Always Watching...
It didn't start off as stalking. But he didn't stop it from happening.
Those kinds of things hardly ever start off as manic as they become. Compulsions usually begin as a small voice. Maybe one urgent need to take an action that is only slightly out of the ordinary. A person may resist this voice at first. Shake their head, deny it. It startles them. It should.
But many more may cave to them, at least every once in a while. That's not too bad—until it is. Until they're in too deep to back out, and the mania has taken over.
Ghost should have known the moment his hands twisted into a white knuckle grip around the steering wheel that something was wrong. The dashboard lights flash on. It's night, the blast of light usually blinds him. Too many long hours staring endlessly through night vision goggles must have done something to his eyes, he doesn't think much of it anymore, it's why he wears sunglasses past sunset.
But he sits in absolute stillness as they darken and he doesn't even notice. He certainly should have realized it when he slowly pulled out of his parking spot, staring past the waving light of the grocery store casting bright imprints on the rain soaked pavement.
He's looking past the store's glow. Past the haze. Past the other cars and the soaking kid whose been forced out in the downpour to round up the last of the shopping carts before close. The muted red of an old Kia's brake lights are flashing on the same black asphalt. The small, greenish-gray subcompact car moves to back out not so far from his.
He probably couldn't even fit in that car, he thinks. It's an idle, passing thought. He doesn't really care. He'd tuck in his knees and force himself in the driver's seat if he had too.
Maybe that should be another sign. It doesn't matter what his bones say. They don't fit together. Never even could. Her car isn't the only thing too small about her, after all.
Well, at least compared to him.
It's too late now. He's caught a scent and every instinct to find, catch, capture he's been relying on for the last... well, his whole life... won't let him back down. Not when it won't even be a hard hunt and the reward is better than a stiff drink on home soil with MacTavish talking his ear off and Gaz not being any less annoying.
He's not on home soil. In fact, he's not welcome back in England despite all his years of service. There's not enough land in the good country to satisfy all the retired soldiers now they're no longer needed. But the government promised them territory, and territory they got—it was just a little loop hole that they never mentioned where.
141 is all in America now. Still pack, still together. Hell, even all work together. Now instead of handling a rowdy squad, Price has his mits on a rowdy club. Though he actually seems to like the work, even if he hates the music. Kyle serves up a drink called "The Bomb" instead of messing with explosive rounds, and Johnny DJs. Apparently, it's always been a dream of his, now he even dyes his mohawk.
Ghost's with Price. He doesn't like the music either. It's pounding behind him most nights as he checks ids and waves people inside. Not a lot of action as a bouncer of a club that's not in a big city, but occasionally he gets to grab some piss drunk ass and throw them out, which is fun. Being in middle of nowhere Kentucky means sometimes he finds people that have a less understandable accent than Soap. That's always a jolt, especially when they're drunk. Ghost never thought he'd hear shittier English than Scottish English, but America never stops surprising him.
So no, he's not alone. Though Ghost has always been a loner, so he doesn't see them outside of designated hours as often as he should. People keep saying that was bad for him. He would rather "people" mind their own business. Pack included.
There was also therapy provided to him, that was supposed to help him readjust into civilian life. He went. Once.
Though they called three times a week to check in, he's never gone back. As long as the FED's or whoever paid out his contract keeps sending them a check, they don't really care if he comes in. Though they are contractually obligated to say they've been keeping tabs on him.
Ha.
If he wanted to be gone, he'd be gone. They all know it, which is why they haven't sent anyone to his apartment yet for a wellness check. At least when they hit his voicemail, it assured them he was still in town. Albeit, it also told them to leave him the fuck alone.
Right now, doesn't matter if he has or has not been repeatedly assessed for mental soundness. Doesn't matter if he knows every word of therapy jargon some ass in a neat blazer would slowly and politely tell him if he retold the story of what he was doing right now. He knows.
He knows enough about his own triggers to recognize he's already in deep.
Taking a deep breath, he shutters. He can still smell her.
Pelting rain on the roof of his jeep drowns out every coherent thought in his head. He's pulling out a little after the Kia does. Delayed enough to make it appear completely normal, but fast enough to keep an eye on where she's driving. Down the center lane of the parking lot. She turns right, choosing to head towards the exit with the intersection light instead of the other that empties right onto the street.
Always a cautious doll, that's makes him grumble out a good girl under his breath. The streets basically dead at this time, but that doesn't matter either. He wonder's if she's the kind to avoid left turns unless strictly necessary. He can't remember if he's seen her make one. She doesn't seem to like cars very much. Or the rain—though her type wouldn't.
