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halcyone-of-the-sea · 4 months

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PAIRING: Hunter!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Werewolf!Reader

SYNOPSIS: There’s blood on your hands again.

WORDCOUNT: 16.8k

WARNINGS: Intense gore, body horror, death, mutilation, weapons, firearms, knives, intended harm, violence, blood, descriptions of wounds, angst, fluff, protective!Simon, religious mentions, period time standards for men/women (1700s), etc.

A/N: The first of my reverse AUs is finally here! Enjoy!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The tale of the Werewolf extends back to around 2100 BC. It was written in The Epic of Gilgamesh, scored into a clay tablet by hands long buried—a corpse forever still in the earth so deep, the bones have yet to be found by greedy eyes. Perhaps the oldest surviving story in human history, and there is still a passage that bleeds into stories hundreds of thousands of years later.

In such, Gilgamesh, a man on the search for immortality, rejects a woman for the reason of turning her previous husband into a wolf.

“You have loved the shepherd of the flock; he made meal-cake for you day after day, he killed kids for your sake. You struck and turned him into a wolf, now his own herd-boys chase him away, his own hounds worry his flanks…”

And then, the tales spread, changed, through history and through spoken words of caution. Like water trickling from a well, down the shape of the wooden bucket delving deeper and deeper into a pit of age—of caution.

“The Beast of Gévaudan. Man-eater.” Through France

“He has a wolf-head, you know? Tall thing—short brown hair all over him.” Through Scotland

“Beware the man that changes shape under the full moon.” England.

Now, in the late seventeenth century, it all comes to a head. Even the people in 2100 BC knew that someone who changes into a wolf, or some bastard-like imitation of one, was very much real; it is very much an affliction that overtakes sense and reason. A curse.

Transferable down to the saliva of one entering your bloodstream.

You must never get within the beast’s sights.

—

There’s blood on your hands again.

Hunched over, your body quivers, and the bareness of your flesh in the moonlight is of little concern to you—trapped in a fetal position while the chilled wind howls.

Howls.

“Get out of my head.” Your fingers grasp at your scalp, pulling; ripping. A sob jaggedly slashes your throat open. “Please,” you rattle in a fast breath, the grass snapping as you writhe. “Get out of my head.”

It had happened once more, and you can’t remember any of it.

The forest is deathly still. No birds sing their songs—no breeze moves the long grass, patches trampled down around you as if a beast had staggered into the small clearing you’re lying in. Maybe it had. There are shadows that listen to your quiet panic, the low whines and gasping quivers of your throat; from behind the trees that speak in the way that only they could. The deep night creeps into you, and the moonlight bathing your flesh doesn’t push back the terror in your bloodstream.

Your body burns like you’ve broken every bone twice over, and judging by the blood stuck in between every line and dip of your skin, to anyone walking past, the analogy could be very real. Fingers flexing and bending, you try to force out the venom inside of your head with desperation befitting a dying dog, spine visible out of the skin of your back as you sob all the harder.

You tried to stop it—you had; you always do. But, just like every month when the full moon mocks you with its silver-hued face, it never works.

It never works.

Your eyes stare at nothing as you lay here, in this place of grass, blood, and bile, of corruption as deep as a vile sin of flesh. It came over you like a wave, fingers trapping your throat and bearing it to the caress of fangs. There were different names for it here, miles from your village and the terrified eyes that search the tree line; names coming from the hunters and their black deeds.

Shapeshifter.

Demon spawn.

Werewolf.

“I can’t take it anymore,” you shove the side of your head into the ground, pushing the torn earth away from the cuts of long claws. Tears flood the dirt until it’s wet and muddy, pushing the crimson stains on your skin away in long streaks. “It hurts, God, please, it hurts.”

The sound of your hysterics rises and falls in the stillness—the inactivity of fearful birds and beasts wondering if your fangs would rip from your gums and your claws would tear from your fingertips. Fur along your body the color of which leads to stories of their own spreading far and wide.

The White Wolf. The Specter of St. Francis’ Village. A hound from Hell.

More pale than snow, and sharper seen than a knife or blade through the black trees. Even if the memories of your shifts were fuzzy at best, there were flashes of those who’d seen your gargantuan form from the confines of their stone-cut homes. Those wide eyes. Yelling—screaming; sprays of blood as heads were separated from bodies—

“Stop!” You scream, your legs kicking out as your toes scrape the grass. “It’s not me! It’s not!”

There’s a call of alarm from deep within the woods, the flash of torches and bellow of hunting dogs. They’re running you down, you’d forgotten that in the depths of your breaking mind and body, and by the time your elongated limbs had set themselves back into a more human-like appearance, your spine cracking at every vertebrae, it had slipped your thoughts entirely. It always took you a long time to understand what had happened after…everything.

But even now, the shouts of the hunt are pointless to the visceral breaking of your consciousness, stuck between leaving bloodlust and knowledge of horror. There’s flesh in your teeth, and you wail before your fingers drag down your face, cupping over your ears. In the back of your skull, the panting of dogged breath echoes; running, blood, blood, blood. It’s a dance of fangs, of pale fur, staining every inch and flooding the back of your mouth. Drinking it down like water.

Flesh—lovely, disgusting, flesh rent and torn to the bone with smacking gums belonging to a square snout.

Who had you killed this time?

By the time the dogs had tracked your scent to your curled body, it was already too late.

“Here!” Male voices shift in and out on the backs of crows, hard and cruel. “It’s here!”

“Get the dogs on it!”

“It’s not me,” you mutter incessantly, not truly understanding what you’re saying as hounds burst through the bushes, all snapping teeth and slobbering tongues your eyes widen in an instant. Panting, your jaw clenches; long whines move your throat.

“What…?” Blinking quickly, the dogs surround you—having to be at least ten of them on their nimble legs and thin tails. Everything is distant to you; separated. A knife could be driven through your heart, and you wouldn’t even realize it until minutes later, bleeding out on the grass.

The hounds are afraid of you.

They dart forward and balk back, your scent driving them up a wall until rabid slobber drips from their maws. Torchlight pulls through the trees—quicker now, running. Fangs nick your shoulder and you yell, shoving up to your backside as the world swirls, shuffling away as the dogs snarl. Their eyes are red-huen. Drunk off fear and order.

Your head darts and shifts, blood dripping off your chin to travel down the flesh of your stomach and navel—so much crimson that the whites of your eyes are violent under the moon. Hands slipping over the wet grass, your face pulls and slackens in delirious confusion as you try to stand but fail. You cry out in sharp pain, and the dogs go wild in their kill circle, nearly attacking one another in anticipation.

You glance down and see the black crossbow bolt sticking out of your thigh.

The scent of wolfsbane in the air only then becomes clear to you, and the realization is slow. Wolfsbane—you’d been told about it by the village priest. It makes beasts of the night dumb and weak; minds unclear.

In a moment of clarity, the reason behind your incurable hysteria becomes clear.

Lungs heaving and eyes far-off, the hunting party bursts through to where you stay, and you look up in animalistic fear. Figures dip and slip into one another, faces becoming demons as the visages melt into twos and threes. You yell out, sniffling and sobbing, trying to back up until the hounds grapple onto your shoulder and rip a chuck out of your arm. Screaming, your hand moves back, shoving at its snout before hands staple themselves to your wrist.

“No!” You wail, injured leg dragging as you’re forced back into a heavy chest. Hot breath fans against your neck as multiple grips pull and touch you—shackling you down with rope and chains. Your throat screams itself raw, kicking and struggling futility. “Let go!”

You’re too weak—too drugged off wolfsbane and blood loss. Rotting teeth move across the canvas of a smeared painting, you can’t focus beyond the riot of your heart inside of your ribs.

Grubby hands snap under your chin, digging into your flesh as you cry, not able to move as the restraints are tightened. A silver muzzle is slapped over your jaw. Dark eyes shimmer as you rage—aggravating the bolt wound until fresh blood forms a puddle on the ground, which the dogs lick their lips at.

“Look at that,” a low, lust-filled voice eases out, and hands around your body tightening as you squirm, head spinning. Silver and wolfsbane. Your eyes snap to fight the sudden flood of fuzzy heaviness in your body. “Pretty little Hell-Beast, eh? Almost seems a bit strange to have the Spector be her. Think that hunter shot the right bitch?”

“Course,” another grunt, a hand grabs the top of your head, jerking it up as your head lulls along with the force. You can barely focus on the words being said. “He isn’t a fuckin’ twat. Killed a werewolf in the next village over, too. Heard he skinned the fucker and took its head for his mantlepiece—just like the vampire skull he wears.” A pause. The dogs are still barking—echoing out in the trees. You can’t feel your legs. “Isn’t that right, Hunter?!”

A shout is sent into trees as your panic breeds with the drug, eyelids drooping as your head is snapped and moved by your hair. Your buggy eyes don’t focus on the man until he steps into the torchlight, the crowd parting for him as the metal of your chains drags and clinks together.

It’s as if the very blackness of night takes human form.

The man, the Hunter, is tall—very tall. He looms like an aloof animal over most of the others here with his dark boots and his black hood, and yet, under the fabric, there is no whisper of his face.

Only the upper visage of a pure white skull, and two long, needle-pointed teeth where canines should be.

“Ghost,” one of the men laughs, groping at your bleeding thigh before you shriek, muffled from behind the muzzle, and weakly kicked out. “Good shot, Mate. Right in the meat of the thing. Gave a good trail for the hounds.”

Ghost blinks slowly, grunting under his breath as the large crossbow in his hands is shifted. He stays silent as your visible pulse hurries on as if you were a rabbit and not a wolf, watching from under the cover of his hood. The darkness of his clothes is blue in the moon—silver buttons down the length of a loose shirt and pants stuffed into boots. The hood is attached to a jacket, which itself extends down to his knees and sways lightly with every shift. The silent resting of weapons and tools is not lost to anyone.

Belt of filled vials and large knives; a firearm over his back, and two pistols hidden on either thigh. That crossbow was still in his hands.

Brown eyes openly dig into your soul, dead as a corpse, and your voice whines as your thigh is finally released with a laugh. Your vision blacks and comes back a moment later as you try to breathe from behind the muzzle, gasping. That skull on his face…you don’t like it. It scares you.

And the Hunter only continues to watch numbly as his wide shoulders stay stationary.

“Get the cage!” Someone roars, and you flinch, shrinking until a dog with short fur comes and nips at your ankles, the man holding you grinning sharply as you sob and shake.

“C’mon—expected more of a fight from you, Spector. Getting bullied by dogs, now? Ain’t that a twist of fate, then. Bet this devil’s whore can’t even walk with all that wolfsbane in ‘er, eh?”

A grumble of chuckles as the rattle of metal is in the distance. You grow more fearful, mind flashing to a burning stake and the trials you’d seen in village after village. No—no they can’t put you in a cage; they can’t put you on trial.

They’re going to make it hurt.

“Say we try it out.” A shadow comes closer and grabs you by the arm, ruthlessly shoving you to the ground. You cry out as your spine meets the earth, arms and legs kept under chains that tangle and screech in their metallic way. The rope that holds the muzzle pulls against your neck until you can’t breathe except in ragged wheezes.

“Go on,” they taunt, some holding back the rampaging dogs just to watch you flail and shimmy. Your face grows hot as you struggle to sit up—shaking so violently you can’t focus on anything but the quiver. “Put on a show for us, Beasty!”

Death would be better than this.

Tears hit the ground as the cage is finally brought into view, the men all groaning and annoyed that you hadn’t even attempted a forced shift or a desperate run into the trees.

Ghost’s fingers, you notice from the side of your blurring eye, tighten minutely around the body of his weapon. You do not doubt that he’s wondering if it would be easier to just put a bolt through your eye right now.

“Get it loaded up,” the Hunter’s voice is accented and gravel-like. As if rotting wood is being peeled back and scraped along gravel, he stares at you for a long moment and then glances at the dogs. “And get those fucking mutts under control.”

“Which one?” Is the low-blow joke, and the ruckus of loud amusement that follows makes you want to die.

It’s not your fault, how do you tell them that? It’s not your fault.

Your throat bobs in an attempt to speak, but you can’t move your jaw from behind the restraint of your face—held tight to you as the men come back over and grapple for you again. The priest was right, wolfsbane makes werewolves sluggish.

You can do nothing as you’re ruthlessly dropped into a silver cage, borrowed, no doubt, from the Vatican itself, and christened with holy water. But it was a funny thing, really, and the dark humor wasn’t lost to you even like this. There was nothing godly about this contraption.

Locked in, you shove yourself immediately into a corner and hunch over, grasping at your thigh as the bolt still leaks fluid in a long trail over the ground. The pain is so great in your head, that the physical agony is little—a bullet wound to a sliver.

Your temple slams into the metal, smacking into it as your eyes shove themselves closed.

Head hurts—hurts. I can’t think. Can’t think. It’s humming, my skull is breaking open.

Bile pools in the back of your throat, but the muzzle keeps it in, leaving you gagging as the cage is lifted with a grunt and carried by long poles; back to St. Francis' Village, no doubt, but you can’t…focus.

“Think you might ‘ave given her too much, then, Hunter,” one calls, slapping Ghost on the shoulder as the crowd follows after the panicking quarry. The large man only gives him a look from the side of his eye and the villager pulls away immediately, awkwardly chuckling before hurrying off after the others.

Brown eyes watch your bare body hunch and spasm, pupils wide as you’re carted off.

He’d been generous with the wolfsbane, truth be told. He’d expected you to be…Ghost’s dark brows pull in from behind his grim mask…he’d expected you to be different.

Humming under his breath, the Hunter watches the torches disappear into the trees and lets his gaze linger on you.

There was something…off.

Blinking, he turns, eyes studying the place where they’d found you with sharp attention that misses nothing—not even the birds that come back to settle into the trees again. Large boots shift through the grass, and as he’s re-settling the crossbow in his hands, his eyes find something glinting.

Watching, Ghost takes another step and brings his body to the item in the grass, hidden, before he kneels. Digging with large digits, the Hunter’s hands loop through the chain of a necklace, dragging it through the torn earth until he can gaze at it fully under the light of the moon.

Blinking in slight surprise, Ghost finds the body of a silver bullet hanging from the confines of a leather strap. Brown eyes shifting to look over his shoulder, the man listens to the cheers and merriment of the hunting party mutely. A simmering understanding brews in his gut. It’s only one that you could know from years of experience doing just as he had—hunting and being hunted in turn with a knowledge of all things dark and unholy.

It could never be easy, could it?

A low grunt later, the man sighs out a deep, “Fucking hell,” and moves to slowly stand, slinking back into the darkness.

—

They kept you in the cage and set it on display in the middle of town for days.

Shivering now from the cold more than the wolfsbane, you stay collapsed into yourself as people come past to poke and prod at you—even sticking knives into the slits of the cage and digging them into you like an animal until your flesh was marked and brutalized.

You don’t remember what it’s like to not be bloody.

The bolt wound was festering; infected. You dare not touch it, because the pain only makes you want to vomit, and if you do, you’ll most likely suffocate on your own bile before the trial ever happens.

Yet, on the fourth night of this, as your eyelids flutter and your body grows weaker, a shadow comes to visit.

“You weren’t born one.” It isn’t a question, but the sudden voice makes you startle.

Eyes locking onto Ghosts’, your mind flies with fear—thinking that perhaps there’s more abuse that you’ll be put through. But no…the man has no weapons on him tonight. Only a long knife at his belt. The mask stays.

You stare, unable to speak as your fingers twitch.

Grunting, Ghost’s head tilts, gaze moving up and down as you curl in tighter around yourself. A cold breeze rips through the square, and your eyes clench closed with breaking will. When you open them again, the Hunter is kneeling by the cage, and holding up something in his hand loosely.

“You going to behave if I take that muzzle off?” You nearly gasped at the hanging image of your necklace—a silver bullet on a leather strap; that dark and heavy thing usually kept around your neck. A reminder.

After a moment of wide-eyed staring, you nod quickly to his question, a desperate, pleading thing without the need to utter words. Please, you want to scream at him, take it off.

Ghost’s eyes are as dark as a mound of dirt, sharply intelligent and filled with an unflinching reality. He doesn’t care what you are, and he won’t until you speak to him and let him judge your character far before any courtroom can. The man knows what a lie is better than any priest.

“Good,” he says curtly, accent far more deep as he thinks, re-capturing the bullet in his palm and standing before he shuffles it into his pocket.

You can’t help the anxiety as Ghost moves forward, loping to the side of the cage with the side of his eyes on you incessantly. It’s obvious how his other hand lays limp on the hilt of his blade that, with only one wrong move, you’d feel the chill of the edge with no time at all.

But the temptation of getting this muzzle off was too good to ruin, and so, you stay as still as you’re able as crows call in the distance and the deadness of the town leaks into your blood.

Ghost moves his free hand and orders, blankly, “Closer.”

You hesitate, body tight before you drag your face closer to the bars, angling it parallel with the metal so the tight bind on the back can be taken up. The fear can be smelt the second your eyes have to break contact with his with the turn of your head—neither of you trusts the other.

Ghost hums under his breath at the sight of your broken body coming farther into the open light of the moon, the whites of your eyes all the more visible from under the slathering of blood and tears. He hadn’t been absent to witness the abuse you’d been put through, even if the coin from his successful hunt was feeding him at the inn, a small window allowed the tight view of your torment at the hands of the people you’d once lived around.

But the reality was that you’d killed people—scores of them—and yet the worst part of it was that he wasn’t sure if you even knew that.

It took four nights for him to break his only rule: never get involved after the job’s done.

But the hunch he had was too important to ignore.

Large fingers latch onto the knot at the base of your skull through the cage itself, Ghost grunting at the sight ahead of him. The rope had been gradually chafing over your flesh, peeling back hair and skin until only the bloody meat was left—Simon had to wonder if the people of this village even wanted you alive for the trial or not at this rate. You’d be dead by tomorrow if that infected bolt at your thigh wasn’t taken care of.

Despite himself, a part of his chest tightens at the sight of the thing sticking out of your leg, dripping a yellowish puss. It had been a good shot, and he had overcoated the bolt in wolfsbane.

Ghost hadn’t expected you to be so susceptible to it—most werewolves only got slower, but you…you seemed to have a stronger reaction. He files that fact away and tilts his masked face to the side.

Grasping at his blade, the sound of a knife being slipped out of a sheath makes you startle, jerking your head back and shoving away even as your muffed whine of pain falls out. Ghost momentarily readies himself for an attack, but the way you force your mangled body to the opposite corner has him grumbling out a hard, “Easy.”

The Hunter raises the blade, watching you with unblinking eyes. Your body shakes; panting. It was like calming a feral dog.

“You want the thing off or not? Have to cut it.” Once more, the man rises and walks over, boots almost silent over the small raised platform the cage had been set on like a trophy, you inside are comparable to the golden coins that greedy eyes touch and run their dirty hands over.

Your mind is a troubled thing as you watch this Hunter and his crude knife come closer, kneeling again, and motioning with two fingers to shift your head.

“Out ‘ere,” Ghost says, brown eyes not letting you guess anything about his true motives. “Don’t have time to fuck around. Guards’ll make a round soon and I’d rather not get caught wide-eyed.”

Your brows pull in, hands clenching and unclenching in your lap as goosebumps travel the length of every limb. You were tired—hungry and thirsty; there were open wounds that burned with infection and ones that were crusted over with dirt and grime. You can’t feel your toes, and the tips of your fingers have long since gone numb.

The thought of getting this muzzle off was like the promise of heaven being dangled in front of your nose. Your hesitation this time is far longer than the first, moonlight glinting off the visible blade in Ghost’s hand as he stares. That mask holds death.

The hood is gone from him—only that pale bone left and sewn into dark, dark, fabric. The sharpness of the teeth leaves your throat bobbing in a nervous swallow as your head carefully shifts to rest on the bars. Bending, you present the knot once more and try not to focus on the way Ghost’s attention is fully on your expanding lungs; the pulse that is seen through the meat of your neck.

But he says nothing before his fingers once more grasp the rope and the tip of the knife slips up. You don’t even feel it before the sudden slackening of the muzzle, and then the thing slips from your face before it slaps the bottom of the cage with a dull thump.

The first thing you do is vomit.

Spine pulling in, your body jerks as the bile that had been in the back of your throat rockets out, restrained hands slapping the ground as the acidic concoction leaks from between your torn lips. Face on fire, you choke and retch for what seems like minutes before you can finally breathe in the damp air—the innate shame and disgust rolling through as you cough raggedly.

It’s only after you’d forgotten the man kneeling outside that he seems to remind you of his presence with a grumble.

“Breathe. It’s no use if you can’t speak to me.”

A weak, quivering glare comes across your eyes, saliva dripping off your chin as your tongue moves to lick at your lips. But the brown gaze is as immovable as stone. Finding it pointless, your hands come up and delicately touch the base of your skull, only making you flinch when the fresh blood pools down and over your neck, licking at your shoulders. Tiny droplets fall to hit the metal one at a time.

Ghost’s fingers twitch as he puts the knife away.

“Who bit you?” You stare at him, hands falling before your wrists rub at the aggravated skin of your jaw. He shifts his head, voice slow but heavy. “Speak.”

“...I’m not a dog,” your voice is scratchy, hoarse. You send a small glance his way, mouth open and nostrils flaring in an attempt to bring in the oxygen you’d been lacking.

“Really?” A hidden eyebrow is slowly raised. “Hell, coulda fooled me.”

“Damn you,” you whisper, not meeting his gaze as you shuffle back. The crossbow bolt catches on one of the cage’s bars and you bite on your lip to stop the shrill yell that threatens to exit. Head moving, you lightly slam your skull into the wall in pain.

Breath hitched, you clench your trembling jaw tight.

“Speak or don’t,” Ghost grunts, and he makes a move to stand. “Your funeral.”

A spark of fear stabs you as he begins to shift, and you can’t explain why. Perhaps it was because it was the first conversation you can remember having lately that wasn’t one-sided or on the edge of a blade.

“W-wait,” you stutter, blinking through the blood. The Hunter doesn’t slow, and then he’s on his feet and fixing the gloves over his fingers, flexing his hands before his foot begins to pivot—

“Please, don’t go,” your voice is thin and pleading, echoing through the street. “I’ll answer your questions, any of them you want,” the sentence cracks through a dry throat, tears welling. “Please, don’t leave me here alone.”

Ghost had half of his body turned away before it went rigid; the side of his dead eyes flash to you, swirling with specs of moonlit silver. A hunter and a werewolf lock gazes, great beasts respectively brought together in seconds that seep into slow minutes of delicate need.

Knowledge and company. Understanding and a horrible fellowship.

The Hunter’s eyes twitch in their ever-narrow resting place, glancing away before he mutely moves back to where he was before.

He wastes no time.

“Who bloody bit you?”

You stifle a pathetic sigh of great relief, taking company with a man who had shot you not days before. Yet the ability to speak and be heard was a commodity that was dimming each and every day.

“It was already fully turned,” you speak quickly, tongue tripping. “A big wolf—a gray one with eyes like the sky.”

Ghost glares to the side. Gray? There were no contracts for gray werewolves with blue eyes in the area. Only you—only Specter. The next question is just as stiff.

“When?”

“Three years ago,” your lips move. “Only three years, I promise.” Brown eyes narrow slowly, fingers tapping the fabric of his pants once before he makes a noise in the back of his throat. Ghost’s jaw clenches, mind working through the hoops that need to be jumped.

To you, the questions might seem pointless, but to a hunter, they were important—very important. Werewolves who are born afflicted with this moon-drunkenness are different from those turned by a bite. Not only are shifts from turned werewolves more violent, more deadly, but they rarely know their own actions from that of the frenzy under their skin; those that are born as such are rarely out of control, unlike your faction.

The only question now was if Ghost could condemn you to death when it was obvious your human form was entirely different and you had no semblance of an idea of what was going on. Was it even his problem to care about? Even looking at you now, the man blinked away from cuts and inflicted injuries—the muzzle on the ground.

The blood and the bolt.

He’d known it had been a foolish play to bring all of those townsfolk with him on this hunt but he needed their knowledge of the terrain; he hadn’t passed through St. Francis’ before. At the time, Ghost hadn’t been averse to assistance as long as he got the job done in his own fashion: capture or kill, the contract had stated. Rarely was he known for capture.

Maybe, deep down, he’d known something was already wrong about this.

“Show me it,” the Hunter grunts, staring you down, a deep anticipation growing in his bones. He had to make sure you weren’t lying.

You lick your lips, face pulling with every twitch and sway of your form. The black at the edges of your vision was coming back, and you blinked quickly, chains dragging before you shifted your back with a quivering breath. The punctures were difficult to see through all of the gore, but Ghost made do as he grabbed at the waterskin at his waist and the rag hanging from his belt.

Flooding the fabric in the lukewarm water, he hums out a firm, “Don’t move. Cleanin’ it,” before you feel the press of the rag to your back.

Gasping lightly, you almost jerk away before the sensation becomes a nearly welcomed one—the drag and slight scrape of rough material. Your averted eyes dip lower, staring at nothing as your heart momentarily slows to a normal pace. Ghost cleans the areas where the swell of scar tissue is the most obvious, and, one by one, the violent groves spread out like a slash of paint over canvas. Along the left side of your waist, the blood gives way to a dented ‘v’ shape of healed punctures. Deep, dragging; a point to where your side was almost ripped away before it broke off swiftly.

Ghost’s dark eyes fight the need to widen, and that hidden blankness stays.

