony with every contraction. He avoids looking at your form until he hears the cries of a child. His child. Walking up to your sweat slicked form he gives you a small peck on your forehead, hushing your whines of pain as they take your daughter away for a health check.

“You did so good mama, so good for me hmm?” you don't have the energy to respond but soak in the voice of your husband and your body resting. Tsumiki is a healthy little girl, And much to Tojis relief he can't sense cursed energy.

It makes him unbelievably happy.

Father Toji! Letting you rest while he cradles his little girl in his arms, she's so small in his arms he's afraid that one wrong move and it'll be over. So he sits as still as a statue so his baby can sleep. He shakes his head at his life, never did he think he'd be a dad. Especially to a girl who resembles you so much, your small smile in particular.

Father Toji! Hates Hospitals to an incredible degree and races out the hospital with his baby, Tsumiki is held in a baby carrier with his grip unwavering. He places the carrier in the back and starts up the car for the drive home.

He drives much more carefully then he ever has, you could even say legally.

Father Toji! Lets you take the next few weeks easy, he dearly wants another kid- but doesn't want to force another child on you; At least not this early. It's hard to compose his thoughts though when Tsumiki cries at 1:48 in the morning…like clockwork, You go sometimes but if you're deep sleeping there isn't a reason to bother. He swaddles her while she cries going into the pantry to fetch some formula hoping that she's just hungry. He has work in the morning but he knows you're just as tired.

So Toji hums strangers in the night softly, the words are mumbled and hushed so he doesn't wake you up in the next room. But upon not feeling the comforting warmth of your husband you look around the house. To find Him in the nursery coddling Tsumiki, bouncing up and down to a soft rhythm.

He looks at Tsumiki like it's his whole world.You dont say anything,You slink behind the wall hoping he doesn't sense your presence. You keep it short,retiring to sleep while you hold the memory close to your heart.

Father Toji! After feeding Tsumiki, he makes dinner for the two of you. It's filled with light conversation but he can sense your not saying something.

Once you finish though you look him dead in the eyes and ask

“Do you not want another kid with me?” Your voice is shaken and Toji is bewildered that this question would ever arise.

“What? Of course, Whatever gave you that idea?’” He retorts finally thinking his hints have clocked in

“I- just thought you were a one and done type of guy…” A pregnant pause prevents both of you from talking.

“Absolutely not. I love Tsumiki and she needs another sibling-maybe even a brother!” He sounds 10x excited at that.

He closes the distance between the two of you going to nip at your neck, biting it harshly.

“Why, Wanna try? Hmmmm?” He grins and bites your cheek, you cringe at the feeling of wet saliva on your cheek- nodding as you lay back onto the bed letting his larger form crawl on top of yours.

“Need words baby~” he coaxes you to speak, he loves seeing you desperate for him.

“Please Toji?” You test the waters,but he shakes his head.

“Please touch me Toji daddy?” and you pout giving him puppy eyes. At that he undos his belt taking the cool leather into his calloused hands.

“Take it real fucking good then.”

Father Toji! Makes sure you take everything he has to give, Cleaning you up gently but it’s all a blur when you look back at it. You wake up the following morning with the scent of honey and sweet fruit. When he spots you trying to stand up to meet him halfway, he ushers you to sit down on the bed handing you a cup of tea with waffles and fruit. It makes you smile at his softness.

Father Toji! Just as equally excited when you tell him you're pregnant again, he knows it will be a challenge but it's one both of you want to face together. Since this one is planned you both take the pleasure in throwing a baby shower.

You invite all of your friends as does Toji, who has gotten closer with other people now that he is settled down- he won't admit it but it's easier to make friends when he doesn't constantly have to move around with a price on his head.

Well he still does…But at least he's home. At your home.

Father Toji! And Shiu about everything that's taken place this last year…

“Two kids, big man?” Shiu jokes to him, jabbing him in the side while looking at your unknowing figure, as you chat to your friends.

Toji looks at his drink and chuckles “It's a huge change, I mean anything for her. That's my girl right there.” His eyes meet yours and you give him a wide smile, he grins back.

“You ever thought about settling down Shiu?” Toji asks, setting his glass of champagne down onto the cedar table.

