Summary: Din relies on the teachings of his Jedi companion to wield the Darksaber.
Pairing: Din Djarin x Jedi!reader
Word Count: 700
Noetic: Adj. Meaning of or associated with or requiring the use of the mind.
“You’re fighting the Darksaber,”
“It’s fighting me,” Din grunts, the blade tipping down, slicing a crescent shape into the grass below. As much as Din attempts to overrule it, the saber triumphs over him. And his anger only makes the gravitation heavier.
“It didn’t survive over a thousand years to be outmatched by one Mandalorian. Even by one as muscular as you.”
Din swears, laden with his own emotions. Typically any flirtatious comment throws him, but he’s too frazzled to acknowledge it. He retracts the blade and throws his arms up. You half expect him to chuck the saber into the nearby lake. Instead, he tosses it at the ground.
“The creator of the Darksaber was both Mandalorian and Jedi,” you bend down to retrieve the handle, brushing off the stray pieces of grass. “what does that tell you?”
“That I’m grateful you’re only a Jedi.” Din tries to joke, but his tone is coarse, and his anger slips through the modulator. You travel to him, taking a gloved hand in yours. Your fingers delicately wrap his own around the handle.
“You’ve mastered the ways of Mandalore. Now, you have to think like a Jedi.”
“What does that intel?”
You let his hand drop, planting yourself on the plush grass and crossing your legs. “Sit.”
Din squats and stares at you expectantly through the sharp line of his visor. He gestures with his hands, waiting.
“Ass on the ground.”
A sigh escapes the modulator as he obeys your request.
“What do you feel?”
“Grass.”
This was going to be a long day.
“Look within.”
Another sigh. “Frustrated.”
You roll your hand, urging him to continue.
“Frustrated that I can’t get this blasted thing to work.”
“Close your eyes.”
Din simply stares at you. He hasn’t survived this long by shutting his eyes to the world around him.
“Do it.”
Din wonders what the force entails for you to see past his mask. But he recalls it’s not through the physical objects themselves but through himself that you sense his reluctance. You possess an inward gaze into the world around you, a clarity towards the people and, in this case, objects. Maybe, just maybe, Din needed some of that lucidity too.
“Hold the handle,” you start. Din rubs a thumb over it. “Think of the blade’s intentions. After a thousand years, what is it seeking?”
“It’s just a blade.” Din deadpans. He peeks and is met with your enraged glare. Even for a Jedi, you’re losing patience with him. And it scares him. “It wants the possessor to fight in the name of Mandalore.”
“Go on.”
“It’s traded hands,” Din thinks of Bo-Katan and Moff Gideon. “many times. It wants to be in the right hands. Maybe I’m not those hands.”
“Maybe it needs to feel your intentions like I can feel you peeking.”
Din squeezes his eyes shut. He wouldn’t let anyone else cripple him in such a way. But here, with you, Din complies. “I want to serve my creed, to build Mandalore up again,” he thinks of you and Grogu. “But mostly, I need to protect my clan.”
Din can’t see your smile, so you let it blossom on your lips.
“Now, instead of focusing on your emotions,” he hears you shuffle but dares not to open his eyes, afraid to lose his train of thought. “think of your intentions and raise the blade.”
Din gazes up at you with partial-focused eyes. He feels… calm. Introspect isn’t something Mandalorians are taught, nor is peace. Even at his age, he still has a lot to learn. He imagines that this is how you always feel whenever you meditate. Tranquil and grounded. Perhaps it’s because he’s thinking of you.
You wait as Din shuffles to his feet. He grips the handle in his hand and extracts the blade in a swift motion. You match his movement, and your light-colored saber contrasts the Darksaber.
“Imagine that you’re defending Mandalore. Defending Grogu. Defending me. Manifest it.” And when Din pictures it, you strike.
I posted another fic! It’s a short one, and it’s for @todoyamas as her present. Love you, Rina! ♡
[Also available on AO3]
Kageyama is big.
Shouyou knows this. In fact, he’s known this for a while now, and yet, each time the thought comes to him through the beat of a pulse, his breath stills in the air, entirely suspended in fascination.
There's so many things about Kageyama that makes him big. His hands, for one, then the two of his legs, the breadth of his back, and the prevalent aura– though impalpable– too he'd radiate has also been big enough to take up a whole space.
At first, Shouyou thinks it was annoying. At first, it had been a constant reminder, a buzz to his ears on how simply unfair the universe was since he aged a few months older than Kageyama, and he's somehow still the one who ends up with the shorter end of the stick. But much like their bond, this impression didn’t last long either.
It starts when one day, Kageyama takes a spot next to him beneath the orange skies and setting sun. He’s towering as ever in his grand posture, even as he looks into the green view. When Shouyou turns to him, head craned up, his thoughts zip away at the sight of Kageyama all wrapped in warm colors like a summer gift from his view. It's then, he starts to feel his annoyance slowly dwindling down into an interest.
However, it doesn’t end there. He starts noticing more things then, things he knows he won’t ever have locked into his mind a few months back. He starts noticing how the shirt at Kageyama’s back would stretch over his muscles as he moves, or how'd would slightly bend and lean over to hear whatever Shouyou has something in mind to say.
When he realizes this, Shouyou is quick to backpedal. Whenever Kageyama comes too close, he puts a little distance between them, but he doesn’t always do this, knowing it’d raise a suspicion. So, when they do wind up being closer than they should be, he tries not to mull over the difference in their size, tries not to be aware of it, but it’s hard not to when Kageyama is there, taking up so much space, all big, tall and imposing and oh, so very warm by his side.
It’s like this then his interest has rapidly grown into fascination, where he finally allows himself a second or two to look over and appreciate Kageyama’s build.
And it goes on until one day, it gets out of control. It isn’t only fascination, because this time, there’s– there’s something playing a part as well. One day, Shouyou starts to have daydreams, night dreams. He dreams about his hands entirely enveloped by another certain pair. He dreams about being held, of curling into a big warm body as it keeps him from harm. He dreams about the image of sunset, of highlights splashing onto one’s skin, one’s hair and one’s blue eyes.
This time, instead of backpedaling, Shouyou goes for a full brake. He stops. He doesn’t look, he doesn’t stay, he avoids, goes when Kageyama comes near, and doesn’t go to the place where they have their usual lunch at. But, it's another matter when they're on the court, it’s safe, he has volleyball to pour all his thinking into and so does Kageyama, too, even if he seems more tight-lipped and tensed. It’s beyond the court's boundaries that’s the dangerous zone.
But, this act of avoidance only goes on for a whole few days and even then, he'd barely say it was a success.
Practice has ended a little late at dusk. The two are the last ones to head out after piling up the balls into the cart, and as they head to the club room together, the tension among them is dire, evident as they change; it’s there to fill in the blank of their exchange, stubbornly stagnant, sprouting, and at last, it only evaporates when Kageyama is the first to leave the room.
After dispelling a sigh of relief and pulling up his bag closed, Shouyou has gone to the railing to retrieve his bike when he notices he isn’t the only one there. Because Kageyama is there, too, waiting for him.
