#'boss.. where are you touching me'
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
chainsawworld · 1 year ago
Text
I finally listened to the sauna fight cassette.. I dont.. i just dont
2 notes · View notes
taffybee · 3 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
ugh. i've been having a giovanni moment lately. save me. (the giovanni in my head is beyond mortal comprehension and the doodles under the cut are just a Glimpse into my Twisted Psyche. i don't expect to be agreed with i'm just here to speak my truth man.) anyways. Behold my giovanni design
btw my hot take of the day is that giovanni has been characterized Wrong after gen 1 for the sake of (mostly) nostagia baiting and one of the only things that has characterized him right since is pokemon origins. but that's a rant for another day. more on that in the tags if you care for the ramblings of a lunatic
(aforementioned doodles below:)
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
47 notes · View notes
matineemonsters · 19 days ago
Text
One time when I was an RA in college a bunch of first year students were playing around with a Ouija board and freaked out because they summoned the demon Zozo. The RA for that building eventually had to have her priest uncle come and exorcise/bless the dorm and it was fine. Every resident encounter had to be officially documented, police report style, and so at some point after all this I was sat in a lecture hall with all the other RAs while our bosses lectured us on the proper way to handle a demon summoning
7 notes · View notes
trainingdummyrabbit · 4 months ago
Text
anyway i waited so long posting those other ones bc iwanted to group em with a few other pair designs bc i Love the concept of duo-realizations so much despite the. complications. somewhere in my notebook is some thumbnailing of yin/yang angela+roland bc ifeel it in my Soul. ok ^_^
11 notes · View notes
shannonsketches · 11 months ago
Text
an incomplete list of animals i'd like to see utilized in gerudo valley + canyon + desert + highlands
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
29 notes · View notes
pixelatedraindrops · 1 year ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Getting sick from the rain? Jeez. You’re so pitiful, master…
…but as your adorable partner I can’t just leave you to suffer. So don't worry, I’ll help you out!
I’m forever haunting you, in sickness and in health 🌡️👻
29 notes · View notes
yusuke-of-valla · 11 months ago
Text
In Berry Blast Brigade Yusuke is way more chill about the "Chidori kidnapping him that one time" thing than most people would be but Hamuko does not forgive or forget when it comes to her baby siblings so whenever Yusuke wants to visit Chidori in the hospital Hamuko is in the hallway glaring menacingly.
8 notes · View notes
foreignobjecticus · 7 months ago
Text
It's 15C and almost sunny, the radar is teeming with GA, jets are flying past, I feel like I have a whole village taking care of me, beautiful art keeps coming my way, I feel better but not perfect. I'm cleaning my helmet and plotting my course babey. When I'm done with these antibiotics?? Riding, flying, gardening, theatre, concerts, and general running around like an idiot.
It's coming. I can FEEL it. :D :D
2 notes · View notes
skeletalheartattack · 1 year ago
Note
More kazooieposting because why not. What's your favourite stage theme?
let's see... with kazooie, it's probably clankers cavern because i just really like clanker. he's so cool and i like hanging out with him.
with tooie, while i feel like it's everyones favourite, it's gotta be witchy world. it's just such a fun world overall that it's hard to pick anything else.
#ask#anon#if i had to pick seconds for both? lets see... uhh...#maybe treasure trove cove? i feel like its a close second. just really nice level. except for the clams. fuckars.#theres a fun detail i noticed with treasure trove coves music#so theres a little segment in the tune that appears a bit late thats the exact same chord progression as bottles challenge music#and thats so neat to me because like. where do you go to get a few specific cheat codes? bottles minigame#and where do you put those cheat codes in at? treasure trove cove#its just a really fun touch#but ough... my boy clanker.... i cant pick favourites over my boy clanker...#ill get you out of there man. theres a huge sea out there.#as for tooie... terrydactyland? i always loved playing through its world#i remember watching a tier list recently and they had terrydactyland pretty low on the list. because of how empty it is#which is definitely a fair statement. but as a kid i didnt mind honestly#but really its so hard to pick anything over witchyworld. its music. its theme. the different areas. oughhh.....#i even like mr patch. except for like one part of his design that changes with his return in nuts & bolts.#beyond that. fun design. i like him a lot if we can ignore a part of his design.#i also like how proportionally large the interior of the big top is.#the only thing i dislike about mr patch is his actual boss fight. aiming. aiming eggs at his patches. and hes constantly moving about.#most hated themes? uhhh i cant really pick one in kazooie really. theyre all good even if rusty bucket bay sucks#tooie? probably glitter glutch mine. or jolly roger lagoon.#those two i never liked playing through really.#jolly roger lagoon scared the shit out of me as a kid. i hated the ominous deep hole in the middle of the lagoon#and the underwater segment sucks because so much of the level looks the same.#glitter glutch mine... idk what about it i disliked. it was honestly the one level i dreaded playing the most in the early game#its visuals arent the worst but. idk something about it i didnt really enjoy. maybe those damn fps segments.#anyway! thank you for the ask anon!!! :)
6 notes · View notes
bloodyarson · 2 years ago
Text
not to derail but i think the reason why american english is so easy to learn and to speak for a lot of people is exactly because correct enunciation doesn't matter one bit really. as long as you make a noise that has the right vowels and kinda similar consonants people will understand what you're saying 90% of the time. and so i think, other than imperialism of course, this is one of the reasons why english is everyone in the world's "common tongue" now. even with a really thick accent english is still understandable, way more than most other majorly spoken languages. i mean, just fucking take a listen to french! or don't actually unless you want your ears to start bleeding.
so yeah in conclusion i think the reason why english is the language everyone learns and communicates in is because of this specific lack of a need to properly pronounce things, making it so much easier than most other languages for non native speakers. :)
americans be like i’m looking at myself in the meer
#this is absolutely accurate#sometimes we make fun of ourselves for this kind of terrible enunciation with my wife#i think the last one is the best really the way could you becomes coodjyu and what you becomes wotchu#it's so funny#where do the dj and tch sounds come from!! it's a d and a t!!#anyway yeah to speak english you can literally just mumble something that kinda sounds like a word and ppl will get it most of the time#also on a totally different subject i FUCKING HATE french#especially french spoken with an actual french accent#quebecois french is kinda bearable but I wouldn't say i like it#but french french makes me want to commit murder as soon as i hear someone speaking it#it sounds so fucking pretentious and dumb oh my gooood i hate it so much#i don't really know why to be honest it's a purely instinctual reaction of rage that happens when i hear it#also not only does a french french accent sound terrible the expressions they use in france are SO fucking cringe#at one of my previous jobs i had a coworker who had recently immigrated from france and listening to her was TORTURE#she would use the dumbest fucking expressions to say things everytime she did that i wanted to be struck by lightning#like she called work ''le boulot'' instead of ''le travail'' or ''la job''#NO ONE in quebec uses the word boulot!!!!#NO ONE I CAN GUARANTEE YOU THAT NO ONE CALLS IT THAT#it just sounds so fucking bad when you hear that man i dont know why i hate it so much but i do i just can't stand it#working with her was just non stop stuff like this and my ears were bleeding the entire time#and the cherry on top is that i suspect that it was that coworker specifically who went to snitch and lie about me sending rude texts#about our boss#which is why i got fired despite being good at my job and getting along with all the rest of my coworkers except that manager#who's had it out for me since the first day i stepped into the store#she spent a week deadnaming me for example when everyone else called me by my chosen name from the moment i asked them to#and she seemed to always have a problem with everything i did even when what i was doing was something i had been asked to do#by someone in a position higher than hers lmao#her favorite thing was yelling at me that i wasn't at my register whenever i dared to step further than 3 feet from it#literally she admonished me multiple times for not being at my post when i was at a distance where#i could touch the counter by simply lifting my arm and reaching for it
147K notes · View notes
szkicel · 7 months ago
Text
Ok i’m scheduling some art I’ve done in the past while I work on new things and I remembered that Queen Bee (from h/lluva b/ss) redesign I did a year ago when a lot of ppl were doing it and it’s probably time to post it before it gets too old…
man, I am NOT excited for all the harassment I’m gonna endure from the unhinged HB fans, but hopefully I’m too small of an artist to get noticed so maybe i’ll be fine
#rambling#my posts#helluva boss critical#tagging it as such so ya won’t be able to complain that I „didn’t properly tag the hate” or sth#I had also a wip of ALMOST FINISHED 2nd redesign where I was basically just making my own take on the Beelzebub#that I can use outside of H//B f/nart (like I can easily put it in my game project)#but for some reason I never sat down to properly finish it bc the lineart was killing me#bc you see I used to do this very annoying thing where instead of drawing lineart on a seperate layer#I was just erasing and „sculpting” the messy sketch layer until it looked good#Which maybe would look good in a different brush but nah it was the default smooth brush#I thought this method would be faster bc „well at least i’m not drawing the lines from scratch”#but when you have messy sketches the cleaning up process gets very tedious very fast#so at some point I was just fed up and had a break that turned too long and by that point my artstyle#changed too much and I didn’t want to touch my old work; bc I like to preserve my progress#(which means no messing with works and wips that are older than a month)#anyway i’m getting off topic#so uh; i guess if you like redesigns you’re in for a treat#if not then well i hope we can resolve this diplomatically#and to anyone asking if i’m actually a fan of the show - no i’m not; it was a guilty pleasure to a certain point until it was unbearable#I really hate both h///b and h/////h so don’t ask me any opinions on them bc i’m gonna be very mean 😭😭😭#all i’m gonna say is my opinions aren’t groundbreaking or anything; i can’t really say what hasn’t already been said
1 note · View note
fiapple · 9 months ago
Text
heart like a cracked egg, yet to be cooked, staring up at you from the small bowl on the table- soft & soppy, in desperate need of attention- yet cold. questionable favour regarding consumption.
