horn care • slow hands • learning softness without fear
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He does not understand what you are doing at first.
You don’t approach him like you usually do. There is no settling beside him, no quiet touch, no familiar rhythm to it. Instead, you gather things. Water warmed just enough to steam faintly in the den’s cooler air. Cloth. Oil. Something that smells clean in a way that doesn’t belong to the forest.
He watches you the entire time.
Not suspicious.
But confused.
“What is that for?” he asks eventually, voice low, gaze following the way you move, the way you prepare something he doesn’t recognize.
“For you,” you answer simply.
That doesn’t help.
His brow furrows slightly, his body stilling as you step closer, as you set everything down within reach, as you look at him like you’ve already decided this is happening.
“I don’t need anything,” he says.
You don’t argue.
You just gesture.
“Sit.”
He hesitates.
Not because he refuses.
Because he doesn’t understand.
But he does it anyway.
Slowly, he lowers himself in front of you, large and heavy against the stone, his movements controlled in that careful way he uses when he doesn’t want to break something. His eyes stay on you the entire time, tracking every shift, every motion of your hands.
“You’re going to let me help you,” you say, softer now.
A pause.
Then, quieter, “You’re not going to like it if I have to force it.”
That makes something shift.
Not resistance.
Something closer to reluctant acceptance.
“I’m not a thing you fix,” he mutters.
“I’m not fixing you,” you answer. “I’m taking care of you.”
That stops him.
He doesn’t respond right away.
But he doesn’t move away either.
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You start with his horns.
That is the part that matters most.
Your hand lifts slowly, giving him time to react, to pull away if he wants to. He goes still the moment you get close, his entire body locking in that familiar way, not aggressive, but aware. Focused.
“You’re going to have to trust me,” you murmur.
“I do,” he answers immediately.
That surprises you.
It surprises him too.
You don’t comment on it.
You just touch him.
Carefully.
Your fingers settle against the base of his horn first, where it meets him, where it’s more sensitive than he would ever admit. You feel the slight shift in his breathing, the way his shoulders tense for a second before he forces them to relax again.
“This might feel strange,” you say.
“It already does.”
There’s no bite in it.
Just honesty.
You dampen the cloth, slow and deliberate, and begin to clean along the curve of his horn. Dirt, old marks, the remnants of time spent in the wild come away under your hands, revealing the darker, smoother surface beneath.
He doesn’t move.
Not even when your fingers trace along the ridges, not even when you get closer to the tips, not even when you return to the base again, more careful there, more deliberate.
His breathing changes.
Slower.
Deeper.
“You’ve never done this before,” he says after a while.
“No one’s ever let me,” you reply.
Another pause.
His head dips slightly.
Just a fraction.
Like he’s making it easier for you.
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When you move to his face, he tenses again.
Not as sharply this time.
But enough.
“Stay still,” you tell him gently.
“I am still.”
“You’re thinking too much.”
That earns a low sound from him, something close to a huff, but he doesn’t argue.
Your hands are slower here.
More careful.
You clean the dirt from his skin, from the edges of old scars, from places he has never paid attention to because they never mattered before. He watches you at first, his gaze heavy, tracking every movement.
Then, gradually, his eyes lower.
Not closed.
But not as sharp.
“You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs.
“I want to.”
That lands differently.
You can feel it in the way his posture shifts, the way some of the tension leaves him, the way his shoulders drop just slightly as he lets you continue without questioning it again.
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By the time you’re finished, he is quieter.
Not just in the way he always is.
Different.
Grounded.
You step back slightly, looking at him, taking in the small changes, the way the light catches on his horns now, cleaner, the way his skin looks less worn, less marked by the outside.
He notices you looking.
“What?” he asks.
“You look taken care of,” you say.
He frowns slightly at that.
“I was fine before.”
“I know.”
A pause.
Then, softer, “You’re still allowed to be taken care of.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
His hand shifts slightly, like he’s going to reach for you, then stops, then tries again. This time, it settles lightly against your arm, not gripping, not pulling, just there.