Shouyou stalks forward, resolute in paying no mind to Kageyama whose gaze continues to fixate on him. It stays on him as he grabs onto the bike’s handles, it’s still on him even as he starts to open the padlock. But soon enough, he finds himself in a glitch, especially under wary eyes that's observing his every move. His thoughts have flown so far away that even the simplest thing for him to do starts being a challenge.
He hears footsteps approaching from the side, softened eventually as the loud heartbeat that’s his own take over his ears. His hands are shaking, he feels nauseous knowing what would be coming (‘A punch,’ he thinks, ‘or a confrontation. A fight.’) and he thinks of resigning to his own fate and doom when he feels a sudden warmth encasing him from behind then two hands helping him to unlock the chain. The metal rattles as it hits the railing.
He starts lowering his hands down to the side but the two big, warm hands on his own stops him from doing so.
By now, his heart is beating a rhythm louder than a drum in his ears, and there’s the start of cicadas sounding in the distance and the howling of a night breeze blowing through. The lamp post a little far ahead has just flickered on its light as well. It’s only them now, partially enshrouded in blue, cold darkness of the approaching night.
And this moment… it’s everything and nothing he’s imagined. When Kageyama presses onto him from behind, grip on his hands so tight, he feels warmer than he thought he would be, and he’s definitely so big that he can envelope him wholly by now if he wanted, but– for some reason, at the same time, Kageyama feels small, too.
Slowly, he tilts up his chin, head pushed back, and there, he sees Kageyama’s own eyes peering back into his. And he knows why, now– why he’s sensed the absence of that piece that usually makes him feel big just as he is physically. It’s because of that look-– Shouyou knows that look. The tone of it, the way the lamp light reflects off of it. It’s the kind of look when Kageyama wants to correct something that he’s wronged, a lesson learnt from the errors of his past. Shouyou feels a thorn of guilt pricking him.
“You…” Kageyama starts, slowly. “You were avoiding me.”
“Yeah.” Shouyou simply says. He doesn’t know what else is there to tell.
Kageyama puffs out a cheek full of air right into Shouyou’s face. “Why?”
“Because of this.” Shouyou’s hands twists a little, and so, it’s his turn to clasp onto Kageyama’s just as tight. “I’ve... imagined this.”
“This?” Kageyama repeats confusedly, face entirely scrunched. But Shouyou gives him a little more time, and finally, the creases in his face starts to loosen up as he thinks, slowly paving a path to one of a look which Shouyou describes it as realization. “Oh,” Kageyama says. “Oh.” He says again.
“Yeah.” Shouyou breathes out a laugh. “Oh.”
“I thought… I did something.” Kageyama says, then sighs. That look is gone now, and Shouyou is swamped with a feeling of ease. He feels Kageyama beginning to untangle his fingers from their grip, but Shouyou is quick to pull his hands up, puts them onto his hips with the fingers digging into his side and he's turned with his face buried into the softness of Kageyama’s jacket. His hands reaches out to tug onto the fold of Kageyama’s sleeves.
For a minute, they stay quiet until Shouyou says, “I was scared.”
“Why?” Kageyama asks again.
Shouyou just muffles into the cloth, “You’ll think I’m weird. For thinking about this. For imagining this.”
Kageyama snorts. “Not like that'll change. You’ve always been weird.”
Shouyou pinches him, and Kageyama pinches him back. He’s hit with the overwhelming urge now, to tell Kageyama the entirety of the truth to his avoidance, but then when Shouyou tips his head, chin pressed into Kageyama’s chest, he finds himself loss at words and takes to enjoy the view he has like last time as he stares at him from below. Kageyama is pretty, even in the shadows of the sun, with the moon hanging atop. He still looks so cool, and handsome, and captivating, and Shouyou really, really likes this view.
Kageyama stares back at him. “What?”
“Nothing.” He says, “You’re kinda pretty.”
Kageyama’s face flushes. His hold on Shouyou tightens, and Shouyou just grins.
He lets himself have this moment, basking under the warmth, the weight, the size of Kageyama overall who’s pressed up entirely against him. He decides that being smaller is okay, after all, and that Kageyama being all big and tall, and though it used to be not okay, it’s now much more than an okay. It’s a very okay.
He wonders, if he does tell Kageyama at all how much he likes this, that he likes how Kageyama is bigger than him, how would he react? He'd probably look gloated at first, be smug even about it, so yeah, maybe it's not such a good idea and he probably shouldn’t tell him about it at all. Well, for now, at least.
Written for: @justagirlinafandomworld Flash Fiction Winter/X-Mas Challenge
Song: Carol of the Bells by Pentatonix
Pairing: Steven x reader, Jake x reader & Marc x reader implied
Warnings: none
Word Count: 100
Steven doesn’t know how many Christmases he’s actually had. Time becomes fluid between him, Jake and Marc; their lives are one big blur. And the fact that most, if not all of them, align as Jewish. But what Steven knows is that this Christmas is the best one yet, for him and his alters. Watching you carol through the neighborhood with your friends, he hangs back, simply observing your harmonies. But it’s your stage and everything else melts away. A twinkle in your eye each time Steven catches your gaze and it fills him with cheer. Nothing was more magical.
Series Summary: Stranded in the woods, you find solace in a local huntsman, but there are sharp teeth behind his smile. A twisted take on Little Red Riding Hood.
Pairing: Dark Alpha Werewolf!Steve x Omega!reader
WARNINGS: 18+ Smut. A/B/O themes and elements, Noncon/Dubcon, and False Imprisonment. Reader is an adult. You have been warned and are viewing this story on your own accord.
A/n: For my first ever participation in Kinktober, I wanted to add onto the dark themes of the fairytale and combine the Huntsman and the Wolf.
Word Count: 3.9k
Part 2
Never had you experienced anything like the eerie silence that fell that autumn evening.
The forest spread out for miles. The few times you'd driven the mileage, you'd gone around the woodlands. Tonight though, the GPS had detoured into the depth of the woods. Until your cell service dropped, you were left driving on the road blind as the night.
You and your car trudged together through the dark, narrow road alone until it too abandoned you, clanking and rattling before hitching to a halt. You twist the key, but the engine turns over, again and again. The clicking is its equivalent to a juvenile raspberry. You drop your head to the steering wheel with a long, exasperated sigh. Pushing two-hundred-thousand miles on the car, you didn't expect miracles.
You raise your gaze to meet ominous clouds of smoke rising from the hood. Smoke was never good. You evacuate, standing a few feet back from it further onto the road.
Without the headlights, it was nearly pitch dark. But the forest was alive. Crickets surrounded you with their chirps. And you swear that somewhere in the depth of the trees, an owl was mocking you. If only you could sprout wings and fly away.
AAA was the first in your contacts. Despite the no-signal displayed across your taskbar, you still clicked the call button. The call beeps and drops immediately. Again, not looking for miracles, but a lifeline would do. 11:40 stared up at you. You scan the road; it was only you, in a forest of the unknown. There had been no passing cars since you'd turned on the road. You could be the damsel and wait for another driver to find you. Though, you'd never had the patience for standing around. And the odds of being kidnapped or worse were staggering. Knowing there were no crossroads or any civilization for miles the way you'd come, you hoofed it into the tremendous untold.
The forest was only divided by the road. Lush foliage grew on either side and draped over the concrete, darkening your path. The pavement's stretch felt eternal, where nothing changed but the slight curve here and there. The only company was the greenery, cast in shadows. The late hour did nothing to help; having visited your Grandmother out of state, you were trying to make it home in time for work the next morning.