It's not just the accents. The hybrids in this country surprise him too. He's met a lot of strange people in his time, exotic shifters a plenty. Mostly dangerous breeds though, and some rare crosses that he's half sure were genetically engineered, even if he never got a straight answer on that.
In England, most civi's are some kind of sheep shifter. A good number of rabbits and quail too. Prey, most of them.
Most of the American's he's met in his line of work were werewolves, or avians. Eagle shifters and hawks were common enough, and usually efficient. The wolves he never got along well with. They were often too wild for their own good, and had a hard time taking orders from those who weren't their own.
England never had wolves. Still doesn't.
England has foxes and hounds.
Wolves aren't around unless they're shipped in, or a sap inherited the gene from some other European bloodline. Those that do show up, don't stay. Something about the land doesn't suit them, and he knows that because they won't shut up about it.
Maybe that's why they dropped top pack 141 off to America—Royals didn't want a wolf hound on their land longer than they'd paid him to be, even if was born and raised there. Ghost would ask Price about it, but Price would probably never give a straight answer. Hell, maybe he asked to be moved. When Ghost chose to pack up with Price, he chose to stop caring about things like that. Gaz and Soap on the other hand were common foxes. Which is probably why they were so fucking annoying.
Ghost? Well, his family has been shepherds since men made the shift. Border Collies, if he was to be specific. All the men in his family line have been collies, but he's gotten shit for it his whole life. There's a lack of respect for working breeds in his generation. He thanks Lassie for that, and he made sure to prove himself to be anything but a helpful house pet in his time serving.
It also means he has a lot of energy. The military kept him busy and focused. Even though he's trying to settle into a peaceful life, it's not coming to him easy. He spends so much time alone in his apartment he's going to pace a hole in the floor. Nothing has been keeping his attention.
Work feels just a dead as being at home. And no matter how many hours he spent at the gym, he was still left with this buzzing need to do something that running on a treadmill didn't fulfill. The closest thing he gets to scratching that itch, is participating in the neighborhood watch Gaz convinced the pack to join.
He likes their town. Patrolling it makes him feel a little more in control of his life, but it always ends too fast. At first though, he'd been against it.
American civi's are a mixed bag. Prey, of just about every sort, sure. But a lot of big predators that like to take care of their own. They don't take to herding like the British do—it's not the same. Or so he thought.
Then a few months ago, he met her. The woman that's operating that Kia he's following. And all those fixated feelings finally sharpened onto a target.
They'd been slowly circling the roads of the neighborhood. Not too fast, not too slow, keeping an eye out for trouble. It's not just humans and shifters you have to look out for around these parts, but the wild animals too. Sometimes a monster from the deep woods gets a whiff of something tasty in the settlement and ends up on a rampage in rural towns.
This part of Kentucky isn't so far into the hillside, but they still keep a look out. Sightings of big beasts aren't unheard of, though the noise of civilization keeps most wary creatures at bay. They keep a sign on the truck which indicates to anyone who can read that they're part of the P.E.A.R.M. or the Private Enforcers of Alliance Regulated Might.
The members of 141 were now basically deputies without the connection to a single district. Authorized to be armed, and able to make arrests on behalf of citizens, use violent force, and generally act as independent officers. It was a certification they all passed easily, and it gave them a certain extra freedom most citizens didn't have. It was also required by the neighborhood watch they joined, which Price appreciated.
Most of the time the day patrols are quiet. And so are the night ones. This is a peaceful town, and of course it is. They're supposed to be enjoying their retirement in the quiet green countryside after all. This was their reward after a life of death and grimness.
Ghost thinks this is just another form of torture.
When his world changes, it's Sunday. On Sundays just about everything closes in town, including the club, so the whole pack has a lot of spare time. Today is one of the days they've convinced Ghost to come out on a ride with them. They're taking the road a little slower as they near the park, in case one of the kids they hear playing comes suddenly running out of the woods, when a swarm of small insects comes hustling out from between the trees instead.
The bugs look to be in a panic. Rustled up from a good resting spot maybe. Or so he thinks until they descend onto the truck. It's daylight, moths should be dispersing, but this group stays tight together. They land and crawl all over the pack, startling the hell out of Soap who's never been fond of creepy crawlies.
