Know you are Loved | Library: Astarion Ancunín x GN!Reader
⛧ pairing: Astarion Ancunín x GN!Reader
⛧ word count: 3.8K+
⛧ notes: One-shot. Established relationship, angst (because I can't help myself), comfort, fluff. This is after the good ending in Baldur’s Gate III and he is a vampire spawn. The prompt is "Library" and I'm sorry for any mistakes. His name means "Little Star" :'c MY HEART </3. Reader is not Tav and is alive/warm bodied. Yes, the title is inspired by Bodies on Netflix LOL. I finally finished this after procrastinating and I did it during degen hours. Will edit further.
⛧ warnings: suggestive, blood, biting, vampire drinking blood from you
⛧ summary: Astarion decides to surprise you for your anniversary and sends you on a scavenger hunt to discover what it could be. The two of you sneak into the library at night to gather some clues.
NOT MY GIF OR QUOTE/TITLE! I'm still learning how to use this site so bear with me.
“I felt like a seed in a pomegranate. Some say that the pomegranate was the real apple of Eve, fruit of the womb, I would eat my way into perdition to taste you.”
― Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body
“You’re an ass, Astarion.”
“Keep talking and we’ll be caught~” He replies in a sing-song voice.
“You haven’t given me shit to go on.”
“Well if you were half as smart as you are beautiful, which is by the way is immensely so, you would have figured it out already.”
“Yeah, no thanks to you.”
“All beauty and no brains. Tsk tsk.”
“Well what am I supposed to do here?”
“Love, it’s a surprise. What fun would it be if I just gave it to you outright? This is for you! You deserve it. You deserve the best.”
“That would make sense if I actually liked puzzles but I don’t. So why are you putting me through this.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
“Ha. Ha. Bite me.”
“MAYBE I WILL!”
The mirth dripping off of Astarion’s laughter makes my blood boil. I half wish that it would actually boil so that this LEECH would have to suffer as much as me the next time he gets peckish for more than just a kiss.
The Baldur’s Gate Public Library has long since closed prior to our breaking and entering or as Astarion likes to call it: fun, silly little lawbreaking. Its historic grandness wasn’t lost on me even in the shrouded darkness. The building’s sheer mass loomed over the city and was filled to the brim with books, scrolls, and the like. Astarion thought it would be fun to celebrate our anniversary by doing this unhinged scavenger hunt. The activity itself wasn’t particularly that abhorrent; I’m just exaggerating a bit but it certainly felt like it. I am no fonder of riddles and puzzles than I am of my own blood getting sucked dry by my vampire boyfriend every night or so. Maybe this was his plan all along. To watch me suffer and flail about helplessly as his own personal perverse entertainment. It was very in line with his character, to enjoy the misfortune of others even at their expense. Maybe this was his own anniversary present to himself. I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s not selfish but he is self indulgent. Which is why I think that him coercing me to go to this library could be seen as a form of torture of which he can get his sick pleasure from. My dearest love has given me the final clue, albeit very reluctantly, that would end this wild goose chase once and for all. It has led me and him here to this blasted place of antiquated knowledge. Thus our current predicament. It was something about somehow finding a particular book here at the library. However, when I brought up that the Baldur’s Gate Public Library was the literal worst place he could have hid a book for an adamant puzzle hater like me, all he did was shrug and smile mischievously. Astarion wasn’t very helpful despite my grievances and all he said was that “I would know it when I see it.” Ugh, I hate this fanged fool.
I hate to even think this, but I would have to begrudgingly admit that there is the undertone of excitement by sneaking into a place like this. Maybe it’s the blatant disregard of the law. The taboo of it all. It wasn’t like that it was heavily guarded per say but that there’s the ever present threat of being caught red handed. The Baldur’s Gate Public Library is a popular attraction teeming with all walks of life during the day. The potential danger, and yes sadly, the challenge it poses was strangely exhilarating. It is one of the more grander establishments in the city and its sheer amount of square footage matches its impressive architecture. We would realistically be here for hours, searching for this clue, and for once in my life that did not bother me. There was no sense of urgency that was so previously present in the last few months and for the first time in a while, we had all the time in the world. It was nice to not need to be somewhere, to idle and to not have pressing matters to attend to.
It’s also the fact that this break in was a welcome respite from all the non-stop traveling, adventuring, and fighting we did in Faerûn. For a while, it felt like all we did was just that. Be on the move. It was sadly familiar to me. It’s times like these that I get to share with Astarion which makes me appreciate the inbetweens, not just the stops and go’s, but the time spent idling because you never know when you would be forced to the opposite. Our shared painful memories of tadpoles, mindflayers, and world ending events still seem unbelievably close and present even though months have passed since that call to action, where our paths crossed and fates intertwined to bring us to where we are today. Stari was a wide eyed, beautiful creature then as he is now, though I had much more resignations about him at the time. It is at this moment I realize I might have been absentmindedly gazing at him to which he happily notices in classic flamboyant fashion.
“What are you staring at?” He chuckles. Astarion drops the book he is perusing at in favor of sliding his way towards me, hand dragging along a shelf as he closes the distance between us. He wiggles his eyebrows in mock flirtations, a smirk emerging on his dashing face. “Like what you see dear?”
And I do. I mean, just look at him. Red. The color of his eyes. Sanguine. Like saturated blood split on pristine snow on the coldest night of winter. Deep like the ocean, as mesmerizing as rubies glinting in the pale moonlight. His alabaster hair glows under the milky nocturne rays that filter through the open glass panes of the library’s long, repeating windows. Spiraling coils of stark white curls crest the top of his head. Akin to the wool of a freshly born lamb but without the air of innocence that often comes with it. His skin, impeccably smooth, almost translucent and sparkling—soft and delicate, as if the faintest breath or the dullest knife would cause harm upon contact.
He’s closer now. I can feel his chilled breath fan across my face. He smells of sweet mint and fragrant aged wine. Being here, it’s like our own little world, frozen in time, without any other living beings but the two of us here, together. When did we start moving towards each other? When did he get close enough that I can count each individual eyelash? Every line? Every freckle? Maybe we are twin planets. Caustically flying through the empty vacuum of space, unconscious of the gravity that pulls us together, destined to intertwine. The weight of us comes crashing down eventually. We burst—explode, I erase the distance, his pale lips drawn to my own.
His kiss burns a fire right through me. He breathes me in and all I can do is the same, returning his passions with fervor. Fangs scrape against the supple skin of my lips, snagging the sensitive skin there. It stings. A whimper escapes my throat. The elven man swallows the noise and deepens the kiss, groaning to himself at the pleasure. I shiver at the sound, shaking like a leaf in the wind. Astarion is quick to react. His large, callused hands give my waist a gentle squeeze, before one of them comes to cup my cheek. It is a stark contrast, his touch. It feels frigid against the warmth blossoming on my face which was due to his very talented ministrations. We pull apart to catch our breath, mostly for my sake. I take this small interruption from his loving assault in earnest, gasping for air that eludes me. Astarion’s mouth keeps busy as he litters searing kisses from the corner of my mouth all the way to the crook of my neck, there he lavishes all his attention to. My love takes a moment and pauses. Something unspoken passes between the two of us. Slowly and carefully as if he was afraid of hurting me, he lowers his lips to the juncture of my neck. Astarion is tender, like a kitten suckling; it’s cute and makes my heart swell at the notion. He licks a wet stripe along the column of my outstretched neck, tongue dancing across the precious skin there. I know he can feel the quickening pulse underneath. Its heated song is no doubt alluring and irresistible to his kind. He wants to say something. His mouth opens and closes shut, brows furrowing on their own. He wants to say something, that much I know. I speak the words he’s too afraid to voice.
“You can if you want to.”
A beat of silence passes. He speaks, quieter than he’s ever been since coming here. I have to listen closely to hear. It takes a real effort for me to catch the words.
“Only if you let me.”
“I let you.” I smile, tilting my head so he can have better access.
“I’m not even hungry and yet I want to, I so badly want to.” He takes my chin in his hands and stares inquisitively at me. “It’s frightening, the effect you have on me. Your hold—unbreakable, you’re Eros incarnate. I’m concerned, really.”
“Maybe I’m just that enticing.” I try to lighten the mood, feeling the air shift. I lay my hand on top of his where it rests at the bottom of my face and squeeze, gently moving his palm to my cheek. I lean into the touch, trying to convey how at ease I am with him. That I trust him. I hope that it’s reassuring to him at the very least.
“I feed on you and you love me regardless” He mumbles dejectedly, words falling out before he can catch them. “That hardly seems like a fair trade.”
“You’re thinking in transactions.” I sigh, moving my face away from his hand, as if the contact had burned me. My voice comes out harsher than I intend, making the both of us flinch at the sound. “I scorn Cazador for putting that mentality in your head, for making you believe you are undeserving of basic human decency. You are worthy of love and all the goodness life has to offer. That doesn’t have to come with strings. It never has. It never will.”
“You’re too good to me. Too good for me. I can’t believe you’re real, that you’re here with me and that I call you mine, and I yours. I can’t help but to think it’s too good to be true. Sometimes I mourn the life I had because of it. Before the vampirism.”
“Really?” Feeling baffled that he would mention this now when he’s been so tight-lipped about his former life the entire time I’ve known him. “...Why’s that?”
“Because past me would be able to love you without hurting you or causing you pain. I would be unmarred and unscathed by the previous cruelties of my master. It's what could have been. Would I have been better? Would it have made a difference? You don’t know how much this haunts me. I hope that I could be enough for you. To deserve you. To be someone good enough and worthy of your love. On the worst days, whenever I look at you, sometimes all I can think about is what I take from you. My vampiric affliction doesn’t help either; it’s the constant reminder of everything I can’t have but must steal from you and others to live a normal life.”
“You’ve given to me as well. It’s not so one sided.”
“Not nearly as much as I’ve taken.”
“Lies. You’ve given a lot of reasons for me to smile.” I playfully tap his forehead with my index finger. His handsome face scrunches in confusion and I can’t help myself giving him a peck on the cheek. From that, his hardened face softens into something more vulnerable, less pained. “You make me laugh. You subject me to mental torture via scavenger hunts and puzzles. You’ve given me happiness. Companionship. What more could I ask for?”
“I’m just so hyper aware of my faults.Of everything I lack.” Astarion grimaces. “It pains me to think I’m not the best for you.”
“You’re a silly man, Stari.” I chuckle, though it is devoid of humor. My boyfriend’s words hurt to hear out loud. Did he always think this way? What spurred this on? I want to know where all this was coming from. I hate to think he felt this way often so I question him further. “Why are you getting so sentimental? Having doubts about me, are you?”
“NO. NEVER. It's just that I can’t let you go. I don’t want to. I've never needed someone so badly in my life and it scares me. It scares me because I know the best thing I could do is to let you find someone else better and yet, I don’t want you to. I guess I’m that selfish.”
“Funny, because have you ever thought that I might feel the same way you do?”
“Really?” His eyes widen, face shutters in disbelief. His lips press into a thin line, he’s unconvinced.
“Really.” I reassure, trying to soothe his misgivings. This only causes him to furrow his brows, deep in thought.
“If you could taste me, what would burn on your tongue?” A sardonic look permeates his devilishly handsome face. The corners of his mouth dips into a frown, the elf pulls back a bit, almost as if he was disgusted with himself. He’s deflecting, subconsciously trying to distance himself, physically for certain, maybe even mentally. “Disappointment? Ire, maybe? Certainly not ichor.”
“Well, we’re no gods, why would we be?” I scoff, tired of this negative way of thinking. I want him to realize that I’m here for him. I want to burn away his pains in a fiery inferno that would rival the very deepest pits of Avernus and scrub the residual soot of his past traumas with my bare hands if I have to. I want us to heal together, however slowly and no matter how long it may cost. “Gods be damned. If I’m to bleed, why not for someone I love?” I retort hotly. I grab the back of his head, fingers lacing through his white curls and stick his face where I want him, my exposed neck. Openly inviting him to what he desperately wants to do but adamantly denies for what reason, the answer continues to elude me.
“Even if this someone eats away at you until there’s nothing left of you or him?” Astarion’s lips skims over my nape as he speaks. A mindless finger trails along a vein on my neck where I am sure he can sense the heat of my thrumming pulse. I feel the words he whispers ghosting over my skin. “Like a ravenous animal doomed to consume the very thing he loves.”
“Astarion… You’re not an animal or a monster. You are the man I love and want to spend the rest of my life with.” The conviction in my tone is loud and clear.
“Does it ever bother you?” His voice breaks, more vulnerable than he’s ever been up until now.
“Never.” I don’t miss a beat.
He doesn’t either, for in the next moment his fangs sink in. My breath catches in my throat. Warmth seeps out of my body through the juncture of my neck. It feels cold yet familiar with him. It’s like a frost covered flower blooms where he bites. Prickles of crystallized ice tear at the sensitive flesh there. Frigid water floods my veins as I plunge deeper and deeper into this glacial abyss.
In this coldness, I feel most at home. It is not the type of cold I’ve felt when we were bundled up in thin canvas tents in the deepest parts of the Faerûnian forest during the midst of the most brutal winter. It is the not cold that I’ve felt when I was rejected by a past jilted lover, who made me feel unworthy and dispassionate. It is not the cold that I've felt when I was alone, before the Mindflayer swept me up from my miserable life, having no one who loved me to even miss or realize my absence. That was the real type of cold, one that could kill you. Not in a physical sense, but in a spiritual one. No purpose. No meaning.
For me, it was always nonstop, especially back then. Touch and go. Don’t stop. Keep going. Keep running. I won’t have to think. I won’t have to feel. I can just keep moving until something gives out or something breaks. But then a ship. Then a tadpole. Then a handsome, pale-faced, three-hundred-year-old, fanged elven vampire walked—no—FELL into my life. Then that plan went to shit. Suddenly it’s like you finally discovered how delightful cold could be after all this time living underneath the indifferent, sweltering sun. It is the cold you feel when you've been running on heat your entire life, burning alive since the start of existence and you finally get a taste of reprieve. Like the first rain after a long arid drought. Like the cool breeze you feel on your sweaty skin on a hot summer’s day. Or a fresh drop of chilled water dripping on your tongue that quenches an aching thirst, one that has been festering for so long, yearning for something unknown and seemingly unattainable. Astarion has redefined the cold for the better. It wasn’t something to be afraid of. Nor was it something I had to dread. The cold has never felt this warm.
When Astarion leaves my neck, I ache in more ways than one. As the hunger leaves his eyes, I can see it being replaced with remorse which gives way to worry. Crimson stained lips morph into an ugly frown. The vivid color is a stark contrast against his pallid skin.
“My love,” Astarion runs his chilled fingers along my cheeks. I don’t feel the usual shock of our temperature difference that normally happens when we touch which sets off silent alarm bells in my head. A tell tale sign of significant blood loss which I’m sure my complexion would reflect. “I’m afraid I might have overindulged.”
“That’s quite fine.” I cover my pulsating neck with a light grimace. It hurts. “Have you had your fill?”
“The truth? Never.” The elf blinks slowly, as if savoring a delicious sight. “But I will sate myself for your sake.”
“My hero!” I playfully boop his nose, which he scrunches in mock disgust, fangs peeking out from underneath his curled lips, greatly resembling a disgruntled cat. I find the image and comparison to be very amusing. “Now are you done slurping, you mosquito? Or can we get out of this wretched place? It’s freezing!”
“Shit, ahem. Well about that..” Astarion scratches his head, crown of curly white locks bouncing with the movement.
“What?” I’m unsure of what to make of him.
“Love, you haven’t solved the puzzle.” The vampire spawn says sheepishly. An awkward smile graces his mouth.
“Are you fucking serious?”
“It’s the whole reason why we’re down here!” My boyfriend drops his hands in defeat, motioning wildly around the endless aisles of books. “We can’t just leave! Not after everything it took to get here.”
“Fuck your damn puzzles! I want to go home! I’m over it!”
“Keep your voice down, love! We’re still trespassing in a library. Any second now some nitwit guard could come stomping in to arrest us. That’s not how I want to spend our anniversary.”
“Well they could walk in on me murdering you. Is that a better way to spend it? Because I’m highly considering it.”
“You don’t even know what the surprise is.” Astarion rolls his eyes and waves his hand in dismissal.
“Then show me what it is because if I don’t solve this puzzle in the next thirty seconds, I’m going home with or without you.”
“Okay, okay, okay. FINE. Stay here my impatient little bird.”
Just like that, the vampire spawn moves away from me. A wisp of white slinks into the darkness of the library shelves and disappears without a trace. Due to the dim lighting, I can’t make out where he’s gone further so I wait. A few moments pass before the wraith reappears, hiding something behind his back, a coy smile donning his ivory face.
“Here, this is what you were supposed to find. I’m now realizing how hard this was to do and I’m regretting how I did this in the first place but what’s done is done. Happy?”
Stari places a book in my hands.
“You sent me to the biggest Library in all of Faerûn to find this one goddamn book? Are you insane?”
“Not just any book, darling.” He scoffs and rolls his scarlet eyes as if he was mildly miffed. I could tell he was not. If he actually was, I might have thoroughly been annoyed. His next words hold such tenderness in its cadence that it temporarily quells my rising frustrations. “Open it.”
I can’t help but sigh and yield to his demands. I turn the novel over in my hands. It’s a soft, navy blue leather-bound book bespeckled with gilded golden stars decorating the front cover, the title reads: Little Star Finds a Home. I look at him, cerise eyes meeting mine. I open it, flipping through to find the cream-colored pages to be blank except for the very last page. The words jump out to me.
Will you marry me?
I look over to see him on his knees, a golden ring in hand, a singular round inlaid garnet sparkles within its prongs. It matches his eyes. My heart flutters at the notion.
“Yes, you stupid man.” Tears freely springing from my eyes. I throw my arms around his shoulders. “Yes, a million times over.”
“I can make that happen, you know.” He grins. Astarion presses a chaste kiss to my lips. “What’s a million to an eternity of this with you.”
“Well we better get to it then.” We kiss again, deeper this time. It tastes of starlight and traces of iron. It’s familiar. It’s home. Reluctantly, I break away from my newly pronounced fiancé to dig my index finger into his sternum to scold the twat, needing to say this piece before we can officially celebrate.
“You have got to promise me—” Every word is punctuated by a jab at his chest, He cringes. “—that there will be no more puzzles in the future.” He nods swiftly and leans in closer so that our noses touch, his forehead rests against mine. “Or ever, for that matter!” He can’t help but laugh at my reprimand, skin wrinkling around those hypnotizing, vermillion irises.
“I promise, no more puzzles. Just you, me, and eternity.”
And it was the truth.
Thanks for reading! This fic is going to be included in a small series of prompts that me and my friends choose every month.
Part 4 of the Betaverse Masterlist
Kuroo Tetsurou, Bokuto Kotarou, Akaashi Keiji x female reader
w.c 8.7k
tw: a/b/o, yandere, noncon, smut, ptsd, blood and minor violence, forced claiming, nsfw
“You can’t not go.”
“I’ve spoken two whole sentences to the guy, and I’ve never watched a game of volleyball in my life,” you reply. Both of which are true. Not the entire reason, but valid objections all the same. “Besides, it wasn't like he invited me specifically. He invited the whole team, it was a general thing. He won’t even notice if I’m not there.”
Ino shrugs. She glances over her shoulder to check no one’s around and leans in close, lowering her voice.
“Yeah, but it’s not about him. The boss’ got a hard-on for Kuroo. His packmate’s some big-shot player in the league and he’s obsessed. Like, ultra fan-boy. He was standing right next to us when we got the invite. If you don’t go, he’ll notice and trust me, he’ll make it a thing.” She gives you a meaningful look as she draws back, patting you on the shoulder. “It’s a few hours, you’ll be fine.”
Your fucking boss.
The sole reason you went out with the rest of the team for drinks, the reason you didn’t – couldn’t – make a polite, if not hasty exit after finishing your first. The invite would’ve gone out regardless – you work in the same building, a few of the guys on your team close enough to call drinking buddies, hitting the same bars and hole in the wall joints after work – the only difference being that you wouldn’t have been a part of it.
‘Nothing beats courtside, ‘course, but it’s tradition to kick off the season at mine.’ Stuck between your coworkers, insides twisting into knots when those hazel eyes flicked your way, ‘You guys should come.’
And now, apparently, you don’t have a choice in the matter.
—
Not counting your boss, there’s ten of you on the team. One happily bonded omega, seven betas – including you and Ino – and two alphas; Sakai, in her mid-to-late 30’s and Junya, who’s two years younger than you and already working his way to his next promotion.
Nearly four months in, and you’ve finally gotten to a place where you don’t have the urge to flee any time either of them walks into the room. That’s progress.
Sakai’s got an omega of her own and Junya’s not interested in women, much less betas, and those facts should matter, they should make a difference, but they don’t.
Still. Baby steps.
—
There’s butterflies in your stomach. Not the kind you used to get back in school, making eyes across the room with your crush. Not the type to leave you warm and giddy. You feel faintly ill.
Your hands are clammy too, but short of anyone reaching for a handshake or a hug – unlikely – that’s a problem you can deal with.
You’ve been at Kuroo’s for twenty minutes already and the game doesn’t start for another fifteen.
You wander around with a glass of wine someone handed you that you haven’t touched, flitting on the outskirts of conversations that don’t include you, and while you do make an effort to appear present and attentive, laughing when everyone else does, a hum of agreement here and there, you find yourself more often that not staring at the furniture, the framed pictures on the walls. No specially lit trophy case or wall of medals, but–
“You look bored.”
The glass in your hand slips. Blame the sweaty palms or the way you spook like a startled animal – it crashes to the ground at your feet, shards of glass skittering across the floor, the wine you hadn’t touched drenching the front of your skirt and your shoes.
“Shit.”
Kuroo, who’d snuck up beside you, makes a choked noise of surprise. People stop talking, turn to gawk – only for a moment, but that moment stretches infinitely, in slow motion with a spotlight shined directly on you. Stupid, awkward, clumsy beta. Your cheeks burn.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a jumpy little thing?” he drawls, nudging his shoulders teasingly against yours. Like you’re friends. Like this is funny.
And that, more than the shards of shattered glass at your feet or the wine staining your clothes, cracks like a hammer to your defences.
“I, um–” your throat’s too dry. “Sorry. I’ll go get…” you’re backing away, stumbling over your heels when there’s a light, fleeting touch to your wrist.
A pretty, auburn haired omega you hadn’t noticed before stands at your side, next to Kuroo. She offers a small, reassuring smile, “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I’ll clean this up. Bathroom’s just over there,” she points, “if you need a sec.”
You take the out. Not a word to Kuroo or her or anybody else, scarpering off without a backwards glance.
There’s not a whole lot to be done for your skirt. With trembling hands and vision that blurs with stupid, ridiculous tears, you sponge it off best you can, leaving a giant wet spot that doesn’t look much better.
You need to pull yourself together.
It’d be bad enough if everyone out there were strangers you’d never have to see or speak to again, but these are the people you work with. They already believe you’re awkward and probably socially inept, you can’t have them thinking you’re going to unravel after a simple startle.
The worst part is, you’re fully aware this is an overreaction.
If you could, you’d change it. Rewire your brain so logic would overrule blind panic. One alpha hurt you, years ago. You can’t be spiralling into hysterics every time you’re forced into close proximity with another. By and large, alphas aren’t interested in betas, most won’t pay you a second thought, most don’t have bad intentions.
You need to get a fucking grip.
Deep breaths. Inhale through your nose, hold it, exhale through your mouth. Inhale, hold–
Exhale.
You breathe like that until your hands stop trembling and your pulse calms down. Until you don’t feel hunted, and when you stare in the mirror and school your features into something less haunted, still wan, still a little wide-eyed, the image of it holds.
As good as it’ll get.
You emerge from the bathroom steadier than when you went in, but rather than slipping back into the fray, you head for the balcony. The sun’s set, it’s cooler outside and you desperately need another minute to just breathe.
This time, you see him coming. Clock him peeling away from his friends’ conversation to follow you out. Dark haired, glasses, handsome with a somewhat serious mien. An alpha. He’s in a few of the photos you’ve seen tonight – the last of Kuroo’s packmates, if you had to guess, though if anyone mentioned his name, you’ve since forgotten it.
He stops a few feet away, leaning against the railing, head tilted your way. Casual, relaxed. Not far enough.
Your heart thuds off kilter.
“He wasn’t trying to be an asshole,” the stranger says after a long beat, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. “It’s a natural talent of his, unfortunately.”
“W-what?”
“Kuroo,” he elaborates. “With the wine and all that. He wasn’t looking to scare you off.”