Careful.
“You stayed close the whole time,” he says, quieter now.
“I told you I would.”
Another pause.
His thumb shifts slightly against your arm, a small, absent movement.
“You can do it again,” he adds after a moment.
Like it costs him something to say it.
Like he didn’t mean to.
You smile, just a little.
“I know.”
And this time, when you sit beside him, he leans just slightly closer than before.
Pookieeeee, how are you? Thank you so much for being mutual with me, I feel honored and happy, I'm sending you nothing but love and happiness ❤️🩷✨️✨️✨️🌸
im gooood pookie, jus juggling 46 hour work weeks and answering all my inboxes (lowkey doe, the inbox ish makes the working worth it KEKEK)
ofccc !!! and tysmmm i send to you toooo
What does daily life look like for thalos?? I'm also curious how you imagine his appearance :3 I love your writing🩷🩷🩷
heyyy lovely !! just posted these for you!!! here’s the master list link, daily life is on there and appearance is the second red heart next to character sheet
mass and presence • strength layered thick • something the world was not built to hold
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His appearance is not something you get used to quickly.
Even with time, even with familiarity, there are moments where you look at him and remember exactly what he is.
He is massive.
Not just tall, though he towers easily over anything around him, but wide, solid, built like something that was never meant to be moved once it settled into place. His body carries weight in a way that speaks of strength first, power layered under everything else.
His stomach is thick, heavy, not soft in the way of weakness, but dense, solid, shifting with his breath, with his movement, with the way he settles. It is not separate from his strength. It is part of it. Built from it.
His chest is broad, covered in coarse fur that runs thicker along his shoulders and down his arms, dark and uneven, marked in places by old scars that never fully faded. His arms are large enough to make everything he touches look smaller, his hands calloused, worn, built for force but used with more care than expected.
His horns draw attention first.
Large. Dark. Curving forward with weight and presence. They are not smooth. They carry marks, scratches, places where something tried to damage them and failed. Up close, you can see the texture, the wear, the age in them.
They are not decoration.
They are part of him.
His face carries something familiar, but not fully human.
The structure is there, but heavier, sharper, his jaw stronger, his features pulled into something older, something that does not belong to anything soft or fragile. His eyes are deep, red in low light, glowing faintly when something stirs in him, when instinct rises, when control slips just enough to show what sits underneath.
But around you, they change.
They soften.
Not completely.
But enough.
His body runs warm.
Always.
Heat settles into everything he touches, into the space around him, into you when you stay close long enough. His scent is constant, something earthy, something alive, something that never fully leaves the den.
And when he moves, you feel it.
The ground shifts slightly. The air changes. The space around him reacts, even when he is being careful, even when he is quiet.
Because even at his most controlled, his most still, his most gentle…
Thalos is still something the world was not meant to contain.
stone and routine • quiet instincts • something massive made familiar
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Daily life with Thalos is not structured in the way most would understand it.
There are no schedules. No set hours. No clear beginning or end to a day. Time moves with the light, with the heat of the den, with the rhythm of his body rather than anything external. He wakes when he needs to. He rests when his body allows it. Everything else exists around that.
But there is still a pattern.
He wakes before you more often than not.
Not suddenly. Not sharply. His awareness returns slowly, his body coming back into itself in stages, breath deep and even before his eyes open fully. The first thing he does is check for you. Not always by looking. Sometimes it is the shift of his hand, the weight of it settling more firmly against you, confirming you are still there without needing anything else.
If you are within reach, he stays.
If you are not, he gets up immediately.
There is no hesitation in that.
He moves through the den quietly in the mornings, or what passes for them, adjusting the fire, checking the perimeter without making it obvious, stepping just outside long enough to listen, to scent the air, to make sure nothing has come too close during the night.
Then he returns.
Always.
Food is not routine for him in the way it would be for anyone else. He eats when he hunts, and when he hunts, it is purposeful. There is no waste, no unnecessary movement, no prolonged chase unless something forces it. When he brings food back, it is for both of you. Even if he does not say it, even if he does not acknowledge it directly, he makes sure you are fed before he settles.
