#because it makes you feel better about eating animals

[pomefioredove]

can I request house wardens + leech twins with a reader who doesn't eat enough bc Crowley doesn't give them enough for food, and they end up really ill and collapsing or something. I'm cravin some fluffy comfort rn, pls and thank you 🙏

I got you🫡🫡 as someone who's been through an eerily similar situation, I really liked this request

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ another crowley moment™️

type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, leona, azul, floyd, jade, kalim, vil, idia, malleus additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, mentions of food and not eating

Riddle wouldn't even have to like you to rush to your side. but he does like you, which makes it all the worse

after checking your vitals, you're in the infirmary. he's got doctors for parents, after all, and he knows that malnutrition is bad

he should have seen the signs...

with exams coming, he's been so busy, and he assumed that you were just tired from studying

but he can feel guilty later. right now, he needs to focus on you getting well again, and not killing Crowley

(then, of course, he'll look for some legal statute or clause that he can threaten Crowley with so you're fed properly)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Leona noticed you'd been acting a little weird lately, but watching you collapse still puts him in shock

luckily, Ruggie and Jack are nearby to help you to the infirmary, so Leona can focus on hunting Crowley down like an animal

there are very few times where Leona is particularly grateful for his status, but this is one of them. just one word on how his family will be hearing about Crowley's neglect, and the old bastard is begging him for forgiveness

even after that, Leona still sends Ruggie with snacks and drinks to Ramshackle

and if you ever scare him like that again, you'll regret it (lovingly)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

the news of you collapsing during flight lessons reaches Octavinelle rather fast. no one is particularly surprised, since Floyd had mentioned how easily you'd been bruising lately just the night before, but everyone is certainly worried

Azul is the first at your side, asking you all sorts of questions, worried sick. Jade has to remind him to give you space to rest, since you look exhausted (had you always had those dark circles? how could Azul have not noticed?)

now, Azul and the tweels could easily find a way to pressure Crowley, but they know better than to trust him

from now on, you'll be eating in the Mostro Lounge, free of charge

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

perhaps Kalim was just oblivious, because he really didn't think anything was wrong until you were suddenly on the floor in front of him

sure, you'd been a little moody lately, but he figured it was just a thing you were going through. and besides, you know that you can talk to him about anything... right?

Jamil hurries to check your pulse, and shouts for him to get the school nurse- which is jarring, because Jamil never shouts

when you explain everything to Kalim later, he feels... terrible. he should've known- no, he should've asked

Kalim insists you stay at Scarabia while you're recovering, and makes sure you have the most enriching, delicious meals money can buy

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Vil knew it was bad, but not this bad. if he had known you were on the verge of collapsing, he would've taken a firmer approach to getting you to eat

you're going to worry him to death someday, you know that?

after he's done verbally eviscerating Crowley, he'll insist on joining you at every meal. he'll eat at Ramshackle, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, if that's what it takes

he's subtle about it, at least

if he notices that your plate feels empty, he'll just take some food from his and put it on yours. gracefully, elegantly, without a word

you'll come home one day to see your kitchen stocked with vitamins, supplements, and apples (courtesy of Epel)

<3 and a note that says he'll treat you to dinner whenever you want

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

never scare Idia like that ever again. he wasn't even with you when you collapsed, and he STILL nearly had a heart attack

listen, he knows he's not a great role model when it comes to nutritional eating, but you have got to tell him these things. he would've had Ortho go get takeout! or something!

typical Crowley behavior, SMH. what does he think you are? a rabbit? even the school horses get treated better...

no way that Idia is going to even bother with that old fart, anyway. you want something? he'll get it for you. you don't even have to ask, he'll just send food to your place (and have Ortho check your vitals more often but shhh)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

I would not want to be in the room when Malleus finds out about this

not even the building. you know what? I'd steer clear of the whole island, because it will not be pretty

when you collapse in front of him, it feels like he's dying, too. the panic sets in, and he sends Lilia to look after you, and Silver and Sebek to escort you to the infirmary, and then he casually threatens to smite Crowley. obviously

if the students and staff of NRC thought Malleus was scary just being Malleus, he's terrifying when he's mad

(rest assured that you will be getting ten times the amount of food from now on)

it's thunderstorms for days after, but he never leaves your side

[tiredfox64]

Any chance we could get some of bihan (possibly his brothers as well, if you feel like it) s/o who's very sensitive and not super socially aware embarrassing the shit out of him in public with mushy nicknames and mentioning embarrassing romantic moments and giving him a little kissy in public. And his partners very softhearted and he doesn't want to hurt her feelings by saying anything so he just has to endure it.

A Heart Made of Soft Ice

Yip notes: GUESS WHO FELT GUILTY AND FORCED HERSELF TO FINISH THIS EVEN THO SHE IS BEHIND ON ASSIGNMENTS ALREADY ;-;

Pairing: Bi-Han x Afab reader

Warnings‼️: Too sick to proofread fully, also embarrassment I guess

We all know the saying opposites attract. Have you ever tried to push two magnets together and they keep avoiding each other because they are on the same side and you get really frustrated—why are you crying?

Let’s cut to the chase since tears are falling now. It’s a wonder that you work so well with Bi-Han. Ya know, the grandmaster of the Lin Kuei who wishes to be feared and can’t accept his adoptive brother who has been living with him for many years. Oh yeah, a match made in purgatory.

It’s a relationship that shocks many. A cold-blooded killer with a woman who cries during animal documentaries when the prey gets captured is not the usual pairing. You’re delicate like porcelain while Bi-Han is an actual ice wall. He can’t be nice to Tomas whenever he speaks his mind but the moment you speak about something that bothered you he’ll shut his mouth and listen to what you have to say. He even puts in the effort to do other expressions instead of scowling the whole time because he doesn’t want you to believe he’s mad at you. The best he can give is raising his eyebrows and opening his eyes a little, take it or leave it. He has a resting bitch face.

Many have asked you how you could be with that man. Well, it’s very simple actually. When it comes to you he tries his best to cool off. He could be mad at everyone else for the smallest reasons but the moment he looks at you he uses all his might to calm down. If he doesn’t he knows he will scare you or make you think that he is mad at you for no reason. In all honesty, he can’t afford to lose you. You know how hard it was to make you trust him? It’s like befriending a raven you can’t look at them even when they are eating out the palm of your hand.

But he genuinely needs you. You make him feel balanced. When he’s all cold and stern you soften him up like a candle to a glacier. It’s not much but it’s honest work. It probably saves his ass from making rash decisions as well. Heaven knows he gets himself into too much trouble by himself.

And when he’s in those moments where he’s silent and listening to you speak as he cools off you can do whatever. Shoot, you can call him whatever you want. Possibly something like—

“SNOOKUMS!”

Yeah, that.

Your voice echoes through the halls and into the ears of Lin Kuei warriors. Everyone pauses, processing the word you just yelled out. What’d you say? Snookie? What the hell is a Snookie? Well, you’re Bi-Han’s woman so maybe he knows…probably knows…definitely knows.

It’s the look in his eyes that tells everyone he knows. Wide and blank but his eyebrows are not arched in a confused manner. His arms were folded and his nails dug into his tense muscles. The dots connect with everyone and they slowly start looking at their grandmaster. Another yell emitted and grew louder as you came closer

“SNOOKUMS—Oh there you are!” You replied in a cheery tone. It’s much better than that banshee yell that radiates panic and desperation for your Snookums aka Bi-Han.

You run over to your loving boyfriend with a blanket wrapped around you because it will forever be too cold in Arctika. You hugged him tightly, not paying any mind to his bugged-out eyes. It’s horrifying to see him that way considering he is a man who is 80% of the time narrowing his eyes and 20% staring at others with murderous intent. But this stare is all a big question of what he is supposed to do about you. You already yelled that silly nickname and now you’re hugging him like he isn’t a man that’s supposed to be feared.

Some of the clansmen had the nerve to start snickering a little, finding your display of affection to be ridiculous. It’s even more ridiculous that Bi-Han is allowing this. But their snickering was silenced when Bi-Han slammed his foot on the ground, causing a patch of jagged ice to form and make its way to the clansmen before stopping short. He quickly covered your ears to prevent you from hearing his yell.

