#this is more profound than usual | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yeyinde · 6 months ago

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appetite | Alpha!Simon Riley

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

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

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

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

AO3

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

(Broken Alpha. Ruined.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Besides. Omegas know better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing to miss. Nothing to mourn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, he shrugs. “hardly.”

“yer no’ missin’ it?”

“missin’ what, Johnny?”

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

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

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

Safe. Or so they say.

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

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

“go fuck yerself, Lt.”

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

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

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

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

Or—

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

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

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

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

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

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

To claim is to bond. To bond—

Well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he is.

(always has been)

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

Still—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

really. such a goddamn shame.

Some things are just not meant to be—

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

It's a simple set up.

Man—

beast, monster, thing

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

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

Postcard beauty. Pinup demure. Alluring.

(creature of sin

and oh, do you reek:

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

the perfect dessert)

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

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

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

By you. you—

—so,

it's only fair that he steals something back.

(quid pro quo, or something, right?)

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

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

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

Ah.

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

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

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

His teeth ache. Jaw clenched up tight.

It looks so bare. So naked.

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

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

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

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

quench this unbearable thirst.

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

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

But:

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

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

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

(protect, protect, protect—)

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I should go—”

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

Won't.

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

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

“A permit…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it's definitely not safe with him.

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

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

(lost little Lamb—

wandered too far from the herd.)

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

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

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

The pendulum wavers. Your knotted fists wobble.

Then—

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

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

But:

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

He sees his mistake as soon as it happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Escape, or—

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

Anything.

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

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

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

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

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

“no.”)

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

where he belongs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(escape, or—

a game.)

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

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

And so, he does.

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

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

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

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

(come, come, come—)

This lost little lamb needs a shepherd.

He intends to give you just that.

(—find me)

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

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

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

Clever little thing, aren't you?

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

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

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

He'll have you soon. All to himself.

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

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

Poor thing. Tired already.

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

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

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

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

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

Before you can blink, he moves.

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

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

It's mesmerising.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All wet f’me?”

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

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

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

And he will be. This is fact.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He lets you have it. Lets you run.

But it's not without recompense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want him as much as he wants you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's devious, this.

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

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

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

He wants to fuck you. Needs to—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crush it between his fingers.

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

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

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

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

There’s an ache in his jaw.

(the need to bite—)

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

“Somethin’s’ tellin’ me otherwise.”

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

“You're wrong.”

“Am I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enigmatic.

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

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

And he supposes you can't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

unrestrained.

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

but first:

he needs to eat.

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

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

never will be.)

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

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

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

But that's where the uncanny resemblance ends.

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

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

So—

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

Probably not.

So. So.

He pulls back, rests his chin on your thigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a monster he's made—

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to devour you whole.

(to eat—)

Settles, instead, for pawing at your cunt.

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

He comes undone at the seams, unravels.

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

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

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

“Begging?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm not—”

“You are.”

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

“You're disgusting—”

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

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

You've given him nothing in return yet.

He intends to change that soon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's been decades since he had this—

(“shame.”

he concurs.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sinful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's heaven.

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

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

So, he doesn't. Won't.

Can't.

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

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

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

Equilibrium.

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

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

But this—

It's drinking ichor from the vein of Anteros.

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

Falling into place.

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

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

His ears burn.

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

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

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

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

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

Everything about you is just—

Perfection. Absolution.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he ignores it. Swallows it down.

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

His hips stutter. Jerk.

“Simon—!”

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

Wily little kitten, purring so sweetly in his lap.

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

Doesn't that just make him preen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, please, please—”

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

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

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

—Perfect.

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

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

He won't. Can't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

pretty little lamb—

a perfect fit between his teeth.

His rut is a voracious thing.

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

And you are, aren't you?

So fuckin’ sweet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you are his.

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

His pretty omega.

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

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

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

(unshakeable:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Persephone, finally home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's never letting go.

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

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

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x you #alpha simon riley #alpha ghost #alpha ghost x omega reader #reader in this is very much roman from succession during that one scene w connor where he tells him #“no you liked it. you asked to be put in that cage."#do w that what u will

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criminalamnesia · 9 months ago

Note

Hiii!! I hope you're doing well :))

I just loveee the traitor series. Do you plan on making a part 5 or more?

thank you! here’s part five :)

the other parts can be found in my COD masterlist, which is here

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

I’ll proofread later :))

you stormed out of the gym, eyesight blurry from hot tears. you weren’t crying because you were sad— no. you were furious. furious at how simon was so fucking stubborn. at how he thought he was in the right.

droplets of blood marked your footsteps as you made your way back to the infirmary. you weren’t particularly anxious to be yelled at by the doctor, but getting it over with as soon as possible was ideal.

“bonnie, y’alrigh’?”

soap. you hadn’t even seen him, so lost in your thoughts. you blinked away tears and ignored the scot, continuing to make your way down the hall in silence.

the sound of hurried footsteps was unmistakable behind you. soap wasn’t taking silence for an answer, apparently.

“bonnie, please—” he began, the drawl of his voice catapulting your mind to the past. to better days.

days when soap had patched you up after a fight, his fingers nimble as he stitched up a cut in your thigh.

“s’it hurt?” he spoke, voice gravelly because of his hushed tone.

you shook your head. your head was tilted back, eyes staring up at the ceiling but not truly seeing. you were worried sick— you and soap were the only ones who’d made it to the safe house so far. the others should’ve beaten you there, and now they were over an hour late.

“bonnie, ‘m sure they’re alrigh’,” he told you, poking the needle through skin. you barely felt it, too hyped up on fear and adrenaline.

“they should’ve beaten us here, y’know that—” you began, but he tutted, quickly cutting you off.

“cannae think like tha’, bonnie. they’ll be here any second, aye?”

he stops his stitching, his face tilting up and away from your leg. you faintly register the feeling of his eyes on you.

you felt lost— floating in sea of numbness. your mind is mulling over the millions of possibilities— possibilities in which they never return.

you’d never felt this way before, and the five of you had endured far worse.

the only thing that was different this time was the fact that you and simon were together. you’d never explicitly told the rest of the task force, but they knew.

johnny knew why you were so worked up. he understood.

he reaches a hand up, his dirtied fingers lightly tilting your chin down so you’re face to face.

“y’there?” he asks, his hand dropping from your chin. he moves to squeeze one of your hands, pulling you back down to the ground.

you give a small nod, fingers moving to intertwine with his. he smiles— not his usual playful expression, but a true, grateful, relieved smile.

“im here,” you tell him. he releases your hand, pulling away from your skin, giving your hand a light pat before fully retreating.

“‘m almost finished, yeah? then I’ll go lookin’—”

“no need.”

it’s kyle, breathing heavily as he shuffles into the room. price and ghost are right on his heels, the three men making the room feel much smaller than it did a moment ago.

“you two good?” kyle asks, a small frown on his lips as he takes note of your bloodied leg.

you nod, your eyes flitting from gaz, to price, to simon— who is now moving towards you. he crouches down so he’s eye level with you. you meet his gaze, and although he doesn’t say it, you know what he’s thinking.

he’s relieved, and it’s a deeper relief than usual. it’s heavier, more profound, because he’s started to let you in. you’re more than teammates now, and it doesn’t truly hit ghost until this moment.

“im good,” you tell him quietly. he nods, glances down at where johnny is tying off your stitches.

johnny must notice ghost’s stare, because he breaks his focus and looks up at his lieutenant with a cheeky smirk.

“no worries, LT. made sure to do ma best work,” he grins and shoots the other man a wink, to which ghost grunts, unamused.

the heavy weight of a palm on your shoulder breaks you from the memory. you move without thinking, bloodied fist swinging as you whirl around to attack whoever laid a hand on you.

then you remember— soap.

johnny narrowly dodges your assault, his eyes widened as your fist barely clips him.

“steamin’ jesus!” he speaks, throwing his hands up in surrender and taking a step back from you.

“i was jus’ tryin’ to make sure ya were alrigh’! yer bleedin’, bonnie.”

you blink as you slowly escape your stupor. you’d completely lost yourself in the memory, and you didn’t know why.

probably because your brain was trying to comfort itself the only way it knew how— by seeking comfort from the people closest to you.

old habits, right?

old fucking habits.

“don’t touch me,” you seethe, eyes narrowing as you glare at the scot. he frowns, bites his lip, but doesn’t say anything.

like a kicked puppy. you can’t help but feel sympathetic before you wrestle that feeling back down. he wasn’t sympathetic for you— why should you be for him?

you look at him for a moment longer, taking in his appearance. he looks fine, and that angers you just the slightest bit more.

“look, i— i ken we really messed up, and sorry cannae fix tha’, but please, bonnie. a’least let us try—”

“I don’t owe you anything, mactavish.” you told him, gaze cold as you met his eyes. “and you’re right, sorry can’t fix it. nothing can fix it; so, stop trying.” you step forward, raising a hand as you point a finger into his chest.

“the four of you need to leave me the fuck alone. frankly, I couldn’t care less about how the four of you feel. about how he feels. you did what you did, believed what you believed, and now you have to live with that.”

johnny’s frown deepens as his eyes glance down at the finger you’ve got digging into his sternum.

“you deserve to feel like shit,” you tell him. “and anything you feel— how sorry you are— just know that I suffered a hundred times more in that chair, locked up in that room. so the next time you wanna watch me from outside the infirmary, or you wanna put your fucking hands on me,” your jaw is clenched, fire licking at your veins as you speak to him.

“remember what you did. remember that nothing can fix it. remember that you’re dead to me— all of you are— and that I never would’ve let that happen to any of you.”

“and I hope it hurts like hell, mactavish. I hope it eats you alive, and that you never find peace because you don’t deserve it.”

you drop your hand, your eyes still on his.

“and I hope you tell the rest of them I said that. especially him.”

you turn then, take a steadying breath, and keep walking.

soap watches you go without another word.

“that was stupid,” the doctor chastises you, her lips pressed into a thin line as she examines your knuckles.

“you blatantly went against my one rule for you. I shouldn’t have even let you out of bed, but you’re too damn stubborn! so I thought I’d give you some grace, but there you go— leaving my iv pole in the hall. bloodying your knuckles. I should let one of the newbies patch you up,” she grumbles, her gloved hands cool against your skin.

over the time you’d spent in the infirmary, you and the doctor had formed an odd bond. it was almost as if you were friends, but she always kept things strictly professional.

but you’d catch her giving you sad glances sometimes. you knew she was upset for you, angry for you, but she would never speak on it. that was okay with you.

it was enough to know that someone was on your side.

“sorry, doc. it’s not like it was planned,” you tell her, and her eyes flick up to meet yours. the look on your face told her everything she needed to know.

she didn’t push the topic. instead, she finished patching you up in silence. wrapping your knuckles in bandages, she gave them one last once-over before sending you on your way.

“kicking me out?” you asked her, raising your eyebrows.

she nodded, her eyes scanning the chart in her hands.

“if you’re okay enough to throw a punch, i think you’re okay enough to return to your quarters. unless you want to stay,” she says, and its unspoken, but you know what she’s implying.

unless you want to stay behind that door, guarded from the 141. unless you don’t want to go back to your quarters and see it as you’d left it before they’d tied you up.

unless it would be too painful to leave.

you shook your head. “im good. thank you, doc. really.”

the doctor gave a small smile and nodded. “of course. you’re due back in a week for a check up, alright? I need to check on those bruises and mending bones.”

you nod and give her a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “wouldn’t miss it.”

she bids you goodbye before turning and disappearing behind a white curtain. you inhale deeply before heading for the door.

when you step into the hallway, it’s quiet. you pass through base with relative ease, quickly slipping past anyone you come across in the halls.

you don’t see any of the 141, and you’re grateful. you couldn’t handle another interaction with them today— and you didn’t know how much longer you could remain civil.

once you reached your door, you pushed into the dusty darkness of the room. it’d been a while since you’d been in here, and although you were glad to finally be free of the smell and sounds of the infirmary, you weren’t particularly happy to be back in this room.

this room, which was down the hall from the rest of the 141.

this room, which held memorabilia of your time with your team.

this room, which you swore still smelled like simon.

you grit your teeth, willing yourself to stop thinking about him. he was fucking everywhere, and you were starting to believe you’d never be free of him and the 141.

your memories. your pain. your scars. no matter how much you healed and moved on from what happened, it would always be there in the back of your mind. it would sneak up on you when you least expected it; it would haunt your dreams at night.

it would leave you waking up screaming for mercy.

it would keep you untrusting for the years to come.

you flicked on the light and scanned the room. it had been upended, clothes strewn across the floor and picture frames shattered.

in the midst of it all, a vase of long dead flowers sits atop your desk.

there’s a little note hanging off the vase. against your better judgement, you reach for it. the paper feels scratchy against your fingers, and the scribbled pencil inside seems the tiniest bit faded.

your eyes scan the note.

‘You were right.

Hope you can understand.’

— sr

you pick up the vase and throw it against the wall. glass shatters. dead flowers fall to the floor.

your knees give out and you crumple to the floor, sitting amidst reminders of once was.

you let yourself cry for the first time in a while.

4K notes · View notes

bonefall · 11 months ago

Text

Herb Guide: Deaf Warriors and Hearing Disabilities

UPDATE 1: Added more harshness to the lipreading section based on initial feedback; minor rewording of some lines!

A reference for Warrior Cats fans creating characters with hearing loss, blending human advice with cat biology, written for an in-universe perspective on living with and managing such disabilities.

AKA Bonefall casts Spell of Stop Being Weird About Snowkit on all amoebas in 500 mile radius

[ID: A headshot of three cats, a brown tabby with a shredded ear (Strikestone), a solid white cat with blue eyes (Stonewing), and a gray cat with a mane (Dovewing).]

In the five Clans, hearing loss is both one of the most common sensory disabilities, and one of the most intense to adapt to. Through any mix of simple infections, birth abnormalities, or even just getting older, any given Clan can expect at least 1 in 4 of its cats to have some form of hearing loss.

Hearing loss is any impaired ability to hear, defined as not being able to hear noises under 20 decibels. Deafness is "profound" hearing loss, which means their hearing STARTS at a noise that is 81 decibels (ex: motorcycle, middle-distant clap of thunder) or louder. Most deaf people can still hear slightly, but sound is "muffled" and they can only hear VERY loud noises.

Hearing loss = Any impaired ability to hear. Normal hearing is 20 DB or lower.

Hard of Hearing (HOH) = Mild to severe hearing loss; starts between 21 DB and 95 DB.

Deaf = Profound hearing loss at 95 DB or higher; a clap of thunder is a quiet whisper.

MOST hearing loss will affect one ear more strongly than the other, and the cat will be HOH. The vast majority of cats with a hearing disability will still be able to understand their Clanmates, if they're just spoken to louder and more clearly. Cats who are born deaf (congenital deafness), however, tend to have profound hearing loss which affects their ability to understand speech.

Cats rely on their hearing and sense of smell much more strongly than they do on their eyesight. With hearing that's 4x more sensitive than a human's and can differentiate between 1/10th of a pitch, a Clan's healer would recognize hearing loss as a disability long before humans would even notice a problem.

Since hearing loss starts with the high-pitch noises that prey makes, like squeaks and chirps, hearing loss is a major reason for a senior warrior to begin to consider retirement. However, with proper support and accommodation, ANY warrior could adapt to this disability; Especially cats born deaf and younger HOH warriors with lots of time to re-learn.

This guide covers;

Common Causes

Traits and Challenges of Hearing Loss

Communication: Signs, lipreading, and more

Unique Challenges Clan-by-Clan

Sources are linked in a separate post, here, and linked again at the very bottom!

(note: this guide doesn't cover devices of any kind, but one of many reasons why cochlear implants are controversial is because an implant will destroy that remaining hearing. They aren't hearing aids; hearing aids amplify sound. Aids and implants are two different things)

Common Causes

There are DOZENS of ways to destroy the incredibly sensitive ears of a cat. ANY infection or injury can lead to permanent damage. That can include,

Injury gone sour, from battle, hunting, accidents, etc

Concussion, or a hard enough blow to the ear

Ear Mites, especially if the cat can't stop scratching it

Swimming in cold or dirty river water

Fungal or bacterial infections

Allergies, which can lead to sinus infections. Even an infection in the mouth or throat can spread to the ear!

There doesn't even need to be an infection. Around the ages of 7 - 11, a senior warrior may begin to gradually lose their hearing. Sometimes, through genetic factors or degenerative disease within the ear, an even younger warrior will lose it for "no reason."