A wind gust blew through, sneaking up your sleeves. You hugged yourself for warmth. The bright red sleeves of your cardigan was the only color in sight, and it brought you some relief. The dark had never been a friend. You silently thanked it for the contrast.
It's then that everything in the forest halts. The crickets, the owls, even the raccoons that chased one another ceased. Any rustling in the background ended abruptly, and the only sound was the crunch of the leaves beneath your shoes. Strange, in a forest of nocturnal creatures, that the orchestra of animals came to a close. As though to give way to another animal; something so large and mighty that scares away every animal for miles. A funny thought, really.
When a wolf howled, it became less humorous.
There was a snap and a rustling in the foliage on your right. You stop, staring into the dark line of trees, seeing nothing. As you continue, the feeling of something watching never leaves. The thought toys with your mind. The rustling lingers and grows little by little and is nearly as loud as the blood that pumps in your ears. The forest begins to thin out for a ledge. You take a few steps back, prepared to meet the creature face to face, when the heel of your boot catches the edge of the road, onto the cliff. At the exact moment, you hear the rustle again, but it's dimmed over your blood-curdling scream.
Your heavy lids remain closed as you wake up. Strange, you can't remember a time where you felt more awake than your body did. Your exterior felt stiff, and you lay rigid as aboard.
Hospital, you guess.
The bed is too comfortable to be your own. But hospitals don't smell… warm.
Gently, you raised your eyelids.
It's a bedroom. A large one. With log siding walls, a deep rosewood that gives it a nice finished appearance apart from pine and such woods. The bed frame is a four-poster, made from heavy timber, similar in shade to walls, but contrast enough to make it distinct. The comforter was thick, and the sheets flannel, keeping you lulled in a warmth that's calling you back to sleep.
Urgency keeps you from it. You don't know where you are or with who. There are three doors, two to the right of you. Closet and bathroom? And one across the bed on the opposite wall that's ajar in slight.
You reach for your head the second you sit up. It's pounding, similar to a hangover. Your fingers brush over adhesive fabric, and you wince at the sharp pain.
The nearing steps don't help the pain nor the anxiety that follows. A soft double-tap knocks against the wooden door. A large hand wraps around the edge of the door, pushing it open with care. The entry reveals a man. His biceps resemble tree trunks, and you're embarrassed that it's the first thing that you notice. Your eyes glance up, and you see that he's dashingly handsome. His beard is trimmed close to his face, curving the chiseled jaw. Once you meet his piercing blue eyes, it's difficult to look anywhere else.
"You're awake," he appears relieved, offering a warm smile. "Thought that I may have to call for a doctor."
Too stunned to speak, you let the moment pass, and the man clears his throat. "Here." He's holding a tray, and he crosses the room to the nightside table, placing it down. On it is a bottle of Advil, coffee, and a bottle of water. "Thought your head might hurt after that tumble."
You thank him, reaching for the bottle. It's still sealed, and you tear at the packaging. You shake two pills out, popping them into your mouth. Then take a sip of water to swallow them. All while the mystery man watches.
"I'm sorry, Steve," he offers his hand, which is larger than yours and calloused, but the warmth draws you in, and you get lost in the cool tones of his eyes. You produce your name, and Steve beams at the sound. He motions to the edge of the bed. "May I?"
You bob your head.
"There aren't too many people in these parts. I heard a scream, I guess your scream. By the time I found you, you were unconscious at the bottom of the hill. You banged your head up." He points the band-aid along your forehead, and you brush your fingertips against it, wincing in slight.
"My car broke down," you explain. "Something was…" you let out a dry laugh. "I thought something was following me, and I fell."
"A lot of deer in that area. Sometimes people drive by and throw them food. They were probably curious." He tilts his head. "Call a tow?"
"No cell service." You search your pockets for your phone. "Have you seen-"
Steve reaches for the nightstand drawer, pulling out a cracked phone. "Luckily, this wasn't you." You try for the power button, but nothing changes. "It was a few feet away. You probably had it in your hand when you fell."
"Crap. I need to get my car-"
"Hey, hey," Steve says softly, shifting closer to you on the bed, and the dip leans you closer to him. "Everything's going to be okay. There's only one guy around that does cars. I'll call him and see what he can do. And you can use my phone to call whoever you need to let them know that you're okay."
You're on the brink of tears. You can't believe that you found someone so kind to help you. You acknowledge that verbally to him.
"Don't thank me. Drink some more water. There are spare shirts in the closet, jackets, and sweaters if you're cold. Whenever you're ready, come down, and I'll make us something to eat."
Steve straightens up and heads for the door. He turns back. "And if you need anything, just yell," he jokes before shutting the door.
You let out a heavy sigh, rubbing your hands over your face. A whirlwind of emotions overtakes you. The car, the fall, the damsel in distress rescue, it makes your head spin more than it has already. You twist your body, poking your legs out from under the covers, cautiously placing them on the ground. You remain upright on unsteady legs, sore with the extended sleep after much disarray.
The bathroom is attached to the room, and it's not until you're peeling off the bandage in the mirror that you realize it's the master's, i.e., handsome stranger, Steve's, room. Meaning you slept in his bed. Your heart flutters from sheer embarrassment and the fact that you had displaced him in his own home. All because you were afraid of some deer.
The wound isn't too bad. Steve had cleaned it up well. You put on a fresh band-aid, attempting to spare Steve more inconvenience. He didn't need to see your wound a second time.
Your red cardigan was torn in three places. Allowing it to fall from your shoulders, revealing blooming bruises scattered across your arms. You rest the cardigan on the sink, looking down at your shirt. It was preserved everywhere except the front, which was now caked in dirt. Borrowing one of Steve's would be necessary. You attempted to pat the earth off your jeans, but the light fabric held tight to the smears. Pants too, you guess.
After a shower, you're careful to survey the bedroom before stepping out in a towel. The smell of hickory lies beyond the closet door. And it matches the rustic aesthetic of the room. You chose a white t-shirt and a red plaid button-up. The sleeves reach down to your fingertips, and you roll them up to your elbow. You borrow a pair of black sweats, reminding yourself to ask if Steve had a washing machine.
You go back to the bathroom to look in the mirror. You grimace at yourself. Your hair was still wet, but you didn't want to impose and start looking around Steve's cabinets and drawers for a hairdryer. You looked comfortable, too comfortable to be in a stranger's house. But why did it matter? Steve had seen you worse. It wasn't like you were ever going to see him again after all of this. Once you were presentable enough, you poked your head out of the door. It opened to the end of a hallway. There was a door on either side, and at the far end was the staircase.
Steve's in the living room when you find him. One arm's resting above his head, pressed against a large window. He's gazing out, gazing upon a deck and the woods beyond it. He's deep in thought when you descend the stairs, looking out onto his property as though something weighs heavily on his mind. His gaze is stoic, like he's posing for a photoshoot. He looks like a model. One cut from marble. You wonder what the hell someone like him is doing out in the middle of nowhere. You catch his eye, and he perks up. "Red seems to be your color."
You brush your hair behind your ear and silently bet that your cheeks match.