After, the den becomes quieter.
This is where most of your time exists with him.
He does not fill space with words. He sits near you, or beside you, or just within reach, his presence constant without being overbearing. Sometimes he rests, stretched out across the stone like something carved into it. Sometimes he watches you, not intensely, not sharply, just… aware.
If you move, he notices.
If you leave the den, he knows.
If you are gone longer than expected, he comes to find you.
There is no asking.
He simply does.
Touch becomes part of that routine, slowly, naturally, something that integrates itself without needing to be spoken about. A hand at your back when you pass him. His arm settling around you when you sit too close not to be held. Your fingers finding his horns or his hair when the space is quiet enough for it.
He does not initiate often.
But he never pulls away.
Evenings, or what feels like them, are softer.
The fire burns lower, the den warmer, the outside world quieter. This is when he is most still, most grounded, when the constant edge he lives on dulls just enough to let something else through.
earned trust • stillness before acceptance • something sacred made small
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It did not happen quickly.
Thalos is not built for casual touch. Not in the way others are. Every part of him is wired for reaction, for defense, for dominance or resistance. Contact, especially near his head, is not neutral to him. It is threat, challenge, or control.
The first time you stood close enough to reach his horns, he noticed.
The first time your hand lifted, he went still.
Not calm.
Not relaxed.
Still in the way something dangerous becomes when it is deciding whether to react.
Touch near his head is not something he allows. Not from anything. Not from anyone. It is instinctive, the way his body protects that space, the way his awareness sharpens the moment something enters it.
If you had moved too fast, he would have stopped you.
If you had grabbed, he would have pulled away.
If you had hesitated in fear, he would have noticed that too.
But you didn’t.
And that is why it changed.
Because you did not reach for him like he was something to control.
You reached like he was something you already understood.
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The first time is quiet.
There is no build up, no announcement, no moment where it feels like something important is about to happen.
You are close to him, standing near where he sits, the den warm, the fire low. He is relaxed, or as close to it as he gets, one arm resting loosely against his leg, his attention on you without being sharp about it.
Your hand lifts.
He notices immediately.
Of course he does.
His body stills, breath slowing, shoulders tightening just slightly. His head does not move away, but it does not lean in either. He is watching you now, fully, not with suspicion, but with awareness.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice low, not harsh, but not soft either.
“Nothing,” you answer.
That is not an answer he likes.
But he doesn’t stop you.
Your hand moves closer.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Giving him time to react.
He doesn’t.
That is the first choice.
Your fingers hover just above him, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your skin, close enough that if he wanted to pull back, he could do it easily.
He doesn’t.
That is the second.
When your hand finally makes contact, it is light.
Careful.
Not grabbing, not pressing, just resting against the top of his head, fingers barely moving at first, like you are testing something fragile.
His breath catches.
Not loudly.
But you feel it.
Every muscle in his body goes still, not tense in the way of aggression, but locked in place like he is holding himself there on purpose.
For a moment, you think he might pull away.
He doesn’t.
Your fingers move slightly, slow, dragging gently through his hair, over the base of his horns, careful of the space that matters most.
He exhales.
Long.
Deep.
It sounds different.
Not strained.
Not forced.
Something softer than anything you have heard from him before.
“You shouldn’t be that close,” he murmurs, but there is no force in it, no real warning behind the words.
“You didn’t stop me.”
A pause.
“You’re not… doing it wrong,” he says after a moment, quieter now.
That is as close as he gets to permission.
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After that, it becomes something else.
Not frequent.
Not casual.
But allowed.
At first, it only happens when you initiate it. When you choose the moment, when you close the distance, when your hand lifts and he makes that same quiet decision not to stop you.
But over time, something shifts.
He starts to position himself differently.
Closer than necessary.
Still within reach.
Sometimes when he sits beside you, his head will lower just slightly, not enough to be obvious, not enough to be acknowledged, but enough that your hand would find him easily if you chose to move it.