It just happens, and it's incredibly common. They will usually begin to notice it when they stop being able to hear and hunt small rodents, because hearing loss will start with high-pitched noises.

Healers can do very little about this, besides attempting to clean any wax out of the ear canal with flax oil and a dab (such as moss, wool, or cloth). There are SO many ways for it to happen and so little in the way of treatments, that it's practically inevitable.

The majority of hearing loss is from infection or disease, but the most predictable way to see deafness in the Clans is in kits born white with blue eyes. In fact, ALL pure white cats are more prone to being born deaf!

Pure white without blue eyes: 17% to 22%

White with a single blue eye: 40% (and usually on the side of the blue eye)

White with two blue eyes: 65% to 85%

In an afflicted kit, the inner ear will rapidly degenerate. They typically lose most of their hearing by their 4th day, and will only be able to faintly hear extremely loud noises.

Of course, there's also various other birth defects that can result in deaf and HOH kits, even if they aren't white with blue eyes. The ear canal and hearing organs can just not form correctly! Any kit could be born with hearing loss, and they can have any type!

If the loss came from injury or severe infection, chronic pain in the inner ear is also common. Nothing can be done about this besides painkillers such as poppy seeds. This condition is rare in born-deaf cats.

Most cats with hearing loss will also permanently hear a repetitive, single-note sound. For most it's a faint, tinny "ring," but others can hear hissing, crackling, or humming in high or low pitch.

At first, this constant noise can be distracting or even debilitating, preventing them from focusing or sleeping, until... you just get used to it.

There is no way to turn the noise off. It can get worse or better, but it's forever. Sleeping and not being stressed out will help, but over time, they typically learn to tune it out. Being reminded of it is usually annoying, just like when someone reminds you about manual breathing.

(We call this condition tinnitus. It is up to you what you would like your cats to call it, the same way they refer to pneumonia as greencough. Tinnitus is a LOT broader than this little snippet, but this is not a guide about tinnitus, this is about hearing loss)

So to summarize that,

There's a billiondy-million ways to damage one's hearing.

Losing your hearing from age or disease usually results in being hard of hearing (HOH) as opposed to deaf, and is likely to affect one ear more than the other.

It starts with high-pitched noises like rodent squeaks.

Cats born white with blue eyes have a massive chance of being born deaf; their inner ear degenerates.

But, any kit could be born with any type of hearing loss, not just deafness.

Most cats with hearing loss will hear a distracting, repetitive noise. They just learn to tune it out.

Traits and Challenges of Hearing Loss

Hearing impaired cats are LOUD.

Even warriors who have mild hearing loss will often end up speaking much louder so they can hear themselves, or not notice the sounds they're making as they shift around in their nests, scuffle sand at the dirtplace, or trample through crunchy leaf litter.

If one of their ears is better than the other, they'll usually try to stand with their "good side" facing any speakers or other sources of noise. They might appear to be constantly standing at an angle, with their head turned towards the sound. It might be so second nature that they don't realize they're doing it.

Plus, a cat with hearing loss in only one ear will lose their hearing's "distance perception," the ability to pinpoint a sound's location. EXACTLY like how losing the sight in one eye causes the loss of "depth perception," they will have difficulty telling how far away a noise actually is.

Warriors who lose their hearing later in life typically have years of experience in knowing how prey behaves and what sorts of actions make noise; but cats born deaf have to be taught this.

Instead, born-deaf cats tend to associate "sound" with "vibration." Echoes, rumbles, and the sensation of their own humming or laughter can feel very pleasurable. Their whiskers are so sensitive that they can even feel drafts of air from someone speaking in front of them! Because of that, cats with impaired hearing do better with low, rumbling "sounds" rather than high-pitched ones; even when they can't hear either. They can feel lower pitched noises.

(NOTE: Decibels are the measurement of volume, and Hertz are the measurement of pitch. These are different things, NOT interchangeable. HIGH pitch and LOW volume are lost first.)

This is why hunting is so difficult when cats begin to lose their hearing. Their sense of smell and sight can be perfectly intact, but a lot of how a cat hunts is in listening for delicate little sounds and balancing them in both ears to figure out prey's exact location. So, when a cat is learning to hunt without their hearing, they have to rely on their other senses and keep their whiskers low, dusting the ground with their chops and front paws, in hopes of their quarry making a vibration they can feel.

IMPORTANT: Don't forget that cats have carpal whiskers! They are short whiskers on the front paws of a cat, used primarily for "grappling" with other cats and struggling prey. They are less sensitive than facial whiskers, but still very useful for a hearing impaired warrior.

"Dusting," keeping the face low, is still more effective than relying entirely on "Sweeping" movements with the paws.

The younger the cat is, the more time they will have to practice and master this. Cats born deaf, who have never relied on hearing before, are usually better hunters than older warriors learning completely new techniques.

But. Clan cats aren't the only danger in the forest.

A warrior who is deaf or hard-of-hearing will not hear danger approaching, and is easy to sneak up on. Even if they keep themselves completely quiet, an intelligent fox or an enemy warrior can launch an unexpected attack on their unsuspecting target. The wilderness is dangerous, and it's not feasible to keep one's whiskers pressed to the ground at all times, even if vibrations did carry far enough to detect such danger before it's too late.

So, it would be recommended for warriors with hearing loss to not wander too far without a hearing Clanmate capable of alerting them to sounds.

They also will have a VERY difficult time acting as part of a "battalion," in large-scale battles.

In fights with dozens of entangled warriors, while they're focused on fighting the cat in front of them, they will have a hard time hearing commands. Even if well-trained in visual cues like tail signs, deaf and HOH warriors might fail to respond to yowled orders like, "RETREAT" or "SECURE THE ENTRANCE."

Even if the warrior isn't fully deaf, battles are loud and chaotic! It's very likely that such orders would get lost in the clamor of hissing and screeching cats, if the cat has any difficulties with hearing at all.

In summary,

Cats with hearing disabilities are loud.

Hearing loss in one ear will cause the loss of distance perception, and they will often stand at an angle with their good ear facing the noise.

If they were born deaf, they have to learn what makes noise.

Highly tactile, they tend to rely on whisker-sense to "replace" their hearing.

Keeping their facial whiskers low to feel for vibration, "dusting," is a very useful technique.

"Sweeping" with the carpal whiskers is also useful, but less so than "dusting."

They are in increased danger from things sneaking up on them, and shouldn't go anywhere unsafe without a buddy.

Following battle commands in large-scale battles will be difficult or nearly impossible, making them bad "team players."

Communication: Signing, lipreading, and more

(psst! @twiigbranch has a free-to-use version of pawspeak if you credit them!)

Since the majority of these cats lost their ability to hear later in life, most warriors with hearing loss will speak "normally." By "normally," that means they will talk the same way they did their whole lives, just louder so they can hear themselves better.

Over many years, they may begin to stop enunciating their words, 'slurring' their sentences, and their pitch may be a little off. Even then, it's rare that a Clanmate would be able to "tell" they have hearing loss just from their cadence.

But, meanwhile, cats who are born deaf will have a very complicated journey with speech.

It's PIVOTAL for the kit's development that the family and the Clan takes an interest in trying to communicate with them. Deaf children often become isolated from communities that don't seem to care about them, the same way any other alienated child would. This can result in trauma, lack of self-confidence, and behavioral issues.

Even if your project doesn't have Pawspeak (or doesn't have it yet!), kittens WILL find ways to communicate with their family and Clan. Sign language can evolve organically from home signs, unique gestures that will rise for a deaf child to speak with their family. BUT, the sooner they're introduced to a true sign language, the better they will be able to communicate.

Sign languages can also die naturally, simply fading away if the next few generations don't keep them alive. It's possible for the Clans to have gone through a few, over the years!

(Note: Sign languages are full languages, not just "physical versions" of a spoken one. American Sign Language and British Sign Language are from totally different families, even further from each other than English and Russian!)

It is also possible for cats born fully deaf, who have never heard words, to learn how to speak verbally... but, this takes a LOT more time and effort than using a sign language.

Teaching a deaf warrior how to say words is not quick, or easy, and is a very physical process. It involves a lot of dedicated practice time back-and-forth, with the apprentice placing their paw on their mentor's throat to feel their voice, and being coached on how to mimic the exact inflections of every word. It can be very repetitive, and very boring.

Even with lots of training, speakers born deaf have a noticeable "accent." They pronounce consonants better than they do vowels (aeiou), and often lack tone and inflection. Each warrior is an individual, and using a speaking voice is a skill some will be better at using than others.

Lipreading is very difficult. Most warriors born deaf will never learn how to do this, or even want to, as it takes an immense amount of time, effort, and tutoring. It will be more common for cats with more moderate hearing loss, especially if they lost their hearing later in life.

These are REQUIRED for a proper lip reading;

Clear view of the face. If the speaker is too far away, moving around, covers their mouth, stands in a dark place, or has their back turned, their lips can't be read. There are many ways that the view of the face could be obstructed.

Slow, clear speaking. If they're talking too quickly and mumbling their words, it will be extremely difficult to catch all of what they said. A better lip reader will be able to read faster.

Mental awareness. A cat who is tired to exhaustion, unable to focus, or not expecting to be spoken to will not be able to process what's being said. Lipreading is an action that takes brainpower.

MOST IMPORTANTLY: A single speaker, not overlapping with others. Lip reading is nearly useless during clanwide arguments. If there's tons of cats talking over each other, shouting out and interrupting, responding to unseen lips in the crowd, or even if an important speaker is just at a bad angle for the deaf warrior's line of sight to catch, they will not be able to catch everything.

Lipreading is also an action that takes focus. If the cat is tired, unable to concentrate, or isn't expecting to have to read lips, they won't be able to process what words the mouth was forming. It works best one-on-one, in clear lighting, looking straight ahead at the speaker... and even then, the BEST lipreader might only catch 40% to 50% of the words said.

So, it's truly reading. Interpretation. It isn't straightforward like language is. From, "I see a herd of deer, all of them are bucks" they might only catch, "...a... deer... of them... bucks." They will have to guess the meaning based on context!

(Look into a mirror. Quickly chant "Red right wrong" three times. Do you see how similar your lips look to form those words when you're not trying to clearly enunciate them? That's what lipreaders deal with.)

So, while there are other options, a sign language is absolutely the best choice if possible in your setting. Especially for cats who were deaf from birth, sign language is the ideal solution.

VERY IMPORTANT TIPS FOR WRITING A HEARING DISABILITY:

Please avoid them speaking with broken grammar, in third person, or with overly simplistic vocabulary, as if they are a toddler or a caveman. If a deaf cat is taught to speak, they will also learn grammar. BAD: "Examplefur go hunt. Me catch mouse good." OK: "I'm going hunting. I'm good at catching mice."

They will not suddenly "forget" how to speak if they lose their hearing, unless they have another condition such as brain injury.

Lip reading is inferior to signing.

They cannot perfectly catch every single word spoken in all conversations via lipreading, especially when the speaker isn't making an effort to include them, or it's during a disorganized group argument.

In ideal conditions, 30% to 40% of the words spoken will be picked up, and the reader will "fill in" the missing vocab with guesswork.

Teaching a deaf cat to speak verbally is a dedicated process, not something they easily "pick up."

Cats born deaf will almost never pick up lipreading, it is more common in milder forms of hearing loss.

Showing hearing clanmates making an effort to include hearing-impaired warriors, like doing translations or just making sure they understood everything, is massively appreciated.

A good culture around hearing loss is the best thing in the entire world for these cats. Support, respect, and acceptance are sincerely the most important factor in how well a hearing impaired warrior adapts with their disability.

So with that in mind, let's also explore the unique challenges in the terrains and culture of each Clan.

Unique Challenges Clan-by-Clan

Because of the nature of this disability, certain Clans are going to be more difficult for a hearing impaired warrior to function independently in, both in terms of environmental hazards and of culture.

Deaf and HOH warriors will not hear the sounds they're making if they step on noisy terrain or accidentally rustle nearby plants. Some enemies also rely more on stealth to attack their targets than others, and some territories will provide more places for prey and predators to hide. Water-related hazards will naturally cause there to be MORE disabled cats in some Clans more than others, which could mean that there will be less stigma and better community.

Environment means a lot to a cat with hearing loss!

RiverClan

Because this Clan is notorious for swimming in the river, they would have a massively higher rate of hearing loss (and scent loss) than other Clans; ESPECIALLY in late autumn and winter. This also means their healers would be MUCH more experienced with treating ear problems in general; but that's a subject for another guide!

(to answer a stray question before I eventually make that guide: RiverClan can make primitive earplugs out of beeswax to protect their hearing, but may need to trade with ThunderClan to acquire that.)

The important thing to note is that compared to other Clans, RiverClan has the highest rate of having HOH warriors. This means that there would be better support systems for hearing loss than in other Clans, and a cultural "bank" of techniques and knowledge to be shared.

They still have the same proportion of kittens born deaf compared to other Clans, but apprentices without hearing in RiverClan would have a bigger pool (heh!) of mentors who have experience with accommodating their disability.

Plus, you don't need to hear fish to catch them. While they'd still have issues hunting water voles and other wetland-loving rodents, fishers aren't at a significant disadvantage when it comes to providing food to the Clan.

Advantages--

High concentration of cats with similar disabilities provides community, and influences the broader culture to be more accommodating

Healers would have lots of experience with the injuries and illnesses that lead to hearing loss, leading to better treatment

Hearing is not necessary for catching fish, and thus has almost no bearing on how skilled a hunter would be.

Mentors would have better techniques for teaching deaf apprentices

Disadvantages--

Will not hear drowning cats. If you drop into that water you're on your own, bucko

Winter will be even harder than usual, when the river freezes over and fishing becomes more difficult.

Overall, RiverClan is THE best Clan for a deaf cat to be part of.

WindClan

With wide open spaces and lots of hills that offer a good vantage point, sight and vigilance is much more important for survival in a moorland than hearing. There's even an advantage to Pawspeak here; you can communicate from across the open moor without screaming out your location to all the prey!

On top of that, moorland has low-laying vegetation. It isn't a grassland, or filled with splashing water, or covered in crunchy leaf litter. There's not a lot of things TO accidentally make noise on, unless the warrior is trying to hide in a gorse or common heather bush, and WindClan is notorious for relying on speed over stealth anyway.

The one drawback to being a deaf moor-runner is that they will not hear baying hounds. Dogs are extremely common in moorland, either as sheep herders or as companions to human hunters shooting grouses. That said, the fact that hounds are the ONLY big predator they'll need to worry about immediately makes WindClan's moor safer than any woodland territory.

Badgers, boars, and foxes hate open spaces like moorland. It's just dogs that are a big concern, and hawks for smaller cats. There are very few "sneaky" predators in this area; most rely on speed.

So being a moor-runner is one of the best jobs that a warrior with hearing loss could have in the Clans... but the minute that they start to have problems listening to any orders, a tunneler should stop working underground immediately.

Deaf apprentices should be excused from their mandatory tunnel training, except to learn how to do evacuation drills.

There is no light underground. Even if they're capable of creating rushlights or are willing to sacrifice glowworms, that light will be dim at best, and could snuff out at any moment. Communication will become impossible with a deaf cat, and even moderate hearing loss will endanger any warrior who gets separated from their team.

If something as drastic as a cave-in or a flooding happens, they will be in extreme danger. They can't be properly warned unless they're pushed by a fellow digger, and they will not be able to notice anything that isn't rumbling. If they DO end up getting trapped under rubble, they will not hear a rescue party calling their name.

It's not just themselves they have to worry about, either. Not being able to warn or coordinate with their excavation team will put ALL of them in danger.

Advantages--

Moorland requires sharper eyes than ears to begin with.

Lack of ambush predators makes this territory particularly safe without hearing.

Quiet terrain makes sneaking less neccesary in the first place

Pawspeak is especially useful across wide distances

Disadvantages--

Hounds are still a massive danger; they could get very close before they're noticed, if they're upwind.

Will not receive a warning cry in case of any hawks or approaching predators.

Tunneling would be profoundly dangerous with a hearing disability; should be heavily discouraged.

Overall rating is that this is the second best Clan for a cat with hearing loss. RiverClan's sense of community still gives them the top seat imo, but if the attitudes of their Clanmates are good, WindClan's moor is an easy territory to adapt to.

ShadowClan

This one is going to depend on what version of ShadowClan the Erins feel like writing that day, or which one you've chosen for your own project. Do they live in a dry pine forest? Or a wetland?

If you're using the idea that ShadowClan lives in a dry pine forest, especially if your project exists in Britain where spruces, firs, and larches are non-native and thus the territory is a timber plantation, refer to the new growth section in ThunderClan below.

