MORELAND.

ten steps from falling to this moon.

[loweland]

Lowe Moreland, pack leader and werewolf from Ali Hazelwood's Bride written by Mackie. They/them, 21+. Affiliated with @mireasa and incorporating multiple sources of werewolf media. Based in a modern world, but open to AUs.

Rules.

[mireasa-deactivated20250827]

Awareness  of  his  attention,    and  thus  his  wakefulness,    does  not  keep  her  from  trying  to  be  careful.    It’s  not  too  early  for  him  on  a  typical  day,    but  she  won’t  begrudge  him  rest  even  if  he  begrudges  himself.    Whatever  his  previous  intentions  do  not,    in  her  eyes,    get  held  against  him.    She  isn’t  disappointed;    if  anything,    she’s  relieved  he  slept  and  knows  he  likely  wouldn’t  have  had  he  fulfilled  his  own  self  -  appointed  demands.    Still,    she  knows  before  he’s  even  spoken  his  apology  that  he  harbors  regret  for  what  he  perceives  as  a  slight  against  her.    Misery’s  simply  delighted  to  have  a  moment  of  his  time–  alone,    just  the  two  of  them.  

❝    Stop  it,    ❞  she  says,    hushed.    Manhandled  and  pinned,    she  can’t  find  it  in  her  to  be  put  out  even  a  little  bit.    Instead,    she  wiggles  further  beneath  him  until  she  can  catch  his  thigh  between  hers,    the  warmth  of  his  body  soothing  her  own  chilly  core  temp.    Lowe’s  bare  chest  drags  against  the  fabric  of  the  shirt  she’d  stolen  from  his  drawer  and  Misery  makes  a  soft  noise  in  the  back  of  her  throat  when  the  coarse  hair  on  his  face  tickles  her  neck.    ❝    You  needed  it.    I  mean,    ❞  drawing  her  nails  up  his  arm,    shoulder,    nape  drags  a  rumble  from  beneath  his  sternum  that  she  can  feel  against  hers,    ❝    I  could  hear  you  snoring  from  across  the  house.    Clearly  you  needed  it.    ❞

[loweland]

“Don’t brush off what I’m saying to you, Misery.” There is a sternness to his voice that speaks to the years spent in his pack taking care of others and knowing that the expectation of heeding him will always be met with excellence. It isn’t arrogance. But he knows better than to expect that sort of obedience from his wife, knows better than to think it’s disrespectful on her part. Lowe isn’t sure she’s ever been apologized to in her entire life which is a damn shame given that he’s never known anyone who deserves as many apologies as she does. He’s not sure he’s the first but he sure as fuck won’t be just another person who’s failed to care for her. “I told you that I’d switch to your schedule for the weekend and I didn’t. I’m sorry. Let me apologize.”

She’s all sharp angles and smooth, cool skin. Lowe swipes a hand slow and deliberate down the curve of her side until he gets to the end of her purloined shirt where it sits midthigh on her, his fingers slipping past the hem to hook into the waistband of her panties. His other arm is still caught between the bed and her back, holding her against him. “Across the house, hm?” Her blood pulses unhurriedly beneath her skin, no too-active heartbeat keeping her alive, but he hears her stuttered breath when he opens his mouth to bite the juncture of skin between her throat and shoulder. Not too hard. Just enough of a warning. “Should’ve woke me up. Then we could’ve talked about what I need, if you were so worried.”

[loweland]

If she’s making an effort at quiet, she fails spectacularly. The tread of her feet might have been quiet though and still her scent would have woken him. Her proximity alone stirs his blood. It’s dark until he opens his eyes just enough to see the deep hue of the early morning sky, purple which will become pink which will become blue, and Lowe squints in confusion for a moment. Wasn’t it just evening? Seeking the time on his nightstand disabuses his understanding, but his disorientation lingers even when guilt burns in the back of his throat, along the breadth of his shoulders, down the long line of his spine. It is not soothed even when his wife at last stumbles onto her side of the bed.

“Misery.” Rolling onto his stomach brings him closer to the center of the mattress, closer to her, and he uses that momentum to catch her around the waist with his arm. She’s barely tugged the sheet over her legs before he’s tucked her halfway beneath his body, wedged snugly so the bony press of her nearest hip is against his. @mireasa smells like everything he’s always wanted and not enough like him so he slots his nose at her jugular and nuzzles. “Mmm. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sleep.” There’s a sketchpad somewhere at the foot of the bed, charcoal on the ground on his side, abandoned just as soon as he’d drifted off, apparently the night before. That sin sits uncomfortably in his bones.

[night-dawn-day]

Raze in Underworld (2003) and Underworld: Rise of the Lycans (2009)

Requested by @taintedrebel​​