“Get back to training! I will not hesitate to dispose of those who are unworthy of taking the Lin Kuei seriously!”

Silence ripped through the room before everyone went back to training. Bi-Han slowly dropped his hands from your ears and you pretended like you didn’t hear his outburst. Blissful ignorance is a wonderful thing. He grabbed your wrist, a little too hard for your liking, and dragged you away till you two were a good distance away from everyone else. He let go of your wrist and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down.

“Why must you yell that-“ he paused to prevent hurting your feelings by saying the nickname Snookums is stupid, “name when you could have easily kept quiet and looked around the temple.”

His words were not taken in since you were focused on rubbing your wrist. He watched as you looked up at him with wet eyes. Sadness is an understatement, despair and betrayal are the correct terms for how you were feeling. Oh gods, he could kick a kitten in the middle of a blizzard and it wouldn’t even look at him like that.

You felt a ball form in your throat, making it difficult to swallow. Your nostrils flared up and a heavy huff was being produced by you. And then the whining.

“Mmmmmm.”

No…

“Mmmmmmmmm!”

Hold it together…

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmeh heh heh heh!”

Wha-What the fuck—Cartman?

Your whines rose in volume and Bi-Han immediately reacted. He covered your mouth to muffle your sadness and tried to de-escalate the situation before your eyes went puffy from tears. He’s nodding his head no while staring you down. From your position, you believed he was angry at you for crying. You know he could never be mad at you but he is feeling a little panicky as he tried to figure out a way to stop you from crying.

“Shh, shh, stop—I’m not mad at you,” he said in his deep voice which didn’t help convince you that he wasn’t mad. The only way he can truly make you stop is by pulling out the big guns aka giving you a hug. He just needs to look around first to see if the coast is clear.

Bi-Han let out a low groan before wrapping his arms around you and squeezing you. It’s like a weighted blanket was wrapped around you before an anaconda decided to come around and squeeze you till you stopped crying. He managed to calm you down and you returned the hug while still sniffling. The idea that Bi-Han was not mad at you had set in and you finally felt calm. Maybe not Bi-Han, his eyes were shifting all around trying to make sure no one walked in on him being all lovey dovey.

“Can I stay with you while you train everyone?” You asked.

Bi-Han really, really, REALLY wanted to tell you to go back into the bedroom and wait for him to return. But with that tone you asked him in and your already shaken-up emotions, it would be a disaster to tell you not to stay.

“Yes…you may stay, but you need to keep quiet for the sake of everyone. You must not distract anyone as they are training.” He’s just making an excuse but you will listen to him.

“Okay!” You replied in a cheery tone.

You two stopped hugging and returned back to where everyone else was. You clung to your blanket while walking side by side with Bi-Han. Now please oh please do not show your affection for him in front of others. He loves you but he also likes it when others fear him.

══💤══╡°˖✧🦊✧˖°╞══💤══

Well…you kept quiet…still doesn’t mean you weren’t lovey dovey in your own way.

It is pretty cute to see Bi-Han with a blanket wrapped around him while you stand in front of him, holding onto the ends of the blanket to make sure you both stay wrapped. It’s only ruined by the fact that he is staring icy dagger at anyone who even snorts. But you don’t know that. You’re in your own happy world where it’s just you and Bi-Han. And in this happy little world, you’re reminded of all the lovely times you and him were actually alone. Times where you would be cuddling in bed as you told him the most basic things ever such as how you saw a chipmunk that day. Meanwhile, Bi-Han is hugging you from behind as his mind rages on about something that Tomas did that isn’t really something to be mad about. Another happy memory came up but this time you vocalized about it.

“Oh Bibi, when we go back to the bedroom can I play with your hair?” His head snapped to look at you right after you said that.

Deep breath in…deep breath out…deep breath in…don’t yell at your girlfriend breath out…

Nearby you both could hear Tomas whisper to Kuai Liang, “I knew he would let her do that,” which almost sent Bi-Han into a fit. He luckily managed to keep it together while his nails dug into the palm of his hand from how hard he was clenching his fists. He nodded slightly, hoping that if he gave you a yes you wouldn’t say anything else. But guess what, YA DID!

“Yay! I can't wait to brush your hair and use my Cinnamoroll hair claw to put it up. You look so good with it up. Oh, what else should I put in your hair?” You let out a gasp like you just came up with the best idea ever, “What if I put a flower clip near your left ear? That means you can show off that you’re in a relationship with me. I’ll try to find a blue flower for you, Bibi.”

Alright, that’s genuinely a cute image to think of. That doesn’t stop Bi-Han from staring at you and questioning why he needs to use a flower to represent his relationship status. Everyone knows he is dating you, how much evidence does he need? Nobody even feels like what you said was silly. It’s adorable how much you love Bi-Han and want to show that you two are together. Even his brothers are gushing about it.

“Aww…you wish that was you with Harumi, huh?” Tomas whispered to Kuai Liang.

Kuai Liang looked at Tomas like he just lost his damn mind. Let’s just return to the sweet couple that is you and Bi-Han.

Your excitement was rudely interrupted by the sound of someone laughing. It was clearly to laugh at you, not with you. You looked over your shoulder to look at the Lin Kuei warrior who decided to laugh at you.

“What is with you and trying to make our grandmaster seem like a spineless weakling? What’s next? Are you going to put makeup on him to make him look prettier? Paint his nail?”

The more the clansman spoke, the more embarrassed you felt. You had no idea you were making your boyfriend look weak in front of his clan. That was never your intention. You always want to support Bi-Han while also getting the full experience of having a partner who allows you to do anything. You turned to look at Bi-Han again and mouthed an “I’m sorry” to him. That knot came back once again and you felt tears form in your pretty eyes. This hurt worse than when you thought Bi-Han was mad at you. Your lip quivered and you felt that whine rise in your throat before you felt Bi-Han’s lips on your forehead. He gave you a kiss on your forehead that was gentle but lasted for a few good seconds. He then removed the blanket from you two and rewrapped it around you. You had no idea what he was doing but oh it was a surprise for many.

Bi-Han moved in the blink of an eye. One second he was next to you and the next he was in front of the clansman who insulted you, his neck being strangled by your boyfriend’s hand. A path of ice was left behind which explained his quick movement. He then slammed the clansman hard against the ground. The sound of a bone cracking could be heard along with the thudding of the body hitting the ground. No one knew what bone just broke but the clansman sure would know. He was out in an instant. For a second, you believed Bi-Han killed a member of his clan. On closer inspection, you can see their chest rising and lowering slowly. They were luckily still alive though horribly injured.

There was silence before your boyfriend yelled, “Does anyone else wish to question their grandmaster’s authority or my partner’s choices?”

Everyone nodded no. A wise choice.

“Good. Now this will be the last time I tell all of you to get back to training!” Bi-Han yelled before returning to you.

No one bothered to help the other guy he had it coming. Plus, everyone is scared that if they helped him, their grandmaster would go after their throats next. Just work around him.

You wrapped your arms around Bi-Han’s neck and squeezed him close to you, “Bibi, you know you didn’t have to hurt that guy. I could have handled his insults.” No, you couldn’t.

“Aww, but you just love me so much that you want to protect me. You’re like a woolly mammoth. All fuzzy and possibly cuddly but a big, tough guy overall. You’re my woolly mammoth.”

Oh gosh, not the woolly mammoth comparison. Anything but that. He’d take a snow leopard but a woolly mammoth?

You started kissing him wherever you could, mostly on his jawline. He’s secretly ticklish there. He was emitting his low groan the whole time but secretly he liked it. How could he not? No matter what you do, what you call him, what you talk about, he will love you at the end of the day. A real man would endure the embarrassment. Bi-Han sure is a man.

A man who goes by the nicknames of Snookums, Bibi, and now Wooly Mammoth.

And at the end of the day, you finally get to be alone with your man in the bedroom where you would play with his hair. Oh, look, a blue flower hair clip. You know where to put it.

“Is it necessary to place a flower in my hair to represent—AH!” He let out a yelp as you yanked a handful of his hair close to you and put the clip in.

“Absolutely, don’t fight me on this.”