A whiff of hickory follows, and you realize it's not the cabin but the owner who smells of delightful smoke. What should be an overwhelming scent is fitting to its environment. It distracts you momentarily, but the wood-carved clock behind him reels you back. "It's past two?!"
Steve nods, pushing off the wall. "That's why I was getting worried."
You don't get a chance to ask before Steve pulls his phone from his pocket, offering it to you. "Make some calls, and I'll make lunch."
"You're a lifesaver," you tell him as you dial one of the three numbers you know by heart. "Hello, grandmother."
You explain in your calmest voice what had occurred, wanting to keep her aging heart from fretting. "Hospital" was mentioned often, but you assured her that you were fine other than a sore body. Eventually, she let you go, and you moved on to the dreaded call.
"God, she's going to kill me," you say, dialing the phone and pressing it against your ear as you pace by the sliding glass doors. "Hello, Agatha," you greet your boss.
You immediately pull the phone away from your ear due to her less than a tame greeting. You glance at Steve, who's pretending to lack interest in the kitchen. You watch him pull out sliced bread and a package of meat from the fridge. "I never made it home… there was an incident." You're not paying much attention to the response, watching Steve retrieve a pan and a stick of butter, heating the bread before melting cheese onto the slices. Agatha's tone has simmered, but she's not happy. Not that she ever truly is. You explain you won't make it to work for a couple more days before she lets you go. You exhale sharply, and if it'd been your phone, you would've thrown it at the couch.
You saunter over to the kitchen counter, where you sit upon a wooden stool. There was a theme building here. You place Steve's phone on the table as he rests a plate in front of you as though it's a currency for food. "My specialty, ham sandwich on grilled toast."
"My hero!" You hoist the sandwich up, taking a bite out of it.
You offer you compliments, but Steve's standing there, palms resting on the counter, his expression dimmed. "Your boss shouldn't talk to you like that," he tells you. His mouth twitches like he'll say more but refrains. Your eyes fall. Great, now he's pitying you. But how else do you treat a girl that you find unconscious in the middle of nowhere?
"I should call a tow. Know any numbers?"
"There's only one mechanic in the area. He's also the local tow. I'll give him a call." He slides his phone towards himself. "Which way did you come from?" You're chewing when he prompts you. The sandwich is something you want to savor, but your hollow stomach demands it in large bites. Once you swallow, you tell him west of the cliff.
Steve calls the mechanic, giving the man a rough idea of the location while explaining the situation, and you're grateful Steve didn't mind handling the call. After last night your head is still throbbing, and you don't know the area like Steve. "Okay, thank you, Sam. I'll meet you there." Steve hangs up. "I'm going to go meet him at the car. He's going to tow it today and look at it tomorrow. You should stay here and rest up."
He heads to the front door, and you're on his heels, thanking him profusely. If you thank him anymore, you worry that the word will lose all meaning.
He stops at the coat rack by the front door, tugging one off its hook. "It's my pleasure." As he reaches for his coat, he asks, "Anything in your car that you need?"
"My duffle bag. It's got extra clothes and stuff."
"You got it." He winks and is out the door.
You don't do much while he's gone, but you can't help but explore. The living room is cozy despite its large size. The stone fireplace is against the far wall. To the wall's right are the large, ceiling-high windows, to which one is a sliding glass door. Red drapes are pulled to either side. You entertain the idea of going out, but you'd spent enough time outdoors.
There's a built-in bookcase on the wall facing, with a reading nook built under the slant of the stairs. A cream cushion and a couple of throw pillows inhabited it, inviting you inside the area.
You trace the book spines with your fingertips, reading the titles until you move onto one familiar. It's enough to give a little comfort in an unfamiliar environment. You pick it off the shelf. The cushion is soft as a marshmallow as you lie back against the pillows, opening up the pages of an old friend.
Time flew. The character entanglements kept you amused, locking onto your attention so feverishly that the front door opening and shutting could not pull you away. You simply turned the page and followed the characters where they led.
"I haven't read that one yet." You jump, eyes snapping up to meet Steve's amused gaze. "I've been meaning to. Is it good?"
"I've read it four times, not counting now. So, yes," you reply. "Sorry, I, uh," you shift, shutting the book as though you'd been caught doing something outlandish. "I didn't know what else to do with myself."
"No, it's nice to see someone occupying it." He turns to look at the shelves, pulling out a book that had a small tab dividing in the middle. "I used to read more. But usually, I just draw or exercise."
With those muscles, it's no surprise. But artistic too? Buff and creative, duality at its finest. "You're an artist?"
"I sketch." Steve bites his lip. "Sam towed your car, but he can't look at it until tomorrow. He'll call when he's figured out the problem." Steve's looking at you with strain, and a pit forms in your stomach. He has more to say. You don't notice that he's returned empty-handed with his hands stuffed in his pockets. "Did you happen to leave your car unlocked?"
"No, I…" Your head strains as you think back. You were frazzled, stressed on the road. Maybe you didn't lock the doors.
"Your bag wasn't there. I checked the trunk too."
"Shit. I doubt anyone wants my underwear. Or a half-used tube of toothpaste."
"There are some sick people out there," he tries to joke, but it falls flat. "You can borrow whatever you need. I have spare-"
"No, I can't take advantage of you like this. I can request an uber, get a room for the night-"
His laughter stops you. "Sorry. This isn't New York. The closest uber driver is at least half an hour away. More than that, probably. Plus, someone has to keep an eye on you. You did hit your head pretty hard."
"How did you know that I'm headed to New York?"
Steve's hesitation is brief. "Your plates."
"Fine," you settle. "But I'm not putting you out. You should take your bed back." You ponder a moment. "Where did you even sleep last night?"
Steve points with his head. "On the couch. The guest room has fitness equipment so, no bed." You climb out of the cubby, crossing your arms, disapproval etched on your face.
He holds his hands up in defense. "My mother raised me to be a gentleman. And that's how I intend to act."
The following day you woke at ten. Later than usual, but on account of the predicament, you were happy you were awake before noon. You put on your fresh set of clothes. Having washed what you wore the night your car broke down. You had your weekend casuals, ripped jeans, and a loose tee that you french-tucked like ritual. Your cardigan was still torn, so you opted for Steve's plaid again.
You descend the wooden steps, able to see into the living room from a great height. No Steve. Your feet patter into the kitchen and find the same result. Though the coffeemaker is alive and awake, water-filled and ready to be made. You start the machine and wander off into the living room, passing the coat rack where all Steve's jackets reside. A familiar whiff of hickory hits you, and butterflies flutter about in your stomach. What had a calming effect now left a charged and energized anticipation that roamed throughout your body. But this time, you smell hints of something sweet. Cinnamon. The two things worked oddly together, and nothing had ever smelled so... alluring?
The drapes in the living room were pulled back and tied to either side by their centers. Beyond the large glass and the outside deck was the man of the hour. Steve stood out by the trees, a couple of yards from the balcony. Chopped logs surround him. He bends down, picks up a block, setting it down on a stump. He raises the ax, striking down on the block, slicing it in a swift, solid motion.
Steve had thick biceps at a standstill. But seeing him in action, muscles flexed and resembling the brawny paper towel man, made your heart race. He was raging testosterone, and you couldn't help but admire him from afar. It complimented the duality of his kind nature. If you lived anywhere near him… gah, you had to stop thinking like that.