“Oh.” You swallow hard. “Um, yeah. No, it’s– it’s fine… Sorry I broke one of your glasses.”
“I think we’ll survive the loss.”
You don’t get it. He’s smiling, lightening the mood with dry humour, apologising for his packmate. There’s no move to close the distance between you, no hint of hostility or derision, and none of it is the slightest bit reassuring. None of it eases the prickling on the back of your neck or the vice-like constriction around your lungs. You turn to face the view, the glittering city lights miles away set against the violet sky, the whisper of a breeze blowing. It’s beautiful. Peaceful – or it would be, if he wasn’t boring holes into you with those flat, blue-grey eyes.
“Since I doubt Kuroo said anything, I’m Akaas–”
He’s cut off by someone calling your name. Both of you turn on instinct, you half expect it to be Ino, but standing in the open doorway, a faint frown marring her otherwise flawless face, is Sakai.
“The game’s about to start,” the female alpha says, a sharp, assessing gaze flickering between you two. It softens fractionally when it finally settles on you. “You should come back inside. It’s cold out here.”
You can count on your fingers the number of times Sakai’s spoken directly to you when it wasn’t work related. There’s no mistaking the concern etched in her brow, though. The look she flicks the other alpha when you wordlessly scurry past him.
She steps back, giving you plenty of space to get past her, and for the first time you wonder if the carefully maintained distance between you hasn’t entirely been a one-sided endeavour.
In a quiet voice, she asks, “You okay?”
“Mhm,” you lie.
—
Six days later, you’re waiting on the ground floor for the eternally slow elevator to ride up to your office when a woman steps up behind you, an omega, if the sweet scent of honeysuckle is anything to go by.
Since you don’t make it a habit to ogle random omegas, you simply shift a bit to the side to give her more space, attention already sliding back to the digital display above the elevator, tracking its crawling descent. For the life of you, you cannot understand how in a twenty storey building with three elevators, only one ever seems to be working at a time.
“Hi,” she says.
You don’t glance over, positive that she’s talking to somebody else. It’s only when there’s no immediate response, not even a tinny echo from down a phone line, that you turn to look at her fully, and in doing so, realise she’s speaking to you.
“… Hi,” you parrot back, awkwardly and a beat too late.
And then it hits you.
Auburn hair, pretty smile. You couldn’t smell the honeysuckle that night because, well, you weren’t exactly working at full capacity, what with your incoming breakdown and all. But you recognise her face now that you’re looking at her properly.
“Himari,” she supplies, not perturbed in the slightest. “I’m Himari, we met at Kuroo’s for the opening match the other night, I don’t know if you remember…” she trails off.
“Yeah, I remember.” Burned into your memory, more like. “Thank you, by the way.”
She waves off your gratitude as the elevator finally deigns to arrive. Both of you step inside, you first, with Himari behind you. “Which floor?” you ask, punching in fifteen for yourself.
“Eighteen.”
…Where Kuroo and the rest of the JVA work. Huh.
You suppose it makes sense. She was standing by Kuroo at the time, had offered to clean up the mess, which strongly suggested she was familiar navigating their home, either a close friend or their–
“You um, you and Kuroo?” you ask. With the sweater, skirt and boots combo she’s wearing, you can’t spot any claiming marks, but omegas aren’t always about flaunting those things. “You’re their mate?”
She blushes a darling pink. “Well, kind of. Almost. But I’m actually really glad I ran into you.”
The elevator climbs.
“You…are?”
She laughs, “Yeah, I am. I think we should go get coffee.”
The invite, if you can call it that, isn’t the strangest thing she could’ve come out with. People in elevators probably get asked out for coffee on a semi-regular basis. Doesn’t make this situation any less bizarre.
“Coffee?”
“Or boba, or matcha, tea. Milkshakes. The beverage isn’t really the important bit.” She may as well be speaking French for how you blink uncomprehendingly at her. “Here, pass me your phone, let me give you my number.”
She holds out an expectant hand, and without conscious thought you dig through your purse and pass it to her, unlocked.
She hands it back a few seconds later, right as the elevator arrives on the fifteenth floor and the doors slide open.
“We’re gonna be good friends, I’ve got a sense for these kinda things.” She winks at you, “I’ll tell Kuroo you said hi.”
—
Back in high school, your best friend was an omega. She’s on the other side of the country now, all packed up and happily mated, but every now and then either she’ll reach out or you will, and it’s like no time’s passed at all. They can be finicky about odd things, and they get a little weird around their heats, but overall you’ve never had issues with omegas.
You don’t even have an issue with this omega. You’re just… a bit bewildered.
It has to be pity, right? The chances that watching you spin out in a giant overreaction to an alpha striking up a conversation endeared you to her in any way are slim to none, you can’t understand what else it could be if not pity.
There’s no denying you’re a mess – last week proved that – you’re working on it, but you aren’t some broken doll for anyone to fawn over and fix.
And yet, in spite of those misgivings, here you are. Standing outside the cute little brunch spot she’d messaged you about, wondering, not for the first time, whether you’re overthinking things. There is a slight possibility, you can concede, maybe, that there is no ulterior motive. That Himari’s genuinely interested in being friends, terrible first impressions notwithstanding. You’re afraid a lot of the time. Overwhelmed and easily panicked, but you aren’t a coward.
What’s the worst one over-friendly omega can do, you muse, dithering on the doorstep before you take a deep breath, force your shoulders to loosen and walk on in.
The universe, ever giving, is quick to provide you an answer.
In the cozy, well lit cafe, it’s easy to spot the auburn haired omega, and the tall, bespectacled alpha sitting beside her.
The sudden nausea that yanks deep in your belly, the panic sawing raggedly through your chest, those are familiar to you. Familiar, and deeply unpleasant.
He’s the one who catches sight of you first, a faint smile as he raises a hand in greeting.
You consider running. Well, running might be a bit dramatic. You consider ducking your head and sneaking out the door you just walked through, pretending you never saw them, never left home this morning, never responded to Himari’s messages at all. Much more rational.
Himari follows the alpha’s gaze and lights up when she sees you, beaming like you’re old friends.
Too late.
Mechanically, your legs jolt you forward. You work with alphas. You live and breathe and exist with alphas. You can handle coffee with one.
“I’m so glad you came,” Himari gushes when you reach the table. She’s already standing, leaning in to give you a hug. From your experience, omegas aren’t usually all that touchy feely with strangers, but she pulls you close enough that you swear she’s trying to scent you. “You remember Akaashi, right?”
Akaashi. He hadn’t told you his name that night– no. Sakai had interrupted him before he had the chance. Now, he’s watching you with the same placid expression, seemingly unbothered by his almost-omega’s overt affection towards you.
“Yeah, we only spoke for a minute, though.”
Akaashi hums, but chooses to say nothing. Fine by you.
“Anyway, don’t mind him,” Himari breezes on through. “If I’m out on my own for too long they get antsy, even if it’s just coffee with a friend. Trust me, if the other two weren’t busy, they’d be here, too.” She says it with an eye roll and a sigh, but there’s no real irritation there. Her hand’s resting on Akaashi’s, her chair tilted towards his. She thinks it’s dreamy. It sounds like the beginnings of a horror story to you.
For her sake, you hope they loosen up a bit after they bond. If they bond.
“You haven’t eaten, have you? This place does the most amazing pancakes. I know we said coffee, but you’ve got to try them. We can share if you’re not feeling all that hungry…?” she trails off with a hopeful expression.
“Uh, sure. Sounds good.”
“Don’t. She’ll order the matcha mochi ones. No one deserves that.”
Himari turns on him, mouth agape in mock offense. “What’s wrong with matcha mochi pancakes?” she demands.
Akaashi doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a close thing. “Tea doesn’t belong on pancakes.” His voice carries no heat, only a familiar sort of exasperation that makes you think this is an argument they’ve had before. To you, he says, “The strawberry one they do is pretty popular, you should go for that instead.”
You do, in the end, order the strawberry pancakes. Not because you particularly want them – the thought of eating could not be any less appealing right now – but because it is easier than picking up a menu and trying to parse it out when your brain won’t cooperate with you, and not ordering food will only make this whole thing more awkward than it already is.
“So,” Himari begins after the waitress leaves with a promise to return shortly with your drinks, “Kuroo’s only told us the basics. You started at your job a few months ago, right? Were you already living here, or did you move to the city for work?”
And so it begins.
You tell them bits and pieces. Nothing that comes close to touching your damage, nothing that you wouldn’t share with the friendly girl from your weekly, beta only yoga class.
You like your job just fine, but it wasn’t what you planned on doing career wise, you just sort of fell into it. No, you grew up in a smaller town down the coast, you’d be surprised if they recognised the name of it. You’ve been in the city for about a year now. A few of your cousins live here too, which is nice.
Only child, though you always wanted a big sister. Yeah, your parents are both betas, too. Most of your family is.
No, not really a volleyball fan, or a sports fan in general, but seeing the game was kind of cool, you guess. Your hobbies? Well, you’ve been getting into baking lately, um– stress baking. You’ve found a beginners yoga class nearby you like, even though you’re not great at it.
When your food arrives, you take it for the blessing it is.
You aren’t in the least bit hungry. You bite and chew and swallow, and all you can taste is the cloying sickliness of your own discomfort. But, with your mouth full and a stacked plate in front of you, there’s a temporary reprieve from the rapid fire interrogation, which means you’ll eat and be thankful for every bite.
Himari pouts at your pancakes like they’ve personally wronged her, and you wonder why Akaashi bothered to order at all when he spends less time eating than he does staring across the table at you. You can’t decide if there’s too much going on behind the blank affect, or if he’s genuinely bored out of his mind listening to his girlfriend/omega/almost-mate pepper you with questions.
To be polite, you ask a few in return between mouthfuls. How they met, whether she was a volleyball fan first, or if that came after, and while Himari answers each happily enough, it inevitably swings back to–
“What about you? You seeing anyone?”
“I’m married.”
You don’t know why you say it. You aren’t and never have been, and as far as jokes go, it isn’t particularly funny. It becomes even less so when, in an almost creepy synchronicity, Akaashi and Himari’s expressions drop and they snap their attention down to your left hand. Your bare left hand.
Made you look.
You chuckle awkwardly. Himari laughs, too, after she realises you’re joking.
Akaashi doesn’t.
—
Late Tuesday, Kuroo strolls into your office.
It’s well after six, which means the girls who work reception either already left for the day, or they took one look at the handsome alpha and let him pass regardless.
You spot him from the corner of your eye, scanning the floor, and assume he’s there to corral some of his friend-slash-drinking buddies into heading off somewhere. Your plans involve the spreadsheet on your screen, and staying put at your desk until your boss finally finishes up for the night to head home. Four-ish months in, you don’t yet have the goodwill the others take for granted.
Ino left twenty minutes ago. Her workspace is neat and tidy, a few post-its stuck to the monitor, chair tucked in – until Kuroo pulls it out and collapses into it with a dramatic groan.
“You gonna stare at that thing all night?”
Your fingers freeze over the keyboard. “I have a deadline,” you manage to say.
Kuroo grins. Stretches his long legs out into your side of the desk, fingers laced over his lap. There’s no attempt for subtlety or discretion. Your boss’ in his office, door open, and while some of the office had left, plenty of your coworkers remain. If they weren’t watching this, gawking at the two of you, you’d eat your laptop.
God, you’d give anything to just disappear right now.
“Well, lucky for you, I’m here to spring you. I need you.” When you don’t immediately jump to your feet and start gathering your things, he adds, “C’mon, it’s for Himari. Please?”
Himari. Why else?
She’s messaged you a few times since pancakes. Without her alphas hovering around, you find you actually kind of like the omega. She’s sweet, if a little… intense.
You aren’t sure you like her enough for whatever this is, though.
“I can’t, I’ve got–”
“A deadline, yeah, yeah, yeah, I heard. Thing is, I need your help, and it absolutely has to be tonight.”
“Kuroo–”
He rolls Ino’s chair closer. Your pulse ratchets in response. “Don’t make me beg. C’mon, you don’t want to be here for the next three hours pretending to work, do you?” You open your mouth again, and he cuts you off, again. “Your boss won’t care. It’s one night, help me out. Please?”
He takes you by the wrist and urges you to your feet, and though every cell inside you recoils at his touch, you let him, well aware of the audience the two of you have attracted. There’s a weight to the stares burning into the back of your head, the pindrop silence growing louder from the moment he sat down beside you.
“I’ll– meet me downstairs. I need a few minutes to finish up,” you mutter, every word pulled from your teeth with hooks.
“That’s my girl.” He raps his knuckles against Ino’s desk, satisfied in spite of the fact you resolutely won’t meet his gaze. “I’ll be out front.”
Kuroo stops briefly at your boss’ door on his way out, winking back at you and heat suffuses all the way to the tips of your ears.
Mechanically, you gather your things, refusing to look up, to meet anyone’s stare or find out if they’re watching at all, now the show’s over. No one would’ve blinked if it were Ino, or any of the other betas in the office, but because it’s you, the new girl, the weirdly skittish one no one’s quite sure about yet, they’ll be whispering and giggling about it in the break room come morning, you’d bet money on it.
Your boss’ office is situated between your desk and the front door, there’s no option but to walk right by, and with glass partitions, there’s no sneaking past. He glances up from his screen long enough to call out a friendly goodnight, and your shoulders drop another inch.
Kuroo’s waiting for you by the elevators.
“Shall we?”
Biting back a sigh, you offer a resigned nod. The ride down is near silent. You put as much space between you and him as the small confines of the metal car allows, as much as you think you can get away with without it coming across as rude, and Kuroo leans against the opposite wall and watches you do it with a stupid, irritating smirk.
You’ve yet to meet the volleyball player, and Akaashi’s decidedly unsettling with all the dead-eyed staring, but Kuroo’s fast becoming your least favourite of Himari’s almost-mates.
“Where are we going?” you ask when you finally have the space to breathe. And when can I leave?
“Kuroo.”
It’s an echo of another night, another alpha too close when you were stripped down. Though the voice is much deeper, you turn half expecting to see Sakai by the door again, that same leery frown. Silly, because Sakai hadn’t been in these past two days, thanks to her omega’s heat, and the voice wasn’t calling for you.
You both turn, and it’s Kuroo’s expression that drops. You recognise the alpha approaching. He looked bigger on Kuroo’s TV. Not physically – roughly the same height as his fellow alpha, the jacket he’s donned for the late autumn chill doing the bare minimum to mask his build – just… more, somehow. Possibly because of the scolded puppy expression on his face.
Bokuto, though Himari only ever calls him Bo.
Kuroo’s hand clamps down around your wrist, not tight, but firm, like you’re an errant child about to sprint blindly into traffic. “What happened to training?”
Bokuto shrugs, eyes shifting guiltily between you both. A non-answer. Eventually, he says, “We’re doing the thing, right?”
“The thing?” You tug at Kuroo’s grip, pulling back, but he doesn’t let you go. Not at first. Not until you make a strangled sort of noise, tugging harder, and his attention snaps like a rubber band back to you. He releases your wrist, plastering an easy grin on his face.
“You haven’t met Bokuto yet, have you?”
You don’t particularly want to.
“What thing?” you ask again, ignoring the other alpha.
“Are you this prickly with everyone, or am I just lucky?” He doesn’t sound all that put off by the prospect. “The polite thing to do is say hello. He won’t bite.”
He’s joking. Of course he’s joking, Kuroo hasn’t wasted a single one of your interactions being serious, that doesn’t stop the ice that drips through your veins, the echo of abject terror slicing away at your insides.
Without his hands on you, there’s nothing keeping you from stumbling a step backwards, and then another.
“I–” you swallow, something sharp lodged in your throat. You remember your manners long enough to glance in Bokuto’s general direction, “It’s nice to meet you, really,” you lie. “But I can’t do this tonight. Sorry,” you add hastily to Kuroo.
“Relax. We’re going shopping, it’s nothing nefarious, cross my heart.” He isn’t smiling anymore. Reaching out to stop you, a hand in the dark–
gripping your hair, blood dripping down your face
– “I– I can’t do this. I can’t,” you gasp out, jolting backwards.
“Alright, okay, that’s fine, we don’t have to do anything tonight,” he says. “But we should take you home. Neither of us,” he shares a look with Bokuto, “would feel good about leaving you on your own in this state.”
They’re tracking you, both of them. Every twitch, every inch you put between you, caught and catalogued. Kuroo’s palms are up in front of his chest placatingly. Bokuto looks like he’s a hairsbreadth from lunging at you, a fervent, frankly unsettling desperation bleeding through the loose, lax, ‘non-threatening alpha’ pose he adopts.
Pretending they both aren’t trying to hem you in.
Around you, the street hums with activity. Office workers heading home, off to find somewhere to eat and drink the hours away. Friends catching up. Date night. Shoppers and tourists milling about. Plenty of bystanders and witnesses. If any of them spares the standoff between you three a second glance, they decide it’s not worth intervening.
From the outside looking in, the alphas aren’t doing anything untoward, they aren’t threatening you, they aren’t even touching you. You’re the one falling to pieces over nothing.
“I-I’m fine.” Neither of them buy it. Wide eyed, trembling like a fawn, you suppose it isn’t all that convincing a performance. When it comes down to it, though, you don’t need them to believe you. You need them to heed it. “I can get an Uber.”
“What if– what if it was just me?” Bokuto offers. “Kuroo stays here, and I could take you home.”
As if Kuroo is the sole problem here.
From the corner of your eye, you spy an empty taxi driving along the road, and you don’t think, your body moves with a will of its own, hand shooting out to hail it down.
Your legs are steadier now there’s an escape route in sight. “Thanks. I’ll take the cab.”
There’s more you should say. Another apology, probably. The feigned politeness you hastily toss out in your bid for freedom won’t win you any favours. Tomorrow, later tonight maybe, you’ll curse yourself for it, remember the reason you walked out with Kuroo in the first place, and stew over what he might tell your coworkers. Your boss.
Emotionally unstable. Paranoid. Bitchy. A few carefully placed words, and it all goes up in smoke.
For now, you side step the two of them and slip into the cab with as much dignity as you can claw back.
You don’t properly exhale until they’re specks in the rearview mirror.
—
Blood drips from your face onto your forearms, onto the gravel beneath.
You can’t breathe through a busted, bloodied nose. You wail instead; choked, animal. Fingernails scrabble for purchase. Break. You can’t drag yourself away. You can’t move with the heavy weight draped over your back.
The pain like a hot knife thrust into your insides.
And then–
exponentially worse.
The taste of warm copper heavy on your tongue. You thought the bite would be the worst of it. The knot.
‘Rookie, where the hell did you–!’
Four of them, featureless in the dark, obscured by tears. Arguing. Rough hands pulling at you both, yanking him away far, far too soon.
A shriek ripped from your lungs. Snarling. A warm splatter on the ground, seeping red.
The haze of rage and fury, pounding in your head. Not yours.
More swearing. Snapping of teeth, fists meeting flesh.
‘D’you wanna fuckin’ help me with him?!’
One hangs back. Watches you attempt to lift yourself up, crawl – but the agony swallows you whole. Spits you back out.
‘Shit, shit, shit! Fuck– uhh, you’re gonna be fine. You’ll be okay. We’ll send for help. We’ll… we’ll– Fuck!’
And he runs.
—
There’s no gasping breath as you wake.
You don’t shoot bolt upright, clutching at your chest. Your eyes open, adjust to the dim confines of your bedroom, and you wait for the paralysing dread to balefully relax its claws and slink back to the shadows it inhabits.
The scar on your neck’s long since healed, fading into nothing as the bond did, but on nights like tonight, it throbs and itches and aches beneath your skin. A wound that never healed right.
There’s no chance you’re going into work once the sun rises and the day begins proper. The reserves have bled dry, there’s nothing left in you to cobble together a convincing enough performance for your boss, your coworkers, Kuroo – any of them. You can’t even call it a decision, there’s no reality in which you roll out of bed in a few hours fully functional and go about your day like normal.
Your normal is already a struggle.
When you grab your phone, intending on setting an alarm to message your boss in a few hours’ time, an unopened notification from Himari catches your eye.
kuroo said you left upset :c whatever they did, they’re idiots.
And then, ten minutes after that:
can i come over? i think we should talk, no alphas just us girls <3
Being that it is the very, very early hours of the morning, you don’t respond right away, but you will. She’s right, after all – the two of you do need to talk.
The second time you wake, sunlight’s beginning to creep through the gap in your blinds.
The third time, when you finally drag yourself from bed, bleary eyed and bone weary, it’s well into the morning.
You make coffee, eat breakfast. One of your cousins messaged you about catching up for dinner soon – a thin veneer for what is essentially a check in – you respond to her and then shoot a reply back to Himari as well.
A few hours later finds her at your door, the brightness of her expression dimming when she takes in all that the long, scalding shower couldn’t wash away.
The air goes thick, redolent with her honeysuckle scent.
“Oh, honey,” she sighs, and wraps you up in a hug.
Loosely, you return it.
After messaging her your address, you’d gnawed at your lip and picked at your cuticles, pacing about and wondering how to broach it, what you’d tell her. In some ways, you’re strangers to each other. There’s something there, though. Fledgling and fragile, and you’re about to take a hammer to it.
And to do that, you have to tell her the truth. Problem is, you don’t know how.
But before you can open your mouth, she’s drawing back, a soft crease between her brows, lips downturned.
The words, “I feel like this is my fault,” are the very last thing you expect her to say.
“What do you mean?”
She takes your hand in hers, soft and warm, and smiles a little sadly. “Come sit,” she says, which is a little weird when she’s not the one who lives here. Even so, you find yourself following along when she leads you to the couch, settling down beside her.
“Have you ever been in love?”
You blink at her, surprised by the sudden left turn the conversation’s taken.
“… No. Never.” Love always seemed like one of those things you’d get around to eventually. Once you finished school, once you figured out who you were, once you had a bit more life experience under your belt.
And then the goalpost shifted.
“Omegas don’t always have that luxury,” she says. “We get a choice with an invisible timer attached to it, counting down to an unknown point in time where our bodies turn on themselves and our heats eventually kill us.”
None of this is news to you. No one likes to talk about it, but it’s a simple, brutal truth that every child learns at some point. One of the reasons you grew up thankful for your own boring beta biology.
“We have a limited time to pick alphas who will treat us right, take care of us during our heats, provide for us, be good fathers to our kids, and once we do there’s no taking it back. Sometimes…” Himari breaks off, her eyes dropping to where your hands are joined. She sighs again, “They told me they wanted a beta mate.”
The quiet admission hits you in a delayed sort of reaction, the crack of a slap registering seconds before any pain does. Your eyes widen, but she misinterprets your shock, laughing gently.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I knew pretty much from the get-go, no surprises, no rugs pulled out from under anyone. I could’ve walked away if I wanted to, I just,” she shrugs, “didn’t want to. I thought it wouldn’t matter. They’d bite me, we’d bond and fall in love, and if one day they met someone, it wouldn’t take away from my own happiness. I’m not a jealous person. I want my alphas to have everything they want.”
Her eyes are beseeching when she squeezes your hand and delivers the final blow.
“But Kuroo came home one day, and he had this look on his face, and I thought– I thought if they liked you, and you liked them, we’d finally be able to bond. We’d be a pack, all of us. I gave them my blessing, and then I met you and–”
“I can’t,” the words slip out without you meaning them to. “… It can’t be me. I’m sorry.”
Himari flinches, a tiny, likely involuntary response, but you catch it all the same. “You can’t give them a chance? Give me one? I know they came on a little strong, and that’s partially my fault, but–”
“In my first year at university, I was walking home from a friend’s place one night when I was attacked by an alpha in a rut.”
She falls silent, frozen and wide eyed. Whatever she thought you were about to say, it wasn’t that.
You tell her how you were jumped from behind and wrestled to the ground, how it was so dark that you never got a good look at him. You tell her about the other alphas that showed up after he’d raped, bitten and knotted you – his friends, presumably – the damage they did prying him away.
You tell her that they promised to send help, and they ran, and no one came. For hours.
You tell her, briefly, about the months you spent in recovery, hindered by the bond sickness that quickly and brutally set in.
By the time you’re finished, Himari’s got streaks of tears running down bloodless cheeks, gripping your hand so tightly you’d think she was the one clinging to a lifeline.
There isn’t much to say after that.
She hugs you on her way out, burying her face in the crook of your neck. “I’m sorry.”
It isn’t her fault. Some things just are the way they are.
“Me too.”
And then she’s gone.
The silence in your apartment feels louder in her wake.
There’s a few hours of daylight left yet, but you were exhausted when you woke up, and more so now. An exposed nerve, dredged up in the muck of your past, that leaves you feeling raw and deeply uncomfortable, now that you try to settle back on the same couch you spilled your guts on.