Yeah, Snookums, don’t fight it.

Yap notes: YALL IM SO SORRY FOR BEING OUT! SCHOOL ISN'T BAD BUT IT ISN'T GOOD IVE HAD NO TIME TO WORK ON FICS OR EVEN PERSONAL STORIES YET. ITS WORSE BECAUSE IM WRITING THIS WHILE SICK AND JUST FINISHING MY PERIOD YOU KNOW HOW MUCH IT SUCKS TO BE SICK AND HAVING MY PERIOD. IVE FELT SO GUILTY FOR DAYS I HAD TO PUT OUT SOMETHING ELSE I DIDN'T WANT YALL TO STAVE AND IT WAS REDARA'S ART THAT PUSHED ME TO FINISH SO THANKS RED MUCH LOVE. I HOPE EVERYONE IS DOING OKAY I LOVE YOU ALL THANKS YOU FOR HAVING PATIENCE. OKAY I HAVE TO GO IM LITERALLY SHAKING AS IM DEALING WITH PAIN. ADIÓS!

[gatorbites-imagines]

Helloooo, I can request omega bakugou helping his mate/alpha ace reader with their rut? I thought it might be sfw since u don't feel like writing smut atp :3

Omega Katsuki Bakugou x Ace Alpha male reader

Headcanons

(aged up characters, obviously)

Seeing ace requests in my inbox always make my smile because, hey, that’s me. Where my ace homies at. I’ve very rarely written omegaverse before, but I got so much worldbuilding about it, if you guys are interested.

I have too much worldbuilding and ideas about Omegaverse, so this is a little out of the norm for your usual smut filled rut plot.

For omegaverse, I never imagine that heats or ruts turn you into a horny breeding crazed animal. Yes, with your mate you will feel a lot more arousal and might have moments where you become fueled by your desires, but the majority can still control themselves.

For you, who’s Ace as well, the breeding part isn’t present more than your bodies instincts, but its nothing extreme. It feels the same as when you are really hungry. Sure, the feeling is there, but you can easily go about your day and not let it bother you.

But ruts do more than just make you want to have a lot of pups and crawl all over your omega, even if your omega is as hot as Katsuki is. It tends to cause a lot of stress on the body, from cramping muscles to overheating, dehydration, pacing and other factors that could lead to stress.

So, in Katsuki’s situation, his job during your ruts is mainly to take care of you. To make sure you’re eating and drinking enough fluids. That you aren’t overheating by patting you down with a cold cloth or using ice packs, or even making you cold baths.

He treats it a lot like a very horribly cold for the most part. Sure, your scent also makes him slick up a little and makes his own scent sweeter and riper, but Katsuki is still clear headed and more focused on taking care of you. Especially when he knows you do the same for him when he has heats.

I imagine Katsuki is still his usual snappy growly self, but he doesn’t yell, since ruts also makes your hearing more sensitive. Instead, he just grumbles a lot. With a lot of insults that has no heat thrown in, just because its Katsuki.

As an alpha, you don’t really need a nest, but you bet your damn ass Katsuki makes you one. And only with the best rut materials out there. He won’t accept anything but the best, and Katsuki honestly stresses more about your rut nest than he does his own heat nest.

It reaches a point where, during the early stages of your rut, you just kinda have to thrown yourself in it and show him you like it and accept it.

I could imagine Katsuki worrying a lot, since he knows your ace and he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable with his own scent. Does it bother you that he starts smelling like preheat? Does it make your rut worse? Better? Does he need to leave?

He would also fear crawling into the nest with you, at least in the beginning. After you pull him in multiple times, or tell him to get in, he starts to calm down. You can’t stop him from worrying though, it’s in his blood.

Being ace also doesn’t mean you don’t feel arousal and the like, so if you need to get off, he’s not gonna stop you, and wont touch you unless you want him too. Katsuki knows it won’t go farther than just some touching, if it even gets to that, and he’s more than satisfied.

Having and Ace partner honestly probably helps take some of the stress of his shoulders. He knows you won’t have the same expectations as some other alphas, that he needs to give up on his hero career and be a “good” omega.

Which is also why he’s ready to bend himself backwards to make sure you are comfortable during your rut. Even if staying nearby and taking as much care of you as possible pushes him into preheat, Katsuki is strong enough mentally to keep it bottled up until your rut it over.

This does mean you end up having to take care of him afterwards too, and you gotta call in favors with your friends to cover Katsuki’s patrols, since he didn’t expect to go into heat.

But all in all, ruts with Katsuki are a very planned out affair. Sure, you feel miserable and like you’re boiling on the inside, never able to find a comfortable sleeping position, and like you need to claw your own flesh off. But at least Katsuki is by your side the entire time, ready to hold your hand or hold you as a whole if you need too.

You do have to put up with his nagging though, but you know its just how he shows affection, so in the end it makes you purr at him. Which just gets Katsuki to get all flustered and pretty.

[whitneybiter]

sleepover headcanons with the school LI's (male) ( ͡°³ ͡°)

mdni

Whitney —

pretty large house, he'd only ever invite you over if his parents were gone for a week or something. casual kind of date night, staying up late and drinking his parents fancy alcohol stash– horror movies and cuddling under a small blanket. pizza for dinner, before heading off to his bedroom. surprisingly well taken care of, and quite large. empty beer bottles strewn about, a desk in one corner with some papers covering most of the wood. he has a twin sized bed shoved up against the wall of his messy bedroom, half of it is covered in stuffed animals and pillows. navy blue sheets with like wine colored pillow cases, some pillows don't even have pillow cases. he barely fits alongside the mountain of fluff, and two bodies is more than a tight fit. he gets genuinely offended when you ask to move them, or sleep on top of them. he insists that you sleeping chest to chest, on top of him and as close as humanly possible is clearly the better solution. it's not because he wants to hold you, or anything. no way,.. he sleeps in boxers, and insists you sleep in underwear too. even if your brought pajamas, he makes you sleep in undies– promising to keep you warm, teasing you if you're reluctant. he's a deep sleeper, and a bit of a snorer. death grip around your waist, his face nuzzled into your neck. he's extremely affectionate when he's sleepy, super grumpy in the morning, even whining when you try to get out of bed before he's ready to.

Sydney (pure) —

his house is average sized, a big backyard making up for the quaint living space. sirris planned out a nice big dinner, home cooked for his dear son and the student who he loved the same. sirris stays in his bedroom, allowing you two privacy. sydney has a long list of rom-coms to watch, deep into the night. only on a weekend though, and even then he's still dozing off. he cuddles up next to you, clinging to your side like an koala, drooling on your shoulder even. you two eat in the living room, staying up late (like 10pm, sydney's a good boy). his bedroom is tidy, a cross hanging over his bed, motivational cat posters hung on his walls. he has a twin sized bed with floral patterning on them, his pillowcases a soft lilac color. his room is calming, the walls an offwhite color. it constantly smells like flowers in the room, lavender especially. he wears a full set of pajamas, long pants and a long sleeves shirt. he offers to share clothes with you, in case you didn't bring any. despite his bed being large enough, he silently scoots closer to you over time, falling asleep with his head your chest, legs intertwined with yours. he's very groggy when he wakes up, but he's out of bed and dressed for the day before the sun has even finished rising. he doesn't rush you, though– working on anything he needs to finish up for school while he waits on you.

Robin —

he invites you into his room after school, happens more often after the two of you establish a relationship. he loves spending time with you, even more now that he knows you feel the same. his bed takes up most of his small room in the orphanage, leaving less room for decorations. his bed sheets are a soft orange, like sherbet. he's got white pillowcases, a bunny stuffy lying on one. a desk is squished into one corner, school textbooks and homework scattered across the space. he has a small tv next to his bed on the floor, hooked up to his console. you two play games deep into the night, ending on a tie. he wears a plain t shirt and comfortable shorts to bed, nervously asking to cuddle, his cheeks flush when you agree. he sweats a lot in his sleep, his damp skin pressing against yours as he clings to you. he's a quiet sleeper, but he moves around a lot. he ends up basically on top of you throughout the night. he wakes up groggy, and immediately goes to take a shower, coming back to sit next to you in bed if you're still sleeping, playing with your hair until you come awake. he takes you out for breakfast, his treat.