Steve hesitated for a second, and you swear that you saw him smirk before bringing the ax down again.
There was no way he'd know that you were ogling him. Though embarrassment crept up inside of you and made its home. Against better judgment, you slide the glass door ajar. Quiet as you step onto the deck, careful not to distract Steve while he holds the ax. He seems to hear anyhow, giving a softer hit into the stump, keeping the ax in place as he gazes up with a smile.
"I didn't mean to interrupt."
He takes a few steps forward, eyes latching onto you. "You should go back inside. It's a cold one today." But there's no urgency in his tone, almost amused. He's looking at his stolen plaid, wearing a blue plaid in the place to keep warm against the weather.
You pull it closer to your body, hugging yourself. "It'll keep me warm."
"It should rain later on," Steve mentions. "I thought I would cut up some firewood, make a fire inside."
You parted your lips but closed them.
Steve stretched his arm out, stretching it across his body in a stretch. "Even when Sam identifies the problem, he probably won't have it ready today. You're stuck with me."
"Oh, the horror," you dramatically drape the back of your hand over your forehead, pretending you're about to faint.
"Don't faint on me now." He wags a finger. "I'd hate to nurse you back to health twice."
A brisk wind moves through, and you can't help but shiver. Thundered rumbled up above, and both of your heads tilted up towards the sky.
"Go on inside; I'll be there soon." It's direct now, an order.
You typically hated being told what to do, but you hop to it, instinctively wanting to please Steve. You don't think much of it as the glass door shuts behind you. You retrieve your coffee and sit in one of the chairs by the window. Luckily, you can't gawk at Steve from the angle but can still watch the blustery weather unfold. You're in view of the fireplace, and the log cart catches your eye.
It’s funny, you met a man who listened to podcasts to stay awake. You listened to them to fall asleep.
The irony of it all.
What kept you awake? The thoughts of the day, anticipations of the next. The cusp of the next while not fully over the last, leaving you caught in limbo, a tortuous purgatory in which all dreams of sleep eluded your nights.
Podcasts worked for a little while until they didn’t. Then you needed a new aid. Something that calms your mind into submission, to let the little hamster slow down on his wheel, derail it long enough for it to stop, long enough for you to drift off. But this was no ordinary rodent. This was one who was a shadow, absent in the day until the night when you were alone with your thoughts. And the wheel would start, squeaking in an infinite loop keeping your mind awake and alert.
Reading before bed worked for two nights. A long bath worked once, only to repeat the process the next night and lie there unable to sleep while the thoughts in your mind run rampant, never tiring, only relinquishing its hold when it deemed it right. How do you vanquish a demon that needs no fuel, no sleep that just constantly suppresses you until you rise again in the morning like the walking dead?
A funny British man who did the exact opposite, that’s how. One who would solve rubix cubes with one hand and read Egyptian lore with the other to prevent the one thing you desired. With a pair of lean, muscular arms that wrapped around your waist so tight and squeezed the demon out of your thoughts. Who comforted you and whispered in your ear, convincing you that everything would be alright.
You anticipated it would work for a night or two, expecting to lie awake the remaining. Maybe a light snore in your ear to aid in the deprivation. He could only stay awake for long. By the third, fifth, tenth night, you drifted easefully. You no longer dreaded going to bed. You could finally get a good night’s rest knowing you would wake up again in Steven’s arms.
Summary: Stranded in the woods, you find solace in a local huntsman, but there are sharp teeth behind his smile. A twisted take on Little Red Riding Hood.
Pairing: Dark Alpha Werewolf!Steve x Omega!reader
WARNINGS: 18+ Smut. A/B/O themes and elements, Noncon/Dubcon, and False Imprisonment. Reader is an adult. You have been warned and are viewing this story on your own accord.
A/N: Thank you all for reading part 1! Now we get a little more dire with the conclusion.
Word Count: 5k
Part 1
Steve retreats as the rain pelts the Earth, carrying with him more logs. He piles them with the others, having to stack them over the rack in a Jenga style. The rest he sets in the fireplace. His hair is damp from the sudden downpour. He shakes it out, and the motion reminds you of your childhood dog.
He's lighting the fire when he gets a call. He greets Sam, then puts it on speakerphone, "-her transmission blew out."
The statement rattles you, and you can hardly focus as Sam continues. "Also, the engine is kicking back some bad readings. Stills works but probably not for long. I'd consider getting a new car."
Your brain is fuzzy. "What's the cost of fixing it?"
"More than it's worth, believe me."
Without a car, you were stuck here.
"Okay, what do I owe you for looking at it?"
"Whatever it is, charge it to my account, Sam," Steve interjects.
"Steve!" You hiss, but neither men pay any attention.
"Sounds good; let me know later what you guys decide to do with the car."
When the call ends, you're sitting there on the couch, head in your hands, trying to think of your next move. You could have someone pick you up. You haven't made any friends since you moved, and your Grandmother no longer drives. You couldn't exactly ask any exes either. Burned bridges had shaky foundations. You knew from Steve that no Taxi or Uber would venture into the woods-
"Need a drink?" Steve ventures out of the living room.
You snap back to reality. "Why did you do that?"
You follow Steve to the kitchen, watching him open a cabinet with a near-empty shelf of liquor. He reaches up to pull down two bottles. "Bailey's or Jack?"
"Steve?"
Steve waits for your answer when you desire his more. You cross your arms over your chest and wait him out.
His brows raise, but he says nothing. Pouring Bailey's out in a glass, offering it to you before pouring his own. "Sam probably won't even charge me. We go way back."
"It's not your responsibility." Your tone comes out sharper than expected. Regret consumes you. "I'm sorry. I just have a hard time accepting help."
You take a sip, making a face at the strong presence of liquor behind the cream, trying to embrace the new flavors. Your feet patter back into the living room, plopping down on the couch. Steve sits on the opposite end, leaving the middle as a divider. With him, he's brought the entire bottle. Maybe he required a drink more. It can't be easy to have an unexpected houseguest.
"What do you want to do?" He asks, "About your car?"
"I don't know," you groan. "Sell it for parts, I guess. I don't know. I really need to figure out how to get back to the city. Catch a ride somewhere. Rent a car or..." Maybe you request an airplane shuttle and rent a car from the airport-
"Okay, I'll bite." He turns, facing you head-on, knee bent on the couch, while the other foot is planted on the floor. "What's the rush to get back to the city? Your boss seems like a piece of work."
"She is," you take another sip; you'd need it. "But it's my livelihood. I moved to the city to advance my career. If I don't get back soon I'll be fired for sure."
"So, you didn't follow a boyfriend there?" Steve hides behind his drink, shielding himself from your stunned expression.
If you didn't know better, you'd think he was flirting. Or testing the waters, at least. "No, I left him way before I left for New York."
"Sounds like that story calls for more alcohol." Steve grabs the bottle, scootching into the middle seat to top you off, though the glass wasn't yet empty.
"Not much to tell. I needed a change, so I broke things off with him and took a job in the city."
"Are you happy in New York?
"No one's asked me that yet?" You had to think about that one.
"You would know if you were."