I do not abide by that idea, because Aengus the Prize Winning Hog did not emerge from a cranberry bog for me to disrespect him in this way <3 love ur local wetland <3

(quick note: a swamp is a wooded wetland, a marsh is an open wetland, a bog is acidic, and a fen is neutral/alkaline. Wetland is the general term here.)

Wetlands are rich with soggy ground, muck, and microbe-ridden stillwater. Though ShadowClan cats don't swim for fun, they would end up with more ear infections than most Clans through accidentally falling into the swamp. It's likely that they have the second-highest rate of hearing loss in the 5 Clans, but still significantly below RiverClan.

The lush, thick ferns and reeds provide lots of cover to the notoriously stealthy Clan, but to a warrior who can't hear, this terrain is loud and frustrating. The squish of mud under your paws and the rustle of undergrowth is very hard to adapt to if you can't hear it. ShadowClan's prey of birds, frogs, and water-rodents will respond to any accidental noises by fleeing, quickly, making hunting difficult.

Plus, ShadowClan doesn't rely on one, large, deep, stony body of water like RiverClan does, which seems to be sedimentary rock and open marsh all around. Predators are lurking everywhere in wooded swamps, and could sneak up on a warrior who can't hear them. Foxes, badgers, and boars are a danger in this territory.

All that said; ShadowClan still doesn't seem to rely on just rodents. They eat a lot of amphibians and reptiles, which are not hunted by sound. Most of the techniques they use to catch them can just be taught verbatim to a deaf apprentice, or continue to be used the same way by a warrior who has lost their hearing.

Advantages--

Concentration of warriors with hearing loss from falling into dirty water may provide community and support.

Has a good selection of prey that doesn't rely on listening to be hunted effectively.

Disadvantages--

Swamps, wooded wetlands, are dangerous and attract predators.

Lush foliage and soupy ground make moving quietly difficult for a deaf warrior; but not as difficult as leaf litter.

So, this Clan would be firmly middle-of-the-line in terms of its accessibility to a cat with hearing loss. It would depend a lot on how you plan to approach ShadowClan in your own project; such as if you plan to build out more campbound activities, see them as being social or antisocial with their Clanmates, and what kind of territory you choose for them to have.

SkyClan

As of the time of writing this guide in 2023, when the only decent description of SkyClan's new territory is from a single chapter of Squirrelflight's Hope, it's very difficult to figure out what sorts of terrain challenges a warrior with hearing loss would face at the lake.

Hopefully I can come back and update this later!

But it's most likely is that they have a diverse, varied territory, involving the climbing of steep hills and gorges. Even at the "gorge" territory, a lot of hunting would need to take place outside of the rocky parts of the ravine, in the sparse woodlands and countrysides nearby.

For hunting on sparse woodland, see the advice for ThunderClan. Most hunting in British countrysides is going to look very similar to WindClan's open fields, so refer up there for that.

Because of how close they are to humans, both in the Gorge and at the Lake, it's HIGHLY recommended that warriors with hearing loss avoid twolegplaces. ESPECIALLY towns. Between cars, crowds, and grabbing hands, these places are already dangerous (and sensory hell) for warriors with great hearing, but outright lethal for a hearing impaired cat who won't hear these things coming.

So while the majority of the Clan is jack-of-all-trades and regularly mixes up the particular terrain they hunt in, this is going to be harder for hearing impaired warriors. They have to invent brand new, unique techniques for ALL of these different environments, some of them more difficult than others. Because of that, it will naturally be easiest for a deaf warrior to "specialize" in a particular type of terrain.

This could result in some pretty intense feelings of alienation, as their hearing Clanmates regularly mix what sorts of places they tackle. Without even intending to, they could end up making the warrior feel very left out!

In terms of the culture though, SkyClan seems notoriously accommodating. Between the part-time-kittypet daylight warriors and the way they invented an entirely new mediator role for a cat who didn't enjoy hunting and fighting, it would likely be one of the BEST Clans in terms of supporting a hearing impaired warrior, even in spite of having a "standard" rate of hearing loss since their territory is not particularly wet.

So, it's very likely that they would WANT to fix the fact they've accidentally made their Clanmate excluded, and seek solutions that work for everyone. If any Clan besides RiverClan had a Pawspeak interpreter translating Leafstar's words, it would probably be these guys lmao

Advantages--

Varied terrain means there will be at least a few places that aren't too hard for them to adapt to

Sparse woods, open fields, and even gorges, the three most common terrain types, are at worst decent for a deaf cat to hunt in.

VERY accommodating culture, the absolute best outside of the Clans with a high hearing loss percentage.

Disadvantages--

Generalist training, where every warrior handles vastly different terrain types, will exponentially increase how much training a hearing-impaired warrior must learn.

Being unable to join with their Clanmates in hunting across the entire territory could feel isolating

Rating: Close to top tier, but variable. It's going to depend somewhat on the personality of the warrior. While SkyClan will likely make a big effort to include them, the reality of needing to learn several sets of parallel skills and the way they might feel like an "outsider" for specializing could cause extra distress. Especially for a warrior losing their hearing later in life.

ThunderClan

Because of their collaborative culture and hunting style, described as snobbish and bossy by other Clans, it's very likely that ThunderClan would struggle the most with a specific type of ableism. Since they value group cohesion, it follows they may force Assimilation onto a disabled warrior rather than Accommodation.

As mentioned earlier, Pawspeak is the best thing for the comfort of a deaf warrior... but it might not occur to this Clan to encourage the majority of the Clan to adapt to a minority of warriors.

But it gets worse. Forests are AWFUL terrain to hunt in if you can't hear. Imagine walking in a field with a bunch of invisible landmines, and if you step on one, it broadcasts your EXACT location.

It's difficult to tell if your mouse is running away because you crunched a leaf and made a sound... or because a bird in a tree SAW you and is now raising up an alarm cry. If you can't actually hear what the noise was that scared your lunch away, you might blame yourself for being clumsy as a fox barrels towards you!

When it comes to forests, there are significant differences between an old growth forest and a new growth forest. BOTH of them are going to be extremely difficult for a disabled warrior to adapt to, but old growth is harder.

OLD GROWTH

In both, ground litter is a challenge, but especially so in an old growth British forest. Natural forests there are primarily mixed oak, which drop twigs, leaves, and acorns all over the ground.

These areas are bountiful, productive, and brimming with life. Both in terms of prey and predators. The varied canopy of natural, mixed-age trees allows sunlight to filter through and create an "understorey," providing lots of food and cover to lots of different animals. Unfortunately, foliage is not a deaf warrior's friend.

As previously mentioned, a mix of areas for animals to hide in and a surrounding of rattling plant life is the worst possible combination for a cat who can't hear. Worse, hunting rodents depends massively on hearing them through the leaf litter, thanks to those high-pitched chirps and squeaks which are the first thing to vanish when a cat loses their hearing.

This would be so bad that it's likely ThunderClan "works" its youngest members much harder than its seniors, assigning apprentices and young warriors to significantly more hunting patrols. Since hearing loss is so common that it's practically inevitable, and the security of a Clan allows these wild cats to live to such old ages, it would be "common sense" to ThunderClan to structure things this way.

Old growth patches are practically food pantries for Clan cats, but hearing impaired warriors will have a HELLISH time trying to hunt in them.

NEW GROWTH

When a forest is new and all of the trees in a stand are about the same age, they create a uniform canopy. Like a continuous tent. This means they're so effective at blocking out sunlight that there's virtually no understorey.

No understorey means no food. Or very little food. But it also means no cover. And, usually, significantly less leaf litter. This is because in Britain, most of these types of forests are non-native conifers. Sitka spruce and douglas fir are the two biggest offenders-- and that's significant because nothing here has evolved to EAT the products of those trees.

In ThunderClan, Tallpines is an example of this, but this type of terrain could pop up anywhere that's seen massive destruction.

No understorey to feed prey, no products of the trees which native animals can eat, a silent floor covered in pine needles which offer no hiding places, almost chilling uniformity of the strange trees in evenly-spaced rows...

All of this to say that there's an irony here, that the hearing impaired warrior will be best at hunting in the most barren parts of the forest.

There's much less things to trip up on, or rustle. Prey can be plainly seen out in the open. Gray squirrels are the most significant prey that can utilize these areas, and they DO make a hearty meal for a Clan cat. Additionally, these areas are particularly silent because they're so barren, which might make them seem "creepy" to hearing warriors, but that wouldn't bother a deaf warrior one bit!

Advantages--

Cultural sentiment of "all for one; one for all" may lead to more dedication from the Clan as a whole in connecting to the hearing impaired cat

Which could be a blessing or a curse, depending on the individual warrior's feelings.

Ability to work efficiently in the most barren parts of the forest

Disadvantages--

Cultural emphasis on collaboration in group hunting likely leads to deaf cats being encouraged to adapt to the patrol rather than their own strengths.

May result in more emphasis on teaching lip reading and 'speech therapy,' rather than the adoption or implementation of Pawspeak.

Very difficult to stay quiet in a forest if you can't hear the crunch of leaf litter and twigs.

Lots of cover means random bullshit can spring out from any corner; abundance of ambush predators.

Cover also means there's a lot of places for prey to hide, and hearing can't be used to pinpoint the location.

Lots of rodent prey, which relies on hearing high-pitched noise to catch.

Rating: F MINUS, SEE ME AFTER CLASS. By FAR the worst Clan for a warrior with hearing loss to be part of, for both practical reasons, AND cultural reasons. Awful awful awful, absolutely abysmal, failing grade. Dark Souls for deaf cats

Though remember! This part of the guide is a suggestion. You do not need to include ableism in your own projects if you do not want to, and I hope with the information that you now have, you know how to better avoid it!

"Sources?"

Right this way~

#Deafness #Hearing Loss #Herb Guide #Clan Culture #warrior cats #deaf warriors #This is not BB but I feel like I should tag it just for the cover art #Since Stonewing and Dovewing don't have hearing loss in canon #BUT I SAY THEY DO #Better Bones AU...ish. kinda #Bonefall's Herb Guides

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salemoleander · 1 year ago

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I am BARELY resisting going full red-strings-corkboard on this season. And by barely resisting I mean not resisting at all here is an extremely long list of the events those pins would be marking out.

BigB getting a Task that was a different color than everyone else's. It's not just a randomly assigned Hard Task, bc Scar rerolled for a Hard Task and his was also just a white envelope. It's fundamentally different.

That task taking BigB away from socialization, and seemingly being an incredibly time-consuming and dull request. Of profound disinterest to any watchers.

The phrasing of his Task!!

Dig a big hole. All the way down. At least 3x3. Make it your base if you want.

Everyone else's are direct and formal - the only one with more than one sentence was Skizz's, with the rule clarification of "One attempt only." Bigb's Task is four short abrupt sentences. It is also the only Task to contain extraneous information, 'Make it your base if you want.' The requirements (at least 3x3) feel like an afterthought to mimic the numerical/specific demands of the other tasks.

Evo symbol on the face of the Secret Keeper statue.

The fact that there's a statue at all; the fact that there is a physical representation of what is assigning tasks that everyone must complete, when previously everything was always handled via commands and unseen RNG.

Grian talking to the statue, and (bc of his Actual Role as game organizer) acting as a mediator for the impartial decisions handed down, speaking for it.

Grian making one last bad joke and saying he doesn't know if it counted or not- depends on whether we the audience laughed.

Grian asking for task recommendations from the audience. The watchers are making the tasks. The Watchers are making the tasks.

Again I could be off-base, and I'm not usually even that smitten with bringing in Evo lore. I don't want a Big Bad really...but. It feels like something very unusual and intentional and cool is happening in this series. And I'd guess we'll know if theres something going on once we have more than one data point.

My largely unfounded suspicion is that there is another being (maybe Listeners, maybe something else) trying to reach out to the Players via decoy Tasks, and BigB was the first recipient. Get them alone, make them of disinterest to the watchers, and tell them something we don't get to know.

Because that's the really, really fucking cool part (if my wacky theory is remotely right): We're the bad guys. We're the ones giving out tasks - hell, we're the ones actively brainstorming harder and crueller tasks in Grian's comments!

If they actually made a story where the Players have to keep secrets from us I will be delighted. Bc that is the same genius bullshit that made Evo Watcher lore so fun

#secret life #slsmp #life series #grian #secret life smp #bigb #i think im starting to get the shape of the conceit #this could all be nonsense of course. i may be completely off base and nothing will happen and it's just a normal life series #but it feels like there's something Larger happening here #anyways. will keep thinking and mulling this over and collecting scraps of evidence #secret life spoilers #slsmp spoilers #spoilers #salem meta #salem tag #im so enriched. i love being wrong about stories

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sincerelybubbles · 4 months ago

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hotch x shy!bau!reader <3 fem content: slight age gap implied. reader is new to the team and more on the introverted side! not proof read, as is my hubris.

Tired, nerves buzzing from a night spent up and chasing sleep that was not welcoming, you throw your bag down on your desk and go off in hunt of coffee. You usually try to curb your caffeine intake, especially with the travel associated with your new job, but this morning is a happy exception to your new rule.

"Here," Emily says, watching you scan the cabinets of the kitchen. You hadn't heard her walk in, but she's offering you a mug with a sympathetic smile. "Long night?"

"Yes," you say, tone thankful, and spin to figure out the coffee machine.

"Three weeks and i haven't seen you use that once," she comments, sipping from her own warm mug and watching you settle the filter in place.

"I've stayed away. it's harder to sleep when I get back because of the jet lag, anyway, don't need to add coffee at all odd hours to the list, too."

It's the most you've said in casual conversation like this. To say you've been shy with your new team would be an understatement. You're good at your job, you were pulled from the academy early to do this for a reason. You fit well into the team, generally. You like listening to Spencer ramble, especially on the longer flights. Rossi's dry humor reminds you of one of your old professors you grew up admiring. JJ is a constant breath of fresh air, Morgan's consistent strength has built up your own moral. Garcia took no getting used to, lifting you up and settling into your life easily. Hotch is intimidating but kind under the colder-tones, long glances sometimes distracting but oterhwise comforting. Emily is easily one of your favorites on the team, friendly and whip-smart. But, at the core of it, you're shy. Painfully so, even.

The team caught onto this quick, settling into the truth that your observational nature that makes you so adept at noticing the smaller details is bound to weep into your social life as well. So, despite your comfort levels rising with the team, you find these situations hard. Do you explain your nightmares to Emily? Share that you're a diagnosed insomniac who spent the night watching FRIENDS reruns after chasing sleep that pranced beyond reach?

"You're better than me, then," Emily says, smiling over her mug. Her eyes tell you she's pleased at the little crack into your life that you've let her see. They're all like that: insufferably kind and polite with your introverted nature but greedily sipping up everything they can learn about you.

"It's a new development," you admit, clicking start on the machine and settling back against the counter facing her. Something about your sleepiness makes it easier to talk, your tongue looser, your ache to let loose around the team more profound. "I'm sure most of us are insomniacs, though."

"Not me," Emily says, chuckling. "I get home and feel like I don't wake up until I get back here."

"Ah, well, I'm sure it can feel like a curse no matter what way you fall," you say with a shrug. Emily lifts her coffee in cheers to that.

"Morning," Morgan says, turning into the kitchen and giving you a surprised smile. "Hello, sunshine, you're looking bright eyed today."

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. "I know, I know."

Emily points with her chin at you, "She's making the coffee this morning."

"Ah-ah, remaking it because you and pretty boy always get here first and finish the first pot." Morgan teases her with a slight shake of his head, grinning and opening the fridge to pull out the creamer.

"Well, you snooze you loose. Or," she sends you a smile, complete with a little nose wrinkle and a tilt of her head, "you don't snooze and still loose."

"Clever," you say, voice dry with humor, hiding your laugh by turning around as the pot finished brewing. "I'll remember this later."

"Careful, she's got teeth," Morgan warns Emily, reaching around you to grab the coffee before you can and filling his cup.

"Hey!" You call in protest, voice raising louder than usual and a pout hitting your lips. Morgan laughs, white teeth on display, eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Here, here," he says, placating, tipping the pitcher to fill your cup as well. "Any sugar or cream to placate the beast?"

Before you can answer, a laugh on the tip o your tongue, Hotch walks in and settles his watchful eyes on you, interest sparking them. You shrink, not in fear but in self-awareness, and send him a closed lip smile. Stepping away from Morgan, you turn quickly to fix your own coffee.

"Good morning," Hotch says, nodding at Emily and Morgan, answering Emily's question about Jack's recent sickness (he's recovering well, thank you) and trying to catch your eye.

