appetite | Alpha!Simon Riley
it's been decades since Alpha!Ghost had a rut. something that's probably for the best, really. his want is as hideous as he is. as ugly as his goddamn mug. it's best kept tucked away, secured under lock and key.
but then he finds you. and you're all alone. unclaimed, on the verge of heat. poor thing. it triggers a voracious rut. decades worth of want spilling out over you. you're it, he knows. feels the certainty in that statement simmering in his hindbrain, in his essence. he'll have you—now, forever. non-negotiable. where you go, he will follow.
but you run from him. stupid girl. didn't anyone teach you not to run from a starving wolf?
dubcon. size kink. size difference. a/b/o dynamics: knotting, rut. breeding kink. spit kink. implied virgin!reader. obsessive behaviour. possessive!Ghost. semi-public sex. reluctant reader bullied into submission lmao. forced bonds. implied kidnapping. basically, you're hunted down and fucked by Alpha!Simon who growls in your ear about how he's waited his whole life for you. and lucky him. he finally found you
AO3
It's been years, decades, since he had a rut.
(Broken Alpha. Ruined.)
Trauma, they tell him, will do that. Sever the drive in the back of his head, the one that rears—vicious and angry—each mating season, bringing with it the urge to breed. To claim. Own.
A form of self-preservation. It pitches a plexiglass of protection between him and his instincts, not letting them merge. Join. Done so because to be in rut, to want, to need, is vulnerability. It costs hypervigilance. Turns man into beast. Animal.
This bodily reaction makes an alpha extend themselves, like an overarching limb, to shield the omega they pick as a mate. Bearing their own neck to save another.
Naturally, they say, if he couldn't help himself, how could he ever hope to protect a fragile little omega?
They tell him it could be as permanent or temporary as he allows. Healing, they say. Time. Laughable, really. And utter nonsense because Ghost is fine.
Trauma tampered. Revenge sought, found. There's no one out there who could ever harm him, and still—
His last rut was before the mission that buried him alive. That turned him into the living dead. A mockery of man. Frankensteinian beast.
It's not something he cares much for, anyway. From what he remembers of his youth—vague snippets of memories, disjointed, blurred sensation; a profound need, an urge, to sink his cock into something, to plug them up, to bite—ruts have always been a nuisance. In the way. An annoyance that took time away from what he'd rather be doing.
And as Johnny enters his—skin pallid, waxy; cheeks flushed, eyes darkening like a brewing storm on the horizon; snapping at anything that breathes, whining like a dog, miserable and hot, all the time (ahm’a bleedin’ furnace, s’what ah’m)—he finds he doesn't care very much to go reclaim what he lost.
No skin off his nose. Nothing to concern himself with.
Besides. Omegas know better.
Even before he lost himself, dying, rotting in a tumulus, pretty little omegas with their soft hands and bashful smiles always went out of their way to avoid him. Miserable alpha. His scent alone wards them off—burnt leather, charred bones; sarcophagus dust, dirt—and he found himself alone during his burgeoning ruts more often than not.
No pretty little thing to tender the sweat on his brow, or bend over and present for him—offering up a sweet little cunt he got to bury himself inside, tie up nice and tight on his knot.
It was usually his hand. A bottle of bourbon. A printed porn stash he swiped from Tommy, who nicked it off their old man—
And when he did find a partner, it was always transactional. Hand to hand, an exchange of money. All clinical and detached. Empty. Fucking into a concept instead of a person; a vacuum eating away at his soul because he knew, then, that they wanted to be there almost as much as he did.
But what choice did either have when their home was the rotted gullet of a dying beast?
(Simon told them to stay away from shitty men like him, who broke bones in the throes of his heat, snapped his jowls at anything that got too close, and had to be chained to the bed like an animal during it—)
Nothing to miss. Nothing to mourn.
And it's not like he doesn't get the urge. Wanting to sink his cock into something warm, wet, is as recurring as a sweet tooth. A prickle in the back of his head after he devours his dinner that says, dessert might be nice.
He can fuck, but his knot never pops. A worry the doctors had—unsure what the consequences would be in the long run for such a virile, young Alpha already experiencing nature's version of erectile dysfunction so early in life.
(“pity the poor omega who has to deal with that rut,” they whispered. “might not be much of anything left of them when he's through.”)
Inconsequential now because he's pushing forty and his last rut was a false trigger. One dragged out of him by drugs and torture. The last true rut, natural and instinctual, was when he was eighteen.
It's doubtful he'd suddenly be cured at his age.
This is what he tells Johnny when he asks, pries. Broken fuck, ain't he? Unmated. Can't knot. Piss poor excuse of an Alpha. Doesn't he think it's—
“a shame,” Johnny grouses, words muffled slightly by the way he's hunched over the cheap plastic table in the canteen. His fingers dig harshly into his temple. “Alpha like you—” it's enunciated in clipped Queen's English, the barb makes Ghost scoff. “—ack! a waste. ma mam would be livid. no grandbabies t’show off? sacrilegious.”
—funny. If he's being honest. Laughable:
because for as long as Ghost can remember, he's always had a predilection to ruin his favourite toys. slaking his unquenchable lust on their tender skin, biting down to the bone, sipping on their marrow—
not really the sort of thing omegas today go for, is it?
his want is as hideous as he is. as ugly as his goddamn mug—
Instead, he shrugs. “hardly.”
“yer no’ missin’ it?”
“missin’ what, Johnny?”
“knottin’, ye surly prick.” He jeers, then, jabs his elbow into Simon's arm. “a bonnie omega to stick yer prick in. ain't missin’ th’, no?”
“no,” Simon gripes. The last thing Price needs is another order of protection against his Lieutenant. But to humour the alpha in an early stage of rut, he jabs out, hollow and full of wretched derision. “i can barely remember what it felt like. must be heaven, though. is that your plans for tonight, Johnny? gonna go and knot some sorry omega?”
It's meant to prod, poke. Sharp barbs aimed at Johnny's threadbare control, the same one held in place by a fraying, unspooling knot. Alphas in the early stage of rut are considered safe enough to be around. Not yet mindless drones, hosts to an ugly little parasite; a being forced to obey a single, instinctual drive to mate, to gorge themselves into a post-rut stupor.
Safe. Or so they say.
But Ghost knows what Johnny's feeling in the same sense as a phantom limb. A broken, fragmented memory. So, he twists his mockery in deep. All in jest, of course.
And Johnny pales suddenly. Wavers in his seat. The affirmative comes after a bout of contemplative silence. A jagged, choked yeah slips from his Sergeant’s mouth as he drops his head to the table, and groans. Miserable.
“go fuck yerself, Lt.”
Simon intends on taking Johnny up on that offer, lazying out on the futon with his hand stroking lazily along his flaccid cock, thumbing through the latest series of snapshots Johnny—ever the photographer—snapped up during his previous rut. Images of pretty omegas dressed up in fine silk, blood-red lingerie, and coy little grins on their faces, a vixen pastiche of demureness. Jejune appeal in all its coquettishness.
Innocent sluts—Johnny's preferred type. Ones who'll bat their eyes at him, nervous and full of faux modesty, while they rock back and forth on his face, tugging on his mohawk to make him lick their cunts just the way they like. Sweet, like candy. Dressed in sin.
He likes to take before and after photos of them—often with the pretty models unaware (adds to it, aye, Lt?). Ones with them batting their eyes at him, soft and shy in all their twee delight, and then fucked out, ruined and chewed up like a broken toy when he finishes with them. Bitten off more than they can swallow. Cheeky brats sobbing for mercy on his bed.
Likes, even more, to send them to Ghost. A little tease. One he has no compunction about partaking in. Enjoying to his heart's content.
Or—
Intended to, of course. Because what ends up happening is this:
Price calls just as he's getting into the new series sent to his phone—the tear streaks streaming down this omega’s face are particularly appealing, bound in intricate Celtic knots (Johnny, the artist), and gagged with their own panties—and tells him he has a job for him.
Something simple. Discreet. And local, too. Bears have been sighted in town—a mama and her cubs. Dangerously close.
The prelude to the phone call is a clipped take care’a it before the line goes dead.
Ghost doesn't need to pack much—he can't remember the last time he unpacked his duffle bag, anyway—and stays in the recliner until the mission file comes in, idly stroking his thumb across the pixelated, tear-streaked face of the omega in Johnny's clutch. Moussed. Messy. They make the prettiest picture, don't they? Drool dripping down their chin, a spillover from what the lacy, white panties couldn't catch.
Flesh peppered with jagged circles, bite marks. Johnny knows better than to claim them, and their neck is bereft of his teeth. Smooth. Unblemished.
To claim is to bond. To bond—
Well.
His earliest recollection of a relationship is his parents’. His mum, tied and trapped to a man she wanted no part of, but stuck. Unbondings, divorce, were rare during that time. Unheard of. Even now.
And under his old man's influence, he's always seen claiming as ownership. As possession. A lingering remnant he’s told is wrong, but can't shake. Can't change. It glues in the fibrils of his mind. A rotten, pulsing scab that no amount of sanctioned reconditioning can ever seem to get rid of, to scrape out of his skull.
(one he knows would be there no matter what because his sole purpose is exsanguination; bloodletting—
in his warped desire to protect the things he cares about, he ends up smothering them in the end. a child holding a firefly too tight in its chubby fist.)
But Johnny knows better. Good Catholic boy. Knows to keep a muzzle on himself when he sucks desperate kisses into the small omegas' sweet neck, breaking apart the blood vessels of their scent glands, soaking himself in their musk—potent pheromones of a needy omega in heat. Aching for a bite. To be held down and conquered.
It's wrong, they say. This ugly mass sits inside his chest like a foreign body. Scandalised eyes drilling into the side of his head like he's a monster for thinking this way.
And he is.
(always has been)
But he knows better. Knows to keep those uglier, rotten parts of himself hidden away from prying eyes. Got good at it, too. Enough that they let him into the brothels time and time again.
Still—
He can remember the closest he'd come during a rut to biting a shrill omega who screamed in his ear until his head rang, ached. Nearly did it, too. Teeth razoring over their jugular, pinching delicate skin.
Clarity came like a gunshot when he tasted blood. Chiselled a hole through his delirium, broke up the haze, and snapped his jaws up tight, locking them as he finished with a muffled growl, tongue swirling over his teeth for another taste. Another drop.
His ruts have always been messy. Bloody. Got him banned from several centres, brothels, where they offered up betas drenched in the artificial musk of an omega in estrus. Ones resilient enough to withstand the harsh coupling of an unhinged Alpha in need.
He had a problem, they said, with treating their workers like chew toys. Biting to break skin, drilling in deep enough to scratch his teeth on their bones.
Deranged, they hissed. Fuckin’ mental, mate. Stay the hell away!
Some are just prone to violence. Need to be half-sedated before they can mate without ripping their partner to pieces. Ghost has always been that sort. Aggressive. Hard to control. Rabid.
His appetite is bigger than the expanse of their skin. He sometimes thinks he could eat the whole world and still starve.
He hums, thumb sliding to cover the omega's neck. Trapped in his hand, his clutch. They're cute when they're ruined like this. Begging. Whimpering.
His cock gives a half-hearted twitch. His work phone chimes, signaling the end of his leisure.
shame, he thinks, squeezing his hand until the metal dents, the screen cracks, splinters. Pops. Hairline fractures split across their distorted, tear-stained face. He closes his fist over it until it breaks. Goes black.
really. such a goddamn shame.
Some things are just not meant to be—
—but they have a habit of falling into his maw, anyway.
It's a simple set up.
Man—
beast, monster, thing
—with his empty, growling stomach and teeth made to bite, tear, goes out hunting for a meal. In that search, he finds you.
You, Persephone personified: damned (eternal), standing beneath a spruce tree. Limned, halo gold, in the waning sunset's bashful kisses, you lean on the rough bark, idling your timelessness away.
Postcard beauty. Pinup demure. Alluring.
(creature of sin
and oh,
do you reek:
The air is saturated in the tantalising scent of honeybush, roasted hazelnuts, and clove. Saccharine—almost nauseatingly so—but with a hint of spice, black cardamom, cinnamon. He drags in lungful after lungful until it tangles deep within his chest, nearly suffocating. Smothered in this earthy sweetness. Drowning. Drowning—
the perfect dessert)
It unleashes something in him. Chips at the lock buried deep in his mind, cudgelling through the hinges until they pop. Rusted, slick with oxidising oil. It peels back from the gate, unveiling this gaping, ravenous chasm, polluted and gangrenous, rotten down to the marrow. Noisome. Noxious. This frothing pit sloshes, geyser-like, and greedily foams at the maw, the mouth, aching for a taste. Something to quench this gnawing hunger.
This bottomless abyss hadn't seen light since he was eighteen, and—
The hollow space where his rib once sat throbs, aches. phantom bone. He holds his chest with his hand, feeling for the gap, the chasm, stolen from him. Ripped away, taken.
By you. you—
—so,
it's only fair that he steals something back.