Shiu shakes his head “I'd like to, now that my best client is turning to mush on me.” Shiu snickers to himself.

“No the fuck I aint. I still kill people mind you.” Toji objects to his partner.

“You gonna do that when Tsumiki has a sibling too?” Shiu quips, hitting toji with verbal whiplash.

He doesn't know how to reply.

“ I… I don't know.”

“I'd figure that out before your woman does.” Shiu swigs the rest of his glass down, setting it down before walking up to you to say another congratulations.

Father Toji! Uncharacteristically shaken by that conversation with Shiu, though he powers through the party to hear some good news, It's a boy.

He’s ecstatic at just the thought of Tsumiki having a little brother and already brewing names.

As you drive back home with gifts packed into the trunk you giggle about some drama spilled earlier, he laughs commenting on your tales- but he's really thinking.

“Let's name him megumi.” you're talking when he says it- catching you off guard.

“Like how could sh- What?” you fumble over your own words forgetting the story that once filled your mind.

“Megumi.” he repeats; you nod, mouthing it trying to see how it flows off your tongue.

“I like it.” You agree fidgeting with your maternity dress. He smiles lightly at that, kissing you gently at the next stoplight as if you might shatter from his touch.

Megumi’s his little blessing to come, Toji’s so thankful for you and his kids.

Father Toji! Megumi comes into the world with a fight, it's harder on you then Tsumiki. He's louder and fussier with his food, not liking the ones Tsumiki once did. Sweet potato puree is suddenly garbage now. Toji notices you need more rest after Megumi and how you spend more time in bed then with the 3 of them, He does the best he can though- he always does.

Father Toji! Is super excited (emotional) when you begin to play with Megumi and Tsumiki, trying to get Tsumiki to walk often and feeding the two of them. Which Toji is unarguably better at, he's a master at feeding his kids. Baby food? Easy win, Solids? Something so easy that he's starting to enjoy cutting up tiny pieces of chicken and apples to feed them.

Father Toji! Denies that Megumi is a mirror reflection of him, Makes you frown thinking of the nine months of pain and cravings and hormones… just for him to look exactly like his father.

Toji doesn’t claim that his pout comes from him but it most definitely does.

Father Toji! Loves watching you take care of Megumi, the way you play with him, playing peek-a-boo and talking to him about your day as if he can understand you. You tell him about how you and Toji met, just explaining his dad to him.

“Toji’s a big scary bear, But he's nice huh gumi? Your dad loves you soooooo much” You look Toji in the eye when you say that, beaming as Megumi spits out baby gibberish as a response.

“I am not that scary!” Toji retorts going up to take Megumi from your lap, you hand him off- Megumi gives a bit of a tussle crying clawing at his dads skin but calms down when Toji offers him a lighthearted smile. (Megumi’s scared of him smiling with teeth)

Kiddos (Double dad Toji?) Are both sad that your kids are now both in elementary school. Megumi isn't super social, and likes to stay silent in class making pictures that he hands to you at the end of the day. Megumi is a big reader and listener which doesn't help, especially when it includes curse words that he hears mostly from his dad, occasionally you.

Meg’s has picked up “Motherfucker” too quickly for your taste. Tsumiki on the other hand is a social butterfly, playing with other kids and humming tunes she hears on the radio. She loves to hang around in the school garden with her closest friends and play ‘Bug matchmaker’ Megumi has joined her in this, and it freaks you out sometimes when they do it at home.

Double dad Toji! Knows Megumi has cursed energy, he's known it since Megumi was 6 months old. It scares him deeply- He doesn't want his kid to turn out like him, being thrown to the side when he’s not ‘good enough’.

So when Megumi comes home during second grade petting something invisible, he picks up the aura of a curse and tries his hardest to be normal about it. Toji only wishes his kid didn't have cursed energy but it's too late for that. He can sense the energy is mostly positive-it gives him some sort of morbid solace.

Double dad Toji! Has explained cursed energy to you before, and while you can't use it you try your best to understand it. Toji can't bring himself to tell you about what it can mean for Megumi, and he doesn't want to think of your reaction if you find out it could bring Megumi harm. So he goes to Shiu…

He pulls up to a bar slamming the doors to his Maserati he bought an suv after having kids

Ordering a Jack & Coke as he sits down next to Shiu

“How's the wife and kids?” Shiu asks politely before they catch up.