0 notes
sunni-stuff · 1 month ago
Text
Everything changed when that pregnancy test read positive.
The day you fumbled into his office, bearing what you thought to be bad news, John's excited face threw you for a loop.
Wasn't he supposed to be upset? Tell you that he didn't want to have a kid with someone he didn't fully care about? Why was he crying? Why did he embrace you so tenderly?
"I'll be there for both of you, Dovie," Price reassures in the nook of your neck, arms caging you against his chest.
Take care of both of you.
Both?
"M-Mr. Price, with all due respect—"
Price cuts off your protests. He leads you out of his office. His large hand grips your waist more possessively. "Go rest your feet up in the lounge; I'll take care of everything." His lips press to the crown of your head, ushering you away gently at the reception entrance.
You were supposed to have one fun night, not to be locked in for the rest of your lives.
Your days of working at a desk were replaced with John's house. It was far from the bustling base you had grown used to. The space was warm and homey. Bits of memorabilia were scattered about. Medals adorned the walls, and old photos sat on the shelves.
John said you only have one job now: making yourself at home.
There was so much space that you didn't know where to start or even how to start! It's not like there was a plan for having your boss's child! So much was happening so fast it left you overwhelmed, sitting on his couch with nervous hands. "Mr. Price, I'm really not sure about all this; I mean... what we did was a big mistake, right?"
From upstairs, you hear John laugh. He's been up there all morning, fixing the nursery for your child. He wanted to create a special room for them, saying that his kid deserves nothing but the best. Heavy footsteps announce his presence as he closes the distance between you. Calloused fingers grip your chin, forcing you to look into his ocean eyes. "You don't want this?"
His touch has you melting, words dying on your lips as you get lost in those eyes. God, why did he look at you that way? Churning like laundry, your gut writhes. A violent spin cycle grips your innards, knotting and wrenching them mercilessly. "I never—I never said that; I just think we're taking things too fast, don't you?" The half-hearted mumble escapes your lips, unconvincing even to yourself.
John's expression shifts; his eyebrow raises in slight scrutiny. "If you believed that, you wouldn't be here."
He's right.
"I do-"
He cuts in swiftly, voice firm. "You don't."
John's grasp tightens on your chin. He leans in, eyes intense. Your heart races. His lips brush yours. The kiss—chaste yet electric. A moment suspended in time. Emotions flood through you both, unspoken but palpable. "You have me. Whatever you want is yours, all you have to do is say the word."
John waits, poised for your word. His eyes betray a craving—silent, deep, and raw.
He belongs to you. He's all yours.
Your lips purse in a line, lip caught between your teeth.
Anything you want?
"I don't like the color of the nursey..."
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
P1
❥ I wasn't originally gonna do a part 2 but... I really like this one, next fic will be longer, possibly fluff and smut maybe who knows ❥
5K notes · View notes
yeyinde · 6 months ago
Text
old, grizzled retired alpha!Price who gets stuck in his cabin with omega!Reader when the winter roads, the only way in and out of his domain, melt with the encroaching spring. and really. what's an alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat without any suppressants. it's not like either of you really have a choice, after all.
dub con; age difference; power imbalance; rough sex; size difference, size kink; abo dynamics: knotting; breeding kink (astronomical); mean!Price, Dom!Price; unsafe sex; oral (f!receiving); slight innocence kink; implied kidnapping; coercion; slight baby trapping; possessive, greedy Price pulling strings from behind the scenes, as per usual. this is basically Alpha John Price knotting Omega Reader in mating press, bullying you into submission
It's an accident, of course. 
An unfortunate combination of poor timing and human error.
But this accident culminates in Price folding his body over you—mating press, you note a touch hysterically; you'd have expected him to be all tradition: presenting to an alpha on your hands and knees, cunt bare for the taking, waiting to be claimed. And while it might not be traditional, Price will claim you tonight. Bully his cock into your drenched cunt, split you wide on the thick of him, on his knot (fuck, fuck, fuck—), and keep you plugged up around him until the unexpected heat passes. 
And really. What's an old, grizzled alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat. It's not like either of you really have a choice, after all. It's agony. It's want. Primal, instinctual. You need him. Ache with it. The urge, the desperation, to be filled. Claimed. Conquered. Owned.
As he presses bluntly against your drenching slit, notching heavy and insistent into your fluttering, aching hole, spilling slick in thick rivulets down your thighs, over the engorged head of his cock, you can't help but wonder how could you be so stupid? 
“Spread your legs for me.”
The command rolls off of his tongue, slips—liquid, molten—down his chin, where it dangles for a moment. Pebbled hest. A globbing demand. You want to roll away when it starts to fall, unspooling slowly until it drips down to your chest, but you can't. You're stuck. Trapped. All you can do is watch helplessly as this barking order, matchstick casuistry, touches your kerosene-slick skin, igniting in a bloom of fire that spreads, rapidly, through your veins. Your body. 
An Alpha's whim must be met. Even this one. This one—
Your former chief, boss. Now retired in the mountains, chiselling out a little place for himself in a corrie, pitching this log bivouac beside a marbled blue tarn. Cut off from the rest of civilisation every spring when the only way in—and out—melted into a raging, uncrossable stretch of river. The ravine frothing too furiously for boats to dock safely on either side. Trapped here with him until next winter—
(oh god oh god—)
You don't know how it got to this point. Scorched. Soaked. With him leaning over you, in all his tartarean glory, making demands of your body as easily as pulling on loose thread between his thick fingers. 
You could blame Gaz for this. 
Sat pretty at his desk, idling a jar of gun oil in his hands. Your gun is spread out on the desk, taken apart. Worrying his lip between his teeth, he said, “someone should check in on Price. Haven't heard from him in a while.” 
Through a quick game of hierarchy, that someone ended up being you. Forced to trek halfway up a mountain just to make sure your mercurial boss didn't die over the winter. Bitten off more than he could chew and too much of a proud Alpha to admit defeat, and call for help. 
You had enough suppressants to last you there and back. Three days. One in the morning, one in the afternoon. Price, despite his surly disposition, is an intense Alpha to be around—
Even for Betas. 
Some, unintentionally, succumb to his whims without even a forethought spared on rationality. It's innate. He says something, and people listen—
Like now. Hours after you discovered your suppressants were gone, and his heavy, cloying scent thickened in the air, suffocating you. When he leaned against the thick log doorframe on the porch of his cabin, thick arms folded across his broad chest, murmured, “come all this way just to see me?” and all at once, the world fell out from under you—
Plunging you into his arms, his embrace. His growl in your ear, “you’re in heat,” he grunted, fists balled against your sides. “fuckin’ Christ—” and the death sentence he imparted on you: “either I take care of this, or your heat becomes too much for me, and I tear you to pieces. But it doesn't matter does it, mm? You can't make it back down in this state,” more snarling anger, dry heat. Scorching. His chin jerked to the river at the foot of the mountain. “In a few hours, It’ll be melted through. Uncrossable.”
Per usual, John Price leaves you very little room for choice, doesn't he? 
Slowly, shakily, your pitched knees part, unveiling your bare cunt to the man towering over you with a condescending coo on his lips, red-hot desire in his smouldering Tartarean eyes. 
“Tha’s it,” he murmurs, voice full of sarky delight. “Such a good omega for me, aren't you?”
It’s not meant to be answered—the jeer chock full of hyperbole. Despite this, your body responds instantly. Back arching, legs spreading out wider around the bulk of his frame, nearly flush against the warmed fur covering the floor of the cabin—wolf, he muttered proudly before he pushed you down against the soft pelt, mouthing teasing at your jaw. Chest heaving. Fingers curling, knotting into the pelt. 