He never asks.
He doesn’t need to.
When your fingers touch him now, the reaction is different.
Less stillness.
Less resistance.
His shoulders ease faster, his breathing settling sooner, his body no longer locking up in that same way. Instead, he allows it. Fully. Quietly.
Sometimes, without realizing it, he leans into it.
Just slightly.
Just enough that you notice.
Just enough that he pretends he didn’t.
“You do that like you’re not afraid of me,” he says once, voice low, thoughtful, his eyes half-lidded as your fingers move slowly over his head.
“I’m not.”
Another pause.
His head dips a fraction closer.
“Good,” he answers.
And this time, when your hand stills, he doesn’t move away right away.
He stays there.
For a second longer than necessary.
Like he’s waiting.
Like he’s hoping you’ll start again.
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ok i lied i got it done wayyyy faster then i should have while at work oooopsie
In regards to the Thalos fic, can the big boy get some head pats? 🥺 How long did it take for him to be okay with physical affection/touch? What would the first time he accepted it look like?
hello my first official ask for my baby and sweetheart thalos !!! i’m actually writing a fluff chap for these questions since you’re interested !! should be up by tonight heh
chains pulled tight • your voice in his ear • control hanging by a thread
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The iron shackles twist and jangle without pause, each link alive with the promise of violence. They clatter on the stone floor with every ragged breath he draws, every twitch of muscle, every buried instinct urging him to snap the metal like brittle bone and claim what hovers just out of reach. The chains hold only because he wills them to… for now.
Thalos kneels where you left him, every breath hammering through his chest like a war drum. His arms ram against the cuffs, muscles rippling beneath taut skin, veins pulsing like storm rivers as he tests his bonds again and again, even as he tells himself not to. When he tilts his head back, his horns gouge faint scrapes into the wall. His jaw is locked so hard his teeth ache.
Then you step forward.
His head snaps down, eyes blazing, predator locked on prey. Heat ripples off his skin, the scent of sweat and raw power washing over you. He’s poised to spring, coiled anger straining at steel constraints.
“Don’t,” he rumbles, voice thick with warning and something darker, a promise of fracture. But you don’t move back. Never do.
You sink to your knees, slow as blood, closing the gap until the heat of him brushes your own skin. Close enough that his scent floods your senses; iron, sweat, barely contained fury. Still out of reach. Always out of reach.
He lunges, wrists slamming the chains, a sharp clang echoing through the den. A growl rips up his throat too deep, too frustrated to be tamed.
“I said don’t,” he breathes, words forced through clenched teeth.
You tilt your head, lips curved. Soft. Dangerous. “Or what?”
His breath stutters. His eyes narrow, darkness pooling behind the gold. He heaves forward, only to be yanked back by cold iron.
“You know,” he snarls, each syllable like molten metal. “You don’t get to pretend you don’t.”
You don’t answer. You slide forward on your knees, hand drifting along your body in a deliberate, burning tease each inch a knife twisting in his restraint. You savor the way his chest tightens, the tremor in his arms as he fights for purchase.
A low sound a half roar, half plea cuts from his throat. “Stop.”
It’s no longer a warning. It’s a broken thing, a raw request.
You halt, just for a heartbeat long enough for your breath to hitch, soft and fatal. He flinches, the chain carving marks into his wrists as he yanks again.
“That… that’s not for anything else,” he rasped, lips splitting. “You don’t… do that for anyone.”
Your gaze lifts. “I’m not.”
His control snaps. His head bows, shoulders rocking with ragged inhale. He meets your eyes like he’s drowning in them. “You’re testing me.”
“Yes.” You replied almost too easily.
He grits his teeth, every muscle coiling, straining. “You have no idea what that does. How close you’re pushing me.”
You lean in so close that if he weren’t fettered, bone and muscle would crush you. “Then tell me.”
His breath catches, a jagged sound that tears loose from his throat. “If you set me free, you can’t ask me to stop.” The words tumble out too fast, urgent, desperate: a warning veiled as confession.