A great gray wolf with blue eyes…

His mask tilts, head shifting as his gaze moves slowly. Gloved fingers twitch to touch them, moving in an almost examining way that befits a surgeon and not a decapitator. Your breath is held in the back of your throat, but you sag nearly entirely into the bars of the cage, growing more unsteady by the second.

The scent of infection is so strong it makes your head burn, and you’re overtaken by it as Ghost’s presence suddenly disappears.

You don’t know if it’s minutes or hours before you understand that you’re alone again, but when your limp neck finally turns to wonder where your silent captor is, you are greeted with nothing but moonlight. Blinking through the sludge behind your eyes, the sinking in your gut was stark and sudden—like a knife dragging itself from gullet to navel.

But all you offer is a light whine as more blood moves to cover the places where Ghost’s rag had just cleaned. You were scared of him, no doubt. A hunter through and through down to the vampiric skull on his face and the shroud of death at every inch of his form.

He’d shot you and drugged you with wolfsbane. Found your necklace.

So why had he talked to you?

Your head is too muddled for this, too delicate. Like the crimson under your nails, it dries and flakes off of your brain as the lack of distraction breeds stored agony. There wasn’t anything left to focus on besides the upcoming trial, your death, and the pain that doesn’t let you sleep except for now, on the brink of not rest but unconsciousness.

And at the sound of a key being slotted into the silver of your cage’s door, only then does your body slump with the weight of doom.

You don’t even feel the hand that grasps at your ankle.

—

The sway of the horse makes your teeth clatter with every clop of hooves.

Your conscience mostly comes and goes, only staying in thin seconds where you feel the press of clean bandages on your afflicted flesh and the tipping of warm broth into your mouth. Grass under your head.

Blankets being shuffled over your clothed body when you shiver.

When you’re finally able to speak, when the horse is moving along and hands keep your back stuck to a strong chest, it’s a low, garbled, “Ow.”

Ghost barely blinks down to your head as it slumps to the gait of his horse, glancing before his attention returns to the thin forest trail ahead of him. You’d made noises in your sleep often enough—this was no different except for the fact he felt your shoulders flex.

Slowing the horse with a pull on the reins, the dappled mare settles to a walk.

“You up, then?” Ghost hums, his hand around your waist tightening as you groan under your breath. “Good. Thought I was dragging a corpse—would have wasted my bandages.”

Your eyes shudder as they open into the light, having to focus on moving them before the sting of the sun makes them water. But you do, and then the confusion outweighs the numb stinging of tended wounds.

Head shifting, you look behind you slowly with wide eyes as the horse under both of you snorts.

Brown eyes watch you before a dark brow twitches upward. “What is it?”

You just blink, mouth slightly open.

“Where…am I?”

“Forest.” Ghost states matter-of-factly.

If you had the energy to glare, you would have. Seeing that nothing will get the man into a proper conversation—he was a brick wall even now—you look down at yourself and land on the scarred forearm that keeps you secure on the saddle. Ghost’s gloves were still on, but the sleeve of his dark shirt had ridden back to his upper forearm, and in the wake of pale skin, you find the black ink of all manner of warfare.

Werewolf skulls; vampire fangs and fire. The slash of inkish chains with skeletons.

Your lips thin, your senses slowly becoming your friend again as you stare at the snarling face of a needle-hewn wolf. Eyes tightening as the horse moves to the left, your body follows the reactive action before Ghost’s pressure tightens once more, visibly veins behind the pale flesh. You move on, seeing the thin tunic and pants over your body—feeling under that, the bind of wrappings with the scents of mashed yarrow leaves in the fabric.

They’d been re-applied recently, too.

“Stay still unless you want to re-open them,” Ghost utters, eyes scanning the trees for unseen threats. It was midday by now, the sun high above the trees watching the both of you on your trek to seemingly nowhere. “We’re far enough away, but I want more distance before I take the time to close them fully.”

“The trial,” your arm moves up, fingers grazing the side of your nose before it falls back down. Ghost can feel the air heat with unease. “The…the cage?”

“Trial was two days ago,” he draws, thighs shifting over the saddle. “Give or take.”

The confession isn’t as shocking now that you have woken up here, but the lack of remembrance on your part of that time startles you. It’s a blank slate—just like the aftermath of your shifts. You don’t like not knowing.

The next question comes out with a haggard cough, sweat dripping off your nose. “Why?”

“You’re going to tell me ‘bout the werewolf that made you,” the Hunter grunts. “And you can’t speak if you’re lit up like a pig on a spit. Took you the night we met in the square.”

Through it all, Ghost barely looks at you—always his attention keeps to the trees and the shadows that linger; seeming to listen. He knows more than anyone that they do.

The horse continues on, your pain surfaces again, and with a shuddering breath, you fall into a fitful sleep once more. The arm around your body tightens, and the warmth it lends is accented when Ghost’s shifting gaze glances at the top of your head. He wears an expression he can’t name yet.

When the throws of fever pull their curtains back for the last time, it shows you the slats of the attic above your head, wood polished and clean as the heat of fire moves over your body. Pulling a large inhalation of air into your lungs, you blink softly as if clearing away cobwebs with a broom—willing sense to return in the few seconds it had flown away.

The furs are warm.

In the village, you weren’t anyone of standing. A simple woman—unwed, and, thus, unimportant due to the era the world sees itself in. It wasn’t all bad…namely, it hid your affliction far longer than you could have hoped it did. You had a small piece of family land passed down to you on the edge of the village, and that was where you stayed. Nothing fancy; a hearth, a large, single-room property with a garden and a well. You were known to keep sheep, a fact that had caused perhaps a few hysterical chuckling fits when, every full moon, one or two went missing, but it gave you the ability to accumulate money and, more importantly, an alibi.

Who would suspect a werewolf to own sheep?

But this home already had a more detached feel to it—something removed. The air was sterile, somehow. Groaning, your face tightens before you rise to the palms of your hands, muscles quivering to keep the strength your stubbornness gives to them. Half-vertical, you turn and study the area.

Square, the four walls are stone with mortar and clay to keep the rounded blobs together. You’re on the ground floor, a staircase to the far right while the bed is stuck into the left corner; a nightstand sitting void of all except a single chamber-wick holding an unused candle. A sturdy table with one wooden chair, a stone fireplace set into the same wall the headboard is level with, and a large oak door.

There are runes written on it.

You can’t make sense of what they mean, but when you see them, your tiny-pupiled eyes slip to the rest, all placed at windows or near some point of entry—unassuming things until you realize why they were red in color.

Your shoulders tighten, and whatever bit of magic moves through your skin lets your nose pull to the scent of human blood.

You clear your throat and look away, licking your lips with a dry tongue. Moving your toes under the two bear furs that rest at your abdomen, you notice the lack of earth-shattering pain that accompanies it, and, shifting a hesitant hand, you grab the edge and push it back a bit farther.

Bandages with perfect ties meet you, void of any crimson staining.

Truth be told, you expected more of a Hunter’s home—skulls; trophies. The town always spoke of burnt bodies strung up on crosses that mark the property of those in this profession, a ward and a sign of grim hope. Vampires mostly, wasting away in the brutal sun. Others as well. Werewolf fur and witch bones shoved in blessed boxes.

This place is almost normal, you think, thighs shifting over the dip of the bed as your finger runs the white wrappings where the bolt should be. Your mind dares not go to how he got the thing out of you, and at the stretch of sutures, you take your curious grip off of it entirely.

Looking around once more, your brows furrowed tightly.

Where was the man? The hunter responsible for your current predicament? Ghost. With his vampire skull mask and his black attire—a hellhound with dark ink and intentions. More importantly…

Why were you still alive?

Your memories come back slowly as you stand, bare feet moving to the floor as the tunic over your upper half falls to your knees at the verticality of your spine. They creak a bit, the bones, at the ability to stand fully upwards and not be impaired by bars of silver. A strength seeps through you slowly.

In the deafening silence, you clear your throat tinily and lightly itch at the clean flesh at the back of your neck where the muzzle sat; rubbed raw now scabbed and healing with the spread of natural oil balms. Taking in a slow breath, you step forward with a heavy limp and watch the door, glancing at locked trunks and cupboards, eyes blinking. Your muscles ached, but the sting only served as a way to remind you that you were still here—living. Few in your position were granted second chances.

You’re about to study the runes at the door when you’re called to with the creak of the stairs in your left ear.

“Wouldn’t recommend it.” Your head snaps over, blinking quickly.

Ghost carries the leather holders of his twin pistols in one hand, the bodies of the weapons in them hanging as he comes to ground level one step at a time. Brown eyes glance over through the confines of his skeletal face-covering as he walks to the table, placing down the items.

“Keeps the spirits out—smudge ‘em and the house gets haunted,” he grunts. “Rather not bleed myself again to get the runes copied.”

You stare in mild shock, sound sparking from the back of your throat. “...Right.”

Side-eyeing the markings, you shiver and step back from the door, silent as Ghost seems to focus on his task at hand—looking over his weapons.

Large hands running the metal and wood, the pistols in his grip shift as the drying light of the day streams in through the curtains of the windows. He touches them intimately, knowing every grove and dip until he tilts one and rubs away a slash of dirt from the barrel with his bare thumb.

You quickly turn awkward, looking down at yourself and the bareness of your lower legs. It wasn’t lost to you that the man was the reason you were in this situation in the first place.

“You shot me,” you grumble—not unlike someone who had a knife to their throat.

“Affirmative,” Ghost says nonchalantly. You get a slow, blank glance and nothing more.

“Have you drugged me?” You ask, heart speeding up. There wasn’t anywhere to go—not without an escape plan and with Ghost in front of you.

“Wolfsbane?” The Hunter shifts his thighs, boots moving over the hardwood. “Negative. Not yet.”

“Yet?” An attitude seeps in, lips thinning.

Ghost sighs under his breath, slipping the pistols back into their holsters. “Forgetting about how we met, Love?”

“No,” you huff. “Not really.”

“Perfect.” Eyelids pull down slightly. “Don’t.” Ghost nods his head to the table's chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sit.”

“I told you I’m not a—” A sharp, numb look makes your snappy reply stall itself, and you stand there for more than a minute before you find the pointlessness of this.

You limp forward and sit in the chair.

Looping your arms around your waist, you glare to the side as your skin crawls at the unblinking eyes that stare. Ghost rolls his shoulders, tilting his head.

“What do you know about the werewolf that bit you beyond appearance?”

“Nothing,” you chuckle hopelessly, moving a finger in confusion. “I…I don’t know why you’re asking me about it—it’s not like I had a conversation with him.”

The Hunter blinks at your sudden confidence, unable to separate your form now from the one in the cage; blubbering ceaselessly in a grassy clearing. But lesser pains always bring out someone's true colors. As long as you told him what he needed to know.

Ghost explains with a sheen of dull annoyance. “Every turned werewolf holds a connection to the one that bit them. It’s pack mentality.” At your blank look, his brows pull in, the mask shifting. “You telling me you’ve never come back into contact?”

“...No?” Your lips dip. “For three years I’ve been by myself with this.”

Brown digs into your face, a small sheen of confusion slipping in to tighten them, around his biceps, Ghost’s fingers twitch.

You lick your lips, speaking up in the impending silence. “I don’t remember anything after I turn. Is that normal?”

“For you?” He mutters, still not taking his eyes off of you. “Yes.”

“I’m not going to pretend like I know what’s going to happen,” you shrug. “But at the very least I want to try and understand why I’m like this.” You open and close your mouth for a moment. “Before you kill me, anyways.”

“If I wanted you dead,” Ghost grunts through a half-amused tilt of his head. He doesn’t beat around the bush. “...You would be.”

“‘Capture or kill,’” you huff. You’d seen the flyers; heard from word of mouth. “Right.” You sigh. “They’ll track you down, you know. They’re not going to just let you take me.”

“They won’t make it through the forest. Bastards would get lost on the trail.” The Hunter moves until he can grasp the waterskin from the counter, dragging it over with his hand. He tosses it to the main table in your direction after he comes back over, and you hesitantly reach forward and pull the top off. Ghost changes the subject back to his studies of your condition closely. Dark eyes slip down your front as your lips part to take up the liquid. “Before your shift, tell me what you see.”

Your throat bobs as you drink the water, thirsty as it soothes your dry mouth. You hum, but the inquiry makes your hair rise. Your arm wipes at your mouth as you lower the waterskin, a small thankfulness in your heart. “It’s less of what I see and more of what I hear and smell—blood; metal. River water. I…” Your chest tightens. “I feel my bones breaking and I hear howling mixing with whispers.”

“Whispers?” Ghost leans, eyes alighting with dim interest. “What’re they saying?”

“I try to block it out,” you whisper, not exactly answering. “Makes it go faster.”

A long nothingness ensues.

The impending night grows deeper, and then Ghost finally speaks again after you begin to shift with unease. He nods firmly, tilting his head as if it’s already been decided.

“Next full moon, you’re going to listen to them.”

Your horrified face snaps up. It’s a moment of stuttering before you force out a heavy, “What? No!”

He’s already turned, moving back over to the stairs and placing one foot on the steps.

“Ghost!” You yell, face devoid of blood.

He side-eyes you. “Go back to bed. You’re dead on your feet.”

And then the same man who shot you in the thigh with little remorse disappears into the attic.

—

The Hunter was a strange beast.

The days the two of you spent together were mostly silent—left with tight stares and tense shoulders. Clipped sentences.

Ghost, for what it was worth, gave you space in this small house; as much as you could get. He kept himself up above while you stayed on ground level keeping yourself occupied. You’d gotten spare trousers and socks, a jacket, and the bed was practically yours with how your scent rolled off of it now. Yet, you had never been permitted to go outside.

You’d seen the land from the windows—careful of the runes, of course, and it wasn’t anything… ghastly. A vegetable garden, a single-stall stable with a dappled mare, and a beaten-down trail out the front.

No livestock.

No bodies.

It was only when you had become ever more curious about your lupine curse that you braved the stairs to the attic—one week into the impromptu stay. It’s funny due to the fact that Ghost had never said that you couldn’t go up there sooner.

You stand now in the flat room with a sloping roof and find the man making bullets. It’s a long table, parallel to the walls in the center of the room; dark and covered in all manner of books and tomes. Grimoires tied up and locked. Racks of weapons with markings and blessings tied to sheets of ribbon…it was something you’d never seen before.

Studying it now, the contents were a dark fascination.

Ghost fiddles with his silver shell, mixing in gunpowder into the hollowness. He doesn’t speak until you do, but he knows you’re there.

“Tell me more about werewolves,” you speak through the air, and he waits before answering. “The ones who are born with it.”

“Rare,” Ghost comments, and you’re stuck by how willing he is to tell you about this. He puts down his bullet and picks up another. “Harder to find, even harder to kill. Unlike you, they know what goes on when they’re running ‘round. Fuckin’ nightmare to pick up the pieces—bloodbath.” You thin your lips. “Not all of ‘em are murderous, but they’re unpredictable. Can’t help but make packs.”

“Instinct,” you murmur, coming a bit closer. Ghost pauses, looking at you before huffing in the form of a gruff ‘yes.’ Your wondering continues. “But why am I alone then?”

“That’s the question,” the hunter says slowly. “Need to figure out why.” Brown eyes slowly move to you. “‘Fore more people end up dead. Or turned.”

“Can I,” you stop at the table, standing opposite the man. “Can I turn people, too?”

“No,” is all you’re given. Ghost’s eyes glint. “And I’d rather you didn’t bite on me to try.”

Your face heats.

Your attention focuses for a while on how he works—prepares for something unseen. He’d said he’d kept you alive to help him find the one who bit you, but he’d also cleaned your infected injuries, bandaged you, and fed you. Kept you warm. Safe. It was far more than could be said about your village.

However, it was strange how Ghost’s stark muteness was something that you found in the darker hours, a small comfort. When the moon was coming in from the windows, and you hid from its rays as if being stalked down, he once found you sleeping under the bed on the floor because of it.

He never said anything, just offered you a silent hand and helped you back out with a slow blink and a tilt of his head.

There was a distrust, obviously, but there was also an unspoken nearness. No one would make any sense of it—you couldn’t either. It was like a wolf and a raven; something built on hesitence but necessity. You didn’t like Ghost’s mask or his brutalist profession of shooting his wolfsbane-coated bolts, and he didn’t like that once a month you turned into a rampaging werewolf.

Comparable things, really.

But even here, in this workshop in his attic, you saw the need for this—for hunters. If you couldn’t stop yourself, there came a time when you had to be stopped. Truth be told, you expected it to be a quick and final end. Maybe that was just a foolish hope.

A silver bullet would have always been your final song, you believed. Perhaps the very one that had once swung from around your neck; the one you’d never taken off until now.

But then, perhaps that would have been your own brutalist profession.

“Thank you,” you nod. Ghost pauses, fingers stained with gunpowder. He blinks at the bullet in his hand as you continue. “I know you don’t care about anything beyond your work, but if you hadn’t gotten me out of that cage they would have burned me alive. Skinned me.” Your tongue pokes out of the side of your mouth. “I don’t know, but it wouldn’t have been kind. Job or not…thank you for getting me out of there.”

“I shot you,” he utters, voice gravel. Ghost seemed confused.

Your lips flick. “I never said I forgave you for that part.”

A smooth chuckle wafts out over the attic and your own softly mirrors. Your head tilts somewhat quizzically. “But, about that…did you mean to put so much wolfsbane on it?”

Ghost shakes his head, grumbling. A small sense of honesty leaks out. “...Expected you to be bigger.”

You blink, and then, a few seconds later, a loud snort echoes like a ringing bell.

The Hunter's unimpressed look only leads you to find him all the more enjoyable. “Shut it. Fuckin’ hell.”

A hand is waved from your party, dismissing the harsh snap. “Sorry, sorry.” You puff out amused air. “Spector not up to your expectations?”

Ghost nearly rolls his eyes, trying to focus on the task at hand. He didn’t mind your company, at the very least he knew he needed to keep an eye on you for any potentially forced shifts or hostile attitude. What he hadn’t expected was to find you so…different from your muzzled counterpart, your shared physical inhabitant.

He could almost call you endearing if he wasn’t so numb to the sight and scent of reality.

“Sightings were far between,” Ghost grunts. “Here-say. I took an educated guess—better to put something like you out of commission than drag my way out of a forest without legs.”

“No apology?” You try, tilting your head.

“None,” is the drawn response. “I don’t have regrets. You’re alive.”

Your fingers touch the outside of one of his journals, tracing the bumps and grooves of age and wear. You hum, but don’t reply. Most of your pains have been pushed back now, even if you still weren’t up to full strength. Food and rest helped, but the anxiety that perpetuated only lengthened the healing process.

When you can’t trust even yourself under the drunkenness of the moon, it only makes your fear of the sun worse. Everything made you afraid—most of all your mind; most of all, the future.

“Why do you want to find the werewolf that turned me?” You have to speak this, have to push. Your curiosity demands it.

Ghost puts the bullet down and grabs a rag from his belt, mask turning to look your way as he brushes off his hands. He pauses, looming with that gargantuan height—natural intimidation in the span of his chest and the trunk that makes up his front. You find yourself in his shadow as he rubs at his fingers with the rag, taking it away and slotting it back into his belt a moment later.

The man’s heat leaks into your body as he blinks over, glancing your form up and down in a single look; keeping a respectful distance but still making his attentions known.

He stares. “If it keeps biting people, there won’t be any villages left to take up contracts from.”

“Money?” You frown.

“Principle,” Ghost counters, chest rising and falling steadily. “There needs to be a middle ground. Too many feral werewolves, too few people. Cut off the head.”

“Ominous,” your form turns to his, itching at the back of your head again—the scabbing skin. “If what you said was true, how do you know the thing isn’t already dead? If it hasn’t tried to get to me, what was the point of making me?”

“Because you hadn’t left St. Francis’ by the time I put a bolt in you.” Ghost grumbles, rubbing a hand on his bicep, itching above the fabric of his tunic. He stretches with a grunt—and you see his shirt ride up and the pale skin underneath. You gawk for a moment at the length of scars and brutal muscle.

“Charming,” you dryly utter, stuttering in a brief second of pulling back your senses, but the Hunter continues on, ignoring you.

“That was where you were turned—your territory. You stayed because your leader is still close by waiting.” Legs shift, and all of a sudden, a body is over you, hands are on the base of your skull, pushing your own away as brown eyes dig into the injury you pick at.

Your breath hitches, tensing for a second as your spine straightens. You watch widely from the corner of your eye as Ghost runs a careful hand over the flesh. He puffs a breath, chest moving in a grunt that is both commonplace and expected, yet the brush of his chest to your shoulder is not.

You restrain a shiver, nostrils moving to the overwhelming swell of leather and gunpowder. Bone fragments; the tang of whiskey.

His skin as he runs a thumb over the edge of your wound.

“It’ll start cracking.” Ghost utters, and through his fabric, you feel the brush of speech. “Have to apply more balm. Stop messing with it unless you want stitches soon.”

It takes a moment more of his surgical study and a small clearing of your throat before you can speak. Your mind changes the subject for you.

“So…if my bite can’t turn anyone,” you breathe, nearly sagging as Ghost’s fingers catch in your hair, shifting it under his attention to get a better look. He listens, you know. He wasn’t good at talking, but he always listened. “Why did they muzzle me?”

For a brief instance, you think you feel the Hunter’s fingers jerk a tiny amount—some reactionary muscle twitch that leads your body to still.

Ghost can’t say why he did that, though perhaps it was the sudden flash of the injuries that he’d wrapped on the road back to his property that went over his eyelids. Or the cage—your pleading face aching for whatever small sliver of brutish company you can get.

The silver bullet that he still had in his pocket, attached to that leather cord. He knew the purpose; the intent. Just as he knew the scrape of scabbing under his fingertips.

“Control,” he grumbles, and it’s all he’ll say.

Your burning face is somewhat down-turned, letting him do as he must, study what he can. He hadn’t made any moves to endanger you, and besides the upcoming full moon, there was nothing here that screamed imminent danger. Danger as a general, yes, of course. You were a werewolf in a hunter’s home—it would always be…your eyes flutter when his fingertips drag over your scalp…it would always be danger….dangerous.

Ghost doesn’t think you notice it, but your eyes are drooping.

He watches after the slight shock wears off, a tiny smirk flickering the hidden skin of his lips after he realizes the reason. If you had a tail, he’d assume it would be moving in a soft arch by now.

The man was mildly amused at that, and before he moved away fully, he had to stop himself from uttering a sarcastic, ‘like that, then?’

He had to remind himself not to get attached to whatever…this was. He was using you as bait, as some key to his problem. Not a companion. The distance here had to be firm and heavy-handed.

“The balm is down in my packs,” he grunts, leaving just as his name implied before you had the chance to gather your bearings and the lack of caressing heat. You startle back to the attic room, eyes wide and face loose before Ghost’s retreating footsteps echo on the stairs. “Don’t bloody use it all, then.”

The front door opens and closes with a pull of weighted wood.

—

“I can’t do this,” you mutter, pacing alone in the middle of the night down in the living room

The full moon was tomorrow.

“I can’t do it,” you itch at the back of your head, peeling at the nearly healed flesh harshly. Your nails dig into the soft tissue, drilling like a knife. A bead of blood slips around your fingers, but it doesn't stop you.

It’s late—late enough to know that Ghost should be asleep by now. For days, the paranoia, just like always, builds until you are nearly as mute as your Hunter. No more curiously searching his attic; no more questions about his job or how he got into this business. Brown eyes had been lingering more as the days went by, this strange companionship growing. You knew, in his own way, he was…worried.

So silent, even he had been getting noticeably uneasy. Shifting legs and quick glances. Nights where you hid under the bed from the moon until lunch came around, Ghost speaking as easily as he could to try and coax you out to no avail. You, a feral dog with white-rimmed eyes.

At supper, only hours before this panicked pacing, you had told something to Ghost that made him double-take.

“If I can’t stop it…I need you to shoot me. In the head.”

He’d never answered, but his eyes seemed to get ever-sharper as the hours continued on. More tense. Ansty.

But…that was his job, wasn’t it?

“Can’t do it,” you murmur. Blood slips down your wrist. “It isn’t right—”

“Spector?” Ghost’s voice had become so familiar to you that the only thing that made your heart skyrocket was the sudden call of it. Your gasp is sharp from behind a panted breath, hand flinching away from the crater you were steadily digging in your skull. A long string of blood trails into the air as your fingers jerk away, and it’s only then that you notice the deep pangs of pain.

Your eyes shudder for a second as Ghost’s form makes it to ground level. He comes over slowly, attention staying on the way the moonlight makes the crimson stains glint from the dripping line seeping into the sleeve of your tunic. He blinks, and you both stand.

The man’s skeletal adornment was missing, though the fabric under remained. A loose sleep shirt and pants, stained by the rays of night.

“Let me see,” he sighs under his breath, a tiny rasp telling of the sleep he’d been awoken from.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you utter. He doesn’t seem to care, grabbing your wrist and pulling the limb away as his body takes up presence behind you.

“Was already awake,” Ghost grunts, eyes narrowing in hidden worry. You calm down a bit at that, one less problem to worry yourself about.

The Hunter, quietly, leaves for a second and grabs his pouch near the door. With a muffled command, he nods to the bed until you’re backing up and hitting the back of your knees off of it, sitting.

Ghost lights the candle on the nightstand and opens his belongings with stiff glances your way. He noticeably doesn’t ask why you’ve harmed yourself like this.