The urge to present for him is intense. An unanswerable call when he pins you down on your back, body a cage keeping you trapped where you lay. Open, inviting. All for him. 
This surly, awful man—
His hands are rough, padded with calluses and hard, jagged scars that jut up from his flesh. It feels abrasive, sandpaper grit, when he leans down, hand pressed against your knee. The drag, then, when he lets it drop down the skin of your inner thigh, makes you keen in the back of your throat. Gnarled palms bleed heat into your soft skin. The contrast is dizzying—size, scale, texture; it all leaves you breathless. Victim to your own instincts, ones that scream at you to roll over. To run. To make this massive, virile alpha yours—
He cups your pussy in the palm of his hand, heel pressed against your clit, fingers sliding between your slit, touching your entrance with the tip of his middle finger. The way the length of it swallows you whole, long, thick fingers reaching beneath you, grazing the cheeks of your ass, sets you on fire in a way you've never felt before. 
Price sees it. He must. He leans back on his haunches, broad chest heaving as he stares, transfixed, at his hand folding over you, wrist propped against your mons. 
He groans low in his chest. When he speaks, desire scorches his words to cinders. 
“Ever had an Alpha's cock here?” 
His question is scorching. 
In a small town, choice is slim. The ratio of alpha to omega, and beta to both, is skewed highly in the latter's favour. You think, Price included, there are maybe five eligible alphas in the whole township. Two omegas, yourself included. Everyone else—
Unbothered, unburdened by this horrific anomaly of genetics, of lingering animal instinct. A relic of when people were more beast than man. 
But even with that, the suitors lining up ready to claim you since you arrived three years ago is negligible. Nearly nonexistent. 
The shame of it is absurd. You know without any shadow of a doubt that your worth is not measured by the number of Alpha's wanting to claim you, but that prickling unease in the back of your head won't be quelled by common sense. Who cares, you want to scream. Who fucking cares—
“No,” you bluster; choking on your anger, your shame. Despite being an omega—rare as they are—everyone in town seemed soured by your scent. Adverse to the pungent pheromones you released innately. 
“No?” He echoes, and the stab of worthlessness needling into your pericardium makes you want to howl, want to cry. 
He doesn't let you. He leans down, hand resting on the floor beside your head, the other still anchored to your cunt, and presses his lips to the shell of your ear. His breath is a humid kiss that tickles across your flesh. 
“Good.” 
The praise bubbles in your marrow. You melt under the heat, whimpering. Head lulling to the side, exposing your neck. Offered up for him to take. 
He huffs, chest expanding. The coarse bed of hair tangled on his sternum in a smattering of black catches on your nipples, the rough graze making you gasp, soundless, into the humid space between your bodies. Aching already and he barely touched you. 
Price follows the twist of your chin, lips pressed flush to your ear. With him crowding so close, you can feel the rumble, the low vibration, through his chest before he even speaks. A soft purr, sultry and rich. Pulling you deeper into the throes of your submission with a startling ease. 
“I don't share, and I'd hate to have to tear another alpha apart for touching you,” his beard scrapes against your cheek, words soaked in possessive fury at the thought alone. “You're mine.”
You want to fight against it. Against him. No one owns you. Has claimed you.
You have only ever belonged to yourself. 
“M’not—”
Price shushes you with a nip, blunt teeth dragging down the plush flesh of your earlobe. “Don't fight it, love. Just—give in.”
You won't. Can't—
Despite the heat—heavy, oppressive, and wet, like the balmy swelter of a tropical jungle; bubbling dross on molten metal—you fight. Rage. Push back against the heady scent he exudes, ones meant to soothe, melt. Until you're malleable. Tensile. Mouldable to fit his needs, his desires, his cock. Putty in his scorching hands. 
It bleeds through, though—noxious and potent. The acrid miasma of a wild, untameable man: leather, hide, and animal rot; bleached bones; felled timbre. A wet forest after a wildfire; charred wood, argillaceous soil. Damp. Cloying. Choking. 
Reeking of authoritative power, he leans over you, breathes in the heaving exhales you let out. Lets the taste of you sit on his tongue, curl between his crooked teeth. 
He's close like this. All fire, all heat. And underneath the scent of a pursuing alpha, you pick up hints of him. Of what he smelled like before, when you were his subordinate and he spent most of his days making yours miserable. Stale smoke, wet tobacco, old leather, dry whiskey. 
You hate how much it calls to you. 
Maybe sensing your defiance, or growing tired of this push-pull game, he huffs out a breath that sounds less aggrieved than you'd want it to, full of playful amusement. Like he expected this. Like he knew you'd fight back with brittle fists and wicked teeth. 
Price pulls back, leaning against his haunches. Content now to devour you at a distance. His eyes leave a scorching trail from your heaving breast, your quivering stomach before fixing once again on the way your pussy is swallowed by his hand. His middle finger circles your sopping hole. The tease is a burst of pleasure, of sensation. A tickle, a taunt. The drag of it makes a loud, sticky noise; the unmistakable slosh, the squelch of just how wet you are for him. 
And it is for him. All for him. 
Your heat is an incipient bloom on the horizon—a slow, crawling sunrise. You shouldn't be this slick yet. This drenched. 
The embarrassment blisters through you when he makes a choked sound in the back of his throat. A loan bitten, swallowed before it can fully form. 
Price coos, voice scorched. Full of char. “All’fer me, mm? Such a good little omega.”
You hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it—
—but nearly choke yourself on a moan. 
He chuckles, dark and rich. The sound entirely too similar to crushing a fistful of charcoal, and you're reminded suddenly why he's unmated at the age he is. 
Surly bastard. As approachable as a fucking grizzly bear in a rut. 
Your lips twist, jerking downward. “Fuck you—”
He circles your rim once more, chuffing low as he does so, letting the slick noise of your soaked cunt speak on his behalf. 
You bite back a snarl, letting it fizzle out in the back of your throat. However reckless you might be, however much you might dislike him, he's still an alpha. Snarling in his face would only get you bent over his knee (at best). 
And at worst, well. Maybe they'll find whatever is left of you next spring. 
Next spring. 
Thinking about just how long you're trapped here with him—no phone, no service—makes you want to cry. To break down, to—
No. You can't. Won't. Not in front of him. 
Not Price. The awful man who spent three years picking away at everything you've ever done. Writing you up for every little misstep. You wondered then, and you still wonder now, if he hated you because you were an omega who dared to work with him, as his equal, or if his brand of distaste was just for you. 
(The latter, it must be—he’s always been so kind to Alex, an older omega. 
You're just the exception.)
This sprawling train of thought is clipped when he sinks his finger into you, to the second knuckle, and you choke. 
“Ah, fuck, don't—”
He curls his finger. “Protest as much as you'd like, but if you didn't want this, your pussy wouldn't be this fuckin’ wet would it, love?”
He's right. You hate him for it. 
But he doesn't give you a chance to complain. He slips his finger out, the wet drag of your flesh pulling on him, unwilling to let go, is loud. Awful. You burn hot—hotter still when he groans at the noise. 
“Such a good girl for me, ain't you?” 
Price circles your entrance as he says it, pressing two fingers against your rim, rubbing. Gathering slick. You wish it didn't feel as good as it did—electric shocks of pleasure sparking at his touch, but the feel of it is a tease. You want more. Much more—
He presses those long, thick fingers inside again. Two this time. All you can do is mewl around the sudden stretch, the sting. 
Your discomfort is a palpable thing. Unease, distress—the acid scent plumes around you, leaking from your pores. Price stops suddenly, fingers still crooked in a half knot inside you. 
“You're tight,” he drawls, jowls working. Tensing. His eyes flash, heat lightning. “You—”
He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes narrowing into slits. They drop down to where he disappears inside of you, flesh stretched tight around him. Drilling into the way the slick runs down his fingers, over his knuckles, drenching the back of his hand, and he hums. 
“Has anyone ever touched you here before?”
More shame. It bubbles in your chest, this awful, insidious thing. 
It hasn't been for a lack of suitors, really. But rather, other things have always taken precedence over heats, over ruts. School, then your career. And well—
Betas around here don't seem very interested, either. 
Maybe you have peculiar wants. Urges, needs, that you've always been hesitant to fill. A wellspool of desire that runs deep, vicious. You want to mate. For keeps. 
Maybe they can scent that on you. A loud cry that says, stay away. 
You take a shuddering breath before nodding shallowly, twisting your head away so you don't have to look at the patronising gleam swirling in frothing Tryhennian. 
“Look at me.”
The command bludgeons your resolve. Your chin jerks back immediately. Desperate to obey. To listen. Frantic with the urge to quell the alpha, to soothe his plight—
But where you expect anger, you're met with the most peculiar sort of expression etching itself into his brow, his rugged face. 
