you’re evil
And RIGHT!!!!! And u know it!!!!! Werewolf umemiya is the leader of his pack obvi…… ur just some pretty human who gets a flat at the wrong place at the wrong time on your way through their territory……..
And maybe if he hadn’t been on the verge of his rut it would have been different; maybe if you hadn’t been soaked through from the rain when you stopped by that coffee shop for directions, or if you had the sense to refuse the stranger who offered his help despite his warm eyes and soothing smile, or if you’d given up on your planned camping trip to go back home, you wouldn’t be where you are.
But fate is a cruel mistress.
He’d offered you the jacket off his back when he first met you. It’s warm, large, smells distinctly masculine; though you attempted once and then twice to refuse, he did not take no for an answer. And so you sat at the bar with a strange man’s jacket over your shoulders and heat building up in your cheeks, and left town the following morning with it shoved into the corner of your bag, not quite sure why you felt such an urge to squirrel it away...
And even now, months later, it brings a sick sense of comfort. A reminder of when you thought that kind-eyed man was nothing more, instead of the beast that has now claimed you.
He doesn't play coy with you anymore. You know what he is. That doesn't stop you from running—one day, you think, maybe you'll get lucky. Maybe he'll move on, fixate on some other poor soul who stumbles into his territory, and you'll make your way back to the city and your job and your tiny apartment, no longer the captive consort of some wolf chief.
(Something deep within you knows that won't happen. It's the same thing that perks up when Umemiya comes home in the evenings, that still melts at the scent of that big, thick jacket you pretend he doesn't know you still have. Some carnal, long-hidden part of you that preens at his attention.)
He swears you're the prettiest thing he's ever laid eyes on; calls you sweetness and beautiful and his perfect mate, even as you thrash against his hold and claw at his arms until you leave streaks of red. He'll kiss you like a lover, like neither of you has any need for air, and when you finally manage to shove him away he'll nose at your neck, nip and suck at the tender skin beneath your jaw and pull you close. Hours can be spent like this, held on his lap as he litters your skin with marks.
The only thing he enjoys more is between your legs.
That very first night he'd taken you on the forest floor. You will always remember stirring from your slumber, the full moon shining between trees, illuminating the hulking shoulders and the mussed platinum hair, and the sight of his face glistening as brightly as his eyes when he lifted his head from your core to see you fully.
His hunger for that, specifically, has only grown stronger. If you're lucky he'll bother with build-up, kissing you long enough to make you pliant before beginning a descent. The closer it gets to another full moon, however, the less he bothers with the preamble—until all you get is a sweet peck to your nape before he's pressing you up against the back of the couch and dropping to his knees to shove his tongue into you.
The end, though, is nearly always the same. After he's wrung as many orgasms from your body as possible, rendered limp and breathless in his arms, he holds you; dotes on you, whispers sweet confessions and professions of devotion, presses sticky kisses to your brow before peeling himself from you to get a glass of water.
And that ever-growing piece of you in the pit of your stomach swells with the praise.