You play with your glass, watching the liquid swirl. A memory comes forth, and you down the glass to drown it. "So, is that why you left New York City? You weren't happy?" He raises his brows. "I hear the accent... what borough?"
"Brooklyn. It's still home. I just, things changed, and I needed time away. I needed to feel like I could breathe again."
"I can see why you chose here." You look behind him, out the glass doors, seeing the rain drizzle the land while the fire crackles. "It's lovely."
"Living out here, you realize what's truly important in life." He holds your gaze, resting a hand on your knee.
Despite being across from a fire, you shiver. The Irish Whiskey kept you warm. Steve reaches behind him, grabbing the blanket that rests over the back of the couch. He lays it on your lap. You don't have the heart to tell him that you've never felt warmer.
"I can help you get to wherever you need to be." He tells you. "All you have to do is ask."
That night you dream of Steve. His aroma was in your nose, the hickory scent lingering in the air, the hints of cinnamon enough to sweeten the olfaction.
Everything felt heightened, even in your dream world. You tossed and turned throughout the night; any time you dozed off, Steve was there. The embodiment of him was palpable. Immersing you in a world with him laying beside you, brushing his hands up and down your side or holding you tight against him; so vividly that when you awoke, you were convinced he was right there with you every single time. But the bed remained cold and empty.
There wasn't any reason to think about him. You were going to leave, head back to New York, back to your life. Did you want to? The city hadn't been all too kind, as Steve reminded. It was a place vivacious city that made the world envious. But up close, it was equally cruel and had caused great distress. Having had a man follow you for a block on your way home from work, hand stuffed in his pants. You ran to your apartment, deciding you needed a trip home to shake off the demons of the city.
That's what brought you here, to Steve's cabin in the middle of nowhere. Maybe it was a sign that you should move back home. Your Grandmother would welcome you with open arms and convince you to stay with her while you save up again. Living in New York wasn't easy on the wallet.
Rolling around with your contemplation, you drifted back asleep for the last time. And Steve was there again to greet you. When you woke, your suspicions were correct.
You jolted, muffling a scream as piercing blues eyes watched you from a mere few inches away. Steve was kneeling beside the bed, gazing at your sleeping form.
"Sorry," he backs away a little. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I knocked, but you didn't respond."
The room is still dark. The only color is Steve's sparkling blue eyes. Why would you hear him in a dead slumber?
Your tattered sleep puts you on edge. "It's okay. What's up?"
He grins. "I want to show you something. Up for a hike?" You don't get a chance to respond. "Get dressed and meet me downstairs." He leaves, closing the door behind him.
You sit up and switch the lamp on. You didn't know how Steve got around in the dark so well. When you stood, you fell back onto the bed. Lightheaded, you felt lethargic. Lack of sleep, you told yourself. You wait for a moment for it to subside and resume getting ready.
What doesn't disappear is a low hum that radiates throughout your body, and you're not sure what it is.
Steve's holding a relatively small coffee cup out to you when you reach the first level of the cabin. You wonder how long he's been awake. He's more alert than you are at any time of day. If he wanted you half-awake as himself, then you needed a larger mug.
"Are you feeling alright?" Steve asks when you take a long gulp. He peers at you thoughtfully, almost as though he's expecting a particular answer.
"Just sleepy." You glance at the clock. It's not even six.
Steve bobs his head, but his eyes peer into your own, studying you. You break away first, afraid that if he looks at you too long, he'll know what you dreamed about.
"It'll be worth it, I promise. Now, finish up; we don't want to miss it."
You down the rest, not wanting to keep him waiting too long. You put the cup in the sink and rinse it quick. You follow Steve to the front door, bending down to slip on your converse, having worn them so much that you no longer needed to untie them to put them on or slip them off.
When you look at Steve, he's smiling with amusement.
"What?"
"Nothing." He holds a jacket open for you. You turn, slipping your arms into the sleeves.
"They're fine!"
He proceeds to the front door, opening it for you before following you out. "They're a funny thing to hike in."
"I'm sorry that I didn't break down with hiking boots in the car. They probably would've been stolen anyways."
"Not much hiking in New York," Steve offers a lifeline of defense.
"There is a lot of walking," you remind him. "And I go everywhere within converse. That includes nature trails."
"Well, this isn't a park path," he tells you. "But if your feet hurt, I don't mind carrying you."
It wouldn't be the first time. A second would be mortifying.
Steve leads you towards the treeline. The trees canopied overhead, shielding you from any light of the moon. You dodge exposed roots. Steve pulls a miniature flashlight from his pocket, offering it to you, to which you replied, "you don't need one?"
"I know the way."
You follow him, careful not to trip. Your sore muscles are only now just healing, and you would hate to repeat the process. But all the while, you can't shake the low hum that pings through your entire body. Though the fresh air keeps it at bay.
Similar to the other night, there are no creatures nearby. No deer or other nocturnal beings made a peep. The ground is damp from yesterday's rain mixed with today's dew.
Steve stays close, and every now and then, you pretend that you don't notice his glimpses towards you. He's not even subtle, not in the slightest.
"Something on your mind?" You eventually ask, annoyed after half an hour of it.
Steve rubs his neck with his palm. "I'm just making sure alright after the other night."
How quickly you forget that he found you unconscious at the bottom of a hill. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. I am feeling a bit off."
"We can turn back." Steve stops, showing you that he's serious about his offer.
"No, I want to see what you had in mind."
"We're almost there," he promises.
The trees began to thin as the ground became steep. Steve led the way to the top, depicting an expansive view of the forest. It's vast, and you don't know how many miles it goes, but it's cut short with two mountains that leave a gap between their separate presences.
The sky is lighter. You can finally see without artificial light.
There's a large rock, flat and wide enough to seat two. Steve sits on one end, patting the empty space beside him. It's there that you wait.
Slowly, the sun creeps up. An array of pinks, yellows, and purples breach the horizon, bleeding together in a spectacle good morning. It's something beyond you or Steve and reminds you that there are bigger things in life than your problems. There are forces in the world that you will never know nor understand. But they're there regardless. It's the most captivating thing you've seen in a while and brings your stressed mind back down to a calmer, tranquil level of peace. You let go of some of the tension that's built up.
"You feel it too?" Steve asks, looking at you.
You nod, and you both sit there, taking in the view with your own silent contemplations. The colors in the sky soften and breach for the coming blue as birds emerge from their nests to take on the dawn sky.
"What do you think?" Steve puts his arm around you, and the intimacy is shocking enough without your body growing hot in a flash and your mind going dizzy.
"It's worth the hike. It's beautiful," you manage, keeping your focus on the sky.
"Very." You miss the way Steve gazes at you instead.
After a few minutes, you both retreat down the hill. Your pace decreases as your body tingles, and you feel woozy and wobbly on your feet. A great deal of depletion overtakes you. Your heart increases, and Steve turns as though he's in intune with you.
"I don't feel so great all of a-"
Steve makes good of his offer, swooping you up in his arms, and you buckle under his grasp. "I've got you, Red."
He's warm, warmer than he should be, out in the cold, fall morning. You know it's wrong, but you curl into him, taking comfort in the anomaly of him.
You wake having not known that you'd fallen asleep in his arms.