His lips parted, lax. The picture of surprise.
Your eyes widen. A gasp is ripped from your throat at the raw, fractured look in his eyes. It's new, this. Unexpected. Where you anticipated scorn is instead a slow, unwinding look of want, of greed, so thick, it glues to the air. 
Patchwork hunger, predatory and damning, hews into your skin. Fine needles piercing, pricking, along your flesh. 
Branded ownership. You feel it settle against your chest. Dig in when his chest expands with his, hissing inhale. 
There's a dark tremble to his shoulders that makes your toes curl. 
“I should take this slow, then, mm? Prep you. Get you nice and ready for my cock,” his words have you keening, arching for him. Achingly empty. His hand lifts, settles against your quivering stomach. The slightest pressure makes you shake, quieten; submitting to the touch. “But. I don't have the patience for that.” 
He slots his thighs between your legs, pressing it tight against your cunt. The pressure—blissful pleasure; frantic at the touch—is almost your undoing, but there's a plexiglass between full submission and the urge to flee. Still. The heat is rapacious. The desire, the yearning, doesn't abate. 
The haze is thick. So thick. It would be easy to slip under the veil, to let yourself go. To give in—
"Easy, omega," it comes out as a guttural rasp; the charcoaled command uttered in a mockingly placating tone. The sort one might use to soothe a wild animal or a startled mare. Fitting, of course, when you're rutting against the thick spread of his thigh, leaking slick all over him.
down girl, he doesn't say, but he might as well have because you're clenched tight around nothing, aching hollowly in a way that rings through your bones. You can't help it, you want to whine when he huffs, lips pulling downward in a frown. Disappointed in you, perhaps. But how do you fight instinct when you're hardwired to want to spread your legs at the pungent, lour stench of a virile alpha's incipient rut, the briny tang of his pre-cum saturating the air. A heady elixir that sends shockwaves of agonising need through your body.
It's too much. The burn of your heat is a vicious, deadly combatant. Knife to your jugular, hand around your throat, it demands compliance. 
And when he reaches down to his stained slacks, drawing your eye to the tent in the front, to the dark pool at the front where he leaks his spend into the fabric, you keen. Jealousy scorching through you instantly at the sight; animal instinct that makes you want to bare your teeth at it because his cum is just for you, all for you—
Amusement pierces the air. Punctuates it with the heavy, noxious weight of his satisfaction. 
He hums, reaches into his slacks. Curls his fist around the thick of himself. 
“Want this, don't you?” 
You gnash your teeth against your desperation, legs popping open further. Inviting. Eager. 
“Of course you do. Want this—” he frees his cock, pulling it over the band of his trousers, and you choke. 
It's wet with his spend, and angry looking. The mushroomed head engorged, swollen. Flushed a deep vermillion. Veins run the length of it. Pulsing with his need. His want. 
Price groans, strokes his hand down his shaft. Pearlescent beads of pre-cum bubble up from the tip. 
You ache. Suddenly, viciously. Hollow. Empty. You want him. Need him—
“Yeah? Want this fat cock inside of you, mm?”
And you, finally, give in—
"Please, please, Price—"
"No." He taps the head of his cock against your clit once, twice. A warning. A reprimand. You keen at the whitehot agony, the unfathomable burn of pleasure ripping through your body. He coos into it. Echoing your whimper with a derisive snort. Mocking. Cruel. You hate him. Hate him. Need him so badly you think you might go insane if he doesn't pry you apart right this instant—
"I'll give you my knot when I'm good and ready. Now, be good for me, mm?” His eyes are dark in the harsh flicker of the wood stove. Burning liquid black. Molten puddles of crushed sapphire. You hate the way he looks at you. Hate how it makes you want to roll over on your belly, soft and submissive, giving all of yourself over to this terrible man. “That's it. Good omegas get what they want. Bad ones get punished. And I don't think you'll like being taken over my knee, would you?"
His words send a fresh wave of heat through your veins. Hellfire. Scorching. You want to blame the fever on the stove burning away in the corner of the room, on a sickness you can't scrape off of your bones no matter how many times you chisel into your skin. An infection eating away at you from the inside out. 
But it's futile. He doesn't care about your excuses. He never has—
“Spread yourself. Go on and show me that pretty cunt you want me to ruin so badly.” 
Unspooled, liquid under his bulk, you don't even hesitate before your fingers unfurl from their fight knot in the fur, making a slow, timorous crawl down the supine length of your sun-scorched body. 
Your flesh feels foreign, like it belongs to a stranger. To someone else. Each touch is a phantom whisper gliding along sweat-slicked skin; new and different, and not yours. 
Not yours at all because your skin would never prickle with goosebumps over the sight of your chief kneeling between your legs, the hair on his thigh matted, slick with your wetness. The unruly black thatch darkening into a patch where you shamelessly rutted against him, eagerly seeking friction over the place you ache the most. 
For him. All for him. 
It's impossible. Impossible. And yet—
As your fingers curl over the tops of your thighs, notching into the soft, heated flesh at the bend of your hip and groin, you feel just how soaked you are for him. How wet. How eager. It stains your skin, reaches almost down your bent knees. Beneath you is a puddle drenching the fur. 
Your fingers slip, sliding in the mess you made. You flush when he huffs, humoured by it all, and dip your chin away from the scorching, piercing look in his cerulean eyes, drilling holes in the apex of your thighs. Greedily taking in his fill as your fingers glide over your sopping folds, gingerly parting them. Presenting to him on your back. Ripe for the taking. 
“One hand,” he rasps, words clicking in his throat. He holds his hand up, curling his fingers down and leaving his index and middle finger up in a pointed V. “And the other—” he swallows thickly, Adam's apple bobbing. “I want you to touch your clit for me.” 
You follow his instructions, slipping your fingers between your folds, opening yourself up for him. Your other hand sits on your mons, fingertips brushing your swollen clit as heat floods you. Electric. Each touch is a shock of pleasure roiling down your spine, and more slick dribbles out of you, dripping down your aching, empty hole, down your ass, until it soaks into the furs below. 
The scent of a needy omega fills the air. Your scent. 
Where most are sweet, supple, yours has always had a bite. A tartness to it, an earthy tang. Boysenberry. Loam. Lemongrass. Beeswax. You bluster. Flushing. Embarrassment plumes up, mushrooming in the air—smoked orange peels, coral berry sour—and you wonder if he's repelled by it, this strange smell of yours—
Price’s head rolls back, nose pitched in the air. Breathing in deep, groaning with his exhale. Eyes fluttering, flashing. He eats it clean from the air. Mouth dropping open, panting. 
It's then when the unmistakable musk of a pleased Alpha—smoked tobacco and sage—clots beside your scent do you feel the prickle of free will hewing into your periphery. 
None of what he demanded of you carried the unignorable weight of a command. Before you can even think of the ramifications of that, he's moving. Heavy body falling, sliding down the furs. His hands come to rest, hot and firm, on your knees, spreading you wider, wider, to fit the boxy heft of his broad body between them. 
He hovers over you, head bending to fit in the brackets of your thighs. Leading with nose, nostrils flaring, fluttering, as he pulls in deep lungfuls of your scent. Over and over, and—
His head bows. Humid air ghosting over your sopping cunt when he exhales. It's then when he dips his chin further, further, until the bottom of his face is flush with your pussy, mouth parting around a groan that reverberates through the floorboards, rattles your bones. 
“You smell s’fuckin’ good, love,” he rasps, choked. His eyes are gyres. They might just swallow you whole. You fight back a shiver, resolve threadbare. Stitches coming apart. “Bet you'd taste even better.”
It's all the warning you get before he pushes his face into you, mouth dropping open to let his tongue lull out. Licking a scorching stripe from hole to clit. And, oh—
Oh. 
Your head drops, eyes slipping closed at the liquid feeling between your thighs. The whitehot sensation of his tongue laving across your slit. 
So this—this—is what you've been missing out on. Pure feeling. Molten. It blooms in your loins, knots tight like a spooled bow. 
Your fingertips are in the way from him pressing his tongue flat against your clit, where you throb the most, and you move to pull your hand away. To give him access to everything, all of it. Every part of you he wants. It's all his, his, so long as he keeps doing what he's doing with his mouth, his tongue—
But his hand slashes through the air, snatching your wrist in a vice grip. Stopping your retreat. You whimper, hips flexing up, wanting his mouth. Needing more of what he's doing between your thighs. 
“Look at me,” he demands. You obey. Instantly. His eyes are black holes. Everdark. Eclipsed, totally, by the bleed of his black pupils spreading out. You moan, thighs parting wider, wider. “Good girl. Such a good omega for me, aren't you?”