The delicate feeling of these small, dainty creatures all over his forearms does anything but disgust Ghost. They're plain moths, little gray things that are unremarkable to see in this area. But all together the batting of these wings creates the softest air against his skin, like sweet babies' breath. It's a gentle, pleasant feeling. He wants to cusp them in his hands.
Tough talk Soap can't handle it, he's about to squish one before Price tells them all to freeze.
"Do you hear that?" He asks.
Ghost strains his ears, and then he hears it. Besides the soft sound of beating wings, the moths all share one quiet voice.
"HELP!" They are begging as loud as they can, "COME QUICK PLEASE!"
The car is already in park and their springing to action. These aren't moths, but a panicked swarmer. The pack's demeanor immediately shifts.
"Lead the way." Price demands.
It sounds like there's no time to explain. They'll access when they get to the area. Moths take to flight again, and a trail of them leads them into the park where the problem becomes evident before they even reach playground. The regular sounds of kids rough housing and yelling has turned into real terror. A monster has crept close, likely attracted by the noise of the children and hoping to score an easy meal.
It's some kind of bear demon. Three times the size of a normal brown bear with a twisted maw full of scars. It's a beast of the woods if Ghost has ever seen one, and doesn't take kindly to having its picnic interrupted. The roar it lets out makes his fangs shake, like the reverb of a bomb.
They kill it quickly, and even though it's a fast brutal fight, it's the first time he's felt totally on since they moved here. Claws out, hackles raised, orders followed. It's so easy to fall back into that mindset it almost feels like crutch.
As the beast collapses, dead or at least near enough, they receive a round of applause from the surrounding civilians, which makes Ghost shift his weight between his feet. Uncomfortable. Why did Americans have to be so loud? And performative...
He draws his face mask up a little higher, just to make sure it's still secure. Technically he doesn't need to cover his face anymore, and in his den he doesn't. But only in his den. Which is more than he allowed himself before. When he was enlisted, he only took the mask of to shower most of the time.
Old habits die hard.
The beast taken down; someone is already calling the emergency hotline to come get the body. After thanking them, parents are ushering their children back to their cars. This day at the park is clearly over.
Ghost isn't paying much attention to them until the moths return.
He's not met many swarmers in his days. Insect shifters aren't nearly as common as their natural counter parts. She reforms when the moths all bundle together and thanks them profusely for listening to her. All Ghost's thoughts stop. All he can think is that she's perfect. Perfect height, perfect build, perfect hair. Perfect. She's talking now, and he has to force himself to listen beyond the pleasant hum of it on the air.
Words, right. She was on a walk when the beast came out of nowhere, she's so glad they were in the area to help before anything too terrible could happen.
Price, good man, tells her to take some credit. Her speed in calling to action saved some lives today. Well, probably. She doesn't take the compliment, obviously bashful and incessantly pushing the praise back onto them. Gaz and Soap are throwing out Lass's and flirty smiles like they weren't about to start crushing her to mush ten minutes ago.
Ghost is staring. And he hasn't really stopped staring since.
The first time they met after the incident, it really was an accident. He was at the store looking at the dismal selection of tea, when she grabbed his attention. Normally he'd be annoyed by strangers coming up to him to say hello when he wanted to keep to himself, but his voice got stuck in his throat when saw her again.
She wrapped him up into a pleasant conversation and the whole time he felt like he'd been sucked into a whirlwind. Mostly he responded in grunt of agreement or disagreement, but this didn't seem to bother her much. He learns her name that day, and with it he loses a part of himself. Fate must be fickle; it would have been much better for her if she'd never seen wind or tail of him again.
There's something about her character that he wants to covet.
Is it the way she tilts her head to read boxes in the store? Is it something simple, like her smile? The way she casually shifts to help herself out in mundane ways? All of it? Something more intangible?
He talks to her more, trying to find out. That's all it is at first. He's not following her, he's just curious. He learns the way she drives to work and takes those roads more frequently, keeping an eye out for her little off-green car. He drives by the library and notes where she most often parks—but he never goes in.
She's in his periphery, is all.
He's driving her way again. Around this time, she's supposed to be headed in for her shift. When he got in the car, he told himself he was going to gym. But the gym is on the opposite side of town so now he's just taking the "long way". A very long way.
His timing is superb. He can see her down the street, driving peaceably up the road like she should be. Then the car suddenly jolts and wavers for a moment before she gets it back under control. Traffic slows as she slows down and pulls off as soon as she can. He's intently watching now, though he won't admit outright he's worried.