You duck away, cowardly and regressing back into your shell, deciding it's time to get to work and stop indulging. You catch Morgan tease Hotch as you leave, though, "Aw, you've scared her off."

You try not to think about it as you duck away, pushing all thoughts of your boss away.

You're unsuccessful.

The problem isn't that you're afraid of him because you think he's mean or unkind in any way. He's done his best to welcome you to the team, allowing you to take investigations in your own direction and listening to your insights since day one. There was a brief moment in your first week where you felt tested, like his questions weren't to gain your insight but to see if you were up to the task, but you slipped past that easily. you have the credentials to back yourself up. you're quiet, yeah, but you're always right on track to where you need to be. pulled early from academy to jump into investigating was hard but it made this easy. a few years of experience under your belt and the job feels natural and, even with the shift in teams to join the big guns in Quantico, you feel like you're exactly where you're meant to be.

No, embarrassingly, this has nothing to do with you not liking your boss or being afraid of him. Rather, he makes you too comfortable. He ducks his head to hear you speak as you walk and talk, settling deep eyes on your face. He's sturdy, dependable, and exactly everything you're all too interested in.

You hate it, harboring a school crush on your boss like you're a teen pining over your teacher. You know it's normal, you know it's perfectly reasonable and there's absolutely nothing wrong with being attracted to him, but you still slink away from him more than the others because of that attraction.

Because it's more than physical.

He listens when you talk. Granted, so do the rest of the team - they're profilers, of course they catalogue everything everyone is saying for future reference. But, beyond that, you catch him paying attention. He complimented your new blouse earlier in the week and it caused air to catch in your throat, suffocating you. It looked new, bright white and without wrinkles, but you knew he must have been looking, noticing, to remember you not wearing it before. He's kind, remembering details about you and the team and using them to aid in everyone's comfort. He knows Spencer can't handle dairy and you've heard him reminding an intern to stock the dairy-free alternatives for creamer in the jet. He brought you a neck pillow on your second flight because you didn't have one.

That gift you accepted with stuttering thank-you's and a flushed face. It hadn't flared this crush, but it definitely aided in your ability to accept it when you finally got around to no longer avoiding how he made you feel with every kind smile and gentle good morning.

You settle down at your desk, putting your steaming mug on a pile of paperwork you really need to sort through, and try to physically push the thoughts out of your head by ranking your hands through your hair, lifting it from your forehead and squeezing your eyes shut. Today isn't the day. You're too tired, sure that the team will be flying out today, and really need to be on your A-Game.

"Everything okay?" A calm voice asks from your elbow. When you look up, you decide the universe hates you. Hotch is leaning on the desk adjacent to yours, holding his own travel cup full of fresh coffee, chin tilted down to check on you. His gaze is kind, light on your face, and his eyebrows are lifted slightly. You get the feeling that he's doing everything in his power to present himself as less imposing.

"Yes, of course," you answer automatically, heart thudding in your throat.

"You know, you shouldn't lie to profilers," he says, tone teasing, voice still low. "If you're tired, it's okay to admit it to me, too."

You're about to brush him off when something in your brain freezes before clicking into place.

He's looking at you, pleading, expression open. He's usually guarded, professional. Caring, but with a guard up. Rare are these moments of genuine asking, especially rarer so are the moment of pleading hidden behind a mask of gentle humor. You think, briefly, about how it must seem to him. He heard you, Emily, and Morgan joking in the kitchen. You haven't been here long, you're shy, but slowly thawing to everyone but him. He doesn't know your reasons, he couldn't, you've made a genuine effort to hide them, and you force yourself to see it from his perspective.

"Sorry," you say, softly, slowly. "I didn't sleep well. First nightmares and then insomnia. Hence," you gesture toward your mug. You shrug, heart beating out of your chest, eyes searching his. Nice, be nice, be open and kind and yourself. "At least I have FRIENDS reruns to keep me company."

You see something relax in him at your gentle offering of the information. He sends you a not-quite-smile, nodding once and pushing himself off of the desk he was lightly leaning against.

"Take a few minutes, I'm sure JJ will call us in soon." He scans your face for a moment before looking down at your desk. He reaches forward, slowly but with purpose, and lifts a file that has been nagging you for days. The new computer system is hard to get used to and the paperwork load is heavier than you've experienced before. "I can help you with this to ease some of your load, too."

He's walking away before you can protest, tucking the file under his arm and ducking into his office. He moves swiftly, leaving no room for argument, and you're left at your desk, mouth agape and heart in your mouth.

"Wow," Spencer says, jolting you in your chair to spin around and face him. His desk is near yours, across a walkway, and you hadn't registered him sitting there. You think he was nose-deep in a book when you walked in but you hadn't been paying attention. "I don't think I've seen him warm up to someone that fast," Spencer admits, leaning back in his seat and giving you a confused look, eyebrows lowered. "Actually, he's never offered to help me do my paperwork. Ever."

"That's because you read far too fast for it to actually help you," you offer, mind racing, words hollow as your thoughts are elsewhere.

Eyes trained on the windows of Hotch's office, you take his advice and relax for the few minutes before JJ comes to gather you all in the conference room. Coffee on your lips, you let yourself smile behind the rim of your mug. You can't imagine how you could think of anything other than that, really.

#bubbs.writes #criminal minds #cm #x reader #fluff #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner #hotch x reader #hotchner x reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #shy!reader #Hotch x shy!reader #reader insert #maybe ooc #idk im always afraid of that #reblog appreciated #love u

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pedroscowgirl · 4 months ago

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A Younger Revelation

Hugh jackman x female!reader

Part 2

Warnings: smut! Minors, DNI!!

Age gap (reader is their (mid) 20s), p in v, creampie (wrap it up), choking, hugh is posessive (?) , daddy issues (i can't help it) and squirting

lmk if i missed some!

Words: 4.5k

A/N: I saw a few ppl say that hugh (and his son) are into older women and i just had to write something about it cuz i want to be his controversial younger gf i hope you like it!

You and Hugh had been friends for over three years, ever since you starred in a movie together. The on-screen chemistry was profound, and off-screen, it quickly turned into a deep, genuine friendship. But as time passed, you began to notice a shift in your feelings. It wasn't just admiration for his talent or his kind-hearted nature, it was something far more intense. You had always been drawn to older men, a fascination born from perhaps, some unresolved issues with your father. It was a part of yourself you had come to understand, but with Hugh, it became an irresistible pull.

The age difference was glaring. Hugh was closer to your parents' age, even older than your dad. The thought of being attracted to him felt wrong, almost taboo, like a secret you shouldn't entertain. Yet, the more you were around him, the more you craved his presence, his voice, the comforting maturity he exuded. The way he moved, the timbre of his laughter, and the warmth in his eyes, it all made you want him even more. It didn't help that you had come across interviews and internet whispers, and even a hint from his ex-wife, all pointing to his preference for older women. It stung, knowing that you probably weren't his type, but it didn't stop the fantasies from consuming you.

One evening, the two of you sat on the terrace of his apartment, sipping wine under the silver glow of the moon. The city lights twinkled in the distance, but the world felt confined to the small space you shared. It was a beautiful, quiet night, and the air was thick with unspoken words. You had always enjoyed these moments with Hugh, comfortable, intimate, and filled with a sense of ease that belied the complexity of your feelings. But tonight, the tension felt different, more visible. The usual comfort was tinged with a sharp undercurrent of desire.

Taking a deep breath, you decided to break the silence. "You know," you began, your voice soft and deliberate, "we have something in common." Hugh glanced at you, curiosity sparking in his eyes. "We're both attracted to older people."

He paused, his glass halfway to his lips, caught off guard. You saw the confusion in his eyes as he processed your words. "You're attracted to older women," you continued, watching as his expression shifted. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. The tension in the air thickened, and you felt a heady rush of adrenaline. "And I'm attracted to older men."

Hugh choked on his wine, coughing slightly as he set his glass down. The look of surprise on his face was priceless, but you pressed on, feeling bolder with every word. "Have you ever tried a younger woman?" you asked, your voice dropping to a sultry, almost teasing tone. You leaned in closer, your breath ghosting over his skin. "Don't you ever crave it? The energy, the freshness... the excitement?"

He looked at you, a mix of shock and intrigue in his eyes. There was a visible shift in the atmosphere, the air charged with a new kind of tension. Hugh's gaze darkened, his eyes roaming over your face, then down your body, as if seeing you in a new light. He swallowed again, visibly trying to maintain his composure. "Sweetheart," he began, his voice low and rough, "I'm too old for you."

You tilted your head, a sly smile playing on your lips. "But you know what it's like to be into that," you said, leaning in so close that your lips nearly brushed his. The proximity sent a shiver down your spine, the anticipation building to a fever pitch. "Maybe you could try something different, something... younger."

Before you could second-guess yourself, Hugh's hands were on you, pulling you onto his lap with a smooth, assertive motion. The sudden intimacy made your heart race, your breath catching in your throat. You could feel the heat of his body against yours, the firmness of his chest beneath your hands. His grip on your hips was possessive, his fingers digging in just enough to send a thrill through you. The reality of the situation hit you—this was happening.

Hugh looked up at you, his eyes intense and filled with a mix of desire and conflict. "I mean," he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper, "we can try something, and I'll get back to you on that." His words were laced with a sensual promise, an unspoken agreement that sent a rush of heat through your veins.

You felt the weight of the moment, the gravity of what you were about to do. The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in this intimate bubble. Your hands found their way to his shoulders, your fingers tracing the lines of his muscles. You could feel the slight tremor in his hands, a testament to the struggle between his self-control and the desire simmering beneath the surface.

Leaning in, you whispered against his lips, "Let's see where this goes." The tension was unbearable, the air thick with anticipation. And then, finally, his lips met yours. The kiss was slow and exploratory at first, a tentative test of boundaries. But it quickly deepened, becoming more urgent, more passionate. His hands roamed over your back, pulling you closer, as if he couldn't get enough of you. The world outside ceased to exist. There was only the sensation of his lips, the taste of wine, and the electric connection that sparked between you.

In that moment, everything else faded away. The doubts, the fears, the societal norms—they all melted into the background. All that mattered was the way he made you feel, the way your body responded to his touch, and the intoxicating promise of what was to come.

As you broke the kiss, a delicious tension lingered in the air, thick with the promise of more. Sitting on Hugh's lap, you felt the heat of his body radiate through his clothes and into your skin. His hands, strong and sure, moved from your hips to your ass, squeezing gently. The intimate touch made your breath hitch, and your eyes locked with his, the burning gaze between you sparking an electric connection.

"I'll admit, you're a good kisser," he whispered, his voice low and dripping with that irresistible Australian accent. The words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn't help but bite your lip, savouring the compliment. "You're not so bad yourself," you replied, a playful smile tugging at your lips. He chuckled softly, his eyes briefly dropping to your chest, where the rise and fall of your breath betrayed your growing anticipation.

Hugh's hand slowly slid from your ass up to your shoulder, the touch sending a trail of warmth in its wake. With a deliberate slowness, he hooked a finger under the thin strap of your tank top, pulling it down with a teasing grin. The fabric slipped off your shoulder, revealing more of your skin, and you felt the cool night air against your bare breast, sending a jolt of awareness through you. You weren't wearing a bra, and the sudden exposure made you feel both vulnerable and excited.

His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of awe crossing his face as he took in the sight of you. "Beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself, before he leaned in closer. His other hand joined in, deftly removing your top entirely. As the fabric fell away, leaving you bare from the waist up, you felt a delicious thrill of exposure, the night air cool against your skin. Hugh's gaze was hot and heavy, his admiration evident as he took in the sight of your nakedness. You could see the desire in his eyes, mirrored by the lust in your own.

Feeling his intensity, you felt a flush spread across your cheeks, your breathing growing shallow. There was something incredibly erotic about the way he looked at you, fully clothed in his short-sleeved shirt that highlighted his toned arms and muscular biceps. The contrast made you feel even more exposed, more vulnerable, and yet, it was thrilling. Before you could say anything, he leaned in, his lips capturing your nipple. The sensation sent a shockwave of pleasure through your body, making you gasp.

Your hands instinctively reached for his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as his mouth worked its magic. He alternated between soft licks and gentle bites, each touch sending ripples of pleasure coursing through you. Your hips began to move on their own, grinding against him as you sought more friction, more connection. You could feel the hardness of his arousal pressing against you through the fabric of his pants, and the knowledge of his desire only heightened your own.

As his mouth continued its sweet torment on your sensitive skin, your body responded eagerly. Every flick of his tongue, every nip of his teeth, sent sparks of pleasure straight to your core. You arched into him, wanting more, needing more. The feel of his warm, wet mouth on your nipple was intoxicating, and you couldn't help the soft moans that escaped your lips.

Hugh's free hand roamed up and down your back, caressing and holding you close as if grounding himself in the reality of this moment. The feeling of his hands on you, the weight of his body beneath you, and the heat of his mouth all combined to create an intoxicating mix of sensations. You felt powerful and utterly desired, lost in the pleasure of the moment and the knowledge that this man, who had seemed untouchable, was now very much within your grasp.

As you continued to grind against him, the friction and heat built up between you, each movement sending a wave of pleasure through your body. Hugh's breathing grew ragged, his grip on you tightening as he responded to your movements. His mouth left your nipple, trailing kisses up to your neck, where he nibbled softly, drawing another gasp from you.

You felt like you were on fire, every nerve ending alight with desire. The air was thick with the scent of wine and the heady musk of arousal, and you knew there was no turning back. The night had taken a turn into the forbidden, and you were more than willing to explore this uncharted territory with him.

As Hugh's lips lavished warm kisses on your breast, each touch sending electric jolts through your body, you felt an irresistible urge to feel more of him, to uncover the mystery beneath his shirt. Your fingers moved with a mind of their own, sliding up his torso and curling into the fabric, giving a gentle tug. It was a subtle yet unmistakable sign for him to undress. He paused, pulling back just enough to lock eyes with you, a playful grin spreading across his face. His hands moved to the hem of his shirt, peeling it off with an effortless grace that left you breathless.

As the shirt fell away, revealing the sculpted lines of his chest and the ripple of muscles beneath his skin, your eyes widened in astonishment. You couldn't help but let out a soft, appreciative gasp. "You have an amazing build for your age," you murmured, your voice tinged with genuine admiration and a hint of awe.

Hugh's smile widened, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "You know what else is great for my age? My stamina," he replied, his tone dripping with confidence and a hint of mischief. The promise in his words sent a delicious shiver down your spine. You bit your lip, the anticipation making your pulse race. "Let's test that out," you challenged, your voice barely above a whisper but full of bold intent.

Without a moment's hesitation, Hugh's hands found your waist. With an effortless strength that took your breath away, he lifted you and set you down on the cold surface of the terrace table. The sudden contrast of the cool marble against your warm skin made you jolt, a soft gasp escaping your lips. It was a shock that only heightened the pleasure coursing through you.

His hands worked at the buttons of your pants, sliding them down your legs and casting them aside. You felt exposed, vulnerable, yet undeniably excited. The night air kissed your skin, adding to the thrill of the moment. Hugh's eyes roamed over you with a hunger that made your heart pound. As his fingers trailed down your thighs and found their way to your wetness, a smirk tugged at his lips.

"Aren't you a little embarrassed?" he teased, his voice a low, seductive purr. "To be this wet for a man older than your own father?" His words were provocative, laced with a taboo allure that made your cheeks flush. You knew there was a truth in what he said, but the forbidden nature of it only heightened your desire. Hugh was unlike any man you'd ever known—there was a raw, magnetic allure about him that drew you in, making you forget about the world beyond this terrace.

He was a god in human form, exuding a potent mix of masculinity and confidence. His touch was confident and assured, his fingers exploring you with an intimate knowledge that made your body sing. The cool night air combined with the warmth of his hands created a heady contrast that made you moan softly. Hugh's thumb found your clit, and he began to circle it with a tantalizing slowness, sending waves of pleasure rippling through you.

He leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear. "You're so responsive," he murmured, the huskiness of his voice sending a thrill down your spine. Then, with deliberate slowness, he pushed a finger inside you. The sudden intrusion made you gasp, your body arching towards him, craving more of his touch. The intensity of your desire was palpable, a living, breathing thing that consumed you.

"Already?" he asked, a teasing glint in his eyes. "I'm not even inside you yet." You couldn't help but roll your eyes playfully, which only made him chuckle. There was a warmth in his laughter, a sound that wrapped around you and heightened the anticipation building between you. "Go ahead then, go inside me," you dared him, but the words came out more like a plea, your voice breathy with need.