He doesn't let you answer. Draws your wet fingers to his mouth, pressing the pads against his lower lip, nails scratching his teeth. He breathes in, shoulders bunching up. Eyes fluttering again, rolling back in his head. And it's divine—
To have such a surly, contemptuous Alpha on his knees for you, fat, heavy cock drooping between his thighs, spitting a steady stream of spend onto the floor. Wasteful. You keen again, back arching. Needy. Wanting—
Price sucks in your fingers, tongue laving between your knuckles. The pressure, the feeling, is good. You like this. Like his mouth. 
But your fingers are not where you want him. 
“Please, Price. Please—”
He pulls off with a pop. Leans his cheek on your inner thigh. 
“What do you want? Use your words, omega.”
Heat blooms in your chest, but you're long past the point of embarrassment anymore. Shame. It's all awash under the torrent of need. Desire. Swept in the rage of your heat. Nearly rendered delirious by it. 
“Want your mouth.”
“Where?”
“M–my—” you swallow, fingers spreading your folds wider. Opening yourself up to him. He glances down, nostrils flaring once again. But he doesn't move. Won't. You groan, head rolling back. “My pussy. Please. Want your mouth on my pussy, Price—”
He groans, low. Dark. But then he's moving. Head bowing. His tongue is scorching. Whitehot. He drags it through your folds, teasing at your rim. Presses it inside, just a touch, a shallow thrust. And—
Ah. 
You make a noise in the back of your throat. Awful, wet. Choking. The feeling of his tongue inside of you is good. Beyond words. 
It slips in more. The full length. Stuffed. You keen, arching. Aching. Hips flexing, jerking against his mouth. He lets you ride his face like this, fucking your hole with his fat tongue, nose glued tight to your clit. 
All you can do is sob his name, fingers curling, knotting, into his damp hair, holding him close. 
His tongue leaves you, sliding up your seam until it cups your clit. Laves over it. He lifts his chin, and seals his mouth over you. Sucks—
The spool unravels. Pressure released. You flood around him, on him. Pussy gushing slick over his chin, drenching him. Drowning him. 
Lips sealed over your throbbing clit, he moans low. Deep. Eyes rolling back in his head. Gyre blue. 
“Tha’s it,” he coos, pushing two thick fingers inside your throbbing cunt. “Think you're about ready for my cock, ain't you?” 
He doesn't let you answer. And—
You don't think you can form a coherent thought. Running on sensation. On instinct. You make to roll over on your belly, ass pushed into the air, ready for his knot, but he stops you. Hands squeezing your hips. Firm. 
“No. I'll take you like this.” 
And it's hard to reconcile the urge to present with his demands. His wants. You whimper. He answers it with a grunt. 
“Stay still.” 
You flatten to the fur, body melting. Lax. 
“Good girl.”
The praise is a serrated knife to your jugular, cutting a jagged line across your skin. Spilling blood. You quieten under his bulk, now. Desperate. Docile. Collared in blood. 
His hands push behind your knees, lifting your legs. Pushing, pushing. Until they rest under your ears. Spread open for him. Ready to be claimed, owned. Bred. 
“Price, Price, please—”
He shushes you with a coo, pitching your heels over his shoulders. Shuffling closer until his heavy cock, hanging thick and fat between his legs, bumps against your ass. Your cunt. You whimper, back arching. Needing him to fill you up. Split you apart. 
Ruin you—
“Gonna fuck you now. Knot you.”
It's a warning. A threat. You feel it trail over your skin, branding. A collar. You lift your chin, letting it settle there. So long as he makes you feel this good, he can do whatever he wants to you. Anything—
And so, he does. 
His cock is a heavy weight against you, pressing. Pushing. He doesn't wait for you to adjust, for your body to acclimate to the burning stretch of him splitting you apart. 
Your slick aids in the brutal onslaught of his cock prying your untouched flesh apart, chiselling open a space just for him to fit. 
It should hurt more. And maybe it would if you weren't drowning in the throes of a vicious heat, numbed to everything but the way his cock feels as it slides, inch after inch, inside of you. Thick, fat. Pulsing. You pant shallowly, head turning. Chin pressing into your shoulder. 
It's good. This burn, this ache. This madness—
“Christ—” he spits, sounding almost angry. Furious. You peer up at him, eyes wet with unshed tears. Through the murky haze, you catch the clench of his jaw, the prominent divot between his brows. Face tightening with pleasure. Rapturous. “This cunt was made for me, wasn't it, love?”
“Yes—” it's breathless. An airless whisper. “All yours, all yours, John—”
You repeat this as he reaches halfway inside of you. As he bends down, mouth feverish he slots it greedily over your lips in a bruising, sloppy kiss. You mutter it against his teeth, his tongue. He swallows your acquiescence, your submission, down with a moan. Drinks you in as he takes, takes, until you're full of him. Stuffed. 
John bottoms out with a moan that trembles down your throat, balls pressed flush against your ass. Split apart on him. Claimed. 
He settles, letting you adjust to the sensation. Content to simply mouth sloppy kisses over your face, your cheek, jaw. Nipping your skin. Basking in this, in finally having you stretched around him. His pleasure is ripe in the air. Heavy and acrid. Smoked leather. Fresh, and heady. 
It's novice, this feeling. This pressure. This fullness. Your hand drops, falls, palm sliding between his heavy, hairy belly, resting over yours. Feeling the unmistakable bump of him rearranging your anatomy to fit—barely—in you. 
He lifts up, elbow dropping to the floor beside your head so he, too, can feel for himself the way he fits within you. His hand comes to lay beside yours, flattening over the bulge of him protruding from your flesh. His cock jerks inside of you, twitching. The feeling makes your toes curl, your cunt throb. 
“Like that, huh?” 
Your nod is slowly, languorous. Everything feels unreal. Like you're staring at the world from underwater. Inky. Fractured. Raw. 
The burn of the stretch is there, throbbing like a bruise. A contusion. He scents the sting, the ache, and slides his hand down, cupped over your swollen, stuffed pussy. Fingers tangling into the thick bed of curls grazing your mons. Price quells the burn with a swipe of his thumb rolling over your clit. 
It has you clenching, tightening even further around him. Feeling the thick stretch thrumming inside of you. Plugging you up. And fuck—
If that doesn't just light you up from the inside out. Supernova. Blistering heat. 
Pieces of yourself chip off, fluttering to the soft, downy fur below you with each heavy breath he takes. Your heat swells to a crescendo, breaking over the edge of your lingering cognisance. It's all sensation now. Pure, unfettered feeling.
And Price takes no time at all to exploit it. To batter your melting, liquid body into submission even further. 
It starts with shallow grinds against the plug of your womb. Carving more space inside of you for him to fit, to ruin. 
He fucks you like this. Cock heavy and fat inside of you. Giving you the full length until your rim catches on the burgeoning swell of his knot. Over and over again. Pulling deep, delirious moans from your throat. Breaking you to pieces on the spread of him seated deep. Tugging more and more compliance from your body, wringing pleasure out of every nerve ending. 
The sounds are horrific, and had you any sense of self left to mull over them, your shame, embarrassment, would have burned you alive. The wet squelch of your cunt swallowing him down, over and over and over again—
“Needy little pussy,” he bites out, blunt teeth skirting over your pulse point. A tease. 
The press of them heightens everything, elevating it to a tipping point. 
This is what you were made for. What every atom in your body screams out to. Wanting. Needing to be spread out under him, this dark, awful man. 
“I'm not going to claim you,” he's saying, words wet against your temple, tongue snaking out to catch the droplets of sweat beading on your hairline. 
It makes you whine in dismay, desperate for his teeth buried in your skin. 
“No, no, please—! I need it, John, I need it—”
“Then beg me. Beg for it—”
You do. It babbles out of you. Broken, fractured. Pleas, orisons, screamed to heavens; aching for his teeth on you, in you. Claiming you for his own. You want it more than you think you've ever wanted anything in your whole thing. Half of you, empty and vacant, hollow, begging to be filled. To be completed. 
And really—
You've felt it from the beginning. This stirring, agonising want. Desire. A bone-deep yearning for the man who looked at you, up and down, and dismissed you with a charred scoff and shallow shake of his head. 
“What's a little omega like you doin’ runnin’ around the woods, love? Ought to be at home—”
Where you belong. 
It didn't make sense at the time. He's so different with everyone else—Alex, Farah—but reserves his scorn, his discrimination, just for you. Special little thing, aren't you? 
But even still. Still. You tried. Struggled against the crushing weight of his derision, burying your fingers into the rubble, clinging on for three, devastating years until your nails broke, bled. Left stains on the pavement. Until he, stiff-lipped and clipped, told you he was retiring. Escaping the loose binds of a non-existent town on the fringes of civilisation for the sanctum of the wild, untamed forest. The mountains. 