(quid pro quo, or something, right?)
You greet him with a small nod when he wanders close, eyeing him warily under the black rim of your ballcap. Tense. Small hands curl into fists, partially hidden under the rain-soaked windbreaker nearly two sizes too big. It smells like you—honeyed milk, molasses; lilac, lavender and warm bread—and he fights the urge to pull his mask down, to shove his misshapen nose into your neck, and breathe it in right from the source. Drinking, feasting, on it.
This want is visceral. It coils in his guts, bubbling in his veins. His musk—heavier than yours, pungent—beads along his scent glands, mushrooming into the air like a fine mist.
Your nostrils flare. He takes a step closer, eyes skewering into you, taking in everything you have to offer. The rucksack left at the bottom of the tree, stained with dirt and leaves. A sprig of Saskatoon berries peeks out from the lopsided flap. And—
Ah.
Foraging is off-limits in this area unless granted a permit. One you don't seem to have based on the skittish way you keep avoiding his eye.
His scent thickens, tainted sour with faux suspicion, and you wince, ducking your chin, tucking it close to your chest, hiding from his spearing gaze.
All it does is give him a voyeuristic view of your fragile nape, your vulnerable neck.
His teeth ache. Jaw clenched up tight.
It looks so bare. So naked.
(Be a shame to keep it that way forever, wouldn't it?)
“Hi,” you stammer, seemingly oblivious to the musk you leak into the air, into his lungs. Forcing some sense of staid indifference into your tone. Like being here, out in the middle of the forest is normal. “Did you need something?”
On the verge of a heat like this, wobbling where you stand—
He wants to chew you up. Spit out the pieces on the pavement. Drink from the gash he'll rip into your jugular,
quench this unbearable thirst.
He doesn't know how you made it out here as long as you have, smelling like you do, and the thought burrows through the haze spuming, clotting, on the fringes of his muted periphery. Anger is an icy deluge of white water raging through his veins.
Under the mask, the remnants of his scarred lip curls. His hands close into tight fists. Balled up. He feels the tension crackling along his muscles, his body. Coiled spring. Ready to leap—
But:
There's clarity. Focus. Where he was meant to become a mindless monster, driven by instinct, he instead feels the pieces of himself snap back into place. Missing puzzle pieces. It shifts. Settles. Locks.
He wants you. Will have you. It's non-negotiable. Ironclad. You just—
Belong to him, don't you? Pretty little thief. And wandering around like this, reeking like you do, you must want him, too. Need him.
(protect, protect, protect—)
Honed in, drilling into your face to catch every expression that flickers past, he sees the moment you take a sniff, when realisation blooms in the inkpools of your gaze that you are less than an arm's length away from a starving predator. Supple, soft. All plush flesh seated seamlessly against brittle bone. Fragile.
“hi,” he echoes, and it sounds hollow. Garbled. Like he's speaking underwater. Thinks, for a moment, that he's buried again. Drowning under the crushing weight of dirt. His own tumulus. Suffocating. Choking on dirt—
But you twitch. Feral little thing. It breaks him out of this nightmarish obtundation; shaking the cobwebs loose. He tracks it like a viper. Attention narrowing, shrinking, into nothing but the way you move. Smell. You anchor him in his place, keeping him stable amid this horrific onslaught of emotions that rip talons down his chest.
“I–” you breathe in again, lashes fluttering. Strains of silk batting over your etiolated cheeks. You breathe him in. Deep. He sees your chest grow, expanding with his air. His musk. Has to bite down on a growl before it forms, the lash of a whip in his throat. Aching.
There's something spellbinding about you—caked in a layer of grime, briny sweat clogging your natural scent; wild and untamed. Uncharted wilderness, untouched by man and their dirty hands. A corrie after a rain shower. Snow melt. He wants to bathe in it. Carry it with him wherever he goes.
As if scenting this thickening desire, your eyes widen. You take a step back, swallowing audibly when he follows. Marionette on strings. Your shadow.
“I should go—”
And he knows he can't let you do that.
Won't.
He hums, a fickle, brittle thing in the far reaches of his chest.
“Go?” he flicks his hand toward your bag, head cocking to the side in a mockery of contemplation. “Don' think you got a permit for that, do you?”
“A permit…”
He has you. Your eyes lower, falling to the badge on his chest. Game Warden. You stare at it, eyes widening. Swallowing thick.
With you distracted, he leans in. Curves his body over you mockingly, like he's bending down to whisper a secret in your ear. Cupping a pretty little firefly in the palm of his hand.
When his shadow falls over you—dark and damning—you flinch back, fists trembling under the hem of your jacket. Brows furrowed, knotted tight. Your lower lip wobbles. You try to hide that, too, by sinking your teeth into your flesh until it floods white under the strain.
He wants to pry it apart with his own teeth. Take the bruised flesh into his mouth until you start to drool, whining from the abuse he inflicts on you in a mockery of a kiss.
(wants to tear through it, taste your blood on his tongue—)
“An’ I don't reckon tha's a good idea, pet.”
You shiver when he places his hand on the truck above your head. Boxing you in completely, nothing to spare—not even an inch.
He hums at that, cock giving a vicious jerk inside his trousers at the almost impossible dearth between your sizes, at the way he swallows you up in an instant. Has to take a deep breath to steady himself, to keep the inkblack tendrils swirling, gathering, at the edges of his periphery from bleeding in. This starving murder of crows.
When he speaks again, it's low. Deep. Kittenish licks from the tongue of a tiger; abrasive, rough. Mocking baritone of a shifting canyon, a mountainside, before it buries anyone alive under rubble.
“Not reekin’ the way you do. Might ‘ave every alpha in a one square mile radius frothin’ at jaws for a taste. Ain't safe out there.”
And it's definitely not safe with him.
He watches, transfixed, the moment this clicks. When your eyes waver between the hard bulk of his body—spread out, laxed; plumage unfurled—and the noisy clatter of the town just within reach. It's this thicket that cups your scent, that protectively curls over you, and keeps the Alpha's prowling about the market square from sniffing you out. A beaten trail. Hidden desire path no one was supposed to wander down.
Except the bear problem in the woods, infringing on town, and him, the gun bolstered on his thigh still hot from his warning shots into the bush.
(lost little Lamb—
wandered too far from the herd.)
You take another step, cautious. Small. It brings you flush against the tree. Your polyester jacket whines at the friction. He can see indecision play out on your face. Oscillating between the badge on his uniform shirt, the gun on his massive thigh, and the clamour of muted noise from the town just within reach. Alphas prowling. Their acrid scent is unmistakable even through the dense foliage spreading around you.
It's an impasse. Neither option affords you much choice in the long run—it's either stay here with him, with the heady scent of want, of an Alpha on the incipient cusp of a voracious rut; or risk yourself in town. There are police officers patrolling. Ones who can sedate an alpha who gets too out of hand, but still.
The mimesis of desire pooling around you might send you into heat sickness. That, or you'll get in even more trouble for fleeing a pursuing officer. Resisting arrest. Jail time, certainly.
The pendulum wavers. Your knotted fists wobble.
Then—
Your eyes leave his chest, the gun, trailing over his shoulder. Widening in surprise at whatever is there in the distance.
He ought to commend you, really. The rouse is quite believable—
But:
“Not bad,” he murmurs, leaning down further. If you won't jump, he'll push you—
He sees his mistake as soon as it happens.
As he bends, you drop. Waiting until his attention seemingly drifts elsewhere, to when he's distracted and off balance. Lured in by your faux attempt at distraction.
And it might have worked on a lesser being, but all Ghost has ever been is raw, unadulterated instinct.
He lashes out as soon as you move again, palm curling over your wrist in an instant. Snapping jowls of a defensive snake. Shackled. Locked. He tugs—
But the movement costs momentum. You use this against him, going limp. Forcing him to take the brunt of your weight on the spread of his fingers. Tricky little minx. His mouth breaks out in a feral smirk, tugging harshly on scars, on burns. Stretching skin. Distorting it under the mask, ugly and vicious.
Your scent plumes up around him, sickly sweet. His jaw aches, gums itch. He wants to bite, snap his jowls around the scruff of your neck, chew on your skin until you sob out his name—
In seconds, you twist. Swinging your body back in a beautiful pivot, clumsy as it is. You're all animal now. Reckless in your pursuit to escape. Throwing out pheromones at him—purposeful, he realises a moment too late.
And it works. Distracts him long enough for his grip to slacken. Your arm slips out of his grasp, and you're on your feet in an instant, darting through the thicket in a maddened dash to escape the heavy, starving alpha and his burgeoning hunger.
Escape, or—
Weighed down by the afterbirth of his sudden rut, a prickle of his old self buoys, brims, from beneath the mess. He shouldn't chase you. Should leave you alone, call someone—Price, perhaps. Bark out between a clenched jaw that he needs a tranquiliser and chains. Will have to break Simon's teeth to stop him from biting into you like a man starved, famished. Tie him to the back of his pickup truck, drag him to the edges of the forest. Knock him out. Knock his teeth in.
Anything.
Because they said this might happen. The doctors’ who poked and prodded. Therapists—all mandatory, non-negotiable, when he signed his name on the dotted line—murmured about unravelling. His self-control snapping like a twig. Sense of self retreating. All hiding away, protecting itself from the torrent of chemicals flooding his hindbrain. A heavy, unrelenting accumulation of a decades-long bout of rut celibacy all washing over him, all at once.
Said to lock himself up if it happens. Chains. Shackles. Nuts and bolts. Heavy tranquiliser. Immediate sedation.
And in Price’s office, in that messy filing cabinet he keeps, is a folder. A playthrough of everything that's supposed to happen if this happens.
(“but that won't happen, will it, Simon?”
and he'd rolled one massive shoulder in an easy, effortless shrug.
“no.”)
The failsafe is that he's meant to call in if it does. Precious seconds of clarity, cognisance, enough time for him to dial the number, to bark out the order. To be hunted down, rounded up, and thrown in a pit.
where he belongs.
He should. Should. It's the book. Rules. Coloured in red ink. No option to negotiate.
But as you slip through the dense foliage, angelic gold against the phthalo green bosky, the knot in his shoulders abates. Uncoils. In this sense of ease that permeates within him, he finds that he's shockingly cognisant. In full control. The plexiglass shatters, and in the ruins he finds purpose.
You smell good. Too good. Any alpha will scent you in an instant, will claim you. Take you. It makes something in his broken, moulted head shift. Crack. He can't let that happen. Has to protect you the only way he knows how—
To wrap his paws around your throat before any other Alpha has the chance to sink their teeth into you. To claim you.
All his. Little Persephone tucked tight against his ribs where you belong.
And if the way the air clots with your cloying smell—heady, potent; the unmistakable ripeness of an omega in heat—then you must want him to chase you. Want him to follow.
(escape, or—
a game.)
He tracks your movements, honed in on the rustle of the underbrush. When you're out of sight, Ghost flexes his hand, curling his gloved fingers over the leather on his palm. There's an itch in the back of his head. Festering. Rotting. He wants to reach in, rake his claws down the mass, shred it to pieces, but it affixes one simple truth inside of him:
you need him. want him. why else would you run in the opposite direction of help if you didn't want him to give chase?
And so, he does.
You're a crafty little thing. To throw him off of your trail, you leave scent markers on the tree trunks you pass, doubling back to run in the opposite direction.
It might have worked on someone else, but Ghost has spent half of his life buried in this thicket, and knows better than to follow smells in the forest. A vacuum, a great chasm; it plays tricks with sounds. Distorts scents wafting through the canopy, mingling with the natural loam, the disturbed humus underfoot.
Instead, he hums at your cleverness—his smart little omega—and shifts his gaze to the forest floor, roaming over the footprints sinking into the soft soil, the peat and moss. A breadcrumb trail leading right to you. Broken twigs, crushed bushes.
Ghost follows it. Places each foot down carefully, nose angled upward to catch the fresh wave of your heat leaking through the tangled furze. It beckons him forward. Calls out to him.
(come, come, come—)
This lost little lamb needs a shepherd.
He intends to give you just that.
(—find me)
The path you cut through the forest is a twisting sawtooth meant to throw him off your trail. Traps laid out in tall tussocks, weaved through sweetgrass all drenched in your scent. Pieces of your clothing torn at the hem, the shorn fabric pressed on pine needles and tangles furze.
These breadcrumb trails—a neat nest of wile, it seems—are cunning, he'll give you that.
Even with his eyes to the forest floor, he finds himself throwing a wayward glance in the opposite direction, snagged in your webbed subterfuge. Somewhere between the visitors centre and the first trail meandering into the thick taiga, you seemed to have realised that your boots leave indents in the mor. He follows the deep impressions in the podsol until he finds them shoved under a Saskatoon berry bush. Another dead end.
Clever little thing, aren't you?