Compared to him, most everyone seems frail. But when she parks in an abandoned strip mall and looks about to cry, he drums his fingers against the very wheel straining between his hands right now. A moment hesitance, and then flicks his blinker on.
Yes, he acts against his better judgment when he helps her. He doesn't explain why he's in the area and she doesn't ask. It's a small town, and a busy time of day. In her world it's just another happy accident.
They assess the flat and he agrees it needs to be replaced or she's not getting anywhere. The thing is so sunk to the ground it looks like a dark inky puddle under the rubber. Except, that is the rubber. No good. She's so upset a few moths fly around her head in a tizzy.
Cute. He thinks.
It turns out she doesn't even have a jack. There's a spare in the trunk but she doesn't have the tools to take off the flat even if she could lift the car. Her shoulders deflate.
"Stupid of me." She says under her breath, "I know."
"Lucky you I stopped by then." He grumbles and her face lights up.
Too much gratitude, too much sweetness come next and he's glad his mask covers up the red tint he's sporting on my cheeks. He leaves his own car running with the AC and tells her she can sit inside if she likes. He's begging her too so he has something of her in his car. Her scent, a stray hair. But she refuses, insisting that she helps and so he doesn't press it.
It's just a flat, he fixes the car up quick.
"Thank you, Simon." Her slightly breathless thanks nearly sends a shiver down his spine. "Is there anyway I can repay you for this? You really saved me here."
A few blunt words are all he can manage. "Just be careful."
She smiles. "I will. But next time I see you, let me treat you to something, okay?"
"Fine."
There is a light in his eyes when he looks at her. He can't help it. And maybe the moth can sense it too, even if she can't read the rest of his expression under the plain black face mask he still keeps on. It's thin, at least. Thin enough he can scent her through it, and maybe she can make out the way his mouth moves when he talks. She's leaned a little closer to him, and he's trying to look unaffected.
"You've got very pretty lashes." She compliments.
He grunts, taken aback by the compliment. "Just get off to work or wherever you need to be." He dismisses her.
She laughs, thanks him again and waves good bye. He watches her car merge back into traffic before getting back into his.
It would be safe to say, the intent behind his curiosity shifted that day.
They run into each other often. Share a few meals outside between their cars and once he's actually convinced her to sit down in a nearby pub with him. Slowly, he learns his prey. She's a transplant into this town, like him. Well, not like him, but nonetheless she wasn't born in this part of the country. She says she's from the south west, but frankly he's not very well brushed up on American geography. It's dry where she's from she explains, and the summer here is too humid for her. This much he remembers.
He bought her a dehumidifier for her car, and he knows she uses it. Can see the thing glowing on the vent that blows right at her face as she drives past him.
She's perfect. Responsive, and she doesn't even know it. He doesn't need a town to herd if a little flex of his shoulders has a whole damn swarm of moths dancing left to right. It enthralls him.
God above, his head is all over the place. Maybe that's why he's tailing this little thing he can't get his mind off of. Curiosity has turned into something darker. Every free moment he has, he's stalking her around town. He knows it's wrong, but he just can't stop himself.
Today is the last straw. His sanity can't hold out much longer.
They've just run into each other in the store. He's too eager by a mile to be near her, so they keep "just so happening" to bump into each other in places he thinks it's not too weird to reveal himself. The grocery store is the best for that. They meet a lot at the store, gaining a kind of repertoire. She's taken to calling herself his "mate" and openly complimenting his accent when he manages to bark out a few words in her presence.
Mate. What a word to use so causally... At home it didn't sound so serious, but in that flat middle-American cadence, that single syllable has weight. A weight that stirs his blood something fierce when he hears her say it.
He's her mate, he's got to be.
He wants to be that so bad he's practically inserted himself into her daily life already, though she doesn't fully realize it.
His scent is all over her property. Sometimes he shifts and just paces out there instead of inside at his home. Hers already feels like his, really, though he hasn't put that to voice yet. Sometimes he sleeps there, in the back line of trees where the shadows hide him.
That's where he wants to be tonight. He's so riled up, he might lay out there despite the weather. He's got thick fur, and its summer. The rain won't really bother him much...
Her scent is still on his mind, sticking the front of his body where she hugged him at the store. Normally she doesn't have a very strong aura, but today it's like sap and he's sticky with it. The biggest thing keeping him from parking and jogging off into the darkness is the thought that it might get washed off.