You wanted him to say, come with me, even if you might have gouged his eyes out for even asking. Tore his still-beating heart out with your bare hands. 
But instead, he nodded at you. A quiet goodbye. Left you bewildered, furious, and unclaimed, unwanted, and now—
Those blood-stained fingers dig into the softness of his nape, biting flesh until it gives, breaks, under the jagged stumps of your nails, and you wrench him forward, into you, snarling mad. Apoplectic with fury at being denied so long. 
“Fuck you,” you bite out, brittle with ire. Disobedient even through the noxious curdle of heat subduing your senses. Your rationale. “Fuck you, John—!”
His skin breaks first. The bitter scent of hot, wet pavement, pennies in the summer sun, sickly sweet iron, fills the balmy cabin. He groans, choked, throat bobbing, jaw clenching. You don't let him get anything out. 
You pull him by the scruff of his neck into you, face buried in your collarbones. Heels dig in, sliding along the slick sweat of his broad back. Finding purchase against the knob of his spine, and pressing. Pushing. Kicking at him until he slots his hips into yours, pressed as deep as he could possibly go. Throbbing inside of you. Spitting molten spend as he wrenches you open. 
The first person to ever do so. 
He must know this, feel it simmering in the air, because he groans low, deep. It bubbles out of his chest, a half-bitten snarl saturated in the smoke of his desire. Feverish, possessive. 
“Mate me,” you demand, head tilting back into the awaiting plinth of his palm, cushioning your crown. “Claim me.”
He—John, you think, delirious; gone—John places a tender kiss to your pulse point, soft despite the uneven, desperate way he fucks into you now. All that careful finesse falling to pieces under your foot, growing choppier as he sinks in deep. Pistoning shallowly into your sloppy cunt, taking. Taking. 
“Please, John,” you breathe, clenching tight around him. Needing that last push to drop over this vertiginous precipice that yawns out, a growling, hungry chasm, before you. Heat spears into your marrow, drowning out all the fight inside of you. Dousing those flames until they're a smouldering heap; clumps of hot, wet ash in your hands. “Please take me—”
The growl he makes is inhuman. Lingering in the shadow of it is a mocking burst of laughter. Dark, hellish. He leans in close, mouth tight against your skin, and whispers, “already have, love.”
Those words lose any meaning when he opens his mouth wider, licking a stripe over your neck. A soothing rinse. And then he buries his teeth into your pulse, tearing through your skin. Claiming. Owning. It rips through you—all heat, sensation: blistering, inferno. You burn alive beneath him, smouldered under his possessive, heavy bulk.
Price leans back with a vicious, terrible growl. Blood dripping down his chin, mixing with the tacky slick of you still covering his face. Pinkish under the waning light of the dying sun. 
The sight of it, the horrible throb in your throat, breaks over you.
His tongue flicks out, chasing the drops. With a swipe of his finger over your clit, you fall to pieces around him, clenching. Throbbing. Screaming with your release. Gushing around him as he grips you tight, working you through it, muscles fluttering, flexing. The deluge of pleasure is molten, spreading liquid through your body. Inescapable bliss. 
He grunts, pace slowing to a sloppy grind. Letting you leech pleasure from the overfull feeling of being speared open on him. Knot swelling. Bumping into your rim. John gives you respite for a moment, content to hump against your messy cunt until you melt into the furs, panting with exertion. With pleasure. 
He keeps his thumb pressed against your clit, stroking. Shoving you into the side of too much, of pleasure-pain. Overstimulated. You mewl, whimpering. 
“Greedy girl,” he chides, cruel, and pulls back. The wet drag of his cock against your sore, sensitive walls is overwhelming. You keen, shaking under him. “Couldn't wait to cum around my knot, mm?” 
He doesn't wait for your excuses. He never does. He just thrusts into you again, a slow climb until his knot bludgeons into you. Fatten up at the base of his cock. He holds it there, grinding it against your pussy as you arch, mewling at the sting of your hole being stretched further around the curve of his knot. 
“You can take it,” he coos. The muscles in his shoulders flex. You reach out, petting along his chest. feeling him. All powerful, corded muscles hiding under a thick layer of pelt. Soft flesh. 
His knot catches. Slips. He bullies it against your sore, stuffed rim, throwing the full heft of his weight behind his shallow grinds until finally, finally, your body yields. Giving in. Opening for him. 
He sinks in with a broken groan, mouth dropping open. Lax. His shoulders slump under your hands as he pumps you full of cum. Plugged up tight on his fat, pulsing knot. It's too much. Too much. All you do is cling to him, nails biting into his flesh. Marking him like the bloody ring around your neck marks you as his. 
Locked together, damned, he leans down. Huffs in your ear. 
“Gonna fuck you full all spring until it takes, love. Until you're swollen, fat, with our kid.” His voice is a thunderclap. A promise. A threat. “Won't keep them lonely for long, though, will you? We'll give him a sister or brother. Gonna breed this pussy as much as I want, mm. Give us a big family. I've already started on the nursery for you. After your heat, I'll let you pick the colours, yeah?”
Satiated Alpha permeates the air. It's thick in the back of your throat, clogging your senses. Drowning you. Pulling you under. 
The last thought before you sink below the waterline is a broken, fragmented sense of dread, confusion. It comes in a daze. Flickering embers. Quickly snuffed out by his palm gliding across your eyes, closing them. 
“Sleep now,” he rasps, hips stuttering as he fills you with more cum. Uncomfortably full, it floods your cunt, locked tight against your womb. “Gonna need it when my rut starts later.” 
And, docile, collared, you obey, drifting. Dazed. But wondering, in the back of your head, in the part of you not yet consumed by the ink-black darkness that eats away at you, why did he build a nursery for you if he didn't know you were coming today—
—swallowed, eaten. his teeth are buried in your neck once more, and all thoughts dissolve in an instant. Dissipate into the gnawing aether where he splits them between his molars, gulps them down. 
nothing matters anymore. you belong to him—
The cabin reeks of satiated omega—sweet, pungent. Rotten apple peels, and burnt orange. It's this heavy scent—sex, loam, and you—that draws him out of his doze, tired eyes blinking against the flickering light of the wood stove pushed into the corner. 
Price groans when he shifts, body aching. Muscles stiff, sore, from disuse. 
It’s been a long, long time since he knotted an omega, and he underestimated the sharpness of your claws, your needle-like teeth. But he wears the marks, the scars, of your aggressive coupling on his shoulders, his back. Clawed up, torn. He grimaces when a clotting scab breaks, peels back from the wound. Blood drips down his spine in a steady, ticklish trickle. 
It took a lot more than he expected to make you submit. Had to force you to take his knot twice more before you finally, fully, relented, slurring his name into the sheets as he rutted into you from behind, begging for your Alpha to fill you up. 
Had you again after that—so soft and sweet for him now. Pulled you down on his lap, let you take what you wanted from him, sluggish and lazy, until he gripped your hips tight, fucking up into you as he thickened with his release. Plugged you up nicely as you drooled on his shoulder, lulled to sleep from three brutal rounds of fucking. 
But the battle was worth the victory in the end. To have you tucked into his chest, purring with contentment and too blissed out from heat exhaustion to worry about anything else, was enough. More than, really. 
Especially now, with you curled on him, snoring lightly, breath tickling his chest hair, he feels more sated than he ever had, breathing in the heaviness of your smell. Your thick miasma. New, now. Different. 
His scent, his mere essence within you, changes your smell already. Chemicals admixing. Body moulding, morphing, to adapt to him. His presence. You smell like the sea, salt water. Algae blooms. He leans down, breathes you in. Tastes his own headiness in the back of his throat—charred timber, smoke; leather. It clings to you. A second skin. 
No matter where you go, everyone will know you belong to him. 
This thought, this truism, makes him purr. A deep rumble from the pit of his gut. Satisfaction rolls off of him in towering waves, hewing the air where it congeals into plumes of conquest. Hard earned, too—
Three years. It only took three years to get to this point. To chisel under your skin, to break you down in his paws. Fine powder. 
He lifts his hand from your back, and scours it down his salt-slickened face. He feels heat blooming under his skin. A telltale flush of his approaching rut. Perfectly timed, too. And that reminds him—
He pushes away from you slightly, spent cock slipping free from your warm, drenched cunt. His cum drips out of you, a deluge that leaks steadily onto your thigh, the ruined fur below. It puddles there and stains the air with his unmistakable musk. The conquering of an omega in heat; claimed. Owned. 
He doesn't go far. Can't. There's a possessive, needy thrill under his veins. A snarling growl in the back of his head, snapping rabid jowls at him. Demanding he stay close to his mate. His omega. Don't leave the nest, it warns, or another could crawl in, fill the empty space—
Price cuts that thought off with an aborted snarl. There are no others. He made sure of it. Bloodied his knuckles against every alpha within a one-hundred-square-mile radius of his territory. Growled in their faces, hand against their throat, and told them to stay away from, you, this pretty little omega. 
