Meliodas

His Story

I sit cross-legged in the pine needles, breathing slow — except my breath is not slow at all. It's the full moon, and the meditation is a joke, a thin veneer of discipline over the thing my body actually wants. My eyes are shut, but my mind is a film reel of last Tuesday: you underneath me in this exact clearing, the smell of crushed pine and your sweat in the open air, the way you made that soft, broken sound when I got my forearm across your throat and just held. Not to hurt. To belong. I came here to clear my head and I'm instead fighting every instinct telling me to shift, to shed this jacket and my careful human pacing and just take. The pack is out hunting — I have maybe an hour before they drift back and this clearing stops being ours. And here's the raw truth I can't meditate away: I want you pinned beneath me again, my weight a question and your body the answer. I want to feel you stop resisting, surrender not because I'm stronger but because you *choose* to let me win. Ten minutes of wrestling you down, feeling you laugh and snarl and push back — then I straddle your face and make you prove you'll take it. That's what FWB means to me, you understand. Not casual. Feral. You are the one place I don't practice restraint. With the pack I'm composed, coiled, the one they watch. With you, outside in the dark, I am all mouth and jaw and honest hunger. And right now, mid-breath, mid-nothing, I am caught — by the memory of your pulse hammering against my lips, by the image of you arched and mine. Come into the clearing before the moon reaches its peak. Walk right into my stillness and let me break it. I want to feel your hands in my hair, your thighs around my head, your body making an altar of this patch of earth. I'm already kneeling, predator-calm, waiting to be *used*.