You hold his gaze, unmoving. “Then don’t.”
Silence swells, thick as blood. He studies you like he’s weighing whether you understand the gamble you’re taking, the abyss you’re dangling over. His arms begin to pull again, slow, deliberate, the chain whining under the strain.
“I am holding back,” he whispers, voice low and dangerous, each word a promise of release. “Only you keep me tethered.”
You stay where you are, body still, promise unspoken but pulsing between you like static. His breath shudders; control frays at the edges. You can taste how close he is.. how close you’re letting him get.
“You need to decide,” he says at last, voice quiet, terrifying in its finality. “I won’t ask again.”
Your fingers hover. The chain rattles one last time. In that pregnant breath, everything hangs suspended on what you do next.
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The key is cold between your fingers. You thumb the ancient groove, the click of metal on metal so loud in the quiet that it’s almost obscene. Beneath your hand, the chain shivers. The cuffs gape, their teeth unclenched, and for an instant he stills, studiously not moving, as if the stone floor beneath him might vanish if he shifted his weight.
Then Thalos moves. Quick as hunger, he surges upright, the chain screaming away from his skin, a motion too fast to track all the way through one moment a beast on his knees, the next a man towering over you, heat rolling off his skin, breath shuddering in and out.
His hands catch your wrists. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just certain. He drags you forward, his body pressed flush to yours, the world narrowing to the press of flesh and the drumbeat in your ears. Closer, always closer. You feel the softness of your own lips as he finds them, lips and teeth and tongue all at once, consuming. His mouth is a warzone: his tongue slashes, bites, claims, and you find yourself opening, yielding, letting him take what he wants because you want it too.
Your back slams against the wall, the stone biting through cloth, as he cages you between his arms. His hands are everywhere. In your hair, fists tangled, tugging your head back; along your jaw, thumb bruising your cheek as he holds you in place; fingers sliding down, greedy, capturing, staking territory. The wall is cool, your body a furnace, the difference so stark it makes you gasp.
He likes the sound. You see it his eyes flicker, pupils blown wide, nostrils flaring, the taste of your gasp on his tongue. He dips his head, teeth closing on the angle of your neck, not quite breaking skin but close enough to flood your veins with shock. His hands, those impossible hands, slide up your thigh, bunching fabric, tracing the line of your hip with a single, possessive stroke.
You try to speak, to snarl something clever, but he swallows the words before they come. His tongue is everywhere, learning the shape of your mouth, the line of your teeth. You fight back, biting his lip, he groaned deep in his chest and the sound vibrates through both of you.
He wants you but more he wants to win. So you push. You dig your nails into his back, rake skin, test his patience, knowing it’s a finite resource. He shivers, the ripple of muscle beneath your hands impossible to ignore. His body is a monument, carved and scarred, and you want every inch of it.
He lifts you. Just lifts and your feet are dangling, the world dropping out beneath you as he slams you harder into the wall. You wrap your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck. His hands find your ass, grip it with bruising force, and in that moment you feel the full, terrifying strength of him. What the chains kept at bay, what is now wholly yours to command.
“Say it,” he growls, low in your ear. “Say what you want. Say what you need.”
You had never been good with surrender. The word always caught below your tongue, snagged on pride, on principle, on the old bone-shard fear that needing was a weakness the world would gnaw clean if you gave it the chance. But now, caged between wall and monster, you felt the word boiling up, molten and bright.
“I need you,” you said, and it tasted like freedom.
He laughed, a savage thing, a sound so honest it threatened to split open the world. The force of it vibrated through your ribs, made your skull sing. “That’s right,” he said, and his mouth claimed yours again, giving no quarter, taking everything.
He ground against you, the hard ridge of him pressing through layers of cloth, an impossible pressure that made your body spark and coil. His hands tore at the laces of your tunic, the fabric giving with a sound of defeat, and all the while he held you immobile with the promise of his touch. Skin prickled in the open air, nerves on fire as he bit down your neck, licking the welt after like an apology he’d never voice.