Message received, of course. But you were a prickly little thing. Bitter. As much as he wanted to roll you on your belly, make you present your cunt to him, he knew he had to tread carefully. Baby steps until you were close enough to his jaws to snap up, all his. Always. Ever since you stepped foot into his domain, your tart scent coalescing perfectly with the pine, oakmoss, tang of him. You've been his before you even knew who he was—
Wily omega with your shaking fists and bared teeth. Skittish little thing. Needed to play his hand slowly, to box you into a corner before you were even aware of the walls closing in around you. Snapped up tight his maw. Bear Trap quick. Had to be smart about it, bide his time. Push and push until all you thought about was him. 
(checkmate)
John reaches for the loose floorboard, prying it open, and pulls his cell phone out—one he knows he’ll have to bury in the yard before you wake. There are very few contacts on his list, and he idly scrolls through the messages (steaming Jesus, the smell o’er—ye sure ye don’ share, cap?; better take her, Price, before I do) before he finds Gaz’s. 
The last message sent was hours ago from Kyle. on her way. but fuck, didn't realise how fast fake suppressants worked, chief. gonna have to find her quick. might not make it up the mountain smellin as good as she does—
Good boy, he types with one hand, the other petting possessively down your spine. Curled there, a weighty pressure. You found him in the end, right on the cusp of your burgeoning heat. Pawing desperately for the suppressants Kyle made sure wouldn't be there. 
(His parting gift brought on by a conversation ages ago—
“why haven't you mated, cap? not gettin’ any younger.”
“haven't found the right one. ain't gonna settle.”
“more like, your shitty attitude scares all the pretty omegas away, huh?”
“that, too,” he bit down into his cigar. suddenly angry, viciously so. “‘cept one.” 
Kyle followed his gaze, and—
“so, take her. she wants you. reeks like she does. you can smell it, too, can't you?” his eyes flashed. playful. “maybe that'll be my retirement gift to you.”
“not funny, Garrick.”
“m’not tryin’ t’be, cap.”)
Three dots appear almost instantly. It takes a moment. Then: fuckin’ prick. Another message from Kyle pops up seconds after. told you, didn't i? i wasn't bein funny. congrats, cap ;) 
As if sensing the sudden whiplash of his mood—deep, proprietorial—you stir in his arms, mewling in confusion. John drops the phone, hiding it from view, and pulls you tighter in his arms. In his embrace. Mouth pressed tight to your hairline, he rumbles, “shush, shush. I got you.” 
His words make you quieten slightly. Quelled under the susurrus lull of his bellowing purr. But there's still a deep ravine between your brows. Unease lashes the air, acidic. Bubbling up from deep within you. 
None of this must make any sense to you. Mercurial boss to mate, but he knows you'll come around to the idea of him soon enough. After all,
he has you all to himself until winter. 
all to himself. 
His hand falls, cups your lower belly possessively. Covetous. You grimace in your sleep, shifting away from the heavy, oppressive brunt of his smell. Obsessive. Potent like a wildfire. Dangerous. 
But there's nowhere for you to run. Nowhere to go except deeper into his arms, his hold. Gyves around your throat; a bloody ring of his teeth. 
Price hums. “Best gift I've ever gotten.” 
7K notes · View notes
kisses4reid · 6 months ago
Text
criminally hot | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,,
summary - you get wrongfully accused by a sheriff, and it isn’t you who’s angriest. it’s your boyfriend who has to expose your relationship in order to clear you.
genre - spencer x bau!fem!reader, fluff, slight angst if u squint, angry reid x calm reader
wc - 1.2k
warnings - reader uses she/her pronouns, handcuffs, violence, a weird white man i know id be fucking scared as well, oh swearing as well.
a/n - i love u you’re so awkward i am doing so well bc of ur request, keep requesting things your brain is crazy. ummm anyways this is my first time writing this kinda thing omg how exciting okay start reading it wtf you still doing here?
request - ( from @babyoureahauntedhouse ) omg hii!!! :3 this is my first time requesting, so please excuse the awkwardness 😭😭😭😭 first of all, how are you????? i hope you’re doing amazing!!! absolutely no pressure, but can you do one where reader gets falsely arrested (not a huge thing, maybe in a police station at a small town or something) and spencer absolutely **loses** his shit at how she’s being treated????? like, she’s freezing and the sheriff or somethjng keeps pushing her and then he just bursts into the interrogation room and uncuffs her and it’s just very fluffy???? thank you!
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Emily handed you your coffee with a smile, receiving a small thank you in return. It was warm in your hands and created a comforting contrast to the cool chill of the police precinct you were set up in.
Things were going well given that you’d only been in the small town for half a day. The team debriefed on the plane, but Aaron had been on the phone with the leading detective for at least an hour now asking him where he was.
Emily headed off to the restrooms when a slender hand made its way to your waist. You turned and felt your cheeks heat, knowing exactly who is was.
“Hi Spencer.”
“Hi Y/n.” His eyes held sweetness in the chocolate swirls, and you felt like a kid who had been given candy. Spencer and you had been dating for a few months, but somehow in a team of profilers you both kept things under wraps, even with Spencer’s clumsy touches and your lingering stares. “I wish we were home,” he whispered.
You glanced around for anyone who could witness your interaction and get suspicious, but you were mostly alone other than Hotch and some officers who were weirdly taking a lot of attention to you.
“Yeah me too. I’m feeling oddly popular and not in the good way.”
Before you could talk more or offer him a sip of your coffee (even if you know he doesn’t like it), Aaron calls his name and the slim tall boy scurries away with a straight face.
You turn to find something to do. To reread a case, to help someone fill out papers, to talk to Morgan or Garcia. You would’ve opted to huddling in your cardigan if a tall man didn’t interrupt.
“Y/n L/n?” He asked in monotone. His arms were at his sides, one hovering above a pair of cuffs that hung from his police belt. Furrowing your eyebrows you answered,
“Yes? What’s wrong?”
“You’re under arrest for the robberies of…”
His voice pounded into the background of your head, thoughts attacking your eyes through a sudden headache as the words registered before you could help it. The room was silent except for the man’s voice, yet all you could hear was the furrow of eyebrows and quick approach of your boss, Aaron Hotchner.
“What’s going on here?”
“Your agent has been seen…”
You stood still as another officer came behind you and forced handcuffs onto your arms, gripping your wrists with unnecessary force that would surely leave bruises. You winced and looked between your boss and the officer, and then at Spencer, who was being pulled back by Morgan. He yelled your name in worry, witnessing the hardened grips on your body and rough pushing you were being subject to. Your coffee splattered on the ground, staining your white shoes.
There was only mumbles and white noise, as your eyes met with Spencer’s. The large officer behind you kicked your leg to get you moving, the shock glueing your shoes to the rubbery floor. And you almost didn’t even notice the hand on the back of your neck pushing you towards a dark room with a desk and two chairs.
You were so familiar with these rooms and yet it felt so different.
Of course, you didn’t actually do anything. And of course you attempt to clear that up to the officers who are slamming their hands on the table and screaming as much as they could, in a poor attempt to intimidate you.
Aaron was in the corner with a scolding face and hard hand to his chin, observing the situation with an intensity you barely ever see.
“Last month, you were seen at one of the houses that got robbed over night. You left a few days later, after also being seen at two of the other houses-“
“So she was seen at three of the ten houses robbed and you arrest her?” Aaron spoke up, bringing the men’s attention to your boss instead of you. You took the opportunity to look outside of the window.
Though it wasn’t clear, you could make out the outline of a tall boy you wished would just break into the room and save you.
And he did.
“Your evidence is illogical and childish. She’s an FBI agent for gods sake-“
“Anybody can be a suspect Agent Hotchner, even federal agents.” The tall one replied with a stubborn mumbled.
Suddenly, the door was slammed open and you were met with a disheveled Spencer panting with a red and severe face. He didn’t even bother looking at you before he starting schooling the men in blue, who at that point were glaring at him and attempting to look more intimidating than they actually were.
“I’ve read your files on this case and nothing links to Y/n L/n, not one-“
“There’s no way you read our-“
“I can read more in a minute than you can in a day, dickhead. Y/n was meeting old school friends when she was in town, we went to the Diner Inn afterwards and we met with her parents who have receipts for the meals because they’re-“ he turned his glance at you,” “sorry Y/n- they’re hoarders. You have nothing against her other than some positively reported visits and some photos of her hugging the house owners.” Spencer had slowly pinned the officers to the opposite wall unconsciously. It was hot. “I was there, I’m her receipt. And like her parents, she loves keeping those. So if you want to insist she’s your culprit, go for it. But your going against a man with eidetic memory and a lot of evidence.”