“I can’t,” you say it like a plea for help. “Ghost, I can’t do it again.”

Hands fiddle with clean bandages and take out his waterskin. The man douses a rag with the liquid and comes over, shifting onto the bed and lightly turning you so your back is to him—legs half hanging off.

The hard press of cold water makes your breath hitch, and you bite your lip.

“It hurts,” you push out. Ghost knows you’re not talking about the newly opened wound.

“Breathe,” he says to you, seeing the way your sides expand with heavy lungs. Brown eyes flutter from the push of his large hand to the warmth of your shaking flesh. “Tell me about your home, yeah? Heard you lived in your own place.”

The question makes you double-take.

He’s asking me that? Here? Now? Hours away from perhaps another catastrophe?

Yet, you can’t help the slippage of your tongue as Ghost’s fingers rub into your scalp. The rag is lessened, and, soon, the material is rubbed gently over the sore itch of weeping skin. You fight a whimper and reply with an addled mind.

“It…it’s quiet. Calm. I always keep the candles going because I don’t like the dark.” Ghost works quietly and quickly.

“There,” he grunts, glancing at the flickering light of the candle he lit. He’d have to remember that. “And?”

“I kept sheep.”

He pauses, and, without meaning to, a soft scoff bounces off the confines of his chest. It catches your attention far better than a bullet could. Ghost shifts a needle and thread out of his gathering of items, taking away his limbs only for the short while it takes him to loop the two together.

“How many?” The masked man asks, amusement gone just as quickly as it had come.

“Only a handful,” you whisper. Your mouth opens and closes, glancing over your shoulder as the candle-light spills out over the room; casting shadows over Ghost’s face, catching on his long eyelashes. Those browns of his glint like tree trunks covered in dew.

“Please,” your words are muffled. Eyes wide and fearful, there isn’t anything that can console you on this. “You need to kill me.”

There was a dichotomy to you—a violent thing. You didn’t want to die, no, you feared it heavily, more than the moon, but the truth was that you couldn’t keep going through this. The unknowing. The breaking bones, the blinding pain. The understanding that nothing that you do can stop it.

“It hurts, Ghost,” your breath stutters. “More than taking off a limb, more than slicing yourself open and ripping out your intestines—it burns more than the light of the moon.”

The Hunter listens through all of it. He sits, he stares, and he hides the brimming sense of concern behind his dead eyes.

With a pulling of his eyebrows, Ghost’s free hand moves upwards and grabs your chin. Freezing, you study this phenomenon from over your shoulder, face on fire with eyes wide to the pale skin visible to your view. You hadn’t realized until now, but this was the most you’d seen of the man’s face.

You could make out the point of his crooked nose—the strength of his jaw under the form-fitting fabric. Cheekbones and the heaviness of his brows. Wisps of hair. He had eyes like a cat, you had to admit; something sly about them despite the numbness that seemed to extend bone-deep.

But his hands had been kind to you.

Firmly, Ghost’s fingers run your flesh, and he blinks softly before a low sound echoes in his throat. He pushes carefully on your jaw and shifts your head back forward so he can help you. When he lets go, your heart quivers in your breast

“I’m ‘ere,” he mutters, and you feel the first stitch enter the thin flesh of your head. You take down deep breaths, focusing on the scrape of his fingertips and not the point of the needle. Ghost can understand the fear of it—of pain. It’s instinct. He tilts his head and pushes out, “I can only ask for one full moon from you, yeah? No more. I just need one.”

“And if I can’t find the werewolf?” Your voice vibrates with emotion, staring down at your hands as Ghost’s chest brushes your spine. The scent of him was addling your brain; the rub and slide of his hands.

The Hunter’s jaw clenches softly. “...Then I let you go.”

It wasn’t what you were expecting, but anything from the time you’d gotten a bolt through the thigh was unknown territory, and, like a dog without a leash, you’d run into it. Your brows furrow, blood oozing down your neck before Ghost’s grip shifts to place the rag back again, swiping away firmly.

“Go?” He nods, but you can’t see it. “But what about the hunt?”

“I can manage.” The stitching pauses. The air is broken up nearly a full minute later. “You’re not evil.” Before they start up again as if nothing was uttered aloud.

The confession makes the sting in the back of your eyes start up again—a strong thing of confusion and vulnerability. Ghost continues his task, pulling together your skin one suture at a time until the injury is fully closed; clean.

“Chin,” he lowly states, and you allow him to tap your jaw, shifting it up so the wrappings can loop above your ear and over your forehead—securing them.

Even far after the blood has seeped through, the two of you stay.

—

Come morning, you already feel wrong.

Your body stays in bed, shaking—sweating. A large pain flairs in your chest over and over like a pulsing well in the earth, skin twitching with the spread of blood. Ghost sits beside the bed all the while, having dragged over his chair. He leans back into it, one arm over the side, hanging with the thing ever so often moving to rub at the back of his neck.

You don’t think he’s moved since he brought it over last night; since he got another candle to stick into the holder—push back the dark. To watch, to study, or just to stave off your rising anxiety is another question.

It’s only after the fourth time you try to rip at the stitches at the base of your skull that he finally grabs your hand and holds it silently. Now, his thumb moves over your knuckles—his gloves back on.

At noon, he tries to suggest eating.

“Hungry?” Ghost asks.

“No,” you say instantly, sweat dripping over your temple, your body partially buried under blankets. “No, I’ll just throw it up.”

Brown eyes glint. “Just one bite?”

Your mouth is already salivating—thoughts of wet flesh and blood in the forefront until you whine and shove your face into the pillow; panting heavily.

Whispers dance in the shell of your ears.

I’m here.

“Go away,” you whisper quickly to them.

Ghost pauses, hesitating. After a moment, his thighs tense with the action of movement, thinking you’re speaking to him. Something swirls in his chest, but he starts to stand nonetheless.

Your eyes widen.

“No!” Both of your hands latch onto the Hunter’s wrist, fear a needle stuck in your gaze. “No, not you. Stay, please.”

A silver cage covered in blood slides across Ghost’s slightly shocked look, but he only licks at the corner of his mouth and slowly leans back once more.

“Not going anywhere,” he says, accent dipping. “Tell me what you’re hearing, yeah?”

His hand slips back into yours, and he presses into your pulse softly, counting. The sun continues across the sky.

“I don’t like how it sounds,” you say, shaking your head. “It’s wrong.”

“Focus,” Ghost breathes, looming closer. His grip squeezes once. “It can’t hurt you.”

You shiver, eyes tightly closed as tears burn the back of your nose. “It’s howling.”

A suddenly gloveless hand spreads up your cheek, resting there and pushing back the sweat that pools. It’s calloused—scarred. You whine, head spinning.

I’m waiting.

Find me.

“I don’t want to,” you utter under your breath, words an amalgamation of slurring gasps.

“Spector,” Ghost calls, head moving closer. “Eh.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” your hurried panic is similar to a mind overdosing on wolfsbane. “Gotta go away—gotta get out—”

“Spec!” The Hunter’s quick bark makes your eyes pop open, and you lock instantly with brown orbs.

They’re tight, unblinking just as always. They offer just a few moments of clarity.

Ghost holds your head still while the rest of you shivers with cold sweats, you can hear the blood inside of his veins; his heart pumping. The scent of his skin was addicting to the point of memorization on the airwaves. You watch, gulping down breaths as your throat bobs.

Eyes dart you up and down, fingers spreading out to offer what little comfort he can. The man wonders if he’s completely in over his head.

Ghost pulls his face-covering up to his nose, and your heart skips beats at the sight of ravaged skin and stubble, scars spreading out like your own. Long ones, short ones, burn marks, and hyperpigmentation. He wasn’t pretty, but he was real.

Oh, he was real.

His grip on you strengthens until all you can focus on is him.

Ghost blinks, and you see his lips move. The gravel of his voice was never more clear. “Fucking hell, keep that head on, okay? Nothing’s going to happen as long as I’m here. I’ve got you.” He sighs out a low breath, thumb running your undereye as the small dribbles of tears begin to sneak out. Ghost murmurs. “I’ve bloody got you, alright? Let it happen—we can figure it out.”

He’d grown fond of you over the course of a month. You were curious; not pushingly so. Honest. Good. You’d been dealt a bitter hand, and damn him if his stone heart wasn’t stretched thin at the raw fear on your face. This wasn’t your fault, but he needed to find who turned you and stop them before it got any more out of control than it already was. If more unstable werewolves went running through the woods, there wouldn’t be anyone left in the territory alive.

“When you turn,” Ghost says as clearly as he’s able. “Go. Don’t fight it. I’ll find you.”

“Promise?” You ask, a weak flicker coming to your lips—eyes vulnerable.

Ghost nods once, and it’s all you need. “I’ll find you,” he repeats. “Doubt me?”

“No,” you ease, clearing your throat. “But…one more thing?”

“Anything,” the Hunter instantly says.

“Just don’t shoot me in the thigh again.”

When the claws start protruding from your nailbeds hours later, you’re bolting to the door with only one last glance at the Hunter and his half-pulled-up mask. Booted feet hitting the wood as he stands, he lets you go even as his thighs tense in a need to run after you. Patience was his beast to tame, but it seemed to have left him in the form of a woman disappearing into the tree line.

There is companionship in broken things.

Your body slips into the forest just as the creak of your bones begins to shift and bend. You fall into a heap, hearing the gargling of marrow under your skin like a call to sea. An urge grows to infect you; a feral need to run and hide. Biting back a shrill scream, a hoarse yell escapes instead—flesh rippling as your mouth opens, fangs breaking the supple mushiness of your gums as blood floods like a river.

Find me.

“Ghost,” you whisper, hands snapping to your head. “Ghost, please.”

Your bullet, you want your silver bullet.

A rabid scream rips from your throat, and back in the house, Ghost’s hands tighten into fists as he glares at the open door. He growls under his breath, eyes tightening in a certain type of anger that brews in his gut. The nights your shuffling woke his light slumber were more common than when you hadn’t, and every utterance was clearly heard to his ears. It had become a curse to him—how you’d met.

A regret was seeping in, a care, and now, as he forces himself to back up and head into the attic, Ghost clenches his jaw tightly. So unaffected by the horror of monsters, he was now at a loss of sense for this growth of feelings.

He wasn’t dull, he knew that some of the contracts he took marked him as a tool and not a person of stable mind. He’d done things he wasn’t proud of, and he would continue to do them for no other reason than they were the orders he was given.

But you had broken a piece of that off of him, somehow, someway, your face had seared itself into his retinas—speared him at the brutality that your community had treated you with. The muzzle. It was cruel, and while Ghost was precisely that, there was a limit.

He did his job, and that was that. Anything after wasn’t his problem.

You became his job, and the one who turned you was an add-on. Maybe if he justified it to himself, he could understand his actions better.

But he was already sprinting to grab his gear when the first howl shattered the night.

—

A white beast prowls the forest.

It stands on two legs, but it isn’t human—isn’t natural. It’s taller than a grown man is; snout pulled back in a soundless snarl that puts dogs to shame with rows of teeth so sharp, they look like pale knives. Its feet—large, splayed—soundlessly skate the ground until clawed fingers slam to the earth.

A nose inhales the scent above the dirt, tongue lulling as a shaggy tail lays limp behind a curved spine. In between the erect ears, under the thick skull of the werewolf, the rolling bumps of a brain spark. A pull.

Find me.

Your eyes are tiny black dots—and they blink once before you rise once more. A great growl moves inside of your chest, the large collection of hair around your neck standing on end.

I’m waiting.

But there’s something that keeps you here—standing in the grass as the moon shines atop your head, your fur nearly glowing even with the stain of bloody injuries. The remains of clothes are about a meter away; only strips of what was.

Your gaze looks over your shoulder, and your gargantuan frame lumbers backward until you can stoop to them—nose once more sniffing with your arms reaching.

Your fingers twitch, blackened claws digging through the ground as a near purr echoes in your throat. The scythe-like additions card across the strips.

Gunpowder.

Leather.

Whiskey.

Something you can’t quite name, but feel drawn to despite the tightening noose at your throat. There was something there you can’t focus on…something that you need.

Your drooling jaws snap, saliva coating the fangs until they drip off one at a time to stain the grass. Body shifting, your head lowers until your wolf-ish visage rubs against the fabric, licking at the sides of your gums as delicate grumbles slip out of your mouth.

A far-off howl leaves your frame freezing.

Eyes slipping back into the feral-inhumanity of a wild animal, your body jolts up, gaze to the forest trees and the rustling of bushes. The swell of rain on the clouds is in the back of your nose, and the previous attraction to the ripped clothes is lost as simply as it had come.

You were being summoned.

Ears twitching, the entirety of your body refuses to move to the sound; tensed and ready to spring on anything that moves if only to let off the spike of anger at the lack of control. The pull grows stronger, and it feels like something is trying to drag you away into the wilds.

This was the sensation you were always trying to fight—the one that led to the aggression; the hunt. You knew that if you followed that howl, whatever was left of your human sense would be gone entirely before you could stop it.

Yet, this time, there’s a nagging need to find the owner, and you can’t remember why.

Your large head tilts, feet spaced as the curve of your spine grows more aggressive—hunching forward as you snarl at nothing, claws shaking as your fur is more bristly than sleek.

Like pure white spikes.

In the back of your head, a thin sliver of a memory slips in. Fingers on the back of your head, caressing calluses and dark, dark, eyes. Clean bandages and gentle touches.

I’ll find you.

If the side of your vision picked up the shadow shifting from far off into the trees, your curled lip never turned that way. If your nose twitched to the heavy weight of a man’s sweat, it never shifted to point as a mutt would to the rustling bush.

Your body bolts after the resounding echo of a wolf’s howl, and it’s no later that Ghost slips after your clawed prints to follow.

—

Crossbow in hand, the hunter’s mask gleams in the darkness, his pale eyes twinkling. Bending down, he glazes at the long pushing tracks of your form—seeing the spray of dirt to the side and the broken branches. Ghost blinks, shoulders tense before he swiftly stands and continues on. The firearms at his thighs lightly rattle, and the bolts in his crossbow are already laced with wolfsbane; silver tips smelt a week ago.

He passes a river with only a single glance at the tossed rocks from the bed, sloshing through the water as the bottoms of his pants get weighed down. Ghost’s mind is on one thing only: make sure this plan won’t get you killed.

The bolts aren’t for you—the silver bullets aren’t for you.

He grunts under his breath, the dark woods casting phantoms over the ground. The Hunter’s legs shift through tall grass, and he carries himself with the ingrained confidence a man of his station requires. If he were anything less than a monster himself, he would have died ages ago. Ghost shoots and lets others come up with the questions, but he could never be called dumb.

Seeing what fast glimpse he had of your shifted form after the last time, he was struck by how erratic it acted. Snapping head, twitching ears, and roving eyes. If he didn’t know any better, Ghost would have called it rabid.

Yet, your actions with his borrowed shirt were…body-stilling, to say the least about it. It had made his gut swirl.

“Give me a trail,” Ghost utters to himself, brown eyes still picking up the dash you’d taken. His agile feet splash through a puddle, the beginnings of raindrops hitting his head.

The man grabs at his hood and pulls it up stiffly, frowning under his mask.

Rain would wash away the tracks.

“C’mon, Love,” he grinds out, body hunched. “Leavin’ me to do the dirty work, eh?”

It’s too quiet—even a collection of minutes later of hard hiking, the trees barely move. There aren’t any birds; no animals beyond the black bodies of crows in the far-up branches, waiting, watching with obsidian eyes that don’t blink.

Ghost isn’t off-put, but the length of his strides gets far tinier, carefully stepping over twigs and rocks like a soldier at war. Then again, he was at war. And if he was caught unawares, there wouldn’t be a bullet to pull out of his side, but, instead, a chunk missing.

His ears were almost ringing from how hard he was focusing.

Brown eyes shift from one area to another, and then, suddenly as if a deer, he freezes.

Ghost’s body winds up, fingers twitching from the stark trigger discipline of his crossbow downward instantaneously. No one but him can explain what just happened, but he knows when he has to listen instead of act. Stuck in a clearing not unlike the place he’s first met you, his feet rest shoulder width apart and his eyes stare blankly into the trees ahead.

Your tracks end here.

From behind him, just as the large raindrops slap the side of his bone-ed visage, the small crack of a twig makes his ears twitch.

A low snarl sets his hair on end.

Looking over his shoulder, Ghost is met with the same color that he’d become so accustomed to in a full month completely blacked out. Void. Lifeless to anything besides rage and bloodlust.

Your white fur was infected with dirt, blood, and leaves—a mosaic of ferality ingrained into your body; pale fangs snapping. The beast slips through the treeline, slapping a veined hand into the soggy earth.

Ghost only watches, eyes a mystery.

His finger shifts over the trigger, and for the first time in his life, he hesitates.

The man looks into your glinting orbs, the dripping saliva on your lulling tongue as your esophagus pants for breath. One hesitation, he always knew, would mean death. One mess-up.

You’d asked him to end it, he shouldn’t feel remorse, guilt, perhaps—he was still human, despite his appearance, but remorse was deeper. It left wounds that were harder to lick clean again.

…So why isn’t he sending a bolt into your forehead?

Ghost remembers the times he’d found you under the bed, your shaking, and the way you hadn’t allowed him to change your bandages the first few weeks you’d stayed with him; didn’t want him to touch you. The nightmares and the small smile you’d gain when he’d spew his dark, sarcastic words as if this was a joke. How you’d always thank him under your breath for the food he’d give you, hunted by his own hand.

A silver cage. Crimson blood. The sight of your pleading eyes when you’d told him to shoot you.

Maybe the two of you were far more alike than he’d dare to admit. And he currently won’t, not even on his deathbed. Not even now.

Ghost watches, and he waits.

He can’t do it.

Your body slinks closer, stalking with the sound of anger, nearly rib-shaking in its volume. Ghost’s jaw clenches, and his body shifts to face yours head-on. At the sight of the crossbow, your snarl turns into an air-biting rage, saliva flying through the rain.

“Spector,” he keeps his voice low, even. The sight he’d seen as you smelled his clothes had to mean something. Ghost tilts his head, moving out a hand from the side of his weapon in an appeasement gesture. “I’m not going to shoot you. We have a job to complete…get those fangs away.”

He wonders if ordering you around will even work. You had told him before—you’re not a mutt. Ghost agrees. No mutt was the size of a fucking boulder.

The werewolf’s claws drag—goring the mud as if a pig to tear apart.

“Spector,” the Hunter tries again. But something’s different about his tone; he drops it, letting it pull on a softer string. “I’m here to end this. We’re here to end this.” He blinks and lowers the crossbow completely. “Breathe. The night can’t last forever.” A breeze whips the trees. “I made you a promise.”

There’s a second, he thinks, where he can see something shift in your gaze, pupils slightly widening above the deluge that wets down your fur into a sopping mess that hangs off muscle.

“That’s a girl,” Ghost grunts, taking a small step closer. “Never told you,” he utters, eyes locked with yours. He sees your nose twitch minutely. “But if we get this right, Spec, there’ll be no more painful shifts, hear me?”

Your dog-ish mouth is closed, hanging off every word as Ghost comes even closer.

“I kill this bastard,” the hunter breathes, gloved hand still outstretched, nearing closer to the near-silver of your form. “The moon’ll have no claim on you. She’ll let you off the leash, Little Wolf. You get to decide when it happens.”

He thinks he has you now, back to some state of recognition in the addled brain that tries to see him as prey; as competition. Ghost’s fingers are close enough to almost touch you, but just before he can brush his gloves over your wet fur, your mouth opens in a display of untamed challenge. Your growl is enough to make the man unconsciously reach for his pistol, and in the time it takes him to realize the fault of it, you’ve already rampaged forward with an unhinged jaw.

Ghost’s eyes widen, taking a quick step back.

Your legs push off, and you shove the hunter out of the way just before the fangs of an immense beast can clamp down on him, your own finding the shoulder of gray, thick fur.

Fighting as wolves do, Ghost only needs a moment to recover and get to his feet, though the sight in front of him can rival any that he’d seen before. His crossbow clatters a few feet away, sending the bolt off into the trees with a metallic ‘twang’.

The two werewolves roll around the pouring clearing, snapping teeth and rending claws drawing blood that’s deep enough to swim in to the green grass. White and gray meld together—blue eyes like a knife to Ghost’s chest when he takes it in from between the sound of tearing fur.

“Bloody fucking…” the man trails, staggering as his palms slap to the pistols at his side. He blinks, shouting in more of a bark than even a dog could imitate. “Spector!”

The wolves pull and rip the other to shreds, flesh torn and limbs grasping for purchase. Bodies are slammed to the ground before getting tossed to the side, fangs flashing in the moonlight. Ghost watches crimson stain your fur a pinkish-red.

He can’t get a good shot.

The werewolf that turned you sinks its claws into your sides, dragging them downwards as you yowl, eyes tiny with aggression before your jaws connect with its snout, biting down with more force than a horse’s hooves. The monster screams—a garbed thing of fangs and saliva.

Just as easily as it called you here to it, as it stalked your Hunter, it bashes your body back into the earth and takes you by the scruff of your neck. Eyes wide in that lupine way, you lock on Ghost’s profile before your body is lifted, and tossed away violently.

Spine slamming into a tree, you hear the cracking and bending of your bones in your ears just after you hear the sharp shout from the man in the clearing, body dropping to a heap into the grass and mud. Angled head flopping back and forth, black infests the edges of your vision, coughing up blood that seeps from between your gums and slips down the back of your esophagus. Fur and flesh are stuck at the base of your throat.

Whining, your limbs drag and pull futility, eyes flooded over with crimson and fogged by rain. A great roar worries the air, sending long shivers over your spine as you try to rise to your limbs, a five-fingered hand slamming you back down.

Just before the fangs can clamp your throat, two great booms burst through the forest.

The wolf atop you reels back, great bellow escaping its throat when you can finally drag your head to look over. This beast was clawing at its chest, shaking its large head in an arch to try and dispel the shock of having two silver bullets entering its back—the gray head snapped around to Ghost, who held his twin pistols aloft with eyes burning with anger from behind his mask. An avatar of vengeance; a bringer of death.

The orbs inside of your sockets widened, nose twitching wildly as you bleat a quick warning bark.

Blue-Eyes rises, body far larger than yours would ever grow to be—on two feet more powerful looking than a bricklayer many years into his craft; tall enough to reach to the sides of black-shingled homes and pull itself up. Ghost takes one look and growls under his breath, knowing there would be no time to reload the weapons in his hands.

So he drops them and pulls slowly at the cruel blade in his belt until the gleam winks in the low light like a curved smile. Setting it in his hands, the small flicker of a sharp smirk on his lips is lost to you.

Yet, there isn’t a chance for some brawl between two beasts—there’s only the flash of pale fur and the final crunch of a body hitting the ground.

You bury your fangs into the wolf’s neck; the one responsible for all of your pain and torment spanning years of isolation. You feel the body seize as it drops, the last remnants of a dying brain trying to fight the inevitable nothingness that ensues, and, you only hold on the harder, the bloodlust seeping back in with every drop of life pooling into your locked jaw.

Your throat releases tiny growls of pleasure, biting a bit to make sure there wasn’t a sliver of a chance that something living was walking away from this scene.

Ghost pauses, and in the back of his head, he knows he should stop you. Brown eyes see the animalistic sheen of enjoyment at a fresh kill, the way you pull at the flesh until chucks peel away from a gurgling wolf. Even when the thing is long dead and the rain still slaps the earth, you barely let go until you get a hold of the meat and tear with a backward jerk of your snout.

“Love,” the Hunter sheathes his knife, taking a step forward. The blood was pooling under your body. How many of those were treatable? He had to know. “Let me see what’s—”

The eyes that lock on him are not yours.

Up to your ears, the entirety of your face was awash with the stain of life, dripping off the whiskers at your cheeks; your chin.

Before he can utter another word, he finds himself on his back with a snapping snout right in front of his face, two dead eyes staring deeply into his own. Ghost sucks down a quick breath, hand snapping to the large wrist shoving down on his chest.

He pants out, gravel accent far more deep than it was before.

“Easy, Spector. Easy. Eh—focus on me.” Your tongue licks at your fangs, body shaking. Ghost pushes out, “That’s it, then. It’s over, yeah? You did it; let's pack it up and head back home.” He grunts. “Recon even dogs get cold in weather like this—the bed’s waiting. Get a nice fire going.”

Ghost sees your face move closer, and his hand minutely shifts to the vial of wolfsbane on his belt. It wouldn’t kill you, but it could put you out of commission until your body shifted back into its proper form. He could carry you back—that wouldn’t be a problem at all.

But he was worried about your injuries. Even now the droplets of blood roll off of you faster than the water can.

Too much.

Brown eyes crease, darting a look down.

“Fuck,” he growls, seeing the carnage and the open meat. “Sweetheart, we need to get you checked out—you need to listen to me. Can you do that?”

He can see the conflict; the internal fight.

Your mouth moves with fast pants, claws stuttering over his gear futilely. You blink rapidly, shaking your large head in fast increments with small snarls.

“C’mon,” Ghost says slowly, fingers looping the vial. “Keep listening. Know my voice is utter shite, but only you can tell me it.”

Your head drops to his chest just as the wolfsbane is popped open, and, for whatever reason, Ghost pauses. He waits.

You take a long inhale of his gear—of the leather and the gunpowder, and just before the Hunter can dump the vial over your skin, the long blackish claw on your finger loops the bottom portion of the fabric under his bone attachment.