TV might help, you eventually decide. You don’t particularly care what, anything to fill the silence, give you something to stare at rather than wallowing through the last two days.
A knock at your door sounds just as you reach for the remote.
The only reason you get up at all is because you assume it’s Himari, having forgotten something. Your phone’s been on silent all day, left on the kitchen bench – if she’d messaged you after leaving, there’s every chance you wouldn’t’ve heard the notification go off.
Either Himari or a delivery driver with the wrong address.
Only, when you flick the lock and crack open your door, it isn’t the auburn haired omega standing on the other side, but one of her alphas.
“Bokuto?” You step back on instinct, fingers tightening on the doorknob. You force yourself to smile, to soften the image, grim as it may be. “Are you looking for Himari? She left like ten, fifteen minutes ago.”
For a split second, you think he’s just going to stand there, all six foot whatever of him, looming in your open doorway like a sentinel, and then–
A smile like wonder breaks across his face, “Fuck, say it again,” he groans out.
He moves quicker than a man of his size has any right to it. A foot in the doorway first, stopping the door from slamming on him when you shove it with all your might, and then he’s in your apartment, catching it on the rebound and swinging it shut himself.
Your mouth opens on a scream, but you never get the chance. Two steps, and he’s on you. A hand fisting through your hair, parted lips crashing into yours. “Say it again, baby. Please?” he groans lowly, attacking your lips again with a near feral desperation.
You can’t answer him even if you wanted to.
Fear floods through you. There’s no kick of adrenaline to spark your feral resistance – you plummet into a pit. Sapped of what strength you have, a slow acting paralysis. Rather than the pilot, you’re demoted to a passenger, and it is all you can do to draw your palms up to his chest and shove ineffectually back while he wraps his free arm around your back to haul you closer.
Your elbows fold. You collapse against him wholly, every part of you entangled with him. His tongue hot in your mouth, the scent of him suffocating.
He loosens his grip on your hair fractionally. Draws away from your lips only to mouth openly and suck at your jaw and the tender flesh beneath.
You remember how to scream as an old, poorly healed wound throbs at the junction of your neck–
And his teeth dig in.
It’s lightning. The bond burns you from the inside out, robbing you of thought, of sight, of control. You are alight and in pain, clutching at him blindly, lips parted on a strangled whine, and he uses that disorientation to move you into your bedroom and onto the bed.
“Missed you,” he pants, laying you down and caging you in from above. “Missed you, missed you, missed you so fuckin’ much.”
He rips through your clothes like they’re paper, treating each inch of exposed flesh like territory he needs to map and stake a claim upon. It’d strike another cord of terror if you weren’t half out of your mind with fear already, reckoning with the foreign and familiar sense of alpha forced into your chest.
Bokuto.
Tears brim and spill, and your eyes fall shut. Himari’s words echo in your head, over and over in a never ending loop. They wanted a beta mate.
An alpha in a rut is mindless and ferine. This is a conscious choice.
Rough hands glide over your breasts, pinching and flicking at your nipples ‘til they peak under his touch, a low appreciative growl leaving his throat. “I know, baby, you missed me too. You shouldn’t’ve left.”
W-what?
Your eyes fly open of their own volition. Golden irises, sharp, focused, predatory, flit from your tits to the oozing bite on your neck to your tear stricken face, like he can’t decide which he likes looking at best. Somewhere between the door and now, he’s shed his hoodie. His own chest heaves above yours, not with tears or exertion – he’s barely broken a sweat so far – or terror like yours is, but quivering with excitement. Even without the waves of lust assaulting you down the bond, the strain of his erection pressing against his jeans is evidence enough.
And you remember the feel of it, splitting you apart.
“Please, please, Bo,” you beg, adopting Himari’s nickname for the hulking alpha. Your alpha. Your mate. “You’ll hurt me again. I can’t,” you draw in a sharp, ragged breath, “I-I can’t–”
A quiet tearing sound, and cotton scraps of your underwear are shoved aside.
“‘Course you can. We’ll take it nice and slow. It’s been a while, huh?” But his voice is thick and roughened, dripping with excitement, and he either doesn’t realise his hips are already jerking clumsily against yours, desperate for the friction, or doesn’t care enough to stop. His hands tremble when he settles back and fumbles for his belt buckle. “We love each other. We’re mates,” you whimper at the word, and the bond goes liquid between you, “This is how it’s s’posed to be.”
A year or so after you were attacked, your parents pushed you into taking self defence classes. On a rational level, you understood that what happened was a freak occurrence. The chances that anything similar would happen to you again were next to negligible.
But you weren’t thinking rationally when you’d accidentally bump carts with an alpha while doing your groceries, or when one would take the seat next to yours on a busy train.
Your parents were under the impression that if you had confidence in your ability to defend yourself – at least to the point of being able to escape – being around alphas in public wouldn’t be so hard on you.
It was too early, maybe. The instructor was a beta, and the class split between betas and omegas, mostly women, but not all. That wasn’t a magic fix, though. The second anyone got too close, it didn’t matter their designation – you were right back in the alley.
No one ever said as much, but the truth became obvious fairly quickly. A thrown elbow might be enough to wind the slow moving omega trying to ‘overpower’ you. It wouldn’t stop the alpha twice your size, with a hold on you from inside yourself.
Metal clinks, the hiss of a zipper sliding down. Bokuto’s low, throaty groan sounds as he works at his own cock. He shifts forward, large, calloused hands sliding down your trembling thighs to push them further apart, all whilst his heavy cock bobs threateningly between you. Your tears come quicker, choked, frightened little sobs. You shake your head back and forth, pleading wordlessly with him – your alpha. Your mate.
“Hold onto me, baby–” he grunts a little, moving your arms so they stretch over the back of his shoulders. “Yeah, like that. Good mate.”
Maybe if you sink your nails in, claw at his back. If one of your knees comes up, if you can just–
“Ready for me?” His cock slides along the seam of your pussy, a testing push at your entrance.
“Please,” you beg, your voice pitched and frantic. “Please, Bokuto, don–”
Sharp, blinding pain. The shriek that replaces panicked pleas is smothered under another hungry, demanding kiss as he pushes his cock deeper.
Reality fractures. Gravel digs into your skin, the mattress springs creaking beneath your combined weight. You taste blood on your tongue, you taste him, his scent. It wraps around you. You’ve never been colder, exhausted in the darkened alley. Never burned hotter. Battered under a barrage of emotions that aren’t yours, held down, clawing at the ground, nails splitting, breaking, twisted in your own bedsheets, gasping, crying out. The panting in your ear. Snarling. Moans and grunts, the slick sound of your pussy squelching around him and his heavy balls smacking against the back of your thighs.
Agony, ricocheting like forks of lighting. He doesn’t let up, won’t give you a second to adjust or squirm away.
No matter his promises to take it slow, he fucks like it’s the only chance he’ll ever have to do so, like he’ll die if he can’t bury himself deep enough to reshape your insides around him.
You don’t think it can get any worse, and then you feel the unmistakable swelling at the base of his cock, notching at your entrance on each downward stroke; his knot.
There aren’t words for the visceral wave of terror that ripples through you, but you must clench down around him, because Bokuto moans loudly above you, cursing as he picks up the pace.
“My mate, all fucking mine,” he pants in your ear, hunched over you like an animal.
Carried along with the motion of his thrusts, helpless, just a ragdoll tossed about beneath him. “You ca-n’t–” you cry out. “Bo, your kn-ot, pull out! You’ve g-gotta pull out–”
“Gonna knot you so fucking good,” he slurs out, “gonna keep you right there on the end of my dick all night. My mate.”
It all becomes too much, the force of Bokuto’s cock punching into you, the deluge from the bond, your memories, the pain and the sudden, stark terror.
Pushing, pushing, pushing, and then–
Unbearable fullness.
—
You come to some time later.
The light in your bedroom’s different. Golden, now. You blink blearily, a confused noise slipping out as you register the strange sensation between your legs. Stinging, an ache that throbs, and…
Warmth suffusing your core.
Hands on your inner thighs, keeping them spread. A drag of something wet and hot along your pussy–
Bokuto appears in your eyeline, naked, loose, a dumb, satiated grin wide across his face. “Stay down, baby. ‘Kaashi just wanted a taste.”
You scramble back immediately, ignoring the sharp burst of pain moving so suddenly earns you.
Laid out on his stomach between your spread legs, hair lightly mussed, glasses gone, mouth and jaw glistening with– with you, Akaashi’s lips twitch faintly upwards.
“I don’t think I was done, angel,” he remarks with a dry laugh. “Not very good with instructions, are you?”
Your stomach churns, heart pounding sickly in your chest.
It isn’t the sight of the bloodied mark on your thigh that can only have been another bite, or Bokuto’s resumed pawing. It’s Akaashi’s eyes. You always thought them flat, cold and lifeless. Shark-like. Serial killer-esque if you were feeling particularly unkind.
Nosing along your thigh, nipping lightly just to hear the catch of your breath, they shine with an unsettling fervor, too bright. Too much.
“I-I don’t think–”
“You don’t need to,” he tuts. He rises smoothly from his elbows and stalks up your frozen body. His lips, wet with the remnants of you and Bokuto, hover mere millimeters above yours.
You think he’s going to kiss you. You’re close enough to count his long, dark eyelashes, and every breath you take he shares.
The hand that takes you by the throat is gentle, the touch dare you say loving in its caress – right up to the point it tightens. Not harshly enough to restrict your airway, not enough to bruise. Just enough so as to feel the jump of your pulse beneath his fingers, watch your eyes widen in instinctual fear.
Into your lips, he whispers, “That’s what you have your alphas for.”
—
Kuroo arrives a few hours later.
The three of you are still in bed. You’re nestled between Bokuto and Akaashi, sweat slicked and shivering. The front door opens and you don’t even have the strength to flinch. There’s a soft thud, something heavy being set down, shoes kicked off and toed aside. A coat flung over the back of one of your chairs.
Seconds later, he’s walking through your bedroom door like he belongs there, making a beeline for your bedside.
Ignoring for the moment Akaashi propped up between you two, he leans down and tilts your chin up for a languid, simmering kiss. “Hey, babe. Sorry I’m late.”
The noise that leaves you is a wounded, confused thing, but Kuroo just laughs. “They really wore you out, huh?”
“Might’ve waited if you’d showed up when you were supposed to,” Akaashi taunts with that half grin of his, a stray kiss pressed to the crown of your head, resting now back on his shoulder.
Kuroo groans, scrubbing a hand through his already messy hair. “What was I supposed to do? Tell the division head to sort his own fucking problems?”
Akaashi raises a brow and Bokuto makes a half-hearted grunt, sprawled face down over your chest and clearly more interested in napping.
“Ugh, whatever.” He waves them both off with a huff, straightening up to start taking off his clothes.
There’s no dread, no flash of panic. There’s nothing but cold numbness inside of you, an echo of pain washed out by the contentedness of the two alphas you’re already bonded to.
Soon to be three.
And though he doesn’t say anything to them, Akaashi kicks at Bokuto, and after a little grumbling from Bo, they both begin to withdraw, shifting you like a doll between them to make space for Kuroo to kneel on the mattress and crawl to you. You never thought of your bed as small before – it’s a double, and it’s only ever been you. With three alphas added into the mix, it feels claustrophobic.
Your whole apartment does.
You wonder how much of it shows on your face, because Kuroo snorts, cupping your tearstained cheek in his palm. “We can handle a bit of close quarters cuddling for a night, beta. We’ll have you back home in the nest tomorrow.” His smirk grows ever so slightly, “Could’ve picked out some new pieces just for you, if you hadn’t run off on us.”
“What… what about Himari?” you manage to croak.
If you expect him to be bothered in any way at the reminder of his almost-omega, you’re sorely disappointed. Kuroo shrugs and drags the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, “Home, I guess. Poor thing learned some hard truths today. Needed the space.” He presses down ‘til your they part and accept the digit.
Thumb resting on your tongue, Kuroo appraises you with a tilted head. “She’s not gonna help you, little beta. You’re all ours tonight.”
Merry Christmas ya filthy animals <33
Part 3 of the beta-verse
Kita Shinsuke, Ojiro Aran, Suna Rintaro, Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu x female reader
w.c 7.5k
tw: yandere, a/b/o, noncon, mentions of blood, roofied reader, forced claiming, smut, nsfw
If Osamu hadn’t shown up at your work, you don’t think you would’ve come.
Kita was the one to send the invite, a long silent message chain lighting up with a politely worded invitation to a reunion. Short, succinct and, if your suspicions are correct, a copy-paste job, you’d spent days dithering over whether or not you’d reply, much less make an effort to turn up.
And then, out of the blue, you’d left work one night to find Miya Osamu waiting for you on the steps out front. ‘You’re coming, ain’tcha?’ he’d asked without preamble, slate eyes boring into you. ‘It’s rude to ignore Kita like that.’
Which brings you to here and now, gazing up at their pack house. Supposedly, this one’s smaller than the one they have out near Kita’s farm. You’re yet to set foot inside, and you’re already willing to bet your monthly paycheck that one of their bathrooms is bigger than the entirety of your bedroom.
A low whistle sounds beside you. “Must be nice to be rich, huh?”
Natsuo, your neighbour, a fellow beta and your date for the evening, shares an easy grin with you, looping his arm through yours.
Rather than answering him, you simply say, “Three drinks, max. Then we’re out of here.”
If he notices the tightness of your features, the wavering smile you’ve pasted across your face, he doesn’t remark on it. Natsuo’s easy like that. “Aye-aye, boss. We can grab some proper food on the way home, too. These things never have anything decent to eat.”
You’d be tempted to agree, if not for Osamu. There’s zero chance he’d let them plan anything without ensuring food was involved.
“Ready?” you ask.
“To walk into a den of entitled alphas with a pretty girl on my arm? I could take ‘em.” He winks and your stomach flutters, nerves or guilt or something else entirely, you can't say.
“They’re really not that bad,” you defend, though it sounds weak to even your ears. This isn’t the time or place to get into your history with Kita’s pack or the team as a whole, and if you spend much longer lingering out here, you’re going to lose what little nerve you’ve mustered to get through the night. “Alright,” you nod shortly and exhale. “Let’s do this.”
Now or never.
Natsuo’s presence is grounding. It isn’t that you wouldn’t be able to face your old team on your own – you’re a grown woman for god’s sake, and you’d meant what you’d said to him. They weren’t bullies. The wonder twins aside, no one was outright rude or condescending. No one ignored you or ordered you around like you were less than because you were a beta, and if they did, Kita would give them that look and you’d have a grovelling apology by the end of practice.
You’d go so far as to say you think some of them might’ve actually, genuinely liked you.
None of that is the problem. The reality is, you’re not certain you can pinpoint what, exactly, is making you so nervous about tonight.
You find yourself thankful that Natsuo hadn’t pried too deep when you’d invited him tonight. Two and a half dates in really isn’t ‘meet the people I hung out with in high school’ territory, yet he hadn’t blinked when you asked him, and his enthusiasm to spend time with you hadn’t dampened when you awkwardly explained that asking him wasn’t about hard launching the two of you as a couple or anything, you simply wanted some backup. Another beta to balance out overwhelming alpha energy.
God, why did you agree to this again?
“Relax,” Natsuo murmurs, nudging his hip with yours as he moves to open the door. Muffled music creeps through – there’s no point in knocking when no one’d hear it. “I got you. We can ditch whenever you want.”
You offer him another smile, more genuine this time, and together step into the lion’s den.
He takes your coat and shrugs off his own, both of you taking it all in. The entry-way opens up into a spacious living room. Cast in a warm glow from hanging lights, your old teammates and their packs – one or two of Kita’s seniors you only recognise by sight – milling around, drinking and laughing. For some it’s been weeks since they last saw each other, for others, years.
Atsumu’s leaning against the kitchen island, deep in conversation with Ginjima, his brother and Aran talking with Kaito, the setter from your first year. He has his arm around a gorgeous blonde. On her left, another alpha hovers. Less interested in the conversation than he is in her, he leans close and whispers something into her ear, something like victory flitting across his features when she blushes and throws a sharp elbow into his side. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she must be Kaito’s omega, the other man one of his packmates.
Akagi’s the first to spot you.
Beer in hand, he jogs on over and throws an arm around you in a loose hug. “Hey, haven’t seen you in forever! Wasn’t sure you’d show.”
“It’s been a while,” you agree. If Osamu kept his mouth shut about his impromptu visit, you see no reason to air it.
Besides, you like Akagi. He’s always been easy to get along with. It’s why your stomach doesn’t shrivel up and twist itself into knots when he draws back and finally seems to notice the beta standing beside you.
“Akagi, this is Natsuo, he’s my–” Neighbour? Date? The last thing you want to do is say the wrong thing and make this weird. Friend, maybe. That’s safe, right? Safe and open to interpretation.
“Boyfriend,” Natsuo inserts smoothly. “Nice to meet you, man.”
Akagi glances at you first. A single raised eyebrow that stirs a faint warning inside you, and you have to remind yourself that he isn’t doing it to be an asshole. He’s never had a dog in this fight.
Sipping at his beer, he smiles easily enough, “Yeah, you too. How’d you guys meet?”
“Neighbours. Had my eye on this one for a while before I bucked up the courage to ask her out. We’ve been going strong since,” Natsuo tells him, which is… sort of the truth. Maybe. “I’ll go get us some drinks,” he tells you before Akagi can say anything else, abandoning you with a wink and a fleeting, chaste kiss to your cheek.
The sooner you get a drink, the sooner you can be done with all this, a check marked off, whatever duty you owe your old teammates satisfied. You don’t need him glued to your side the entire night – that would be pathetic.
“I thought you were seeing that bartender dude. Atsuko, or whatever.”
“Didn’t work out.” He ghosted you more like, but that was months ago and certainly not something you’ve ever mentioned around the ex-libero. It’d be exasperating if it weren’t so utterly predictable, they’ll gossip like mother hens til the bitter end it seems, adult life and busy careers be damned.
“… You know they’re not gonna make this easy on him,” Akagi says, not unkindly.
You’re both watching him weave through the crowd of people towards the makeshift bar, most not sparing him a second glance.
Across the room, someone else loses interest in their conversation. Two others have already slipped away.
“It isn’t a crime for me to be happy with someone,” you mutter in reply, unable to completely mask the petulance colouring your tone.
Back in high school, you’d understood where it was coming from.
They didn’t want you distracted, pulling away from the club and your responsibilities as manager, and a boyfriend – friends in general – might’ve threatened that. Your commitment wouldn’t be less than because you weren’t the one stepping on the court; you were team, or you weren’t.
You’re adults now.
“You made it.”
The stoic voice carries over the thrum of music and chatter, utterly without inflection and you jerk in surprise, turning to find Kita behind you.
There’s no hugging this time, no physical contact between you. You dip your head in a polite, respectful acknowledgement and he does the same. “Kita,” you greet. “I’m sorry about your grandmother.”
You’d only met the woman a handful of times, yet it was obvious how much she meant to him. The loss of the last of his grandparents, arguably the one he was closest to, unquestionably a devastating blow.
“Thank you.” Cool and perfunctory. That’s fine. Expected, even.
Natsuo appears at your side, pressing a glass of wine into your empty palm. “Here you go, baby.”
“Baby?”
Lips at your ear, Natsuo’s voice takes on a droll tone, “Made some friends on my way back.”
It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.
With a sip of liquid courage, you rearrange your features into something resembling a smile and turn to face the twins.
They aren’t normally huggers, but, mindful of your drink, Osamu’s the first to pull you in for one, his tall body swallowing you up. “Plus ones weren’t part of the invite,” he mutters lowly, his breath tickling the shell of your ear. You say nothing to that, letting an impatient Atsumu tug you out of his brother’s arms and into his.
“Guys, this is Natsuo, my boyfriend.” Butterflies erupt, fluttering in your belly. “Natsuo, the Miyas; Atsumu and Osamu,” you gesture at each, “and Kita, my old captain.”
“Oi, I was your captain too,” Atsumu huffs, eyes narrowed and scowling, like you’ve committed a grievous sin against him, a mortally wounding blow. “Why’s Kita the only one you’re gonna bring up?”
Ingrained deep, familiar to you as the back of your hand, the impulse to soothe ruffled egos rears its head. “Atsumu was also my captain,” you amend easily. So was Isehara in your first year. He’s probably here somewhere, too.
Osamu scoffs, rolling his eyes. You expect that, they’ll take any excuse to bicker and fight each other. What you don’t expect is Natsuo muttering under his breath, just loud enough for the alphas to hear, “The captain, not your captain.”
The music’s still playing, the steady hum of conversation around you unfaltering, but around you, the alphas go lethally quiet.
Innocuous or not, they gather his meaning just fine, and from the twins’ near identical sneers, the glacial stare from Kita, none of them appreciate it. Even Akagi’s frowning at your date.
Fix it.
“He only means ‘cause I was the manager, not a player–”
Atsumu cuts you off, speaking at the same time Kita does.
“No one fuckin’ asked your opinion.”
“That was rude.”
Towards anyone else, it might be a simple admonishment, but there’s a hard edge to Kita’s bearing, his voice frigid. Others are looking now, Aran, nodding absently to whatever Gin’s saying, head tilted your way. Suna’s openly watching from over by the kitchen, munching on a mini skewer like this is dinnertime entertainment.
Natsuo’s unfazed. You wish you could say the same. You’d probably wilt under any alpha’s disapproval, but these alphas… you feel the weight of it in your chest, pressing down on your lungs, making it difficult to breathe.
“He didn’t mean it like that,” you repeat, quieter this time, reaching over to twine your fingers with his and squeezing gently. Whether or not he thinks he’s defending you against some perceived slight, tonight isn’t gonna go any easier if he starts picking fights.
They’ll still blame you when all’s said and done, and you don’t think you bear the weight of his missteps on top of your own.
“… You’re right. It’s all kinda ancient history now anyway, none of my business.”
You knock back another mouthful of wine and wonder, not for the first time, why you couldn’t have just sent an apology and stayed home.
“C’mon,” Natsuo says, like nothing’s amiss. “You’ve gotta show me ‘round and introduce me to everyone. Let’s go mingle for a bit.”
Swallowing down your discomfort, you smile apologetically at Kita and the twins, which largely goes ignored, and let him lead you away.
“Asshole,” you hear muttered behind you.
When there’s enough distance between you, Natsuo’s shoulders lose some of their tension. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “Was that too much?”
“I told you there’s a lot of history there. Stuff’s… complicated,” you shrug.
It doesn’t let him off the hook, not entirely. He takes it in stride though, nodding and squeezing your hand the same way you had his a minute earlier. “I’ll be a perfect gentleman from here on out, pinkie promise.”
Your heart thuds off kilter, the fluttering in your stomach not quite so pleasant anymore. Maybe you’ll call it at two drinks instead of three, you think.
A quick scan of the room guides you to Riseki and a few of the other first years. Safe, neutral parties. None of them go in for a hug, and there’s an unmistakable air of awkwardness, but at least they’re nice about it, and, true to his word, Natsuo’s more chill this time ‘round, verging on friendly-ish.
For the record, you try to relax into it. Enjoy yourself. Riseki and the first years weren’t quite as bad as their upperclassmen, and they clearly don’t hold anything against you, but the harder you try, the more difficult it becomes.
Your dress feels itchy against your skin. Prickly. A bead of sweat trickles from the nape of your neck down the curve of your spine and you shift your weight from one foot to another, trying to mask your discomfort.
“You want another?” Natsuo jerks his chin at your drink.
Empty. Huh.
You don’t even remember finishing it.
“… Yeah?” It sounds more like a question than an answer. You need a second drink, because… there was a reason, wasn’t there? Maybe? A cold drink does sound good, though. It’s warmer now than when you arrived, bordering on uncomfortable. Isn’t anyone else hot?
You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head, trying to clear the fog around your thoughts. Why did you need a second drink– and god, when did it get so stuffy in here? Were the lights always so damn bright?
“Hey, you alright? You don’t look so good,” someone says. A hand touches your shoulder and you jerk at the searing heat of it, stumbling back a step.
“Yeah, ‘m fine I just… I think I…” you mumble, waving them off. There’s a balcony here, you remember seeing it when you first walked in. That sounds nice. Cold, fresh air. Snow on your bare skin. Maybe you could roll around in it. Make a snow angel. “I-I need–”
“Get Kita,” someone barks, low and urgent.
Why? You don’t need Kita, you need outside. Fresh air. Nice, icy cold to douse the fire in your blood. Too hot. Too itchy. Your skin feels like it’s crawling. You lurch back another staggered step and the world becomes a blur of colours. The brightness isn’t so bad when there’s pretty colours.