But even when strays from the path, he's right on your tail. Confident in his scenting abilities. His prowess has always been tracking down wily little rabbits when they try to flee, picking them off in stasis from high above. The layout might have changed—his perch closer to the ground instead of a deer stand—but his eyes are just as keen. Your winding trail is ingrained in his mind. A long loop through the eastern trailhead, and he knows, instantly, that you'll try to throw him off at the placard where the west trail branches off through the dense conifers, and the east meanders downslope to the hidden stream where hunters like to trawl.
He feels a pinch of pride simmering low in his guts. Anyone else would have lost you three pitfalls back. He's enraptured by this pursuit. Smitten by you. Your clumsy little escape. Your sweet little ploys. He wants to chew into you, let his teeth leave jagged scars, false starts, on your bones. Permanent. Starlight—dusting meteor showers in milk white.
Ghost’s belly gives a tremendous growl. He huffs at the ache clawing against tissue, ravenous and unbearably empty.
He'll have you soon. All to himself.
The thought makes fresh blooms of pleasure spume from the rot in his chest, prickling through the layers of muskeg and peat, etiolated little sprout. Germinating in wet gangrene. Feasting on necrotised flesh.
He swipes his hand over a honeybush, catches the lingering scent clinging to the leaves. You must have fallen here. Tangled yourself in the furze, overcome by your heat.
Poor thing. Tired already.
He holds his hand up to the fading gossamer of twilight trickling through the dense canopy, clenching the lingering remnants of your scent in his fist. It's fresh. He wants to tuck it in his pocket, carry it around with him.
He finds you in a small clearing, bent down with your palm resting on the trunk of a tree. Nails digging into the rotting bark, desperately struggling to catch your breath. Your heat is a wildfire. It scorches the earth. Burns his nose.
You're no longer on the cusp of it anymore, but in the throes.
His rut, he finds, isn't too far behind.
Perfect synergy. Meant to be. You call to him, and the gaping, gnarled chasm inside of him answers with a growl—
Before you can blink, he moves.
He falls over you, felled timber. The earth shakes under his indomitable weight. Palms slam into the rough bark of the gnarled spruce you've taken respite against, boxing you in.
You fall against it with a gasp, hands pushing against his broad chest as he backs you into the tree. Little fists pounding on his sternum, mouth pinched, twisted in a snarl. There are pieces of bush caught on your clothes, tangled in your hair. Leaves. Sticks. A spot of dirt on your nose.
It's mesmerising.
The ballcap falls first. Morning sunlight over a boscage in bloom. Pitfalls, ravines. The canyons of your eyes quiver; this new topography shifting, sliding. Tectonic beauty in muted midnight.
He wants to reach in, feel these granite walls of yours with his bare hands. Clamber up the colluvium, the scree, until he reaches these rugged peaks gleaming at him, angry and feral, in fading twilight.
Time is endless. There's no limit to how long he has to know you—drink from your rivers, feast on your valleys; find all the hidden nooks, the crannies, shaded under the towering monoliths of your body. Chart your couloir. Defile your flume. Bathe in your estuary. Tangle himself inside your dells. Tame your chaparral.
Fastidiously. Expertly. Until no part of you is unknown to him.
Your chest heaves, mouth open as he crowds you further. Pressing into you. Over you.
He wedges his broad thigh between your legs, presses it tight against your pussy. Your thrashing stills when he touches you, when he angles his knee up, up—
There. Through the layers of clothing that separates his bare skin from your cunt, he feels the heat bleeding out against him. The wetness from your sodden panties. Undeniable proof of how much you want him. Need him.
“All wet f’me?”
“Fuck you—!” You spit, angry and feral, but you arch into his touch, pushing your pussy onto his thigh. Aching for friction.
It makes him hum. A low growl caught in the back of his throat.
“Reckon I'll be the one fuckin’ you, pet.”
And he will be. This is fact.
You shudder, brows notching together in a vicious glare. “I don't want you.”
It's hissed between the sliver of your clenched teeth. Full of heavy conviction. Forging truth out of lies—
And that's all it is. A lie. A fallacy.
(and even if it wasn't, unlikely considering the way you arch into him, needy despite the disdain dripping down your brow—he really just can't find it in himself to give a fuck; he'll make you want him—)
Ghost leans down, muzzle pressed against your neck. He inhales deep, audible. Chest expanding, lungs swelling. Full of the aroma bleeding out of your pores. Proof of just how much you do, in fact, want him. Betrayed by your own body.
He huffs out, paints the air with his derision. “Is that so?”
Ghost drags his hand down the solid line of the tree, dropping it to rest against the jut of your hip. He ducks his head, watching. Staring at the way his palm nearly swallows you up when he rests it over your waist. Spanning nearly the entirety of it—hip to hip.
It bludgeons into him. Knocks the air clean from his lungs.
He's always had a hunger for things he can cup in his palm. The barrel of his rifle. The hilt of a knife. Your wrist in his hand. The curve of your hip.
His gloved fingers slip under the hem of your shirt. Pads ghosting over your skin. Warmth bleeds through the leather, an unmistakable tell of your heat reaching its first equinox. It'll be all fire, all smoke, from this point onward. Desperate. Feral.
Groaning deep, wanting, he pushes into you further. Chest rumbling. Eager.
It takes a great deal of effort to pull his hand away. To bring it up to his mouth, fingers hooking over the edge.
The fight in you abates—marginally—and you watch him with a keen look of suspicion dancing in the moulted dirt spread over your nullah. Wary. Anticipatory.
He fights the urge to laugh—deep and delirious—and instead works on prying his mask down over his crooked nose, his mangled mouth. Letting the hem snap under his chin, kept there. Bearing himself to you for the first time. Naked. Exposed.
Your eyes widen, trailing down the jagged lines, mauled ridges of scar tissue. Drinking in everything he offers in the fading embers of a summer twilight.
He grins—a rivened, ugly thing—when you let out a heavy, quick breath, and your hips drop, rutting your sopping cunt over the wide heft of his thigh. Gyrating subconsciously. Quietly pleased by the way he looks—as maimed, as beastly as he is. He lets you. Lifts his knee, pressing his cap tight into the bark, and bumping the top of his flexing quadriceps at the apex of your groin, right where he knows your clit sits.
The breath you take is pulled in through clenched teeth, biting on the rind of a moan. Its shapeless silhouette ducks, hides from sight.
He lets you have it. Lets you run.
But it's not without recompense.
With his upper lip curled, he sinks his teeth into the leather tip of the glove above his middle finger. Letting you see them for yourself—these thrawn teeth he'll bury into your neck. Claiming you entirely as his.
Your pupils start to eclipse your irises. Lagoons of liquid black blotting over rugged peaks.
Ghost slowly tips his head back, dragging the glove with him. Eyes setting along his lashline, he drinks in the sight of you swallowing thickly, your gaze darting between his teeth, his mouth, and now—his bared neck. Voracious, greedy, in the way you feast on him. Drilling into the stretch of skin slowly unveiling itself to you.
The muscles in his neck flex against rimy skin. Adam's apple bobbing with his slow swallow.
You follow it all, but your gaze seems to fix itself on the brawny arch of his neck, falling—and then glueing— to the thick vein protruding from his flesh, pulsing with the steady rhythm of his heart, and the small, swollen bump of his scent gland beneath it.
Hunger, he finds, paints such a pretty picture on your face. The greedy, anfractuous glances a bludgeon into him; so heavily affixed with desire that the shake of your head when he pulls the glove free, letting it dangle from between his teeth, and drops his hand back to your skin, is minute. Meaningless.
You want him as much as he wants you.
The clause in this, the axiom, is ironclad. Irrefutable. Bound in brass when you shiver at the touch—feverish skin on feverish skin—and arch into his palm for more. Panting through clenched teeth, each hiss striking against that fraying coil leashing his threadbare control. To distract himself from the unspooling knot, the ache in his gums, he charts the first inch of skin he passes with his thumb, committing the sloping plains of your body to memory. The jut of your hip, the stutter in your breath when he runs the rough pad of his forefinger over the slope of your underbelly.
It's easy to marvel at the sheer enormity of his size compared to yours. Simon hitches his thigh firmly into your clothed cunt, nearly lifting you up off the ground. You teeter on the tips of your toes, falling forward into his chest to stabilise yourself. Little fists curling into the fabric of his jacket, knuckles tight against his the last rungs of his ribcage. Your head lifts, a glare chiselling into the soft fields of your face.
You hiss something at him—feral and scathing. He drops the glove, leans down to meet you in the middle, and eats your feeble protests from your lips in a bruising kiss. Scorching. His teeth knock into yours. Tongue lashes out to catch the vitriol dripping from your fangs. You make a noise in the back of your throat, and he swallows that, too. Devours it all.
It's a vicious kiss. All teeth, tongue. Bullying. He lets you sink your teeth into his tongue, huffing into the seam of your lips when you coo, victoriously, at the first drop of blood spilled.
In retaliation, he sets his hands over your ribs, and lifts you up off the ground. Making you gasp. Mewl. Your legs kick out as the back of your head catches on loose bark, raining it down over your shoulders in flakes. He doesn't stop kissing you throughout. Eyes half-mast, still open, as he drinks in the sight of yours rolling back in your head when his thigh, one the width of both of yours—fuckin’ hell—catches the perfect angle on your clit.
Loose-limbed, caught, you have no choice but to wrap your ankles around his waist, curl your arms around his broad shoulders. Clinging to him desperately to remain grounded, held aloft.
His hand falls down, cups the back of your thigh, fingers spanning the entire curve of your cheek. Held tight in his palm. He bucks into you—quick, hard. Letting you feel the unmistakable bulge of his stiffening cock, leaking spend already in the tight confines of his trousers. This groin, inner thighs, already sticky with the mess dribbling out.
You fall apart at this. Head tipping back, crown thudding against the truck of the tree. He has your lower lip between his teeth, and it pulls, skin stretching until he huffs out another breath, mocking, and unhinges his jaw, letting you go.
Mewling, whining low in the back of your throat, you clumsily rut your cunt into the hard press of his cock. Eyes hazy, liquid, with your blooming heat.
Its approach is quicker than he thought it would be, and he hums, tongue rolling over his teeth to catch the lingering taste of you. Under his hand, your skin burns. Singing with the urgency of your desperation. He answers it with a grunt, falling forward to smother you under his weight.
There's a flash of clarity in your eyes when they crack open. Brief. Fleeting. He feels your sluggish attempt to push him away, to free your hands from between your chests, and he has to dip his head to stifle another groan. It feels good to have you under him like this. Covered entirely in his bulk, his shadow.
His hand pulls away from your flesh, snaking between your bodies to catch your wrists in the palm of his hand. Only one swallows them up, and the easy way he subdued you—effortlessly—has him nearly coming undone in his trousers. Untouched.
“Fuck, want it bad, don't you?” he snarls, hips bucking into you. Chasing pleasure. He pulls your hands out, lifting to arm to trap yours in the shackle his fingers make high above your head, and—
It's devious, this.
Somewhere in the loosening agency of his self, his autonomy, he knows this is becoming dangerous. Something that ought to be stopped before he rips into you with a rabidness that promises nothing at all will remain intact when he's finished. When he's had his fill. He needs to clear his mind. To get away from the way you fit against him so perfectly. Tiny in his wicked embrace.
Like you were made to fit between his ribs. His teeth.
He gnashes them together, trying to stem the ache in his gums.
He wants to fuck you. Needs to—
But as ripe as you smell to him now—tender melon, warmed honeycomb—he knows that you're not yet ready to take him.
Ghost steps back, letting your feet drop to the soil below. With the sparse inch of space between your bodies, he breathes in the lingering scent of your breath—sharp, burning; imbued with a heady thrum of adrenaline electrifying your nerves—and finds the musk a near-perfect pantomime of ozone. The arid tang in the air just before the air. A lightning strike. It rolls over his tongue, tastes of wet pennies in the back of his throat. Heavy with anticipation.
Something he feels very keenly as well. An eagerness he hasn't met in decades. Absolutely famished for it, for this familiarity of want. Potent desire.
He mourns the loss of the way your ass fits in the cradle of his hand when he pulls it free, fingers trailing over the feverish skin of your hips, your belly, as he goes. He doesn't stop until he comes to rest on the button of your trousers, eyes flickering down to catch your gaze. Purposeful, now. Intent clear.
Nothing is stopping him from taking. Your protests are paper-thin, dissolving the moment it touches the dense blanket of humidity in the air, but he wants your submission. Wants to see your resolve break, crushed by your own hand.
The gossamer wings of a butterfly, crumpled up in your palm, and offered to him for the taking. How sweet—
You seem to realise his intentions when his thumb dips below the hem of your pants. Just a tease. Brushing against the soft skin he finds there with the curve of his nail.
Your glare is instant. The sharp tug of a drawstring pinching tight between your brow. Mesmerising as it closes over your lax expression. A fierce snap. He wants to pry it apart. Wedge himself between the seam. Create a gap wide enough for him to fit.
“I won't beg,” you grind out, acidulous. Firm.