The man’s breath hitches as you let it rest along his nose bridge…holding it there as you drag your head upwards as if it were an impossible chore. Your mouth dribbles out gore to his cheeks, but the Hunter stares upwards into your eyes as they soften in a lupine way.

Inexplicably, you let out a bone-rattling sigh and slump into oblivion.

—

Come morning, you sleep under the spread of large fur blankets—clean bandages over your bare frame as the man has tended to you for hours. He mutters for you to slip your arms into a spare shirt after he finds your eyes open, not uncomfortable by your nakedness, though he wants you yourself to be at ease.

His brown eyes are creased, and you can’t remember what you’ve done.

You comply with small grunts and moans; more sore and cut up than you can recall ever feeling as a large tunic is slipped over your head by scarred hands.

Gunpowder.

“What did I—?”

“You finished the job,” he says, sparing you a glance as he shifts back with his eyes averting themselves from your visible legs. The sun seeps in through the windows. “It’s morning.”

You blink slowly, and the man eases you back down into the furs.

“I’m tired,” your voice yawns out—weak and brittle like the hope you’d had that this plan of his would work. Eyes half-closed, they blink at the hunter with a soft kind of care that you can’t remember showing before. Whatever pain medicine he’d given you, it was working. The underlying itch was still as strong as ever, though.

“Tired is good,” Ghost nods slowly, standing still until he crosses his arms and sets his feet. He’s in a fresh shirt and pants. There’s blood under his fingernails; traces smeared over his flesh. “Means you accomplished something.”

“Don’t think that’s entirely true,” you breathe. A pause. “...Why is your mask like that?”

It was half pulled up—showing off his lower jaw and the stubble. The scars that you already have memorized. Ghost shrugs, blinking those dead eyes of his.

“Ah,” he grumbles. “Forgot. Here.”

He reaches up and slips the thing off in one motion. Your loose brain takes a moment to realize the entire face you’re staring into, but the second it does, the image is engraved into your mind forever. You make a noise in the back of your throat.

“Better, Little Wolf?”

“W—” Your lips stutter, new sutures pulling tight. “Why would you…?”

“Hungry?” Ghost asks, quickly changing the subject. “Know you like that venison that I caught.”

“No,” you breathe. “No, I’m not…I’m tired, Ghost. My head hurts.”

A hand sweeps over your forehead, staying as you sag into it with a hum and a fluttering of your eyes.

“Bloodloss,” the Hunter murmurs. “Normal. Go back to sleep; take however long you need. I’ll be here.”

The bond between the two of you has strengthened to that of a silver rope.

“Stay,” you plead under your breath, already slipping back into nothingness with no promise to wake up again soon. “Hold me, Ghost?”

“Simon,” he grunts to only himself, knowing that the words are lost to you. Perhaps that makes him all the more eager to share it with you when you’re better. “Stay still.”

It wasn’t like you could protest.

The broad man slips in, shifting the furs until you’re covered back up and your forehead is to his chest—keeping himself closest to the door where the runes still sit in their bloody glory. If he listened hard enough, he could even hear them humming him a tune.

No song was better to him than the one of your breath at this very moment. Alive. Moving. There were many times in the night that he thought...hm.

“Better, then?” The dry tease slips out.

A kiss to the side of his mouth is what he gets in answer, and he doesn't say a peep more until he knows you’re back in the clutches of a dream—a good one, he knows, because he watches your expressions like a loyal guard dog would.

Ghost, Simon, rests his lips on the top of your head, and in a delicate murmur, eases, “You did good, Love.”

There was much to do, but for now, all he had to do was hold you a little bit tighter and let his stone heart beat a little bit faster.

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xxsabitoxx · 10 months

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My Personal Upper Moon 🍆 Ranking

Warnings: if it isn’t obvious already, this post is taking about the Upper Moon’s and my personal HC on their dick sizes. If that makes you uncomfortable in any way, just keep scrolling

A/N: I was actually very surprised by the amount of comments on my Hashira version of this HC post. So I feel a little more comfortable with giving the Upper Moons a go, especially since someone asked if I would do it eheheh. That being said, these men are demons, therefore you may find my size rankings to be a bit unrealistic. But I’m not gonna go crazy and say Muzan has a dick that’s 2 miles long.

This post includes: Muzan, Kokushibo, Douma, Akaza, Hantengu’s clones (Karaku, Urogi, Sekido and Aizetsu), Gyutaro and Kaigaku. And no Gyokko cause that man doesn’t have a dick, period.

In a category of his own: Muzan Kibutsuji

Muzan clearly deserves a category of his own for one particular reason: he’s able to alter his appearance.

Therefore, he’s able to change the size of his dick whenever the fuck he feels like it.

And don’t try and say that stupid cause he can literally change gender and age so changing his dick size isn’t out of the question

On average, Muzan prefers to have a larger dick, mostly because he’s a pussy ass bitch man that needs that kind of confidence down there, if you get what I mean.

Typically soft: 10.5

Typically hard: 11.7

But he can make it as big, small, curved, wide, as he wants

When he wants to torture your ass, he’ll make himself as girthy as he sees fit just to watch you cry and squirm and beg for something a little smaller.

Anytime you get “comfortable” he just increases his girth until you’re crying again. Your pleasure is never his first priority, it’s always his.

1. Kokushibo

Among the demons, it should be no shock that Upper Moon One has always been packing. This man is petrifying so it’s only right that his dick is equally as intimidating as him

Even as a human, this man’s dick was deadly. You can’t change my mind either.

Just in case you’re wondering, Yoriichi is bigger

That’s beside the point, Kokushibo has a lot to work with down there. Whether it’s hard or soft ngl

When soft: 9.5

When hard: 10.7

He’s long, girthy and curves slightly upwards. He’s heavy too, your jaw will certainly hurt by the time you’re done with him.

He’s the type to put a pillow or blanket of some sort under your lower back as he fucks you. Mostly because he’s not clueless to the fact that his dick is big

Kokushibo is the type to ease you into it though, he’s stern but he has a teeny bit of empathy when it comes to fucking you. Unless you’ve pissed him off ofc.

2. Akaza

I know this one is gonna be controversial, especially since I’m putting him above Douma but hear me out.

This man has audacity, which means he got a big dick. No demon is acting like Akaza and having a small dick to go with it. Nuh uh, no sir.

Akaza is sitting pretty knowing damn well his cock is bigger than Douma’s and it actually something Douma taunts him with… which you think the roles would be reversed but hey…

When soft: 8.5

When hard: 9.7

He’s straight, no real curve to him and he has a single blue line going up the underside of his shaft and one that wraps around just before the head of his dick. Like as in the lines that cover his body lol

Akaza is probably the “gentlest” of all the upper moons because of the respect he has for women

That’s not to say he isn’t rough with you, but he definitely cares about your pleasure and feelings more than Douma or Muzan would for example

He’s pretty confident in himself though, at least that’s how it seems to you. He knows what he’s doing to say the least

3. Douma

Alright listen, this man is still packing down there so don’t get mad at me for putting him at third.

His dick is smaller than Akaza’s but not by a ton. Let’s be honest Douma is probably the straightest and gayest demon to ever exist. The embodiment of bisexual LMAO

How does Douma know Akaza’s dick is bigger? The world may never know

When soft: 8

When hard: 9.2

It’s pale like the rest of him, a pretty noticeable curve to it as well. He has some prominent veins because of how pale he is. His tip is like a pinkish gray (idk why I felt the need to include this)

He’s pretty girthy too, so he definitely will make your walls stretch uncomfortably if he doesn’t offer you foreplay

Douma is rough, selfish and truly only cares about his own pleasure but he likes watching you whine and squirm while being impaled on his cock

Douma also has a thing for “belly bulges” so he will fuck you in some odd positions if he means he can see his dick from the outside… if ya know what I mean

4. Gyutaro

Listen, plz just listen cause I promise you I’m going somewhere with this. Cause I can already hear y’all being like ???Scrawny ass Gyutaro is in 4th??? Yes. He is.

Gyutaro got himself a bit of an upgrade when becoming a demon. He for sure does not look like he did a a human. By that I mean he’s taller than he was (even tho he’s hunched)

What I’m tryna get at is demon transformation made his dick bigger and Imma live in my little fantasy world

When soft: 6.5

When hard: 7.2

Gyutaro’s dick is as curved as his spine and as thick as his tiny ass waist. He’s got length but not crazy girth.

Even if he’s rough, it feels good. Like there isn’t a ton of discomfort if he goes in raw with no prep cause he wants to punish you, he’s like the perfect amount of stretch

He’s mean, verbally and physically but at the same time he’s a fucking sucker for your body so he can’t really say much without whining and groaning

He’s got some confidence in his cock but he’s also a bit envious of the other upper moons

5. The Hantengu Clones (Sekido, Karaku, Aizetsu, Urogi)

I’ve talked about my dick HCs for these four in my A-Z NSFW alphabet and I was tryna be realistic. However, when it comes to this post, fuck being realistic.

Sekido when soft 6.2 | when hard 7.1

Karaku when soft 6 | when hard 6.9

Urogi when soft 5.9 | when hard 6.7

Aizetsu when soft 5.7 | when hard 6.5

There is so much to say here but honestly my brain is malfunctioning so I can’t even delve into it

Regardless, the four of these demons fuck very differently and use their dicks very differently

Sekido and Urogi have no curve, Karaku has a slight curve and Aizetsu’s curves upwards

Hantengu himself had a 3 inch dick and you can’t tell me otherwise. Pussy ass bitch

6. Kaigaku

I hate this little bitch but I’m including him so I can rag on his fugly ass. Kaigaku simps I’m sorry but I can’t stand him

This douche has the smallest dick among the upper moons. This is full Kaigaku slander.

When soft: 5.2

When hard: 6

I’ll give him a decent dick tho cause boy does he have the fucking audacity

That’s all I’m gonna give y’all cause I ain’t wasting my time on him GOOD BYE I didn’t even tag is ass

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theblueflower05 · 10 months

Note

OH UR IN FOR IT NOW

thoughts: jake sully cockwarming human reader and she keeps squirming around to cum but he’s so much bigger that he can just hold her still while she whines and pouts

(also i know he’s so cocky and condescending with his dirty talk)

Oh oh oh. Fuck yes.

Listen. There is something so sexy about Avatar/Na’vi x Human smut. I don’t care. It’s going to get me going every time, I eat this shit UP.

@hinataashoyos kills this dynamic and if you want to read some absolutely delish Jake content- please give her blog a follow.

And I loveeeeee the idea of Jake and his little human fuck buddy.

Because like. You’re everything he’s attracted to- just his type. You’re petite with killer curves, a rack and ass to die for. The sweet florally perfume you wear makes him dizzy with want and the gloss you have perma swiped across your full lips sparkles in the fluorescent lights of the labs that you can usually be found in.

He eats girls like you up back on Earth. Even in his chair, he knew he was a panty dropper.

Smut under the cut

But you’re different. You’re sharp as a tack and come from a good family back on terra firme. Fancy college degrees under your belt, all paid for by mommy and daddy’s money. A social butterfly. Hell, he bets you’d been a sorority girl. Kappa Kappa Gamma, or some nonsense of that nature.

You’d never go for a disabled ex-military grunt like him- or so he’s convinced himself.

You work in close quarters with the rest of the Science lame brains, are close with Grace and Max.

Xeno-Cultural Anthropologist, he learns your title early one.

You’re here to help crack the code around the Navi- deeply fascinated by their rich culture. Diverse clans, and multilayered language. Besides Grace, you’re about the only RDA human let within 100 miles of Home Tree.

Your accolades and experience, at your young age, are stacked. All of these things should make you a stuck up priss-

And yet you’re not. Not at all.

The more he gets the know you, the worse his interest in you gets.

You’re funny, in a goofy way that doesn’t match your sharp vernacular. Your frequent jokes are vulgar and down right dumb.

And helpful, you never make him feel stupid the way the others do. You’re more then happy to sit down with him after a long day of him being linked out in the Jungle- you’re just about the only reason why he’s finally starting to grasp the language.

And so so sweet. You don’t make him feel useless or infantiled in his chair; you treat him like the capable grown man he is- but make him meals like you do all for all your friends. Help him with his laundry. Bring him electrolyte drinks when he’s half asleep doing his video logs.

A couple months in, and Jakes interest has spawned into a full fledged crush.

When Grace swoops him away fro Quaritch and his influence- you go with. All the way up into the Hallelujah Mountains.

The extra close quarters and isolation just makes it worse.

The pajamas you wear to bed aren’t skimpy or sexy in nature- but damn do you look good in the small shorts and obscure band tee that falls to your knees.

He nearly loses his shit when you bend over one morning, your wide ass on display. The tiny sleep shorts do nothing to cover the plush cheeks and he’s never wanted to dig his teeth into something more.

You act like you didn’t see him discreetly hide his blushing face in his cup of coffee.

The same way that he acts like he doesn’t see you ogling him in Avatar form. You all but drool over the smooth blue skin and endless muscles.

He wonders if that’s the only way you’ll have him, in a body that’s not his.

It had all come to a head pretty soon after that.

At the core of it; the two of you are travelers, stuck on a foreign planet. All it takes is a particularly lonely night; one where some how the two of you had gotten a moment alone, for all of the emotion to bubble up.

You’d ended up in Jakes lap, in his chair. Grinding down onto him, your tongue down his throat as he wrapped his strong tattooed arms around you.

Safe to say you want Jake Sully however you can get him.

It’s a free for all after that and Grace straight up has to tell you guys to cool it down after stumbling upon you and Jake, him in his Avatar form, in the trees just behind the bunkers. His head had been buried between your naked thighs- your face blushing behind your Exo Mask. Grace had not been impressed.

“Between you two and Norm and Trudy, it’s like I’m living in a fucking frat house. Cut it out, before I citation all of you for interpersonal relationships. I swear, we’re supposed to be grown ups here, guys- ever heard of workplace discretion!”

Graces threats are empty, but Jake knows you respect her enough to take em to heart.

So it turns into a game of sorts.

The two of you try to get each other off as often as possible. As fast as possible. As hidden as possible.

All the sneaking around makes him feel like a teenager, alive and exhilarated when he’s in both of his bodies.

But he hates the quickies. He wants the time to worship your body thoroughly.

He jumps at the chance- when Norm rides along with Trudy to take Grace back to Hell’s Gate. She’s a higher up, after all. She has mountain’s of paperwork and reports she needs to do. That’s fine.

That means he gets to be alone with you.

He savors the night. The trailers are a tight fit for his Avatar body, but he pushes the bunk beds to an opposite wall and the two of you make a nest of sorts on the cold metal floor. All the pillows and blankets you can find to cushion yourselves.

You lie next to each other, facing one and other- as you explore each other with slow groping touches in the low light. Only the computer screens left on to illuminate the space.

It’s like neither of you can get enough.

His large calloused hands run along your curves- all that soft supple skin. Your plush breasts and doughy thighs and ass. You feel so good- you truly might be the only soft thing on the rugged planet of Pandora.

Your petite hands are eager too. You trace his arms, his broad shoulders, his tapered waist. Your wide eyes follow the path of your fingers.

“Holy shit, Jake. You’re built like a brick shit house- where did all this muscle come from?”

He chuckles at the awe in your tone. “Trainings been intense- Neytiris been riding my ass lately. I’m up before the sun rises in those trees”

“Remind me to thank her next time I see her” you mutter distractedly as you squeeze at his defined bicep.

It’s insanely good, but then again it always is.

Jake tastes your spit, and you hard little nipples and your dripping cunt. Feasting himself on your skin slowly.

The more orgasms he can wring out of you- the easier it will be for you to take his cock. He needs your body as loose as he can get it.

After what feels like hours getting fucked with his huge fingers, and rough textured tongue, you’re begging for him.

You can take it. You want to be full of him, you whine the words with big teary eyes that you know he can’t refuse.

He fucks into you slow- watching as you take him. Your pussy always looks like she’s going to break. Stretched to it’s limits, lips puffy and enflamed as his cock sinks in. The contrast of his indigo skin and your human flush is fucking hypnotic.

This isn’t the first time he’s fucked you in this body and it won’t be the last.

Every round seems to be better then the last- louder. Wetter. More passionate. You’re full of so much cum, there’s no way that your tiny womb could hold it even if it tried.

Na’vi libidos are something else.

He has stamina that he didn’t even know existed. After round three you’re out, all but asleep in his arms. Limp and ragdoll like in his oversized arms.

“You can keep going” your voice is paper thin and far away. Jakes not sure how you’re even coherent at this point.

He takes you into his lap, gently, but keeping you stuffed full to the brim with his cock.

You whimper and bury your messy face in his huge sweaty chest.

“I just need one more” Jake reassures you, petting your hair, stroking down your back. His hands are large and soothing, it’s so easy for him to touch all of you at once. “You don’t even have to move all that much, baby. Just let me come one more time, yeah?”

You nod, and really it’s just your head lulling in his clavicle. You’d lost the ability to control your muscles hours ago. “Yeah, mhmm”

Jake doesn’t even need to bounce you. Just having your pussy wrapped around him, tighter then anything he’s ever felt, is enough.

You sit on his lap, his cum flowing out of you. Down your thighs. Onto his own groin. And warm his cock.

It’s erotic and intimate and as he holds you close he thinks about Neytiris words. Tsaheylu- the sacred bond. He’s felt it with direhorse- and his ikran. A part of him wishes that he could feel it with you.

When he empties the last of his milky, iridescent cum inside of you and you pull back from his chest enough to give him a small smile, he thinks that no.

This is enough.

I LOVE YOU JAKE MOTHER FUCKING SULLY UGHHHHHHHHH. I swear he fucking remixed the game in the first Avatar. I will never ever ever get over him.

#Jake Sully #jake sully smut #jake sully x reader #Jake Sully x reader smut

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moon-rivr · 6 months

Note

hey! Hello! And I hope you have a wonderful day but I wanted request a scaredhusband!miguel x scarywife!reader(FM) 🥺🤭🤭 like reader is a civilian who is Miguel Wife and know that he the leader of the spider society and know that he has anger issues and know how to calm him down. But Miguel doesn’t know how to deal with his wife he love her so much but he is scared of her (not in a mean way).. so like image reader whos was done with work for the day and change into her comfortable clothes (like long sleeve shirts or Miguel sleeves jacket and some shorts) and came to his office to surprise him with homemade food.’since he doesn’t have spider sense’- but see him yelling at the group-miles,Gwen, hobie,pav,- for making a food-fight at the cafeteria and which there made a huge mess (which was the third time this week and Miguel wasn’t having that)… and reader who was pissed about Miguel yelling at them for some food fight and came walking towards them. Which peter was the first person to notice that she was here so as Layla😌. And reader came from behind miguel and scared him and miguel switched side so fast to his sweet husband

Reader-“ HI baby! how was your day going?”

Miguel-“ah—h.nothing.. just talking to.. group”

reader obviously know what happened and she isn’t going pretending not to know,as she does her ionic serious face and eye brow raised,as she crosses her arms,and see the group and see them scared for there life. And that the was last straw for reader to see Miguel yelling to these sweet hearts

reader-“Miguel *sighs quietly* why are there here looking all scared mhmm?.…if this is “just”some talk about something huh Miguel?”

reader pinch is his ear closer towards her as she death stare at miguel making hole in his chest as miguel sighed and grunted of the pain as reader let go from Miguel ear as she walk towards the kids

Reader is hugging pav who is the one who’s scared as hell and pav who was hugging back and sigh and which clam down pav and then turn to see hobie,as hobie stand there trying to look chill,but he looking away from Miguel.

miguel-“mi querida esposa.. I was teaching them a lesson so there could unde-“

reader-“ UNDERSTAND?! understand… miguel I think scared them isn’t teaching them a lesson it making them feel uncomfortable and unsafe!”

as she cupped hobie face and turn to look at Miguel as pav, miles, and Gwen is rubbing there neck or arm with all their faces having some sort of guilt in there eyes.while hobie is shocked form the sudden touch and start to stare at Ms O’Hara

reader-“LOOK Miguel HOW CAN these sweet hearts can possibly do something bad?” She says to miguel ,in a voice when someone talks to baby,while she smooshing Hobie face but stop as feel his face piercing. But the whole group sigh and looked away with a guilty face. (Also this is the first time reader see the group or troublemakers which is what Miguel called them,but I think that if reader sees that something happened,she would scold them like an Hispanic woman scold their kids,but alway would be reasonable to them)

reader-”you guys can leave I’m going to talk to Miguel” as reader say to them with an gentle voice and give them with warm smile,as she quickly turns her head towards his direction,and her lips went to an thin line,and gave him an death stare,and Miguel knew that look,He WAS dead man and sigh and grunted as he look away from the group as he make his way on his floating platform. As miles and Gwen and pav said thank you Ms O’Hara in a silently voice. But hobie was following them as he said

hobie-“thank you lov.. I hope i see you again… and take care of the anger cat” as hobie kissed reader on the cheek and ran with the rest of the gang

Miguel-“ HOBIE KEEP YOU HANDS TO YOURSELF THAT MY WIFE!” As hobie chuckle as left the room but Peter was still there he was just listening and well sat down and watched cause it was interesting to watch,because right before reader came in,Peter was going to deal with miguel. reader-“*chuckle and then went to a serious face* peter b Parker leave as well too”,peter know how it feels to be an dead man ever he made MJ (when she was pregnant)mad and let just say he had to go live in someone house and Miguel

Peter-“FINE I was going to see some drama! but it seems like the show was for mature audiences *chuckle* ok-ok bye” Miguel punishment was reader choice,And there reader is right next to miguel as she is think about what punishment she could put to Miguel in for scaring the kids in as her other hands is pinching Miguel ear as he was saying pleas.

I hope you love the idea of this request and I hope you enjoy! fluff or smut ? If you want the punishment to be that kind of that thing 🤭🫣 I don’t mind at all 😝 I love your writing of Miguel and I got this idea from watching the “book of life” IT SLAY and thank god I had a cd of it and I got the time to watch it again.! BYE ! L

the apology

pairing: miguel o’hara x civilian wife

warnings: miguel yelling lol, oral (f & m), orgasm denial, handcuffs, blindfold, face sitting, cowgirl (overall just smut)

word count: 4k

author’s note: i changed it up a bit so i hope you don’t mind 😓 sorry it took me so long to get it out

It was phenomenal, really. The way your presence instantly flipped a switch in Miguel's attitude, going from the moody, annoying man that everybody got used to seeing at HQ to a loving, devoted husband. He flipped this switch around you based on the fact that he didn't want you to leave him based on his anger issues, of seeing him screaming at some spider with his fangs and claws protruding. So he developed a fear of having you around the society, not because his sweet, caring wife had any reason to frighten him, but because he was afraid of the way that you might react if you saw one of his outbursts.

"Heya Migs! There's a food fight in the cafeteria, not as important as an anomaly, I know, but it's starting to get messy," LYLA announced, interrupting his usual monitoring. "For fuck's sake," Miguel mumbled, rubbing his temples as he tried to keep his anger in check. He knew that he couldn't expect much more from children, but it pissed him off that they couldn't take their job seriously. He stormed out of his office, walking to the cafeteria as he saw what LYLA had reported to him. He stood there with his hands on his waist, waiting for the group of kids to acknowledge him when he felt a gooey slice of pizza sliding down his face. "MY OFFICE NOW!" His voice boomed through the cafeteria, the food fight coming to a halt.

Miguel had his back turned towards the kids as he grumbled under his breath, a combination of curses in English and Spanish. "Miguel, we're really so-" Gwen started off when Miguel suddenly turned around, his claws protruding. "If you were really sorry, you wouldn't have done this stupid shit for the third time this week!" He yelled, watching as they trembled under his gaze. "And you're still on probation so i don't know why the hell you're getting involved in food fights!" He spoke to Miles, rolling his eyes as he saw the boy disappear in fear. His last straw, however, was when Peter appeared with a grin on his face, wrapping his arms around the kids in an endearing way. "C'mon Miguel, don't you think you're being too harsh on them?"

Miguel was starting to see red when he heard Peter's condescending tone, his claws digging into his palms as he clenched his fists. He turned around, pinching the bridge of his nose as he muttered to himself, "Ya no puedo mas" over and over. (i can’t do this anymore) "C'mon mate, it's a food fight, the least bit of rebellion against the establishment," Hobie spoke up, the boredom seeping through his tone. "Puta madre, and you're not even the least bit guilty! A fucking food fight, how old are you?!" He screamed, his heart dropping when he felt a tap on the back of his shoulder.

You'd arrived at the society after getting off from work and changing into something comfortable, bringing Miguel some of the food you'd made today. Caldo de res with some white rice. (beef soup) Your brows furrowed as you heard your husband's voice booming through his office doors, the other spiders pushing it off which made you start to wonder if this was something regular. You opened up the door, waving at Peter and shooting LYLA a small smile as she appeared when you took the sight in front of you. Your husband seemed to be at his breaking point as he yelled something about a food fight to the group, clearly not having noticed that you were in the room. You walked up to him, tapping his shoulder delicately and folded your arms as he turned around to look at you.

It would've been comedic how his eyes widened and his claws instantly retracted at the sight of you, but you couldn't grasp the fact that he'd been yelling at the kids. "What are you doing here?" He asked, completely taken aback from seeing you there, his voice softening up to the tone that he only used with you. "Well, I just wanted to see how my husband was doing here at work and to bring you some food," you replied, watching the kids relax as Miguel started to ease up around you. "It's been going good. Very productive as you can see, just talking with the kids and all," he responds, his face morphing into an awkward smile like that would sell the lie easier. "Can't believe this Dorito shaped mofo just yelled at us for like ten minutes and only stopped when his wi-" Miles started to speak, only stopping when Miguel turned around to face him.