“She doesn’t need Kita, she needs space. Back up a bit and let her breathe! Baby? D’you wanna sit down for a sec? Some water?”
You shake your head again. “N-no.” Your tongue feels dry. Too big for your mouth. “I–”
You’re so hot. So sticky and gross.
“Don’t touch her–”
“Holy shit, dude! Can you smell that?”
So many voices. Garbled and loud, pounding in your head like drums. Or maybe that’s your pulse. Why won’t they be quiet?
A noise, thin and reedy, slips between laboured breaths. A whine.
“I-I don’t–”
Mint. Bright and fresh, cooling, your mind supplies. Mint…and a woody musk. Familiar, but–
“Move.”
Someone yells. There’s shouting. Jostling. Silver flashes, a large body slamming into yours, only you don’t go tumbling to the ground. Hands grip you like vices, and the voices rise to a fever pitch, overlapping, drowning out the frantic thudding of your heart.
Inky black pools. Teeth bared, and then–
Pain.
—
If you didn’t have to wait for Suna, you could’ve been home ages ago.
Last year, it wasn’t a problem. You lived down past the river, on the other side of town, a quick fifteen minutes on the bus, which, luckily for you, ran well after practice usually finished.
Then your parents split and the house got sold, and now you live with your mom in a two bedroom apartment in the same complex as Suna. Technically it’s closer to school, although you walk now instead of catching a bus, and ever since the middle blocker figured out you lived there, it now comes with an escort.
Three, if you count the twins who peel off a few blocks earlier.
Your head thuds back against the brickwork, your leg propped up and bouncing restlessly. It’s chilly out, but you’re too busy stewing in your irritation to bother rooting around in your bag for your jacket. The boys taking longer than you to get changed is nothing new. You might have slightly more patience for them if there wasn’t a mountain of studying waiting for you at home, two separate tests tomorrow that you already know are gonna kick your ass.
Unlike some, your future doesn’t hinge on how talented you are at volleyball, it hinges on your grades.
Your foot keeps tapping.
God, what is taking so long? Atsumu drags ass sometimes, sure, but usually that means heading off with Suna and Osamu, leaving him to catch up on his own. And then, inevitably, listening to the three of them get into it.
Most of the team’s already gone, the first years practically sprinting for the gates. Akagi, Ginjima and Oomimi both waved as they went past – well, Akagi waved, Gin did this weird salute thing and Oomimi raised a few fingers, so you figure it’s not a matter of life or death that’s keeping them.
You should just walk home on your own. It’s only ten minutes away, and maybe it’ll teach them a lesson – if they’re determined to shepherd you about every day, then they should respect your time instead of messing around.
You refuse point blank to stand there and be subjected to yet another lecture from Kita about your willful ignorance as a beta towards your own safety.
Screw it.
When you push off from the wall, rather than heading out towards the school gates, your feet lead you back around the corner towards the club room. There’s absolutely no chance you’re about to barge into a room full of alphas and demand they hurry up, there’s nothing stopping you from taking a peek to see if you can gauge how much longer they’re gonna be.
You don’t entirely know what you’re expecting when you lean up on your tippy toes to peer through the gap in the window – the Miya twins grappling on the floor again, the four of them huddled around someone’s phone, watching pro-volleyball replays while Kita fruitlessly tries to break it up – anything other than the sight you’re met with.
Aran’s hunched over on one of the benches, clutching a jacket in his fist. Kita has a hand gripping his shoulder, Suna and the twins completing a loose semi-circle around him. Aran’s shaking, and not a light shiver – full body tremors.
You don’t know why, but something in you recoils at it. Begs and claws and screams at you to back away and pretend you didn’t see.
This feels like an intrusion.
Kita, Aran, Suna and the Miyas aren’t a pack yet, not officially, but the writing’s on the wall and has been ever since you met them. There are things that, as a beta, you won’t ever be able to understand; the draw of pack is one of them.
From your vantage point you can’t make out Aran’s expression, there’s no mistaking the tension rippling from his body. Suna’s tight lipped, the twins are scowling. Kita’s face is set in stone.
At lunch or right after the final bell when everyone’s either heading home or off to club activities, you wouldn’t have a hope in hell of hearing Kita as he kneels down in front of Aran and grabs his clenched, shaking fists.
Late as it is, with school deserted, Kita’s voice, cool and resolute, carries easily through the crack in the window.
“She’s a beta. A beta with a strong scent, constantly in close proximity. It’s dangerous, and if you keep it up – if you lose control with her – you’ll regret it.” He casts a meaningful look at his gathered packmates, “She isn’t for us. Let it go.”
—
“She’s waking up. Get the doctor back in here.”
Through the slow, thick haze surrounding your semi-conscious state, you register rapid footsteps and the sound of a door opening. Thinking… is difficult. Your body feels wrong, somehow. Out of sorts, like someone threw you in a shredder, shook you ‘round a bit and then tried to paste you back together.
Cool fingers press first to your forehead, grazing over your cheek before withdrawing entirely.
Your neck hurts and your head throbs, trying to pry open your eyes feels like a herculean task, only there’s no choice in the matter. The footsteps return, more this time, and a new, unfamiliar voice gently calls your name.
“Can you open your eyes for me, sweetheart?”
A low, warning growl punctuates the room.
With great effort, you manage to do as your bid, squinting at first against the influx of fluorescent light flooding your vision.
You’re in a hospital room, you deduce that much. You’re still wearing the clothes from the party, albeit the top half of your dress looks savaged, flecks of blood splattered down your chest. Kita’s sitting in a plastic chair beside you, glaring at the silver haired doctor at your bedside.
It’s Kita’s hand, not his, that rests on the pillow beside you.
“Welcome back. How’re you feeling?” the doctor asks.
Hot and cold, aching all over, and there’s this weird feeling in your chest, a tangled web of emotions you’re too exhausted to prod at. “…Tired. Sore,” you groan.
Kita’s frown deepens, but the doctor nods like he expected as much. “Do you remember what happened?”
You close your eyes and try to dredge up any kind of recollection of the events that landed you here. There was the reunion, you remember that much. Natsuo was there, your anchor, keeping you from letting your nerves and anxieties get the better of you. He brought you wine, and you were talking with… Akagi, maybe? No. That was earlier. It was Riseki you were with. You remember smelling mint, a flash of silver and–
Kita doesn’t react when your eyes go saucer wide and you turn an aghast look his way. There’s no shame in his expression, no hint of guilt. He meets your gaze steady, head on. A blank slate, unrepentant.
The foreign thrumming in your chest begs to disagree.
“You bit me.”
The doctor gives a considering hum and clears his throat. “You’re a beta, correct?”
You nod, though anyone with a working nose can tell as much. It’s like asking to confirm your date of birth or the colour of your eyes.
“I need you to think before you answer this next question, and I need you to be honest with me. Is there any reason you can think of why you would have Someradol in your system?”
Your brow furrows. The hell is Someradol?
“I, uh, I don’t know… what that is.”
You glance back at Kita, hoping for some flash of recognition, any inkling he understands what the doctor’s hinting at.
The grim look you’re met with hits like a sucker punch.
The doctor sighs heavily, taking a seat on the edge of the hospital bed, “I’m not altogether surprised. Primarily, it’s a heat inducer for at risk omegas, administered by medical professionals in a safe, controlled environment. More and more, however, we’re seeing it used against unsuspecting omegas as a date rape drug.”
Date rape?
Every word out of his mouth adds to the pit of dread churning in your stomach. It must be bad enough for Kita to feel too, because without a word, without so much as a glance he slides his hand over yours and lets you grip him for dear life.
“You think someone drugged me?! I don’t… I’m– I’m a beta, why–” the thought lodges itself in your throat, refusing to finish itself.
“Someradol can’t trigger heats in betas, it’s a biological impossibility,” the doctor explains. “There haven’t been all that many studies on its effects on betas, for obvious reasons, but in your case it seems–”
“Your scent spiked,” Kita says, cutting him off. “You were feverish; barely coherent, sweating bullets and stumbling over your own feet.”
“I passed out.”
A rosy flush burns across Kita’s face, right up to the tips of his ears. “That happened after I– after the bite. I wasn’t as… in control as I should have been. It didn’t go any further than that, Aran and the others– they stopped it.”
Once, you might’ve paid for the chance to see the usually unflappable alpha tongue tied and flustered. You only feel sick. Dirty and ashamed for the part you unwittingly played in dragging him into this.
The bite was something done to you. Something you know that, in his right mind, Kita would never choose for himself or any of his packmates.
None of this is okay, and you’re barely holding it together as it is. The bite, the bond (temporary, you reassure yourself), all of it can wait.
“The good news is, your system seems to have burned through it quickly,” the doctor continues, either oblivious to the pounding tension in the room or determined to press on regardless. “We’ve given you fluids, your temperature’s back within a normal range and you’re awake and alert with no sign of cardiac distress. You’ll need someone to keep a close eye on you for the next twenty four hours or so, but I see no reason for us to keep you here much longer.”
“She’s coming home with me.” Kita’s firm tone brooks no argument. He’s still holding your hand.
“Of course,” the doctor agrees, rising to his feet now that he’s finished ripping the rug out from under you. He doesn’t say that it’s for the best, that distance between you and your alpha right now will do more harm than good. He doesn’t look to you for confirmation that you’re okay with any of this.
An alpha – your alpha, for however many weeks or months until the bond wears off – has spoken, and that’s all that counts anymore. You should thank your lucky stars you’re not an omega, otherwise this’d be the rest of your life.
Hot, indignant, humiliated tears spring to your eyes, and you have to blink furiously to keep them at bay.
“H-how?” you croak, your voice close to breaking.
You aren’t stupid. What remains unsaid hangs over you like the sword of damocles, a truth that threatens to inflict more damage than an alpha’s bite ever could.
Kita isn’t at fault, but somebody else is.
The doctor pauses at the open doorway, glancing first at Kita, then back at you. “It’s impossible to say with any certainty. In pill form, Someradol dissolves quick and is almost tasteless, a little sweet, perhaps. Dropped into a cocktail or a glass of wine, undetectable.”
—
Half an hour passes in the car before you realise that Kita isn’t driving you back to the city pack house.
“Aran went ahead to grab some things for you from your apartment,” he says after a while. “You can have a shower when we get home. Osamu will fix you up something if you’re hungry. You didn’t eat tonight.”
Kita says it all so calmly, like none of this is out of the ordinary. You suppose it shouldn’t come as a surprise that he slips back into the mantle of captain so easily, and you–
There’s a paper thin barrier separating you from feeling, a fuzzy sort of numbness that has nothing to do with the Someradol.
Dumbly, you nod along. “Okay.”
“Anything else you need, tell us and we’ll sort it. You won’t be going back there.”
Not tonight, no. Probably not for a few days, until you can agree on a plan to deal with the bond sickness that won’t leave you bed bound and cursing your very existence. Kita won’t coddle you indefinitely, and you don’t expect him to.
It’s bad enough that you’ve dragged him into this – bound yourself to him, however unwittingly, however temporarily.
“I’m sorry.” You don’t think you’ve said it yet.
Kita’s eyes leave the road to flick your way. It’s only a brief glance, but the stern disapproval there rings like a slap.
“Why? You didn’t ask to be bitten, you didn’t force your scent to spike in a room full of alphas, half of whom were unmated. You aren’t at fault here.”
The censure in his words isn’t necessarily directed your way, the tone still conveys a heavy dose of scolding you struggle not to flinch under. Two years with him on Inarizaki, one of those with him as your captain, and though he’s not aggressive nor one to get off on pushing his weight around, you’re yet to find an alpha you capitulate to quicker than Kita Shinsuke.
—
By the time you do reach the pack house, a sprawling homestead, it’s closer to morning than midnight.
The lights are on inside. Aran came back here with your things, Kita spoke about Osamu feeding you, meaning he’s inside too, and it’s not a stretch to imagine that where those two go, Suna and Atsumu follow.
Earlier tonight, the prospect of walking into their pack house alone would’ve eaten you up with anxiety. Right now, it’s hard to summon much of anything. The big, bad, unthinkable thing already happened. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been – Kita didn’t go into a full rut, it was only a bite – but it happened.
Kita was there when you woke up and hasn’t left your side since, Aran went to get your things. The twins can be assholes, Suna too, but this feels like a line in the sand.
And if you’re wrong, what more harm can they do?
You let Kita open the car door and help you out, guide you up to the house with a steadying palm pressed to the small of your back. “I want a shower and then I want to go to sleep,” you tell him in a low voice, and he nods back all solemn and serious.
“Okay, whatever you need. Do you want me to tell them to clear out?”
“… I don’t mind.”
He regards you for a beat longer and then, without a word, moves to let you both in.
The moment you cross the threshold, Aran jumps to his feet like a soldier snapping to attention. The TV’s on, an old game playing, the only sign of the others half empty glasses on the coffee table and three indents on the couches around him, and still you can’t shake that awkward feeling of walking into a room where everybody’s talking about you.
“I told ‘em to make themselves scarce for a bit,” he explains, glancing between you and Kita. To you, he says, “Your stuff’s in the– I put it in the spare bedroom for you. Tried to grab as much as I could.”
You’re grateful. You are, even if the thought of Aran rifling through your bras and panties makes you want to shrivel up and die a little. “Thanks. Really.”
“You’re dead on your feet. C’mon, let me show you where everythin’ is.” He doesn’t wait for your approval – or Kita’s for that matter – tossing an easy arm over your shoulders to lead the way. Kita follows, and you trudge along between them, too tired to really take the place in. All you care about is privacy, some space and a steaming hot shower, preferably with a showerhead that doesn’t half-heartedly trickle and spurt like yours does back home.
The moment you step into the ‘spare’ room, you realise why Aran stumbled earlier. The sunken floor, the dimmed lights, the massive bed piled with blankets and a quilted comforter – it’s a nest, plain and simple.
Heat floods your cheeks, a slight faltering in your step.
Whether they were hoping you’d be too out of it to notice, or simply that you wouldn’t make a big thing out of it, Aran looks decidedly sheepish when you glance at him in surprise.
“Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s the only empty room we’ve got.”
It’s the nest, or bunking with Kita.
The nest, or curling up on one of the couches out in the living room.
But you aren’t an ingrate, and a bed is just a bed. Might be that spending a few nights living in the same house won’t cut it and you’ll get bond sick anyway. There may come a time where things like sleeping in the same bed won’t be negotiable if you don’t wanna sacrifice your health. You don’t know what that’ll look like, how it’ll affect you, what Kita’ll be willing to accommodate – any of it.
But you’re not there yet.
“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
“Bathroom’s through here.” Kita steps forward to open an adjoining door, and while you’re too drained to stand there and gape when you follow after him, with the fancy marble countertops, ornate brass fixtures and the open, spacious shower – not to mention a claw foot tub – it’s definitely one of the nicer bathrooms you’ve ever set foot in. You catch a glance of yourself in the big mirror and wince at the wan, bedraggled looking woman staring back.
They cleaned the bite at the hospital, your dress wasn’t so lucky, splotches of your own blood dried into the fabric, and you can’t seem to tear your eyes away.
You’ve been ignoring it ever since the doc explained it, but you have to know. You don’t think you’ll be able to sleep tonight without it.
“What happened to him?”
You turn expectantly to Kita, but he isn’t looking at you.
“You sure ‘bout this?” Aran asks.
“I already said I was.” He shrugs, “If you’ve changed your mind, that’s fine, I won’t force you, but we aren’t going backwards anymore. We’re done with that.”
Too late, a sense of foreboding washes over you. You take a step back. One single step, and Kita’s hand shoots out to seize your wrist.
Suddenly, they remember that you’re in the room with them.
“Be good. You’ve been through enough tonight, I don’t want to add to that unnecessarily.” But I will goes unspoken.
You don’t fully understand what he’s talking about until you feel the warmth of Aran’s hands as he draws the zipper down on your dress. You don’t turn to stop him. You don’t fight or squirm as he plucks the unbroken strap from your shoulder and slowly slides it down your arm.
Your eyes, locked with Kita’s, go wide as saucers. He doesn’t blink, and you don’t look away, fighting back a sob as your dress slackens and falls to the tiles beneath your feet with a feather soft thump.
“You wanted a shower. Let us take care of you,” he urges. You can feel it, his satisfaction, a simmering interest as more of your skin’s bared to him.
“Y-you don’t want me. You’ve n-never wanted me.” He all but said it, time and time again.
Aran’s bare chest meets your back, thick, corded arms circling around your waist. “I want you,” he hums, nosing at your hairline. “Wanted you so fucking bad, you have no idea.”
Evidence of that presses thick and insistent against the small of your back.
“Kita,” your voice jumps, trembling and fractured. “Please. This is a mistake. I’m a beta, I can’t, I-I can’t–”
A familiar crease appears between his brows and he searches your face for a moment, and you dare to think, for one split second, that maybe, just maybe, your pleas have finally broken through to him. Aran’ll stop if he tells him to. He’ll listen to his pack alpha – he always has before.
Then his expression clears, a soft, unexpected laugh escaping. “No knots, love. I told you, you’ve been through enough tonight already. Just let go and let us do this for you. It won’t hurt, I promise.” He strokes at your cheek, the same way he had back at the hospital, all calm and caring. “Get in the shower. The sooner you’re clean, the sooner you can go to sleep.”
He can force you in there if he really wants. Wrench your arms back and drag you kicking and screaming under the spray for as long as he likes. They can do whatever they want to you. Maybe that’s why your legs obey, shakily stepping out of your underwear and carrying you behind the glass partition.
The alphas follow, shedding what remains of their clothes. Kita picks both his and yours up, loosely folding them into neat piles he leaves on the bench. Aran kicks his off to the side to deal with later.
You stand, tears slipping silently down your face, your whole body trembling, as they slide on past you, Kita fiddling with the faucet til he’s satisfied the water’s a good temperature.
“Won’t get clean all the way over there,” Aran rumbles, taking you by the wrist to tug you forward, chuckling when you slip a little on the wet tiles, stumbling into his chest. “Easy, I gotcha.”
He shifts you so that you’re situated between them both, the water running in slick rivulets down your body.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” Kita murmurs again. You still balk when he turns you so that your back’s to him, drawing your hair back to get a better look at the raw, jagged imprint his teeth left behind.
He traces the mark with the pad of his thumb, freezing you still, and when that isn’t enough, he presses closer and gently kisses it. A distressed whine slips free and your whole body shudders against him.
Neither alpha pays it any mind.
As Kita grabs one of the bottles from the shelf and squirts some onto a loofah, Aran takes your chin in hand, tilting your head back to look at him. He holds you there for a beat, darkened eyes drinking you down. He’s bigger than you remember. Tall and broad shouldered, blotting out the space behind him. “I used to have dreams about this,” he tells you, a wry grin tilting his lips. “You and me, in the showers back at Inarizaki. Used to drive me crazy.”
Cupping your cheek in the warmth of his palm, he kisses you.
First your unresponsive lips, then the curve of your jaw. His mouth moves hungrily over your skin, tasting your scent, teeth nipping at delicate flesh while Kita works to scrub you clean, murmuring soft, soothing reassurances whenever you flinch or make a noise.
Along the curve of your throat. The valley of your breasts. He sinks to his knees and kisses a wet trail down your belly, stopping just below your navel.
“You smell so fucking good,” he groans, nudging your feet further apart.
Your breath comes quick, frantic, you try to squirm back and Kita’s grip goes iron. “No, no. Don’t fight it, you’re okay. You’re okay.”
“N-no! I don’t want this–”
You’re expecting his mouth on your pussy. Instead, Aran’s teeth tear into the plush skin of your inner thigh and you shriek like a banshee, wailing through a fresh round of tears. With one hand anchored around your thigh, the other stroking his thick, engorged cock, he laps at the bloody wound, dark pupils blown wide, and if it weren’t for Kita at your back, you’re not sure you’d still be standing.
You didn’t feel it the first time, there’s no drugs to dull the pain now, not just of the bite itself, but the bond – it burns through your veins like wildfire before finding a home in your chest, a part of you that isn’t you anymore. You feel what he feels; all of it. Everything.
It’s overwhelming. It’s agony. You gasp for breath between your tears, letting your head fall back onto Kita’s shoulder.
There’s nothing left in you when his calloused hand wraps around yours and draws it back to curl around his length, a shivery moan echoing too loud in the enclosed space as he uses you to stroke himself off.
Nothing left as Aran finally turns his attention to your pussy, his tongue delving between your slick folds, drawing your clit up into his mouth to suck.
—
Aran carries you from the bathroom. All cried out – wrung out – and barely clinging to consciousness, you don’t care that neither one of them bothered to dress you if it means they’ll leave you alone and let you sleep.
But the nest isn’t empty.
Though your eyes are closed you hear the hum of voices, feel the mattress shift as bodies move to make way for you to be set down.
“Be gentle, she’s been through enough tonight,” Kita’s voice warns. “No knotting.” In a sharper tone, “You two; no biting. I mean it.”
Mumbling something unintelligible, you roll over to curl up on your side.
A gentle brush of lips against your forehead. “Not much longer, love.”
Aran follows suit, his hand at your throat, thumb coaxing your chin up so he can kiss you how he likes. “It’s okay if you wanna sleep through this next bit. You were always gonna be ours, we’re just makin’ it official, that’s all.”
The words should spark something in you. Fear. A fight or flight response. Anything. There’s only contentment – maybe not yours, but it’s there all the same, lulling you off. You’re so tired, pushed beyond your limits so many times already today. At a certain point, exhaustion’s going to win out whether you want it to or not.
Footsteps recede and the door closes.
“Fuckin’ finally,” one of the twins groans, Atsumu, you think.
The mattress shifts again. “Don’t know why you’re so eager, you’re in the dog house,” Suna scoffs, his voice closer now. “You’re lucky Kita’s letting you stick around to watch.”
“Lucky? He should be thankin’ us!”
“I’m not the one who bought ‘em–”
“Oh, yeah, you’re a real fuckin’ saint, Samu. Shut the hell up – it was your idea!”
You’re rolled onto your back, your legs slowly maneuvered apart, and when you pry your leaden eyes open, all you see is Suna, naked and looming over you. “Ignore them,” he tells you, stroking the slowly thickening cock straining between his legs. “They’re just pissy they aren’t allowed to do this.”
He fills you, not in a single, smooth stroke, but slowly, inch by crawling inch, stretching you out while you claw and clutch at the comforter beneath you, lips parted in a soundless cry. The world fades away. The nest. Your bond with Kita and Aran. The twins, watching their best friend slowly pry you apart with brazen hunger in their eyes.
Suna takes his time. Forces you to meet his stare, half lidded, swimming in pleasure as his hips roll languidly against yours. What’s the rush when there’s no one to interrupt, no force on earth that’ll drag him away from the tight warmth of your pussy squeezing around his cock.
The heat of him, inside of you, surrounding you, is suffocating. Suna’s forehead dips to press against yours. Every breath you take you share, gasped out between clenched teeth and whimpers of pain.
Slow doesn’t mean gentle.
He reaches back to grab at your knee, pulling your thigh up to give himself more room, and the low groan he makes as he sinks that little bit further in carves through you like a knife.
“We were always gonna end up here. You realise that, don’t you?”
The lump in your throat keeps you from answering. You blinded yourself to it then. Rationalised what you could and minimized the rest.
Boys’ll be boys, and alphas can’t help their instincts.
Betas have no place in pack.
Does it make it any easier to swallow, knowing you never slipped the leash they snuck around your neck years ago?
Hot tears spill from the corners of your eyes, dampening the pillow beneath.
They lied to you then, and he’s lying to you now.
Teeth graze over the smooth expanse of your shoulder as his own legs splay, pushing yours wider so he can fuck himself deeper, his breath turning ragged. At the base of his cock, a knot begins to form, swelling and pressing insistently with each feverish stroke.
You hear Atsumu’s warning snarl a split second before his jaws clamp down and blood spurts–
–a heartbeat before his hips draw back and slam home, forcing that thick, ruddy knot into the dizzying heat of your cunt.
Since his accursed rebirth, Blade has been naught but one of the swords in the Xianzhou Luofu's arsenal, bed-warmer for the Arbiter General. Both cruelty and kindness have never disturbed the bitter apathy he's steeped within. You succeed where they have failed.
tags: a/b/o, AU Canon divergence (Blade was taken by the Luofu after his rebirth), non-consensual touching, animal injury, Blade is weird idk what to tell you
10.8k words
thank you @pranabefall for giving this a look over!!