Right now, in the rainy reality of his late drive, in his human body, he already knows she's headed that way. He doesn't even need to follow closely to guarantee it. So, he hangs back a bit, takes the long way around to her little two bedroom and plot of land. It's a quaint house, with a clothing line in the back yard and a little garden. Flowers in the front.
He likes that she obviously takes pride in her home.
What he doesn't like is seeing her not inside it when he finally swings around to check on the property. The living room lamp should be on, shining through the curtains. She should be prepping a small snack to eat before she settles down on her sofa to watch some awful racy reality TV show and pick up a knitting project. Instead, she's slumped in the driver's seat, looking strained and out of breath. The door is open, and the one leg she's tried to swing out of the car is soaked through, shoes and all.
The jeep jolts to a stop before he can think better of it.
"Simon?"
She calls his name. It's only then he really processes that he's gotten out of the car. Rain makes his hair stick to his forehead, and makes the cloth mask stick flush to his skin. It's not like the balaclava's he's worn in the military with a waterproof silicate to make it weather resistant. The wet fabric muffles his voice oddly when he does talk.
"What's going on here?" He demands.
Too often he finds her in trouble. Most Americans don't get in trouble this frequently.
"Need to bring in the groceries." She answers. Then laughs. "We were just at the store, remember?"
He's not amused. "I'll bring them in."
"Oh, don't do that. I'm...I'm fine. And I'm not really ready for company right now." She tries to deflect his offer. Her breathing is labored. "The house is a mess."
He's seen through her windows plenty. If her house is a mess than Gaz and Soap live in a horde. Even on the worst day it's a neat place. It's not an acceptable answer anyway, because the inside of her house has nothing to do with the obvious distress she's in right now.
"It's just groceries. I'll get you inside faster."
She hesitates to answer. "Nice of you Si," that nickname always makes his heartbeat a little harder. "but I don't need the help, I promise. I'll get up in a second. What are you doing here anyway?"
"Had another errand and was headed home." The lie is easy. "Live on this side of town too, you know." The second one is more of a stretch. He can get home this way, but it's certainly not the fastest.
Her eyebrows knit and she looks down at her hands. Her skin looks clammy and not just from the humidity.
"Hm. I... I guess so."
"Listen, love." He tries to turn her attention back on him. "Can't get out of the car, can you?" Shamefully she shakes her head. Her small voice about snaps his self-control in two.
"No." She sounds mournful.
"Need me to call an ambu—"
That put a little life back in her. She cuts him off.
"No! No, I'm fine I just... I thought I had more time."
"Time for what?" And in that tone of voice, he won't be refused an answer.
"I guess you can't smell it in the rain." She murmurs. "I'm in heat."
Heat. She's in heat.
The words bounce uselessly around his skull a moment.
"Were you cusping in the store?"
"Shouldn't've been. I was doing alright, until..."
Until she hugged him good bye. Rubbing her tits against his chest and leaving his head swimming with the siren's call of fertility. He knew something was different, but he couldn't put his finger on it. But that's not the part that makes his cock jolt awake.
"Are you saying I spurred you to heat, omega?"
The designation slips from his tongue too easy. He doesn't mean to use it, but he does use it, so a part of him must mean it.
She whines.
"I can help you."
He's always helping her. Waiting in the shadows, watching. He orchestrates things to make her days a little easier. Slowing traffic, or meeting her so that he can herd her to safer parts of town—even though she doesn't realize that either.
She shakes her head. "But I don't want you to help."
He hears her, but he doesn't move. Not an inch. He's soaked through to his bones now and the upholstery in her car isn't fairing much better. He might as well have turned to concrete.
This close, with the puff of her uneven breath enough to stir the thick air in the car he breathes in her. The air is already heady, making his head spin a little. He's leaned down, half in the door half out. His fingers flex around the top, nails digging into the fabric of the ceiling. A cord within him tightens, tension increasing and he's not sure what he'll do if it snaps.
Her eyes are watery from emotion, already wet lashes flash up slowly when she finally looks at him. His darkening gaze is boring a hole through her head. Intent, listening. She's basically told him to leave, but he can't make himself do it.
He's not sure he can anymore, he's in too deep. Just as his thoughts tick darker, her voice pulls him back.
"I want you to mate me." She finishes after a long, baited silence. "And that's not fair, I don't even know if you like me like that. And I'm not trying to scent bully you into anything. You're a nice man, Simon, and I really like you, but..."
A nice man! She thinks he's a nice man.
He grabs her head quickly, the hand motion snapping. Shock flickers across her face, but she melts when his mouth presses against hers. It's fast, just a pressing of his covered face against hers. It's enough to get his point across.