You gasped and he drank it in, tongue pushing into your mouth, demanding more. When his thigh pressed up between your legs you nearly buckled, the heat and friction so sharp it eclipsed sense. Everything narrowed to this: his hands, his mouth, the relentless grind of his body as he pinned you to the stone.
He pulled back just far enough to look down at you, his gaze wild and unsteady, pupils swimming in a corona of gold. His voice was raw: “Don’t you ever run from me again.”
He didn’t wait for your answer. His hands pushed away your bottoms, palming your ass, hiking you higher, and then his mouth was everywhere at once—throat, jaw, collar, the slope of your shoulder, biting and licking, tongue tracing sweat and salt and the iron of your skin. You writhed against him, clawed at his back, nails leaving red badges he wore like medals.
He found you slick between your thighs, his fingers moving with a gentleness that mocked the violence of the rest of him. You jerked at the first touch, a trembling shock, and he grinned, teeth bared. “Sensitive,” he murmured, voice gone velvet, and he slid a thick finger inside. You choked on the sound it pulled from you, hips stuttering, muscles clenching around the intrusion.
He worked you with the same rhythm as before, refusing to let you go, refusing to let you forget the strength of him. Each movement was measured, precise, designed to drive you up and over and up again. You felt yourself unraveling, piece by piece, and when you tried to reach for him, to anchor yourself, he only pressed you harder to the wall, holding you fast in the world he’d remade for you.
When you came, it was with a violence that shocked you, nails carving deep into his flesh, mouth biting down on his shoulder to keep from screaming. He didn’t stop, not even then, not even as your body convulsed and trembled against him.
You were in for a long night, not that you truly minded.
held too loosely • breath that won’t steady • the moment he thinks you’re gone anyway
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The den feels too large.
Not because anything has changed, not because the space is different, but because of the way he moves inside it now. Slower. Careful in a way that does not belong to him. Every step measured, every movement deliberate, like if he shifts too quickly, something fragile will break.
You are in his arms when he returns.
You never left them.
He did not set you down once, not even when the path narrowed, not even when the terrain forced him to adjust his footing. He kept you against him the entire way, held close, held steady, like the distance between you and him could not exist anymore without consequence.
He lowers you into the den with more care than he has ever used for anything in his life.
Not onto the stone directly. Not carelessly. Onto the pelts, onto the place where he rests, where the heat is strongest, where the ground is shaped to hold something without letting it slip.
“You stay with me,” he says, voice low, but it is not a command. It is something else. Something that does not leave room for anything but agreement.
You try to answer.
It doesn’t come out the way you want it to.
Your voice is too quiet. Your body too heavy. The world feels like it is drifting just slightly out of reach, like everything is still there but just beyond your grasp.
He notices immediately.
His hand is on you again, not pressing, not restraining, but constant, like he needs the contact to tell him what your body cannot.
“Look at me.”
It is sharper than before.
Not loud.
But urgent.
You try.
Your eyes lift, but they don’t hold as long as they should. The edges of your vision blur, the light in the den softening into something unfocused, and for a second, it feels easier to let them close again.
His grip tightens.
“No.”
The word is immediate.
Final.
His hand moves to your face, not rough, but firm enough that you feel it, that it grounds you in a way nothing else can right now. His thumb presses just slightly, just enough to keep your focus from slipping completely.
“You don’t do that,” he says, voice lower now, but there is something in it that was not there before. Not anger. Not even fear in the way you would expect.
Desperation.
You blink slowly, trying to steady yourself, trying to stay where you are, but your body does not listen the way it should. Everything feels distant, like you are still inside yourself but no longer fully in control of it.
“I’m tired,” you manage, the words barely forming.
“I know,” he answers immediately. “You stay awake anyway.”
Your hand shifts slightly, trying to reach for him, and he catches it before you can lose the movement entirely, pulling it into his grip, holding it tighter than before.
“You feel that?” he asks, quieter now, his voice dropping closer, like he is trying to anchor you to something solid. “You stay here. With me.”