He huffs, quietly amused by the fight still sparking in you despite the evidence of your arousal, your want of him, evident in the stain at the seam of your pants. His other hand rests on the trunk of the tree above your head, boxing you in when he leans closer. Taunting. “That so?”
You don't respond, but your glare sharpens, mouth tugging downward in a harsh frown. Displeasure sparks in the air. Cutting into him like fine glass shards. He lets it graze his naked flesh, the warning ghosting over him in needlepoint pinpricks. Entirely too captivated by you to notice the sting.
Your ire is a heady, tangible thing dripping down your brow, slashing over your cheeks. Anger, however misguided it might be, paints a pretty picture over your face. Darkens the inlets nestled in the corner of your eyes. Drenches the ravines, gorges in a startling chiaroscuro. Limns the alpines, the valleys, in a halo of golden starlight.
He wants to drink it down. Hold your fury in the palm of his hand—
Crush it between his fingers.
Because despite the dissent, your desire cuts through, and hews the air in a thick tapestry of want.
mutinous, teeth bared, but your eyes burn, rage against the prison walls, and scream, please—
His fingers dig into the bark above your head, catching flecks of sap between his nails. Knuckles turning white under the flaxen hair dusting over them, strained. The grip is unintentional. Unconscious. He keeps thinking about you beneath him. The heat of your thighs around his waist was a mere tease. A morsel when he wants a meal—
The pressure in his knuckles grounds him. Cuts through the phosphenes blanketing the edges of his vision, smothering the clarity, the cognisance, that lingers in the centre. Threadbare as it is.
There’s an ache in his jaw.
(the need to bite—)
He pulls it off, and shoves his hand tight between your thighs, cupping your cunt in his palm. Feeling the heat bleed through the gusset of your pants. The touch is harsh. Firm. He bullies his fingers into your flesh, letting out a mocking chuff when he feels the fabric dampen.
“Somethin’s’ tellin’ me otherwise.”
Your hand lashes out, grabbing the thick of his wrist. Holding firm. It should be a warning, but the obvious gap between your middle finger and thumb makes him groan instead.
“You're wrong.”
“Am I?”
You twist away from him when he leans down, chin ducking to your shoulder. Hiding. Denying him your mouth, your taste. This meagre measure of control you grapple for is easy to give. He presses his lips to the shell of your ear instead, letting you run. Flee. For now.
His voice is thick when he continues, husky. He pitches it low, lets it swirl into the seashell coil of your inner ear, earning him a shiver in response. Your nails biting into the skin of his wrist. Holding tight.
“‘m a lot of things, pet—” rucked gravel, sodden with his derision, spills into your ear. Your shudder makes him want to bite, to maim. “Wrong ain't usually one of ‘em. But you'll learn that soon enough.”
Your breath hitches. Expression morphing, shifting. Changing into something adorably beleaguered as he encircles you like a tiger, eyes drilling through the tussock, aimed directly at your head. With his body boxing you in, coiling over you like a hideous shadow, he has you trapped, caught. Little lamb writhing between the paw of a tiger.
You seem to be keenly aware of this. Your eyes are shrewd, searching, as you probe around for any escape route, but he's a bulwark around you. Inescapable.
Finding none, you suck in another breath, and slowly lift your chin, glancing up at him through your lashes. The look on your face is—
Enigmatic.
Something changes in the morphology of your mien. Fracturing. Cracking.
“Yeah?” You breathe, soft and goading. Your hips buck into his hand, rutting shallowly against the tops of his fingers. Unconscious. Like you just couldn't help it.
And he supposes you can't.
A fine sheen of sweat has been building since he took after you into the forest. Gathering around your temple, your hairline. The harsh reminder of your festering heat, once dammed by your raw disdain for him—hatred, he'd say, and doesn't the thought just make him want to laugh; you're all bark, no bite, and he knows he'll have fun breaking you in, breaking you apart—but flooded over by the primal drive to mate.
And he's perfect for you, isn't he?
Hideous bastard that he is. It's a sharp juxtaposition to your prettiness, your earthly beauty.
Under the spinel sky, you break. The hand on his wrist tightens, your hips flexing into his palm. Seeking friction. Needing pressure. Needing him. And pissed off about it. Delicious.
“Prove it,” you snap, irritation blanching the corners of your eyes arsenic white. Edging into a frenetic desperation hot enough to burn the threads of your resolve. But there's a gleam of reluctance pushing through the syrupy murk folding over you, heavy molasses. You want to give in, but there's something about him, his appetite, that makes you hold back. That makes you visibly sick at the sight of him—
Unfortunately for you, he has no such compunction to shelf his barbarity. To leash his desire, to muzzle the overwhelming urge to crush you under the weight of his accumulated need. It's decades of listless apathy. Divorced from anything resembling human emotion at the root. Carved out, scraped off bone. He was left to stagnate. A misfortunate creature submerged in a bog, dead but unable to rot.
The deluge of his savage, bestial hunger rages in his veins. It's corrosive, vile, and—
unrestrained.
Ravenously esurient. He wants to sink his teeth into you and never let go—
but first:
he needs to eat.
His meal is a feast, it turns out. Simon gorges himself until he's full. Promises that he'll stop as soon as he's satiated.
(but he's lying to himself, and to you, because he never is—
never will be.)
Tears pebble along your lash line as he feasts on your sopping cunt, licking at your fluttering rim, slurping up your slick. Your clit is pressed tight against the crooked arch of his nose, sliding and catching on the jagged ridge each time he moves his jaw to dig deeper inside of you as if he's trying to taste the seal of your womb. You pant, whine. The noise muffled half-heartedly behind your palm. Teeth sunk into your skin, lodged against your bone.
Angry rivulets rain down your cheeks, dangling like fine beads, gems, on your jaw. He wants to taste them next, as soon as he fills his gullet with the earthy tang you release.
Your tears remind of that pretty omega Johnny sent to him—a brat, he'd said; the best, Lt—and it churns in his stomach, dredging up something awful. Terrible. He wants to make you weep harder. Wants you sobbing, begging. His own little brat to take over the knee whenever he wants—
But that's where the uncanny resemblance ends.
You're not a brat. No. You're a headache. The kind that will have him written up, sat like a bad dog in his best suit, as they level him with charges, and orders, and the like. The sort of thing that even the old man wouldn't be able to string him out of—not that he would. Price is three days away from a much-deserved retirement to the mountains and sitting on his hands to keep from snatching up the pretty conservation officer who moons at him whenever he passes by.
He won't be much help to get Ghost out of trouble. That leaves only Gaz and Soap. And while he's sure they can swing it, he doesn't really want to be under their ahh, guess ye/ya owe us one, Lt/Riley.
So—
It stands to reason then that he should have you tamed before dawn. Shackled down, locked up tight. Only right considering he's the best in town to keep bears at bay. Do you really want to deal with a mama grizzly and her defenceless cubs? Or a starving male clumsily pawing his way out of hibernation?
Probably not.
So. So.
He pulls back, rests his chin on your thigh.
“Gonna be good for me, pet?” He asks, lowering his tone considerably until it catches on the gravel below.
He's not surprised when you hiss through a cloud of tears. “Go fuck yourself—”
Ghost tips his head, suckles your clit into his mouth. Tongue laving over your flesh. Blunt teeth pressing flat against the swollen bead, a tease. You tense, gasping. Hand pushing his head back, back—
“Don't, don't—” you're mewling, nails raking over his scalp. Hips bucking, pulling back. Struggling to get away. The bite marks along your thighs weep fresh blood in your struggle, filling his nose with the heavy scent of iron.
They serve as a harsh reminder of what he can do with these jagged teeth of his.
He chuckles, mouth still closed around your clit. The vibrations have you choking, spine curving into a beautiful arch.
Fingers digging into your hips, keeping you still. Trapping you. He's not quite done with your cunt, yet. And all this wriggling is something he can do without. With his hand pressed to your hips, he notches the other down your thigh. Tracing his index finger over your soft skin, dragging it close to your outer lips. Catching the tacky slick drying on your flesh with the tip.
Tiny fists rain down over his shoulders. Urging him forward, eager for more. Selfish, spoiled little thing.
What a monster he's made—
“Patience, pet,” he coos, mocking and mean. Likes the way you react to the patronisation in his tone. All taut shoulders, shaking fists. Bearing your teeth at the slight, the stinging barb. Shaking in an amalgamation of embarrassment and shame.
You seem to like it when he's a little awful to you. A little mocking. Cruel.
“Shut up—!” You hiss, lips curling as you glare down at him. “I'm not your pet—”
He ignores you. Bends down to sniff at your cunt instead, and finds his answer is the white hot desire he can taste in the back of his throat when he breathes you in.
His fingers pry apart your folds, and he greedily drinks in the sight of your drenched hole, clenching down on nothing. Poor you. His heart thunders in his chest, rages. He wants to sink inside of you—impossibly deep—until the beginning of him and the end of you ceases to exist. Rolled into a single being, atoms merged. Bodies fused. He wants to take everything from you. All of it. Eat it out of the cup of his hand like pomegranate seeds, let the skin get stuck in his teeth.
He wants to devour you whole.
(to eat—)
Settles, instead, for pawing at your cunt.
Pressing the width of it against your slit, feeling the heat of your core on the palm of his hand. Branding himself with the intensity of your desire. Another scar among many. An uncountable number of jagged asteroids cratering along his flesh, making a home out of a ghost. A shell.
Reinforced, too, by the absurdity of how terribly contrasted his flesh is to yours. Monstrous. His scarred hand rests over your pussy, encompassing it entirely with extra digits to spare. Folding each finger on top of the other to wedge between the basin of your thighs. And as his gaze comes to rest on the way he swallows you up, he is struck by the garishness of his hand—hideous scar tissue, burns—falling over your pretty cunt.
Sinful. Frankensteinian beast palming the sweet pussy of a pretty, human woman, and—
Fuck.
His cock twitches, spits out a thick glob of pre-cum.
Ghost has never wanted to ruin something as badly as he wants to ruin your cunt. You. Mess you up so badly that everyone will know you belong to him, and him alone. To brand you with the tattoo of his teeth on your mons; force a claiming bite on the pillowy skin above your clit. His ownership bracketed between your thighs, at the very apex of your hip bones. Buried into tissue right under the bulge of your womb. A fecund valley for him to lay waste; for you to grow beauty from the rot, the ash.
Cinder scraps over his nerves. Fells his resolve in a brutal sweep.
He comes undone at the seams, unravels.
Simon curls his fingers into a loose fist, passing the rugged peaks of his bone over your soft flesh. Gathering slick on thick, scarred knuckles. He holds it there, folds pried apart by his hand, content to luxuriate in the softness of your flesh, the scorching heat.
Possessively, he unhitches his thumb from the coil of his fist, and swipes it over your clit. More slick leaks out as you keen.
“Sweet omega like you should ‘ave been claimed by now,” he rumbles evenly despite the sour twist in his guts at the thought. “Might not ‘ave ended up ‘ere, would you ‘ave? Beggin’ the first alpha you see to fuck this sweet little cunt.”
“Begging?”
“Practically gaggin’ for it, weren't you?” And even though the words are his own, they sit in his gut like a stone. An angry knot tangled in his intestines, snaking its way up his gullet. Bitter. It's quelled by the sight of your bare neck. Ripe for his teeth. And his alone.
But even if you had a pretty ring made by another alpha, Simon knows that wouldn't have stopped him from taking you, anyway. Biting over the claim. Breaking it between his teeth. Precious, loving union shattered by his crooked greed. He'd have relished in it, too. Basked in the way you sobbed as he tore your alpha into pieces. An obstacle turned into a pretty effigy at his feet. Wicker pyre burning to keep him warm.
(he'd have caught dinner for you, too; hunted caribou, moose, and roasted it over the open flame. Fucked you under the blume of orange. Let the fire lick across your skin as he sunk in deep—)
He rocks back on his haunches. Mood labile, quicksilver, as his rut grows. Festers.
You deny it, breathless, as he slips the mountainous peak of his bent middle finger into your hole, stretching your rim around the scarred cartilage. You pulse around him like the fluttering wings of a hummingbird. Rapid, quick. Wanting. It draws him in. Makes him want to spit on your pretty pussy, and then break you apart on his cock—
“Such a needy cunt, eh? Starving for a good knot, ain't it?”
You hiss out your protests, but clench tight around his knuckle. He chuckles, and it's liquid. Wet rot. Lungs polluted, spitting nocuous, black smoke into the air.
“I'm not—”
“You are.”
He pulls back, pursing his mouth, and spreads your lips apart, opening you up wide and vulnerable to his prying eyes. Saliva puddles on his tongue. He gives you a moment to clue into what he's about to do, your fingers tightening, nails digging into his scalp as you do on a shallow gasp of disgust. Then, brutish, he leans forward, and spits. Lets the glob hit your clit, and he has to hold you still when you jerk, cringing away from him, snarling out your displeasure.
“You're disgusting—”
The protests are weak. Your knees tremble, giving away the growing slickness gathering on the insides of your thigh.
