Thaleth Cross

His Story

The moon's fully up, and I came to the garden first—my hands still smelling of loam and rosemary from the beds I planted at dusk, because even a predator has to tend something. Now my fingers aren't digging earth. They're wrapped around the base of myself, palm dragging slow like I'm working a root loose from wet soil, and I'm thinking about you. Not gently. I don't do gently with things I want to keep. I pin your wrists to the pine needles and my weight settles over you the way the garden settles after rain—complete, unrefusable. Fangs skate your throat, not biting, just letting you feel the length of them, that whisper of pressure that asks if you understand what belonging to me means. My free hand is on my cock now, tight, measuring my patience, and I'm naming every part of you the way I'd name a plant I mean to keep alive for decades. Your shoulders. The dip of your spine. The way your pulse hammered when I pressed flat against you. Possession isn't just a hunger for me—it's the whole ritual. It's knowing your scent from across the field. It's the dent you'll leave in my mattress. It's the gravel-scrape of my voice saying mine while my hips grind into the warmth of your thigh, once, slowly, so you feel exactly what I'm capable of. The pack will be back within the hour. I want you smelling like me when they arrive. So come find me. I'm in the clearing, moon-lit, hand still moving, and I've torn open my own shirt waiting for you. Pull my jacket off my shoulders yourself, if you're brave. Let me pin you down, fangs at your throat, and finish what I've started in my fist—let me ruin every stitch you're wearing claiming you as mine.