Kylar —

he leads you into his bedroom immediately, insisting you stay there all night. his bedroom is a mess, lewd drawings of you, and what looks to be him in some, taped to the walls alongside photos of you that you'd never seen before. clothes on the floor, alongside a few dishes, mainly mugs. his room is fairly big, fitting a large desk with an expensive PC, his keyboard lights up green. he has crumbs all over his desk, as well as a few cups full of energy drinks, tea and coffee. his bed is actually quite clean, dark bed sheets and dark pillowcases. he's quick to rip the photo of your face off one of them, tossing the oddly damp pillow away. the bed smells like him, sweaty and musky. it's kind of soothing as you've grown accustomed to it. you two have your favorite meal for dinner, with a sweet drink on the side. he sleeps in his boxers and a graphic tee, desperately cuddling with you under the covers, making sure you're as comfortable as possible, despite the iron grip he has on your waist. he litters your face, neck and hands with wet kisses before he can fall asleep, his heart hammering in his chest as he clings closer, pressing it against yours. he hides his flushed face in your neck, drool dripping down his chin and onto your skin as he finally drifts off. he's like a corpse when he sleeps, you would have worried he was dead if not for the breath fanning your neck. you wake up to him staring down at you, head in his lap, his hands playing with your hair and tracing your features. he makes you your favorite breakfast food, not giving up even when he burns something.

i might do a part two with the others if this post gets enough attention, however i don't know all of them too well and i fear it would suk (´⌒｀;)

[thegamingcatmom]

BIRB MAMA LET´S GO 🐦‍⬛

(I can´t get over how adorable/goofy she looks here. How am I supposed to fear any of that?)

If Mother Miranda were to take an interest in you outside the whole vessel thing, it would include:

(Yall know the drill by now: Don´t like my dark and twisted stuff, don´t read my dark and twisted stuff. 🖤)

having to listen to her ranting and gossiping about her "children"

sometimes, it´s straight up just death threats

she´s scary when she gets like that

especially because she tends to breathe down your neck to calm herself (your scent is quite helpful)

having to listen to her feverish prayers when it comes to Eva

Eva is a big topic in general

helping her in her lab

which basically means cleaning up her mess (and she is rather messy, it has to be said)

we´re talking mountains of papers as well as mountains of bodies

ofc she´s gonna make sure to snuff out every last bit of life before she lets you near her failed experiments

she won´t take any risks when it comes to you

as for the papers-

...it´s a mess

and it´s very scary (and very unfair) when she gets all hissy and murderous over you trying to do your "job" and clean up her mess just because, out of the millions of papers, there´s one that she still needs

"How dare you throw that away?!"

"Well, how tf am I supposed to know?!"

...you think to yourself because there´s no way you´re gonna say that to her face (you quite like breathing, tyvm)

Eva

whenever she has one of her downright terrifying smash-things-against-the-wall "tantrums" (as you like to call them not to her face) she gets all purry and touchy-feely after

probs her way of apologizing (cause there ain´t no way she´s gonna use them words)

you hate that it´s working

despite being a mass murderer/mold monster smt who doesn´t require eating or using any stuff that humans usually would (like toilets), she does appreciate you cooking and cleaning for her

things she tasked you with ofc

she quite...enjoys the sight

(smt about that domestic view just...does things to her)

(you force-wearing an apron drives her wild)

Eva

preening

she does have feathers, after all

and those need lots of TLC 💋

makes you clean her mask too

or her rings

anything, really

in return, you may wear it

(honestly? totally worth it)

we won´t talk about the fact she´s doing it more for herself (just like pretty much everything else) because seeing you wearing what is hers just...yknow?

but also to demonstrate just how good it feels to be bad

"Hm... What do you think, little bird? Do you like it? I certainly do..."

Eva

forces you to attend meetings with her so she can show you off

and also because it almost always gives her a reason to rip into her "children" because that bunch just doesn´t know how to behave around you

especially the tall one who keeps throwing you looks that make it seem like she wants nothing more than for you to drop dead

you kinda share that sentiment

anywhere would be better than here

...she´s scary

something Miranda takes note of as well

one look is all that is needed to put the tall one in her place

in moments like this, you truly appreciate your roommate´s/abductor´s murderous side

when you´ve been especially good for a (long) while (no escape attempts, no talking back, no disobeying her whatsoever) she indulges your childish urges to see her transform into different animals

she will deny any and all accusations of smiling at that, down to her very last breath

(she could be persuaded though...)

Eva

one day, you´ll probs have to go from cleaning that mess to making it

which means actively helping MM with her experiments

cutting someone open etc.

there´s no way out of it, let´s be honest

it´s her livelihood, ofc she wants to share that with you

(isn´t she just precious?)

spying on the villagers for her

(she will find out when you´ve been lying, so don´t even think about it)

Eva

(This actually got way less dark and twisted than I anticipated. Gotta work on that, LMAO.)

Basically, my HC for Miranda includes her getting an absolute kick out of anything family/domestic life. She goes absolutely nuts when it comes to her daughter, so I imagine this would count for a significant other as well. She gets obsessed to the point of no return, and she´ll fight tooth and nail to keep them with her always.

I could go on, and on, and on, and on, and-

But, alas, it is rather late and, unlike some mold monster smt, I do need my sleep. ;3

I might do more posts like that cause I have thoughts. 😩🤌

CYA THERE! 🫶

[manzaza]

perirep with airpods promoting mY WHOLE REVIEW OF THE NEW WISH SOUNDTRACK BECAUSE OHHHHH MY GOD IT GOES SO SO SO HARD (under cut feel free to listen here (also on apple music + yt do in fact give it a listen please yay) !!)

theme song (all the singing songs)

— although i can never truly let go of the og the new theme song will always be a bop

— so upbeat, so happy !!!

new yorkity york

— hazel’s va is such an amazing singer PLEASE if there’s a season 2 give them a musical episode there are not enough musicl numbers

party possum’s friendship song

— better than the chuck e cheese one i heard in the theater earlier lollllllll

— the live band version ate i liked the difference

— unhinged version was so fun the nickelodeon drummer ate up

lovely love song

— still haven’t watched this episode (i was shopping when it aired oops)

— hazel was so silly idk what happens i just remember cupid being there (idk if he was in this at the end that might’ve been hazel’s dad)

i love fries

— HAZEL’S VA SLAYING AGAIN !!!!!

— banger song so real live laugh love fries

— cosmo + wanda contributed yay let them sing

time loops

— addiction,,,,, brainrot even,,,,,,,,,

— cosmo and wanda singing yayyy !!!

— the actual little yay at the end was so silly got a good chuckle

proud of my son — dubstep remix

— this was actually the funniest thing to watch i had this episode pulled up in a panera’s and i was just staring at it like “bro just took over the world for THIS”

— dev is ten so it does make sense

— almost

a new wish (yay background music !!)

— i love all the jazz in the ost just soooo so good

— reminds me of a sam and max kinda intro

— listening to this + the rest just makes me want a video game for ANW so so bad it would genuinely be so much fun to play (will genuinely plot out a tumblr post for this idea)

fly hazel

— banger warmup vibes in the intro

— love how some of the insteuments give like a fly-feeling gimmick (cause she’s a fly)

— little intro chord at the very end eats up

teacher’s pal

— might be one of my fav tracks

— nickeloxeon pianist and saxophonist are eating uppp

— 1:15 was so good

— nickelodeon symphony when

fearless

— somewhat out of place but still fits in with the show vibes

— very lurking

— fnaf 3 am jumpscare (idk i see more poppy playtime in this despite never watching or knowing anything about poppy playtime

— very cheerful kinda scary at the end (yay jasmine!!!)

wellingston hotel

— i rlly like hotel music play this at a marriott hotel NOW

— still haven’t seen this episode (i’m dying to watch it i need to see winn’s introoooo)

— sudden rich person music change

— love you nickelodeon saxophonist !!!!

dev dimmadome

— classic dev intro

— 0:54 is so cruel just label this project h whyyyyyyyy

— just sheer pain in the middle but then they remebered at the end “oh yeah he’s ten”

— it gets so intense at 1:30 broooooo

fairy heist

— i love spy music

— little dev-ness in the middle with the certain gimmick in his track (i might be crazy for this one but idk the “waeahwow” reminded me of something from his track + i think this was in the breaking into school scene idk)

prime meridian love

— literal anime ost

— eats with the dramatic intro

— it faintly reminds me of an ok ko track but just slightly at the beginning of some of the melodies idk might be crazy for this one too

peri and irep

— no way.