He hums, watches as it oozes down between your folds, over your fluttering hole, before it falls to the ground between your legs. He lets his hand fall back over your cunt, middle finger gathering his spit. Rubbing it around your pebbled clit. It's done detachedly, perfunctory. A means to an end with hardly much concern for your pleasure. Not yet, anyway.
You've given him nothing in return yet.
He intends to change that soon.
As you grapple with the harsh reality he presents to you—one of ownership, humiliation, and pleasure on his whim—he drags his finger down, sliding it between your soft lips until he reaches your hole once more. Petting around the drenched entrance slowly, softly, humming under his breath about how wet you are.
Your hips drop, greedily chasing after his finger. You won't ask—not yet—but he likes the way you rut against him: all hateful, spiteful. Like you can't decide on what you want more—to bash his head in, or keep it locked tight between your thighs. Sweet thing.
“Need me, don't you?” He sinks his finger in. Nearly whites out at the pressure, the tightness, he feels. Soft, wet. Squeezing him in a vice as you yowl, whimpering into the stretch like it matters. Like his thick, scarred finger is the most you'd ever taken before. Sweet girl. So naïve.
He drinks in the sight of your flesh forcibly being parted around his knuckle, matting the wisps of blond on his skin as it leaks down to his wrist, until that, too, is pushed up into you. His whole finger now engulfed in the wet heat of your body as you squirm around the stretch, pulsing around him like a heartbeat.
He groans when he tastes your discomfort on the back of his tongue.
“Don't worry, lovie. M’gonna take good care’a you.”
You watch him with slitted eyes as he pushes you down to the forest floor, glaring over your shoulder as he adjusts you the way he wants. Maneuvers you around like a little toy. Forearms braced against the trampled grass, knees sinking into soft moss. Thighs spread. Cunt bare, drenched. Ready to be claimed. Taken.
He drops to his knees, shuffling close from behind you. His hand drops to your lower back, pressing your torso down further into the ground below. His cock aches between his thighs. Heavy, fat. He reaches down with his other hand to where it droops, smearing pre-cum over his inner thigh. He catches it in his fist, flushed the colours of a fresh bruise—angry red, purple—and strokes along the sensitive skin of his shaft, dragging it up and over his engorged head. Pre-cum weeps from the tip, drools long strains down to the forest floor. Puddles thick between your knees.
A prelude, perhaps, for what's to come. When he has you tied like a bow around his knot, milking all the pent-up spend from his heavy, full balls.
It's been decades since he had this—
(“shame.”
he concurs.)
Simon pulls his cock up, taps it against your pebbled clit. Drinks in the sight of you keening, cunt gushing more slick out of your empty hole, dribbling down your thighs. Mingling with the mess he already started making.
It shocks him how good it feels just to tap his cockhead on your pretty pussy. To drag it through your slit, teasing it against your fluttering hole that drools copious slick over him.
He wants to make a mess of you. Fuck your pussy until you cum, until all you can feel is the split of him inside of you. Filling you. Ruining you.
Until all you can think about is the thick drag of him against your stuffed walls. Empty without him plugging you up. Desperate for his cock, his knot—hungry little slut just for him. All for him.
He presses the head of his cock against your rim, letting it catch. Holding it there. A tease. Just a little taste.
Likes when you whimper, head hanging between your shoulders, fingers curling into the moss below. You make such a pretty picture like this—the expanse of your back bare for his eyes to roam, locking on the dimples of your hips, the curve of your waist. The plump shape of your ass inviting him in—eager for a bite. Your flesh looks bare, lonely, without his mark. The contrast of his own inked palm—fingers webbed with faded lettering, some slogan he picked up in his youth. Hands etched in black. Lines bleeding, bulky. The unmistakable tremble of an incipient artist’s first brush of a needle on real skin. Jagged, garring. Ugly. He lets his hand rest against the small of your back, groaning at the way it looks.
Sinful.
You're made for soft silk and a fluffy bed. Head resting on a plush cushion instead of your arms, forehead braced over the uncomfortable squeal of your polyester windbreaker that he didn't even have the courtesy to let you take off. No. Just trousers. Panties. Pushed haphazardly down your legs, left in a pile by the spruce tree so he could throw your ankle over his broad shoulder, feasting on your cunt.
There's a spot of dirt on your asscheek. The curve of it is scraped from the bark, red and raw.
The glare you aim at him from over your shoulder is venomous. There's a smear of moss on your cheek.
You're made for epsom salt baths. Being tended to by a besotted alpha who treats you like fine china, only to be taken out on special occasions. Brushed, always, in a fine layer of dust from disuse. Sweet, tender lovemaking under the waning summer sky. Your alpha apologising for ruining you like this, for making you take the brunt of his rut. Poor thing. Gentle kisses, and hands clasped together.
He can see it so vividly in his eye. So viscerally that it almost feels like a crime when he glances down at his cock, the weeping, engorged head almost comically too big for you. The thick of him could easily swallow your cunt up if he flattened his length against you. Covering you wholly by his girth.
It's a thought that makes his hand tighten, and nearly chokes him on a moan.
Even his thighs bracketing the backs of yours is hideous to look at. Bigger, broader—there's a considerable gap on both sides of his legs that he thinks nearly his whole fist can fit there, notched against the outside of your thigh, covering the expanse of his own. Garish.
He can't wait to lay you down on your belly, lock his thigh tight on either side of your own and rut into you like that. Crushing you under his weight. Swallowing you whole. Until anyone misfortunate enough to wander by thinks he's fucking the cold ground.
His thumb strokes along your fevered skin, collecting the sheen of sweat building up on the pad. Rubbing it in. He feels it too. This unrelenting swelter. A cage, pushing down from all sides. Inescapable.
The only way to quench it is on you. In you.
“Ready for me, pretty girl?” The words are mangled in his throat, thick with want.
Your shoulders tremble. In worry, he thinks. Scents the air like a viper, letting your emotions curdle in the back of his throat. “Just get on with it—”
He meets you in the middle of that taunt, teeth against your throat.
Ghost pushes inside with a groan, eyes rolling back at the way you swallow him up. Stretching around the considerable girth, fluttering around him. Pulsing like a heartbeat.
It's heaven.
Nirvana nests between your thighs, bracketed by rings of blood. Red. Absolution imbued in tender flesh, parting perfectly around his cock in a loving embrace.
You haven't confirmed it for him, but the tightness of your cunt around his fingers, the heady scent of discomfort burning the back of his throat when he buried them inside of you, make him mutedly aware that you're inexperienced. A fact he pockets for later because if he thinks about being the first alpha, the first man, to ever claim you, take you, then he might lose his mind, he might fall down that yawning chasm that reeks of damnation, of brimstone and ash, and never recover—
So, he doesn't. Won't.
Can't.
His pace is slow as he feeds you the fat length of his cock, eyes drilling into the way you swallow him up. Rim stretching taut, flesh paling under the strain of taking him. With one hand anchored against your hip, holding you tight, and the other curled over your shoulder, fingertips resting on your collarbones, he slowly, slowly, sinks inside of you, bottoming out with a deep groan.
The outstroke drags with it an iron scent in the air. He huffs, nostrils flaring. Greedy for more. There's discomfort leaking from your pores. His girth is more than you can conceivably take, even with the preternatural help from your heat, leaking slick down your inner thighs in thick rivulets.
He holds himself there, breathing—heavy, tremulous—through his nose. His hands shake. The pressure, the pleasure, is indescribable. It coils in his guts, spumes liquid bliss in his veins. The way you feel pulsing sweetly around him is—
Equilibrium.
Every misfiring synapse inside himself is slowed. Imbued with a potent sense of ataraxia. His mind comes to a standstill. Thoughts looping over themselves, tangling into the gossamer threads of control floating in stasis. Unmoored. You unravel him.
It's further proof that you are his missing part. His ruts in the past have been calamitous. Snarls wrenched from the trenches of his chest; a gluttonous feast—a sacrifice to Hēdonē. Violent, vicious.
But this—
It's drinking ichor from the vein of Anteros.
There's a crack in the back of his head. The sound of everything, all of it—
Falling into place.
His hands tighten. Tighten some more. He holds you, sure and firm, keeping you nestled in the anchor of his embrace, unable to run, to flee. You're his. Settled. The caveat is ironclad, bound in permanence.
And Simon moans. Deep, and low. The noise jutters out of his chest, and seeps into the evening air. Fine mist, crystallising in front of him. Phosphenes of ice cemented his decision, gluing to his cheeks. The nape of his neck.
His ears burn.
“Fuckin' hell, sweet thing,” it's a guttural growl in the hollow of his throat. “Where ‘ave you been all my goddamn life?”
It's a nauseating confession, one scraped out from the vacancy between his ribs. It peppers the air in a soft, saccharine kiss. Makes you shiver beneath him, gasping in lungfuls of loam, dirt in your throat.
He grunts. Stills. He doesn't want that for you. Ever. Would rip off his own limbs before he ever let you feel the crushing weight of dirt congealing inside of your lungs.
The way he arches over you is damning. Nauseating. He curls his arm around your shoulder, your chest, traps a heaving breast in the palm of his hand, holds tight. The other falls from your hip, closes over your mons. Greedily feeling your slick, hot sex pulsing wildly around him when he passes over your clit, toying with your stretched, swollen rim. It's perfection, this.
He pulls you up, up, leaning back on his haunches until you're balanced on your knees, nearly sat on his lap. Taking him deeper than before. He drops his head back with another moan when he feels your slick gather, dripping down to coat his balls.
Everything about you is just—
Perfection. Absolution.
Your hands fly up, curling over his forearm, mewling when he pinches your nipples between his middle and ring finger.
“C’mon,” he rasps, leaning forward to press his face into your nape. You smell sweet. “Play with ‘em for me, pet.”
Nails bite into his skin. You whimper. Squirming around on his lap. But you do as you're told. Slowly, slowly, reaching up. Touching yourself the way you like. Fingers ghosting over your flesh, brushing across your nipples. Pulling, petting, the way you like. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, watches. Devours. Commits each movement to memory. Every sound, every breath. Everything.
He keeps a slow, languid pace like this. Content to just feel you pulsing around him, listening to the slick, wet squelch of him filling you up. Over and over again. A lazy rut.
It's unexpected, he knows. You've been bracing yourself this whole time, fingers digging into the podsol, spine tightening up. Waiting for the savagery to befall you.
When it doesn't come, he feels your quiet acquiescence come in a soft breath. In the way you slowly drop down to meet the deep rut of his hips. Taking your pleasure, pulling him in deeper. There's an edge to your voice, one still dipped in threads of discomfort, a waning pain that rings out, shrill, in the satin spill of moonlight over the indigo forest.
It's good like this. Tender. Not something he'd have ever imagined for himself, and the reality of it is dizzying.
Reedy, he groans. Nuzzles his misshapen nose into your scent gland. His gums pulse, ache—
But he ignores it. Swallows it down.
He's not sure what compels him to do so. Spellbound, maybe, by this unnatural softness that spools silken threads between you. Sutured in tenderness—so unbefitting of the man he is. The monster—
His hips stutter. Jerk.
“Simon—!”
You whine into it, arching back. Sweat gathers, drips down your spine, smears into his chest, belly. Matts the thatch of hair running in sparse, patchy clusters down the thickness of his midsection. A bountiful spring fattened him up. Made him soft and pillowy over his abdomen. Something you can't seem to get enough of—pressing the flat of your back against him, leaning into it. Groaning when his arm shifts, boxing you in. Crushing you to him.
Wily little kitten, purring so sweetly in his lap.
He draws lazy circles over your clit, grunting with each clench of your cunt. You're soft in his arms. Malleable. He slides his hand up from beneath your breasts, catches your jaw in his palm. Fingers spanning from cheekbone to temple and, oh—
Doesn't that just make him preen.
He drags your chin to the side, catching your mouth in a sickening kiss. All tongue, teeth. He wants to taste, to devour, every part of you. Bones and all.
It's a fight, though. You tense in his grasp, lidded eyes snapping open, wide and around. Cheeks bulging between his fingers when you twist, trying to pull away.
“Don't—I don't want to—” he bites the protests from lips. Messy, sloppy. He flicks his tongue over yours, wrapping it around you like a satiated snake burrowing in after a heavy meal. “Don't—f–fuck—”
It earns him a nip. Teeth digging into his bottom lip. Drawing blood.
He huffs into the seam of your mouth. Only fair, he supposes, and then pulls you down—hard, fast—onto his cock. The air is punched out of your lungs, flooded into his esophagus.
“Be a good girl for me,” he warns, bucking into you. It's harder this time, deeper. Tempo increasing. Growing. He feels himself thicken. Knot fattening up. Each piston of his hips seems to knock something inside of his head loose. Common sense, maybe—
The fraying knot of his self-control winding tight. Pulling taut.
He huffs again, feeling himself slip. Lost in the sensation dripping down his spine, the unified pleasure blooming in the pit of his stomach.