“Wife's good, but ummm… Megumi is definitely a Shikigami user and I need your help.” Shiu’s eyes draw wide.

“When did you find this out??” Shiu asks, fully engaged.

“Like fuck I dont know, couple days ago?” Toji bites his lip and raps his knuckles against the sticky wood counter of the sports bar. A game he betted on plays above but he cant bother to look up. Someone scored- he can't care for who,Shiu spends the time of the pause to think.

“How about you drive me to your place and I can tell you just how bad it is.” Toji knows Shiu can see curses so hopefully whatever it is…is good.

“Let's go then.” Toji grabs his keys and they speed off to your house.

Ringing the doorbell its only worse as Megumi opens the door

Toji can sense the energy and grimaces, while Shiu laughs holding his temple and rolls his back to let out a cackle.

You travel to the foyer seeing Toji pale and Shiu red with laughter.

“Back so soon?” you question as you hold Tsumiki's hand, who smiles e at her dad and greets shiu with a tiny bow.

“Yeah, there wasn't much going on.” Toji lies through his teeth.

“What about your game though? Yankees and the Dodgers?” you pressure him.

“We can watch it here.” Shiu tacks in “And the bar ran out of our favorite bourbon anyways.” It's a simple, yet effective excuse.

They walk to the coffee bar you have, cramped in the corner where he pulls out what he needs to make a vodka cran. You continue to make mac and cheese for dinner for the kiddos, not before asking toji to make you one as well. He kisses you on the cheek and mixes your first so they can talk business.

“He's a shikigami user alright, but they are his for sure.”

“10 shadows technique, you think?” Toji asks, sipping lightly at his drink.

“Mhm, he's got it in control though, He has two dogs” Shiu takes a swig “They are his friends though, he was petting them at the door.”

Toji sighs with relief-

“Ima need a smoke after this, you gonna join me?” Digging through his overcoat pocket for a carton of Marlboro reds offering to shiu as he pulls out one.

“When don't I?” he smiles, as they walk out to the porch.

Double Dad Toji! Is a total Dad, In the beginning of your relationship he thought yall were gonna bang and be done. Now he's standing over an ice cream cart letting Megs and Tsumiki choose what popsicle they want. Megumi chooses the spongebob one and Tsumiki chooses Bubbles. You find him doing this unspeakably attractive. He's a Total Dilf, the ones you used to dream about when you scrolled through ‘hot dad’ blogs. And he's yours.

Kiddos! Middle school is interesting for you and Toji watch to say the least. Megumi has started to talk more and fights a lot, this leads to plenty of parent meetings for you and Toji to deal with. Leading to Tojis favorite saying (much to your anger) is “Hey at least he has good grades” Which he is right… But that doesnt give him to make the entire campus fear him

You can only ‘wonder’ where he got it from. Toji, Of course it’s toji.

Your daughter, Tsumiki loves to go to the mall with her best friend buying whatever she can afford from claires. Much to Megumi's dismay he is dragged around the wholeeeeee time, into Bath & Body works and turning away when they point out Victoria's secret. The only thing he gets out of it is Cinnabon and Hot Topic.

Double Dad Toji! With you, explaining to Tsumiki that Megumi won't be going to the same high school as her. He can sense his energy growing and is used to feeling his dogs' energy around the house.

“He's going to go to a different high school then you Tsu,” Toji tries to his daughter.

Tsumiki takes a sip of Fanta before sitting down,

“Why?? Does he not want to go with me?” She questions

Tojis sends him to Tokyo Jujitsu High.

He’s special… kinda like Shiu and me, we can both see and do things that you can't.”

Tsumiki nods “Is he a sorcerer?”

Toji sighs “Yes he is, me and mom-” he looks at you nod offering some sort of non-verbal comfort “think it's best to have him there.”

Tsumiki rubs her eyes.“When is he going, Can he visit? Wait, is he going to be okay?! Does he know???”