You glared at Miguel as he turned around, his demeanor instantly changing back to what it was when you first came in. You stood up on your tippy toes, tugging Miguel’s ear as he let out a small wince. You weren't pulling hard enough to hurt him, but you wanted him to grasp the reality of the situation. "Cuantas veces te tengo que decir that you're not supposed to reprimand the kids like that?" you told him, your tone stern before you let go of his ear. (how times do i need to tell you) "Better than the chancla," he muttered, rubbing his reddening ear.

Your gaze softened up as you went over to the kids, wrapping your arms around a terrified Pav. "Ay por dios, now you're defending them too," Miguel grumbled to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose as he watched you interact with the kids. "Well, how could I not defend them when they're scared shitless?" You responded, glaring at Miguel once more. "Mi amor, I'm sorry that you don't agree with my style but I'm not allowing them to make a mess of my cafeteria over and over again," he responds, his tone unusually soft as he spoke to you. "Your style is just yelling at them until they grasp the concept? No wonder they keep doing it again," you told him, putting your hands on your waist as you shook your head in disappointment.

You looked at the group, seeing a look of remorse in their eyes like they were finally grasping the complexity of the situation, well everyone except for Hobie. You wrapped your arms around them, providing them the embrace a mother lion would to protect her pack. "C’mon Miguel, how can you talk to them like that? Can't you see that they're sorry?" you asked him, holding hobie's face and squeezing his cheeks gently. You only pulled away when you felt your hands squeezing around his piercings, not wanting to hurt him too badly. You weren't at the society too often, but when you were, you found a way to make the kids comfortable around you by bringing them snacks or letting them be reckless since you calmed Miguel down. The kids never understood how someone as sweet and lovely as you ended up with their scary, mean boss but they didn't question it too much since they genuinely enjoyed having you around.

You saw Miguel rubbing his temples, practically admitting defeat as he saw the way that you coddled the kids. He knew that he wouldn't win this argument, and if he did then he'd risk pissing you off and end up sleeping on the couch with the cat. "Hey, why don't you all let me talk this out with Miguel, yeah?" You told them, and you saw their faces lighten up with relief as they stepped out of the room. Even though Hobie had a clear face of disinterest, he kissed your cheek before he left. "Fanks luv. Hope to see you 'round more offen and take care of the angry cat," he told you, watching Miguel’s eyes narrow and his nostrils huff. "Hobart. Get your damn hands off my wife before I snap that guitar of yours in half," Miguel grumbled from behind you two and Hobie left the room with a cheshire grin on his face.

You were about to start reprimanding Miguel when you heard a low chuckle coming from a corner of the room, turning around to see Peter B Parker rolling on a chair as he entertained Mayday. "Peter, you too, please," you asked nicely, watching as he raised his hands in a defensive motion. "Yes ma'am, though I can't believe you're depriving me of having front row seats to show. Seems a bit much, no?" He replied, letting out a small chuckle as he carried Mayday in his arms. Even though Miguel could feel your anger seeping through, he still turned around and glared at Peter. "She told you to leave," he told him, his tone back to the same coldness it usually is, but Peter burst out laughing. Miguel rolled his eyes as he heard Peter's slippers squeak against the floor, the other man placing his hand on his shoulder. "Good luck, you're a dead man," he whispered loud enough for you to hear before walking away.

You saw Miguel gulp as he came to the realization that Peter was probably talking from experience from his countless arguments with MJ. Your brows furrowed as you looked at Miguel, feeling more disappointed than angry now. "How many times do we have to go over that they're not gonna learn if you keep snapping at them like that?" You asked him, your hands on your hips. It would've been funny if it weren't for the circumstances, that this behemoth of a man was getting reprimanded by someone who had to crane their neck to look at him properly. "Lo siento, nena. But they've been doing this shit for the past three days and it's frankly a miracle I didn't snap beforehand," he remarked, letting out a small sigh as he saw your brows furrow even further. (i’m sorry doll)

"Go apologize to them."

"No."

"Miguel."

"No."

“O’Hara.”

“No.”

"Then I guess no sex for you until you do."

"..Fine."

You were satisfied with his answer even though he expressed clear reluctance towards apologizing to them. You had appealed to his soft side, knowing that he found solace to coming home to you and having sex with you to get rid of any stresses during the day. Your sex life was already a bit strained from how much time he spent at work, so he couldn't afford to have you be mad at him. He enjoyed coming home to you, whether it be just to have a sweet make out session or having rough sex that would leave your legs all wobbly the next day. You watched as Miguel ran a hand through his hair, probably trying to push his pride aside to apologize to the group.

You walked with Miguel to where the group was at in the common room in silence, looking at him expectantly as he stood in front of the kids. He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable to have to be doing this as he turned around to face you. Your eyes could've turned into little daggers with the way you were looking at him, tapping your foot on the floor as you wait for him to start his apology. "So.. Uh.. I might've overreacted with what you all did in the cafeteria earlier. And I'm sorry for yelling at you all. Even if you did deserve it," he told them, mumbling the last part to himself as he clasped his hands together. You knew that he was half-assing this apology to get back on your good graces again but you decided to let it slide since it wouldn't come out better than that.

You turned to look at the kids, knowing that they also had a part to play in Miguel’s tantrum, and silently willed for them to apologize to him. The group started blabbering apologies when they saw the look you were giving them, Miles speaking the loudest since you reminded him of Rio when you did that. "I'm sorry for calling you a Dorito shaped mofo," he added after the group finished speaking and you could've sworn that the vein on Miguel’s forehead was two seconds away from bursting from how intensely he was frowning. Miguel saw the look on your face and his instantly relaxed, accepting the kids' apologies before he went back to work in his office.

You had spent about an hour at HQ, playing video games with the kids and checking up on Jess to see how she and the baby were doing. It was nice to engage with the people that your husband surrounded himself with all day, and seeing why they were all important to him. Even Lego Spider-Man, though you didn't understand the attachment he had towards the little guy. You went back home, thinking about a way to get back at Miguel since you weren't satisfied enough with his apology.

After a little while of going shopping at the mall, you ended up buying yourself a new set from Victoria Secret. You and Miguel hadn't been intimate for a while now, and while you did want to punish him, you also wanted to give him pleasure. You could tell that his tantrum wasn't only from the kids, since he'd been struggling to get up in the morning and had been forcing himself up by saying that the multiverse needed him. You went back home after you were satisfied with the items you'd bought for tonight, setting up the bedroom to your liking.

Miguel was surprised when he got back home, he wasn't expecting to be greeted with something so romantic especially after the way that he snapped around you. He could smell the fresh candle being burnt and he found himself instantly getting more relaxed the more he walked through the house. He stepped inside your shared bedroom, his eyes almost popping out of his head when he looked at you. You looked so precious.. Laying in bed waiting for him in your red lingerie. He felt like a teenage boy as his cock began to harden underneath the hologram just at the mere sight of you. "Oh wow, you look so go-" he started but he was quickly interrupted when you stood up, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Be good for me and lay down on the bed, yeah?"

If Miguel knew that he'd end up handcuffed to the bedpost, he wouldn't have bothered to comply so easily to your request. He was very touchy when it came to having sex, whether it was his hands gripping your hips or having his hands massage your breasts so this was an effective form of punishment. His final straw, however, was when you put a blindfold on him. "Y’know, this kinda defeats the purpose of getting all dolled up," he tried to argue but you simply responded with a laugh when you heard how far he was willing to reach. "Who said it was for you, guapo?" You asked, your nail scraping down his toned chest, a shiver running down his spine as you did. (handsome)

Your hand gently ghosted his cock and you couldn't help but watch how he thrusted his hips upwards, needing more than what you were giving him. You ran your thumb on his slit, licking the stripe of precum that his angry red tip was leaking out. "Please, don't tease me like this," he told you, his voice nearly a whimper as he did. "We're just getting started though," you replied condescendingly, your thumb gently tracing the vein running on the underside of his cock. He let out an agitated sigh as you continued to tease him, your fingers gently tracing his cock but never applying the pressure that he needed.

"Please, please. I'll never yell at them like that again! Just touch me," he pleaded, and you could tell that it took him a great deal to push his pride to the side in order to ask for that. "But I am touching you, Miguelito. I'm not sure what you want me to do," you respond, mocking the same tone that he was using. "Please! Just suck me already. I'll do anything you want, mi reina," he added on, more willing to beg in order to get what he needed. (my queen) You let out a small chuckle but you placed small kisses on his tip. You traced it with your tongue, licking off the precum that's sliding off from the sides. You slowly began to take him in your mouth, his breath hitching as you did.

You couldn't help but laugh as the man who had his fangs protruded earlier while he yelled at the group was now using them to claw at the handcuffs on him, his hips bucking into you desperately to get some release while he moaned out pathetically about how good you were treating him. You slowly took more of him in your mouth, bobbing your head as you worked his length in. It was always a bit of an adjustment given how big he was, but he enjoyed feeling as much of your mouth on him as possible. Your hand worked its way up and down his shaft in the place your mouth couldn't quite reach, your hand applying just the right pressure to having him writhing against the sheets.

You felt tears stinging your eyes as you took his entire length in, struggling to breathe as you tried to accommodate to his size. You started breathing through your nose to make things easier, his cock halfway down your throat. You released him from your mouth with a pop, a string of saliva connecting you to his cock. "Doing so good for me, mama," he whispered as he felt your mouth on him again, his hands tugging against the fluffy handcuffs. He would've preferred to have his hands all over your head as you took him, though he'd never force you, but he enjoyed the change in the power dynamic for now.

His orgasm quickly approached with how good you were sucking him off, your mouth wrapping around his cock perfectly. You could tell he was at his peak when his legs started to tremble and you quickly pulled away, watching as his chest deflated after having his orgasm taken away. He was about to protest when you took his blindfold off, a smirk playing on your lips. "I dunno, I guess I just don't believe how sorry you really are," you told him, keeping him in the handcuffs. "Please, please. I'm really sorry, nena. I'll never do it again," he blabbered, needing to feel some part of you on him. "Then show me just how sorry you are then."

Miguel ate you out like a man starved when you settled above his face, your plush thighs enclosing around his head as he started his ministrations. His tongue worked its way into your pussy, your juices leaking onto it as he did. He maintained eye contact with you as he sucked on your pussy, getting satisfied by how well you responded to his tongue. "Such a pretty mouth when you put it to better use," you moaned out, your hand gripping his hair tightly as your hips started to grind against his face. The way his nose hit your clit every time you did that only added more to the sensation, your hands intertwining tighter around the soft curls.

His mouth enclosed around your clit, flicking it with his tongue just the way that always had your toes curling before alternating with sucking your pussy. You looked down to see the bottom half of his face completely covered in spit and your juices but he delighted in how well he made you feel, his eyes shut as he basked in the taste of you. Your back arched as you felt him flick his tongue once more around your clit, the sensation making a shiver run down your spine. He let out a soft groan as he continued, the vibrations only adding onto the stimulation that you already felt. You felt your orgasm quickly approaching and your hips moved faster against his face, chasing your orgasm like you needed it to breathe. You felt your vision turn into spots as he took you over the edge, your juices completely soaking his face.

He quickly licked them off his lips and the corners of his mouth and you couldn't help but lean and kiss him. You sat down on his lap, gently running his cock up and down your folds as you looked at him sternly. "Do you think you've earned my pussy, cariño?" You asked, watching as he nods quickly. (darling) "Please. I've been so good for you," he pleaded, hoping that it would appeal to you. You tapped your finger on your chin, pretending you were deliberating about it before you faced him once more. "Are you gonna do it again?" You asked, awaiting his reaction. "No, no. I promise I won't do it again."

Once you were satisfied with his answer, you slowly started to sink down his cock, your walls enclosing around him perfectly. It was a bit of an adjustment given that he usually prepped you with his fingers beforehand, but you found yourself enjoying the sting a little bit. You slowly start taking more of him in, both of you letting out a hiss when you sink into him completely. You adjusted yourself to sit with your feet pressed against the bed for support as you slowly started to make your way up his cock before sinking down once more. "Oh god, so good," you mumbled, watching as Miguel tugged on the handcuffs with new vigor. "C'mon, I just bought those," you said with a small frown when Miguel ripped them off the bedpost, his hands going to grip your thighs. "I'll buy you as many handcuffs as you want," he whispered, his voice shaky as you continued to make your way up and down his cock.

The way your walls enveloped him felt like pure sin, the tightness only adding more to the sensation. He couldn't help but think of just how beautiful you looked in that moment: your lips parted in a 'o' shape as you rode him, your breasts bouncing every time you came back down, and the way your pussy just kept gushing around his cock. His mouth attached to your breasts, sucking on them and tugging on your areola gently. He could tell that your thighs were starting to feel the burn with how your thrusts began to slow down, so he held your hips and slowly started to thrust into you. He could respect the want that you had for dominance, but he knew that if he didn't help out, neither of you would end up properly satisfied.

"Right there, Miguel!" You moaned out, his cock hitting your g-spot perfectly as your nimble fingers rubbed on your clit desperately for some release. His thrusts started to get more erratic as he continued, borderline on sloppy as your thighs trembled from how good it felt. You felt your orgasm quickly approaching and you could tell that Miguel was headed that route too with the way you were gripping his cock. You bit down on his shoulder as you came, the sensation over flooding your senses when you did. Miguel let out a grunt as he felt you tighten around him once more, thick ropes of cum coating your pussy as he came.

The two of you laid down as you started to come down from your orgasms, letting the feeling of euphoria subside before any of you said anything. He got up and grabbed a rag from the bathroom, soaking it a bit before he started to clean you off. "I'm sorry that I snapped that way at them, I'll try my best not to let it happen again," he whispered, his apology genuine as he dragged the wet rag on your pussy. He didn't say he'd stop completely, but you appreciated the fact that he was at least willing to give it a try. "It's okay, mi amor. I’m sorry if I went too far," you replied causing him to let out a small chuckle. (my love) "You didn't go too far," he assured you, pressing a small kiss on your forehead before he went to go place the rag in the washing machine. He came back to bed and laid down with you, wrapping his arms around you as he drew small circles on your back while sleep overtook both of you.

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cyberkitty1 · 11 months

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pt 2/2 of the crybaby reader x earth42 Miles Morales

MAJOR MAJOR spoilers!! read with caution.

i said tomorrow night but I worked my butt off to get it done today!!

Aaron makes his way to Miles and room not even bothering to knock, I mean why would he? He just watched his nephew make his own girlfriend who would do anything for him cry. He was beyond furious.

“So now we are just going around making people cry?” Miles smirks at him “man I am literally the prowler? all i make people do is cry and beg for their life” he says almost laughing.

Aaron sighs pinching the bridge of his nose.” you are not supposed to let your job interfere with your normal life, you know that. Now you’re chasing your girl, the girl your supposed to love away? are you serious?”

Miles looks at him annoyed “ why wouls you care all she ever does is cry, shes happy she cries, shes mad she cries, shes sad she cries, man even when shes bored she cries. its annoying” he says holding his face in his hands.

Aaron walks to the bed and sits next to him. He’s never been put in this situation so he doesn’t know what to say. “ you’re dad was a lot better doing this than i ever was.” Miles visibly stiffens, this was the first time he’s brought up his dad since his funeral.

“ Miles I know you have been through a lot, more then i ever will but that doesn’t give you a reason to act that way towards her, she only wants whats best for you and she loves you with everything shes got. I would kill for a person like that to be in my life. I know you reacted like this because you feel you don’t have anyone to talk to but i’m always here man you know this.”

He wrapped an arm around his shoulder.” So don’t be taken your anger out on your girl she just loves you ok?” Miles sighs realizing, he was way to harsh in you you shouldn’t have been ignoring you and now he feels like a fool.

“ Yea, ill talk to her tomorrow” Aaron smiles, “ good I don’t need the only person who can get you to open up gone, now do i?” he says laughing a bit.

* Next Morning *

You didnt get a wink of sleep that night you where thinking about all the things you could have done to upset him that much. You werent mad just confused, confused as to why he would react that way. Of course you will still love him but this still hurt.

You were lost in thought when you realize someone texted you, it was Miles? You wasted no time to open it.

miles. can you come over later today?

you. yea

miles. dress comfortable

you were nervous, was he breaking up with you? You had no idea what to expect with how you guys left everything yesterday there was many directions this could go.

Hours later ( im lazy )

You got ready and made your way over to his place. Knocking on the door he answered “hola cariño ven conmigo” he helped you in with a warm smile taking your hand. Shutting the door behind you he led you into his bedroom sitting you down on his bed. He stood looking at you kind of nervous? he started:

“Voy a decir esto en español para que todo salga bien. Te amo mucho y siento mucho haberte tratado de una manera que nunca te mereces. Lamento haberte hecho llorar y haberte hecho sentir que hiciste algo mal. Todo lo que haces es amarme y tratarme bien, pero yo te traté como si no me importara. Y por eso lo siento mucho y espero que lo encuentres en tu corazón para perdonarme.”

(I'm going to say this in Spanish so that everything goes well. I love you very much and I am so sorry that I treated you in a way that you never deserve. I'm sorry I made you cry and made you feel like you did something wrong. All you do is love me and treat me right, but I treated you like I didn't care. And for that I am very sorry and I hope that you find it in your heart to forgive me.)

You waited and listened to him through and through and when he was done you spoke. “ Miles I will forever love you, you know that. I know that you are going through something but why didn’t you tell me? why don’t you talk to me? why wont you let me in?” you said holding his hands.

“No quería que pensaras menos en mí, que me consideraras débil.” You look at him sympathetically “ Miles I would never, never ever think of you as weak ok? Whenever you need me I will be there with you, I love you miles so much.” and with that, you were crying.

(“I didn't want you to think less of me, to consider me weak.”)

“mi princesa por favor no llores odio cuando lloras” he said wiping your tears away “ I know and i’m sorry that i’m always crying about everything i know it annoys you” you say sniffling. He feeling you pulling at his heart strings, feeling the worse he has felt since his father’s passing.

("My princess please don't cry I hate when you cry"’)

“ahora me tienes a punto de llorar mami, te quiero mucho y me arrepiento de haberte dicho que te encontré una llorona. Nunca debí haberte dicho eso, eres mi todo, ¿lo sabías? Debería disculparme contigo, lamento haberte tratado de esa manera, ¿me perdonarías?” He said with tears in his eyes.

(“Now you have me about to cry mommy, I love you very much and I regret having told you that I found you a crybaby. I never should have told you that, you are my everything, you know that? I should apologize to you, I'm sorry I treated you that way, would you forgive me?")

You held his face looking into his eyes with so much adoration. “ Miles I will forever love you, I forgive you, I will forgive you ten times over.” You said resting your head on his. After a few minutes he wipes his tears saying “ I forgot I wanted you to watch a movie with me if you forgave me.” You smile at him giving him a kiss.

“ Thank you Miles,i appreciate it all.” he sighs “ Ma, stop saying stuff like that I need to be saying sorry to you” he says looking you in your eyes.

And with that he sits on his bed back against the headboard with you tucked into his side, eating snacks and watching your favorite movies.

( this or this )

He suddenly turns to you and says “te amo mas que la cantidad de estrellas en el cielo” he says looking into your eyes. You turn to him resting your hand ok his face, hearing your voice that sounds like honey.

("I love you more than the number of stars in the sky")

“yo tambien te amo mi principe”

( "I love you too my prince")

Part 3 of the earth 42 Miles spoiling you will be done as soon as I can 🙏🏾

A/n: overlook the fact that i spelt honey as hunny 😔 ( its changed now)

#earth 42 miles #earth 42 miles morales x reader #fluff #atsv x reader #earth 42 #earth 42 miles morales #miles morales #miles morales x reader #i hope you like it #i really tried #comfort #angst #fluffy

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martiansodas-blog · 1 year

Text

Talk me through it

• Joel Miller x reader

• Summary: Your sexual experiences were never a priority for your partners. They never even cared for you when it was over. When your friend Joel finds out, he wants to be the one to change that.

• Contents: Smut, age gap, friends to lovers, huge praise kink, aftercare, fluff.

• Authors note: My first fic in a few years… would love your feedback! ☺️ I take requests babies.

Your body in Jackson but your mind a million miles away, you were daydreaming about a man two decades your senior.

What did his hands feel like after a hard day of work? Coarse and dry most likely.

But we’re they gentle when they came in contact with someone else? When they were taking off someone’s clothes…

Snap out of it

He’s simply a regular at the bar. An acquaintance. And even that was pushing it. The only people he truly softened for was Ellie and Tommy.

You gaze at the clock : one hour left. The last hour is always the longest. Most customers had filtered out and you were cleaning with your coworker Amanda.

“How did your date go?” You asked

“Didn’t know if he was my type at first, but after he ate me out I decided he was.”

You tried to chuckle with her but your body cringed.

“You enjoy that?” You asked embarrassed.

It seemed like everyone liked it but you. Was there something wrong with you? Dumbfounded Amanda looked back at you.

“You don’t?”

“I don’t know, receiving head is just…boring. It’s not painful, it’s not exciting, it’s just meh. I’d rather move on to the main event, ya know?”

Her expression didn’t change.

“What are you talking about!? Receiving is practically the only thing that makes being born female worth it.” You both laughed as you stood on your tip toes to put a glass away.

Your words made Joel’s whole body stiff.

One night with me. One night with me and I’ll give you the head you deserve. Stupid boys your age don’t know how to pleasure a woman.

He couldn’t say that tho, especially not in public. Hell go for something calmer.

“Maybe you just haven’t been with an experienced enough person.”

You jolt around in shock. You had no idea until now he was in the bar, let alone listening to your conversation.

“Um, yeah, maybe. It’s not a big deal for me.”

You shrugged the topic off and quickly turned around making yourself busy. You went beat red knowing the most attractive man in town heard about your sex life, or lack thereof.

It’s a big deal for me, you’re torturing me here.

Joel decided he shouldn’t say anything else and risk making you uncomfortable, it wasn’t his intention. Without saying another word he headed home.

“Maybe he’s right, maybe you should have a night with someone older.” Amanda said in a suggestive voice. When you laughed this time it was out of awkwardness.

“Good one, I don’t think so. Im not one for one night stands. Plus, in a commune this size, Ive had a good look around and haven’t been attracted to any guys.”

Lie.

You and Joel were on good terms. You don’t use the word ‘friends’ because Joel isn’t really friends with anyone. At least he wouldn’t say that. He doesn’t let his walls go down enough for that. But he does care about his inner circle and that’s obvious.

You could tell you were one of the people he softened for. Mainly it was Tommy and Ellie, but somehow you always managed sneak your way in there. Most of the reason being you were giving him drinks.

Your affection for him was one sided, but it didn’t matter. He was never going to find out. Your crush just gave you something to look forward to during work.

• • •

It’s an hour before closing and Joel had yet to come in. Odd. Maybe he was under the weather today.

Pulling you from your thoughts was the bell of the door opening.

Speak of the devil

“Hey! Was wondering when you’d show up.”

He smiled at you. Thats rare. He liked a little too much that you wanted to see him. He wanted to see you too, he just still not good at expressing his emotions and letting people in.

“Whiskey?” You assumed.

“Actually, I was thinking of not drinking here tonight.”

The smirk on his face showed that he had a plan but you couldn’t figure out what in the world it was.

Why would he come to a bar if he wasn’t going to drink?

“How about I be the bartender for once. I hope that’s not forward of me to ask, but would you like to come by my place after your shift? If you’re too tired I understand-“

“Yes that sounds great, yes.” You could hear your smile in your voice.

“Alright then, peach. You know which house is mine. See ya then.” He got up and walked away.

Peach. He’d never called you that before.

Yes, you did know which house Joel lived in, but you’ve never been in it. You wondered what kind of decorations he hung up. Did it smell like him? You could barely stand still the remainder of your shift.

You have to put away your school girl crush.

• • •

As soon as it hit the hour you threw off your apron and went into the bathroom to freshen up.

You wished makeup survived the apocalypse, just a little to make your eyes pop.

What are you doing? He’s not your boyfriend.

You really must stop letting your mind wander. You ran your fingers through your hair and tried to get the smell of spilt beer off you. You don’t know what to expect. You’ve never hung out with Joel like this.

A few minutes later you’re knocking on his door. Nearly vibrating with nerves.

He opens it and

God

There’s that enchanting smile again.

It’s contagious. For a few seconds you two just gaze at each other with grins.

“Hey” you said shyly

“Glad you came, come on in.”

He opened the door as far as it went and you stepped in.

Definitely Joel Millers place.

Not much decorations, but his presence is here. Things Ellie has made for him hung around the living room. Things that survived of his from before the apocalypse. It felt homey. It felt safe.

He led the two of you into the living room. When your legs hit the couch you let out a sigh.

There were already two cold beers and glasses of water on the coffee table in front of you. Normally you don’t like to drink because you’re around it almost everyday and the smell gets annoying. But with Joel it seemed fun.

You both picked up your bottles and instead of making small talk or clinking the drinks together, you just nodded at each other and sipped.

Oh wow, this was actually kind of good. Where did he get this from? You groaned as it warmed your body.

“Haven’t been able to rest that much today. Work was busy. This is nice, Miller.”

He shifted closer to you. Closer than a acquaintance would normally sit. Not that you’re offended, you almost feel flattered. Joel speaks in actions.