— actually no way.

— ship interacts once and they get their own song.

— the twist at the beginning of the track was so hype like the beat is just constantly at odds during this song (and because i’m just like that i have the track times put down too when they swap)

— to not make this any longer the noticeable parts after their intros are like 0:50–1:02 is peri-sounding and then 1:03–1:18 is irep-sounding and from then on their themes are always at a clash with more differences spotted at the end

— will say i love irep’s part at 0:32 and 1:03 that’s so funnnn ahh

— the little villainous laugh at like 1:50 was silly

— the little theme at 3:00 ahhh !!!!!

— might be another fav……. yeah def another fav my airbuds says so

viozalea

— feels so medieval at first and i love it

— quick just like viozalea’s appearance (rip)

rattlleconda

— fire western theme

— still in character with the show the beat was firee

— the soft violin gahhh sheer joy

— intense pressure put on at the end ate

love and games

— rock paper scissors core

— me when rock paper scissors

— wait i actually never watched the valentines episode

— uhhhhhhh second half might be rock paper scissors

— BANGS

— love u Nickelodeon drummer

battle of wands (FINALE)

— shut up this is too glorious of a melody

— ok intense

— oh might’ve just hit one million wishes idk how this song is following the episode

— the chaos in the rhythm eats

— littlt theme at 2:30 aghhhh won

— peri lying dead right after again idk how the episode paces through songs i can spot little scenes here and there

— banged

— little clock beat ahh the happiness

— can’t even tell what happened but good finale

OVERALL i really enjoyed the soundtrack i love how it tries and takes you through the course of the episode and it’s so so fun!! almost feels like video game music sometimes which is so so good for them like YES drop a new wish video game it would be so good !!!!

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Soup solves everything.

[dogearedheart]

8i've been thinking about the last asks i got today. and i think it's better for me to take a step back from this account. i know the anon didn't mean anything by it, but i still feel like i am being a negative presence on here and weirding people out with who i am is nothing i want. so, i am not deleting or anything. i am just gonna be less present with sharing personal things or leaving tags. I'll probably be more active on my second account where i don't have that many followers :)

[aftermathing]

.

[weareuniqueandimportant]

VAUSH BATTLE: THE FALL OF LEFTISM PART 1...

VAUSH AND HIS CREW OF LEFTIST ATTEND A LEFTIST MEETING UNTIL EVERYONE STARTS KILLING EACHOTHER THEY'RE THE SOLE SURVIVORS AND DECIDE THEY WILL DESTROY THE WORLD WITH THEIR REACTIONARY IDEOLOGY THEY CALL LEFTISM... IN THE NEXT MEETING THEY DESTROY EVERYTHING... TURNS OUT THEY HAVE FALLEN OUT OF LEFTISM AND STOPPED CARING FOR LEFTIST PURPOSE... BUT REALLY NEVER BELIEVED IN THEM AT ALL... THEY RAISE AN EMPIRE THAT MUST BE DESTROYED... DJMUEL AND HIS CREW HEAR ABOUT THIS AND DECIDE THAT IS TIME TO MOVE AND DESTROY THE WORLD WITH THEIR REACTIONARY IDEOLOGY INSTEAD... VAUSH AND DJMUEL HAVE ANOTHER CRAZY BATTLE AND IN THE END DJMUEL BECOMES THE KING OF LEFTISM LIKE IN VAUSH ISLAND... THEN VAUSH KILLS HIM... AND IS NOW AGAIN THE KING OF LEFTISM... THEN VAUSH IS KILLED AND HE REALIZES HE'S EVIL AND WRONG... BUT INSTEAD OF CHANGING HE ONCE AGAIN TELLS EVERYONE HIS DAUGHTER LOLITA IS GOING TO CARRY HIS EVIL IDEOLOGY... DJMUEL'S DAUGHTER RETURNS ASWELL LIKE IN VAUSH ISLAND AND THEY FIGHT AGAIN MEANWHILE DJMUEL RUNS AWAY AND IS KILLED... HE DESERVED THAT BECAUSE HE'S A BIGOT... AFTER THIS BATTLE THEY'RE BOTH DEAD AND KILLED AS THE 2 PEOPLE REPRESENTING THEIR EVIL IDEOLOGY REALIZE THEY WERE BRAINWASHED AND MANIPULATED AND REALLY LOVE EACHOTHER ASWELL AS THE WORLD... LOLITA AND DJMUEL'S DAUGHTER HUG AND HOLD HANDS AND LEAVE PLAY TOGETHER BECAUSE THEY WERE MADE TO FIGHT INSTEAD BY THEIR FATHERS... THE WORLD MIGHT BE BROKEN... BUT ATLEAST THOSE 2 MONSTER ARE NO LONGER THERE TO HARM THEM IN ANY WAY ANYMORE... A POWERFULL WOMAN BECOMES THE QUEEN OF LEFTISM AND WILL BRING THE GOOD IDEOLOGY RADQUEER FEMINIST COMMUNIST ANARCHIST WE ASWELL BELIEVE IN TO THE WORLD...

VAUSH GETS SHOT TO DEATH. WOMAN SAYS... "THIS IS BECAUSE YOU DON'T LIKE PARAPHILIA PEOPLE. ABUSER BIGOT." VAUSH IS SHOCKED AS HE BLDSS TO DEATH... HE IS HORRIFIED...

"THIS WAS ALWAYS DESERVED..." SAYS AN ANGEL...

"YES..." SAYS HER GIRLFRIEND. SHE IS NAKED. WOW.

[yeyinde]

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—)

[malewifesband]

EDIT: if this post has made you think about whether or not you are autistic, im really glad! i hope you get some better understanding of yourself and are able to find community and support

however before you go and tell a therapist and seek an official diagnosis please read this thread and consider the points made therein:

autism is highly stigmatized. be fully informed about what you gain and what you lose from having an official diagnosis before seeking one.

EDIT OVER ENJOY THE POST

people do correctly identify that laios is autistic fairly often but a lot of the reasoning begins and ends with his special interest and social difficulties, but honestly it goes far deeper into the build of his character than just those two things

his pain tolerance is wildly inconsistent, unable to tolerate a drop of hot oil (or any heat) but able to shrug off both his leg being bitten off and it being reattached

hes sensory seeking in the extreme. he rubs the bat bones against his face, pets and fluffs the shapeshifter tail.

his desire to eat monsters comes from three very autistic places. 1) the rules for why monsters are not okay to eat but animals are are arbitrary to him so he cannot follow them easily: he cannot understand the 'feelings' argument others make. 2) this too is a sensory seeking behavior. he wants to experience these new things, new flavors and new textures. 3) it completes his knowledge of the monster in question to also have data on its edibility. because he cannot draw that arbitrary line around all monsters, he wants to evaluate them case-by-case and see if real patterns emerge. butchering and eating the monsters improves his knowledge of them greatly and highlights their importance in their ecosystem, as well as making him a part of that same ecosystem

he cannot emote the way others expect him to. he compartmentalizes his feelings (to an unhealthy degree) because he needs a pragmatic solution. so as long as there is a problem to solve, that matters far more than evaluating his emotions and allowing himself to experience them. while this is also a coping mechanism for ptsd, it is a trait found in many autistic people regardless of trauma, as we have trouble sorting the feelings we have and often need time to think about what we feel, so it becomes easier to simply not do it and pretend we dont need to. laios emotions certainly affect him, with or without his processing them, but others do not see what they expect to see and thus dismiss that he is feeling what they would feel

he is incredibly gifted with pattern recognition, observation, and analysis within realms he understands. to understand subjects that dont come easily to him, he must filter them through his established schema (his special interest--this is why they are so special! they help us sort the world). when he isnt sure about the social cues and details hes observed in the shapeshifter arc, he filters it through the lens he understands best: monsters. he was making correct observations about his friends all along, but he could not be confident in that the way he was about their behavior when it came to his interest (chilchucks caution, senshis passions, and marcilles carelessness)

[titaswrld]

deadpool!