Abashed again. You imagine how Steve must've brought you back to the cabin, up the stairs, and through the threshold of his room. You were well tucked in, the covers pulled to your chin. How many times does Steve have to carry you to safety?
Despite rest, the sensations have worsened. Your abdomen ached and you were so hot that it was sickening.
You stick your feet out of the covers and reach for your phone. Maybe your Grandmother had similar symptoms? When you grab it, you're reminded that it's broken. A huff leaves your lips. All your phone is good for is a reminder of what happens when you're not careful.
Steps echo faintly, slowly amping in volume. You brace yourself for first-degree embarrassment. The knock is soft in comparison to the thud of your heart.
Steve pokes his head in. "How are you feeling?"
He's breathtaking as always, but there's a particular lure to him now. His eyes are sharp, and his stance tall and wide. Your breath hitches in your throat. He crosses the room, and the bed dips beneath his weight.
Steve raises his hand and pauses, similar to gaining trust with a wounded animal before resting the back of his hand against your forehead.
"You feel warm." Proof and confirmation that it wasn't a figment of imagination. Steve stretches his body back, covering your feet with the comforter.
"You probably shouldn't get so close in case I'm sick."
He scoffs as if he were immune to all ailments. "Can I do anything for you? Lunch?"
You're too nauseous to be hungry, but your belly aches for something that you don't know. "You've done too much already."
He makes a face but doesn't press the matter. It's then that he does something strange and inhales the air in a long, drawn fashion. His expression doesn't change once he's done, and he exhales heavily.
He rises. "Let me know if there's anything I can do for you."
When he's gone, you sniff a couple of times but don't smell anything other than the lingering scent of hickory and cinnamon.
You decided to run a bath in case you needed it. There's a generous, clawfoot tub apart from the shower. It resides beneath the bathroom window. You prop it open, listening to the sounds of nature. But all you hear is the wind.
The warm water soothes your body for a short time. The tingle of the heat hums against your skin, eventually spreading through your body, pooling down to your core. It could be your period catching you off guard, but you're nearly pulsating. The sensations were newfangled and rippled you down to the center.
You hop out of the bath, desiring to abandon the feelings in the tub, but they cling to you, grasping at you into the master. You borrow a red bathrobe, and your clouded mind finds humor in the color. You tie the bathrobe strings and flop onto the bed.
As time digresses, you grow restless. You don't know if you need food, water, or to dash out the door and run back to a place where things feel normal.
You needed to call your Grandmother. You hadn't checked in again. And you forgot to ask Steve if anyone had called for you. Something about being around that man kept you from thinking about all of that. About your life split into two sections. Family and work, two spheres in opposite states. Here, it was just you and Steve. No responsibilities. Just a cabin in the woods.
But now, there was pain and uncertainty, and you needed a familiar voice more than ever.
You're halfway down the stairs when you smell him. And the aroma causes your stomach to clench, and you grip the railing for dear life. Something was very wrong.
"You should go back to bed."
Blue eyes pierce you, slowly climbing until they're towering over you.
"I need to call my Grandmother; tell her I'm not well."
He puts a hand on your back, and you go melt against the touch. "Go back to bed, or I'll put you there." He's serious and… intimidating. He hovers over you, casting a shadow so dark that you nearly lose yourself. It's not the Steve that you've gotten to know.
Why didn't Steve agree with you? Or address your concerns. Did he not worry at all?
"You did this," you figure. You try to dip under Steve's arm, but his reflexes are swift. Strong arms sweep you up under your knees and around your waist, and you're helpless to resist. He hoists you up the stairs. Even as you begin to fear him, he stirs something inside you. Something that you cannot begin to pinpoint. "What did you do to me?"
"All I have done is help you."
Steve's body radiates heat, and your angst increases. He carries you back to his bedroom and places you gingerly on the bed. Through heavy lids, you watch him pull the covers up to your chin. He was too attentive. The way he tucked the comforter at your side. If he wanted you… harmed, he would've hurt you the night you fell. He wouldn't bring you into his home, into his bed-
A dark suspicion crept into your mind where it resided there.
"I can help you. I can give you what you need. You just have to ask."
"I need to call someone!" You spit out, growing more frustrated than fearsome of Steve.
His eyes darken. Disappointed, he leaves the room. You wish there were a lock on the door.
Steve paced the hallway long into the evening. The floorboards creaked over and over. He was antsy and impatient. It made your heart beat erratically, each thud matching the pace of your heart.
What made it worse was that you could smell him through the door. The scent of him had become so laden, as exhilarating as it was intense. His scent is evolving, or it's becoming readily available to you. Dashes of vanilla smooth out the heady smoke and spice. It almost radiated energy to keep you in a lulled state. Maybe it was all in your mind.
What was he waiting to happen? Whatever it was, you wished that he would get it over with and end your suffering. Your symptoms increased, and your belly ached. Ignoring the desires you felt below, you pondered what Steve could have done to make you this mess.
Laying down made you restless, and the symptoms grew worse. You were flush, steaming beneath the blanket. Was it a fever? You didn't have the will to check the bathroom for a thermometer. You were afraid that any move would ignite a change in Steve's behavior.
A moan escapes your lips when the throbbing of your body increases.
The heavy steps halt, and you see the heavy boots shadows beneath the door. Anticipation fills your lungs instead of air as you hold your breath and prepare.
The knob jerks and twists.
Steve pushes inside. He appears larger than before. Chest puffed, it rises and falls heavily, as though he's been waiting with great anticipation of what you do not know. His hair is tousled like he'd run his fingers through it countless times. But nothing compares to his eyes. You watch as his baby blues latch onto your form. They strain as a feverish yellow bleeds into his irises, drowning out the original blue hue, consuming it entirely.
You spring up, your back clashing with the headboard. Confusion twisting and twirling with terror. "Wha-" But his fragrance subjugates you. It's unfiltered without the door between you. Prominent in a way that clouds your mind. The hickory smoke fogs your already clouded mind, and you know now that it's tampering with your mind. "What are you?!"
"Your Alpha." He grins, showing his teeth. "I've been," he inhales, "immersing you in my scent. I had to see if it would take; if it would trigger this reaction.
"What reaction?" Your voice is weak, but the fear in it is evident. "What is this?"
"You're going into heat," he stalks towards you, eyes fixed on you in a way that screams predator cornering his prey. "You're more stubborn than I anticipated. You'll let yourself burn out before you accept your nature… so, as your Alpha, I have to do what's best for you. I have to protect you from yourself."
You were dreaming. Or hit your head. One of the two because none of it made sense. This couldn't be happening.
Steve kneels on the bed, cornering you against the headboard. He pulls you to him, and his fingers reach for the strings of the bathrobe. You want to kick and scream, but the yellow orbs terrify you into submission. And his scent makes you numb in mind.
"I like you in red," he tugs at the fabric's belt, careful in how he opens the robe, teasing both him and you as he pushes it open, revealing your chest to him. "But I'm enjoying this more." You want to cover back up, but the cool air feels comforting on your tender skin. Steve pushes the fabric off your shoulders, and it falls around your waist. The crisp air pierces your flesh, and that low hum pings within you again.
"You feel that? Your body's calling to me." You're curving into his touch without meaning to. It was like your body was on autopilot, and you were the pilot knocked out to the floor.