"You want my mark, doll?" Voice pure gravel. He can barely say the words.
"Yes." She gasps back.
"Then I'm going to mark you." He declares.
He decided he wanted to a while ago. Saying it to her face though, feels surreal.
"Really?" She asks him that like she's the one that feels like she's dreaming.
"Give me your keys, and stay there." He orders. "I'll be back."
"Alright." She clumsily presses her keys into his hand and he quickly get's moving.
His head is thrumming. He couldn't have asked this to work out better if he'd penned out every action himself. Maybe Price is right, and he should start going back to church. His mother was Catholic. Church was a good way to get into a community, especially when he has pups. Pups need exposure, and...
Hm. He's getting way to ahead of himself.
Not now, obviously he wasn't in rut, but the thought adds a determined gait to his step. He hardly even notices the rain as his mind races. Would the boys be collies? Would they have a cross? Moths are fuzzy, maybe they'll look like her in his colors, wouldn't that be something.
Well, the only way to find out would be to try. That part he's more than happy to get started on.
He goes to the front door to unlock it before heading back to the car to get the groceries and trying to get a hold of himself. Now at least he understands why she was buying so much water, and snack food. But there isn't a lot. In a trip the goods are inside, and now it's time to get them inside.
Easy mission.
She opens the door again as he approaches, already getting up and taking a shaky step onto slippery wet pavement.
"I think I can walk now—oof!" She makes a startled noise when he picks her up with one arm. With the other the car door shuts and he hits the button to trigger the alarm in one fluid movement. Her arms wrap around his neck as he swings her between his arms bridal style.
A squeak leaves her, just audible over the thunder. "Simon, I said I can walk!"
"And I told you to stay put."
"But—"
Ghost sighs. "Just listen to me, woman."
"I don't like being called woman." She mutters back, arms going a little tighter around his neck.And I'd liked you to stay out of trouble. He thinks. But that's probably not going to happen.
"And I don't like standing out in the rain. Don't get everything we like, do we?"
How mad can he be when she rubbed her nose into his neck. He almost can't hear her voice over the rain. "I'm sorry. You're always helping me and I'm such a mess."
"Look like a mess about now too." He teases.
"Will you... will you mess me up more?" She asks as they step across the threshold of her quaint home.
Of course, her scent already permeates every inch of this space. He'd noticed when he put the bags down. He tried not to let it distract him, but now with this beacon of radiating desire in his arm, it's like the entire house rises up to seduce him.
He can't wait.
Any thoughts of getting her out of these clothes and warmed up before her heat takes over fly out his head. He'd intended on asking if she's already started nesting. Let her into her room. Maybe prep some food while being tortured by her needy scent calling every nerve in him to touch her. You know, do this the right way.
No.
The sofa is nearest. Her back hits it the cushions and she let out a surprised huff. He leaves her there just long enough to stalk over to the wide-open curtains and slam the shut. He's on her before she can even sit up again.
Hands everywhere. Down her sides and sliding under her knit sweater, touching a soft cotton t-shirt instead of skin. He practically growls as he pulls the tuck out from under her jeans. Up and over her head go both of them, he wants her skin bare. Now.
She moans when his hands cusp her breasts with both hands, her chest pressing into his touch. His hands slip upwards quickly though, too greedy for their own good. She no better. He doesn't refuse her grip when she slips her fingers into the scruff of his hair, scratching at his scalp and bringing their heads together.
A breathless question passes her lips. "Do I get to see your face?"
"I'm a bit a mess under this mask." He admits into her eyes. "A bit scarred, you know."
"Simon, I don't care, I want to kiss you."
The mask had become a part of him. He'd lost the skull when they retired, but the black was like a familiar friend. He didn't like people looking at him, he didn't like hiding a scowl. Didn't care for the stares he got because of his scars. It was a bother.
He ripped it off so fast, he startled himself.
She didn't get a chance to see his face before he answered her desire. A press of lips to lips, her mouth yielding to him. Her body yields too, grinding into the press of his hips over hers. The hardness of his cock trapped by his pants straining to make contact with the needy hole separated by three measly layers of fabric. Her wetness stains his clothes already, she must have seeped through her pants in the car.
"Wait." She gasps, but her lips are his and he's not letting her go. "Let." He takes her breath again. "Me look at you."
He doesn't comply to that one, instead tracing a sloppy line down her neck, nose pressing into her shoulder. She shudders when his teeth just brush her skin teasingly.