The sky weeps unto fields of rolling green. It’s impossible to tell what time of day it is. The clouds are thick. A film of bluish grey has been cast over this abandoned husk of a world. Blade has not seen a single soul since arriving, fleet-footed on the heels of fleeing abominations of Abundance. They scattered into the green overgrowth of the nearby forests. The downpour has washed away the scent trail of fear.
He tracks them manually, a hound on the hunt. They’ve left behind footprints and breakages in the underbrush. Drops of water roll off the lush strands of overgrown ferns and hedges. The paths here are clotted by creeping branches. Grass has grown over most of the trail, indicating a lack of use. If he were a normal man, perhaps he would wonder what’s happened to the goodly people of Seanmhair, but he isn’t. So he doesn't think of anything besides the fading scent of his prey.
The trail leads down a small slope where a fat river churns. Several smaller streams run parallel to it. Beyond the banks on the other side looms a great and vast wreckage. It is the ruins of a town, stained dark with water. Its brick structures have been gutted. The metal skeletons of several larger buildings have rusted over.
He stands at the bank of the river. This is where the scent disperses. They most likely crossed, and the water washed away the trail. It is frustrating, but it does not render his task impossible. His gaze wanders to the shallowest parts of the river, where stones and broken branches tangle together, and makes out the unmistakable shape of a person caught on the remains of a toppled tree trunk. Floating motionlessly, tattered clothes pulled by the current.
They don’t move when he approaches the bank. The water is bitterly cold. It sloshes around his calves and soaks him to the bone. The material of his pants sticks to his legs. His hair has long become soaked and flattened against his skin. Fat raindrops slap against the rushing water. The weather shows no signs of clearing. He makes his way beyond the unfortunate lost soul and reaches the deepest point. He’s up to his waist, now.
His sole goal is to reach the other end and continue the search. His prey cannot have gone far.
A soft, agonized cry splits the air. The sound zaps at a long untouched, instinctual part of him. The alpha is known for bearing its teeth and quarreling for dominance, but it also covets the safety of its inferiors. Ancient instincts, written into the biological fabric of his belong, move him.
He pivots towards the source of the sound, trudging through the silt and mud at the river’s bottom to reach you, the poor, waterlogged thing he assumed to be a corpse. You can barely lift your head up. Too weak to make another sound, even a whimper, as he reaches you. He looms over you. The water washes away your scent. It should be impossible for him to tell, but somehow, someway, he knows that you are an omega. You look up at him with big, bleary eyes. When he wraps his arms around you and heaves you into his chest, you make not a sound. Too weak and weary to do anything but stare into the distance. Your gaze is glassy. He’s not sure if you can even see him.
He wades through the current and emerges on the other side.
—
There are a few things he has to get in order. First, he finds shelter in one of the sturdier abandoned structures and manages to light a fire. He does not have any plush bedding to swaddle you in, no plumped-up pillows. The old, yet dry tarp he finds rolled up in one of the corners will have to do. He lays you on top of it and peels your clothes off, layer by layer.
Your shirt comes first. He spreads it out in front of the flames. A whimper cracks out of your chest as he reaches for you again. Your hand, cold and shaking, weakly grips his wrist.
“Let me,” he murmurs, “You will catch your death in these clothes. I won’t do anything… untoward.”
Next comes your trousers, your underwear. You are bared to him inch-by-inch. He doesn’t stop to drink in the sight. He does not have the time. You are cold, your body wracked with shivers. The sight again strikes something in his chest that he thought dead. Embers to spur old, forgotten instincts alive. He wraps you in the tarp and nudges you closer to the fire.
His own clothes come next. If he had not stumbled across you, he would have continued to trek in them. But you are freezing, and the fire alone will not be enough to warm you. The mara which strains at the underside of his skin provides constant, feverish heat. You’ve squeezed your eyes shut.
Once he is bare, he peels open the tarp. Your eyes shoot open. They go wide as dinner plates, and another whimper rattles from your chest. On weak arms, you attempt to scramble backwards, but he seizes you by the hips and pulls you to his chest. A sob cracks out of you. The knotted root that has replaced his heart seizes at the sound, but he doesn’t release you. You squirm and beat a fist against his chest.
The fight leaves you very quickly. Your breathing is loud and quick. Hyperventilating, he realizes. Panicking. The sour scent of omega distress salts the air. It makes his nose wrinkle, stings him with the urge to soothe.
“I’m keeping you warm,” he rasps. For the first time, his voice seems to reach you. You squint up at him. The fog of looming death is relinquishing its grip on your senses. Your eyes are a little clearer.
“That’s… it?” you say, voice a disbelieving croak.
“That’s it,” he confirms quietly. He nudges his arm below your head, makes a pillow out of his bicep. His other arm wraps around your side. Your skin is cool and damp to the touch. His calloused palm rubs up and down the trembling length of your back. The friction will help warm you. “Rest.”
You tuck against his chest, cheek pressed over the space where his heart would be. Every possible inch of your naked skin is pressed together. It stirs something inside of him. Animal satisfaction hums behind his closed eyelids, as if he has fulfilled some indispensable, animal need. The incessant buzzing of the mara grows quiet, drowned out by the rain, the soft wheezes which rattle from your lungs.
He does not sleep. He rests.
The rations he brought with him have remained dry, in their plastic packaging. He cracks one of them open and holds it out for you. Your hands are still shaking, but you’ve warmed significantly. Your clothes are halfway dry. After ensuring you would not catch your death of cold, he shrugged his back on. You take a bite and chew. The dead look in your eyes still lingers. You harbor a bone-deep sort of weariness. Resignation wears into your features, rendering you small and gaunt, hunched in on yourself.
“Denizens of Abundance landed on this planet not long ago,” he breaks the quiet, barely audible over the crackling of the fire.
“Is that what those monsters are called? They threw me into the river…” you mumble. It is only then that he realizes just how little you know. Are the people of Seanmhair even aware of the power that exist outside of their atmosphere? Do they know that traveling the cosmos is indeed possible? A picture of the people who once inhabited this place begins to form. A less advanced population, who had no clue about the dangers beyond the sky until it was too late.
A flare of righteous indignation suddenly bites at him. The creatures who put their hands on you will suffer, he decides, even at the cost of efficiency.
He is starting to feel too much. He’s spent years blanketed in nothingness. A tool has no need for righteous anger or gentle sympathies. How odd, that they be spurred now. Is this the power of an omega? To move him from "thing" to "beast"?
“Do you know where they are now? I’ve come to eradicate them. Every last one,” Blade informs you. Perhaps, this will serve as some form of comfort.
“They’ve been here for a while,” you shrug, “They live at Glasvain.”
A while? They’ve been using this planet as a foothold, then. A base of operations as they conduct their raids on other, nearby worlds. In attempting to flee, they’ve led him straight to their hive. This mission will bear more fruit than initially expected. Jing Yuan, and the council of fools he often grapples with will be pleased.
“Are you able to lead me to this Glasvain?” he asks. “After the rain stops.”
You look at him strangely, then. Through squinting eyes. Your mouth goes slack, eyebrows nettled in an incredulous expression.
“You… the rain won’t stop,” you tell him, “It’s been raining for the past twenty years. I can’t even remember what it was like before it started–who are you? Where did you come from?”
“I am Blade. I came from the Xianzhou Luofu,” he says, soaking in all you have said, “I’m here to hunt the monsters that attacked you. Are they also responsible for what’s happened to this place?”
“...No. People started leaving after the rain started. I’m the only one who lives here now,” you murmur. “I live on the far side. But I’ll probably have to leave soon. The river you found me in–it wasn’t there a few days ago. It’s flooding fast.”
“And will you lead me to Glasvain?” he repeats, since you hadn’t answered the first time.
“Yeah. It’s not far,” you say, staring into the fire. You curl into yourself, tug the tarp as tight as you can. Another shiver rolls through you. He’s not keeping you warm enough, he thinks, but attempting to rectify the problem would only frighten you. The acidic smell of your fear died down after it became clear that he meant no harm. He has no desire to betray this small measure of confidence you’ve placed in him.
—
Your home is a small, brick building placed on the border between town and the vast emerald field beyond it. It is almost a perfect cube with a gabled roof. You shove the door open–it’s been left unlocked. The inside is small and homey. A mugs and books and various miscellaneous items sit atop the chipped fireplace and coffee table. The embroidered curtains are shut.
He has to hunch to enter. He stands in the foyer while you bustle to a small hallway in the back. Your scent, soft and clear as earth after rain, sticks to every surface. A few picture frames rest on a dusty shelf. The worn leather spines which crowd wall-to-wall are labeled in a language he cannot read. Pillows and clothes are piled on a loveseat. He can’t blame you for the mess. He wouldn’t care to clean either, with no prospective visitors. Alone in a world in the middle of its apocalypse.
You’re in new clothes when you re-emerge. Blade parts his lips, whets his palette with your scent. The shadow of the hallway is dark behind you. It makes you look smaller, somehow. You hover uncertainly, as though you had forgotten he was here. There’s a spooked look in your eyes. Have you just now realized the potential consequences of inviting a strange alpha into your den?
For you, this afternoon has been one extended rush of adrenaline and sensation. One terrible thing happening to you after the other, all while mired in a dying world. The danger has passed. You’re exiting survival mode. Giving yourself space to think. Space to fear. You’re fortunate that he’s the one who found you, he thinks.
“We… it’s getting dark out,” you inform him, “We’ll stay here, tonight. I can dry your clothes, if you want. And I have some food. If you’re hungry.”
Blade blinks mutely at you. He doesn’t know if he should tell you that he doesn’t get “hungry”. Consuming organic matter speeds up his regeneration. He shakes his head. After an extended period of silence, you cautiously pad over to the couch. You perch there, baggy pants crinkling as you draw your legs up to your chest, taking up as little room as possible.
Quiet blankets the room yet again. He stands in front of the door. Hovers like a ghost. It takes you about five minutes to grow tired of his awkward looming. You tell him he can sit.
“What happened to this world?” he asks as he makes himself comfortable. He takes up residence on the loveseat opposite from you, ensuring you have a full view of him.
“Started to rain real hard,” you croak miserably.
“And what caused the rain?”
“I don’t know. Most of it happened before I was born,” you begin, tracing the fabric of the sofa with a finger. “It had something to do with mining. They were mining and–and they found something. It came up through the earth. The people in charge seemed to change after that. The companies in charge hired more and more people. Until there was no one left that wanted to work–so they started making people do it.”
“There was an uprising. It started raining after that. Everything fell apart. Or maybe it’d fallen apart when they first found… whatever they found. I still don’t know what exactly caused the rain. Mama and Papa didn’t like to talk about it much,” you shiver, and draw in on yourself. “I saw some pictures. I don’t blame them.”
“Mm,” Blade acknowledges, drawing in the information with half-lidded eyes. It’s a vague, secondhand summarization of events, but it still helps paint a picture. By the state of this place, and the fact that you are alone, he assumes that your parents have either abandoned you or passed away. The dead state of this town and Glasvain indicate that this world, or this part of the world, has become rapidly depopulated. It makes sense, then, that the Denizens of Abundance would find it a fitting resting ground. With no natives, they can come and go undisturbed.
His train of thought is broken as you shift in your seat. You want to say something. Your lips press together, expression stormy. Blade grows tired of the silence after a few moments. If you want something, you only need to ask.
“Speak, child,” he commands. He keeps his voice soft for you.
“I can… hang your clothes to dry,” you finally say. “If-if you want. It just… I thought you might be uncomfortable. Sitting in them.”
His clothes, damp and cold, cling to his skin in way that a mortal, flesh and blood man would certainly find uncomfortable. He’s no longer concerned with his own comfort, but he cannot help but be amused. By you. By the situation.
“You invite a strange man into your home, and then you ask him to strip naked,” Blade says, wryly amused. “You play dangerous games, girl. How have you managed to survive this long?”
And then, you surprise him. The space between your brows wrinkles, and your hands curl into fists. The corners of your lips twitch into a churlish frown. Ah. He's upset you.
“You think I don’t know? Of course I know how dangerous this is!” you snap, “If you were gonna do anything, you would have done it already,” you rapidly lose steam as you continue, pointed rage dissolving into lost, disjointed rambling. “Even if you were a bad person, I–you’re the first real person I’ve seen in months. And I can’t keep talking to myself anymore.” you continue, voice pitching into a distraught whine. “I don’t care if you hurt me. A-And you’ve already seen me naked. None of it matters, anymore. None of it.”
You’re wrapped tight into yourself by the end of it, knees pulled up to your chest. You sound like you're trying to convince yourself more than anything.
Blade finds himself effected.
—
Glasvain.
The green fields are empty, save a dilapidated hut that sits by the treeline. A few bleating animals with thick, white pelts absentmindedly roam the space. A few of them are grazing. You pause next to him.
“A shepherd lives there. I visited him… a month ago? A month or two ago,” you mutter feebly, motioning towards the hut.
Coming closer, the poor state of the dwelling becomes more apparent. The front door is splintered off its hinges, as if it’d been battered in. The windows are shattered. Shards of opaque glass litter the dirt around the pitiful hovel. You stumble forwards, heading towards it with a manic look in your eye.
“Hello!?” you call out. “Is anyone there!” The rain drowns out your voice. No one replies.
Blade spies a rust-colored, spattered stain on the white, still-standing wall. He wholeheartedly believes you are now the last, living native of this region. You take in the sight, trembling and breathing too quickly.
“Come,” he rests a hand on your quivering shoulder.
“N-No,” you shake. “He could be out there somewhere. We should go looking–what if he’s hurt!?”
He says your name. Slow. Purposeful.
“We should at least check the place out–” you take another step forward, and Blade reels you back into his chest. You stumble on the wet grass, crashing into his chest. He doesn’t move an inch. You crane your neck to look up at him, mouth balled up tight. Clearly on the verge of tears.
“I’ll look,” he says.
Inside of the home, curled up on the exposed floor, is presumably the corpse of your shepherd acquaintance. Up close, he can smell the acrid tang of blood and rot. The kill is relatively recent. Over the last few days, the decay sped up by the downpour and the humidity. You shouldn’t see this, he decides then and there. Not when you’re already so fragile.
He–he needs you to be his guide. Never mind the long buried things you’ve shaken alive. They write within him. He steps back into view and shakes his head. You look stricken, for a moment. The gauntness in your face grows deeper, shadowed and weighed by grief. For the briefest of moments, he fears that you will topple over where you stand. But you don’t.
Your face relaxes. Or, rather, it deadens. The light in your eyes snuffed out by the unfortunate news. He is deathless, but it kills him to be unable to provide the comfort you so desperately need. How does one even begin to reach out? There is nothing he could say that would alleviate the pain of the lives lost, of the isolation you’ve endured.
"Stay here," he says in a voice which brokers no argument.
He leaves you there, stood emptily underneath the branches at the treeline. The denizens of Abundance have holed themselves up in the dilapidated ruins of the town Glasvain. He combs through the jagged, ruined cobblestone streets like an oncoming flood. The fight lasts hardly an hour. The feathers of the birdmen were weighed down by the water, stealing their prized agility. He is coated in their blood by the time he staggers outside the rusted gates.
It washes off by the time he returns to you.
When he returns to you, you are clutching a small, bleating creature in your arms. You look at him with haunted eyes. He looks at you. The silence lasts for several, awkward seconds.
"Are… are you alright?" you speak first. There is fear on your face. His stomach with writhes with discontent. He's frightened you. What if you try and leave? Things will get complicated without a guide. The need to soothe you rattles his brain with sudden intensity. He is no good with words.
"I'm fine. What is that?" he nods at the hoofed animal clutched in your arms.
"A lamb," you inform him, "I was here when she was born. I went to check on her while you were…" you swallow, breathing in wetly, and bring a hand up to rub at your eyes. "Her mother is gone. I can't just leave her like this."
"Surely, it will be safer with its herd?" Blade jerks his head in the direction of the rest.
"For a little while, maybe, but sheep need to be sheared every year. If they aren't, they get matted and the water only makes it worse," this is the most you have ever said to him at once. Blade eyes the pitiful creature in your arms and imagines all the ways in which it could meet its end on your journey. It shakes in your arms and nestles close to you, seeking the warmth of your body.
What a fitting pair. He could laugh.
"Very well, but you will see to its handling," Blade concedes. His jaw relaxes as relief blooms across your face. The edge of fear in your scent dies down. He casts a glance upwards, as though the eternally grey skies will tell him what time of day it is. At his best estimation, it's late afternoon. Still enough time to make some progress on reaching the second stronghold, wherever it may be.
"The next place where the vermin hide. Where is it?" he asks. Your hands clutch the small beast's curly fur.
"A place called Cailleach's Washing. It's a fort built between two peaks, above a lake," you murmur, "If we follow the river, we should reach it within… a few days, maybe? I've never made the trip on foot."
"Very well. Then it is there we go next," Blade decides.
You don't offer any rebuttal. Before you leave Glasvain, you find tarp in a nearby, brick building. With his help, you're able to cut it to a small size, fashioning it into a makeshift coat for your small, furry friend.
"It'll be bad if her wool gets wet," you tell him, delicately tying the tarp around the lamb's neck. The animal is small enough for you to carry. You heave it into your arms. Something old and forgotten twinges in Blade's chest. Rust shaken off a rusty fence. Seeing you so caring, so nurturing warms him in ways he had no longer thought possible.
You cradle the thing to your chest, one arm beneath its back and the other over its side. The beast seems content in your embrace. It nestles its little head against the breast of your jacket, leeching your body warmth.
Blade looks away.
"There's a… building on the road. Used to be a store, before everything went real bad," you tell him. "I used to buy taffy candies from there. When… sorry, you probably don't care," you trail off with a small, yet empty laugh. Blade glances at you.
"No. Continue," he says. For your voice makes much sweeter background noise than the endless pattering of the rain.
"Oh. My grandma lived in a small town close to Cailleach's Washing, so we would take trips there, sometimes. Usually on the weekends. Her cabin was right on the water, and if you climbed high enough on the peaks, you could see the whirlpool," the look in your eyes brightens, and he knows then that you are far away. Gone into the past, to enjoy the halcyon days of your youth, when the most you had to worry about was staying dry.
"The whirlpool?"
"I didn't mention it, did I? There's a whirlpool in the middle of the lake. It's actually below the the fort. They—the people in charge, used to throw prisoners down there… back in the day," you punctuate the sentence with a small sigh. Just like that, you've returned to the present day. You live a life painted in shades of miserable grey, and likely have for quite some time.
Perpetual misery is something you have in common. How easily he could lift this burden from your shoulders. It's odd—that he would even want to. He typically doesn't concern himself with the welfare of parties unrelated to his missions.
…
Well, you are related to his mission now. And you have done an admiral job, leading him this far only a day after he fished you from the river. He'll reward you, he thinks.
But with what?
The answer is clear. The sun. For the first time in your life, when you leave this accursed planet, you will see the sun. He doesn't remember exactly when he came to the conclusion that he will take you with him when he leaves. It just seems like a natural conclusion, easy as breathing used to be.
A comfortable quiet settles between you. It carries on for what must be an hour, maybe two, only broken by the occasional braying of an off-path beast. You startle at each one, and he wonders if there are any natural predators here worth fearing. The path winds around sloping hills, straddled by the river and the treeline. Eventually, the treeline lifts as a jagged cliff rises from the earth. Eventually, a stone building looms in the distance. It's single story and square in shape. A single, rickety door with a brass knob sits at its dead-center.
"This is it" you murmur, hastening over. Blade clicks his tongue, catches up with you in a few, easy strides. You reach for the doorknob. His hand wraps around your wrist before you can get there. You jump. The suddenness of the motion jostles the lamb in your arms, causing it to bleat softly. A wobbly, pathetic sound. This close, he can smell the scent of your alarm, buried beneath the rainwater.
"Let me," is all Blade says. You take in a deep, grounding breath and retreat.
When he opens the door, he finds the abandoned store to fortunately, as you said, still be abandoned. It's a small space. Dark wooden shelves comprise the aisles. They aren't nailed to the floor. It's a simple enough task to shove them out of the way, strong-chord muscle bunching and flexing as he works to create a space open enough for the three of you to huddle. With the wood furnishings, it won't be safe to start a fire.
You don't seem to be thinking that far ahead. You deposit both lamb and backpack onto the floor with a relieved sigh.
"You should eat something," he says, watching you settle against the wall, bringing your knees tight to your chest. "You packed rations, didn't you?"
"Yeah," you reach into your pack and pull out a package of thin, dried sticks of meat. You don't look particularly enthused about the meal, but you don't complain. Instead, you look up at him. "Do you want any? I think I packed enough for both people…"
Blade shakes his head. "There's no need," he assures you softly. You cast him a doubtful look, but don't protest. Obedient. He watches you peel the package open with shaking fingers, admires the shape of your lips, the edges of your teeth as you take bite after bite. Visual proof of your nourishment. Something in him coos and shudders in satisfaction. He imagines the feeling of your canines embedded in the taut skin of his shoulder.
He stares at you until you've finished eating. Then, he slinks away. He moves up and down the aisles like a drifting specter, searching for other non-perishables. Unfortunately, he finds none. His search lasts for all of a pithy five minutes. Peering outside the doorway, he notes the change in light. Evening has settled over Seanmhair. The planet has three, separate moons but not a mote of light seeps in through the clouds. He doesn't feel the cold as keenly as used to, but you certainly do. Pressed up against the wall, curled around the body of the lamb, shivering.
He is failing you, in some way. The notion overtakes him with a sudden viciousness, provokes him into action. He settles beside you. You don't startle, this time. Have you grown more comfortable? Or are you too distracted by the dropping temperatures to notice? He undoes the latches on his overcoat and opens it.
"Come here," he says softly.
You blink up at him. "What?"
He sighs, "Come here," he repeats.
He brokers no room for argument. Without waiting, he reaches out. One hand clutches your hip, the other wraps around your waist to pull you to to the side. You squawk, and the lamb fusses. It kicks out of your arms and lands a pace away. Blade pays it no mind. He wrangles you into his lap, your back pressing up against his chest.
"Blade," you swallow nervously. The scent of your distress hits the roof of his mouth, making him frown. "What are you doing?"
"It's too cold for you," he tells you. His legs bracket yours, caging you in. You're shifted into the cradle of his hips. He's hard. You curl up like a clam, knees brought up to your chest.
"I'm fine, really," you insist with a swallow. Trembling hands find purchase on his broad thighs as you struggle to extricate yourself from his grasp. His brows set into a flat line and he pulls you back, arms like metal bars, securing you tight against his body.
For someone caught in death's ruthless clutches, he runs quite warm. Abnormally warm, even. Scorching on days when the mara runs thick and heavy through his bloodstream. It's connected to the constant regeneration of his body, in some way. The researchers hadn't seem keen to explain it to him. They preferred to conduct their examinations and tests as quickly as possible, all the while avoiding the dead empty of his gaze. He hadn't thought much of it, since. A mere curiosity related to his peculiar physical makeup.
Here, though, it lets him keep you warm. The long-neglected half of his being that is Abundance finds solace in this.
"Blade," you interrupt his train of thought, panic kicking into your voice. He hums, low in his chest, and brings you flat to his chest with minimal effort. "Blade," you're whimpering, now. Scared. Struggling and weak. He finds satisfaction here, too, knowing he can keep you anchored in place with such ease.
He exhales softly, "Hush," he murmurs, "I mean you no harm. The cold is setting in. Your clothes aren't thick or dry enough to keep you warm."
He explains it to you slowly, in a matter-of-fact kind of voice that seems to soothe your uncertainty. The sour, looming scent of your distress dissipates. He lets his weary eyes shut, head tilting forward. His forehead presses against the curve of your left shoulder. Scenting you, effectively. If you have any further objections, you refrain from voicing them. You're a ball of tension, settled but not relaxed. His thumb twitches against your hip. He could easily dip beneath your trousers and rub gentle, soothing circles onto your hip–but he doesn't think that would comfort you.
Eventually, the lamb returns. It curls its knobby little legs and presses into his side, curled tight to leech the warmth from his body. He doesn't shut his eyes. He stares up at the ceiling, across the room, scans the deep shadows for any sign of threat. An hour is spent like this. Then, your breathing evens. The tension releases its death-grip on your body. You melt into him–and an hour later, you turn onto your side. Your cheek pillows on the swell of his chest, legs curling beneath you. A facsimile of the little beast nestled next to him.
—
The path to Cailleach's Washing takes you between towering trees and thick foliage. The lack of foot traffic means that the path should be somewhat obscured by the encroaching wilderness, but Blade recognizes signs of recent traversal, including several footprints. The three-toed bird-beasts have been here within the past few days. It calls for an elevated state of caution.