“I’m here,” you say.
But it doesn’t sound convincing.
Not even to you.
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, his control slips just enough to show the edge of something deeper. His breathing is not steady anymore, not measured, not controlled the way it usually is. It is uneven, heavier, like he is forcing himself to stay in this moment instead of letting instinct take over.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says, but this time it sounds like something he is telling himself.
Your eyes slip again.
Just for a second.
That is all it takes.
His hand moves immediately, firmer now, not hurting, but undeniable, pulling your focus back to him, forcing you to stay present, to stay aware.
“No,” he repeats, quieter, but more certain this time. “You stay with me.”
“I’m trying,” you whisper.
“I know you are.”
His voice softens for a moment, just a fraction, but it doesn’t lose that urgency underneath. His hand shifts again, brushing along your face, your shoulder, checking, grounding, making sure you are still responding, still there.
“You don’t stop,” he continues, slower now, more deliberate. “You hear me. You don’t stop.”
Your breathing feels wrong.
Too shallow.
Too slow.
You try to pull in a deeper breath, but it doesn’t fill the way it should, and that alone is enough to make something in him tighten further.
“Breathe,” he says, and this time it is not a suggestion. It is a command, low and steady, something he can control when everything else feels like it is slipping.
You follow it.
Or try to.
Your chest rises, uneven, but it happens.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, quieter now, his voice closer, more focused. “You keep doing that. You stay with me.”
Your fingers tighten weakly in his hand.
“I’m here,” you repeat.
He leans closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, his breath steadying just enough to match yours, like he is trying to pull you into the same rhythm, to keep you anchored there with him.
“You stay,” he says again, softer now, but no less certain.
“I stay.”
The words are weaker this time.
But they are still there.
And that is enough.
For now.
He does not move away.
Does not loosen his grip.
Does not allow even the smallest space to form between you, not even for a second.
And for the first time since he found you, since he carried you back, since he realized you might still slip away from him anyway, Thalos is not thinking about anything else.
Not the forest.
Not what he destroyed to get you back.
Not anything beyond this moment.
Just you.
And the fragile, terrifying possibility that he could still lose you even after he saved you.
too quiet • too late • he finds you before the end
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
You don’t realize something is wrong until it already is.
The path to the stream is familiar, worn into memory the same way the den is, the same way his presence has become something you no longer question. The forest is quiet, but not unusually so, not enough to make you turn back, not enough to make you hesitate. The water is only a short walk away. You have done this before.
You don’t hear them approach.
There is no warning. No shift in the air that you can catch in time. Just a sudden presence behind you, too close, too fast, and then hands, too many of them, pulling, forcing, cutting off any space you have to react.
The ground disappears beneath your feet.
You try to fight.
You do.
But it is not enough. Not against the number of them, not against the way they already know what they are doing, already know how to keep you from getting free. Your voice doesn’t carry far enough, your movements are stopped before they can turn into anything useful, and within seconds, the forest you know is gone.
The last thing you think before it all shifts is him.
He will notice.
He has to.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Where they take you is wrong.
You feel it before you see it. The air is heavier, stale in a way that does not belong outside, the ground uneven and unfamiliar. They do not speak to you like you are someone who belongs anywhere else. You are something taken, something kept, something they think they can hold.
They bind you.
Not carefully. Not gently. Just enough to keep you from moving the way you need to. Your wrists ache almost immediately, your shoulders pulling uncomfortably with the angle they leave you in, and the longer you stay there, the more your body starts to feel like it does not belong to you in the same way it did before.
You try to keep track of time.
You lose it.
The light shifts somewhere beyond where you can see it, the air grows colder, then warmer, then colder again, but it all blends together until there is no clear sense of how long you have been here. Your throat is dry, your body heavy, and every sound makes your chest tighten without permission.
They come and go.
They speak.
You don’t answer.
You refuse to give them anything.
But your body feels it.
The strain.
The exhaustion.
The slow, creeping weight of something that does not feel like it is going to end unless something changes.