Tsumiki is a big questioner, it takes some time to explain to Tsumiki before she calms down

When Megumi comes back from detention that day Tsumiki gives him a huge hug. With tears pricking her eyes. Toji kisses your forehead before calling in pizza to lift the mood for the evening.

Double dad Toji! Thought he was done with parent meetings, he was wrong.

He waits outside the teachers office with you waiting for his main teacher, Satoru Gojo.

You're both ushered inside by the Snowy Haired man who grins at the both of you.

Gojo seems to frown looking at your husband but still eagerly greets the both of you.

“So your Megumi’s Dad, it’s no wonder your son is so strong!” He kicks up his feet on the desk.

“You must be his mother, pleasure to meet you too!” you agree and settle into the dark leather chair.

Gojo, Quickly moves onto talking about Megumi.

“He's a really bright kid! Great test scores on all the basics and he really shines on the Battlefield with his partners.” Gojo gushes, pulling out a lollipop humming to himself “Ah yes, my partner says he is a total team player.”

Toji nods while gritting his teeth, it's no secret he isn't a fan of him.

“His Shikigami are strong and lives up to other users of the Ten Shadows Technique, maybe one day he’ll even tame Mahoraga!” Gojo laughs and adjusts his sunglasses.

Toji isn't pleased hearing this “As long as it won't destroy the kid.” They make eye contact and Gojo throws his hands back.

“I'll make sure of it, for both of you.”

His teacher goes back to explaining a lot of terms you just don't get. But toji seems to be following along well enough besides his piercing grip on your thigh and his eyes twitching every now and then.

Once you leave the office, you walk to the training fields where Megumi is supposed to be.

When you see him he's laughing and talking to a pink haired boy and brown haired girl. It makes you extremely happy to see Megumi having friends.

A tall, long black haired man approaches you- putting his hair into a bun.

“You two must be Megumi's parents, Satoru told me you guys were coming to visit.” Toji shakes his hand firmly.

“But where are my manners! I'm Suguru Geto, the other teacher here. I'm mostly in charge of keeping them in check…Since I'm sure you can guess.” He leans in “My associate wont” you share a laugh with him.

He's a refresher from the partner, though probably complimenting each other's teaching skills.

Megumi looks up from his friends and lightly jogs to the two of you.

“Mom! Dad! Hey!” He is red from laughing and working in the sun- he now adorns a black fitted uniform not unlike his partners.

You hug him and Toji asks-

“How's it going kid?” giving him a head pat, “Haven't seen you in awhile. Your sister is supposed to graduate early. Did you hear that?”

You spend the afternoon catching up with your son and meeting his friends.

Toji holds your hand as you walk out of the campus, it's comfortingly silent, and he opens the door of his old car for you before he drives home.

Double Dad Toji! Is emotional when Tsumiki graduates from high school, she's wearing a dark blue slim fit dress. The black graduation gown is open and she wears her hat.

When they toss the hats into the air it's impossible for him to not feel that he's done something right in his life.

You and him raised a kid that's starting to bloom in a beautiful way. It does horrify him at the realization she is attending college soon enough. And when you come back from the graduation he makes sure he proves your ‘silver fox’ comment.

Double Dad Toji! Letting you adjust his tie when you get ready for Megumi's graduation not long after. It's a smaller scene with mostly family and close friends protected by a veil.

The Upperclassmen cheer them on with smiles and taunts to ‘Just turn 1st grade already!’ after their teachers give heartfelt speeches.

He steps on stage with his partners and a beautiful shower of flowers covers their stage as they hug each other, cheers radiate from the people there.

You're crying, and Toji, well- he's almost there.

Toji. Who finds comfort in you growing older by his side, Completing crossword puzzles with coffee and going on art museum dates. He's put down his weapons but not the cigarettes,

And you who loves to read next to him, appreciating the gentleness of his forever calloused hands still in love with the scent of his cologne and smoke.

It feels good to be in love, to have two kids who love you both endlessly. To live a dream- with you.

Thank you so much for reading! This took a lot of time but I really do love it. Requests are going to be open soon if you would like me to write anything! Love,Razzy!

#toji fushiguro #toji zenin #jjk fluff #toji x reader #jjk writing #this took forever #i love writing for him #older bf toji

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