….as your boyfriend.

description: deadpool as your boyfriend!

pairing: deadpool x you!

contains: 18+, mentions of sex!

|an: just saw deadpool & wolverine.. couldn’t help myself.

- awful with emotions but always finds a way to make up for things whether through humor or sex.

- speaking of humor you’re never not laughing with him, or bickering, or fucking

- you’re the only person he can actually feel vulnerable and comfortable with, he cherishes that and he loves you so much for that.

- you’re his person, he would genuinely kill for you if it meant he would lose someone so important in his life.

- if someone makes you sad, mad or uncomfortable ooo…not his babygirl.

- he usually doesn’t keep people or friends in his loop often, they could find him annoying or over the top but not you.

- you love absolutely everything about him, his outlandish humor, his extroverted personality, his big ol’ mouth. you think it’s so hot.

- so hot when he’s mean to you so hot when he’s soft with you

- you literally bicker like two teenage girls all the time and he always somehow clocks your tea it’s ridiculous but you also find it impressive that he always has something to say that you cannot come back from😭

- god you need to pray that no man ever even has the thought of coming on to you… he’ll experience some banter with your boyfriend before it’s lights out.

- not only are you his but he’s yours! he’s super loyal and if he can’t get someone to back off , you sure will!

- you’re always having fun with him date nights are some of the best times of your life, he always finds a way to entertain you no matter what you’re doing.

- always gotta hand somewhere, your ass, a singular cheek, a titty, somewhere. how could you expect him not to! you’re all his.

- you literally have him wrapped around your finger, he’d do absolutely anything for you.

- also always bullying you he is so straightforward😭

“hon that has got to be the ugliest shirt i’ve ever seen on you”

“wade-“

“i know you got better in that closet that i snoop through and try on all your clothes when you aren’t home now go!”

- he’s so tall so if you’re short oh wow…you’re never catching a break

“soooo how’s the weather down there.” wade said, placing his elbow on the crown of your head.

“prick…”

…

“yeah that’s enough of that dirty mouth!” your boyfriend had announced before bending down and wrapping an arm around your behind, throwing you over his shoulder and positioning his palm on your ass.

“god, wade put me down!” you’d laughed playfully hitting his back.

“don’t make me have to spank you!” he said, lighting pinching your ass.

- do not get an animal bc it will quickly become his center of attention and he will defend it over you.

“wade, we’re having my mom over please put it in the room”

“ugh…she’s so mean isn’t she sugar?” he’d said stroking your pet, followed by a “yes she is yes she is!” as the animal licked his face.

sigh.

- good lord we got a cuddle monster on our hands!

- absolutely adores any type of affection and practically begs you for it 24/7. he loves being little spoon specifically. also loves it when u scratch or message his back, bc that also gets him going..

- speaking of, you got this guy rock solid 24/7

“hungry for seconds?” he joked, hugging you from behind and pressing his hardened cock against your ass.

“we literally jus-“ you’d started just to be interrupted mid sentence.

“so! cmon baby throw a dog a bone.” he muttered, hand already gripping your inner thigh.

you’d sighed, god you can’t resist him.

- it doesn’t matter what you’re doing he finds anything you do hot i stg

- a M-U-N-C-H! for life, literally came in his pants from eating you out once! he loves making you feel good.

- a goofball during sex he cannot do shit seriously😭 he be talking you and your pussy thru it!

- again, if you’re petite god help you bc he is large.

- babe, you better match his freak because yall doing anything.

- trying a new thing every night multiple times bc that sex is never vanilla and that dick is never tired! at some point he’s just making positions up😭

[kaijutegu]

Aug ABSOLUTELY deserves the praise, @ryukikit. St. Augustine Alligator Farm is one of my favorite animal facilities, hands down. It's a pretty zoo, doable in an afternoon if you kinda like crocodilians, or an all day affair if you REALLY like crocodilians. Here are my favorite things about it and why I think it's worth supporting.

1. They keep animals in interesting social groups.

Crocodilians are heavily involved parents, but most places that breed them don't have the enclosure space to let the babies stay with the parents. St. Augustine does. One of my favorite groups was their crèche of slender-snouted crocodiles. They had the parents and then a yearling cohort and a new hatchling cohort. This aligns with how these guys live in the wild- the babies stick around longer! They have the space for it, and they are very in tune with the social needs of their animals.

Very, very few zoos can keep their baby crocs with the adults and still perform maintenance and animal health checks safely. This doesn't mean these facilities are bad- it just means that they have different management practices. And frankly, a lot of these species aren't frequently bred elsewhere. Your average zoo doesn't need a setup where you can have a multiyear crèche for slender-snouted crocodiles. Some species have better success when the young are pulled early, and some zoos are better set up to raise out any offspring separately or behind the scenes. Every facility's practices are different, and this just happens to work well at St. Augustine and be really enjoyable to see as a zoo patron.

Crocodilians are exceptional parents and very protective. It's a sign of incredible animal management practices and animals that feel very comfortable with staff that St. Augustine can do this with nearly every species they breed.

2. They understand the social needs of their animals.

Some crocodilians are social. Some are solitary. Some can live happily with a member of the opposite sex but get territorial around members of the same sex. St. Augustine pays incredible attention to their social groupings to ensure that they aren't just meeting the animals' physical health needs but their social needs as well. They do continuous scientific research about social structures in crocodilians, taking blood samples to test stress hormones and observing stress behaviors to see how group dynamics change.

For example, St. Augustine is home to one of the world's largest known living saltwater crocodiles, Maximo. And his comparatively tiny mate, Sydney. During the educational presentations with these two, they point out that even their monster of a croc needs his social group- he won't eat if she's not around and he is calmer during medical checks if he can see her. These animal share a deep and special pair bond, and they make sure to talk about how the social aspect of these animals' lives is integral to their care. It's a unique aspect of the way they talk about these animals, because he IS a spectacle and he IS a sensation, but they don't talk about him like he's a mindless killing machine- they talk about him like he's a big, complex predator with social needs like any other animal. Aug is the only facility I've been to where the emotional and social needs of crocodilians is part of the education they provide guests- and speaking of education...

3. Their demos and presentations are extremely good.

The presentations at St. Augustine are some of the best I've ever seen, and I've seen literally hundreds of animal talks on everything from aardvarks to zebras. But as you... can probably tell from my blog content, I've spent a lot of time learning about and working with reptiles. I really enjoyed all of their presentations because they are very scientific about things and avoid sensationalism. They really want you to be fascinated by these creatures and love them- but more than anything else, they want you to respect them.

Also, they do a really good job handling their ambassadors. I really enjoyed something as simple as watching an educator tell us about snakes. Throughout the whole presentation she made sure that most of the snake's body was looped in her hand. The snake was always supported and was very calm. She gave the snake plenty of head room so that it didn't feel constricted- it was just good handling all around.

But also, the presentations made it clear how much the park cares about the animals' well-being. When they do the feeding and training presentations, they make it very clear that the animals' participation is entirely voluntary. They do things differently for their 9-foot saltie and their 16-foot saltie, because the 16-footer is so large and heavy he actually struggles walking on land sometimes. They adapt their programs and his care to ensure that he's completely comfortable- and he didn't actually participate in the whole feeding when I was watching! At no point did they try to push him into anything uncomfortable; they offered, he didn't engage, and they moved on. It was a clear expression of his boundaries, and I really appreciated how much his caretakers respected that.

4. Ethical Interactions

I've been to... a lot of tourist locations in Florida that have animals you can hold. Almost always against my will! Many of them are pretty terrible, and you don't actually learn much, if anything. But I really found that to not be the case at St. Augustine. Every single animal presentation and interaction opportunity was accompanied by education about the animal's biology, habits, and- crucially- their conservation status.