The air plumes with the thickening tang of your arousal—all sweet, spice. You can take it, now, he knows, and tries not to growl when you hiccup his name wetly into the air.
The muscles in his thighs bunch tight. Corded and powerful. He arches up, up, forcing his cock deep inside your cunt, splitting you apart. Rutting desperately, edging into something animalistic.
It runs a knife along the thin skin of his hindbrain. Come out, come out, come play—
He moves you again, pulling his hand away from your jaw and pushing you back down the forest floor. He stays glued to your back. Tucks his arm under your chin, and smothers you under his bulk, groaning when your thighs give out, sliding on the sweat-slicked moss below.
“Simon, ah—” your voice tapers off into a breathless cry when he pulls his hand free from beneath you, wrapping it around to join the other. Holding on, clinging to you. Keeping you locked tight against him, under him. You can't move at all like this—
The swell of his knot bumps against your stretched rim. He presses the brunt of his weight into each thrust now, spurned on by the needy way you yowl into his forearm, drooling all over his skin. Begging for it.
“Please, please, please—”
Your body is jostled forward with each harsh buck of his hips as he gives you everything he has, feeding his cock into your sopping cunt over and over again. Eager now to fill you up, to flood you with his cum. Make you swell with it. Overstuffed.
Perfect little omega, you rut back into him with each thrust, taking his thick cock to the root. Mewling sweetly when his knot begins to catch. Too much, he thinks. It might just wreck you for good—
pomegranate seeds splitting over your teeth, blood red juice leaking from the tear. spilling into your mouth. just a drop. just a drop, and Persephone is all his
—Perfect.
He teeters on the edge of ferality and control. Spinning, spiralling. Loosefooted on the wobbling chossy. Coming undone in a magmatic end—wicked heat, ashes, brimstone; he catches fire, and smoulders you under his heat. Letting the flames lick across your skin until you whine his name, desperate and needy, in the back of your throat. The thrill a bludgeon against his skull, spilling pleasure, bliss, in the broken hole you wrought.
You tighten like a vice around him—tight, tight—and he pistons into you, burrowing deep. Deeper still. Until you thrash around beneath him, soundlessly screaming his name into the dark forest. Begging for mercy, mercy, please—
He won't. Can't.
He can't get enough of the way you feel wrapped around him like this. Silken, whitehot. Tight. Tight—
It squeezes the air from his lungs. Static in his head—
And then you let go. Pulsing, throbbing around him. Pulling him in deeper, blanketing his mind in white noise. In nothing but magmatic pleasure.
“Fuck—!” He snarls, almost angry. Vicious. Chasing after his end in the aftermath of yours. Instincts are at war within him, banging against his skull. Demanding recompense. Paid it's pound of flesh.
It's what he's promised. What it's owed.
(and he always keeps his promises, doesn't he?)
Most describe their ruts as mindless, driven by instinct. No control. But Ghost has never felt more present, more alive, than when he sinks his teeth deep into your nape, nearly choking, drowning, on your blood.
For the first time in decades, he feels the crater inside himself, suffused with spare, broken parts, seal when you yield with a mangled yowl of his name, raw and fractured as it splits between your teeth. Pretty pussy swallowing up his knot when he bullies it in deep, locking you together.
pretty little lamb—
a perfect fit between his teeth.
His rut is a voracious thing.
Ghost has you on your back for the second and third round, heels resting on his shoulders as he bucks into you. Makes you stare at him—don’t look away from me, pet—as he commandeers your body with an ease that seems to break apart all demurrals as they form, rendering you sweet, malleable, beneath him to do with as he pleases.
And you are, aren't you?
So fuckin’ sweet.
(“gonna give me a cavity,” he rasps, thick with pleasure, into your ear. he has you on your belly now. holds you down with his weight, crushes your chest against the soft moss below, thighs squeezed tight between his own. you can barely make a sound with his forearm digging into the dirt right above your crown, swallowing you whole under his bulk.
(owns you like, he finds. no one would be able to see you beneath him if they wandered by. encompassed wholly by every iota he has to give—
he cums like that. nose buried in your crown, moaning low, scorched, in the back of his throat as you twitch beneath him, unable to move at all—)
It's early in the morning when he finally finishes, when his rut begins to slowly recede, and a fresh bloom of clarity yawns over his periphery. Moonrise peppers soft kisses over his aching shoulders as he glances at you curled up against his side, sleeping soundly. Exhausted by the hours and hours of mating, fucking. Taking him, his knot, drinking down everything he has to offer.
The sight that greets him is gnarled fingers wrapping around his rotting heart, affection peeking out between the brackets of his ribs. His appetite for you is dizzying. Unquenchable. He wonders if he'll ever be able to look at you without wanting to crawl inside your body. To reshape your tender flesh around his bulk until it is indiscernible from himself.
This want is agony. It's dread, desire. Greed.
His shoulders bite back in protest when he reaches up to drag his dirt-crusted nails through the prickly hair on his scalp. As dawn slowly unfurls across the midnight blue aether, he knows he'll have to leave soon. Can already feel the creeping heat gnawing in the pit of his belly. His rut starting anew. The scant hours he has of mental clarity, moments meant to eat, to feed, and regain strength for the next marathon of fucking, are needed to feel out his next move.
He glances at you again, and feels the same covetous tug in his chest as he did before, when he was thickly entrenched in the urge to mate. But as the burnt orange of the sun smears hazy fingerprints across the moulted sky, he sees you in a new, cleaner light. You're young. Much younger than he is.
It's something he ought to worry about. To feel some shred of shame, of despondency over shackling you to himself—a defective alpha with more scars than morality—when you're in the burgeoning bloom of your freshly untethered youth. All jejune beauty outclasses nature itself. Snow melts on the alpines, trickling down to feed the valley below. Life itself—
But you are his.
The ugly rings around your throat—mangled tissue swelling in the morning dawn, caked in a thick river of blood—all signify that you belong to him. And while it's a little extreme as far as claiming bites go—one would suffice, but he buried his teeth in you over and over again, biting down on both sides of your neck, your jugular, your nape; inner thighs, mons, wrists—it’s proof enough that you are meant for him. Made for him.
His pretty omega.
The rest doesn't matter. He ought to feel shame, but instead he luxuriates in it. Stares down at you with a needy sort of possession spuming in the putrid remains of his chest, mapping out the marks he put on you. And the ones he'll add to later, not stopping until covered in the perfect impression of his crooked teeth. Tattoos of his ownership all over your body.
Mutual, of course. There's a scant patch of skin, restive and empty, above his heart, save for a fine, jagged line from a serrated dagger. He'll have you bite down on the flesh until your teeth meet inside his muscle. Scarring down to the bone. He'll go, then, to the man who inks him up whenever he has the whim to desecrate scar tissue, and have him etch midnight black against fine silver. Permanent, forever. Always.
And anyone who kicks up a fuss—stupid as they might be—he’ll sort them out. Prove to them that you are meant to be his.
(unshakeable:
his spend leaks out of you, drying, tacky and thick, on your thighs. under the sleepy citrine of the dawning sun, it's tinged pink, and looks just like pomegranate juice.)
Ghost rolls his shoulder, and reaches for his discarded trousers. He's covered in a thick layer of dirt, and reeks like soil. But the thought of being buried alive is miniscule compared to the want of being buried inside you again. The urge. Insatiable. He groans with it, cock throbbing already.
He leaves you naked. No point in dressing when he plans on going home and sinking back inside of you before midday, anyway. An unneeded obstacle, really—
The clearing is close to his truck, and he sets a leisurely pace, yawning into the dawn, as he gathers you into his arms. Carrying you to it as you drool on his chest, brows pinched at the soft jostle of him trudging through the thicket until he reaches it.
He's not in a rut when he stretches you out in the back seat, spreading your sticky thighs around his hips, sinking inside, bottoming out just as you come to, waking up with a gasp.
The intense fucking from before lingers in the air. You're soft, molasses; arching into his chest, whimpering out the name he hissed into your nape only hours ago, folding into him with a somnolent submission. It won't last, of course—
You're a vicious little thing, and his back and chest twinge with the rivers you carved into his flesh when he didn't move the way you liked. Wolfish, aren't you? Spitfire hiding under the soft pelt of a slain lamb. He wants to devour you, bones and all.
He takes his fill of your malleable concession, rutting into you with a sluggish ease. Mapping out the starlight sparking in the depths of your glossy eyes. Magnetic. It pulls him deeper. Unravels him at the seams.
His hand spans the expanse of your jaw from ear to ear. He holds you like this, thumb buried in the tender embrace of your soft tongue, and begins to understand the reason behind Johnny's niche appetite when you toy with his flesh, coquettish and sweet, suckling him in—pretty seductress—and then mewl when he pushes in too deeply, bringing crystalline gems to corners of your eyes.
Angelic innocence. The type that demands he prostrates himself at your altar, let his bones be picked clean when you so wish it. And he'll give it to you—body, blood, tissue; all of it. The entirety of him, however broken, shattered the fragments might be.
He promises it all to you without a word, drilling holes in the gaps of your eyes, chasms wide enough for him to fit. When he cums, it's to a songbirds sonata. Your moans are a whisper, your pleasure swallowed down as it ghosts over his lips, clenching around him like a vice. Pretty bow. He doesn't hold back—groans, baritone; woodsmoke, into the gathering symphony, filling you to the brim. Thick, copious. He wants it to stick. To root.
When the blood sputters back to his head, he gathers you in his arms once more. Keeps you seated on his lap—shush, pet; s’alright, jus’ close your eyes an’ I'll ‘ave us home in a bit—as he starts the old pickup, and puts it into drive. One hand on the wheel, knuckles blanching white in the glimmering sunrise; sparse forests of muted blond catching, limned in the coruscating light. The other is placed on the small of your back, holding your belly to his.
Quietly, your body eases. Melts. You press your face into his chest, fingers curling into the fabric, and nuzzle into the heady scent of his sweat, his musk, still clinging to his shirt. Signing, soft and twee, in the cup of his embrace as you slip back to sleep.
He drives home like this. Mind a quiet place for once. Silent in its contentment, it's comfort. There's an itinerary still left to do, but he pushes it back for now, gaze roaming the dense green of the forest bracketing the road.
You'll like it, he knows. There's a fen on the outskirts of his territory, a little pond where wild rabbits have been known to make burrows. Deers, elk. Bears. They all come and go. You'll amuse yourself in the untamed wilderness of his abode, drawing delineations of your own as you carve out places in his home just for you.
And as he makes the turn to his hidden driveway, this buried sanctuary, he can't help but glance down at your crown, and think—
Persephone, finally home.
He finds your identification in your rucksack, nestled underneath the contraband you smuggled from the park—mushrooms, berries, bark, feathers—and sears your name to memory. Every part of you will be unravelled in the coming days, pulled from the depths of your being until it's all ingrained in his head. A gaping chasm chiselled into bone just for you. All for you.
Your address is a rental. He'll have to call them later today to cut your lease. Your job, too. They'll need to be notified on both your off time for his rut (and your burgeoning heat), and to update your contact information.
But that's later. Now, he just wants to get home. Sink down into his bed with you beneath him, and fuck you until sundown all over again. Stain the house with the scent of you. With the potent tang of your coupling.
It's yours too, after all. Should smell just like you.
And when you wake up later to him fucking his tongue into your drenched hole, fingers toying with your pebbled clit, Johnny will be busy packing the rest of your things into the pack of his pickup truck. The majority of it is already stacked on the porch, waiting for you to rearrange it all in your new house. Lease cut. His name added to your contacts as spouse, husband. Address updated. Marriage certificate laying on the table, only one line unsigned. Waiting for you.
Maybe it's too fast. You'll certainly protest like it is, bearing your teeth and hissing at him from across the room about too much, too fast, slow down, you don't even know his last name—
(“Riley,” he grouses, arms folded over his broad chest. Eyes burning in the cresting twilight. “S’your last name now as well, pet.”)
Fast—sure. He might think so too for a brief moment when he as you purring against his chest, submissive and docile after he fucked the fight right out of you, bullied you into agreeing to everything—it's for the best, after all. No one could ever protect you like he can.
Made for each other. Reinforced when he presses your fingers to the soft spot where his last rib once hung—
(“stole it,” he murmurs into the seam of your lips. “right from under my nose. only fair that i get to steal somethin’ right back, ain't it?”
the look on your face is rapturous when you press your hand to your side, eyes widening when you feel the extra rung—)
He's had decades of waiting. Waiting. And now that he's found you—
He's never letting go.
You're it, he knows. Feels the certainty in that statement simmering in his hindbrain, in his essence. He'll have you—now, forever. Non-negotiable. Where you go, he will follow.
(after all, there's something about three-headed dogs and their bones—)
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Heatwave
The hot weather triggers your heat unexpectedly, but your Alpha Sukuna takes good care of you.