“As long as you don’t go tellin people I’m nice.” He joked

“I like nice Joel.” Your voice wasn’t light anymore. “I hope I get to see more of him.”

You knew once those words came out of your mouth that they pushed a boundary. It’s a miracle anyone in this type of world is nice. It’s not an expectation you have anymore.

Your sentence didn’t seem to bother him, though. He stared at you for a few beats. He scooted once again until your knees touched. You’d never been this close to him, it was making your face get hot.

You both seem to have fallen into a comfortable silence, studying each other. There are details on his face you’ve never seen before. He pulled off facial hair like no other. His beard a mix of white, gray and brown.

You don’t know how long it stayed like this, but when you looked up at him to feel out the situation, he wasn’t looking back at you.

He was looking at your lips. You assumed they were dry or you had something on them. Instinctively you licked them.

“Don’t do that to me.” He whispered.

Your heart stopped.

“What?”

Instead of answering he put his hands on each side of your face. You made eye contact and thought you must be dreaming.

I’ve had dreams of him before, this must be another one.

But no. You can smell the drink he had and feel his big hands.

“Do you trust me?” He asked. You didn’t need time to think.

“Yes.”

In milliseconds your lips touched.

If this is a dream I never want to wake up.

The kiss starts gentle. Feather light. Sweet. Your noses bumping into each other. Not at all what you expected from Joel Miller.

You press your face into his to make the kiss more intense, but he puts his hands on your shoulders to keep you where he can be tender.

You pull away. Both taking a moment to process.

“Are you sure you want this?” He asks.

You can’t help but laugh because who wouldn’t want him. Especially after that kiss.

“I’ve been wanting you for so long.”

He breaks out into the biggest smile you’ve seen. Any nerves or unfamiliarity between you two is gone.

“Com’ere”

Now you’re both giggling and hugging. So happy that feelings have been confessed.

Your head nuzzled into his neck gave the perfect opportunity to whisper in his ear.

“You’re not going to break me. I want you to kiss me like I’m not delicate.”

Something snapped in him.

Maybe it was your warm breath on his ear, maybe it was that you were close enough to straddling him but not there yet. Maybe it’s because he thinks you’re the most beautiful woman in town, no, on earth.

He grabs your face with more force this time. Kissing you aggressively. You enjoyed how his fingers dug into your jaw. You gasped and he took the opportunity to introduce his tongue to yours.

He grabbed your legs and settled you over him. It was obvious he was strong but goddamn. He lifted a fully grown woman like it was nothing. It made a fire start in your lower belly.

“I need you. I need you right here on this couch.”

You didn’t respond. Too drunk on him already. You knew once his cock touched you there’d be no thoughts left in your brain.

He chuckled at your state, snapping his fingers to get your attention.

“Sweetheart are you with me?”

“Yeah sorry, I just can’t believe I’m doing this with you. You’ve already made me feel better than any guys I’ve been on dates with and-” your words got muffled by you taking off your shirt. You went braless today.

Now Joel was the speechless one. Staring at your chest. Running his hands up and down your sides.

She isn’t real. She can’t be.

“You’re so … beautiful. Now I really can’t wait, darlin.”

With the same urgency as before he picks you up and laid you out on the couch. Kissing your stomach, not giving you time to process.

He continues kissing down your body while unbuttoning your jeans. He rips them off along with your underwear in one motion.

Jesus, fuck.

“You’re already dripping for me, aren’t you babe?”

“Yes, it’s all for you.”

He lets out a noise that can best be described as feral.

“But, um, you don’t have to do that. It’s not a big deal to me.”

The man looked up at your from between your thighs.

“Will you let me have a taste? If you say stop, I’ll stop.”

“…Okay.”

“Mmm, let me show you how a real man makes you feel.”

All apprehension and doubts you had floated away. Joel licked up both sides of your folds slowly, and you swore you could cum right then.

Your core fluttered around nothing. You needed it again and again and again. He was taking his time with you. Mapping your body out. His tongue making sure to know every inch of you.

The deeper his tongue went, the more your body relaxed. You don’t think it has ever relaxed this much.

The house filled with sinful noises. Your moans, him lapping against you, the couch cousins being gripped.

When he groaned it sent vibrations through your whole body, pushing you closer to the edge.

He went back to licking you from bottom to top. Flattening his tongue as much as possible. Leaving a kiss on your clit before going to the other side.

I love it when he does that. God.

He started to pick up his pace. Inserting his tongue as deep as it goes. Eating you out like a starved man. And he was. You were his new favorite meal. He’s perfectly fine with not getting laid tonight and doing this instead.

“Fuck please- ohh-”

He loves that he can make you sound like that. It makes his cock beg to get out of his pants.

“Joel,” you whimpered out, grabbing his hair.

“I can’t believe you’ve been keeping this from me. You’re the sweetest fuckin thing.”

His words were sweet but his tone was filthy. It made your back arch. He knew you were close. He kicked it up a notch and inserted a finger in you.

You gasped at the size and feel. You could finally clench around something and your body was so happy.

“Fuck it feels so good! I’m close.”

I know you are

“You’re doing so good.”

He added a finger and moved them in a come hither motion.

You were done for. His calloused hands bringing you to release. He kept pumping in and out of you, getting all he could of your liquid. When he saw you regaining your breathing he removed his hand.

Laying there for a few minutes with half lidded eyes, you felt like you were on drugs. You were trying to find your composure but your body wouldn’t stop tingling.

The man who just gave you your best orgasm crawls up and appears in your view.

“Hey there sweetheart.”

He has the biggest smirk on his face, arms on either side of you. You don’t care. You’d give everything up if it meant you’d get more of his talent in your future.

“That was incredible.” You exhale

“For me, too.”

In what was becoming classic Joel Miller fashion, he presses the gentlest of kisses to your lips, then rests his forehead against yours.

“Did I wear you out?”

“Not yet.”

“Good. I have a lot planned.”

You bite your lip in anticipation.

“Oh yeah, cowboy?”

He liked the nickname.

“Yeah, but I prefer to fuck my pretty lady on my bed.”

With that he stood up and carried you bridal style to his room. It was darker in there with one orange lamp on which made the mood even more sensual. He placed you on his bed and resumed the position he was in before.

“I’m gonna make sure you feel me tomorrow, sweetheart.”

You let out a whimper. Crashing into another kiss.

It was his turn to take off clothes.

You hastily unbuttoned his flannel and threw it across the room. He would laugh at your urgency if he wasn’t just as bad.

You smooth your hand over his new bare skin. Soft with scars. You reached his belt and he pushed your hands away to do it himself. Taking the belt then his jeans off much faster than you could’ve.

You stared at his outline, unable to mask your expression. You can tell he’s big without even seeing it yet. By the smirk on his face, he knows it too. You were really boosting his ego tonight.

“You gonna gawk all night or should I take it out?”

Fuchsia creeping onto your cheeks.

“I don’t think I’ve been with anyone your caliber before.” You say meekly, still looking at his clothed cock.

He bring his face right above yours and tilts your chin so your eyes meet.

“Sweet girl, I’ll be gentle. I’ll start slow for you.”

You’re reassured. You feel safe with him.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

He brings his lips to meet yours once more. Not breaking it while he tugs off his boxers.

Your breath quickens as you get nervous again. He immediately takes notice and strokes your cheek. Caring about you in every touch.

You feel the head of his cock meet your entrance. Your head falls back against the pillows. He takes this as a sign to push in a few inches deeper.

“That’s my girl.”

Your gasps like angels singing. Your legs squeezing around me because you need more.

Joel goes like this for several minutes. Pushing in, letting you adjust, making sure he doesn’t immediately cum, then pushing again.

You needed movement. Unable to control the pleas that left your mouth.

“Joel, fuck me. I can take it. Stretch me out.”

He can’t say no to you. Especially when you’re like this.

He pulls almost completely out of you then slams back in. Going from 0 to 100. His tip touching your cervix.

He was reaching depths of you no man ever had before. You couldn’t help but be loud.

“I know baby, I know. Let it all out.”

His words made you moan even more. You’re so turned on it got caught in your throat. No one had ever talked you through it before. No one had said such dirty things to you while making you feel this good. No one has made you feel as good as you deserved.

“So good. So good for me.”

You were so wet it was seeping out of you and onto the sheets. You’ve had the briefest feel of him and are already addicted. You rolled your hips into him and hooked your legs around his waist. Instantly he groaned at the feeling.

“Just like that baby, there you go.” His low voice registered in your ear. You always admired the sound of his voice but you never thought it’d be praising you. It was a fucking drug.

He kissed you hard on the mouth and it made the little bit of your body you had control over go limp. He took this opportunity to take your hands and pin them together above your head. It turned you on so much, your back began to arch. Anyone within a ten mile radius would be able to hear you.

Joel had to focus to get a complete sentence out because of how tight you were clenched around him.

“You sound so good. I love hearing how I make my girl feel. You’re so spent on my cock, aren’t you?”

You nodded eagerly.

“Of course you are. Never truly been taken care of, have you?

“N-No.” you whimpered.

“Think you can take more of me, sweet thing?” He let your hands go so he could caress your cheek.

You were nervous but you nodded.

“Good girl.” He smirked at you when he said it. He loved how much power he had over you.

He grabs your legs and put them over his shoulder. With intense speed starts fucking you again. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he pulled obscene noises from your mouth.

“Oh god oh god”

“That’s my girl. I love being buried in your perfect cunt.”

Your back was arching, your fists were gripping the sheets and your clit was throbbing. Your orgasm was nearing quickly.

Your moans got higher and closer together as your legs squeezed around him.

“Words baby, use your words.”

“Fuck, I’m close. Oh I’m close, oh Joel please. It feels so fucking good.”

He knew exactly what you needed. He circled your clit with his rough thumb and continued to thrust into you hard.

“Good girl, cum for me. Cum on my cock.”

“Oh god oh god-”

You came harder than you ever have before. Leaving a mess on and beneath you. Your ears have a light ringing in them and you were seeing stars. You couldn’t even register if Joel was still near you until you felt a warm washcloth bringing you back to reality.

You opened your eyes and saw him. Someone you knew now you couldn’t live without.

He delicately rubbed one of your legs with one hand and cleaned you up with the other. Making sure you wouldn’t be uncomfortable if you fell asleep right there, which after that experience, was likely.

His actions are a huge juxtaposition to his reputation. He is not stoic and harsh and self centered. He is caring and affectionate and thoughtful.

You smiled up at him while half asleep.

“Thank you.” You managed to choke out. Your voice was half gone.

“Of course, darlin. It’s only the decent thing to do.”

He tossed the cloth on the floor and placed a soft blanket under where you both came. He’d wash the sheets later.

“No guy I’ve been with has really given me aftercare before…”

For some reason saying that was more venerable than the act you just did with him. Your face feels hot.

“You deserve so much more than what’s been given to you. And I don’t just mean with sex.”

You knew if either of you said much else you’d burst into tears. You made grabby hands at him and the two of you fell into a warm cuddle, touching as much of each others skin as possible.

“Goodnight, cowboy.”

He kisses your forehead.

“Goodnight, peach.”

#joel miller #the last of us #pedro pascal x you #tlou #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #Joel miller fanfic #joel tlou #Joel miller smut #Joel miller fluff #Joel miller friends to lovers #Joel miller praise kink #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fanfic

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kairiscorner · 9 months

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hiii can you write a e42 miles (or both Idc) where they been dating for some time but we still haven’t meet rio and for some reason rio doesn’t know he got a gf, so one day Rio and us meet and we talk to her and after like a while we become like friends yk and she’s like you shoudl meet my son and you can do whatever you want with that thxxxx <33333

OHHHH SURE SURE ANON !! I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS <333

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

my son would love you. — miles 42 x reader

you waited by your parents' offices, what with the two of them being doctors, they were constantly busy and had a lot on their plates. you were just scrolling through your phone as you were seated down by the waiting area, patiently listening to the ticking of the clock's hands as the seconds passed by, getting closer and closer to the end of their office hours.

your attention was completely on your phone, not really minding anything else until you heard the clatter of some medical equipment by the small trolley this female nurse with long, dark curly hair was pushing. she accidentally bumped the trolley against the wall as she made way for the patients passing by her–she muttered to herself in spanish as she hurriedly crouched down to pick it all up.

looking up from your phone, you felt bad for the woman–you decided to help her as you got to your feet and began making your way towards her. you crouched down next to her and handed her the tongue depressors and gauzes you found sprawled on the floor. you handed them to her with a gentle smile, and you soon saw her smiling back. there was something about this woman that felt reminiscent of someone dear in your life, but you couldn't figure out who or why you were drawing that connection out of nowhere, but as you were thinking, the woman had thanked you repeatedly for your help.

"it's no problem, really, i'm just glad you didn't have to clean this all up on your own." you said with a gentle voice as the woman helped you get up on your feet. the woman smiled at you as she looked at you up and down. "such a kind soul you are, really, i can't thank you enough. say, you seem a bit familiar, do you by any chance attend brooklyn visions academy?" she asked you as you nodded. her smile widened as she witnessed your affirmation. "oh! that's wonderful, my son attends that school, too. you'd love him, he's just like you. though dare i say, he's a little cranky sometimes." she says with a chuckle as you chuckled back, being reminded of a certain boy you knew who was incredibly cranky during mornings when anyone but you would talk to him.

"that'd be nice, though, i... i kinda have a boyfriend already." you told her as her smiling expression morphed into one of surprise. "oh... oh, that's okay. you don't have to think of it that way, you guys can be friends." she said as her smile returned; she introduced herself to you as rio morales, and you introduced yourself to her–she found your name very fitting for a person as beautiful and kind as you, no wonder your parents named you that name. you spoke with that woman as you waited for your parents to finish up–with the two of you sharing about yourselves, your hobbies, and a certain person you two had deemed to be very important in your lives. you enjoyed rio's company and keeping her company, and these little exchanges and late night conversations between you two would go on for a few weeks–almost a whole month–until rio had mustered up the courage to ask you and your family if you could come have dinner with them.

your parents were okay with it, they did want some time away from work anyway and more time with you; and the thought of dining at their coworker's place intrigued them, they were more than willing to come over, and so were you. as your family neared the apartment unit where rio's family lived, you heard a barrage of voices inside–three voices to be exact. rio's voice surfaced compared to the other two, whose voices were male–one of which you swore you heard before, a voice you were far too familiar with. rio spoke out in spanish to one of the males there to open the door for the guests since she was busy making sure the food wouldn't burn.

footsteps were heard from the other end as the door's mechanisms clicked and the doorknob turned, and behind the door was rio's son, the young boy who bore the surname 'morales', and... was your boyfriend. the boy greeted your family, looking up at your parents first until he turned and saw you. his face became flustered almost immediately, his eyes going wide and his mouth hanging open as the words he was meant to utter just fell flat and his voice had ultimately gone mute. his uncle from inside the unit had called out to miles, gesturing to him to let your family in, breaking him out of his trance. he stepped aside and opened the door wider for you and your family to enter, with his gaze following your own bashful and surprised one.

"good... evening to you, my mom's new friend." he said with a slight smile as you chuckled and nodded. "you too... mrs. morales' son, handsome son, might i add. she says so, they were her words, not mine." you said in a teasing manner as miles felt even more sheepish and chuckled, thinking that, out of all the people in the universe... his partner had to befriend his own mother, without either one of your parents knowing you both were more than just strangers towards each other.

tags !! @k4tsu3 @onginlove @fiannee @luvstarrstruck @toneystank-3000 @ii01vq @maxoloqy @popeheywardssecretgf @lovefrominaya @solecitoszn @meowmoraless @conitagray

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synthetickitsune · 10 months

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can i please request how svt would make up with their s/o after an argument? if you can't write for all the members then i would like to ask for either 95 or 97 line. thank you so much in advance! <3

angst, my beloved <3 thank you for requesting this!

svt + making up after argument //gn!reader

S.Coups ❧ He hates fighting with you for many reasons. It gets too heated, and it’s too important, too close. And he doesn’t have any sort of authority to use as a leverage. Not that he usually does or uses it, but it helps ground him with fake confidence. He doesn’t have that luxury here. As a result, every argument with you shakes him to the core. Afterwards he trails after you, and it’s so annoying sometimes that it almost leads to another fight. But by then he’s too unsure about anything that isn’t his love for you to keep it up and he closes off. He won’t meet your eyes because he can’t have this right now, he’ll give you an easy victory that leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. This is not a battle, something to win or lose, but he doesn’t like the feeling all the same. He swears the pout on his lips isn’t on purpose. It certainly works in his favor, though. As annoying as his constant hovering is, seeing Seungcheol lose confidence in his own kitchen is the most heartbreaking thing. You motion for him to come closer and he comes into your arms easily. He grows more comfortable. He apologizes again, and so do you. It’s endearing, his curious glances any time he wants to follow you. He needs to know you’re okay, and this time you let him. It’s easier to talk things out in the buzz of going about your day. He listens to your rant about what really upset you as you wash the dishes, and he opens up about why he’s been so snappy with you lately while he folds the laundry. To keep the mood going, you keep cleaning and talking. There’s nothing like doing chores to remind you you’re in this together and to get the house in order. Maybe you should fight more often.

Jeonghan ❧ In the silence and invisible distance after, he knows what caused the rift. He doesn't like giving space when it already feels like there's too much of it between you and him, but he knows when it's necessary to take a step back. It might be a weakness or a strength but his emotions are his own responsibility that he alone takes care of. Jeonghan needs to sit down and analyze; put things into perspective and create a mental model and draw parallels. Complex understanding of a problem is what he excels at, after all. He sorts out the mess in his head, thinks about what hurt you and comes up with the best way to explain himself - not to make an excuse, but to show his intention and apologize. He tells himself how to navigate through this next time. The other half, what hurt him, he sorts out as well. He is understanding. He can't let what you don't mean or you're right about to get under his skin. He can set his ego aside for a while. When he approaches you, it’s difficult for you. It feels like you’re chasing after someone miles ahead. You also want to deal with your feelings so efficiently. Maybe it's just hard because you long for him so much after arguments. Because you know the fight wasn’t worth it. You talk and you listen and you apologize to each other. While his apology flows like a river, yours is more like a mountain stream, rushed and crashing against your mental blocks, hurdles in communication you can't get over. But he still listens and he nods, holds your hand and helps you get your point through. You know he understands without you speaking and you’re grateful. Even if it breaks your heart you can never truly meet him in the middle, Jeonghan always being one step ahead, doing much of the work for both of you.

Joshua ❧ It's all about timing. Arguments are rare, and so the way away from them is all the more tricky. It's hard to get Joshua riled up like this, enough for a fight to take place, and it just so happens that he lets his other little frustrations slip into the arguments. The aftermath is both of you on edge still long after apologies were said. You want to make up, he wants to make up, but if you try too early, you'll snap at each other all over again without meaning to. Leave it alone for too long and the hurt will deepen. From an onlooker’s perspective, you could be a pair of naughty students, exchanging notes during class and waiting for each other's reaction. Joshua keeps stealing glances at you, you try to glance at him. It's all to see if it's safe to approach the other already. In an ideal world, you'd always get it right and end the day over cups of warm drinks, talking about the problem, resolving it, coming up with suggestions what to do differently to avoid this happening again. But you're only people. So sometimes it’s snark met with sarcasm, riling each other up again instead - only this time, the venom slowly disappears and you push each other’s buttons on purpose. You like that he can meet your level of sass, he likes how clever your comebacks are, and vice versa. You don't notice how close you've inched to each other until your lips all but brush against his. It's a wake up call for both of you. Sometimes the conversation takes place over coffee at the table, sometimes it happens in the bed as you bask in the afterglow. Either way, your fingers are intertwined and your voices are soft. You make up with kisses just as tender.

Jun ❧ This is why he always carefully considers whether the issue at hand is worth arguing about. Oftentimes he rather backs out, gives in simply to avoid the fight - or more accurately, to avoid the fallout. It’s awkward. Even after everything’s been said and settled, there’s tension between the two of you that he’s unused to. He can’t come up to you and act like nothing happened. It’d feel too inappropriate, even if that’s what he’d love to do. There’s nothing else to say, though. Words are pointless if you know how he feels and he knows how you feel. Everything is settled - only the emotions linger. What he does is on the line between his usual kindness and a love language. A bowl of cut fruit, watching the episode of your show first, or him picking only the whole, unbroken chips to feed you. It's all for you, to show that he cares, if you're ready to accept that. It melts your heart even if you’re still wound up from the argument. You take the fork and stab the fruit, not him. You don't roll your eyes and stop yourself from getting annoyed that he wants to appease you. You open your mouth and you don't bite his fingers. But sometimes you wish he would just apologize. It's not like either of you was wrong. It was mostly just an exchange of opinions. But still, sometimes the simplest solution is the best one - you apologized too. It's three damned words. That's not gonna kill him. But then you see Jun cut the fruit with the star-shaped cutter, or he hums the opening of the show, or he chuckles at the one chip that kind of looks like a heart. You can only sigh and smile and let go of it all. This is who you picked. This is who you're gonna stick beside.

Hoshi ❧ He might not follow you around, but his eyes do. Soonyoung is long past the stage of being shy around you, but he reverts back to it after arguments. His eyes never leave your figure unless you look at him. It's pointless, he knows it's obvious he's staring. Yet he can't help it, a part of him is worried about you leaving if only for a second. And it's not fair. It's cheating because he looks so small and vulnerable, and you know he is - know that you are too. How could you ignore him? You sigh, half exasperated, half fond, as you close the distance between you and sit down next to him. He has the decency to look sheepish when you do. He's moving ridiculously slowly when his arms reach out to hug you to give you a chance to refuse, sometimes it makes you angry that he acts like you’re the only one whose emotions matter or like you’re gonna refuse his affection. As if you could live with the heartbroken expression he'd make if you pulled away. Not that you want to. He tucks you under his chin, cushioning your head on his chest. His arms are wrapped securely around you and the muscles on his legs flex with your every move, ready to use all his limbs to keep you trapped. You'd almost think you did try to run away and he only just caught you. He murmurs into your hair about how much he loves you, the dates, wildly unrealistic, he'd love to take you on. He promises you stars, moon, and the sun, he promises you forever. He'd do anything to keep you happy and laughing as you are now. You know he's as serious as he can be. What you also know is that the only way to shut him up now is with a kiss. So you do.

Wonwoo ❧ You're both trying too hard and that might also, eventually, become a problem. Trying too hard to be mindful of the other to the point you ignore your own needs and feelings is never a way. When the argument happens, it feels inevitable. It leaves you both feeling defeated. So you agree to give each other space before discussing things further. And you both think pretty much the same thing - what is the other thinking? You're circling back to where the problem started but with the result of that fresh in your minds, you don't make the same mistake. Somehow you end up in the same room, on the same bed, lying on your backs and staring at the ceiling as you talk. Telling each other what conclusions you came up with, what you think the other wanted to say and felt, you learn a lot about each other. Wonwoo takes advantage of the situation. He's opening up anyway, he’s already showing vulnerability, he might as well compensate for struggling with it otherwise. So he does. He uses the mellow atmosphere after an argument to show you his heart, to explain a little about how he thinks, gaining confidence with each of your reassuring nods and the way you really listen and care. You don’t judge and neither does he. He tells you all the things he wanted to say but didn’t before, throws in a tiny thing or two that he secretly loves about you. He lets you in, comforted enough by the safe bubble enveloping the two of you to do so. Each fight is a step forward to never fighting again, he said once. No matter who it is, being honest without holding back is hard and takes a lot of courage. With your hand in his and his knee bumping against yours, however, even conquering the world seems possible.

Woozi ❧ Arguments are never easy on Jihoon. It's enough that he has to deal with them at work - because really, the negotiations he's gotta do sometimes are nothing more than pointless fights. Therefore at home, he tries to be as efficient as possible dealing with any issues that come up. Partly because yes, he's tired, but for the most part because he knows how patient and tolerant you are towards him and he wants to give back. Which doesn't mean he doesn't snap occasionally and full on arguments don't happen, and then he's quick to apologize. You talk about it more, get over it, and then it's up to you and Jihoon to each decompress and process everything. You might busy yourself or leave to get some space, but he stays right where he is. He leans his head back on the couch and closes his eyes. He lets time wash over him as he thinks and takes in the silence, finally indulging in the absence of sound. When he's had his fill, though, he thinks about how it must seem to you for him to tell you that things are alright, and then he makes no effort to move or approach you. So he does so now. It feels awkward when he finds you - should he apologize again? Will you understand? Isn't it too late? You notice him hesitating and call him over. He relaxes seeing your smile, and he leans down to kiss the top of your head. He mumbles something that vaguely resembles a sorry. He asks what you've been doing, and he lets you get away with it if you pull him with you to show him or glue yourself to his side. He listens too intently and thinks hard about questions to ask to really mind any skinship you're doing even if he'd grumble any other time.