You've started talking to him. Little things here and there, small comments about local wildlife, or places you used to visit frequently. Blade responds as adequately as he is able to. The handlers from the Luofu do not bother with "small talk". Or any other kind of talk, really. They give him orders, and he follows. He doesn't know if his responses suffice, but to spoken to easily, so casually… it makes him feel a certain way, which he has not felt before. Not in this life, in this new body.
When afternoon swings around, Blade shepherds you away from the path to take a rest. He doesn't cut through the bushes and shrubs, lest the enemy notice and follow the trail. There's a craggy ledge close by, jutting from the earth to create an overhang. A creek babbles in the near distance. You seem leery of the water, but Blade isn't willing to journey any further from the road, lest he lose track of it completely.
Your wariness seems soothed by your animal companion. Despite the dreariness of its surroundings, it frolics and gallops with the playfulness typical to an animal of its age. Blade is, for the first time, grateful for its presence.
"You said you were there when it was born," he says. He can tell you've forgotten his presence, because you startle. You eye him out of the corner of your eye like a wary dog. His heart twitches at the notion that you are not by now at ease with him. The pain is foreign. Never in the long years of his undeath has he felt discontent for this reason. "Did you take care of the animals often?"
"Oh, well, yeah… My family had a bunch, growing up," you lick your lips, hands fidgeting. The lamb trundles up to you and butts its little head into your knee, prompting you to bend down and pet it. "Back then, the entire field was covered with an overhang to keep the animals from getting wet. A big, metal thing. I would have to help patch it up, sometimes… and the sheep–one time, they headbutted the ladder I was using." You tell him, a bit of humor in your voice. "During the winter, we'd have to keep them indoors. I used to go into the barn and play with them, 'cause I felt bad, keeping them cooped up."
This is the most you have spoken to him all day, so he remains quiet. He can hardly imagine you, wobbly and pathetic as you are now, helping with such manual labor. Perhaps its an error of perspective on his part. It takes someone of strong character to survive in such a bleak environment, alone, for as long as you have.
"And it's weird, because I never really liked kids, but whenever the foals would cry–I just couldn't ignore them," you continue. "Sometimes, they'd have you up in the middle of the night… It was annoying at the time, but now… I just miss it." Your gaze again grows distant, as it often does when recounting fragments of your past.
His life has never been any better, or worse than it is now. He goes to far-flung planets to eviscerate enemies of the Luofu. They come to collect him. He's dutifully returned to Jing Yuan's estate, where the general handles his upkeep and makes delusional attempts to play house until the next time he is deployed. He does not have any friends. He is not allowed the privilege of free-roaming outside of the general's purview.
So these memories of yours, they are peculiar and novel to him.
"Sorry, I'm probably boring you," you apologize.
"You aren't," Blade corrects. He regrets his inability to comfort you. "I know no life beyond my own. The experiences you describe are therefore new to me."
"Oh," you go, and then go quiet. You appear to be ruminating on something, so Blade leaves you be. The lamb, realizing the game has ended, dips its head and begins to graze again. "Your life—" you cut yourself off with a laugh, "I just realize I don't really know anything about you. Is this—do you hunt those bird things? Is that your job?" you ask, and then swallow, looking sheepish.
"Sometimes," How does he explain it to you, in a way that won't make you even more wary than you already are? He can't think of one. He would rather tell you the truth then sugar-coat the brutal reality of what he does and what he is. "I do what the Xianzhou Luofu requires of me. Most of the time, my missions involve tracking our foes to other planets and disposing of them, before returning. I remain in the custody of the ship's general until I am again needed."
"Like a hit man," you nod. Fortunately, his explanation doesn't seem to unnerve you.
—
It takes another two days for you to reach Cailleach's Washing. Blade walks in front of you, more often than not. But he wishes he could also be behind you, as well. The wildlife here is so far, unremarkable. There are no large or particularly insistent predators. At least, none that seem to view humans as prey. That doesn't reassure him. Despite his undying nature, he is not infallible. While unlikely, the enemy could sneak up behind you, the sound of their footsteps drowned out when the downpour becomes a drizzle. It would take hardly a moment for the talons to sink into your back, to dig into your spine and kill you—he wishes he could surround you, cradle you in your entirety, hold you in his mouth.
Fortunately, no such incident occurs. You crest a particularly steep hill together—and the landscape beyond is truly breathtaking. The green grass rolls up to one of the dark peaks. The other sits far across from it, with a section of the lake between. From here, he can't quite see the whirlpool, but he can see the fort. It looks like a dam, made up of multiple stores. Tall windows reflect the dull cloud-light—many of which are broken. It's impossible to see inside.
Once he's content with his analysis of the landscape, he turns his gaze to you. You speak, but the language is foreign to him. It's a series of quick annunciations with soft, flowing vowels. Musical in quality. When you have finished, you glance up at him.
"It's just a prayer," you tell him, looking off to the side. Blade tilts his head. Dark strands tease at the top of his vision. It's been quite some time since he had a haircut.
"To whom, and for what?" he asks.
"To Cailleach. They say she made these mountains," you reply, "I just asked her to make the climb a little easier, and to hold off on any rock slides until we're gone."
"Do you truly believe you can bend the forces of nature through prayer alone?" Blade inquires.
"Well… not really," you look down. The lamb stirs against your chest. Your jacket has become a makeshift bundle, securing it to your chest when it grows too tired to walk. You bring a hand up to stroke its hearty, warm wool. "We can't avoid nature. Or change what it does. But maybe, if we—or someone else is strong enough, we could… direct it?" you sound more unsure with every word. Blade imagines his inexpressive disposition doesn't help you feel particularly validated, but he doesn't know any other way to be.
"I see," he nods. Your hope is halfhearted and, in the end, completely fruitless. In the vast expanse of the universe, you are but two grains of sand. The only aeon which ever looked upon him did so at another's behest. And you… well, if they haven't helped you by now, they likely never will. But that would be a vicious thing to say, especially when you seem aware of the futility already.
"We might as well try, you know?" you elaborate with a small shrug. "No harm in it."
"You needn't beg the gods for their favor. I will traverse the peaks, complete my mission, and then return to you," he tries to assure you, but it comes out more like an explanation. A iron-clad fact. And you laugh. The noise is abrupt and humorless. You stifle it immediately.
"I'm sorry. I just don't know how you can be so confident," you wrap your arms around the bundle secured tight to your chest, rocking back and forth on your heels. Ah. You're afraid that he will perish in battle, and never return to you. You're afraid that you'll again be left alone. The scent of omega anxiety carries light on the breeze. Blade's jaw twitches,
"I will not die," he says, "I cannot," without waiting for a reply, he turns and begins to descend the hill, motioning for you to follow. Your footsteps plod after him, but he glances back regardless just to be sure. "You will hide in that patch of forest by the peak. I will slay the abominations. This may take more than an hour. Do not come looking for me. I will find you." He stops at the treeline, giving you a look, "Do you understand?"
"Yes," you peep, eyes a little wide. Despite his attempts to reassure you, you are still uneasy.
Well. You are uneasy most of the time, with small lapses of reprieve here and there. But here, in this moment, you are especially uneasy. Blade wishes he could assuage your fears, but he's no good with words. He'll simply have to provide a demonstration.
He turns around, motions along the path with a jerk of his head. Unkempt strands of his hair stick to his cheek, slicked by rain. "Good. Now come."
—
Massacring the entire base isn't particularly difficult. There are no emanators present. Their strongest fighters all perished in the encounters that lead them to flee here in the first place. The culling is mostly cumbersome. They throw themselves at him in waves, wielding talon and sword and loaded gun, but none manage to fell him. Not even once. He regenerates too fast for them. While most are killed inside of the base's walls, a few get tossed out of the windows. Their screeches pierce the air as they plummet into the whirlpool below, one after the other.
Only after ensuring he has cleared each floor does he emerge. He treks back down the peak, boots scuffing the hard dirt, gravelly dirt until he's back on level ground.
You are exactly where he left you, huddled beneath the canopy of the forest, umbrella in hand. You listened to him. The taut line of his shoulders smooths out, pleased by the obedience. If nothing else, you trust him to come back. As he soon approaches, your wary gaze darts to him, eyes lighting up in recognition.
You're relieved to see him. You understand that you are safe with him. You meet him in the middle, opening your mouth to speak—before cutting yourself off with a flinch. The rain hadn't been thick enough to wash away the blood. And even if it had, it's soaked into his clothes. His jacket and pants have new tears in them, fabric sheared open by talons and beaks and blades. The flesh beneath, though, is unmarked. The scent of copper permeates the air, invasive and sour. You wrinkle your nose and gently squeeze the lamb closer to your chest, wrapping your arms tight around it.
“This area is secure, now.” Blade says.
"Yeah,” you murmur, after a moment. “Secure… Is that your blood, or theirs?"
"Both," Blade replies. Your eyes get big and round.
"What!? How?" you lurch forward, but jerk to an awkward, staggering stop before you touch him. You squint at him, a dual mix of suspicious and concerned.
Does he want to tell you? Will you believe him if he does? You don't even know what the Abundance is, let alone the being that propagates it. Will you fear him, when you realize the truth of his undying nature?
"My flesh resews itself at a rate most would consider impossible. You have no reason to fear. There is no blade or bullet within this galaxy capable of granting me death."
You blink at him slowly. "Oh… Is that so?" you ask quietly. It's almost like you hadn't even heard him, "Well… are you sure? That you're not hurt?"
Do you not believe him? He supposes he can't blame you. In a world without any long-lived species, he is an unknown, alien thing, stupefyingly opposite to your soft flesh and tender disposition. Would you be so concerned if you knew what he is? Perhaps. You've already and unflinchingly faced down the fact that he kills without remorse. It isn't unreasonable to believe that you could stomach his altered state.
He knows better than to cling to hope, but finds himself holding onto the thought, anyways. Even if you were frightened of the truth, there was nowhere else for you to go. He'd catch you before you could get very far.
—
The last of the abominations are holed up at an old lighthouse at the very edge of the island. Blade learns, a little late, that the block of land you've been leading him through is a dense peninsula. It will take another two day's trek to reach it. You seem relieved that the journey is almost at its end. Your collection of non-perishables is growing thin. You'll need to return home to restock. While you bemoan the long road back home, Blade tends a small campfire. The small cave you've settled in for the night is one, long room dug out in the side of a cliff.
"It'll be weird when you're gone," you muse aloud. Your head is leaned back against the hard rock wall, eyes shut. The line of your throat is completely exposed to his prying gaze. Even from this far away, he can hear the gentle thump-thump-thump of your heartbeat. Do you know how much trust you have shown in him by this gesture alone? "It's been scary, having those bird things around. But once they're all dead, it'll be so quiet."
For a moment, he wonders if he should tell you that you will be returning to the Xianzhou with him. There is nothing left for you on this planet. Should he leave you, you will undoubtedly wither under the weight that comes with being the last of your kind. The loneliness will eat you alive. Drive you into insanity beforehand, if you are particularly unlucky. He would spare you that fate, but he has an inkling that you will put up a fight.
This place has sentimental value to you. He did not have a childhood. He does not remember who birthed this earthen vessel which he inhabits. Therefore, it is impossible to empathize. But he knows you'll be upset, and he doesn't want to make you upset. Or risk scaring you. If he scares you now, you might run away.
And even if he catches you, you'll treat him with fear and suspicion. You might give up and go limp, let fate take you in its heavy may. But you might also cling on and search for any attempt at escape you can find. Blade has enough to focus on, and he already frets over you enough. To a nonsensical degree for someone he met hardly a week ago.
A week ago. He's been alive for centuries, yet you have managed to capture his attention in such a short amount of time.
"It's been nice, having someone to talk to. Even if you don't talk very much," you continue.
"…You'll have no one else, once I've left," Blade says. And immediately, he gets the sense that it's the wrong thing to say, because you go quiet, and look away. "But you've done well for yourself. You're strong, to have survived for so long under such drastic conditions." he continues.
"I don't know if I would go that far," you mumble, "I can't swing a sword. I can't hunt… All I can really do is scavenge and hope for the best…"
"A weaker person would have given into the despair wrought by such a hopeless situation," Blade argues quietly. "Do not discredit yourself." The look he gives you is sharp, brokering no room for argument. You blink at him with wide eyes, and break out into a small, sheepish smile.
"If you say so," you mumble.
And he does indeed say so.
—
The forest disappears as you near the shore, replaced by hills of verdant grass. The path is overgrown. Grass turns into gravel as you reach the grey wave beaches of the coastland. The lighthouse juts towards the heavens in the distance. A fittingly grandiose
You gasp, and Blade's attention darts to you. You've reflexively positioned yourself closer to him. He follows your wide-eyed gaze to the beach. Odd, de-saturated, green lumps cover the gravel. Only when squinting does he make out the sight of jutting ribs and odd, piscine tails. The corpses of finned creatures with long-horse like faces are strewn about, in various stages of decomposition. Their maws hang open to reveal two jagged rows of teeth. A few of them still have their milky pale eyes, hung open wide and unseeing.
"What are they?" Blade asks. While they all seem very much dead, he must hear the truth from you before he can successfully decide whether they pose a threat or not.
"Kelpies," you whisper after a moment, as though afraid they will hear. "I've never seen one, before. They used to live by the old lighthouse. The military drove them out, after they started taking people. But my parents still never let me go near the water. Better safe than sorry, I guess."
"They're all dead," Blade observes. He presses his palm to the small of your back and bodily urges you along. But your gaze is glued to the sight, eyes wide.
"They must have come back after the military stopped patrolling the waters. Or maybe they were so desperate for food that they took the risk…" you swallow. "But they couldn't find anything, anyways. There's no one here, anymore. Nothing for them to eat."
"Enough," Blade hushes you, and cups your jaw. You startle again, cheek jostling into the meat of his palm. The gesture serves its intended purpose. Your gaze is forced away from the grisly scene, which he would have you forget as soon as humanly possibly. This world has subjected you to more than enough brutality for a lifetime. "They're all dead. They pose no threat to you." He looms close. You stare at him with big, bulging eyes. The acrid scent of omega fear does not punctuate the air. The line of your body sways towards him, to a minuscule degree. And your pupils expand. Barely. Just enough to be noticed.
He doesn't let you linger in the moment, as much as he would like to. He fears that the moment you realize how you have yielded to him, you will scurry to once again cover your soft underbelly. So he parts from you, urging you further along the path with his palm pressed to your lower back. This time, you follow as he guides you.
Closer to the lighthouse, there is an outcropping of bushes and a few, thin trees. You're higher up, now. Far enough away from the beach to be safe, lest any kelpies still be alive and lurking.
"You will wait here," he tells you, and you do not argue. He leaves you, albeit reluctantly. If he had it his way, he would fit you in his mouth, swallow you whole, keep you safe inside of him until the job is done.
The abominations could easily be patrolling the areas surrounding the lighthouse. He hastens his approach. On the path, in front of the lighthouse sits a pale statue. A bearded man has his arm braced back, trident clenched in his fist. Flanking him are two kelpies. Their fangs are bared. The position is such that they are clearly meant to be his allies, rather than his enemies. A strange choice for a creature that supposedly predates on humans.
He isn't given much time to ruminate. A shrill shriek rings out across the open way. He's been spotted.
Again, the enemies fall upon him with talon and beak and blade and gun. This lot is frailer, hungrier than the last. The prey must run poorly here, or perhaps they too have over-hunted and been left with nothing to eat. He doesn't much care. It just makes them all the easier to cut down. He slices them through what feels like the dozen. Lives extinguished one after the other. Some balk in horror as their comrades and friends are ripped apart before their very eyes—and in their moments of hesitation, they go next. It's a messy, but timely affair.
Only after he's determined them all dead does he return to you. But in the dirt, he makes out footprints, fresh, headed away from the lighthouse. The tracks weren't there when he entered. One of them has fled straight in your direction. His gut drops. Cold dread, an emotion he has never felt before, seizes him.
He bolts down the slope. He follows the scent of blood and poultry down, down until he sees it, and you. You, cornered up against the trees and it, poised to attack. What follows plays out, for him, in slow motion. The next few moments stretch on and on, mocking him for his foolish mistake. Ensuring he knows the consequences of his folly.
Its talons pierce the material of your jacket, tearing plain through it—reaching the soft, small body underneath. The lamb bleats a terrible, shrill noise as its flank is pierced and slashed.
Blade sinks his sword into the abomination's flank, spearing it to the ground. He pierces it over and over, blade beating into its flesh with brutal, wet thwacking sounds. He sees red. Blood sprays into the grass and dirt. Feathers flutter in the air, like they're being tossed out of a punched pillow. Its screams and caws eventually die into wet, gurgling sounds and still he is not satisfied.
"Blade!" your voice is a wet, reedy thing. Blade raises his sword in an arc. The rain pounds his heaving shoulders. His hair cascades down the broad line of his neck like an oil slick. A crack of lightning sends sparks scattering across stone in the distance. None of it, not sound nor sensation, break him from his episode of fervent blood-lust.
Then you grip his sleeve with trembling hands. The spell is broken. He looks down at you—you're kneeling, now. In the dirt, in the grass. You've removed your jacket, and pressed it to the wound in the lamb's side in a desperate attempt to staunch the bleeding. Fruitless. The wound was too large and the beast too small. His blade clatters to the ground, and he is crowding you. Tears stream down your cheeks as you cradle it close.
"Please, Blade, there has to be something you can do please—" you beg.
For a cruel, quiet moment, Blade contemplates whether it would be kinder to let it bleed out here. When he takes you from this planet, you will insist on bringing it with you. He knows, already, that he will oblige you.
He will take you, and by circumstance it from this place. It will live away from its fellows in a world so unlike its own. Evolution shaped it to live on these open grasslands. There are no such places aboard the Xianzhou. None that you will have access to. Will it feel the the loneliness of that existence? Can you, cowering you—a lone human, fill the void left by its herd?
You're not cowering, anymore. You're looking up at him with big, panicked eyes and begging him to fix it for you.
He reaches a hand out and presses it to the poor creature's flank.
Rarely ever does he call forth the powers granted to him by Abundance. Doing so makes an ache flare to life in his chest, as though something is being pulled from him by the root. A bitter taste crawls up the back of his throat and the smell of autumn, of sweet rot and ginkgo leaves fogs his senses. But he maintains focus.
The lamb's frail flesh stitches back together. He shoves the bleeding life back into it, soothes its pains and wills it to survive for the sake of your sanity. You watch him, eyes blown wide in awe. What he's doing may very well appear as magic to you. Have you ever even met a path-strider, before? Or were the people of your world confined to paltry guns and turrets and tanks? He regrets not having the time to research more thoroughly before landing.
The lamb's pained bleats die down. Its flank still heaves for breath, but the wound is healed.
"It will need to eat, to replenish the energy I have used to heal it," he tells you softly. The sound of his voice shocks you from your stupor.
And then your arms are around him. You launch yourself into his chest and he brings his arms up to catch you, wrapping around your lower back. He tilts back into the dirt and grass and you rattle out a reedy little wheeze.
"Thank you," you press your face into his shoulder and mumble. "Thank you so much,"
This is the first time you've initiated bodily contact with him. The warmth of you, squirreled against his body, instills him with a sense of deep-set, instinctual fullness. It is as though he was made for this, lone purpose. As though a gnawing, endless urge he wasn't aware of has suddenly been sated. Even through the rain water, he can smell you. Exuberance and relief and gratefulness, all wrapping around him like a blanket. He presses his face into the crown of your head and breathes in.
His cock bulges against the confines of his trousers, pressed flush against your body. He wants to be inside you, now. Carnal pleasures of the flesh have never intrigued him. The cycle of his rut has always been a mere annoyance. During his season, Jing Yuan douses the blazing fire of his urges, takes him apart with gentle hands. Blade has always hated it. But you, here, so warm and soft and delicate—he wants to fuck you into the dirt. Wants to see your eyes go glossy and blank with pleasure.
His hands twitch. His tongue feels heavy and misshapen in his mouth. His teeth ache.
You look up at him, face still streaked with tears.
"I mean it," you mumble, and awkwardly clamber off of him. Blade lets you. These are the last few hours you'll have on this planet, to yourself. When the Xianzhou skiffs come to ferry him back to the mother ship, you will board with him, regardless of how you feel. He'll allow you as much leeway as he can within this precious, limited amount of time.
In the wake of the moment, you seem embarrassed. You rub your face with the sleeves of your jacket, eyes red-rimmed and raw.
"It's no trouble," Blade murmurs. You stumble back to your hoofed charge, gathering the pathetic thing into your arms. While you're occupied, he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and withdraws the beacon. It's a complex, cube-shaped thing seated on a shiny metal platform. It's six faces gleam iridescent under the muted sunlight. He wanders a few paces away. He presses the intricate set of switches and buttons. It emits a pair of soft, chiming dings around every thirty seconds.
"What are you doing?" you ask as he sets it down.
"The beacon will let them know that my mission has been completed. They will come to retrieve me, soon," Blade informs you.
For a moment, you look like he's physically slapped you. He finds it impossible to blame you. From your perspective, the first person you've spoken to in months, perhaps years is about to leave and never return. In a mere moment, you're forced to confront the possibility of living the rest of your life in total isolation.
"So… this is goodbye, then," For the most part, you bear it. You swallow. Your expression gives the slightest twitch as you choke down another round of tears. A mournful feeling strikes Blade's chest.
He looks at you, blinks slowly.
"No," He says, after a pregnant pause. "You're coming with me."
This will be the most efficient way to break the news, he thinks. A clean break. Ripping the bandage off.
"What?" you frown, confused. "What are you talking about?"
"There's nothing left for you here," Blade tells you coolly.
"That's not true—and even if it was, I can't up and leave," you splutter. What he said is fact, but you still feel wounded by it. This will be a difficult period of adjustment, Blade can already tell.
"Is it that you can't, or that you never thought you would be able to?" he counters, "The lamb may keep you company—but for how long will it live? What do you plan to do once your supply of food runs out, and the shelves of the local stores have been picked clean?"
"I can find food," you protest, "I've gardened, before. And—and there are plenty of animals still around."
"Oh? And will you be able to catch any?" Blade pries. He narrows his eyes, looming over you like a long shadow. There is nowhere for you to run.
You lick your lips and swallow, beginning to fidget in place. "The animals at the farm. They're slow, and they know me. They won't be afraid."
Blade scoffs. Even you don't sound convinced.
"Animals you've raised, known and loved since they were born. Will you be able to look into their wide, trusting eyes and strike the killing blow?" he presses, leaning down. His hair slips from his shoulders, curtains you in, a dark waterfall. There is nowhere else to look but him, now. "Are you truly prepared to do what it takes to survive? To slaughter others that so you may live?"
When you remain silent, Blade exhales a weary sigh. "The beasts on that farm are brittle and weak. They'll soon begin to die on their own, and meat spoils quickly in such humid conditions—"
"Stop," you choke out. He looks back to you. "I-I already told you, I don't want to go! Why won't you listen to me!?"
This was what he had feared initially. The sentimental value of this place has a hold on you, no, a death-grip. It's impossible for you to see reason at this given moment. Blade is, for a moment, at a loss of what to say. He is struck, again, by how your tears strike him. They roll fat down your cheeks, parallel to the streaks of wetness left behind by the rain. Your umbrella is nowhere to be seen, likely knocked away by the coastal winds during the struggle.
A heady mixture of awe and arousal and horror hits him. It's a Molotov cocktail of emotions for someone so unused to feeling anything at all. A thousand bees buzz beneath the surface of his skin. It's a feeling not dissimilar to the mara surges.
It's sheer instinct that makes him grab you. He shepherds you into his arms and you struggle, at first.
"Blade! What're you doing!?" you cry and beat your fists against his chest. Your struggles are feeble and empty. The shock of everything that has transpired within the last hour renders you weak. He seizes your wrists with roughened hands and hauls you close.
He leans down, and presses his lips to yours in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. You freeze. The fight drains from you, replaced by world-weary exhaustion. After years of struggling, the weight of your home's extinction finally crumples you. Right into his waiting arms. Into his maw, stretched just wide enough to hold you. A deep, primal urge is sated. The pieces slotting together just right.
"I can't leave," you whimper, once he parts from you. Your eyes are unseeing. Glazed with shock. You sway on your feet, mind and body battered. "Everything I own is here—my parents' graves are here—"
"Hush," Blade sighs, and brings you to his chest. He urges your face into his shoulder. The gesture is tender but his muscles are coiled tight, an iron hold. You cry wet, fat tears into his already soaked jacket. Already, you've begun to shiver with fear and cold, "Hush, now."
The wind roars. The tide crashes against the crags. A distance away, the beacon pings. Eventually, your cries no longer join the chorus.