"I want to fucking eat you alive, doll." He admits.
"Hm, bite me then." She moans. "I trust you."
He clenches his jaw just a moment. She really must, she has no idea how crazed he is for her. How close he always is. He's called "Ghost" for a reason, if he doesn't want to be seen, he won't be. But maybe his constant presence has done something to her omega, made her more susceptible to him now.
If she was more conscious, she'd have more questions. His doll isn't dumb. She'd be suspicious and rightfully afraid. But the fact in the depths of her hind she yearns for and trusts him... He almost does it. His teeth throb, he feels the burning desire of bonding venom pulsing into place. He could. He could do it right now.
But this isn't how he'd fantasized sinking his teeth into her. He wanted her to beg for it, to be as needy as he's been. She's not nearly wrecked enough for his liking.
"Not yet." He admonishes her while she whines.
"You're always there when I need you, don't you just want to take me, alpha?" She ask-begs. Maybe she's further into heat than he thought, she's practically babbling. "I want you, I want to be with you always."
"I've got you already." He takes hold of himself, then chastises her. "Tease."
"I'm not teasing, I want you." she mumbles. "You're the one teasing me with your teeth right now—"
She cuts herself off with a playful squeak when he threatens her shoulder with his teeth again and a pointed roll of his hips. "Apologize, omega. You've teased me since the first day we met. You're going to take what I give you, and you're going to be patient."
Fingers drag against his scalp again. His omega is compliant.
Her head rolls back and she moans, "Mhm, alpha, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for teasing you."
"Then make it up to me, doll." Ghost goads, "If you're really sorry."
"Well," the words come out slow, hind brain doesn't like language, "what do you want?"
"A taste of this cunt." A short, frank answer.
She laughs. "Aren't I slick enough?"
The scent on the air says yes. That's not good enough for him.
He shifts to slip a hand between them an cups her mound over her pants. She moans again, griding herself into his palm. His touch says yes too—he already knew it. But he wants to be flooded by her, to finally indulge himself in what he's been so, so patient for.
"Take these off before I rip them off." He demands, but they're both scrambling to remove her pants mid-way through his sentence. Her underwear must be peeled off, it's stuck so flush with her skin. Their thrown elsewhere. He'll probably hunt them down later, but for now a more tantalizing treat is spreading her legs before him. It's dim, a single lamp in the other room casting enough of a yellow glow to let him see how she drips for him.
He sits back, loathing the loss of skin contact, but quickly repositions them. Her legs thrown over his shoulders and he hooks her around the thighs to drag her core to his face. The upper half of her body hangs down and her hands reach up to grab his forearms tightly.
He descends before she can protest. Whatever shock she has at the change in position is lost in the surprised yelp she makes once his tongue is on her. He's ravenous for her taste—how many nights has he dreamed about her slick on his tongue? It coats his face now; it pours from her in heat with the consistency of a faucet and he drinks it.
If he was drunk on her scent, he'd delirious now. Taking as much as he can, afraid it won't last but knowing he'll never go without again. His thumb moves over to thrum against her clit. She bucks, and moans, a light orgasm rippling up her back. It's almost like he blacks out after that, just barely holding onto the satisfaction of being here.
He keeps going, until she trembles in his arms. Hips buck, her fingernails dig into his skin, leaving marks—maybe even scratches—but he doesn't relent. She's tight and wanting and he can't wait to stick his knot deep in her, and make her jolt and squeeze on his length like this. Then he hears her break. A sob cuts through the rest of the pleasure noises, overstimulated and wet. Her body shivers.
"Please Simon, please stop!" She begs, "just fuck me, I can't take it anymore! I need—ah!"
She gasp-moans as he slaps her cunt lightly. She's made his fingers sticky, slick pooling in his palms, it splashes when he slaps her, making a lewd wet sound.
"Beg me better." He demands, feral for it. "Beg for my knot."
"I—" she makes an incoherent pleasured sound. "c-c-can't think."
"Don't think. Beg."
She pants deliciously. "Alpha." She whines.
He unhooks an arm, letting his hand trail down her chest and over the low of her stomach, pressing hard. She bucks up into his hand, a terribly delicious throaty moan echoing between his ears. She might have cum just a bit, but it's not enough. Her eyes roll back, her chest presses up into the air, but she needs more. Heat hits too high to be soothed by something as clean as his touch now.