The8 ❧ His first step is always to assess the situation. He tries to feel out if it’s space or his presence that you want. Either way, it’s not far from the truth to say he approaches you as if you were a stray cat. Once it's safe to assume you'd welcome him being in the same room, he still keeps his wary distance. He lets you lead. But Minghao's also only a human and the tension where there should be peace upsets him more than the argument itself. He creeps towards you slowly, and at first it's only brushing his fingers against yours or bumping his leg with yours as he sits down next to you. Like a flowing water, he slowly envelops you without you noticing. Soon enough, his arms are around your waist and his head is on your shoulder, planting a gentle kiss to your skin, nuzzling into you, asking for forgiveness and reconciliation. He's not opposed to talking things out, he prefers it, actually, but only after everything is settled and you're okay and back to being partners, not angry lovers sharing a home. He likes to have his hands on you while you talk it out after some time. He brushes your hair back, his thumb caresses the back of your land and draws reassuring circles on your skin. It's as nice as it is distracting. After arguments, he always feels the need to reassure and be reassured. They leave a sense of unease inside him that unsettles him as much as the fact that he lost control and fought with you - it's inevitable, he knows, but he's a fighter and if the opponent is the human nature, so be it. There is no rock that can withstand the flow of a river, after all. But until then, he makes sure to hold you tighter and cling while he has an excuse.

Mingyu ❧ He really is a shadow of you and you have to bite your tongue to keep quiet. Sometimes it makes you snap at him, other times you've gotten over the argument and it's just cute. His hesitant steps and the second of questioning warmth as his hands hover over your waist before they make contact. His chin on your shoulder while he asks if there's anything he can help you with - anything he can do to make it right again. And sometimes you're still upset, and you want to tell him to go to hell, but how could you - with his voice so soft and low, so gentle, and his hands slowly encircling your waist until he's hugging you. He pulls you close and sways with you a little, he apologizes again, with a kiss to the top of your head. He really is willing to do anything - take on your share of chores, go over the argument again, anything but leaving you alone. And it's not fair because his puppy eyes and dejected look anytime you try to ignore him always wear you down in the end. He promises to do better, he whispers the words into your hair through a pout at being denied your gaze meeting his. He is well-aware of his shortcomings and where you were right, and where he was, and it means everything to him that you, too, understand and without promises, without empty excuses, you silently acknowledge what was said and work with it. The little steps forward are appreciated, he tries to take notice of them, and puffs out his chest with pride whenever you smile when you notice his own efforts. Making up with Mingyu is whining and pouting and clinging, but it's also understanding and making an effort to make sharing a home, sharing your lives, easier.

DK ❧ He’s shaking - his entire existence is. His hands are trembling, he’s taking shallow, shaky breaths, and his eyes keep darting all over your figure, trying to see if you will flinch away if he touches you now. It’s only been a couple of silent minutes since the argument; call him weak and clingy, but he can’t take it anymore. He calls your name quietly, pleading for you to look at him, and he can’t help the primal instinct to pull you close once you do. Seokmin holds you like you’ll slip through his fingers if he doesn’t, and he feels like he lets go of all the built up tension with the long exhale that slips past his lips once your arms wrap around him and hold him just as tight. He murmurs apologies, he stumbles over his words trying to explain, but after all the effort, he knows it pointless. You understand, and he understands too when you kiss his jaw and snuggle closer. After you part, he keeps babbling to keep the silence away. He hates it, he can’t stand it right now, but he stops talking so fast as soon as he sees you opening your mouth to say something too. He pays so much attention to you it almost feels overbearing, but you let him, because you analyze his every move too, trying to guess how he feels. Even if you talk things out, there’s this uneasiness that lingers and that makes him overcompensate for what happened, to prove that he’s worthy of you - he just kind of messed up. But that might lead to you feeling the same way, and it’s a downward spiral until it reaches a critical point where it hits you both how much this seems like farce, and you laugh, and you love each other nonetheless. You’re still smiling when you kiss.

Seungkwan ❧ He needs a good long time to cool down. At first, he hopes you know he didn't mean half the things he said. It's ridiculous, right? You know better than to trust him when he gets upset. As much as his pride and stubbornness hold him back though, his love for you eventually pushes him forward. Seungkwan approaches you and tries (and fails) to pretend like nothing happened. He tries to strike a conversation but he himself is too awkward - not to mention you, still hurt and shaken by the argument. You’re trying your best too, both of you miserably trying to get over the argument simply through relying on the strong foundation of your relationship alone. But when were you known for not holding grudges, a vice that you both share? He sighs and he takes your hands in his. A quick look into his eyes is enough to know he's dropping the charade. You drop it too and listen to him patiently explain his point of view. This time when he puts on a mask, it fits better. He tries to make it fun - he hates confrontation with you, and he finds reassurance in making you laugh. He holds your hand throughout and listens carefully when you speak, laughs when you insert jokes of your own. He finds it hard to let go of your hand. It's necessary sometimes but as soon as he can, he holds you again. Your hand in his, arm thrown around your shoulders, around your waist and pulling you close to himself. He makes you laugh in any way he can, he reminds you how much he loves you so there's no room for doubt in your mind about his feelings. He gets shy when you do the same, but it means more to him than he could ever explain.

Vernon ❧ At the end of the fight, both of you apologize. It's a habit at this point really, because it's what always happens. As justified as the reason for the argument might’ve been, nothing is as important as your relationship and nothing could ever warrant losing your temper at each other. Vernon asks if you're okay when you go through things again, calmly this time, and you know he means the two of you, and yeah, you've worked it out, things are alright again. And perhaps that's enough for him. He goes about the rest of his day as usual, though maybe his smiles are a little wider. You appreciate that and it's nice to fall into your routines, to return to normalcy of everyday life in your household. Then again, you can't help but wonder - is everything alright? Would he tell you if it wasn't? Maybe the way he closed the cupboard was a little louder than usual, maybe there's more to the tension in his shoulder than exhaustion from his morning workout. You call out his name and it's enough to alert him that something’s wrong. You explain, and he chuckles - you know he'd be more distant if something was bothering him, he reminds you. He told you he's fine, so he's fine - simple as that. He's warm and reassuring when he hugs you tightly and rocks you from side to side. You might even get a kiss. Just to make sure you have no doubts that he’s truly over the argument, he makes the time to spend some extra quality time with you. You tell him it’s not necessary, that his reassurance was enough, but you'll never say no if he wants to hold you. It’s nothing special, just a couple hours spent much like they would be on a day you’re both free. And that’s all you need, after all.

Dino ❧ He feels at loss after you fight. Apologizing and talking things through can only get him so far. The tension in the air lingers and he doesn't like it. His first impulse is to go buy flowers, maybe some sweets, but then he'd have to leave and that's out of the question right now. Part of him is irrationally afraid you'd take him leaving the wrong way and he'll do anything not to make things worse. He could tell you, ask if there’s anything you’re craving right now - and maybe that's not a bad idea at all. He brings it up to you and blushes a nice shade of red when you laugh. You end up coming with him, because the air is clearer outside, not as stifling. It's easier to remember the good times as you walk through the familiar neighborhood. Your hand finds his on instinct and he knows it made you as surprised as he was when he felt your touch. You don't pull away though. In the shop, he lets you go to grab yourself some treats while he does the shopping for necessities. He finds you at the snack isle when he’s done and follows your requests, throws into the basket even the things you're hesitant about trying - you said things are okay between you, so it’s alright to have adventures again. But then you need to compensate for the snacks, so you pick up some of the fruits you've never tried, and maybe also the cereal... Needless to say this wasn't the cheapest grocery shopping but the fun and having the comfortable atmosphere between you back is well worth it in Chan's eyes. He doesn’t forget the flowers - even if he has to run to the shop again without you so it’s a surprise. As he closes the door, he smiles. You’ll be there when he returns, and you’re as eager for him to come back as he is.

#seventeen reactions #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen x reader #seventeen fluff #svt fluff #svt scenarios #svt reactions #requested

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slattern-femina · 3 months

Text

my dear, don’t unfold me

A/N: slowly starting to put my stuff on different platforms- mostly on ao3 tho.

Summary: Rain didn’t exactly know where his habit came from. He normally fiddles with something, his anxious, long fingers always drumming off surfaces or picking at his bass. It calms him.

Eventually, he started picking at others.

And then he ends up using poor Phantom as, basically, a living fidget toy, overwhelming the poor quintessence ghoul in the process.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

Rain didn’t exactly know where his habit came from.

He normally fiddles with something, his anxious, long fingers always drumming off surfaces or picking at his bass. It calms him.

Eventually, he started picking at others. Swiss nearly fell to his knees anytime Rain started absentmindedly toying with his hair, horns, or tail; often leading to Rain having to bolt from the room before the multighoul got too turned on.

Dew wasn’t particularly fond of it, as most of the time, Rain would pick at his long hair. And with the height difference, Dew was always too accessible for Rain and he would touch the fire ghoul's long hair, yanking through the knots without thinking. “Fuckin’ ow! Stop that!” Dew would snap as his head was yanked back.

When they were cuddling, Dew made sure to have his hair in a bun, out of the water ghouls reach and long fingers.

Mountain let him do whatever he wanted, not reacting to it at all, but also not moving. Cirrus picked him back, Aurora and Aether were too ticklish.

Phantom, always eager to please and wanting to be psychically affectionate, immediately loves to be in Rain’s grasp.

Phantom became like his own personal little fidget toy. Rain’s hands are always on Phantom, kneading and squeezing his lavender skin, kissing him without thinking. Phantom didn’t mind- in the slightest- he was a good ghoul who loved to make people feel good— and Rain loved touching him, his thighs, his waist, his butt, wherever he could get his hands, so it worked out.

Rain just lets his hands wander, not ever paying attention too much, letting the physical act of fidgeting calm him down.

Rain’s eyes are fixated on the TV playing some random show Aether had put on, before walking away to the kitchen. Phantom couldn't pay attention, not when one of Rain’s big hands, with long fingers, was shoved up his shirt groping his chest and the other was haphazardly stuffed into his grey sweatpants, and under his boxers.

Rain is toying with Phantom so silently, lithe fingers sliding over his dick and even dipping into his hole, which has grown increasingly slick with how wet Phantom's become. Occasionally, he dips down to prod at his slick entrance multiple times.

Rain’s movements have no rhyme or reason, he's not moving quickly or with the intent to make Phantom cum, because he doesn’t realize what he’s doing. His mind is a million miles away, thinking about whatever it is that’s plaguing him, while Phantom just pants and starts stretching in his grasp, eyes glassy.

Rain’s sloppy flicks, and occasional taps of his fingers, against Phantom’s hole, which grew so sensitive from his mindless playing. Sometimes, when something pulls his attention away, Rain will stop touching the quintessence ghoul completely until - until the mindless desire the fidget and touch something returns to him.

Phantom's sitting with his back against the ghoul's chest, situated between Rain’s long legs. The water ghoul looks pretty, with his dark hair tied out of his face and his blue eyes fixated on the human-made screen.

Rain can't see the panting, dazed look on Phantom’s pretty, freckled face from the fleeting pleasure he is giving Phantom, without even realizing it. He’s edging the poor ghoul in his arms- without even cluing in.

Rain isn’t even hard or turned on.

Phantom is little else than a plaything to calm his nerves. For how observant Rain can be, he can also be oblivious from time to time. If he was listening, he could hear the wet noises following his fingers, or even hear Phantom panting, even though the sweet bug is trying hard not to distract Rain in his downtime.

As Rain’s long, and slick, fingers glide over Phantom’s hardened cock, absentmindedly squeezing and stroking, before once again stopping his movements. Phantom’s eyes roll back in his head and he arches, but has his lip bitten raw, to keep quiet.

As a commercial break rolls, Phantom finally breaks his quiet demeanour as a low whine comes out of his neck. Phantom is so hard and wet from being touched and edged, but no release; he’s almost in physical pain.

The noise finally stirs Rain, who jolts a bit and looks down at the ghoul in his arms. His pretty eyes take in the ghoul; hot, flustered, teary-eyed. He also finally releases how wet his fingers are.

“Oh, shit, bug- I’m sorry,” Rain says and goes to move away; but that makes Phantom snuffle and his hips buck, begging for a release.

“No… please… hurt’s now… need-” Phantom mumbles, overwhelmed and precious faces.

Rain is only more than happy to oblige, pressing kisses to the ghoul’s jaw and neck, as his long fingers go back to Phantom’s aching hole, dipping in and out before stroking the hardened cock too.

Phantom is crying pretty purple tears, just nodding as his legs fall loose in between Rain’s. The water ghoul kisses him, his face pressed into the crook of Phantom’s neck.

Rain’s skilled fingers are quick, albeit messily, stroking Phantom’s cock as the delicious mewls and cries come from Phantom's mouth, his jaw slack and he cries as his hips match Rain’s movements.

In only a matter of moments, Phantom is fisting Rain’s grey hoodie and his body stiffens, as he swallows and chases his orgasm.

“That’s it, baby, good boy,” Rain whispers into his ear, as he draws him closer to the release. Phantom twitches and comes into Rain’s hand, making the water ghoul smirk and praise him.

The moans dripping out of Phantom’s mouth are a thing of beauty, and Rain grunts as he drinks in the noises, his own eyes getting hazy.

Phantom goes slack against Rain’s body, aftershocks of his orgasm making him twitch periodically as he pants to catch his breath.

Rain smirks. “Got a little worked up there, bug,” he teases.

Phantom pouts and drops against him. “Your fault!”

Aether comes back from the kitchen, Dew in tow. The fire ghoul’s eyes widen as he smells Phantom’s scent and takes in the delicious sight before him of the quintessence ghoul, breathless and hot, strewn over Rain, who has gone back to fidgeting with his over-sensitive body, causing more moans and cries to come out of poor, overwhelmed Phantom.

“I was only gone for five minutes!?” Aether nearly squeaks, his tea spewing out of his nose as he chokes, when he sees what Rain has done.

#ghost #the band ghost #nameless ghouls #phantom #phantom ghoul #rain #rain ghoul #rain x phantom #phantom x rain #rain is a distracted angel #spicy

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moralesmilesanhour · 6 months

Text

if you believe in me - 02

summary: word gets around fast. wc: 2256 a/n: got too impatient soooo here we are lmao. I'll still be writing ahead I just wanted to post this one lil thing. warning for like one vague sex joke prev next

Your hands swung between the two of you until you reached the bottom steps of Visions Academy. The moment you began your ascent, little gasps and whispers followed not far behind. Miles’ hand began to squirm, as if trying to weasel his way out of the vice grip you had on it as you tugged him along. The reason why dawned on you when you entered the main hall:

Everyone was staring.

Scanning the clusters of students gathered in front of the escalators, you noticed that some of their mouths had fallen open in shock. You turned to glance at Miles, who was staring straight ahead with his brows knit together with worry.

“Miles, what’s wrong–”

“Y/N?”

Tianna’s voice interrupted before you could finish the question. The short, dark-skinned girl ran up to you for a quick hug, the smell of her vanilla body mist wafting off of her uniform.

She pulled away to give Miles a once-over, narrowing her eyes at him. He nervously avoided making eye contact.“I see you didn’t take my advice, as always.”

“Well, we met up this morning,” you shrugged. “It worked out.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Miles remarked quietly.

“I know,” your friend shot back as she tugged your arm to pull you away. “A moment, please?”

He raised his hands in surrender, and you gave him an apologetic smile as you let go of his hand. You followed Tianna until you reached a spot where he’d be out of earshot, where she stopped abruptly. She spun around to face you with her arms folded.

“Y/N…girl.”

“What? He said we were a thing when I asked him–”

“You had to ask him?” Tianna sighed, massaging her temples. “At least I know you weren't lying about the kiss.”

Your mouth fell open in offense, making her burst into laughter.

“Girl, fuck you! You thought I was lying?” you yelled as you gave her a playful shove.

“It’s Miles Morales! I don’t think he’s even had a full conversation with anybody since ninth grade. How you got him to kiss you is beyond me.”

“What does that mean?” you laughed. “You’re mad disrespectful.”

“That’s not the point, though. He didn’t even text you first.”

“Maybe he just forgot my number.”

“You don’t know anything about him.”

“I know a lot about him!”

Tianna raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Name three things you know about him that he told you himself.”

“Easy,” you began counting on your fingers, “He doesn’t like wearing his glasses, he likes rock music, and, um…”

You paused, racking your brain for something that you didn’t have to find out from asking around. Tianna’s lips were pressed into a thin line, wholly unimpressed. She sighed again.

“Yeah, okay, sis–”

“Wait!” you interrupted in a last-ditch effort to defend yourself. “He told me he’s actually not a gang member like people say, so that’s a plus, right?”

She saw the desperate look on your face and shook her head.

“Look, just…be careful, alright? If you not gonna listen to me, at least do that much,” Tianna pushed you gently back in Miles’ direction just as the morning bell rang. “Now go to class.”

You looked back at her one last time and smiled. “Thanks.”

Miles looked up expectantly as you jogged over to him. “So? What was that about?”

“Girl stuff,” you lied, sticking out your hand. “Walk me to class?”

As soon as you made it up the escalator, Miles mentally prepared himself to make his way through the crowded hallway. He wasn’t used to being at school this early, and it seemed that–judging by the sudden rise in conversation and exaggerated ‘oooh!’s as you passed by–neither were his fellow students.

Your homeroom wasn’t too many doors down from his, so he gently let go of your hand just outside Ms. Keene’s classroom.

“Aight, see you in calc–”

“Um, sir,” you stopped him before he could turn around, with a hand on your hip. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Miles’ eyes narrowed, then widened in understanding when you placed a finger on your cheek. He glanced towards the clusters of kids gathered around their lockers.

Many were still watching out of curiosity, looking for something to talk about come lunchtime. He turned to you and smiled apologetically.

"Later."

"Imma hold you to that, Morales!" you called out behind you as you finally entered the classroom.

“Good morning, miss L/N,” Keene greeted with her eyes still glued to her laptop.

Every morning, she’d project the list of morning announcements onto the whiteboard then spend the rest of homeroom checking emails. The class was allowed to chat idly until the bell rang, just as long as it didn’t get loud enough to catch the attention of any administrators.

“G’morning!” you replied.

You had just sat down when a nasally voice asked suddenly, “Did you get Callahan’s homework done on time?”

Startled, your head snapped towards the girl sitting next to you, Caitlyn. As always.

She leaned forward with her palm cradling her chin, pale and freckled face beaming with anticipation as if gossiping with a friend. The girl hardly knew you.

“Um, yeah, it…wasn’t too bad,” you replied tentatively. “You?”

“Girl, I was struggling,” she answered with a wave of her hand. The phrase came out oddly, like she was reciting lines off of a script, and it made you cringe internally. “Spent nearly the whole night on it.”

You hummed in acknowledgement and nodded. Just before you could fully turn away, though, Caitlyn jumped to another topic.

“So you and Miles are like, together, right?”

“...Yup.”

Her eyes widened in anticipation.

“So what’s he like? Outside of school, I mean.”

Grinning to yourself, you almost spilled every detail: the glasses, his dimples when he smiled–like, really smiled–and jazz music. But she didn’t need all that.

“He’s…cute. Real smart-ass, though.” you answered while fiddling with the lead in your mechanical pencil.

Caitlyn snorted, “No shit. I heard he used to give Ms. Jones hell in AP Calc once he got back from his, um…break.”

Your expression soured at that last bit.

“You got anything specific you wanna ask me?”

“Have you two…? Y’know.”

She made her eyebrows jump up and down, making it uncomfortably clear what she was implying.

“No,” you replied coarsely. “And if we did, I wouldn’t be tellin’ you.”

Caitlyn opened her mouth to respond, but was swiftly cut off by the bell.

You rose from your seat and swung your book bag over your shoulder as quickly as possible before making your escape into the hallway.

Three more periods of that to go. Lovely.

A chorus of boys whooped and hollered when Miles passed by them on the way back to his locker.

“Yo, is that my son Miles? On time?”

The voice calling out to him belonged to Jeremiah, a shorter boy with dark skin and newly-cut hair after spending the entirety of ninth grade with a short, unstyled afro. A tiny grin played on Miles’ lips. They used to hoop with some of the Brooklyn Middle kids after school, before everything happened.

It wouldn’t kill him to say ‘hi’.

“I’m always on time, y’all just early!” he called out over his shoulder, even doing the little salute his dad would always do when he dropped Miles off.

This lift in his mood would be killed swiftly by third period, when Hakim ripped out one of his airpods. Right at the bridge of one of his favorite songs, too.

“What you listenin’ to, Morales?”

Miles glared daggers into him, but the boy was never really one to take a hint.

Hakim went on, “Huh. Didn’t pin you as a seventies guy.”

He returned the earbud, ruffling dark ringlets that nearly covered his eyes. It used to be much shorter, until he grew it out in eighth grade and soon realized that girls preferred it that way.

“I’m full of surprises,” Miles muttered darkly, examining the airpod between his fingers. He made a face at it, and decided they were unfit to stick back into his ears before storing them in their case. “Sumn you need?”

Hakim opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Mr. Callahan’s booming voice:

“Hold the side conversations, please.”

“My fault, sir,” Miles replied. He didn’t need to rack up behavioral infractions at ten in the morning.

The middle-aged man paused his scribbling on the whiteboard and turned around. He stared directly at Miles like a child about to pull a prank.

“Actually, Morales, since you’re so talkative today and–well–actually here,” he pointed with the dry-erase marker in his hand, “Why don’t you help us calculate the total charge of this particle?”

…Right.

Miles had almost forgotten that, technically, he was still Callahan’s ‘star student’.

He’d never forget when the former university professor pulled him aside after a particularly difficult class and told him:

“Y’know, I’d actually have you teach this class on some days if that was allowed. Like a high school T.A., but without the salary!”

He’d forced a polite laugh, then. The man genuinely seemed to believe that he’d told a good joke.

That’s the thing about teachers who believe in you: they won’t just ignore you sitting in the back of the classroom with your airpods in.

Miles gave Callahan a pointed look as he took the marker from him and got to work. If it could even be called that.

Inventing sneakers that defied gravity in his room made this all look like basic addition. Most of it was just a series of conversions, nothing that a bit of mental math couldn’t solve. He boxed his answer then looked up for approval that he didn’t need.

“Correct as always, Morales. You may return to your seat,” Callahan raised an eyebrow, “Quietly. Not all of us are as adept as you are and do still need to focus.”

“You got it, boss.”

Miles handed the marker over before shuffling back to his seat. Feeling the classroom full of eyes burning into his clothes, he considered waking up late on purpose from now on if it meant avoiding them.

Shortly afterwards, the class transitioned into his least favorite section: partner work. Miles could usually get away with ignoring whatever poor soul had been seated next to him, but some were a little too…persistent. Asking him to solve every problem for them as if he alone could bring their grades up.

The thought reminds him of someone, and a lopsided smile spreads across his face.

“Yo, who got you smiling like that?”

He snapped out of his contemplation and turned reluctantly toward Hakim.

“Nothing,” Miles answered sharply. “Nobody.”

“It definitely ain’t nobody,” Jeremiah piped up from the seat behind him. Since when did he take this class?

“We all saw you this morning, bro, who is she?”

“Yeah, spill!”

Miles inhaled deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose before responding, “Y/N.”

“That’s your girl? Since when?”

“Since…”

Since three and a half hours ago.

“Since last week.” He nodded curtly.

“That’s a relief,” Hakim remarked. “We thought you were gonna be a hermit for the rest of your life.”

Miles snorted. “Don’t rule it out just yet, the year's not over.”

Jeremiah piped up again, “Off-topic, but have you finished this packet yet? This shit kinda blowin’ my mind right now.”

“What do you think?”

Lunch rolled around, and Miles had never rushed upstairs faster. He was not in the mood to have the counselor pick apart every word that left his mouth and drone on about his “journey with grief”.

He was fine. He just needed to be somewhere where no one was fucking watching him.

Miles wouldn’t get that, though, because you were sitting in his spot, eating half of a grilled cheese sandwich.

“Took you long enough,” you said before taking another bite. He grinned and shook his head.

“And what business you got up here?”

You set the sandwich down and tilted your head. “You think I forgot about this morning?”

Miles sat down next to you with a grunt, and crossed his legs.

“That serious, huh?”

“Very. Might keel over and die without it.”

He leaned in and planted a warm kiss on your left cheek. “We can’t have that, now, can we?”

Just before Miles could put any more distance between you, you gently placed a hand beneath his chin. It’d been a while since you’d had a good look at his face.

Faint freckles dotted across his cheeks, a tiny scar through his brow that you don’t remember being there. He squinted when the sunlight hit his face, and for a second his left eye looked like it was a duller shade of brown than the right. Almost green.

“Y/N? You–”

You pressed your lips against his before he could finish the sentence. Miles remembered to tilt his head and relaxed into the kiss as your hand moved to the nape of his neck to toy with one of his braids. He still didn’t know where to put his hands.

When you pulled away, he couldn’t look you in the eye. It made you giggle to watch his pupils dart to and fro, not knowing where to land.

Miles took a deep breath to collect himself, but the exhale came out a quiet laugh.

“Ion know if I’ll ever get used to that,” he half-whispered.

An impish smile spread across your face. “You wanna practice?”

“Whoa. Relax, ma. This is a public space.”

#earth 42 miles x reader #earth 42 miles morales x reader #miles morales x reader #miles morales x black!reader #earth 42 miles morales x black!reader #moralesanhour

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corporatefrog · 1 year

Text

꒦‧₊ ꒷ HEADCANNONS: Going on a Road Trip with Kyle, Kenny, Stan, and Butters (Separately) ✧.*

✧.* tags: college au, road trips, ✧.* Charactions: kyle broflovski, stan marsh, kenny mccormick, butters scotch a/n: I drove home to visit family this weekend and the 5 hours drive always drags. so i made up driving buddies to pass the time lol masterlist

Kyle

He definitely drives. Not because he prefers driving but because he refuses the thought of someone else being in control of the car that isn’t his mom (sheila is def a crazy driver but he’s desensitized)

He’s a good driver though. ALWAYS uses a turn signal, even if there isn’t a car behind you

“Kyle we haven’t seen anyone for 20 minutes, why are you using your blinker to change lanes”

“Well i thought i saw headlights in my rearview”

“That’s the stoplight we just passed-”

I feel like he’d love a good road trip. Airports are too stressful and driving means you can chit chat and get actual food and not hear a baby screaming for 3 hours

PODCAST LISTENER

He’s got at least 5 episodes downloaded depending on the genre you want

Like listening to commentary or informative podcasts so you guys can talk about them together

“So I downloaded a podcast about the history of Jeoprady and a few episodes of a JK Rowling audio- documentary- thing.”