Pairing: Alpha!Sukuna x Omega!Reader (female)
Genre: smut + fluff, omegaverse
Word Count: 5.5k
Warnings: 18+, smut, omegaverse, going into heat, oral, breeding, knotting, praise, biting. Reader is contemplating getting pregnant in the future. Reader and Sukuna are mates. Reader is on birth control but still goes into heat. This is a modern AU. All characters are of age. This story is 18+. Minors don't interact.
Part two of my Heatwave Summer Series
It happens while you're at work. Suddenly, the air in your office feels too hot, almost suffocating. It's as if the heatwave that's holding the city in its chokehold those last few days is finally winning. But one look at the a/c tells you that it is still running at full power. You shouldn't feel so hot. Something is wrong. And it has nothing to do with the air conditioning in the SHRINE Group's fancy downtown office.
A strong wave of dizziness hits you, making you knock your coffee cup over, spilling its contents all over your desk. You curse and hastily get up to grab some paper tissues, only to clutch the desk tightly as a strong wave of nausea washes over you. You feel feverish, your pulse is fluttering. And then there is this throbbing. Your eyes widen.
You know these symptoms.
But it's not the right time! You cannot be in heat! Please, not now, not here at work!
Usually, your heat cycle is under control, and you can plan ahead, take your heat-leave from work, and get comfortable at home in your nest.
But an unexpected heat throws you into chaos. You cannot stay here! You need...
You are out the door in a heartbeat, swaying on unsteady feet but making your way hastily down the hallway towards the large door of the CEO's office, where he is.
Your husband, your mate, your Alpha.
Sukuna.
You are instinctively drawn to him, your mind and body screaming to see him and throw yourself into his strong arms and let him take care of you.
His assistant, Uraume, says something to you, but you cannot make sense of their words. All you know right now is that something is very wrong and that the only one who can make it right again is Sukuna. Before Uraume can stop you, you have already yanked open the door to the CEO's office.
Sukuna is sitting at his luxurious desk, looking as flawless as ever. The only sign that he acknowledges the unusual temperatures is that he has removed his suit jacket and is now in his dark red dress shirt, but his black tie is still perfectly in place.
You gulp when you see how the shirt accentuates his broad figure, hugging his buff muscles deliciously, showing how impressive he is. Not just any Alpha. Sukuna is THE Alpha in this city. Powerful, dominant, attractive, and intelligent. Deadly towards his rivals but caring towards you.
He sits in his leather chair as if it were his throne, oozing confidence and power. Tall and muscular, pink hair styled perfectly, combed back over his undercut, filigree black tattoos decorating his beautiful face enticingly.
His chin rests on the back of his left hand, next to the glittering wedding ring that shows he belongs to you.
His beautiful maroon eyes snap to the door, with a dangerous glint in them upon getting disturbed. But that expression melts into a soft one when Sukuna sees who entered his office. He smirks and raises one eyebrow.
"Oh, darling. Did you miss me?"
But his teasing manner gets replaced by a worried expression when he sees the feverish state you are in.
Sukuna is by your side only a second later, wrapping his strong arms around you and pulling you against his broad chest. He is always so protective of his mate. You snuggle against him gratefully, pushing your nose against your Alpha's shirt, inhaling his comforting scent as you cling to him.
Sukuna's face presses lightly against the side of your neck, sniffing you, too. His breath brushes over your skin, and suddenly, Sukuna tenses up against you. His arms tighten their hold around you, and a low growl escapes his lips,
"You are in heat."
Before you even know what's happening, Sukuna has already grabbed his suit jacket from his chair and holds it out for you,
"Put this on, sweetheart. Let's get you home."
He gently puts the jacket over your shoulders, wrapping you in his scent while leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your neck. You almost sob in relief.
Sukuna's right hand comes to rest on the small of your back, and he gently but firmly steers you towards the door. You pass his assistant's desk, who hurries to get up, but Sukuna makes them stop with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Uraume, I will be out of the office for the rest of the day. Probably tomorrow, too. Please re-schedule all my appointments."
He keeps you in front of him while you walk down the hallway towards the elevator. The strong Alpha protecting his mate. Shielding your back, pressing his tall and muscular body against you.
No one would be crazy enough to dare approach Sukuna's omega, yet he never lets his guard down when it comes to you. The thought makes your heart ache with how much you love him.
There are some curious glances coming from some of your coworkers that you pass in the hallway, but Sukuna growls at them in a deadly calm voice,
"Get back to work. If I catch anyone so much as breathing in her scent, you are fired."
Your heart and your pussy throb for him.
You make it to the elevator and down to the underground parking space, where Sukuna helps you gently into his car.
You sound a bit hysterical when you say,
"I... I don't understand what is going on, Kuna. It's much too soon for my heat to start. And it feels... it feels different. Stronger somehow. It doesn't feel right!"
But Sukuna's voice is calm, velvety like a warm caress, instantly soothing your nerves,
"I have heard of cases where a sudden climate change triggered a heat. Maybe the current heatwave is to blame for this. Don't worry, my love. I am going to look after you."
He smiles his most charming smile at you. His large hand cups your cheek and caresses it lovingly, soothing you and reassuring you that things will be okay.
You smile at him gratefully,
"Thank you, Kuna. But you have that important meeting with the Infinity Group in an hour. I feel bad that I am keeping you from work..."
Sukuna huffs and shakes his head,
"It doesn't matter, darling. Uraume can re-schedule it. You will always be more important to me than work or anything else. I am your Alpha and your mate. I provide for you. I take care of you at all times. And now, lean back and try to relax while I drive us home so I can take proper care of you."
His beautiful maroon eyes glitter as he brings your hand to his lips, kissing the back of it tenderly while he fixes you with a gaze that holds so much fierceness and intensity that it leaves no room for doubt.
This is a command from your Alpha, and you will obey.
His words make something primal in you come alive. A soft moan escapes your lips, and your legs press together automatically as the all-too-familiar throbbing in your core flares up at your Alpha's words.
Yes, you need him to take proper care of you. You need him to breed you, to stuff you full of his Alpha cock and his hot seed.
You whine as you feel your slick coating your pussy lips, drenching your panties and probably the fine leather seat beneath you, too.
But you manage a nod and let out a long breath as you lean back in your seat and snuggle even deeper into Sukuna's suit jacket, burying your nose in the collar of it and breathing in your Alpha's scent deeply while Sukuna turns up the a/c and backs out of the parking space.
The moment you step into your penthouse apartment, you feel relief wash over you. Yes, this feels right. This is where you are supposed to be today. Here in your home, in your nest, where everything is safe and smells like your mate.
You feel a sob finding its way out of your lips as you slump against the wall.
The cool air-conditioned air of the apartment should feel good on your skin. It should help you cool down again. But it doesn't. This form of heat cannot be tamed. You still need so much more.
Your legs press together involuntarily as you feel another violent throbbing between your thighs, even more intense than the last one. A deep craving so feral that it cannot be silenced. Your panties are wet with your slick. They stick to your swollen pussy uncomfortably.
Your body is preparing itself for your Alpha. Slicked-up cunt, wet and hot, ready to get mounted and stuffed full of a big knot and generous amounts of seed.
The thought alone is enough to make you tremble. You need your Alpha, your mate, your husband. You need Sukuna. You need his strong arms around you, need his soothing low voice, need the comfort of his buff body against you, his firm muscles under your hands, and the bliss of his knot deep inside your aching cunt.
You shudder with arousal when he steps up to you, caging you between his beefy body and the wall. His strong arms wrap around you, steadying you and enveloping you in your mate's familiar, intoxicating scent.
Sukuna smells of cherry blossoms and smoke and a warm, rich flavor that you associate with a deep red color, like love, passion, red wine and autumn leaves. Warm and sexy, comforting like home, and powerful like a wildfire burning down whole cities in its way.
He leans down to press his face against your neck, breathing you in deeply, finally allowing himself to let go now that you are in your shared home. A low growl escapes his mouth as his lips caress your skin.
"Fuck. Your scent drives me crazy. My sweet little omega needs me so bad."
You can only whine in response, helplessly getting swallowed by the primal instinct that always takes hold of you during your heat. You aren't in control anymore. From now on, it's raw instinct. The primal need to get bred.
Your hands cling to Sukuna's muscular back as you press yourself needily against your Alpha's tall, strong body. You can smell his need for you, the scent of his arousal so musky and thick and seductive that it makes your head spin. His hardness is pressing against you through his suit pants, cock already swelling for you, filling for his omega that needs to get mounted and stuffed full of a big Alpha cock.
It's how nature intended it. An omega in heat and a strong Alpha to take care of them.
And your Alpha is the strongest Alpha you ever encountered. Powerful and dominant like no other. So dedicated to providing for you, to take care of you.
Sukuna claims your lips with a heated and passionate kiss, pushing you against the wall, making you moan needily into his mouth as he licks into you with hungry, deep strokes of his tongue. But the kiss only lasts for a moment, and you whine at the loss of Sukuna's mouth on yours when he pulls away with one last open-mouthed flick of his tongue against yours.
You feel feverish with need as your Alpha drops to his knees in front of you. A sight that always leaves you breathless. To see this powerful man on his knees for you. On his knees for his mate, for his wife. He looks up at you with glimmering maroon eyes and that typical sexy smirk on his handsome face.
You exhale shakily, but it comes out as a growl as your instincts take over, your heat making you a victim of your body's most primal urge.
"A.. Alpha.. please...I need you...aah ah. Kuna..."
"I got you, darling. I'll take good care of you, my love."
Sukuna's voice is so low and sexy that it makes your pussy twitch with need, overflowing with your creamy slick. His large hands land on your thighs, steadying you, fixing you to the wall, strong fingers that leave bruises on their way, but it's what you need in those moments. Getting marked and claimed by your Alpha.
You shudder under his touch, your body instantly reacting to your Alpha's loving hands. A thin rivulet of slick is slowly running down your left thigh, feeling cold on your heated skin when the air-conditioned air lands on it.
But the chilly feeling gets replaced by the velvety warmth of Sukuna's tongue. He growls in the back of his throat while he catches your creamy slick with his tongue, slowly following the trail up your thigh, licking it off your skin, making you moan and tremble, almost coming undone.
Your hands reach out blindly to tangle in Sukuna's soft pink hair, tugging desperately on it, pulling him needily to where you need him the most. To that throbbing wild ache between your legs. But Sukuna is already one step ahead of you. His large, strong hands run up your thigh, slipping under your skirt and pushing it up to reveal your soaked-through panties to his intense gaze.
You whimper when you see the hunger in your Alpha's eyes. He desires you just as much as you desire him.
A second later, Sukuna's beautiful face is pressed against your drenched lace panties, his soft lips attached to your puffy clit, sucking it through the thin fabric. Your hips buck and a feral-sounding cry falls from your lips as your head falls back against the wall with a soft thud.
You push your wet heat needily against Sukuna's face, tugging on his hair, moaning his name so loud and desperately that you would be ashamed under other circumstances. But today, your most primal instincts have taken hold of you, and you cannot be bothered to care about how horny you sound.
A tearing sound is heard. Sukuna ripped your panties off you, exposing your soaked, puffy cunt to his hungry eyes, making both of you growl, filling the penthouse with your mating calls.
Sukuna pushes his nose between your pussy lips, making it rub over your sensitive, swollen clit, drawing another loud, needy moan from your lips.
You are hypnotized by the sight of your Alpha rubbing his pretty face against your pussy, smearing your cream over his gorgeous features, and watching you while he does so with desire and love clearly visible in his maroon eyes.
It's so messy. You are so messy, pussy overflowing with slick, clearly in a full-blown heat, luring your Alpha in with your scent, demanding his seed, his knot, his pups. It's pure primal need at this point. A state that leaves you a horny, needy mess every time.
Sukuna buries his face between your spread legs, growling lowly. Your head spins when you see him take a deep breath, inhaling your scent hungrily.
"You smell so good, darling. I'm going to breed you all night."
His voice is low, dripping with sex and arousal and dominance. His tongue flicks over your wet clit, making your legs give away. But Sukuna's hands hold you in their firm grip, pushing you against the wall and fixing you there as his tongue moves through your slicked-up folds, tasting you, drinking you. He pushes his long, hot tongue into you, eliciting a cry from you as your eager pussy twitches wildly around his muscle.
But it's not enough to satisfy the craving you feel. You need his cock. You need his hot seed filling you until you are so full of it that you are overflowing.
Your Alpha knows this, of course. Before you can beg him for more, Sukuna is already back on his feet again, towering over you so tall and big, growling in the back of his throat as he looks at you with a fire in his eyes and a massive bulge in his black slacks.
He swoops you up into his buff arms, making you whimper with need. You can't help but feel your pulse flutter at how small you feel in the arms of this huge Alpha. He is such a beast, so strong, so big. And he is so dedicated to fuck you right. To fuck your heat away.
"I'll take care of you, my sweet little omega-wife. Your Alpha's gonna take good care of you."