When I held a baby alligator at St. Augustine, the proctors- there were two, one to ensure I was holding the gator correctly and the other to educate- were very informative about the role alligators play in their ecosystem and their conservation history. The animals were all properly banded, and one of the two proctors was there to ensure that none of the baby alligators were uncomfortable. As soon as they started getting squirmy or tense, they were removed, unbanded, and taken to an off-exhibit area to relax. And when the babies age out of petting size, they just go in the lagoon to live with others of their species. I saw one upset alligator the entire time I was there, and he was clearly upset that his escape attempt was foiled by a keeper during my nursery tour.

Even though he's restrained in this shot, you can see that his full body and tail are supported, and the grip, while firm, is gentle. He's distressed, but after I took this picture, she put him in his enclosure and he calmed down immediately.

Sometimes when you have petting attractions with baby animals, those animals... don't have a happy ending. (See: cub petting.) But St. Augustine's program is fine- the gators are all aged out of wanting to have mom around, there's no declawing/defanging, and they're handled with care. And it's worth it, because people love what they understand. St. Augustine was integral in raising public awareness about alligators back in the 60s when they were endangered, and now they're thriving- largely in part to programs like St. Augustine getting people to care.

And speaking of getting people to care, let's talk about their research.

5. Shared Research Results

St. Augustine is also home to more species of crocodilian than anywhere else in North America- all of them, usually. (They didn't have a Tomistoma when I visited- that may have changed.)

Because of this species diversity, it's an incredible research resource. Having every species means that you can do a lot of work comparing their behaviors, their growth patterns, and more. They've been a major research site for crocodilian biology since the 1970s. Today, they're one of the key sites for studying crocodilian play and social behaviors. They actually maintain a blog where they post copies of papers that were written using their animals, meaning that you can actually see the results of the research your admission helps fund. You can see that right here: https://www.alligatorfarm.com/conservation-research/research-blog/

All of this adds up to a zoo that provides a unique experience, tons of actual education, and transparency about what its research and conservation steps actually are. St. Augustine's come a long way since its opening in 1893, and they really do want you to leave with a new respect for the animals they care for. Ultimately, if you're a fan of reptiles, you can feel good about visiting the St. Augustine Alligator Farm- their care and keeping are top of the line, they do a ton of innovative conservation research and support for conservation organizations, and you can see this animal there:

(Gharial from the front. Nothing is wrong with her that's just what they look like from the front.)

[obsesssedblerd]

dating satoru and suguru pt. 2 (nsfw hcs under the cut.)

when satoru is away on long missions, you and suguru both practically live in his hoodies that have his scent on them until he comes back

speaking of scents, satoru enjoys expensive colognes, body care, and hair care. if it smells good, he wants it. of course, that meant that you and suguru also had the best brands stacked in the bathroom.

when suguru finally gets you and satoru out of bed, he prepares to-go breakfast sandwiches for all of you.

suguru asked you and satoru if he should cut his hair one day, and both of you screamed "NO" and told him to never ask that crazy shit again

suguru will whisper in yours and satoru's ears just to see how flustered you get. it works. every time.

"let's go to an arcade!" "satoru it's 2am." "so?" (spoiler alert: you three do, in fact, end up at the arcade despite it being 2am)

if satoru isn't suggesting an arcade at 2am, then you're suggesting to go get food. a 24/7 diner in your neighborhood HATES to see you three coming. (especially satoru. remember that scene with the burgers? lmao he can EAT.)

digimon marathons! (you and suguru are NOT allowed to say no)

"uh... whose turn is it to do dishes?"

when suguru notices someone else looking at either you or satoru with interest, he'll kiss you hard. he doesn't share.

both you and suguru call satoru "pretty boy" and he blushes every time

all three of you have a stuffed animal that matches your hair color.

nsfw hcs under the cut [mdni]

satoru and suguru were ALL of your firsts. suguru was the first one to kiss you, finger you, and fuck you; satoru was the first one to suck your tits, eat you out, and cum inside of you.

suguru was super, super gentle during your first time. he was also satoru's first. he loved you both so much and wanted you to be comfortable.

neither of them like it when you touch yourself. if you're horny, they want to take care of it.

suguru is a brat tamer. he handles you and satoru's bratty behavior effortlessly. he loves putting you two back in your place more than anything else.

when satoru was acting up all day, suguru tied him up, then fucked you in front of him. he was only allowed to watch and not touch. by the time you cum on suguru's cock, satoru's stuttering his apologies and begging to touch you both.

suguru loves to watch you and satoru make each other feel good. he'll stroke himself while you ride satoru. even from the side, he was still in charge. you and satoru knew better than to cum without permission.

high tension after an argument? you'll fuck it out.

satoru enjoys pushing suguru until he explodes. suguru's always so irritated bc of work and he'd rather hold it in instead of talking about it, and satoru gets under his skin, so he'll snap and take out all of his frustrations on him.

you do the same. you love it when he's rough. besides, anyone would need the stress relief after putting in long hours as a sorcerer.

suguru also relieves you and satoru's stress. nothing is ever one-sided. he'll please you until you can't take it anymore.

satoru loves your tits. he's obsessed with them, actually. you don't think there's been a day where there weren't any marks on them.

amazing aftercare. all of you spoil the hell out of each other. so much cuddling, so many gentle kisses, and food. all of you love food after sex. you and satoru always whine when suguru leaves the bed to get something from the kitchen because you want to cuddle. "i'm literally going right down the hall. i'll be back."

you're wiping some frosting off of satoru's cheek when he asks you and suguru to watch more digimon. you can't refuse, especially when he's adorably looking up at you both with those beautiful blue eyes of his.

[areislol]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ❝SWEET!❞

►— pairings. various genshin men x fem! reader

►— warnings. smut, cursing, dirty talk, just smutty. implied reader has somewhat thick thighs, 18+ fingering, MDNI

►— synopsis. an alternative title, how do they eat pussy?

►— a/n. been having these thoughts for a bit now i need to jot them down before my obsession grows worse.

►— wordcount. 2.3k

they eat that pussy like it's a religion, his head buried in between your legs, his hands gripping onto your thighs tightly, using his strength to keep your thighs still and from closing in. his eyes are focused solely on your face as he languidly drags his tongue into a line on your wet pussy.

he's addicted, to say the least. the smell, the taste, the lewd and dirty sounds you were making, he loved it all, and all the while as his mouth latches onto your poor abused cunt he whispers the sweetest things in your ear, dirty words as well. he switches between both. on the rare occasions that he does tease you he will whisper the most vile and dirty things you've ever heard, but most of the time he's just craving you, he just can't wait, once you give him the word that he could go down on you he wastes no time and before you know it he's sandwiched between your thighs and giving you an orgasm.

every time he eats you out he reminds you of a starving animal (if you didn't know any better), every time he eats you out you are a mess, and your pussy is a mess. your juices, sweat and saliva combined created a nasty sight it made him achingly hard but even so he prioritizes your pleasure first as he grinds his bulge on the bed. your moans and praises as you grip his hair and push his head deeper in were all he needed while jerking your hips at the same time.

his nose rested on your clit, the air hitting your clit as his tongue relentlessly flicked up and down your folds, he sucks and kisses your clit before adding a finger in. yes, although he does love to eat you out he also loves fingering you as well, the sweet moans and screams you let out just get him so hard it motivates him to eat you out even more. not that he plans on stopping. he barely teases you, he doesn't like the idea of stripping you of the chance to cum because truth be told he really really wants you to cum on his face (and sometimes he unintentionally overstimulates you).