Hugh's expression shifted, his eyes darkening with lust. "My god, you're such a slut for me," he said, his voice thick with desire. The crude declaration sent a jolt of excitement through you, making your heart race. "Fuck yes, Hugh, I am," you confessed, the honesty in your voice making your cheeks burn. It was liberating, admitting just how badly you wanted him, and his smirk told you he relished every word.

"Fine, I'll give you what you want," he murmured, a wicked grin spreading across his face. With deliberate slowness, he unzipped his pants, letting them drop to the floor. The sight of him, hard and ready, made you swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry with anticipation. You couldn't help but stare, your eyes tracing every inch of him, the primal hunger in your gaze unmistakable.

Then, as if breaking the spell, Hugh looked up, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "Oh, I don't have a condom with me," he suddenly said, a hint of concern in his voice. You barely hesitated, the words tumbling out before you could think. "It's okay, I'm on the pill." The moment hung in the air, the intimacy of the situation crystal clear. His eyes darkened further, a predatory gleam shining in them as he absorbed your words.

"If you say so, babygirl," he murmured, his voice low. He positioned himself at your entrance, and with a slow, deliberate thrust, he entered you. The sudden fullness made you gasp, your hands gripping the edges of the table for support as your back arched involuntarily. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pressure that made your mind go blank.

Hugh groaned, his head tilting back as he savoured the feeling. "Gosh, you feel so delicious around me," he breathed out, his voice laced with raw desire. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer as he began to move, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through your body.

"Better than anything you've had before?" you managed to ask, your voice shaky with the intensity of the sensations coursing through you. It was a question born of curiosity and a bit of pride, wanting to know if he felt the same electric connection that you did. His response was a low, guttural moan, his eyes locking onto yours with a fiery intensity.

"Much better," he rasped, his voice dripping with sincerity. His movements became more urgent, more insistent, as if he couldn't get enough of you. The rhythm he set was intoxicating, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. You could feel the table beneath you shaking with the force of his movements, the cold surface a stark contrast to the heat building inside you.

Hugh's hand slid up your body, fingers tracing the curve of your spine, sending shivers through you. His touch was both gentle and possessive, a reminder of the power he held over you in this moment. The pleasure built to a crescendo, the tension coiling tighter and tighter until it felt like you might explode. The world around you blurred, and all you could focus on was the delicious friction and the overwhelming sensation of him filling you completely.

"Fuck, you're amazing," he growled, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he could scarcely believe the intensity of the moment. The praise sent a thrill through you, pushing you even closer to the edge. You could feel him pulse inside you, every inch of him fitting perfectly, as if he was made for you.

As the intensity of the moment reached its peak, Hugh's thrusts grew even more purposeful, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that left you breathless. You felt a different kind of pressure building within you, a sensation that was new, raw, and overwhelming. It was as if your body was responding to him in ways it never had before, every nerve electrified by his touch.

Sensing the shift, Hugh slowed his pace slightly, maintaining a deep, steady rhythm that drove you wild. He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear. "I can feel it, baby," he murmured, his voice a low, seductive growl. "You're so close. Let go for me. I want to feel you come apart."

The deep timbre of his voice and the promise in his words sent you spiraling. The pressure inside you continued to mount, reaching an almost unbearable level. You gasped, clutching the edge of the table as if it were a lifeline, your body shaking with the effort to hold back. But Hugh was relentless, his thrusts hitting just the right spot, coaxing you closer to the edge.

He placed a firm hand on your lower abdomen, pressing down gently. "Just let go, sweetheart," he urged, his voice soft yet commanding. "I want you to let it all out. Don't hold back." His words were like a key, unlocking something deep within you. The sensation became too much to contain, a dam about to burst.

With a strangled cry, you felt the floodgates open. A powerful wave of pleasure crashed over you, your body convulsing as you squirted, a hot rush of release that left you trembling. The sensation was so intense, so utterly consuming, that you could hardly breathe. Your vision blurred, and your mind blanked out everything but the exquisite feeling coursing through you. Hugh's eyes never left yours, a satisfied, almost possessive smile playing on his lips. "That's it, baby," he coaxed, his voice dripping with pride and satisfaction. "Let it all out. You're amazing."

As the intense waves of your orgasm began to subside, Hugh didn't slow down. Instead, he kept the pressure steady, his thrusts deep and precise, as if he was determined to draw every last ounce of pleasure from you. Just when you thought you couldn't handle any more, he reached up and wrapped a hand around your throat, applying just enough pressure to send another thrill of excitement coursing through your body. The sensation of his strong hand on your neck, combined with the powerful thrusts inside you, was intoxicating.

He leaned in close, his eyes locking onto yours with a dark, possessive intensity. "I'm gonna cum in you sweet girl" he growled, his voice low and commanding, sending shivers down your spine. The weight of his words hung in the air, adding a dangerous edge to the moment. "And you can never spill it, okay? Or I won't fuck you ever again." There was an undeniable authority in his voice, a challenge that made your heart race even faster.

The combination of his hand around your throat and the raw dominance in his voice sent you spiraling into another wave of pleasure. You nodded, breathless, barely able to form words. "Okay," you managed to gasp, your voice strained with the pressure on your neck and the overwhelming sensations coursing through you.

"Good girl," he murmured, a satisfied smirk on his lips. With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, his grip on your throat tightening just enough to leave you breathless. You felt him pulse inside you, his release hot and thick, filling you completely. The sensation pushed you over the edge once more, your body arching towards him as you came again, the intensity almost too much to bear.

Hugh groaned, the sound deep and primal, as he found his release. His hand around your throat loosened, his fingers caressing your skin in a tender contrast to the roughness of his thrusts. The mixture of gentle and rough was intoxicating, leaving you utterly spent and completely satisfied.

"No young man has ever made me feel this way," you whispered, your voice shaky but filled with awe. The admission felt both liberating and surprising, as if you'd just discovered a new facet of yourself.

Hugh's smile widened, his eyes darkening with a mix of pride and desire. "That's because no young man knows how to treat a woman like you," he murmured, his fingers gently stroking your cheek. "You've got so much passion inside you, and I'm just the man to bring it out."

You looked up at him, a playful smile curling your lips. "So, have I changed your mind? Are you not into older women anymore?" you teased, your voice light and flirtatious. Hugh paused for a moment, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. The question seemed to catch him off guard, but his response was swift and sincere.

"Babygirl," he began, a slow smile spreading across his face, "I can only think about your pussy right now." His blunt honesty made your heart flutter, a delicious thrill coursing through you at his words. It was as if nothing else existed for him in that moment but you, and the intensity of his focus made you feel desired in a way you hadn't experienced before.

Still, amidst the raw passion, there was a tenderness in his gaze that reassured you. He reached out, gently cupping your face in his large hands. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice soft and filled with genuine concern. It was a simple question, but it spoke volumes about the kind of man he was, capable of both dominance and deep care. You nodded, feeling a warm glow spread through your chest.

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a sweet, loving kiss. It was a stark contrast to the raw, animalistic passion from moments before, and it left you breathless in an entirely different way. The kiss was tender, lingering, as if he was savouring the moment. When he pulled back, his eyes were warm, a soft smile on his lips.

With gentle hands, Hugh reached down to pull your panties back on, his touch careful and deliberate. He made sure nothing spilled out, his fingers grazing your sensitive skin, sending a shiver through you. As he adjusted the fabric, he leaned down and pressed a light, teasing kiss over your clit through the thin material. The unexpected gesture made you gasp, your body jolting with a mix of surprise and lingering desire.

Your legs felt weak, trembling slightly from the intensity of everything that had just transpired. Hugh chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made your stomach flip. "Next time, we'll just do it in bed," he said with a smirk, his eyes twinkling with amusement. You couldn't help but laugh, the tension breaking into a shared moment of light-heartedness. The intimacy of the moment, combined with the playful banter, felt like a perfect culmination of the intense connection you shared.

Together, you went back inside while Hugh was holding you bridal style. The cool air giving way to the warmth of the house. The bathroom was steamy as Hugh turned on the shower, the sound of running water filling the space. Without missing a beat, he scooped you back up into his strong arms, cradling you against his chest. His strength was evident as he carried you with ease, his touch reassuring and protective. You wrapped your arms around his neck, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath your fingertips.

As the warm water cascaded over you both, it felt like a cleansing, a washing away of everything but the present moment. Hugh held you close, his hands roaming your wet skin with a mix of possessiveness and reverence. The water created a curtain around you, isolating you in a cocoon of heat and steam.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he pressed you against the shower wall, the cool tiles a sharp contrast to the warmth of his body. His lips found yours in a searing kiss, the water pouring over you both adding to the intensity. It was a hot make out session, his tongue exploring your mouth with a passionate fervour that left you breathless. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as the kiss deepened, turning into something more primal and urgent.

The way he kissed you, hungry, demanding, yet tender—was intoxicating. You felt enveloped by him, his presence overpowering in the best possible way. Every touch, every kiss, was a promise of more to come, a hint at the depths of his desire for you. The water flowed over you, mingling with your sweat, as you lost yourself in the heat of the moment.

As you finally pulled away, gasping for breath, you rested your forehead against his, both of you panting from the intensity of the kiss. Hugh's eyes were dark with desire, a satisfied smirk on his lips. You knew that this was just the beginning, that the connection you shared was far from over. The shower may have been meant to cleanse, but instead, it became another chapter in your shared passion, a testament to the chemistry that crackled between you like an unquenchable fire.

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hedgehog-moss · 5 months ago

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The librarian showed me an art book today like "you'll love this one, it's all paintings of flowers and snow and pomegranate seeds from up close, and other stuff you're into"—and when I finished leafing through the book she told me it was by a quadriplegic artist who paints by holding a brush in his mouth. Which made me go back to the start to stare at some paintings again like "wait, even this one??" It was really cool and made me want to try mouth-drawing, in a spirit of better appreciating the skill that went into these paintings. I took a pen and said I was going to draw Pandolf, and the librarian tilted her head in a politely sceptical way, like "I think I'll be the judge of whether what you draw is Pandolf or not." (Note: I'm not very good at drawing. This is how I usually draw Pandolf.)

Turns out that making tiny drawing- or writing- motions with your face requires a kind of coordination that you never usually need, it's hard to not straight-up send your pen in the wrong direction! My first attempt was a confused squiggle because the too-small scale I chose required more precise movements than I could manage. The librarian gave it a 0/10. My 2nd attempt, with a more manageable scale, was mostly just 3 triangles and a bushy tail—which, honestly, is what Pandolf consists of and it was fairly recognisable and got an honourable 6.5/10 and I should have stopped there. But no, I had to try again, with a bigger, more ambitious drawing involving a body, paws, whiskers—and the longer pen strokes were impossible to keep straight and looked terribly shaky. My 3rd drawing got a 3/10.

But since terrible art can be salvaged with self-important interpretation, I announced that, combined, my second and third drawings represent the ghost of Pandolf's ferocious wolf ancestor looking down at this fluffy and soft-hearted descendant of his with mystified consternation from wolf heaven.

The librarian was impressed by the profound spiritual evolution of my work and revised her final grade to 7/10 :)

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sativaonsaturn · 6 months ago

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venus observations

a leo venus is a passionate and dedicated lover - if you deserve it. the opposite energy will be presented if we believe we’re being taken advantage of because leo venus also can get the ick quite easily.

a leo venus also looooves to give gifts! the second a partner or a family member says “i wish” or “i need” leo already has the gift in their cart.

in true virgo nature, a virgo venus is pretty unwavering in their standards for a relationship. even if they choose to stay, virgo is still likely to nitpick if they’re unhappy. it’s recommended for them to look for what’s on their list and not for potential.

an aquarius venus makes such a great friend. any aqua placement is usually interested in humanity so it makes sense that they’d be fun loving and supportive and sociable (11th house).

similar to this, if your venus is in the 11th house you may want to be friends with someone before you date. you may not even realize you want a relationship with someone until you know they can be a good friend and you two have a solid bond.

a scorpio venus’ love is unmatched. their love is not just passionate, it’s profound, it’s intense. once they’ve established that you’re their person, they can’t see anyone else. some say that scorpio’s love is too much but i think the right person will feel safe and a real sense of belonging.

you cannot keep a sagittarius venus where they don’t wanna be. they can’t stay where feel stifled or codependent and they want to know that they’re experiencing as much life as they would if they were single. a sag venus will love a partner who can love them as deeply as they do while respecting their individuality.

a capricorn venus is serious about their love and in such a romantic way. if you want someone who will plan dates, buy your outfits, introduce you to family; cap is the one for you. however capricorn will not behave this way unless they see true potential/ a future.

pisces venus can be either flighty and detached or head over heels in love. this isn’t to say that they can’t ever find a balance but it takes awareness for them. pisces also tends to place expectations on those they love and become disappointed when they fall short.

someone w/ venus in the 4th house is typically in search of a partner who will make them feel at home. often are adamant about pursuing marriage and a feeling of security more than anything.

small edit: a leo venus also loves to receive gifts! especially thoughtful ones or ones w/ sentimental value. they like to feel like you were really considering them when you bought it

sativaonsaturn 🍃🪐

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loveemagicpeace · 7 months ago

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Neptune the planet of the ocean

Neptune in 1st house- this position produces a tendency towards selflessness and spirituality. Person here has the power to feel the finest states and changes in the world. The individual is emotional and sensitive. These people have strong intuition, they feel things before they happen. They can judge people and situations very well. It brings a strong talent and orientation to the subconscious mind. Strengthens feelings, dreams, hopes. Love is very idealistic. This position also strengthens the love of art: dance, music. They are inclined to travel to distant places.

Neptune in 2nd house- the individual gains a lot from institutions like hospitals, secret services, institutions, mysticism and spiritualism. The individual may be involved in deception or intrigue. The individual can be capricious but has strong creativity. Many books claim that it activates the memory part of the soul and makes you crave alcohol.

Neptune in the 3rd house-created mind with a desire to explore. Produces unusual sensations or experiences. Journeys can be religious or spiritual. This position tends to make a person change their name (due to circumstances). It can be an indication of a disturbed personality, hallucinating. It can mean a lack of clarity of character. It shows the ability to get others to agree. It shows a love for nature. Memory can be weak.

Neptune in 4th house- this position represents changes of residence and many travels. The individual is prone to strange and unusual circumstances at home. May feel very alienated from home. If Neptune is poorly aspected, you should be careful when filling up gas at home. It can mean disappointments and patience. Melancholy and hypochondria may develop. There is a sense of spiritual connection.

Neptune in 5th house -people have great enthusiasm for desires, great love for beauty. Good acting ability here. People can be prone to self-praise and overspending. It produces a strange experience in relation to romancoin sexuality. Success is usually good in areas such as (shipping, travel). If it is poorly aspected, it means problems, confusion, loss, deception in love.

Neptune in 6th house- can show problems at work, with employment, bosses. There can be problems due to employees. Neptune also brings a desire for withdrawal, solitude. In a favorable position, it gives the ability of psychometry. It also indicates that a person can get fatal love. Neptune can cause problems here due to narcotics. People with Neptune here should be careful of food that comes from people who are sick, unspiritual, or have bad vibes. They can only eat the purest food. The benefit comes from vegetarianism. People can take an interest in healing others. Psychologically, they know how to find faults.

Neptune in the 7th house - people with this position usually meet people who have various problems. Many people can come to them for help. They can be scandals due to marriages, relationships, jealousy or deception. It often means two engagements or marriages. The person has a strong perceptive nature. It brings more platonic than sexual love. A problem with the sense of reality can bring disappointments.

Neptune in the 8th house is an indicator of interest in medicine, healthcare. It represents strong psychic, astral or dream experiences. People often dream of very interesting and profound things. The desire for the unknown and mysterious is great. But it can also bring nightmares, strange and negative emotions. Neptune in this house also indicates death by water from chemicals, drugs, poisons or anesthetics. Death can often be mysterious. A good position shows a good sense of others. There can be scams with inheritance.

Neptune in 9th house-shows exploration of life. A person wants to achieve higher knowledge. Neptune here brings clairvoyance, a psychically inspired disposition, strange dreams and astral experiences. The individual has a desire to study and research spiritualism, psychic phenomena and higher psychological forces. It brings dreams and exaggerated imagination. It can also bring disputes between relatives.

Neptune in the 10th house - the individual can be very spiritual in nature, able to experience a high position in society. Sometimes it means that the life of one of the parents is threatened at a young age. It symbolizes professions that are secret, work undercover, secrecy.