Steve casts his eyes down at your underwear. Fingers sliding under the band. With two fingers, he rips the fabric off your body. A gasp escapes your lips, and you can't miss the triumphant grin plastered on his lips. "Calling to its Alpha."
He gives a breathy chuckle and pushes you on your back. He hangs his head, kissing his way down your stomach, all the way down your v, and you weakly press your legs together. It's your only defense as his hands take you in, roaming over your hips, your thighs, your sex...
With little effort and one hand, he nudges them apart again.
"It'll take away some of your pain," he breathes onto your pussy. The sensation makes you spread your legs wider, opening more for him to see. What were you doing? "I could smell you from downstairs."
"What a nasty mouth you have," is your only reply as his tongue pokes as your folds, teasing you.
"The better to eat you with." His yellow eyes glance up and meet yours right at the pivotal moment before devouring you completely.
He laps you up with his tongue, drinking you in like a luxury. You throw your head back, getting lost in the sensations while he takes in every taste and texture you have to offer. He works in his fingers, pressing them inside you one at a time, stretching you out while he twirls your throbbing bud with his tongue.
You're trembling when he climbs back up your body.
Steve releases his grip, sitting up to pull off his shirt. All you can do is watch, bewildered and laden in his bed, coming down from your involuntary climax. Your brain thaws a tad when he reaches for his zipper. He draws out a monster. Thick with ample girth. Already hard, the purple veins pulsate. You'd never seen one so... inhuman. You wiggle, but Steve's hand lands on your stomach, pinning you to the mattress.
Once he's completely nude, he leans back over you and cups your cheek. "It's okay," he assures you, knowing exactly what's panicked you. He leans down, pressing his lips against your own. It's savory, and you taste yourself on his tongue.
His other hand slides down your body, gripping his cock, and pumps a couple of times. "You're meant to take it."
You're losing the war against yourself. You feel yourself conceding to Steve, giving in to your body's desires. You should fight him off, but you have no strength. You clench around nothing and realize that you crave him more than fear him.
"I knew you were meant for me the moment I saw you on the road." Steve runs the tip through your folds, the sensation clashing with the revelation. "I never meant to scare you, to make you fall. I won't ever let anything hurt you." The declaration is pushed aside as his painful prick breaches your entrance and you whimper. He's too large, and you're worried that you'll die from the impact. Each thrust chisels his way inside your tight channel. Each motion opens you a little wider. You see a flash of Steve splitting wood as he splits you wide open.
The motions ease your aches but create new ones as your walls stretch to accommodate such a large guest. The sensation does nothing to dissipate the fog across your mind, making it murkier as Steve uses it to his advantage. It spreads farther than before and overtakes you entirely as Steve sets a ruthless pace. You grip his shoulders, bracing yourself. His hips snap against you, the friction rubbing against your clit in a wave of building satisfaction. You feel the ridges of his cock drag over your sensitive depth, sparking a fire within you. You let out a string of moans, and it only reinforces Steve's movements.
Steve pulls out entirely on the cusp of your new high. You cry out. He sits back on his knees, his shaft still fully enlarged, pointed at you. The head of his cock bulging.
"Present for me, omega."
If you had been thinking, you wouldn't know what he wanted. Instinct kicked in with the title tacked on at the end. You roll over onto your stomach and prop yourself up with wobbly arms. Without thinking, you arch your back, sticking your ass out towards him. This heat was effective. Making you obey Steve's whims and offer the most intimate parts of yourself to him on a silver platter. This was the pivotal moment that you relinquished any control you had left, whether you realized it or not, to be his Omega. Even if you weren't entirely sure what it meant. There was only one thing on your mind, and nothing else mattered.
With greedy hands, Steve kneads your cheeks before forcing you back on his cock. The slapping of skin fills the room, and you smell the heady mixings of his smoky tones with the soap of your bath.
"You're going to look so beautiful, full of me."
Oh, if that doesn't make you clench around him.
You Alpha yanks you up suddenly. You yelp from surprise. He presses your back flush against his chest, molding you to him as he fucks up into you. You see stars as he pounds with no restraint. It doesn't last long enough, as something promptly snags inside your channel. Steve howls. His cock catches, and he's lodged inside, spitting ribbons of cum inside you, coating your walls. You're too distracted from the sensation that you don't see the next coming. Steve's teeth clamp down on your neck, hard.
There's no pleasure from this pain. You screech and squirm in his grasp, and in return, he constricts his hold like caught prey. He eases out of his climax, rutting in you as hot tears escape your eyes, rolling down your cheeks in the only form of escape you'll make. After a long moment, and with diligence, he retracts his teeth. The air stings. A whimper escapes your lips. Steve kisses your shoulder, the back of your neck, anywhere he can reach as though to ease the pain of his passion.
You're too shell-shocked to move. Steve's lodged inside of you in a bizarre turn of events. You're too scared to do anything. He readjusts the both of you, lying you both down on the bed. He's behind you, wrapping an arm around you protectively.
He turns back, careful not to tug on the knot, tethering you to him to switch on the lamp. He admires the mark, lapping up your wound, as his hand reaches down to feel where your bodies become one.
Series Summary: Stranded in the woods, you find solace in a local huntsman, but there are sharp teeth behind his smile. A twisted take on Little Red Riding Hood.
Pairing: Dark Alpha Werewolf!Steve x Omega!reader
WARNINGS: 18+ Smut. A/B/O themes and elements, Noncon/Dubcon, and False Imprisonment. Reader is an adult. You have been warned and are viewing this story on your own accord.
Summary: The TVA archives tell of a future love story, one that neither you nor Loki can believe.
Pairing: Loki x Midgardian!reader
WC: 0.35k
A/N: Loki series spoilers. *cracks knuckles* it's good to be back to writing. I've missed this.
“I’ve seen it.” The God of Mischief is not one that is often believed. For he’s cried wolf more times than are wolves. “In the archives of the TVA. I’ve seen you and I together.” You scoff. You don’t realize it until the serpent’s eyes narrow. “I don’t understand it either. But I’ve seen the way I’ve looked at you. No tricks, no facade. I know I am to fall in love with you. I just don’t know how I could ever-”
The slap across his cheek hurts you more than it does him. A disguised frost giant is still a giant in gene. And a God on top of that.
“Love a Midgardian?”
You turn, but he grabs your wrist, pulling you flush up against him, up against a tie and jacket that you don’t recognize. With an equally foreign demeanor. You expect him to say something vile, snarky, something with a bit of bite. A deflect for the annoyance you’re sure to have caused him. But when you look up into his eyes, they’re just two round, blue, frantic oceans.
“I don’t know how I could ever... make you return that affection.” Your chest rises and falls unevenly, and his breath hitches in his throat. “I’ve seen the way you could look at me. You must feel something for me now if that is to be true.”
It has to be a trick, a ploy… stalling for time, his usual tactic.
He seems to read your doubt word for word. “I almost always wear a veil. A false expression. A false skin. It’s to cover a void that has long been there. I’ve been searching for something my entire life to fill that absence. I can’t hide from you. From this. I can only show you who I am in hopes you could one day share an ounce of the same affection.”
Beautiful words dull your suspicions, but they’re there, echoing from the shadows. “After everything… I have a hard time believing that, Loki.”