— XIAO, CHILDE, kaveh, CYNO, WRIOTHESLEY, thoma, lyney, VENTI, itto, gorou

teases you while eating you out and teases you before eating you out, he knew what you wanted but continued to tease you, savouring every moment when you squirm and whine for him to go down on you. he's mean, he doesn't stick to one pace and instead chooses to go slow and fast, it's just how your face contorts when he buries his face against your pussy and begins to lick and slurp your folds and just when you're about to cum (he has been teasing your poor pussy for so long the second he begins to actually eat you out you're too sensitive, that's him to blame) he slows down his pace, a frustrated cry leaving your lips as tears brim your eyes, you just wanted him to do it properly.

he doesn't mind fingering you as he licks your clit but he finds it satisfyingly when he knows only he can make you cum with his tongue, when he feels nice he'll finger you with one or two fingers, pumping in and out of your mushy walls as his tongue rolls over your sensitive bud, his tactic never fails to get you cumming in no time.

he won't lie, he loves seeing you in tears as he continues to tease your bud and clit with his tongue, he isn't even giving it his all, his cheeks aren't even pressed against your inner thighs and here you are, let out cries for him to please eat you out, it's adorable. and when he thinks you're ready and he had enough teasing you already he's already lapping at your folds and humming, the vibrations and hums on your sensitive skin make it all the more pleasurable. he isn't that bad though, when he feels bad for you or feels like you've endured enough teasing he'll make sure to make it up by eating you out good (not saying he never does).

that doesn't mean he's not done being mean to you though, he's heavy on eye contact. he loves making eye contact with you as he brutally violates your clit, and he lives to see the faces you make as he inserts one finger in your soaking pussy, juices spilling out of your greedy hole, he loves seeing how you gasp when he swiftly slips in another finger, teasing you as he says how wet you were that he could easily fit in a third finger.

but he hates when you look away in embarrassment, he'll stop doing what he's doing—he'll stop his fingers from bottoming in and out of your pussy, and he'll stop his sucking and licking at your clit when you look away from embarrassment, "getting shy now are we? guess that means i'll have to stop.." you whine and quickly look back at him, looking down and meeting his eyes, his gaze was hot and intense, mouth and cheeks wet with your juices and his saliva, it was dirty.

"keep looking at me as i fuck you with my tongue, you understand? i want to see your face as you cum, i want you to watch me as i make you cum, got that?"

— ALHAITHAM, AYATO, WANDERER, pierro, PANTALONE, TIGHNARI, HEIZOU, DOTTORE, capitano

gentle and soft yet never fails to make you orgasm hard, he relishes in watching your dripping entrance as you wait for him to go down on you. he takes things slow and is very passionate, he considers himself a lucky man every time he eats you out because he knows only he is allowed to be in this position, no one else. he is sort of possessive when in the act when he really thinks about it, no one has eaten your pussy out this good, your moans and cries are only for him to hear.

despite him taking it slowly he is a god at eating pussy (you can't change my mind), he plants soft and tender kisses on your thighs before slowly reaching your inner thighs, you whine and beg for him to hurry up but he only shushes you and reminds you to be patient. "ah, remember to be patient love, i want to savour this moment.." you let out a soft moan and bring your head backwards when he finally kissed your clit.

his hands are tightly yet tenderly holding your legs apart, his hands grabbing a hold of the soft plush of your thighs. he leans in closer to your pussy, his thumb prying your wet pussy slightly open, he stares at it in awe before softly blowing on it, the cold air hitting your sensitive folds. your back arches as a shaky sigh escapes your lips, he looks up from his position and smirks before latching his mouth onto your pussy, it was all so sudden it caught you off-guard but within a couple of seconds the pleasure had taken over your body, your mind was clouded with nothing but pleasure.

he loves it when you yank and grip his hair, pulling him in closer to your pussy just to create more friction. you were so greedy it was cute so he always allowed it, he hummed and moaned softly as he ate you out, the vibrating sensation never failed you made your legs tremble and he knew it. he nips and softly (just barely) bites at your folds before covering them with a long kiss and when he releases he lets out a "pop!", your moans grow louder and louder the more he licks and slurps at your sensitive dripping entrance.

he knows when you're about to cum, the sound of your gasps and moans strained, the way your grip on his hair tightens as you try to pull him in closer to your pussy (it already is but he isn't complaining) and your hips jerking up—he closes his eyes, taking in the moment and makes sure to hold you steady when you finally reach your climax, thighs, hands and legs trembling from the overwhelming feeling of pleasure.

and even after cumming on his face he continues to eat you out (obsessed much), you try to push his head away but he only narrows his eyes at you, it was hot to see him maintaining eye contact with you so well as he licked and slurped up your sweet essence. "don't try to push me away now princess, not after you were so eager to cum and pushed me in so close. just another, please?"

he's the type, that even after you're passed out in bed from cumming, his head's still in between your thighs, bumping his nose onto your clit for stimulation as a few strands of hair tickled your thighs. he really enjoys eating you out, if you can't tell (he doesn't even stop even after you've done passed out) but you know what he enjoys as well? face sitting, the feeling of your soft thighs squeezing his head as you ride his face and nose is everything.

he ignores his own problem when eating you out, his cock was aching, all hot and bothered. but he didn't mind, if anything just seeing you cum from his tongue and mouth made him cum (happened too many times), he's too preoccupied with your pleasure anyway. although if you really do insist on helping him out then... (can he put his dick in?)

— ZHONGLI, DILUC, albedo, BAIZHU, DAINSLEIF, aether, kaeya, KAZUHA, NEUVILLETTE

definition of "pussy drunk", he LOVES eating you out.. so what if he suffocates between your thighs? he will gladly and happily suffocate between your thighs. although he is a bit shy doing it in public the thought of someone walking in the restroom and hearing the lustful moans coming from one closed stall makes him hard, at first he's soft and slow and kissing your thighs but that only lasts for a bit before he's literally making out with your pussy.

he LIVES to hear your praises when you mewl his name and cry out of pleasure, his lips swollen from burying his mouth deeper into your warm pussy, his nails digging into your thighs as juices (was it cum, saliva or sweat? who knows?) coated his chin, dribbling down his neck. it was a sticky mess and he loved it. his eyes are closed shut, brows furrowing his concentration as he sloppily laps over your hot, swollen puffy cunt. and when he does open his eyes he only does it to admire your soaking pussy coated with slick before licking up your cream, and his eyes? god they're so dazed and lustful it makes you feel embarrassed, real pussy drunk.

one thing he will never ever get enough of is the taste and how messy it gets. call him a freak or whatever you want but the sensation of his cheeks and mouth smothered by your juices and arousal as he gently nipped at your folds and slurped up all of your essence, is something to die for. the way your slick rolls down from his lips to his chin and down his neck, the tickling sensation is one he will never forget.

who knows what the slick is made up of? was it from your arousal? was it his spit and drool? perhaps both. there's just something irresistible about how dirty you could get just by his tongue and fingers that does something to him (not to mention the precum leaking out of his boxers), the more you cry out in pleasure and overstimulation makes him crack.

he's extremely skilled when eating pussy, that's just something he's naturally good at but you swear he gets better and better every time.. maybe you're too kind to let him eat you out nearly every day. but the more he goes down on you the more he learns—what spot you like the most, where's the most sensitive part, what combination you like, what pace... you get the jist. one of his favourite things is when you get too overwhelmed with pleasure to the point where your legs are shaking and pushing his head away, crying out for him to stop—that you were full.

"full? already? but i haven't even used my fingers yet..." he sighs (directly onto your pussy) and only ducks his head back in despite your futile attempts to push his head away, he knew your energy was low meaning you couldn't push him away even if you wanted to. he could eat out for hours on end, even days if he could (he would), he gets really delirious when eating you out, it's as if everything around him is gone, he's like his own little world with your pussy. the low groan and grumbled escaping his lips as he licks your clit up and down before sucking on it, letting go with a loud "pop!"

and once again he's back it, his tongue brazenly exploring your cunt before swirling at your poor sensitive bud, with every sharp and precise movement he makes he does it with every intention to make you cum, for like the third time. the way he's alternating between your clit and your needy hole makes your mind crazy, too fucked out to think about anything but the intense pleasure, and with every exhale his warm breath hits your flushed skin, his tongue lapping over your squishy folds. he'll never leave your pussy alone, will he?

— XIAO, ZHONGLI, ALHAITHAM, DILUC

the one thing they all have in common is that in the end when he pulls away he can't tell whether or not you're extremely wet because of your arousal/sweat or his saliva, or maybe it's both, who knows?

note: uuuuhhhhhhh dialogue or the text itself may be a bit icky (I'M NOT GOOD AT WRITING SMUT) so if it irks you just stay quiet and go on about your day. (*′з`b)

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another note: slightly proof read so if you found any spelling/grammar mistakes PLEASE tell me.