You nod feverishly, feeling the sweat run down your back and more slick coating your swollen pussy lips as Sukuna carries you princess style to the bedroom, one large hand slipping between your legs to play with your pussy, caressing it tenderly, fucking you slowly with this thick thumb, taking care of you until you can get his big Alpha cock to satisfy your need.
Your hands run over his muscular chest, needily clawing at his clothes in your desperation to feel your Alpha's skin on yours.
He smiles when he places you carefully on the King-sized bed. It is a display of power, proving just how powerful of an Alpha Sukuna is that he is able to stay in control even when his omega is in heat and exuding pheromones that make Sukuna's cock throb.
His touch is firm and sure when he undresses you, removing your clothes until you are completely naked, every inch of your skin brimming with need and lust, your needy cunt oozing slick onto the silk bedding, begging to get touched by your Alpha.
You feel feverish as you watch your husband get undressed, taking off his tie and unbuttoning his dress shirt, revealing more and more of his tattoed skin and firm muscles.
He pushes down his slacks and black boxer briefs to reveal his Alpha cock to your hungry gaze, resting thick and strong against his taut abs. A fat vein is pulsating gorgeously on the underside, and two black rings are tattoed around the thick base to show Sukuna's status as a powerful Alpha. His cock stands rock-hard, leaking milky pre-cum. His balls are taut and round, heavy with his precious seed that contains the antidote to your ache.
A desperate sob escapes your lips. Your chest heaves with your excited breaths, almost hyperventilating in your need for Sukuna.
Your legs are already spread, and you pull them to your chest, instinctively presenting yourself to the powerful Alpha in front of you, presenting him your breedable cunt, wet and needy. Ready to get claimed by his fat cock.
Your breath hitches in your throat as Sukuna's glittering gaze lands on you, a smirk lifting the corners of his lips as he takes in your naked, willing body, so wild for him and his knot.
He slowly walks over to the bed, maroon eyes watching you hungrily. Like a predator stalking his prey, the big bad wolf who is about to take his victim. A very willing victim, though. His mate, with a scar in the shape of his canines on your neck, with a wedding band on your ring finger, with a wet cunt that aches for his knot.
He is your man. Your Alpha. There could never be another for you. You are Sukuna's for life.
You submit to him eagerly when he crawls over you, naked and muscular, with his buff muscles and black tattoos fully on display for your love-drunk eyes. So big and strong on top of you. Your Alpha. Your mate. Your whole world.
He smiles at you while his maroon eyes glimmer with that fire they always get when he is about to mount you and fuck your heat away.
His lips catch yours in a deep kiss, tongue licking sensually into your mouth, making your pussy twitch and your hands run needily up and down his broad, muscular back. His thick mushroom tip drips his hot pre-cum onto your belly, making you hiss into the kiss with need.
Sukuna flicks his tongue against yours once more before he pulls away to grin at you,
"Turn around, darling. On your stomach, like a good girl. I want to breed you right. You need me extra deep in you today, don't you, omega?"
But your mind is too blurry to answer him. It doesn't matter, though, because Sukuna is there to take control. To take care of you. His large, strong hands are already grabbing your hips and flipping you over on your stomach, so dominant, so strong, but so gentle and loving at the same time.
You keen into the silk pillow underneath your face that smells of your Alpha, lifting your ass needily for him, offering yourself to him, begging to get mated and knotted.
You are in good hands with Sukuna. In the best hands. He is the most powerful Alpha of this city, or maybe even of this whole country. And he fucks you like the natural leader that he is.
He pushes your thighs apart, lowering his beefy body on top of you, pressing you down into the mattress, offering the comfort of his heavy weight on top of you.
He rolls his hips against you, making his thick, wet cockhead slap your puffy clit several times before it catches on your slicked-up hole, making you writhe beneath him in your horny need to get taken by your Alpha.
You cry loudly into the pillow when Sukuna snaps his hips and buries his fat cock deep inside your needy cunt with one powerful thrust.
You orgasm the moment he is sheaved fully inside you, pussy twitching needily around him, slick gushing over him, welcoming him with the first orgasm of many, milking his fat cock wildly, begging for his fertile seed to fill you. Begging him to fuck his pups into you.
Your hands claw helplessly at the silk pillow as you try to get more of your man, lifting your ass and pressing against him, moaning and crying, face wet with tears while you sob and whine for his cock and his seed and his knot.
"More...please...Alpha...more...oh god...Sukuna!!"
But your Alpha is there for you, soothing you. Dominant and strong. Sukuna leans down to kiss your neck, resting even more of his weight on you. One of his large hands captures both your wrists in his firm grip and fixes them above your head, restraining you effortlessly, stopping your desperate movements.
You sob in relief, feeling so taken care of with your Alpha's buff body on top of you, restraining you, anchoring you on his cock.
The headboard of your bed thumps rhythmically against the wall as Sukuna fucks you into the mattress with deep, hard strokes of his big Alpha cock. He is so deep inside you, rutting into your needy, wet cunt with his powerful thrusts, mounting you hard and unrelentingly.
He knows exactly what his omega needs. Knows how to breed you the right way to fuck you through your heat.
His big Alpha cock makes you squeal and cry with lust as he fucks orgasm after orgasm out of you. Sukuna growls against your neck, low and sexy, making your head spin. He sounds so hot. So full of primal need, too.
Your cunt clenches greedily around his fat Alpha cock when you feel him cum for the first time, filling you with the first thick load of his hot seed. You're crying as you milk him eagerly, taking all his precious, fertile seed deep into you, your body so eager to carry his pups.
Sharp teeth graze over your skin, and then Sukuna bites your neck and marks you up again, right where he left his first mark on you when he mated you and made you his for life. His name falls from your lips in a needy moan.
Sukuna's hips move rhythmically, rutting into you with savage, deep thrusts. His cock is stroking all the right places inside you, and his heavy balls full of seed smack wetly against your pussy with every powerful thrust, loud and wet, spreading your slick everywhere. It's drooling out of your cunt and onto his balls, making a mess on his cock and the bed, getting fucked back into you with every hard snap of your Alpha's hips.
It drives you wild. You are lost in your heat, growling and whining for your strong Alpha to fuck all the madness away.
And Sukuna does just that. He always makes everything feel right again. He always takes all the chaos and turns it into something he has under control. So dominant, so strong. He is the master of your heat.
Sukuna fucks you for hours without any sign of weakness. His cock stays rock hard all the time, swollen and thick, so perfect for filling you and making you cum again and again until you are so exhausted that you tremble weakly under his muscular body. But you know you don't have to do anything. You have Sukuna to take care of you.
He gives you anything you need. His cock, his seed, his love.
His low, velvety voice is so sexy when he leans down to whisper in your ear while he humps your soaking wet pussy slowly,
"Yeah, like that, my sweet thing. Taking your Alpha's seed so well. You would carry my pups so well. You are such a good omega for me."
You whine loudly, trying to reply to him, but at this point, you are just a babbling mess, crying and sobbing, trying desperately to get even more of Sukuna, even though you are already stuffed to the hilt with his thick Alpha cock, your cunt overflowing with his hot cum.
But Sukuna knows what you need. Of course, he does. You don't have to tell him.
"Shhh. I know, sweetheart. I know. I got you. Relax, my love."
His voice is soothing, full of dominance and love, and you feel his soft, warm lips caress your neck tenderly right over your mating mark before they press a lingering kiss to it.
"I'll give you my knot. I'll give you all of me."
He bucks his hips, pushing his thick cock as deep into your slick cunt as possible, stuffing you with it, and pressing you down into the bed with his weight. And then you feel it. The stretch.
The swelling at the base of Sukuna's cock is growing steadily, stretching your pussy around his growing knot. He is so huge, so powerful, the Alpha of all Alphas, and that shows in his size.
You always struggle to take all of him, to take his massive knot. But you crave it tonight. You need it desperately. You need to be claimed fully by your Alpha. You need to be plugged with Sukuna's fat knot for hours, keeping all his hot seed inside your aching omega cunt that's begging for his pups.
Sukuna trails kisses over your neck, soothing you, helping you relax. He lets go of your wrists, so he can massage your puffy clit, helping you become loose for his huge knot.
"It's ok, my love. Just let go. I'm gonna knot you so good."
You whine, eyes rolling back in bliss when you feel his fat knot swell even more, filling you so completely. You're his. You're Sukuna's. You aren't going anywhere. Even if you wanted to, you couldn't run from him. He has you on his knot, and your whole body is covered by his buff, muscular body. It's perfect. It makes you feel so taken care of. So loved.
Sukuna groans, moaning your name softly, praising you for being such a good omega for him and letting him knot you. His large hands come up to cover the backs of your much smaller hands, interlacing his fingers with yours.
Hot tears of bliss run down your cheeks and into the silk pillow beneath you. You are surrounded by Sukuna. He is your whole world. He is all you know in those frantic moments of primal fucking. His big muscular body feels so perfect on top of you, his fat knot plugging your twitching cunt, keeping all his warm seed deep inside your aching cunt. His enticing, musky Alpha scent is everywhere, filling your nostrils, making your head spin from the love you feel for him.
This is the closest you can be to someone. Knotted by your Alpha. Completely giving yourself to him, submitting to him entirely, trusting him with everything. You sob Sukuna's name, your voice so full of love and devotion, mumbling incoherently as your head spins and your pussy throbs around his huge, swollen knot.
And he humps you slowly, as much as his fat knot allows. Slow, gentle thrusts that make his swollen cockhead rub your sweet spot, fucking you into a state of complete bliss. He growls praise into your ear every time you orgasm on his knot, telling you how good you are for him.
This is where you want to stay forever. Here in your bed, in your nest, where Sukuna mates you, fucks you, claims you over and over again. Where he cums in you over and over again, filling you with rope after rope of his hot seed while he growls your name and groans in your ear.
Your orgasms become more gentle with time, building up slowly only to make you cry in relief when they wash over you, so good, so intense that you feel like you are floating. You shudder around your Alpha's cock, whining his name and milking him with your convulsing pussy, taking all his thick loads of Alpha seed into your needy cunt.
It's dark by now. Only the moonlight and the city lights outside your window illuminate the bedroom, but you and Sukuna remain in your mating position. His thick Alpha cock and knot stuffing your omega cunt, your bodies pressing tightly against each other. Your movements grow slower, and loud growls and cries of pleasure turn into soft moans and whispered words of love. After a while, Sukuna rolls the two of you onto the side, pulling the blanket over you, getting more comfortable. But he keeps you on his cock and his knot all the time.
You sigh dreamily as Sukuna wraps you in his muscular arms, holding you tightly, kissing your neck while whispering the sweetest things to you. He is so good to you, so loving and sweet. Mating you, anchoring you, satisfying you for as long as you need.
You smile, almost delirious with happiness and love, feeling so full and taken care of.
"This is perfect. Please stay like this, Kuna. Don't go, please."
He laughs softly, sounding warm and full of love.
"I'm not going anywhere, my love. I am not leaving when my darling needs me so bad. I have all day and night to knot you and fill you with my seed. I love you, baby."
He cups your chin with one of his large hands and tilts your head back to capture your lips in a deep, hungry kiss while his Alpha cock pulses another load of hot cum into you. Sukuna's lips are soft against yours, his tongue stroking yours tenderly. Deep, passionate kisses that grow calmer eventually, turning into slow, sensual caresses.
You stay like that the whole night.
Sukuna lets you have his knot for hours. The sun is already rising again over the city, bathing the skyscrapers in its warm golden light, when the swell of Sukuna's knot slowly starts to subside.
He finally slips out of you, but not without kissing you tenderly, making sure you know he is still there for you. He's such a caring mate. Such a good Alpha.
You smile at Sukuna when he gets up from the bed. His warm maroon gaze meets yours, and he grins at you, making you marvel at how beautiful he is, with his buff muscles and filigree tattoos, with the soft expression on his gorgeous face, his half-hard cock still glistening from your slick and his seed while the sun rises behind him outside the floor to ceiling windows of your penthouse.
Sukuna picks up the shirt he abandoned on the floor yesterday and hands it to you.
"Here, sweetheart, something for your nest. Get cozy while I get breakfast for you."
You sigh happily as you snuggle into your bed, holding Sukuna's shirt tightly and inhaling his comforting scent. You feel so content, so calm, and so loved. Wrapped in your Alpha's scent, filled with his cum, and marked by his teeth. Just like it should be.
A wave of gratefulness washes over you. You are so lucky to have Sukuna as your mate, as your Alpha. He is so strong and caring, always loving and breeding you right.
You are on birth control, so his seed won't take. But you catch yourself thinking that maybe one day, you will have Sukuna's pups. Maybe soon, it'll be time to give this world a few more strong Alphas like him.
AAAAHHH ALPHA SUKUNA DRIVES ME FERAL 💗😭 This story became much longer than intended. But I cannot be blamed. I am just a little omega, and naturally, Alpha Sukuna makes me lose control A LOT lmaooo.
I hope you enjoyed this story and that Alpha Sukuna could comfort you with his dominant and caring nature ;)
Thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs would be very sweet!
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