THE GOOD HE SEEKS ⚝ miya twins x f.reader (part 4)
⤷ summary. you, the strange relationship you have with your older twin brothers, and the summer you see them again.
⤷ word count. 6.7k
⤷ warnings. MDNI, NONCON, explicit sexual content, incest, atsumu centered chapter, violence, brief mentions of death & suicide, self-loathing dialogue, mentions of blood, sexual content includes: masturbation, forced blowjob, rough penetrative sex, abusive language
⤷ a/n. sorry for the wait lol passed my exam, dealt with a fucking tsunami warning, recently discovered league of legends, had crazy stomach issues, ate shit in front of my local grocery store lolol idk wtf happened to me fr but pls be nice cs this is my first smut in awhile!! please excuse any typos and grammatical errors 😭 editing this shit was a pain in my ass
⤷ part 1 ⤷ part 2 ⤷ part 3 ⤷ part 5
Atsumu knows what it’s like to miss someone. He made an attempt to sleep on the first night in his new apartment and quickly felt unsettled at the realization that Osamu wouldn’t be in a bed across from him anymore. Sleep didn’t come easy that night, nor did any other night after that. It took him a full month of having his own bedroom for him to sleep properly again.
There are still moments where he wakes up in the morning expecting Osamu to be there. Sometimes he wakes up wanting him to be there. He hated admitting that he missed his brother, but he couldn’t lie and say that he didn’t either.
He unfortunately missed his mom at one point—or at least the mom they had before their dad started drinking himself to bitter destruction and death. There’s an image of a sweet, doting mother in fractured memories that leaves him wondering if she was ever really like that or if he blocked everything out to protect himself.
He doesn’t care to find out. They could burn together and it still wouldn’t matter to Atsumu. As long as Osamu is fine, then Atsumu would be fine, too.
He missed his friends, even the times they relentlessly teased him and called him out for his bullshit (he needed it). It was a normal occurrence to walk to practice with his teammates and end the day by going to the nearest convenience store afterwards for a much-needed snack. Those were simpler times, despite the bruises hiding underneath his jersey. The impact of a volleyball against his palm became enough to ease any lingering pain.
Missing someone doesn’t hurt Atsumu as much anymore. Sakusa is a good roommate, despite the stick up his ass and constant nagging (seriously, why does he need the apartment to be spotless every day?!). His teammates love his favorite sport as much as he does. Osamu is a train ride and a phone call away. He has a career that he loves and people who seem to sincerely care about him. He should feel complete. There shouldn’t be a strange emptiness in his chest that keeps him up at night.
But he lays aimlessly in the darkness of his bedroom, chest unfortunately void and desire burning in his throat. Boxes full of his childhood are pushed into the corners of his closet to collect dust. He spends most nights with his boxers shoved down his thick thighs, his chest rising and falling rapidly in choked breaths, hands wrapped desperately around his leaking cock, palms rubbed raw from the friction—because he misses you.
He actually misses you.
Atsumu, confident to the point of sickening narcissism, is somehow stuck in a never-ending cycle of missing you so bad that his cock hurts, to resenting you so much that he has to hit the gym an extra day so that he can swallow down the urge to kill himself or someone else.
Rinse. Repeat. For four years straight. He misses you and he can’t do a fucking thing about it. He’ll fuck his hand with desperation, cum all over himself with no regrets, and dream about the fear in your eyes until he wakes up with a craving to feel your neck in his hands again.
It would have been easier on him had you never existed at all, except he also can’t imagine a world where you’re not in it. His truth follows him because he chooses to keep it close. Your wrinkled picture, tucked in his wallet between a few stamp cards, sits in his back pocket and flashes him a smile of skewed teeth every time he pulls out his debit card.
⋆˚࿔
“We should go to Tokyo again for the off-season.” Bokuto’s voice catches the attention of everyone at the table. MSBY Black Jackals are huddled around the biggest table the hole-in-the-wall restaurant could provide to a couple of beefy athletes. Their shoulders touched as they squeezed themselves into the small space, hunched over their meals and stopping mid-bite to acknowledge Bokuto.
Atsumu is pushing his rice around his plate, huffing in mild irritation when he hears Tokyo. He enjoys city life and traveled for tournaments when he was younger, but his idea of a vacation does not include partying in another busy city. “We? Why’dya want all of us to go?”
“I wanna visit some old friends,” Bokuto smiles fondly, “And I know Yukie has been dying to go out again like the old days. It’d be fun if all of us go.” The outside hitter practically has hearts in his eyes, obviously romanticizing his childhood and young adulthood in his hometown before he had to move to Osaka.
“I was tryin’ to visit my brother down in Hyoga this summer,” the blond setter responds, “And I’m tired of seein’ yer faces everyda—”
“I wanna go!” Hinata interrupts Atsumu in excitement, mouth full of rice. Sakusa, who sits beside Hinata, almost chokes on his noodles at the pieces of rice flying out of the shortest one’s mouth. “I wanna see Skytree!”
Sakusa, visibly shocked and disgusted at the sight, swallows his noodles. “You always go to Skytree whenever we’re in Tokyo.”
“And you always take me even though you lived in Tokyo your whole life, so I don’t see the problem, Omi,” Hinata says, poking his tongue out at Sakusa with rice still in his mouth.
“Shoyo, close your mouth already. That’s fucking disgusting—”
After pinching his nose bridge in annoyance at the bickering, Atsumu turns to Bokuto again and asks, “Who the hell is Yukie again? Is she cute?”
“Yukie! My old manager. Don’t you remember her from the high school tournaments?” Bokuto is quick to whip his phone out and swipe through it. When he finally finds what he’s looking for, he shoves his phone in Atsumu’s face. Atsumu leans back slightly as he squints at the screen.
It’s an Instagram post—a pretty woman with auburn hair and heavy-lidded brown eyes smiling widely at the camera in a restaurant, dressed casually in a black top.
“Not sure if I recognize her,” Atsumu mutters to himself. Her thin arm is wrapped around the person sitting beside her, smiling just as wide as she is. He blinks once, then twice, at her friend.
Because she’s not just her friend—she’s you.
A version that he never met. A version he never thought existed because it eased his conscience when he believed you were somewhere just as miserable as he is, but you’re not miserable. You look like you’ve never had a hair out of place. Like life has always put you on the grass that was greener.
Happier. Healthier. A few years older. Skin glowing and eyes sparkling and smiling so genuinely—you. The same nose he used to poke when he was a kid and you were just an infant. A toothy grin that he barely recognizes if not for the photo you left. In his dreams, in his memories, in his wallet, and now presented right in front of his face like bait on Bokuto’s cracked iPhone 16 Pro Max.
“Jeez, you’re staring really hard,” Bokuto laughs, pulling his phone away to set it face down next to his plate. “She’s super pretty. Her roommate is a cutie, too, but I haven’t met her yet.”
Roommate. Bokuto’s friend’s roommate. The corner of his lip twitches. A mixture of anger and yearning is blooming in his groin as he shifts in his chair. There’s a sudden clamminess in his palms that he has to wipe off on his shorts.
“Hmm, I’m not sure. I think I recognize her,” he says, feigning ignorance. Her as in you.
“Ooh, you’re such a liar, Tsum-tsum,” Bokuto snickers, “If you’re interested in her, just let me know. She’s still single.”
Atsumu is quick to roll his eyes and grabs his fork, aggressively pointing it at his teammate. “Don’t fuckin’ start with me,” he threatens him, but his tone is more lighthearted than angry.
He’s not interested in Yukie at all. Yukie’s face is one that comes and goes. He could probably find hundreds of city girls who look like her. But you? He could never forget you. How could he ever forget his own blood? The same blood that rushes through his veins and ignites his entire body on fire and has his head throbbing. His cock strains uncomfortably against his thigh underneath his athletic shorts.
“Okay, okay! I was kidding, but we’ll have so much fun if we take a trip together this summer. I promiseee,” Bokuto pouts, pressing his hands together in front of his lips as if to beg. Sakusa physically cringes, looking incredulously at the gray-haired spiker.
After a few seconds of silence (and Bokuto staring at Atsumu with his big golden eyes silently pleading with him to agree), Atsumu sits up and straightens his aching back. He sighs loudly, "Well, when are we plannin’ on leavin’?”
“I knew you wouldn’t say no!” Bokuto exclaims, wrapping a muscular arm around Atsumu’s broad shoulders in a half-hug.
“So suddenly that means all of us are going,” Sakusa grumbles with a roll of his eyes. He blows out a bit of air to move a stray curl off his forehead.
Hinata cheers, “Yay! I get to go to the aquarium again!”
They all continue to eat and chatter while Atsumu’s thoughts begin to wander. You’ve been at an arm’s length this entire time—a friend of a friend of a friend—and he can’t believe that it was this easy to find out where you’ve been. He wasn’t even trying.
Atsumu had been suffering with what he had left of you. Maybe it was weird of him to fuck girls who had your hair color. Maybe his last girlfriend kind of looked like you and Osamu noticed it way before he did. Maybe his right arm was a little stronger because he liked to do ‘extra training’ at night to let off some steam when the thought of not knowing where you were or what you were doing was unbearable.
Now he knows where you’ve been. He knows that you’re happier. Without him. Without Osamu.
Just as he’s absentmindedly reaching for the last gyoza sitting on a plate in the middle of their table, Hinata is quick to snatch it up and stuff it right into his mouth. His cheeks instantly puff up comically to resemble a hamster.
“Ya little shit!” Atsumu barks at him. The table erupts in laughter with Bokuto slapping his knee and Sakusa holding back a smirk. Although the ghost of you lays heavy on his shoulders, he has to wipe the scowl off his face and play along. He needs to act normal for once.
⋆˚࿔
Atsumu lies down in bed that night, staring at the popcorn ceiling above him. Your face, much older but still you, haunts him, soothes him, calls out to him. His little sister, hidden in plain sight this whole time.
He’s breathing heavily again, heart beating erratically. His cock lays limp with ropes of white liquid splattered across his glistening abs. His phone is in his hand, your public Instagram account providing some light in his otherwise dark room. He switched to his private burner account, stalked your profile, and pulled his boxers down before he could even blink.
Memories were all he had left of you, but now he has something substantial. Something in the present where your timelines match up, planted under his fingertips even through a screen.
As his breathing evens out, he wipes his cum off his stomach with the spare shirt he has lying on the foot of his bed. Then he turns to his phone, exiting the Instagram app and going to his list of contacts. He scrolls through his contacts before tapping on Osamu’s picture. The phone rings three times before he picks up.
“What the hell are ya callin’ me this late for?” his twin snaps through the phone. Fatigue is evident in his tone, remnants of a tiring day on his feet.
Atsumu chuckles in response, switching hands so he could cover his eyes with his clean hand. “Follow me to Tokyo for the summer.” He can already see Osamu rolling his eyes, probably laying in the same position as he is, except most likely not as sweaty or sticky (and probably not with his dick out). The faint rustling of bedsheets is heard on the other end.
“Tokyo? I was gonna head up there after yer visit. How’d ya know that was part of the plan?”
“Ah, I just had a feelin’,” Atsumu humors him, rolling onto his side to prop his head on his palm. “Ya weren’t even gonna invite me? What were ya gonna do up there?”
“Got some business plans. Maybe play tourist for a bit,” Osamu responds.
“Perfect.” Atsumu is grinning as he sits up and rolls the stiffness out of his shoulders. “Let’s get an AirBNB together. Save some money.”
Osamu goes quiet for a moment, contemplative as always. “What happened with ya, ‘Tsumu?” he asks, almost accusatory.
Atsumu sucks in a deep breath.
“She’s there, ‘Samu.”
Three simple words that hold so much weight, that grow vines and wrap around Osamu’s lungs and squeeze until an exhale leaves him. Tense silence looms over them like a cloud, their hearts hammering in sync.
It’s unbelievable. Unreal. He could be lying. You disappeared four years ago. You left with what you could carry, with no intention of looking back. No goodbye. Nothing, except for an old photo shattered and grieved laying in a mess of what used to be your vanity. A photo that Osamu let his brother take because he knew he needed it more than he did.
He almost calls him a liar, but then he remembers that Atsumu doesn’t have a single deceptive bone in his body.
“...I’ll meet ya there then.”
⋆˚࿔
Burning. Everything is burning. From the sweltering summer air outside to your knees on hardwood flooring. Even your scar, perpetually etched into your knee no matter how hard you scrub at it in the shower, is ignited by friction.
Although your body recoils in disgust instinctively, you can’t pull away. Every time you attempt to move back for some air, you’re trapped by the concrete wall right behind your head. It’s a sick torture practice that you’ve never seen before—because Atsumu has your body pressed up against the wall with a mouth full of his cock, the head pressing cruelly against your throat. One of his hands is gripping your scalp; his other hand is wrapped around your jaw, forcing your mouth wide open so he can slide his length between your plush lips without you biting down on him.
You cough against his dick, letting your spit drip from your chin to your chest. The fabric of your shirt is torn open from your collar to just above your belly button. Your tits are popped out of your bra, which Atsumu reaches down every couple of minutes just to tug on your pebbled nipples. He lets out a hiss as your nails dig into his bare thighs—the only part of him that you can reach. The sharp pain doesn’t deter him, it only encourages him.
“Yeah, keep that fuckin’ mouth open,” he moans, “Look at me while I fuck yer mouth.” He lets go of your jaw for a mere second to slap your cheek with a tough palm.
You can’t look at him. It physically pains you to make eye contact with Atsumu, especially like this.
His eyes narrow at your shivering form. Your back is flush against the wall, trapped by his large frame. A growl leaves his throat as he retracts his hand to smack the side of your face with more force. “I said look at me.”
He pulls on your hair harder, yanking your head back so it’s easier for you to make eye contact with him. Pain shoots through your face and scalp, then there’s more drool and snot and everything in between. You look up at him, fear-stricken and broken, with his girthy cock still stuffing your mouth in a blur. His upper body is on full display—built from years of playing sports and fighting for his own freedom at home.
Sweet honey brown eyes mock you. At one point in your life, they were much kinder, but you can’t remember when anymore. Maybe he’s just always been this fucked up monster who poisons everything he touches. His roots might have always been rotten.
You wish he finished you off this time, lest you spend the next four years wishing that he did, just as you did the last four. But Atsumu knows better than anyone; how it is to feel so deeply, how criminal it is to do so, how helpless it leaves him as a man. He never wanted to kill you. He would rather die first than kill you with his bare hands.
“F-fuck—ya feel too good,” he stutters, throwing his head back as his hips falter. He pushes deeper into the back of your throat, letting you gag and sputter around him. Before he can finish inside your mouth, he suddenly pulls out, his cock hanging heavy in front of your lips. A line of spit attaches your bottom lip to his fat cock head.
He lets go of you. Your body drops on the floor in a heaping pile, forehead pressed against the wood. Whatever is left of your clothes is covered in spit and mucus. Dehumanized is an understatement for how you feel. Disgusted does not even come close. Tasting his sweat already has your stomach in knots, but imagining his sticky seed flooding your mouth turns you into an anxious mess as you dry heave on the floor.
“Why would you do this to me?” you cry, throat on the verge of collapsing on itself, “Why do you hate me so much?”
A finger lifts your chin up so your eyes meet his. His gaze is much softer, full of nostalgia, as he analyzes the streaks on your cheeks.
“Could never hate ya,” he mutters. Even your name is soft and sweet rolling off his tongue. “Ya just don’t understand how much ya hurt me and ‘Samu. I would’ve brought ya with me if ya asked, too.”
You shake your head. "I needed to be on my own. I had to get away. You know that.”
“Spoutin’ bullshit again,” he chuckles darkly, “I think Tokyo got to that damn head of yers. Whoever the fuck ya think ya are now, yer not that person. Ya never will be. The accent is gone but yer still the same.”
“But you’re wrong. I’m better. I’m actually a person now, nii-san. And look what you fucking did to me. I’m ugly,” you begin to sob, pulling away from him to bawl into your hands.
“Shh—shut up. Shut up.” Atsumu attempts to soothe you by wrapping his veiny arms around you, but he fails miserably as your tears seep into the skin of his arms. Softness was never his strength—that’s what Osamu is for. Osamu, who balances him out, calms his treacherous storm.
Osamu, who isn’t back from whatever lame meeting he’s in to share what Atsumu has laid out on the floor, but Atsumu is here and you’re here and all he wants to do is take take take until you can’t give him anymore. He’s selfish like that. If it wasn’t meant to be this way, then why was it so easy for him to have you like this?
“I’m ugly! I’m ugly because you made me like this!” you scream through wheezes and hiccups and the ugliest crying that Atsumu may have ever seen or heard. Despite the snot running down your nose, his cock is aching and he needs you or else he might actually die.
“You ruined me for everyone I’ll ever meet. I’m so disgusting—God, I fucking hate myself—” He picks you up off of the ground by your waist. You let out another scream as he throws you face down over the bed. A grip on your ankles pulls you towards him until your legs are dangling off the edge. The cool bedsheets against your saliva-covered chest send a chill through your burning body.
“Shut the fuck up! Shut up! Shut up!” Atsumu barks at you through your desperate babbling.
How he’d love to smother himself in the fat of your ass, press his nose into your crevices, so tempted to flip you over too just so he could see your tits bounce, but the stinging of the fresh cuts shaped like your nails on his thighs, arms, and face tell him that he doesn't have enough time to. He can’t even think properly with your incessant screaming.
You’re finally tangible, laying underneath his fingertips. He touches you as if he’s known you in this way his whole life. He can’t let you slip away again.
There’s a feral urge that rips through him, begs to taste you, put his mouth on you, on his sweet little sister, on your pussy until it weeps on his tongue. He wants to know what your warmth feels like wrapped around his cock. When he grabs your arms and holds them behind your back with one hand, he's one step closer to heaven.
He unbuttons your jeans skillfully with one hand, tears it away from your legs, and practically rips your panties off of your hips. Your body jerks with the force of the rip.
“No!” you gasp in horror, “Atsumu-nii!”
His mouth waters at your bare skin. His cock is jumping, so soft pressed against your ass. Another sob breaks through your clenched teeth—he shouldn’t be there. He should have never touched you or claimed your mouth. But you’re weak and life is just unfair.
Life is unfair when he pumps his cock with his calloused hand and presses the head of it against your folds to collect your juices. One hand is holding both your wrists in place behind your back. He lets his saliva drip past his lips to land on the vein along his shift.
Life is unfair when he finally sinks into your cunt and breaks through the tight rings of your walls inch by inch, pulling out slightly when there’s the tiniest bit of resistance only to push his cock in deeper. You cry and beg, a mixture of shock and pain and betrayal. He holds back from jamming his cock into you right away, even if his body deeply craves your warmth. It's the last semblance of self-control in his system because it’s the least he can do for you now. Your pussy clenches uncontrollably at the violent intrusion—you weren’t ready, you would have never been ready for him, for this.
Life is unfair when he bottoms out, his pubic bone hitting your ass, his cock big enough to feel like he’s stabbing through your guts and into your stomach. A raspy groan vibrates in his chest. Your mouth is parted as he makes a home inside you, his girth forcing your pussy to stretch beyond what it’s used to.
Life is unfair when he decides to intertwine his rotten roots with yours years after you changed the soil.
Life is unfair when you choose to water the roots anyway.
⋆˚࿔
The air is cold as it kisses your skin. Through the black silk curtains, between a small crack that reveals a mere inch of the world, the summer sunset is beautiful—a vibrant mixture of reds, oranges, and pinks painting the sky as the sun begins to dip lower in the horizon. The view makes it easier to get lost, eyes fixed on a sunset that you can’t touch.
“Please stop,” you weep hoarsely, “I’m sorry, nii-san.” Your hopeless pleas fall on deaf ears. You don’t know where your panties went, why the situation had to change. You don’t even know why you’re apologizing when you did nothing but be honest.
“Stop arguin’ with me already,” he bites back, an unmistakable shakiness in his tone, “When are ya gonna learn that runnin’ away does nothin’ good for ya?”
There’s blood underneath your fingernails. Blood oozing from the scratches on his face and arms. Blood from his thighs painting the backs of yours. Blood pouring from your chest out on the sheets, but it’s just your tears that form a puddle underneath your face.
Your toes barely brush against the floor, hips squirming in mid air from the adrenaline rush, but Atsumu’s grip is relentless. There’s a ringing in your ears that won’t go away no matter how hard you focus. Atsumu was strong, you already knew that, but to be this strong—you wish you weren’t in the position to find out, especially with his cock buried in your pussy.
Your arms are behind your back, held tightly by one of Atsumu’s stronger hands; another hand, while leaning over you, holds your head against the bed, securing you against him.
In between your legs, where your cunt disgracefully gushes and throbs, is where he should never find himself to be, yet he stays. And the feeling is euphoric—for him, at least, especially when he's wrapped in your warmth. Your pussy sucks him in, filled to the hilt and then emptied again until only the tip of his cock remains inside you. It’s a sharp, burning stretch that has tears pricking in the corners of your eyes. A burn that you’ve never experienced with anyone else, that feels like he’s carving his name along your walls with every stroke.
You tried to fight. You tried to run. You tried, you really tried, and you’re so tired of trying when fate mercilessly decides for you anyway.
After all these years, weakness still sinks its claws into you and consumes you. The illusion of a peaceful yet wild life in the city breaks along with your heart as you lay despaired. Another reminder of how cruelty seeps from each crack you try to patch up. Another fact of life, while you lay in a million tiny pieces that pierce through your skin.
“I missed ya,” Atsumu says with a bite of his lip, “God, did I miss ya.” He leans over to lick a stripe up your cheek, enjoying the saltiness of your tears. You gag at the feeling of his wet muscle.
“I missed ya so much. I didn’t know if I would ever see my baby sister again. Ya don’t fuckin’ understand what I went through.” He’s not gentle in his movements—he fucks you like you’ll turn into sand between his fingertips if he loosens his grip. He’s afraid that you’re just a hallucination, a ghost appearing from his pent up desire that burns so deeply under his skin, a pitiful mirage in his desert that he couldn’t reach.
But you’re real. He knows in the juices that coat his cock and upper thighs, leaking shamefully from your pussy, that he was always meant to see you again.
“I was surprised seein’ ya that night, all dolled up like that,” he chuckles, “I almost couldn’t recognize ya. But I see through ya easily.”
He continues to dissect you from the inside out. You let out a strained moan and bite your lip as the tip of his cock presses into your cervix meanly.
He’s big. So big it’s like he’s in your stomach and rearranging your organs with intentions of tearing you in two, of killing you so that you won’t live to tell a soul of what he’s doing to you. The tingling sensation in your jaw has yet to fade and you can't even breathe as he sheathes himself inside you with his balls creating friction on your clit.
“Still know how to cry,” he sneers, “Still my sister. Nothin’ will ever change that.”
You hate him.
You fucking hate him. Evil seeps from his body. Pollutes the air around him. Ruins everything he touches.
That’s why your heart has been so heavy, that’s why you can’t help it when your chest gets crushed by the weight of everything you’ve had to carry—you are you, your brothers are your brothers, but your heart pumps the same blood that runs through their veins. Your genetics could be put under a microscope and the results would show no difference.
His chest that brushes against your back, a heartbeat that resembles your own and beats in the same erratic cadence. Brother and sister. Incomplete without Atsumu’s second, but a feeling of fullness regardless. Because he has you. In his calloused hands that tighten their grip around you to keep you from running. In your body that he violates and sinks his teeth into. In your pussy that leaves his cock drunk with selfish desire for more and more and more.
Blood can’t be deceived. Apples that fell from the same tree. Cut from the same cloth. Where is Osamu? Where is Osamu?
If there was a hell on earth, it’s right here—in your indecency drenched in salt and sin—damned as the youngest Miya sibling. Damned to be underneath the oldest, taking him in as if he belonged inside you, as if the so-called greatness he was destined for was in your warmth this whole time.
Every sound forced out of your battered lungs is swallowed in one final attempt to fight against him. Because eventually the burn fades away and suddenly Atsumu feels…strange. There’s less resistance when his hips meet yours. A soft spot deep in your cunt pulses when he hits it, your walls clenching involuntarily as he groans. “God, yer gushin’, baby. Leakin’ all over me,” he rasps from behind you.
Wetness drips down your thighs in a syrupy mess. He feels good. The stretch feels good. The vein running up his shaft and his heavy balls smacking against you and the swollen head feels so good.
He feels so fucking good that you might vomit from how he has your body twitching. How your cunt sucks him in and begs for him to stay inside. How you feel that tightening in your pelvis that you can’t hold back. This shouldn’t feel good.