Neptune in the 11th house position creates a person who has noble goals and desires. Friends are inclined to the mystical occult. It brings benefits from the mystical, psychic and musical realms. An individual may have losses due to others. These are usually drunkards, eccentrics. It can also bring unfavorable relationships and friendships. People who deceive him are false friends.

Neptune in 12th house- shows that the individual has a strong influence on his subconscious and things that are more mystical. The individual may succeed in the field of research and psychic matters. It can also be used in laboratories, in detective work. The individual is reserved and loves art. Inner psychic life. It is open to external influences and the personality can be pessimistic. This position also indicates drug addiction. it can bring deception, intrigue, sadness and failure if it is poorly aspected. The individual has strange, vague premonitions.

Aspects of Neptune: Neptune symbolizes the need for art and the immaterial, limitless, mystical and spiritual. Aspects with them are usually mystical, spiritual, dreamy.

Neptune & Sun aspects- it causes an inclination towards a mystical life and a desire to experience inner consciousness. This aspect activates the imagination, enthusiasm, and makes receptive to various impressions - internal and external. However, it can cause excessive imagination, lack of clarity and the need for stimulants and alcohol.

Neptune & Moon aspects-can display great emotional imagination and depth. Love of dancing, singing and theatre. But it can also show emotions that are critical and not clear. The individual is prone to negative thinking and low vibrations.

Neptune & Mercury aspects-tends towards a mystical way of thinking, poetic expression and emotional words. The mind is gentle and communicative. The individual likes the sea. On the other hand, it can make a personality that lives in self-deception, it is off-putting.

Neptune & Venus aspects - make a personality that is gentle, kind and compassionate. People can be devoted to love and dream a lot about their partner. On the other hand, people can aspire to high ideals. They don't feel safe and many times think about cheating. Many times they can be frustrated.

Neptune & Mars aspects- they are prone to deep emotions and strong feelings. Many times these people can overlook the lives of others. The individual has the power of clairvoyance. On the other hand, there is a danger of chemicals, gases. Problems can be caused by negative imaginations such as fears, obsessions, evil.

Neptune & Jupiter aspects-it produces a personality that is philanthropic and spiritual. People are compassionate and humanitarian and often follow their own path and journey. Accrues mystical and spiritual abilities. But it can cause confusion about religious matters. A personality that is prone to less extroversion and strong feelings

Neptune & Saturn aspects-People may be inclined to seek their own spiritual path. It often indicates a personality with strong organizational skills. Saturn is the planet of discipline, order, responsibility, seriousness, maturity and reality. While Neptune is prone to dreaminess, addiction, emotionality, floating to another world, escape. Saturn looks at the world realistically, while Neptune looks conceited and likes to live in a fairy tale. Life is an illusion. Life has no boundaries. A person with this position wants to see the world completely differently than it is. Dynamic aspects can involve a lot of addiction and overdoing everything you do. Harmonious aspects symbolize a person who practices yoga, meditation, spirituality and knows how to calm his body and mind. It's good for the soul. Aspects that are in conjunction create burdens and inconsistencies depending on which planet is more dominant. If Saturn is dominant then the person can be very serious, if Neptune then the person can be too mystical, dreamy.

Neptune & Uranus aspects-with this aspect, the individual has a tendency towards new religions, towards psychic phenomena. He may have his own belief in something and a more unique approach to things.

Neptune & Pluto aspects - produces a high degree of sensitivity, both mental and spiritual in nature. This is a symbol of clairvoyance. The soul is often connected with a deep love for art, mysticism, depth, the ocean, hidden things. But it can also produce confusion and chaos, life can be full of flashbacks

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#astrology #energy #zodiac signs #planets #my notes #astrological houses #astrology observations #neptune

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majikkulu · 3 months ago

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━━ ❝ masterlist ❞

these are my personal observations and may not resonate with everyone. please take them with a grain of salt, as i'm not a professional astrologer! :))

♱ gemini risings with lilith in the first house or conjunct their asc often appear younger than their age, which can lead to past discrimination or exclusion. their youthful look might make it hard for them to be taken seriously or voice opinions, and they might have been teased for their appearance. as they age, they may receive comments about their agelessness and notice that people are hesitant to engage with them in conversations. they might also be seen as intimidating, standoffish, or even shy, and could be perceived as having a serious, sad or "resting bitch face."

♱ your saturn's sign, house, and degree can indicate people who impact you and teach important life lessons. these individuals often stay in your life long-term, offering both support and challenges. for example, my saturn is in cancer in the 2nd house at a virgo degree. many of my close friends and family have cancer, virgo, or taurus placements, and each has taught me something valuable. even though some cancers have betrayed me, those experiences were to shape me fr. take my bestie, who has saturn in cancer in the 11th house at a pisces degree. i’m a pisces with a strong 11th house stellium. i’ve noticed similar vibes with my favorite artists too.

♱ people with venus sextile saturn deeply value being appreciated and seen by others. they often seek long-term, serious relationships and handle challenges with maturity. they give their all and show great respect to their partners, often attracting or being drawn to older partners. those who meet them usually find them unforgettable.

♱ people with venus trine pluto crave intense, passionate love. their deep feelings are often transformative, with even short-term relationships leading to significant personal growth. they have a magnetic presence that's both striking and sometimes intimidating, and they connect on a profound, soul-deep level, drawing others in with their powerful emotional intensity and mysterious looks.

♱ people with jupiter in the 5th house are incredibly charming and approachable, drawing many people to them. they often connect easily with children and might have a natural talent for engaging with them. these individuals likely experience numerous crushes and pursue a wide range of hobbies with enthusiasm. they also have a talent for creative pursuits like music, art, or dancing.not to mention, their love life is often quite fulfilling.

♱ people with sun square ascendant may struggle with self-confidence and self-presentation early in life. however, as they grow older, they often develop a stronger sense of self and learn to embrace their unique qualities. over time, they become more confident and self-assured, appreciating who they are and how they express themselves.

♱ mars in taurus can take a long time to get genuinely upset. they tend to be slow to anger but can become easily frustrated. their anger is usually kept under control, but when it finally erupts, it can be intense and difficult to manage.

♱ chiron in the 9th house may struggle with faith and frequently question their beliefs. they might face challenges in school, but these often improve with age. some may have been pressured into church as children, contributing to their journey of exploration and self-discovery. as kids, they might have followed others' expectations instead of pursuing their own interests, leading to a continual quest for personal understanding and truth.

♱ virgo risings have great muscles and well-defined bodies.

♱ i've noticed that natives with a 4th house stellium often come from big families or have many siblings. they typically have a strong connection with their family, frequently staying in touch and valuing their relationships. their family can have a significant influence on them, playing a central role in their lives and shaping their sense of identity.

♱ i’ve noticed that individuals with pluto in the 10th house often receive mixed reactions from the public. they tend to be both admired and disliked, with their reputation evoking strong, polarized feelings. even if they’re not actually a “player,” their public persona might give off that vibe

♱ a lot of sagittarius moons, moon-jupiter aspects or moon in sag degrees are incredibly playful and flirty. they thrive on socializing and enjoy being the center of attention. their vibrant energy and enthusiasm often make them the life of the party, drawing people in with their lively and engaging personality.

♱ what i've noticed is that natives with cancer rising or the moon in the 1st house often attract a lot of popularity and are well-liked by many. they typically have an easy time connecting with others and are true social butterflies. females with these placements, in particular, often attract a lot of attention from men, thanks to their bubbly, fun personalities and their attractive, approachable appearance. on a negative note, i’ve observed that some people with these placements can also display deceitful, lying, or manipulative behaviors. (pls don’t come for me!)

#astro community #astro notes #astro observations #astro placements #astroblr #astrology #astro tumblr #astrology observations #astrology blog #birth chart #natal chart #astrology content #astrology signs #astrology notes #astrology community

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leclerc-hs · 9 months ago

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do i wanna know? - cl16

pairing: brother'sbff!charles x gasly!reader summary: in which you consider vacation with your family and brothers friends torture OR you fuck your brother's bff on his yacht warnings: 18+, smut under the cut, badly translated French (pls correct me!), NOT PROOFREAD (if there’s mistakes let me know please!!!!) word count: 3.5k author's note: had so much fun writing this honestly. could honestly picture myself writing more about brother's bff charles. I feel like sneaking around is sooooo fun and makes it hotter. LOL. let me know your thoughts!!! xoxo love u all. ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . ⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

IT HAS BEEN one week of pure torture. At least, that’s how you explained it as you texted your best friend. To which she responded, ‘torture and vacation don’t belong in the same sentence’.

You rolled your eyes, a wry smile playing on your lips as you contemplated her obliviousness. If only she knew! A full week spent in Charles’ company – scratch that – a mostly shirtless Charles, had left your thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind, unable to find their way back to coherence.

“How could you be so stupid! Idiota!” You could hear the constant whining of your mother echoing in your ears, emanating from the dinette area of the yacht. Her complaints were like a relentless assault on your sun-kissed skin. Although “sun-kissed” was an understatement; you were borderline burned but would never dare to admit it.

“Maman, je vais bien!” I’m fine! You retorted, your voice carrying a hint of exasperation. With a sigh, you made your way back towards the bow of the yacht, where a stretch of sunbeds awaited you. Oh, thank heavens. There was absolutely no way you were returning home from this vacation without a good tan. Of course, you applied sunscreen diligently, but the sun was relentless out on the open water.

You collapsed onto the sunbed, feeling the plush cushion yield beneath the weight of your body. The sunglasses perched precariously on the bridge of your nose teetered for a moment before nearly tumbling off, saved only by a quick adjustment of your hand.

For a few moments, it was just you. You and the sun. You and the gentle breeze caressing your heated skin. You and the soothing sound of the calm waters, a tranquil melody that enveloped you in serenity. You were at peace.

The bliss of solitude didn’t last long as you felt a shadow descend upon your body, as if a cloud had suddenly blocked out the sun.

“Mon ange, you are burned.”

Your eyes were shut behind the dark sunglasses, but you didn’t need to open them to know that voice. The voice sent a cascade of butterflies fluttering in your stomach almost instantly. Despite the burn creeping on your cheeks from the sun, a telltale blush threatened to give away the sudden rush of emotions stirring within you.

Slipping the sunglasses up onto your head, using them as a makeshift headband, allowing your eyes to connect with a mesmerizing shade of green. In that moment, time seemed to freeze as you were ensnared by the profound depth of those affectionate, verdant eyes. Green—the color that stirs a vibrant vitality within you, invoking a sense of renewal and energy. Their gaze penetrated your soul, igniting a whirlwind of emotions that swept through you like a gentle breeze through a lush, verdant meadow.

You observed as his gaze transversed your form, starting from your eyes, then descending along the curve of your nose, down to the graceful line of your neck and the delicate contours of your collarbones. His eyes lingered on your breasts for a fraction longer than usual, sending a tingle of awareness coursing through you, before swiftly returning to meet your gaze once more. A small smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, hinting at a silent understanding or amusement.

As his gaze roamed over every curve of your body, you found yourself doing the same, unable to resist his magnetic pull. You seized the chance to drink in the sight of his shirtless body in that fleeting moment. Each droplet of water adhered to his bronzed skin like liquid diamonds, emphasizing every sinew and contour of his body. As he shook his head, droplets cascaded from his tousled locks, creating a mesmerizing dance as they landed on your burning skin, leaving a trail of tingling sensations in their wake. His hand moved through his hair in a fleeting gesture, as if trying to tame the wild strands, adding an irresistible allure to the scene before you.

“Elle est stupide.”

It was as if a bucket of ice was dumped onto your body.

That voice, on the other hand, snapped you right out of the moment, your head whipping in the direction of your brother’s voice. With narrowed eyes and a quick motion, you lifted your middle finger in his direction, breaking the spell of the moment with a playful gesture of annoyance.

“Don’t be an ass, Pierre.” You mumbled softly before sitting up fully, feeling Charles drop down onto the vacant spot beside you. He turned onto his side, resting one arm under his head as he looked at you and your brother bicker. A smile tugged on his lips.

“I’m going to get the sun-tan lotion,” Your brother tossed a towel onto the other vacant spot, before retreating to wherever the lotion was. “Some of us aren’t complete morons.”

“Mon dieu,” In frustration, you grumbled to yourself before flipping over onto your stomach, burying your head into the crevice of your elbows. Your face pressed into the cushion of the sunbed as you sought solace from the annoyance. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Toujours là,” Still here. Charles whispered softly as he leaned closer, his warm breath brushing against the nape of your neck as his finger delicately grazed the curve of your lower back, tracing intricate patterns with feather-light touches. The sensation sent shivers down your spine, a subtle reminder of his presence even though you couldn’t see him. You could almost sense the heat of his gaze penetrating the miniscule fabric tied to your body, leaving an indelible mark on your skin.

You turned your head to face him, still resting on your arms under you. A smirk, that never seemed to leave his face while in your presence, was still pulled onto his lips.

“Tu as l’air bien aujourd’hui.” You look good today.

“Aujourd’hui?” Today?

He nodded slowly, his fingers trailing up your spine until they reached the ties of your string bikini on your back. With a delicate touch, he toyed with the knotted bow, teasingly.

“Et les autres jours?” What about other days?

He rolled his eyes in a playful manner, clicking his tongue to make a ‘tsk’ sound in jest. “Tu es toujours belle.” You’re always beautiful.

He pulled his hands from your warmed skin, just in time for your brother to return, bottles of sun lotion in hand. He tossed one to Charles while demanding you to put some on.

“Putain, j’ai oublié mon telephone,” Fuck, I forgot my phone. And your brother was out of sight yet again.

“Charlie?” You put on your sweetest voice. “Voudrais-tu mettre la lotion?” Will you put the lotion on?

It was an excuse. An excuse to have his hands on you again. Not that you needed an excuse, he wanted to touch you just as badly.

He didn’t verbally respond. Instead, he silently applied the sun-tan lotion to your back, spreading it across different areas with careful strokes of his hands as he leaned over your frame, before gently placing his hands back on you.

His fingers slid across your back in slow movements, as if he wanted to remember what every inch of your skin felt like against his hands. His hands dipped down to your butt, barely covered by the bikini that adorned your body, kneading his fingers into the uncovered skin.

He sucked in a breath as you let out a soft moan from the feeling of his hands on you. The feeling of his hands massaging you.

Soft “oh’s” and “mm’s” escaped from your lips, stirring something deep within Charles. He could feel his self-control slipping away with each little sound you made, intensifying his desire with every breath you took.

He dropped a little pat to your butt, signaling that he was done, with a small cough. All you did was flip over, chest now in front of his direct line of eyesight and waited until he realized what you wanted.

“My front side needs some, no?” You could’ve sworn you heard a groan slip past his lips.

His hands slowly but surely made way back to your skin, trailing along your ribs as he made sure to miss not one inch of your skin with the lotion. His touch was tender, yet purposeful, as he ignited a trail of sensation wherever his fingers grazed. It was as if your skin was itching for more of him, while his fingers burned to touch every inch he could.

And although the air was hot, and the sun was beating down on you both. Your nipples pebbled beneath the thin fabric of your swimsuit, no doubt obvious to Charles, as if you were freezing.

“I’m done,” His voice dropped an octave, but his hands didn’t leave your skin. No, instead he carried his fingers to the small triangles of your white bikini top, daring his thumbs to trace over your pebbled nipples. You ached.

It wasn’t until Pierre reappeared that Charles abruptly withdrew his hands from you, swiftly dropping onto his back on the sunbed and feigning nonchalance as if his hands weren’t just groping you.

“Lando!” you shrieked; your body slung over his shoulder as his arms held onto the back of your thighs firmly. “Pose-moi! Put me down!”

He twirled in circles on the back deck, his movements reckless, bringing him dangerously close to the edge of the water. With a mix of playful exasperation and genuine concern, your arms smacked his back, the impact echoing a mix of amusement and anxiety in the salty air.

“Put you down?” His voice carried a mischievous tone, a hint of devilry hidden. Though you couldn’t see his face, you could practically feel the schemes brewing in his mind, a silent promise of further antics.

“Don’t you da-” Before you could complete your sentence, the momentum carried both you and Lando overboard, plunging into the refreshing embrace of the water. As you emerged, laughter bubbled up, mingling with the gentle lapping of waves against the boat’s hull. With a mischievous grin, you scooped water in your hands, splashing it at Lando’s face, eliciting playful protests and further laughter as he grabbed for your body, pulling you flush against him.

“You still got a thing for him?” Lando’s eyes darted over your shoulder, towards the boat, where an unnoticed Charles was already gazing in your direction, his head cocked as if he was mildly confused and annoyed. Unaware of his presence, you rested your head in the crevice of Lando’s neck, the both of you continuing to frolic in the water, oblivious to the silent exchange occurring just beyond your awareness.