“Have I told you that you are the best person ever”

“Yeah, but you could tell me again”

Kenny

LOVES ROAD TRIPS!

Blasting music! Head out the window! Going 85 on a 55 back road! Let him in the car!

Prefers to be a passenger so he can be silly without risking the car crashing

He always has to stop for snacks at the beginning so you can munch on the way (and because gas station snacks are the absolute best)

“Corn nuts?”

“Check”

“Bugles?”

“Check”

“Muddie Buddies?”

“Double check”

He’s got a mega playlist full of both of your favorite car jams that he updates regularly

Definitely a ton of Black Eyed Peas

And some tyler the creator too probably

If you’re going on a longer trip, he is OUT after 4 hours

Absolutely drooling, head turned to a weird angle that’ll give him a huge crick in the neck once he’s up, but god DAMN is a restful

He’s up in 45 minutes and ready to party some more

If you’re driving through the night, he likes to stop and pull to the side of the road so you can look at the stars

And so he can piss

Stan

Give him aux or he will cry

Whereas kenny knows the difference between car vibe music and home vibe music, stan does not

Bro definitely put every fall out boy song EVER on there

Which like, you’re not complaining.

He probably likes to switch drivers every few hours so you both can take a break and enjoy the drive.

He prefers being the passenger though, he likes staring out the window and unfocusing his eyes so everything blurs together

Probably enjoys flights a bit more honestly

“I mean, it’s like 2 hours and you’re there!”

“2 hours + 1 for getting to the airport + 2 for getting through security + 1 for waiting to board + 1 for landing”

“Yeah and??? You don’t have to drive??”

Randy probably had a shit ton of frequent flier miles for some reasons so the marshs were a flying family for sure.

Butters

Passenger princess.

Give him a blanket PLEASE

Whenever you stop for gas, he finds the BEST trinkets

“Look at this air freshener I found! It smells like honeysuckle! Can we put it in the car for the rest of the drive?”

Likes to having music playing low so it’s just in the background while you guys talk

Definitely brings mad libs

“Okay can i have an adjective”

“Uh,,, Smelly >:)”

Bro starts GIGGLING

He’d like to go on the drive just to play road trip games with you

Doesn’t know how pumping gas works

“YN!! You have to stop the gas!”

“What do you mean butters, the tank isn’t full”

“But it’ll overflow if you just let it keep going!”

“What-”

The sweetest driving buddy ever

#should i do another one for craig's gang?#i dont think ill add cartman to these types of things #just because i can never envision myself being in a car with him unless forced #south park #south park x reader #kenny mccormick #stan marsh #kyle broflovski #butters stotch #corporatefrog

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whxre-bxby · 1 year

Note

hear me out... CNC with mansk, lyle or quaritch??? or all three??? hcs plz??? take this as payment 🍕🍕🍕🍕🍕🍕🍕🍕🍕

-🍔mm chezburger

Thank you for the idea and the pizza <3

Forced Miles Quaritch Smut

x recom Y/N

WARNINGS: This is a forced CNC scenario, Smut, Angst, bad language, I’ll do HC (hurt/comfort) to not make it super brutal lmao

This is not for everyone! Don’t read it if you are sure you don’t like this.

Word count: 4799

This is my fanfiction and my fantasy and it’s kinda fucked up but I’m into it.

Click here for Masterlist

Authors Note: I was going to do Mansk/Quaritch/Lyle again but for this scenario, it definitely doesn’t fit all the characters.

I’m leaving Lyle out of this one because this is not like him at all. He would never do this because he is a softie, no matter how angry or worked up he is.

I hesitated with Mansk because he would never dare to do this to a human or recom y/n. However, he has beef with real Na’vi. If he’s having a bad day or a mission went really sideways, he would probably have no mercy on Y/N if she’s Na’vi too. Literally would take out his anger on her. (giving racist white American vibes so he would despise Na’vi in certain scenarios) (100% degrading Y/N)

Quaritch might do this to human or Na’vi Y/N if they are really pissing him off or he’s in a really really bad mood. Recom him is morally better off than human him, but his character still stays.

For example, after Spider rejected his offer to come with him and Quaritch left on his Ikran, he would be fuming for the next few days. If he were to come across a real female Na’vi, the man will take out all his anger on Y/N with no hesitation.

Human or recom Y/N would have to be purposefully messing up his missions or doing everything he hates, then the man would lose it.

(In general, I don’t think any of their characters would actually ever do this, this is just fanfiction displaying an extreme situation)

Finee I’ll add fluff to the end

The missions we’ve been on have been going to shit lately. I saw that it was agitating the Colonel. Nothing was going as planned. Each time we went out there we were attacked and outnumbered; someone always ended up injured or almost killed.

That didn’t stop me from showing my disagreement and dissatisfaction. He was the Colonel for a reason after all, wasn’t he? He’s responsible for these missions and for his soldiers. I don’t understand how he can be failing his job so badly.

Seeing the state of my other fellow soldiers just fueled my anger. Lyle had an injured shoulder and couldn’t move his arm. Ja had his leg wrapped in bandages. The team was suffering and basically useless in this state, yet he kept sending us out there.

I noticed he would start catching my glares and I could see that he hated them.

He hated that it wasn’t working out for him but he hated that you weren’t staying loyal to him. As a marine, you should listen to him because he was your superior. Picking up on your bad attitude had him enraged. The fact that he felt some type of sexual attraction to you since he laid eyes on your recom self made him more hateful. He resented you because of the way you behaved to him now. Before, he thought of you as his top soldier.

Perhaps you had forgotten your place and were in need of a reminder.

Every time now, when he would give orders you would doubt them or mumble some rude comment. Once you even snapped at him when he called you out for your behaviour.

Miles was suffering himself. He was unable to take care of his everyday increasing arousal. This was discovered when he realised masturbation didn’t do it for the Na’vi body. So he tried to suppress it, thinking it would go away but it just started building up and was now on the verge of collapsing down on him. He felt that he couldn’t go on like this much longer.

First, he lost Spider. That had him upset. Then, his mission started going sideways. But on top of all that, the main thing having him this riled up, was you.

Little did he know, I was dealing with my own problems. The more team members were injured, the more work I was assigned to do. At the base and during a mission, I would have to cover more ground than usual to keep things running and it was overwhelming.

On top of that, my body had started acting up and like Quaritch’s, I quickly found out that trying to solve the problem alone did not help. In fact, it probably made my needs worse.

Another thing neither Quaritch nor Y/N directly knew, was that their scents grew stronger. Luckily, Y/N was not required to work with that many other recom’s because they were mostly injured, but she had to see the Colonel on a daily basis. And every time she entered the room, her scent filled his sense and worsened his critical state. The same thing happened to her, but the female scent had more power than the male musk.

Miles’ tail would hint at his feelings, flicking around excitedly without him noticing. He was too entranced by you. But you just understood his body language as him being irritated again. What you didn’t see was the way his pupils would dilate when he smelled you. It awakened something primal in him and he couldn’t be around you for too long otherwise he might lose control over himself.

Seeing him in all his sculpted glory made things more difficult for you too, but you could still think clearly.

It was late in the evening. The clock just passed 10 pm and I had tended to Lyle. He had his weird little requests like wanting to eat something specific but he couldn’t get it with his injury or he would insist on working out so I had to assist him while lifting weights.

I was walking to my room which was down the hall and to the right. Opposite me, on the other end of the hall, Quaritch appeared and was heading to his own room that I had just passed. I refused to acknowledge his existence, keeping my head down and fiddling with my bracelet.

Quaritch spotted me the second I spotted him and he cursed himself for bumping into you now. He had just isolated himself in a room for the past hour to get his senses under control. Once he had calmed down, he left to go get some sleep, but apparently, the universe wouldn’t let him because he had to walk past you. And he was in a critical state, which he managed to hide with his confident walk and long strides.

He wondered whether you would greet him and watched you intently as he neared.

Once he reached you and you both walked past each other, your scent hit him again. It was so sweet to him now, even more so than before and it made his body tense. The fact that you were wearing only a sports bra and shorts from your workout with Lyle didn’t help him at all. You did in fact not greet him and he had enough of your bratty behaviour.

I made sure to avoid eye contact and was about to let out a small sigh of relief after passing him but suddenly I felt something tug me back by my braid.

I gasped, wanting to scream when a hand wrapped itself around my hair but another hand was firmly clasped over my mouth. My body was pulled back against what I assumed was Quaritch’s chest and he held me in a firm lock while I struggled against him. With my eyes blown wide, I gripped his arm, trying to release myself from him. Eventually, my wriggling calmed down and he walked back to which I could only stumble with him.

The light of the hallway faded out as I realised I was being dragged into a room. It also just happened to be Miles’ room. I could tell by the coat on the doorknob and the smell.

He turned me away from the door and I heard him lock it behind him before he released me. I stumbled forward and gasped for air, turning around and facing him. The light was off and we could only see each other through the specs of light on our skin. I never properly saw his patterns before. They always showed one’s strong facial features.

He stood still and I noticed that he seemed taller than ever. I gulped, immediately feeling intimidated and trapped by him. I was too tired to argue with him or fight him.

My fear reached the same level of presence as my arousal and I wrapped my tail around my leg for comfort while I hugged my waist with my arms, taking a step back from him. I heard him growl and then he leaned down and turned on a desk lamp, which lit most of the room up.

His eyes met mine before they started to shamelessly roam my body. I turned away, trying to hide myself with my arms.

I didn’t think I would meet anyone on my way to my room.

Miles seemed to hate how I hid from him and with a few swift steps, he was around me again.

His hand wrapped around my neck, making me look up at him. I gasped again, my ears straining back, showing my fear and anger.

“You’re gonna pay for your attitude.” he snarled, his own ears tilting back showing his emotions. My heart was racing and I felt his pulse on his palm as well. He was just as aroused as me and it made me hate and resent him more. Him thinking he could solve this through whatever this was made me angry and I scratched his arm.

Miles pulled away, seeming taken aback by my reaction and I hissed at him, trying to desperately create some distance between us.

This riles him up to his limit. His hand grasps my wrist, pulling me back to him so quickly I don’t have time to move it out of the way. He turns me around, pinning both my arms behind my back before pushing me onto the bed. I fall face-first into the mattress and he scoops me up and arranges my position so that I’m not hanging off the edge anymore.

I cry out and struggle but he just scoffs.

“No one’s gonna hear ya, sweetheart, it's just you and me.”

“You asshole.” I swear at him, trying to kick him off.

“Watch it, or else I really won’t hold back.” he warns me, harshly squeezing my wrists to emphasize his point.

“Your mine to deal with.“ he snarls close to my ear before his hand is running down my back, feeling my hot skin. He stops at my shorts and when I feel his fingers linger at the waistband and tug at it I protest.

He wasn’t allowed to find out I was in heat. That would be the end of me.

But I was helpless and could only wait for time to pass while I felt his hands almost rip my shorts down my legs.

Quaritch audibly groaned seeing me in my very revealing underwear and delivered a stinging slap to my ass. I yelped out in pain and when the second one came, I buried my face into the sheets to try and cope with it.

He then pulled my panties off and I heard him sigh.

“Fuck- look at you. So ready for me.” he mumbles, his hostile tone slipping up.

My cheeks heat up and I feel how not only the rest of my clothes are stripped from me, but my pride with them. I let out a muffled sob which Quaritch instantly picks up on.

But he couldn’t care less right now. Seeing the state you were in and feeling the need in his body flood his senses, he could only act on his instincts.

“It’s not… for you.” I manage to say, struggling to breathe properly.

He cocks an eyebrow and my snarky remark and I hear a breathy chuckle.

“Really?” he asks, sarcastically. “This here, isn’t f’ere me?” His hands trace down the skin of my inner thighs and rubs over it with his thumb, nearing my heat. Immediately, goosebumps erupt on my skin and I shiver in anticipation. Next, another slap is delivered to my ass which has a red mark on it.

“Quit lyin’. You’re mine.” Quaritch snarls.

His hand grips my jaw, forcing it open and stuffing it with my panties. I comply, knowing I can’t fight him and he taps my cheek in praise before focusing on what he was doing before.

My hips were pulled off the bed while my upper body stayed pressed into the mattress by his firm grip, holding my arms behind my back and pushing me down. I tried maintaining stability so that I wouldn’t fall over and spread my knees apart a little. What a mistake that was.

My scent was stronger than ever now and my bare pussy was on full display. His free hand rested on my ass, while he just stared. My tail was throwing a tantrum of its own, flicking around and showing my impatience, so he didn’t even have to move it out of the way.

His hand then drifted down slowly and I tensed up when I felt his fingertips run through my folds. I bit my lip and clenched my eyes closed, trying to resist the feeling of pleasure.

Quaritch noticed me tense up and grinned.

“Bitch in heat.” he chuckles. “Looks like I’m not the only one suffering.”

Suddenly I feel him push a finger all the way into me and my eyes shoot open and I whine out, involuntarily arching my back.

No matter how hard I try to suppress my desires, Quaritch knows how badly I need him. He’s seen my state and it reflects his, except that he has control over this situation.

“No need to hide it, baby,” he growls, moving down to whisper it seductively in my ear. “your body’s betraying you.”

And with that, he starts to move his finger in and out of me before adding a second.

I bite my lip to the point where my fangs are threatening to penetrate my skin. He was right, I knew he was. I also knew I couldn’t hide it any longer or keep up my streak of fighting and arguing with him. So I gave in.

My hips pressed up against his fingers and the second that happened, his ears perked up and his eyes shot to my face. He saw my flushed cheeks, glossy half-lidded eyes and needy expression and that was all the confirmation of submission he needed.

“That’s it, be good f’ere me.”

I let out a small sob because the heat in my groin was becoming unbearable and while his fingers felt so fucking good, they made me crave more and thereby made my desires go through the roof.

Miles was also becoming more desperate for any type of relief. His dick was straining his pants and he was painfully hard because he hasn’t been tending to his needs in the slightest for weeks.

Quaritch removed his fingers from my dripping pussy, licking them clean in two strokes of his tongue and humming at the taste. It made him feral and he was sure that if anyone were to walk in on you, he would be unfazed because he was so lust-driven and you were lust-drunk. He would also definitely fight anyone who would try and take you away from him. The Colonel needed to claim you as his. No matter whether it influenced your relationship as colleagues, at this moment in time, neither of you could think straight. All professionalism was long gone.

He continued to hold your wrists behind your back while one of his hands was hastily trying to open his belt and free his aching cock from its restraints.

The shuffling made me keep still and listen, my ears no longer pulled back. My tail slowed its movements and eventually stilled in anticipation.

Miles groaned once he had finally managed to push his pants down but it didn’t stop there. His skin felt as hot as yours and all his clothes suddenly felt like an obstacle in his way to claim you. They seemed to restrict his movements so everything had to go.

He let my wrists go for a split second, swiftly pulling his tank top over his head after discarding his cammies.

His hands are back on my body in an instant and my wrists are released. I look up at him but then I feel him tug my sports bra over my head.

I sigh at the feeling and he bites down on his lip, letting his hands roam over every bit of exposed skin, making me moan lightly. The noise makes his ears twitch and he focuses on our needs once again. My arms are pulled back behind my back once again and the mattress dips as Quaritch positions himself behind me.

Quaritch notices one of his fingers twitching from how needy he feels and it surprises him because this is unlike his character. Then again, his body also happens to be unlike him.

He adjusts his weight evenly on both knees behind you and places his free hand on your hip while the other isn’t giving you any indication of letting your wrists go.

Suddenly, my hips are pulled back and my ass is gently pressed against the Colonel’s lower abdomen. I can feel his throbbing dick against my skin and I gasp while he just lets his ears relax a little and sighs. Finally, you both can solve your torturing feelings.

He grinds himself against your hot, wet skin and groans.

Feeling him rubbing up against me makes my eyes flutter closed again.

Suddenly, his hand lets go of my hip and I feel my braid get picked up from my shoulder. I try to turn my head and follow his movements but he pulls it behind me, so I can only rely on my other senses to figure out what he was doing. I had a feeling I knew what was about to happen. But if he would bond us, it would be permanent and that didn’t seem like such a good idea if I still have to work with him in the future. I struggle again, whimpering out protests and warning ‘no’s’ but Miles wasn’t listening. His full attention was focused on our queues. He pushed my back down and pinned my hips down with his body weight, before his other hand reach for his own queue. He brought it forward and pinched the base of mine which made my eyes go wide. He watched the tsaheylu for a few seconds before pinching his own queue. Eyes wide, he brought them together and watched how the strands reached out for one another, before binding and becoming one. The bond shot through both our bodies, reaching every nerve at every spot on the body. Suddenly, I felt all of Miles and I knew he felt all of me. It was something completely humanly indescribable. It just felt right to Miles. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself and relish in the new feeling.

Without further ado, he pulls away and thrusts his hips forward. He didn’t even line himself up with my pussy, this man was so hard it just worked straight away. He didn’t manage to push all the way in the first time though.

I moan, arching my back into him again and he closes his eyes. It hurt a little, but I tried to ignore it.

“Fuck- so tight.” Miles groans, his hands gripping onto me to keep him grounded in reality. He picked up on my tension and pain, but nothing was going to stop him now. He felt it too, but his body's needs were stronger.

His hips retreated before thrusting forward once more, eliciting a slight squelching sound from the swift movement. I whine, feeling how much he is stretching me. I’d never felt anything like this and I needed a few minutes to get used to it.

A few minutes were way too long for Quaritch. The man was flooded with pure primal instincts and no common sense anymore. As I said, Quaritch was lust-driven. His ears were strained back, his body muscles flexed, his tail either flicking around or stretched, and his fangs slightly bared. Occasional growls were heard from him that I haven’t heard before but they made him that much more attractive.

He started to find a steady pace and kept on forcing himself deeper into me. My ears were tipped back too, my tail caressing his torso.

The pain was starting to fade and both of us could sense that. Which is why Quaritch let his thrusts get rougher and soon his hips were relentlessly drilling his cock deep into me. I felt him in my lower stomach but I couldn’t look or feel for it. He held me in place, not letting me move a limb.

“Goddamn, sweet’eart…” he mumbled, losing himself inside you. “Ya feel so fuckin’ good.”

I cry out when his tip hits what I think is my cervix and realise he is balls deep inside me.

Suddenly, he stops and pulls out. Within seconds I’m laying on my back and he pulls my legs apart, blocking them from closing with his hips. Then before I can think a single thought, he’s back deep inside me. I throw my head back and grab the sheets next to me with one hand while the other holds onto my braid which is flung over my shoulder.

“Oh my god-” I mutter out, unable to keep still.

Quaritch leans down closer to me, resting his elbows and forearms on either side of my shoulders. His rutting against me doesn’t falter for even a second.

He reaches out and wraps his right hand around my throat again. I look up at him through half-lidded fucked out eyes and he swears under his breath.

Just seeing you look at him like that could make him spill himself into you already now. But he wanted to feel this pleasure for as long as possible with you.

Our breaths mix and our eyes lock.

“You goin’ to quit being a brat now?” he asks, his cocky side still very much present.

“Miles- I’m so close…” I whine, having to close my eyes and break eye contact. His hand releases my neck and he slaps my face. Not harshly, but just enough to get my attention and have tears stinging in the corners of my eyes. He raises his eyebrow and I realise my mistake.

“Sorry, sir.” I breathily answer but he doesn’t react.

“Answer.” Quaritch demands. I frantically nod.

“Yes, sir. I’ll stop.” I reply in a more desperate tone than I would have wished. He seems to like that, a grin forming on his face but his teeth are still clenched together and his jaw is tensed.

“Good girl.” he coos, rubbing his hand over the cheek he slapped before returning it to my throat. The praise and pet name have me clenching around him and he curses again.

“Fuckin’ hell. You like that, huh? Little slut.” he snarls, still grinning and I moan. Everything was becoming too much.

“Please- I’m gonna-” I say, unable to form words because of how harshly his hips were slapping mine and how deeply he was drilling into me. Yet somehow, it felt amazingly good.

“Only if you scream my name, baby.” he grins, leaning down to my ear to say that. “Let everyone know who’s fuckin’ ya this good.”

I moan again just from his words. “You- so good.” I mumble in bliss.

He squeezes my neck, unsatisfied with my noise level.

“You, Colonel Miles fucking- nghh, Quaritch!” I scream, throwing my head back and he chuckles.

“Who’s fuckin’ pussy is this?” he asks, clearly demanding an answer and I just spill the first words that come to mind.

“Yours, sir!” I cry out and he grins even more.

“You’re goddamn right.” He says, somehow managing to pick up his pace again. I arch my back off the bed, my hands holding onto his shoulders and my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him even further into me.

This turns Quaritch on to the point he knows, he can’t hold it much longer.

He takes one look at my teary eyes and he can feel how close I am.

“Please, sir I’m so close…” I mumble. “Can I cum?”

Quaritch is not just pleased but almost proud that you asked. To him it meant you learned your lesson and he trained you properly. How could he say no?

“Whenever you’re ready, baby.” he mumbled, lowering his head and resting it in the crook of your neck, while his hips continued to rock you back and forth.

With his permission, you finally came undone, repeatedly crying out his name which he loved. All the pressure you have felt for the past week or two was finally being resolved and you felt your orgasm rip through you, making your entire body quiver and shake.

You squeezed around Quaritch and he cursed under his breath again before thrusting into you one last time as deeply and hardly as he could. He stilled his hips and his muscles flexed once again as he released himself deep inside you, stuffing your pussy full of his cum. His fangs slightly bit down on the skin of your neck as he felt his own wave of pleasure hit and drown him for a few great seconds.

I had come down from my high and cradled his head with one hand, while he regained his breath. Our chests were heaving and the room was quieter now. I traced down his neck, fumbling around with his dog tag. I felt him smile against my skin before he lifted himself off of me and just stared down at me.

I wondered whether he felt regret because he wasn’t showing any emotions right now. Maybe the reality of the situation just hit him now and he could be disgusted that he was in a bed with me. But then his gaze softened, in a way I’ve never seen. I didn’t feel like I had the Colonel infront of me, but just Miles if that makes sense. He didn’t seem as intimidating all of a sudden and I just watched him wide eyed.

He pulled out and I closed my legs, still unsure of how he felt. He seemed to be trying to read my own emotions which made me feel very observed and I tried retreating in myself, hugging my body with my arms, trying to perhaps cover anything even though he’s seen it.

“I’m sorry, Y/N…” he whispers, seeming almost sad.

Miles was disappointed in himself. He knew he had crossed a line and he wasn’t sure whether you even wanted that. You were his soldier after all and his responsibility. It wasn’t fair that he would ever even put you in a position like that, but he did. And he felt guilty, seeing how beautifully you looked up at him, even after all he had done. As if you were awaiting further instructions.

What he hated was that he took advantage of your loyalty and obedience.

My ears perk up at his words and I tilt my head to the side. It genuinely took me a few good long seconds to figure out what he meant. He saw my confusion.

“I shouldn’t have done that.” he says and I feel my heart drop.

“Oh…” I whisper, looking down at myself. He did regret it.

Now Miles had his head tilted, wondering why I reacted like that. Then, it made sense to him.

“No, Y/N I mean I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that.” he says and I look up at him again, my tail hugging my knees.

“But I feel better now.” I say, trying to help him understand that he did infact help me with my body crisis. His ears perk forwards.

“Do you regret it…?” I ask him. He thinks about his answer.

“Only if I hurt you.”

“You didn’t…”

“Then I don’t.”

I smile up at him and his posture relaxes a little in relief.

“I wanted it as much as you did.” I force myself to say, putting my already gone pride to the side. My cheeks form a blush again and he takes it to heart.

He nods, smiling to himself and we both just sit on the bed, staring at each other.

“Would you like me to leave?” Quaritch asks, ready to give you space even if he preferred not to. He wanted you to feel safe, even if it wasn’t with him around. Then again, he asked because he would feel just as bad if he were to leave you alone after using you to his liking.

Even though it was his room, he felt as though he had intruded in your space.

“Can you stay?” I ask him, knotting my fingers together and letting my tail swish down on the mattress. His eyes light up and he smiles.

Quaritch then leans over and turns the light off but his room still isn’t fully dark. He lays down next to me, pulling his blanket over us, tucking me in a bit before covering himself. I smile at his actions.

This was a new side to him and I liked it a lot.

The bond we formed was permanent and it had created a new sense of closeness between us. I felt safer with him now. Our queue’s had already disconnected but his energy was much more present to me now. We both knew we were connected together in some way for the rest of our lives now. It was deeper and more meaningful than our jobs, so we ignored that side and just focused on each other. He pulled my body against his and rested his arm on my waist, cradling me to him.

Before falling asleep, Quaritch placed a soft kiss on my cheek and I wanted to throw myself on him and cuddle. Luckily, my self-control was back, so instead, I hugged his arm and we fell asleep.

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