And while he was logical and correct, he was also a little too truthful.
The officers blinked in fear. Spencer definitely didn’t seem the type to yell or swear, so this clear, concise and undermining approach to the situation was somehow even scarier.
“Spencer,” you began, “thank you.”
He looked at you, his expression softening into empathy and care, “Of course.” His hands found a key in his back pocket as he approached you, starting to promptly uncuff you.
As Aaron continued to speak with the officers of their major mistake, Spencer took you outside of the room and into a private office. Your heart was racing, but it seemed Spencer was more stressed than you. He paced as you leaned onto the front of a wooden desk, hands over your chest as your eyes trailed Spencer.
“I’m sorry, Y/n. I should’ve reacted faster, then you wouldn’t have been..” He stopped closely in front of you, his breath hot on yours as his gaze scoured over your body for injuries or bruises. “Are you okay?”
You smile calmly, “I’m fine. My leg hurts, and I think my wrists will be bruised, but I’m fine.”
He took your hands and rubbed his thumbs on your wrists carefully, causing butterflies to explode in your stomach.
“Thank you Spencer.” Your eyes dance with each others. “You were really hot. Maybe I need to get arrested more often.” You joke with a lift to your voice and a smirk, causing him to look down with a smile and shake his head.
“If being angry makes me hot maybe you should reevaluate what you-“
Your lips found his, you hand going to his bicep and his going to the back of your neck, before a clearing of the throat took you both out of your trances. It was Hotch.
“I’ve got some paperwork you both need to sign. About the arrest and,” his hand waved between you two, “this.”
Morgan stood behind Aaron with a smirk, leaving quickly to go tell Garcia that she had lost their bet.
taglist: @jeffswh0re @reap3erslov3 @candyd1es
5K notes · View notes
cloudwisp · 3 months ago
Text
✮ sylus x wife!reader (2)
contents: tooth-rotting fluff. arranged marriage au. sylus as your sweet and doting husband who's simply in love with you and anything that you do. 1.5k wc.
꒰ note ᰔ thank you for everyone's patience who requested a part two!! I truly hope this meets your expectations <3
part one here. ꒱
Tumblr media
⭒ You’re an early bird married to a night owl. After gradually moving your belongings into Sylus’ master bedroom, your different sleeping schedules were made acutely aware. His day is just beginning when you’re heading to bed and he’s more or less mentally retired after a long night of business dealings and meetings when your body decidedly rises with the first rays of light at dawn. Because of this, you both compromise to meet somewhere in the middle—Sylus sweetly tucks you in later than your usual bedtime and leaves only when you’d fallen asleep, and you snuggle with him in the mornings until the very last minute and you’re forced to get ready for the working day. However, his sleeping patterns are more on the irregular side and he’ll check in on you when he’s supposed to be resting.
⭒ When Luke and Kieran witness you and Sylus bid each other with a goodbye kiss—an affectionate and wholesome display between lovers as your husband sees you off to work at the front door, they are stunned and lose it from the sidelines at the budding romance. “Wait, what just happened?” “Was there a development while we were gone?” The crow twins would share glances and decipher the scene before them together. They both have been rooting for you and their boss since day one, and they marvel at the way you both are completely smitten with each other. As though you two are like newlyweds who can't get enough of your shared love, unwilling to separate just yet even as you slowly step away from Sylus.
⭒ His touch linger with purpose to hold onto every last part of you and his hands move from your waist and slide down your arms to hold your hands until his fingers curl slightly and mourn the loss of your warmth when he eventually has to let you go. When Sylus watches your figure disappear and return back inside his home he receives a thumbs up and pending double high fives respectively from his two henchmen. He walks past them and ignores their antics by giving them orders, but Luke doesn’t leave his brother hanging and celebrates that their boss is officially and undeniably in love.
⭒ Anniversaries were an unexpected thing to celebrate with Sylus—along with holidays and birthdays. You were caught by surprise when you received a gorgeous dress and pearls inside a pretty wrapped box adorned with ribbons after being married to Sylus for three months. You weren’t quite romantically involved with him at that point and went along with what he planned for the evening, and you had a feeling it wasn’t just a performance for the public at an upscale restaurant but he genuinely wanted to make this night special for you. Then something in the air shifted and became sweeter and you suppose you wanted to start making the smaller things in life count. Even if there wasn’t a particular milestone coming up, you decide to make one up yourself. After all, there’s a true saying that the secret to marriage is keeping it fresh and interesting.
⭒ With the help of the cute twins, they set up a cozy tent in the verdant space of the garden meanwhile you decorate fairy lights all around in swooping arcs and tight lines, arrange pillows and blankets inside, and place a deck of kitty cards in the center. After everything is where you need it to be, you show the boys your gratitude and send them away as you work on the finishing touches. You gather the plate of chocolate-covered strawberries and two glasses for the red wine when suddenly your husband sneaks up from behind you and wrap himself around you, inquiring about how the twins wanted him to come find you… Oh those cheeky little things. Well, never mind them. “Don’t tell me that you forgot what today is. Happy 300 days since our first kiss, baby.” You admit that it may come off as a little silly and no one’s truly keeping count, but you simply wanted to do something nice for him.
⭒ Sylus never passes up an opportunity to take care of his darling wife. Even if that means going along with your unusual ideas like you suggesting to borrow his dress shoes after the auction show was over. He throws you a puzzled look followed by a bemuse chuckle, and he supposes he could oblige if that’s what you really wanted. You explain to him that being well dressed from head to toe to match his outfit came at the price of your painfully, aching feet. And he can’t resist giving into your demands when you ask with such adorable little pouts. There are more practical methods to go about the situation, but he certainly loves humoring you even if things don't work out the way you thought they would.
⭒ Sylus leads you to a nearby bench and gestures for you to have a seat while he removes his shoes and bends down on one knee before you, unworried about dirtying his expensive trousers. He works diligently to undo the straps around your ankles and place your heels aside to focus on slipping his shoes onto your feet. “Well, you look quite fetching in my shoes. Now shall we continue our walk or do you have any more requests to make?” He helps you straighten yourself as he returns to his normal height. You huff and make a discontent noise when you almost trip over your own two feet trying to take a step forward in your (his) much too large and too spacious shoes. “Actually, these won’t do. I changed my mind, I want my heels back.”
⭒ Sylus chuckles at your hopeless attempt, his hand going on your hip to keep you from toppling over and accidentally hurting yourself. “Ah, it appears my shoes are too big for you, kitten. You say you want your heels back, hm?” He kneels before you once more as he retrieves your pair of heels, his fingers brushing along the underside of your leg and he carefully tugs them back on your feet. He gives your ankle a gentle squeeze as he finishes securing the straps, his gaze flickering up to meet yours. "There, I hope you're satisfied now, my sweet wife." His arm then goes around your waist and he effortlessly lifts you off the ground without so much as a warning. He smirks at your precious reaction, your body flushed against his meanwhile your arms encircle his neck for balance. “Why don’t I just carry you the rest of the way instead?”
⭒ You’re snuggled up against Sylus’ chest as you bring a concern to his attention one night. “What happens when our arrangement comes to an end?” The main reason you agreed to marry him in the first place is because it was a contract marriage with a specific time frame of five years that you’d have to spend with him. And you realize that with everything he does, he’s always been considerate of you as a whole even with how he drafted this contract knowing that it could end at his own expense. He provided you with a means of freeing yourself from him if you for whatever reason wished to no longer continue your marriage with him after the term ends. The choice is left entirely up to you because he never wanted you to feel trapped but he won’t make it easy for you. “If I decided to leave, you’d really let me go?”
⭒ Sylus hesitates for a moment, his gaze fixed on you and he seems to be thinking about something as his expression grows serious. “You always know how to ask the tough questions, don’t you sweetie?” After a moment, he lets out a small sigh and nods. “…Yes. Technically, you’ll be free to go. I won’t stop you if you truly want to leave.” Another sigh escapes him, yet his voice remains soft and sincere and he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and his palm cradles your cheek. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to stay. What do you want to happen when the contract ends, darling?”
⭒ You mull over your thoughts, teasing him with a pensive look as you purposely drag on the seconds. “Since you’re leaving it up to me, I think… I want to renew our vows at the five-year mark. How’s that sound?” A surprise and slight disbelief flit across his face at the same moment his countenance softens at your affirmation. “You want to renew our vows?” You offer him a demure nod with your sweet smile and he gently takes your hand in his, bringing it to his face and laying a kiss against your knuckles. “Then it’s settled. I would be honored to renew our vows when the time comes. There will be no more contracts or strings attached. We’ll be bound by our love and our love only.”
Tumblr media
3K notes · View notes