You nodded your head once against his skin, a silent acknowledgment, before lifting it to meet his gaze. In his eyes, you saw a glint of mischief. “What?”

“Should we make him jealous?” His whispered into your ear, keeping your back to the boat, as his eyes stayed locked on whatever was behind you.

You shook your head, “He wouldn’t care.”

“Does him not caring include him looking at me like he’ll strangle me with his bare hands?” He brought his eyes back to you, one arm settling on the back of your neck as your legs wrapped around him.

“Pierre would kill you if he saw us right now.”

He tilted his head back slightly, his laughter resonating between you, causing his bodies to shake with shared amusement. “Pierre is the least of my worries, you muppet,” he chuckled, the sound rich and warm against the backdrop of the lapping waves. His fingers danced through the strands of your wet hair, his voice gentle and comforting. “Just follow my lead, yeah?” His voice carried a hint of excitement, igniting a spark of anticipation within you as you nodded.

When Lando claimed Pierre was the least of his worries, you couldn’t help but wonder how true that statement was. Still, you admired his determination not to let Pierre’s presence hinder his plans. There was a sense of resilience in him, a refusal to be shackled, and you found yourself drawn to that strength of character.

“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” What’s going on? Pierre pulled you to the side, his tone hushed. “Toi et Lando, c’est sérieux?” Are you and Lando a thing?

You’re not sure what had him questioning you. Maybe it was you wrapped around his body in the water earlier, or the food sharing at lunch, or the inside jokes and laughter on the sunbed together. Whichever it was, he couldn’t sit back without questions.

“Non, mais ça ne te regarde pas si c’était le cas.” No, but it’s not your business if it were. There was a subtle edge in your tone as you purposefully distanced yourself from Pierre, a flicker of defiance in your step as you strode back towards Lando on the sunbed.

“I think he’s coming over here now,” Lando whispered into the shell of your ear. “You know what to do?” He pushed himself up and off the sunbed before claiming aloud he needed some water.

And as if you wanted this your entire life, which you did, you knew exactly what to do. Charles was a few steps from entering the threshold of ‘close proximity’ when you flipped over to your stomach with a yawn.

“That was quick!” You remarked, your head turned, purposefully presenting your back to Charles once more. “Lan, will you untie the string on my back? I can’t reach it, and I don’t want the tan lines from it.” There was a sly undertone in your voice, far from innocent, as you heard a loud cough from behind you and sensed the shadow cast over your body, indicating Charles’ presence.

Although you feigned ignorance, the sensation of Charles’ hands brushing against the skin above the string tie was too distinct to be mistaken for anyone else’s. Each touch carried a familiarity that sent a shiver down your spine, a sensation that could never be replicated by another.

Charles pressed his knee into the cushion of the sunbed, slipping it between your legs as he leaned forward. His body loomed over yours, his fingers knuckles-deep into the cushion with your head nestled in between, effectively hunching over you in an intimate posture. His lips hovered over the shell of your ear.

“Let me be clear,” His voice was gruff. “Ses mains ne te toucheront plus.” His hands will not touch you again.

You almost moaned at his words, but you had to stick to the plan. You turned your head just enough for your eyes to meet with his again. They were narrowed, and a much darker shade of green than earlier.

“And why is that?” It was as if you wanted a death wish.

“Si tu veux que quelqu’un te touche,” If you want someone to touch you. He began, before pausing and trailing one finger down your spine and back up it until his fingers settled on the nape of your neck, “Tu me demandes.” You ask me.

And then he was up and out of sight, as if it was a figment of your imagination.

“Est-ce que j’ai dit que tu pouvais arrêter?” Did I say you could stop? He grunts harshly as his hips rut upwards into you, your walls fluttering around his cock so tightly. You couldn’t form words as a small whimper elicited past your lips. “Hm, mon ange?”

Both of your arms are locked behind your back clenched in one of his tight fists. While his other hand grips your hip bone, controlling your movements. You were completely fucked out, your motions becoming lazy and lacking a pattern.

“C’mon fille douce,” Sweet girl. “Tu te sens tellement bien.” You feel so good. His words were edging you on, your pace increasing as you continued through the burn of your thighs working over his cock.

There was little to no room in the cramped cabin, leaving little room to maneuver, as your knees knocked into the side table earlier. The soft white comforter and few pillows that were once carefully arranged on the bed were haphazardly strewn about, adding to the sense of disorder. With only one light, casting a dim glow, the rest of the cabin remained cloaked in shadows, leaving the figure of him leaning against the makeshift ‘headboard’ which was little more than a wall, visible in the faint light. You could barely remember how you even got in this position. One moment, he was helping you find the spare cooler, the next your bikini bottoms were pushed aside as you straddled him.

“Think you’re so clever, hm?” He muttered, a grunt in between each thrust of his cock into you. “Lando?”

Your head lulled back, as Charles leaned forward to bring his teeth to your uncovered nipples, the triangles of your bikini top pushed to the sides, your breasts bouncing with each lift of your hips.

“It worked, didn’t it?” You smirked as he pulled his mouth off your nipples with a ‘pop’.

“Cherie, should’ve asked sooner.” He whispered, rolling you over so that you were beneath him now, pinned to the mattress. “Would’ve given you this sooner if you just asked.”

His hand now covered your mouth, his fingers occasionally slipping inside of it to feel your tongue, attempting to muffle your small moans.

“Silence, mon ange.”

You both could hear the rhythmic thumping of the music reverberating around the boat, blending with the sounds of laughter and occasional snippets of conversation. Amidst the vibrant ambiance, the occasional outburst of excitement or disagreement from a card game, worked in your favor of them not hearing you.

Your face was flushed red as he pinned you to the mattress, the slam of his hips filling the sound of the room. An occasional tear forming in your eye from the pleasure, from the need to come.

It was quick. One second his hips were slamming into you, the next they slowed, his head turned toward the door as if he could hear something you didn’t. Which he did. Footsteps.

“Charles? Are you down here?” There was a knock on the wooden door, the only boundary between the both of you and your brother. “Sais-tu où est ma sœur?” Do you know where my sister is?

And like the sick, twisted fuckhead Charles was, he continued rutting his hips into you. His pace much slower, but each stroke deeper, more precise. “Answer him,” His voice was so low, only you could hear him. You shook your head but look in his eyes was fierce as he cocked his head. You have no choice.

“I’m laying down,” Your voice quivered, as you tried to not moan in the middle of speaking. Charles dragged the pad of his tumb across his tongue, bringing it down to press against your already soaked clit. “I don’t feel well.” You heard the doorknob turn, but to your luck, it was locked.

“Have you seen Charles?”

“Doing so well for me, Cherie.” Charles whispered into your ear, like he wanted to torture you. “Your sweet little pussy was made for me, hm?”

Yes. Yes it was made for you. Yes, you’ve seen Charles. His cock was inside of you now, his swim shorts weren’t even completely off, neither was yours. That’s how desperate you both were.

“Mon dieu,” You yelped before Charles hand slammed over your mouth in warning, before he flipped you over, your backside now facing him. “No! But if you find him, can you tell him I’m looking for him too?” You figured it was a sly move.

Charles leaned over your back as soon as Pierre’s steps retreated, peppering kisses to your spine, until his mouth was beside your ear. “Such a good girl, hm?” The drive of his hips was world-tilting.

“Squeezing me so tight,” He grunted. “Gonna give it to me?”

Your head nodded repeatedly, your body shaking, with each forceful drive of his hips into you.

“Did you like that, hm?” He continued, “Almost getting caught with my cock deep inside of you?” You were losing your restraint, keeping your moans in was only getting more difficult.

You let out a whine as he continuously stroked your walls just right. You were too far gone to even announce that you were cumming. So, you came on his cock without a warning. But he could tell, just by the flutter of your walls around him and as your body collapsed face first into the mattress, as if you couldn’t hold yourself up anymore.

Your pussy gripped him tightly, and it was so warm, so gooey. “That’s it, mon ange.” He encouraged you as he pulled out, his own orgasm taking over him, releasing onto your backside, careful to not hit your bikini bottoms.

He fell beside you, his chest rising and falling with each breath he took as he met your eyes. “Mon dieu, we should’ve done that sooner.”

You let out a small laugh. Yes, you should’ve.

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc #f1 x reader #f1 imagines #charles leclerc angst #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fic #f1 imagine

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fayes-fics · 3 months ago

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The Secrets We Keep: Pt I

Part II >>

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Knowing someone your whole life doesn’t mean they can’t surprise you…

Warnings: none yet… fluff and angst. Childhood friends, yearning, arranged marriage, kissing. Pt II will contain a warning/rating change.

Word Count: 5.1k (this part)

Authors Note: Part 1 of 2. My longest gestating WIP! It’s been more than 18 months since I received a request for this secret diary fic. Tulip Anon, I have no idea if you still follow me, but I hope you think I did your detailed request justice. I won't post your ask yet, as it contains spoilers for the second half. Betaed by the awesome @colettebronte, who I can’t thank enough. I’m in the process of writing Pt II, so there will be a gap between instalments. Enjoy! 🫶

-i-

For as long as you can remember, you have loved one man secretly. To the point that you cannot imagine your life without a deep, burning affection simmering in your very core, as fundamental to your existence as drawing air into your lungs.

Benedict Bridgerton.

Your families have been neighbours in Mayfair and Kent for many generations—two aristocratic dynasties that, despite enduring friendships, have never seen intermarriage. There have been attempted matches down the years, according to family lore, but nothing came to fruition.

So when you were brought to Aubrey Hall as a mere babe in arms, the eldest daughter, there were many good-natured jokes that Anthony’s future wife had been born. But the Viscount, wonderful as he is, was not the man who stole your heart just a few short years later. A bright sunny day in June that you suspect Benedict may not even be able to recall, but you can with perfect clarity, even now, some fifteen years later.

He picked you as the first person to join his team for a round of garden games. Paying you heed and ensuring you were included, patiently showing you the ropes and applauding your achievements, ignoring the ridicule from the other twelve-year-old boys for letting a girl - and a little five-year-old at that - join in their games.

Ever since that day, all you have ever seen is his enormous heart and steadfast empathy: always the one to reach out to those excluded, to be supportive, and to love harder and more expansively than his siblings. Thus, unsurprisingly, he became the focus of your singular devotion—a childish adoration transmuting into something more profound and complicated as you matured.

On your fourteenth birthday, your mother gifted you a thick notebook. And it became your refuge, the private canvas on which you outlet your innermost secrets and thoughts. The beautiful but now slightly battered, silk-covered tome is still your most treasured possession even now, more than six years later, so close to filled now, with only a couple of blank pages left. Never long from your hands, but when it must be, carefully stashed under the floorboards of your bedroom. Its pages the reflection of a naive, growing heart. There is one person who features frequently on its crammed, jumbled pages. Sketches of his handsome face, mostly from memory, interspersed with ardent notes and poems that, while they may not mention his name, are written for him. Adoration writ large in every pen and pencil stroke.

Little were you to know that the secrets you keep within its hallowed pages would one day alter the course of your life…

-ii-

It's the evening of the Bridgerton Ball, and usually, you would be brimming with anticipation for such an occasion, a chance to see the man who holds your most ardent admiration. Instead, you find yourself glum, mechanically stepping into the dress your ladies' maid Rachel assists you with, staring blankly into the vanity mirror as she adorns your hair with jewels. Still reeling from your father's shocking announcement the previous day.

The inheritance of a European title had seen him spend eighteen months abroad. In his absence last spring, you were able to persuade your more indulgent mother to delay your societal debut—a yearning to be free in the ways you know no woman really can be for long. A compounding factor was spending the summer in the Highlands with her sister, your Aunt Eliza, a spirited, independent woman who taught you many things and encouraged your artistic whims. And when you were back in London, your mother’s somewhat inattentive running of the house meant you were often able to slip away in the evenings, spending your time deepening your passion for art. Frequenting galleries and conversing with artists led to you being drawn into the bohemian, artsy underbelly of Bloomsbury, a beguiling, exotic contrast to Mayfair. Another secret you keep.

Upon his return to England, your father was not best pleased to learn that not only had you been allowed to skip the previous Season, but Eliza had also taught you to fish, fence and hunt—most unladylike pursuits in his opinion. He, therefore, made it his mission to ensure not only would you debut this year but also a swift match should be made, lest you “get other fanciful, dangerous ideas”.

Perhaps that is why, yesterday, nary two weeks into your first season, he abruptly announced over afternoon tea that he had secured a match for you and the man in question would be dining with you all that evening. A deal no doubt brokered in a private gentleman’s club as if you were merely chattel to be traded.

Revulsion filled your every fibre as you were introduced to Lord Farringdon a few hours later. A wiry man twenty years your senior with a hawk-like countenance and a disdainful disposition. Apparently, a brilliant intellectual mind but accompanied by a mercurial, malevolent reputation. You had read in Whistledown rumours about his mistreatment of his household staff and his previous wife. A forlorn figure who became a recluse long before she died of consumption tragically young. The idea of being betrothed to this cold, abusive man turned your stomach—a seemingly outsized punishment for your rebellion. Once the man left, you had begged and pleaded with your father to reconsider the arrangement, but sadly, your appeal fell on deaf ears.

And so here you are. Going to a ball at which your father plans to announce your engagement. The stately beauty of Bridgerton House is not as heartening of a sight as it typically is. Tonight, it feels more akin to a gallows.

As soon as you arrive, you are scanning the crowds for the only friend you know will understand just how ghastly your predicament is—Eloise Bridgerton. A kindred spirit whose interest in marriage is as scant as your own. Bonding over your similar yearnings for freedom, you have been good friends since you were little, many a day spent together as children running through the Kentish fields, escaping expectation and flouting convention.

Acutely aware of time running out until your father speaks up, you fiddle distractedly with your fan, impatiently awaiting her entrance.

“For heaven's sake, y/n, please cease your fidgeting!” your mother chastises under her breath, snatching away the item. “I do not see why you are so agitated. Tonight is to be a wonderful occasion for you!”

A myriad of caustic comments are on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow them down. The last thing you want is to draw attention, and you certainly don't want to be gossip fodder; these ballrooms are a veritable hotbed of eavesdropping if Whistledown is anything to go by.

When the collective Bridgerton family finally enter their ballroom as hosts, however, your eyes can't help but drift to Benedict instead. A reflex from years of longing, even though it is his sister, arm looped into his, whose counsel you seek tonight. You excuse yourself to fetch a lemonade as soon as you spy a window of opportunity—Eloise standing alone, looking excessively bored. Abandoning your glass, you hurry over to her.

“I have news…” You try to keep your voice neutral but grab her arm and practically drag her away from anyone within earshot.

“Well, it cannot be good if you are willing to rip my arm off to impart it,” she remarks dryly as you lead her down a hallway.

“It is not,” you pull a face that you know will convey to her the gravity of what you need to divulge.

With a nod of understanding and a look to a nearby footman, she leads you beyond him into an area of the house off-limits for guests.

“Tell me…” her tone is sincere as she ushers you into the library and closes the door.

“My father has seen fit to arrange a marriage for me. He is planning to announce it tonight, right here at your family ball!”

She says nothing, only a sympathetic noise as she pulls you into a consoling hug. The emotions you have been tamping down for hours escape as a couple of bitter tears, her arms banding tight around you. You are not sure how long, but you stand in a hug, just grateful for her steadfast support.

“What am I to do?” you whisper.

“I do not know,” she confesses. “Have you tried to reason with your father?”

“A hopeless cause…”

Her mouth twists in understanding, knowing you will have put up a spirited defence as much as she would have. She detangles from you and goes to a nearby brandy decanter.

“It's the very least you deserve, frankly,” she points out, handing you a glass and pulling you into a loveseat with her, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, clinking her glass against yours in a silent but bittersweet toast about your seemingly futile situation.

-iii-

Half an hour later, your parents are distracted across the far side of the room with friends when a large hand grabs yours out of the blue. You startle when you realise it is Benedict, your heart suddenly in your mouth. Before you know it, you are wordlessly being pulled out of the French doors behind you and into the night air.

“Where are we going!?” you demand when you recover from the initial surprise, his gloved hand tugging yours along through the darkened gardens.

“Shh, make haste, we must not be seen,” he hushes you but keeps moving, furtive and fast, your feet having to take extra steps to keep up with his long stride over the lush, dewy grass.

“Benedict…” you try again once you round a thick hedge into the rose garden. “What is going on?”