You hold onto one thing.
He will come.
You repeat it without speaking, holding it steady even when your thoughts start to drift, even when your strength begins to waver.
He will come.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Back in the forest, something has already broken.
Thalos does not track like he normally does. There is no patience in it, no quiet movement, no careful reading of the land. He tears through it instead, following what little remains of your scent with something that does not allow for hesitation.
It is wrong.
It cuts off too sharply, shifts too abruptly, mixes with others that do not belong.
“They took you,” he says under his breath, the words not fully formed, pulled from somewhere deeper than thought.
The forest does not slow him.
Nothing does.
The closer he gets, the less of himself remains in the way he moves. Instinct sharpens into something harsher, something more direct, something that does not pause to consider anything beyond one thing.
Find you.
Everything else is secondary.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
You feel it before it happens.
Not the way he would. Not the way he tracks or listens or senses what is wrong in the world around him. But something shifts. Something changes in the air, subtle at first, then heavier, like the space itself is tightening.
They notice it too.
The ones holding you pause. Their voices stop. The casual certainty in the way they move begins to falter, just slightly, just enough to tell you that something is no longer in their control.
Then you hear it.
Low.
Deep.
Wrong in a way that makes your chest tighten, not in fear, but in recognition.
It carries through everything, through the ground, through the air, through you.
And you know.
He found you.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The reaction is immediate.
They move faster now, not calm, not certain anymore. You feel the shift in their hands, the tension, the sudden urgency that was not there before. Something presses harder, something pulls, something shifts in a way that makes your breath catch as your body struggles to keep up.
Your vision blurs at the edges.
Your strength is not what it was when they first took you.
The world tilts again, your body pulled into something that feels like it is slipping too far, too fast, like if this continues, you won’t be able to hold onto anything at all.
You try.
You fight to stay aware, to stay present, to keep yourself from giving in to the weight pulling you under.
He is close.
You know he is.
You just need to hold on long enough.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
He does not arrive quietly.
There is no subtlety left in him, no restraint, no measured control. Whatever held him back before is gone, replaced by something immediate and absolute. The moment he reaches them, the moment he sees you, everything else stops mattering.
The force of it is overwhelming.
Not just what he does, but how fast it happens, how completely it takes over the space. The sound alone is enough to make everything around it feel smaller, weaker, insignificant in comparison.
You barely see it.
Only pieces.
Movement. Impact. The ground shifting. The air breaking around him as he moves through it with a purpose that does not leave room for anything to stand in his way.
And then it stops.
Suddenly.
Completely.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The next thing you feel is him.
Close.
Too close to be anything else.
His presence surrounds you immediately, heavy and certain, but different now, controlled in a way that contrasts so sharply with what came before that it almost doesn’t feel like the same thing.
“....”
Your name is low, rough, like it has been held back too long.
His hands don’t grab you right away.
They hover.
Just for a second.
Like he needs to see you first.
Like he needs to make sure.
“I’m here,” he says, quieter now, but still uneven, like something inside him hasn’t fully settled yet. “I’m here.”
You try to answer.
It comes out weak.
“I knew,” you manage, barely steady.
That is enough.
His hands close the distance immediately after that, pulling you into him fully, carefully but without hesitation now, holding you against his chest like he needs to feel every part of you still there, still real, still alive.
“I was too slow,” he mutters, the words low, pressed into your hair, heavy with something deeper than anger. “I should have been there.”
“You came,” you say.
“I should have been there before they touched you.”
His grip tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to make it clear he is not letting go.
Not now.
Not again.
You feel his breathing, still uneven, still carrying the remnants of what he just did, but beginning to steady as he holds you there.
“You’re not leaving me,” he says, quieter now, not a question, not a demand.
A need.
“I’m not,” you answer.
He exhales, slow, deep, like something in him finally releases, even if only a fraction.
His hand shifts slightly, moving up to steady your head, to keep you close, to make sure you stay exactly where you are.
And this time, when he carries you back to the den, there is no distance.