The words rip out her after she moans, "Breed me hard, alpha. Stuff me full, never let me off. I want you to gouge me," her voice breaks, "please. Please, give me your knot. I need it, I need it so much. Please! Please?" The last is tinged with desperation.
He loosens his grip so she slips back onto the cushions with a huff. But he's quick to crawl back over her. Her wet, barely lucid eyes look at his face her hands grace his cheeks lightly. It's a sweet touch, it just makes him want her more. Their mouths meet with a roughness she doesn't expect but consents to. Her hands moving lightly around his neck and her mews of pleasure.
His hands are busy undoing his belt buckle and throwing that into the same nowhere her underwear has disappeared to. He breaks away just long enough to unzip his pants and free his member, watching her flush, blown out expression with rapturous attention.
Nakedness can come later, right now he's too impatient to be parted for the period of time it would take for him to slip out of his pants and rip his shirt off.
Cockhead teasing her entrance, she keens, words gone now. He savors the first push of his hips, putting a hand on her stomach to feel himself fucking into her as she practically curls up around him. Her legs hook around his back, and while a part of him wants to hold her down and fuck her in that wild rough way that will make her never forget that she's his from now on, when her arms curl around his neck and press him into a sensual needy kiss, he slows. Even, brutal thrusts make her quake and kiss him with a lulling grind of tongues and lips.
His knot is already catching on her walls and she milks him so tight it's like she already wants it. "Jesus, love." He moans.
She whimpers back, "Knot, alpha. Please..."
And he is. He's so on the edge the heat of it is burning him alive. The throb isn't just in his balls but his teeth. He can't care if it's sick of him to want this, if he's taking advantage. He wants this now. He refuses to fix his mouth to hers against, forcing her head back so she can bare herself to him.
His mouth spreads and he can fit her whole neck in his mouth. A possessive curl is so satisfied by that, he bites down before he can think too hard about it. A bond mark that's settled basically on her jugular. If he squeezed to hard he could kill her, it wouldn't even be difficult. That's where he wants her mark, to remind them both who owns her life.
When he pulls back, he's come down a little with the force of those thoughts, initially worried. Even through the white-hot rush of coming and a fresh bond. It's not a normal bite, he's not a normal man. She deserves a nicer bond mark. But instead of trying to push him off or feeling any inkling of unease through the tenuous new connection he's made, she tightens around him.
"Yes!" She hisses between her teeth. "Yes, thank you!"
He relaxes. Naughty doll likes it a little rough.
Panting, she pulls his head up from her neck and kisses him with suck love and longing her might cum again. Involuntarily his hips buck and they both let out a shaky breathy moan. He likes the quick little squeeze her cunt does when he rocks into her with his knot, so he does it a few more times as the minutes pass. He's not in rut, so it deflates quickly.
"Next time I want you to present for me, omega."
"Yes, alpha." She purrs sleepily. "All yours to breed. Feel so good, thank you... thank you..."
He holds her a little closer. "That's right. Good girl."
"I'll bite you... in my... nest..." she mutters almost incoherently.
His hand brushes reverently over her hair. The soft ease of her satisfied breathing beside him pulls out the same rabid ease, that feeling all those wings and delicate little legs on his skin had pulled unbidden from the depths of his person when they met. It's a paradoxical feeling. So pleasant and yet it brings out a ferocious hunger to the surface of his psyche that's consuming and primal.
He wants to feel that again, maybe he'll ask her about it when the heat between them passes. As he thinks that, a single moth seems to appear from nowhere, slowly flying around them until it rests on his arm. It's wings gently flap twice, slow and sedated and he goes so completely still. The creature dissipates into his skin and a pleased sound rumbles his chest as his new mate snuggles a little closer to him.
Fucking perfect.
His phone is the car. He'll have to get it later. The pack would be happy to find out he's finally pinned down a mate. Happier still it's that sweet thing that led them to a good fight. An omega with good instincts (most of the time) and cute to boot. Doesn't matter if Gaz and Soap have been shacked up for years, they'll still be green as apples when they hear the news. He almost chuckles to himself.
It was dangerous to let himself in. But he'd already allowed himself too much. There was no going back now. Not that he wants to. Especially not with the thrum of bonding keeping him alert and a need for more already brewing in his stomach.
He might be territorial and a bastard. He might be gruff and mean. He might do things that will scare her one day.
He might be a stalker.
But... what she doesn't know, won't hurt her, right? Everything worked out in the end. As long as his little moth stayed close to his flame, she'd never have to worry about anything ever again. He'd make sure of it.
After all, he's always watching.
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