He slows a little but does not relinquish his tight hold. Gravel path now crunching under his boots as the honeyed scent of damask hangs heavy in the air.

“Eloise told me,” is all he offers. “So we are escaping.”

“W-we are?” you stutter, frowning, a claggy tumult behind your ribs at his use of ‘we’.

“Yes! Or at least we would be if you would keep quiet… please…” he amends, sounding a touch contrite about his initial brusqueness, but speeding up again, headed straight for a small wooden door in a high stone wall, almost hidden behind long, draping ropes of ivy, glowing silver in the moonlight.

When you reach it, he releases his grip on your hand and shoulders the door open with considerable force. The weathered wood creaks loudly, almost splintering under the duress. He signals to the inky blackness of the deserted mews behind Bridgerton House.

“It is now or never, y/n,” he warns as you look back at the house, lit up with the life of the ball inside. “So what is your choice?”

He may be presenting it as an option, but really, you know there would only ever be one answer. You would accompany him to the ends of the earth if he so much as asked. And so wordlessly, you step through the doorway and into the narrow street beyond.

“Good choice,” he compliments as he follows suit and closes the door behind him. “You may stay at my friend Granville’s tonight,” he offers sagely, “I have not seen him in a while, but I will explain when we arrive; I am certain he can provide shelter.”

“Benedict, I already know Henry… Quite well, in fact.”

He looks taken aback as if it had not occurred to him that you may move in the same clandestine circles as he does. To be fair, you have always been discreet in your outings, and it’s not something you have divulged to anyone, including Eloise. Still, what confounds you more is why he is suddenly so seemingly invested in seeing you escape from your predicament. It doesn't entirely make sense.

“Well, then,” he cuts into your brief reverie, “you know Henry is a generous host and discreet about the affairs of others. Your father will not come looking for you there. It will buy some time to figure out what to do next. To ensure your freedom.”

“Freedom?” You scoff. “Benedict, as much as I may wish it, there is no other path open to me. Tonight is merely a delay tactic at best. The only way to stop my father’s pursuit of this union is if I marry another….”

The admittance of this truth out loud makes you restless, belatedly realising that it truly is your only way out. You stalk towards the main road, the faint glow of the street lamp guiding your way over the cobbles. You soon hear Benedict’s footsteps behind.

��That is ridiculous!” he exclaims as he attempts to catch up with you. “There are other options available to you…”

“Such as?” you whip around, raising your hands, countering his assertion. When he falters, you return to walking, throwing a tart addition over your shoulder: “Unlike you, a man, I do not have the freedom of choice.”

“You should always have a choice…” he counters earnestly, still catching up to your furious pace.

“Should and do are different things, Benedict. You do not even know how lucky you are!” You add bitterly, rounding onto the main street.

A gust of wind causes you to pause and a shiver to run down your arms, your gauzy dress not enough to ward off the unseasonable chill in the air tonight. Ever the observant gentleman, Benedict shucks his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. Uncharitably, your ire makes you attempt to shake it off, even while knowing it is intended purely as a chivalrous gesture. You are surprised when he seems to grasp your shoulders tighter, holding the heavy velvet in place. It is cloaked in his woodsy, citrus scent, your vexed state turning into an entirely different type of flush as he crowds closer to you.

“My birth has allowed me certain privileges, I concede,” he replies, his stare seemingly far away as you are unable to look anywhere but the dampness of his bottom lip, shimmering slightly in the lamplight. Then he tilts his head down to meet your eyes. “But that does not mean I am able to have everything I wish for in life, y/n…”

Your tongue burns to ask what it is that he wants but cannot have, yet you do not allow yourself to pry. But seeing the wistfulness in his gaze deflates your irritation, your long-held adoration for this man taking over, making you sigh.

‘You deserve the world, Benedict….’

His face morphs into one of breathtaking intensity, and you realise, horrified, you spoke those thoughts aloud.

“As do you, y/n,” he murmurs, eyes sincere, your heart beating wildly as his chest vibrates against your own.

The upheaval of the last day, the man you secretly adore abetting a somewhat daring escape, your heated exchange of words, the lateness of the hour, and the feel of his tall, lithe body pressed against yours…. It's all a dangerous cocktail that culminates in you being utterly impetuous, pushing up onto your tiptoes and mashing your mouth against his with no thought.

His lips are plush and warm, and suddenly, he is kissing you back. It's like a cannon firing in your chest as his warm mouth opens yours. Suddenly, you are urgently taking from each other. A sweeping tidal wave through you obliterates any kissing experiences you have ever had before. It’s a desperate slide of tongues, a passionate continuation of your sparring. His hands are like a hot brand through your thin dress as they sweep around to your back, tugging you into him, his heat, scent and taste overwhelming.

But all too soon you are pulling apart, a need for air in your lungs overriding the spontaneous, reckless moment. For a few seconds, you stare at each other, breathing each other's panted air, hands still grasping onto each other, almost confused by what just occurred… until the whinny of a passing horse carriage has you springing apart as if burned.

Realisation engulfs his entire being. “Oh god! Please, please forgive me!” he stutters, backing away, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture, almost tripping in his haste to put space between you, even though it was you who kissed him. “Please, just go to Granville,” he counsels rapidly before turning heel and disappearing into the night, leaving you standing alone, unmoored and breathless, utterly turned upside down.

-iv-

You drift home in a daze, your family’s London residence only a few hundred yards away. Your escape plans are forgotten in the haze of tumbling thoughts about that blistering kiss. How fervently and immediately Benedict had kissed you back, how wonderful it felt to be caged in his arms…. Climbing into bed and passing out, still bewildered. In fact, it’s only the rude awakening of your bedroom door slamming open the following morning that brings you crashing back to your senses.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!” Your father roars, holding aloft what looks like the latest copy of Whistledown. “You have brought shame upon our family and likely ruination to your prospects!!”

Utterly alarmed, you sit bolt upright, blinking, taking a few moments before you can find your voice. “What are you referring to, father?”.

He glares at you, then throws the paper onto your bed and stalks out of the room without another word, puce with outrage. You know there will be crossed words at the breakfast table. The sight of your name on the crisp ivory page immediately draws your eye, and your stomach plunges as you read the paragraph:

The annual Bridgerton Ball last night was, once again, resplendent. A triumph that the dowager Countess can be rightfully proud of. Although less contentment could likely be gleaned from the behaviour of her offspring. The second eldest of whom was allegedly seen escaping into the unlit gardens hand in hand with none other than the most reluctant of this season's debutantes, the spirited Miss Y/n Y/l/n. Perhaps the rebellious Miss will not have to endure many more of society’s events that she so patently abhors, should a proposal from the most wayward of Bridgerton sons be forthcoming? I, for one, however, Dear Reader, am not holding my breath…

Hiding in your room as long as you can, hunger drives you to join the frosty lunch table, apologising for inadvertently ruining your father’s plans to announce your betrothal and meekly explaining the incident with Benedict as a complete misunderstanding. It was merely an old friend helping you to gather some air before the big news was to be proclaimed. His taking your hand was out of benevolent concern, nothing more, and when you suddenly felt unwell, he chivalrously saw you the few hundred yards home. The lies feel odd on your tongue, your thoughts only of Benedict’s mouth and body moulded hotly to yours as your father lectures about appropriate behaviour for a young lady and your family’s long-standing friendship with the Bridgertons not being an excuse for a lackadaisical attitude to impropriety.

“There is nothing else to be done now—I must secure you a special licence to be wed tomorrow before Lord Farringdon hears about this,” he decrees with finality, his tone brokering no argument.

You slump silently into your chair, dread creeping through every cell, silently chastising yourself for not following Benedict’s advice and running away. If only you hadn't been impetuous and kissed him, you might have been in your right mind to do so. It feels cruel that the one moment you chose to throw caution to the wind is the one moment that sealed a worse fate.

-v-

That afternoon, your mother ushers you to the Modiste, paying handsomely for a very rushed wedding dress. Something simple that can be finished at such a late hour. It will only be your family in attendance anyway; so much else seems unnecessary. As you stand forlornly upon the raised dias, ivory silk tacked up around you with pins; your mother announces she needs to depart to secure other last-minute arrangements, leaving your trusty ladies' maid to accompany you home once alterations are complete.

“You do not look a happy bride…” Madam Delacroix mutters after the tinkle of the bell above the door signals her departure.

“Your observation skills are certainly not lacking,” you respond quietly, craning to double-check that Rachel, your maid, is out of earshot, sitting listlessly in the front of the store, staring out of the window.

“I do read Whistledown, my dear,” she remarks delicately, “and this does not appear to be a dress someone marrying a Bridgerton would wear.”

Your stomach vaults at the implication; the thought of marrying Benedict has your heart going haywire, even as you know it would never happen. The crestfallen look as your mind flits to the awful man you will be marrying instead is one you cannot hide as she meets your eyes in the reflection.

“It is not indeed,” you sigh, “but Whistledown has rather accelerated my unfortunate fate. Hence the rushed dress…” you gesture to your outfit.

“Mr Bridgerton is a friend?” she digs delicately.

“Lifelong,” you admit, “but Lady Whistledown could not have been more erroneous in her assertions…”

“That you and Mr Bridgerton are together? Or that he would marry you?”

You look away from the mirror and down to where she is crouched by your hem on your left side, taken back not only at her astuteness but her drive for information. Almost as if she were Whistledown herself.

“I do not mean to pry,” she modifies, “merely to understand your predicament. Maybe I can be of assistance? I have privately counselled many a young lady on the eve of their wedding. Be it a happy occasion or not. And have kept many a secret of the Ton. ‘Tis the reason my business is so successful, Miss y/l/n. A good modiste can be a trusted confidante.”

“W-we are not together,” you stumble out without meaning to.

“But you wish to be? Or perhaps something has happened between you?”

Your eyes dart furtively, and your cheeks heat at the memory, but you say nothing.

“You need say no more,” she chuckles and offers a knowing smile that appears as much reminiscent as sympathetic.

You rapidly attempt to deflect. “I do not wish to be married to anyone, really. I do find it so unfair a man is free to pursue his passions in life, but merely due to my sex, I am not.”

There is a nod of understanding, and she stands up with her hands on her hips. “I keep a certain array of refreshments for special clients such as yourself.” She nods to what looks like a liquor cabinet partially obscured behind a curtain at the back of her shop. “If you can dismiss your maid, I can assist you on your last night as an unmarried lady.”

The suggestion is too intriguing to refuse. And Rachel will greatly appreciate your pin money.

A few hours later, you are sat upon a circular conversation chair, Gen, as she insists you call her, pouring you another snifter of brandy.

“Tell me, what is your passion?” she inquires, her polished French accent slipping a little, sounding far more East End than Parisian. Something about that makes you like her more.

“Art,” you answer wistfully, “not that I have many opportunities to practice beyond a private notebook. But it is my most prized possession.” You gesture to your pelisse, hanging on a nearby hook. “I have it with me always. I have sewn a secret pocket into all of my coats myself.”

“Ingenious! ” She declares. “You shall have my job one day!”

You laugh, feeling light for the first time in what feels like days, as Gen leans in, raising an eyebrow. “I can also see well why you may have bonded with Mr Bridgerton…”

You giggle and lower your eyes, taking a fortifying sip.

“But it is not just that, is it?” Her tone is thoughtful, delicate even, as she continues: “A life outside the boundaries of so-called polite society can be so very beguiling, can it not? I have seen you, Miss y/l/n, at parties in Bloomsbury…”

A panicked bile rises as your head snaps up.

“As I said before, I am always discreet,” she reassures, “your secret is more than safe with me,” she winks before taking a generous sip from her glass.

Possibly, it's the alcohol, but her understanding of your predicament and the fact she has, unbeknownst to you, moved in similar circles brings an odd sense of relief. Having a confidante, someone to finally share your secrets with, albeit a somewhat stranger, lifts a burden from your shoulders. Wonderful as Eloise is, being the sister of the man who secretly holds your heart is not without complications in many ways.

“Another?” she chimes animatedly, holding aloft the bottle.

You cannot resist that offer.

-vi-

It’s close to midnight when Gen loops her arm in yours as she guides you, quite inebriated herself, away from the hackney cab to the familiar abode of one Henry Granville. Her declaration that a party is what you need on your last night of freedom is definitely not one you would dispute. A myriad of heightened emotions roil inside as you await the door being answered: contentment at your newly cemented friendship with Gen, bewildered every time you think of your kiss with Benedict and abhorrence for tomorrow.

As you wander into the debauched tableau of a party in full swing: the air thick with smoke and merriment, the sounds of pleasure, people consorting together, a hedonistic swirl of self-expression unfurling all around you—it all consolidates into a yen to be reckless. Take part this time rather than just observe as you have before. Alcohol mutating the simmering rage about the injustice of your circumstance into a yearning to experience pleasure, especially physical. To get lost in sensation on your one last night of liberty.

So when you encounter Sir Simms - Matthew - friend to your older brother, renowned rake, but quite handsome, you throw caution to the wind. He seems delighted to see you, instantly flirtatious and familiar in a way you would rebuff any other night but this one. Whispering in your ear how very bold you are to be at such a bohemian event and pondering what other adventurous experiences you might be willing to indulge in. At one point Gen pulls you aside, her breath sweetened with fermented fruits, as she leans in and counsels you to be cautious. But you rebuff her concerns, swatting away her hold and returning to Matthew, allowing him to pull you into a kiss.

It’s not the same as with Benedict; your mind screams at the altogether more jarring experience. A wet invasion of tongue that is less pleasant and certainly doesn’t fire anything inside you the way that he had. Merely kindling a defiant resolve to rage against the dying light of your freedom. And so when he slurs into your ear, you consent to his invitation upstairs, knowing fully the implications of what will transpire—feeling vaguely detached from yourself as he pulls you along by the hand towards the staircase.

Suddenly, your field of vision is filled with dark blue velvet, a strong arm wrapping around you, caging you into a warm body mass, disconnecting your hand from Matthew’s—crossed words in two male voices. A momentarily confusing blur that only begins to make sense when you tilt your chin up… and the breath is quite stolen from your lungs.

Benedict.

At first, it feels like a cruel mirage, the man you most desire here to stymie your last gamble at impulsivity. His hold is strong as you sense Matthew shrink away, defeated by Benedict’s threat to expose some dalliance or other. But as he whisks you to an empty room within the house, all you feel bubbling up is anger.

“Stop trying to rescue me!” you rail, reeling out of his grip and stamping your foot to emphasise your point, uncaring that you may be behaving more akin to a petulant toddler.

“Stop making foolish decisions!” he lobbies back after a fleeting wounded look.

You glare at him momentarily before turning your back and staring out of the window into the inky blackness of Granville’s garden, frustration prickling a tear in the corner of your eye.

Behind you, there is a sigh; then his voice turns softer. “Why did you not follow my advice? I came here this morning only to be informed you never arrived…”

That he came to check on you weakens your bluster, although you still have no earthy idea why, once again, he is so invested in your actions. But you are not done saying your piece.

“What does it matter now?” you bite bitterly before spinning around to face him. “Benedict, we are in Whistledown. My father would have arranged a special licence for tomorrow regardless of whether I had come here or not…”

“He did what?” he splutters, shock almost choking the words.

You square your shoulders and cross your arms defensively. “I am to be married in the morning. 11am at St George’s.” When all he offers is floored silence, you uncharitably dig the knife in. “No thanks to you...”

Your words are like a body blow, a world of hurt in his quiet tone as he stares at the ground. “I was only trying to help.”

Regret floods your every cell; why you would choose to lash out at him, even you don't know—so many conflicting feelings and strong liquor coursing through you.

“Please… let me return to the party,” you sigh wearily, after a beat, gesturing to his blocking your exit from the room.

“You would regret what you were about to do until your dying day,” he attests, lifting his head, a vein on his forehead pulsing as his jaw tenses.

“Perhaps,” you shrug. “But that is my burden to endure, not yours.”

“I am your friend,” he frowns, “I will always want to alleviate your burdens…”

“I do not want a friend, Benedict, not tonight. I want a beau.” If you aimed to shock him, you are successful; a cavalcade of expressions warring on his face as you plough on. “So please move so that I may continue with my most inadvisable plan….”

“No.” It's soft but unequivocal, resolute.

When you realise he is not going to budge, you throw your hands up in exasperation. “What do you want from me, Benedict?”

There is a gruff noise in the back of his throat, and then, with two determined strides, he is pressed up against you, his breath hot on your face. Then he is kissing you, ferociously, wantonly, opening your mouth with his, his hands encircling your waist and pulling you roughly into him.

And you are lost.

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