The slick noises coming from your pussy echo throughout the room. His musky cologne is stuck on the sheets. The feeling of his thick cock invading your womb has your entire body trembling with need. This is where you exist. This is where you burn. You’re gonna be sick. You’re gonna be sick.
“Atsumu-nii,” you beg meekly, stuffing your face further into the mattress. You grit your teeth in agony as the pleasure creeps up your spine.
But just as your pussy starts to flutter and weep around him, his rhythm falters to a standstill. The pause in his movements has more tears springing in the corners of your eyes as desperation simmers in your core.
His cock is left twitching inside you and the only thing you can hear is his heavy breathing. You turn your head to the side to look at him in confusion through your peripheral vision, where he’s looking down the valley of your back. His countenance is blank, almost tranquil and appearing lost in thought, until he finally meets your gaze and the corners of his lips curl into a cruel smirk. A vile cackle reverberates through the stillness.
“Guess ya missed me, too,” he breathes, warmth blooming in his chest.
The confusion slips away and turns into humiliation when you realize his hands are neither on your neck nor your wrists anymore—they grip the fat of your ass instead, dull nails digging into your skin and pulling you towards him. Your back is arched to meet his hips, welcoming him in your sacred space. The stickiness on the back of your thighs fixes you to his skin.
Your hands are right where he left them. He had already let go of you and the only thing you did was let him split your pussy in two.
“N-no. I didn’t—you—,” you choke, “Stop—just stop. Please.” You attempt to lift yourself off of the bed, finally moving your weak arms, but they give out and your chest meets the mattress once again. Your body shakes uncontrollably. Your chest is so heavy that you struggle to get back up. You should have died four years ago. You should have. You can’t die here—you can’t leave your body here with him.
“It’s okay,” Atsumu hushes you, “I got ya. Always have and always will.” A large hand smooths over your back and nestles between your shoulder blades to push you down.
You call out to him again. His cock twitches. He pulls his hips back and you feel so empty that you let out a cry in shame, satiated only when he rolls his hips and fills you back up with his length. He removes his hand from your back and reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing at the swollen nub in unforgiving circles to make you wriggle in his grasp.
“Never gonna let ya go after this. No one else can have ya like this ever again,” he promises. His laugh cuts through the air as your hips jerk against his unforgiving fingers. You gnaw at your lip until you taste blood on your tongue. His length strokes every inch of your fluttering walls and pounds at your cervix.
“Just cum already,” you beg through choked gasps, “Please.”
He shakes his head from behind you, a sadistic expression permanently etched on his devastatingly handsome face. “Yer cummin’ first. I’m not fillin’ ya up until ya squirt on my dick.”
His response forces more ugly tears and wretched sobs to pour out of you. You manage to get yourself on your elbows for some leverage, to pull away from his feral rhythm, but Atsumu thrusts a little harder and your mouth parts with a gurgled moan and your hand fists the sheets with white knuckles instead and you collapse with your pride completely broken because he feels too fucking good.
You cry into the sheets, voice muffled by the fabric but loud enough for Atsumu to hear you. “I can’t. I can’t do it.”
“Do it. I know yer achin’ for it,” Atsumu cooes, voice dripping with sugar. He leaves your poor nub alone to reach up and thread his fingers through your hair. A screech escapes you as he pulls you up by your scalp, your neck straining against his hold. You turn your head as much as you can and face his light blond hair and honey eyes. His irises are blown out, delirious with lust and desire, lids heavy. He’s too far gone, muscles swelling and veins popping out as he ravages you from the inside out like a hungry beast. You’re sure that you’re no better. Every noise around you has faded to static except for your dripping cunt and skin slapping against skin.
His hot breath washes over your neck, sending chills throughout your body. His rhythm never stops—his thrusts only hit harder and deeper. Drool seeps out from the corner of your mouth as you hold onto the bedsheets for dear life.
“Cum for me, baby. Yer mine now,” he whispers against your ear.
You choke on your spit. “I hat—”
Atsumu sinks his teeth into the delicate skin of your neck. You scream and scream until your voice cracks and wavers into desperate wheezes. Your throat finally collapses, completely sore and raw from Atsumu’s thick cock pounding into your esophagus earlier and your endless bawling.
It’s a hot and guilty orgasm that he forces out of you. Your entire body tenses and shakes as the knot in your stomach unravels and soaks Atsumu’s lower half with sweet nectar. Your eyes roll into the back of your skull, blinded by white-hot pleasure. He continues his assault, gripping you tighter with one hand when your pussy clenches around him and sucks him deeper in your core, fucking you mercilessly through your climax.
“Fuck,” he hisses, “Squeezin’ me so tight. Fuck.” Your name tumbles from his lips with a groan. Everything is wetter. Warmer. Your legs are covered in wetness. The floor where your toes brush against is slippery. Your clit is throbbing. It burns, but the burn doesn’t hurt anymore, as if you're merely floating through a summer’s breeze.
Atsumu lets go of your aching scalp. Your head drops to the sheets with sweat running down your temple. His fingers move back to dig into your hips, sure to leave bruises, and he thrusts his throbbing length sloppily against your cervix. He stills a few seconds later, letting ropes of white liquid flood your pussy until it leaks, his dick twitching as he finishes. You cringe as his cum slowly runs down the curve of your mound.
When he pulls out, large droplets of his cum erupt from your folds, coating your sore, quivering thighs and landing in a little puddle in the space between your feet, mixing with your fresh juices.
Your nerves are humming in relief. Finally, you let out a shaky exhale. Fatigue washes over you in waves. Atsumu’s hands caress your burning skin, from the supple flesh of your ass to the curve of your back.
The three words are teetering on swollen bloody lips—you want to say it so bad, remind him, the reason he had choked you out years and years ago—but you can’t bring yourself to when his gentle touch leaves you shuddering. So, you settle in the confines of your brain, where the only person who could judge you is yourself, where you might call it safe.
It’s that little girl still inside you, who still has a cool pink bike, who doesn’t know the feeling of hands around her throat, who smiles and whispers it for you because she knows you can’t anymore.
It’s also that little girl who looks up at the door of the bedroom, eyes meeting familiar gray ones. The same eyes that saved you four years ago.
You hate that he’s seeing you in such a vulnerable state . Your pussy is still trembling. Your fluids are in a puddle below you and it’s mortifying, but he’s here, and that’s all that matters right now. Too late, but here nonetheless.
“Osamu-nii,” you whimper pathetically, reaching towards the door this time. Your heart is beating against your ribcage, banging on your bones, begging, begging.
Atsumu turns to face his twin, not one bit embarrassed with his aching cock still twitching with desire to sink into you one more time.
“‘Samu," Atsumu acknowledges him with a lazy smile.
Osamu is glued to his spot in the doorway. His natural hair is reminiscent of childhood, that stretch of time where their similarities were a mild inconvenience. Goosebumps appear on your skin when he doesn’t look away from you, but you want him to see you. To really see you. If he has any kindness in his twisted heart to give you, at least this once.
His outline stands out against the shadows of the room. Despite his time working in his own restaurant, his build is like Atsumu’s—broad shoulders and large muscles bulging from his black tank top, veins that run along his arms as proof of his dedication in both the kitchen and the gym—yet there’s a subtle softness in his stomach that juxtaposes with Atsumu’s harsh lines.
You can’t look away from him; the missing twin who had yet to show his face all summer but who also made sure to make your favorite onigiri so Yukie could bring it home to you.
You.
You, four years later, with remnants of Atsumu swimming in your guts. Atsumu, four years later, glowing with sweat and your slick. Osamu, four years later, standing in silence as he scrutinizes the scene before him.
Four years later. You thought you were better. You were getting better, yet what ends up being left of you is wilted roots in poor soil. You don't even know who you are anymore. Who could you have been if Atsumu never laid a finger on you? Who could you have been if your brothers didn't take turns ripping your heart out of your fucking chest?
Osamu rubs the exhaustion out of his eyes. “‘Tsumu, what the fuck?”
Companion piece to all in and spiritual successor to this lil drabble, the long awaited seijoh four x beta reader fic
Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime, Hanamaki Takahiro & Matsukawa Issei x female reader
w.c 6k
tw: yandere themes, a/b/o, noncon, smut, forced claiming, blood/violence mentions, prolonged captivity, nsfw
“What the fuck did you do?”
Though neither the growl nor the caustic glare are directed your way, there’s no helping the instincts that have you cringing back against Oikawa’s broad chest.
A pissed off alpha bodes well for no one.
Three pissed off alphas…
“Don’t be rude, Iwa,” he chides, curling a protective (possessive, your mind supplies) arm around your front. “You’ll scare her off.”
If only.
Tension thrums in the air; a living, breathing entity. Your eyes dart warily from a scowling Iwaizumi to the other two alphas in the room, yet to speak.
Hanamaki Takahiro and Matsukawa Issei. Makki and Mattsun.
No need for an introduction – the house in San Juan is filled with mementos and pictures, rooms for each of them, faint traces of their scents lingering despite the months since they’d last set foot there. Before he changed it to you, the photo on his lock screen was the four of them in tuxes for one of their fancy awards nights, posed 007 style with their fingers like guns; it’s now his home screen.
Oikawa’s never kept his pack a secret from you.
“You bit a beta. You bonded a beta, and you didn’t think that was worth a damn phone call?” he seethes. Jaw pulled tight, hands fisted at his sides like he’s physically holding himself back from throttling him, pissed off might be an understatement.
And while none of it is directed at you per se, you can’t help but feel like a scolded child, dragged before your parents for playing in the mud and ruining your nice clothes. Although, you suppose in this scenario, you’re less the child and more the mud they tracked in.
“I bit our beta,” Oikawa corrects, not sounding particularly repentant.
“When?” Mattsun, the tallest of the four, arms folded across his chest, stares back at you with an inscrutable expression. Well, not staring at you so much as the still stinging bite mark on your neck, and you could forgive the confusion – it looks new because it is.
There’s plenty of others hidden beneath the sweater and skirt he’d picked for you, but the bite mark on your neck’s the only one he makes the effort to top up. A fresh claim torn into the fading scar of the old one, a nice, tangible reminder of the first time he savaged you.
If you had a voice in any of this, you’d lie through your teeth. Tell them it was a momentary lapse of judgement on Oikawa’s part, an accident he didn’t know how to deal with the consequences of. Easier then to walk it all back and convince them to cut it clean.
But, of course–
“The night we won against Ferro, a few months back.”
– Oikawa doesn’t lie to his packmates. Nothing beyond a few harmless omissions, anyway.
Makki curses and the vein on Iwa’s forehead pops, but it’s the intensity of Mattsun’s gaze, bearing down on you that has you blurting out, “The bonding’s only temporary. I–I’m a beta so it’s not… not a permanent thing.”
Down that very temporary bond, irritation cuts into you, sharp and bitter.
A warning.
If you were smart, you’d pay heed to it, shut your mouth and let the alphas argue it out like a good, unassuming beta, but neither common sense nor the tensing of the muscles in the arm locked around you – itching to haul you closer, stall your flight before it can be set in motion – stop you from trying to push your luck. “I– the hotel. I can go back to the hotel i-if you guys need the space to… figure this out.”
Please. You’ll get on your hands and knees and beg if you have to.
“Not a chance,” Oikawa huffs, the beginnings of a growl building in his chest, but he isn’t the one you’re paying attention to. Not Makki, nor Mattsun.
In place of their compromised pack alpha, Iwa’s the voice of reason.
They don’t want you here and you don’t want to be here, it’s a win-win. The first taste of freedom you’ve had in months dangles in front of you, and you want it so desperately you’ll–
“No.”
A single, blunt syllable, and that fragile dream crumbles to dust. It feels like a gut-punch.
Reluctantly, like the words are being dragged out of him, he continues, “Betas get bond sick too. You’re not gonna put yourself through that just ‘cause this asshole can’t keep his teeth to himself.”
You want to argue that it’s not the same. Betas get bond sick, yes, but not like omegas do – you’ll get feverish, a bit weak and disoriented; you won’t wither away and die – but Makki, quiet up ‘til that point, cuts in first. “That’s fine and great and all – what about Kana? We’re supposed to be having dinner tonight. We’re supposed to be introducing her to our pack alpha.”
Your heart leaps. “I can stay here–”
“What about her?” Iwa shrugs, effectively shutting you down for the second time in as many minutes. “Shittykawa wants the beta to be part of our pack so bad, he can bring her along,”
—
The second he gets a taste of omega pussy, he’s gonna toss you out like the gutter whore you are. Don’t you fucking dare come crawling back when he does!
The parting words from your fiancé’s last voicemail ring in your ears as the hostess shows you to one of the restaurant’s private rooms. You’d cried for two whole days when Oikawa finally gave your phone back, every insult spat out another knife to your chest, with no one to comfort you but the one who’d so thoughtfully sent him the video of you together in the first place.
Now, you hold onto those words like a mantra. Your way through this.
Blithely ignorant to the pointed grumbling of his packmates, Oikawa ushers you into the middle seat, stealing your left. With a less than impressed Iwa taking the seat on your other side, and Makki and Mattsun settling across from each of them, leaving the seat between – the one directly opposite yours – free for the omega, you realise the game he’s playing.
What you’re less clear on is why his packmates are seemingly going along with it. Unhappily, sure, but going along all the same.
Nevertheless, you try to muster up a smile when the waitress slips into the room with a bottle of water for the table and order a drink after the others do. “So, uh, how does it work with an omega?” you ask once she steps out, more to fill the uncomfortable silence than out of any real desire for an answer.
“Need us to explain knots and heats for you, princess?” Makki winks.
Heat stains your cheeks as the alphas snicker. Assholes.
“I meant logistically,” you mutter before Oikawa can make whatever unwarranted comment is undoubtedly on the tip of his tongue. “You guys live here, Tooru’s got his whole life in San Juan. Don’t you think that’s kind of rough on an omega?” You don’t envy the proverbial woman for a multitude of reasons, but not least of which is a future tied to a pack split across two continents.
Bond sickness might knock you around some. Omegas can – and do – die.
You glance back at Oikawa, “Unless… you’re planning on moving back?”
The edge of his lip lifts in a smirk. Sliding his hand across the table to take ahold of yours he says, “We’re not relocating any time soon, pretty girl, but you’re probably going to have to get used to a bit of jet-setting,” he leans in close, voice dropping to a whisper, “at least, you will if they get their teeth into you. Otherwise you’re all mine.”
You don’t honestly know which thought unnerves you more, but as if summoned by your desperate desire to suddenly change the subject, a light knock sounds and the sliding door rickets open – not the waitress with your drinks.
The scent of warm, sticky cherries, much, much stronger than yours floats into the room, and as you get your fist glimpse of their would be omega, all you feel is sick.
Kana is every bit as beautiful as you expected. Maybe more so. Dark, hypnotic eyes, shining curls cascading down her shoulders and a perfect, willowy figure. She’s smiling, eyes sparkling with such genuine excitement – until she catches sight of you.
At first, it’s confusion. A slight furrowing in her brow as her brain plays catch up, processing the unexpected hitch in what you’re sure was the vision she had of the evening.
You can’t blame her for that, or the way the glimmering light in her expression shutters and fades when she notices the bite on your neck.
That, and the tight grip Oikawa keeps of your hand.
“You… have a beta,” she deduces in a strangled attempt at a laugh. Makki winces. “You didn’t mention that.”
And there might be a way to salvage the night and smooth things over, except the smile Oikawa gives her lacks any of his usual charm or warmth.
“Nothing to worry your pretty little head over. She isn’t here for you.”
—
In spite of the toll the day’s taken, sleep evades you.
Oikawa hardly stirs when you gently extricate yourself from his grip with a wince – grumbling something unintelligible into his pillow and out like a light by the time you disappear through the door with his phone.
The living room would be the logical place to head, except the living room’s downstairs, and the stairs creak. Rather than risk it, you steal into the empty room two doors down from Oikawa’s, quietly shutting the door behind you before you flick on the lights and fiddle with the thermostat.
Huh.
For a nesting space, you sort of expected… more. Blankets and decorative pillows and candles – soft, pretty things for their future omega to lavish in. Instead, you’re met with a bed that takes up the majority of the floor space and not much else.
Bare-bones, unfurnished, unclaimed, yet you can’t quite shake the feeling that you’re trespassing here. Gingerly, you sit on the very edge of the mattress, tucking your feet up beneath you, and type in Oikawa’s passcode.
He’s never bothered keeping it a secret. While you’d be thrilled and delighted to uncover a secret OmegaFans account or explicit DM exchange with one of his legion of fans, you don’t bother looking.
Fighting off a yawn, you open up a new page and settle yourself in.
You scroll through what feels like endless pages of results, nibbling absentmindedly on your bottom lip. Each time you shift to adjust your position – still so careful not to take up too much space, leave too large an imprint in this big, empty room – a twinge of pain stabs at your lower half, but you ignore it as best you can. Nothing you haven’t become accustomed to.
Time slips away from you quicker than you’d like. So absorbed in your search that you almost miss the tread of footsteps coming down the hall.
Almost, but not quite.
Exiting out of your search, one quick tap of a finger and your browsing history disappears – just as the door swings open, unannounced.
You expect Oikawa, coming to grumpily drag you back to bed. Instead, you’re met with a sleep mussed Iwa, shirtless and frowning at you.
“I’m not trying to move in, promise,” you tell him, hands rising in a pacifying gesture. Oikawa’s phone lies on the bed beside you, and you watch as Iwaizumi clocks it, eyes narrowing a fraction before they return to you. You force a weak smile, “I couldn’t sleep. Jetlag, I guess. I didn’t want to wake anyone up.” Realising that his presence at the door likely indicates you failed on that front, you add, “Sorry.”
Iwa’s quiet for a beat. “I could smell you.”
He could smell you?
“Oh, uh… sorry? It’s usually pretty subtle.” A summer thunderstorm, your ex once described it. Petrichor and the crackle of ozone. Most people don’t mind it, a few even find your scent pleasant, but alphas have stronger noses than betas and you suppose in the room meant for their omega they’d find it offensive no matter what. “I can wash the sheets before I go.”
Satisfied that you’re not trying to make yourself at home in the nest – or in his pack – you expect him to stomp off back to bed. When he doesn’t, you figure it’s marching orders and push yourself upwards, a tiny hiss escaping at the twinge of pain as you do.
His nostrils flare, scenting the air. “You’re bleeding.”
Nothing a soak with epsom salt won’t ease.
“Beta, remember? Don’t worry about it.”
In the tiny silk slip Oikawa gave you, there’s more of your skin bared than you’d like. More of his bites on show. You watch Iwa’s eyes rove across them, something like a growl building in the back of his throat.
He’s still blocking the doorway, muscular frame all puffed up and tense, an odd glint shining in those olive eyes. Angry alpha, a voice whispers in your head. But it’s just instincts, in the same way the twist in your stomach and the prickling of hair on the nape of your neck are. He isn’t angry at you, he’s pissed his packmate turned you into a chew toy.
“Did he tell you how this began?” you ask when he makes no move to allow you past.
He shakes his head.
“My family moved to Argentina when I was seventeen. Met a nice beta guy my first year at university and moved to San Juan with him when we graduated – his parents own a huge vineyard up there. We had our own villa on the property, separate from the main house, and he worked with his dad on the business side of it. Right from the start told me I wouldn’t have to work if I didn’t want to, he’d support us both, but when he proposed, I decided I wanted to contribute on my own. A part time job, just ‘til the wedding.”
His eyes flick to your left hand; bare, as it has been for months.
Swallowing down the lump forming in your throat, you continue, “The club hired me as an equipment assistant. Mostly behind the scenes stuff, I wasn’t really supposed to interact with the team unless they asked for something specific.” Seen and not heard – the classic beta creed. “When Tooru first started seeking me out, I figured it was ‘cause I was from Japan too. Someone who spoke the same language he did, a small piece of home halfway ‘round the world, that kind of thing. He even pushed to bring me along for away games, but management shot it down. Wasn’t part of my contract.”
Can he hear the bitterness tinging your voice? Back then, you hadn’t minded the quasi-friendship you’d struck up with the setter, and so long as it didn’t interfere with you doing your job – and Oikawa delivering on his – your bosses didn’t take issue either.
Blind, stupid fool.
Through all of this, Iwa hasn’t said a word. Any signs of sleepiness eradicated, his eyes track your every movement while he stands, preternaturally still, no doubt waiting for you to get to the point.
Context probably doesn’t matter much to him, but it does to you. He should know how his packmate systematically tore through your life, the mess you’ll be left with when he inevitably tosses you aside – if not for Kana, then whichever omega comes next.
“The night they beat Ferro, there was an afterparty. I can’t remember why exactly, one of his teammate’s birthdays or something. Staff don’t usually go to those things but Tooru roped me into it. My fiancé was out of town that night and I was only going to stay for an hour or so.” Your voice quavers, fingers trembling as you fidget and twist them around the silk hem of your slip. Dropping your gaze, you take a breath and say, “I don’t remember what happened that night. I don’t remember how I got from the bar to his place or what he did to me. I just remember waking up the next morning naked in his bed with his bite on my neck.”
You found out about the video afterwards. Trapped on his knot, Oikawa nuzzling into the crook of your neck, he’d laid out his phone and made you watch it with him, cooing in your ear and providing commentary on his favourite bits.
Then came the email, and the release and NDA you had to sign. Argentina holds to the old ways – once bitten, you’re pack, subject to the authority of your alphas. Not only do they refuse to lift a finger to help, they’ll intercede if you try and leave.
You’re stuck with him until he stops biting and lets the bond fade.
“I want to go home,” you mumble, refusing to look up. “Just let me–”
In an instant, Iwaizumi’s in front of you, one hand clamped around your wrist. You lock up, a deer in headlights, frozen in place as the huge alpha looms over you. His thumb sweeps over your pulse, chest swelling as he drags a greedy lungful of your scent in through his nose. For a split second, your heartrate goes haywire, certain he’s about to lunge and sink his teeth into you like Oikawa had, helpless to do a thing to stop him–
A firm tug, and he pulls your hand free from where you’re worrying at your slip. “Go to bed, omega,” he rasps.
His words are a bucket of ice dumped over your head. You stiffen, flinching back as far as his hold allows, a cold, clammy sweat breaking over your skin.
In the pit of your stomach, something deeply unpleasant stirs.
"I-I'm not–"
“Bed,” he repeats, his voice like chipped flint. “now. You need sleep.”
Releasing your wrist, he steps back only enough to allow you to scamper past like a frightened bunny, leaving the phone behind.
—
A heavy arm slings itself over your shoulders, stopping you in your tracks. “Where are you off to, beta?” Matsukawa drawls.
Silly you for thinking you could just walk out without a written permission slip. Wriggling out from under him, you huff, “Saitama. I’ll be back later.”
You slept late this morning, woken only briefly by Oikawa on his way out. Iwa was taking him to a meeting, or a meet and greet – a something – leaving you behind to rest up, and with the two of them gone, you intend on making the most of the reprieve.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got my phone and some money,” a child-locked phone and petty cash you’d found stuffed and forgotten in a pocket of Oikawa’s suitcase – enough to buy your ticket there and back, “I’m a big girl, I’ll be fine.”
If anything, you’d think they’d be glad of the excuse to be rid of you for a few hours.
Hanamaki, watching from the other side of the kitchen counter, grins, lifting a black card between his fingers – one of Oikawa’s, probably. “We got it covered, princess.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need baby sitters.”
“Think of it as a bonding experience,” Mattsun says, moving to blocking your path again when you try to side-step him.
Like a lit match to gasoline, you explode.
Your palms come up, shoving at the behemoth of an alpha, who doesn’t budge an inch, barely lifts an eyebrow – and god does that fan the flames, indignation boiling through your blood ‘til you’re practically shaking with it.
“We don’t need to bond!” you snarl. “This whole thing is temporary, I’m not pack, I’m some girl your friend sunk his teeth into, and suddenly you all seem to think that means I can’t spend a minute to myself without an alpha breathing down my neck! I need space! I need a few goddamn hours to myself, I need–” your voice cracks. An ugly hitch accompanied by the sting of tears you have to blink furiously to keep at bay.
As quickly as it’d come, your anger deserts you, leaving something hollow and aching in its place. “I need a break. Please, just– Please.”
Let me go home.
For a long, drawn out moment, neither of them say anything. The only sound in the room is your ragged breathing.
The hand that comes to rest on your shoulder startles you so violently you jerk, but Mattsun’s fingers only flex, digging in under the guise of commiseration.
“Look, so long as you’re wearing one of our bites, this is real. You are pack. Our beta, which means you can either accept that you’re not leaving without us, or we can hang here for the day, watch some movies or something. Those are your options, sweetheart.”
Bitterness threatens to swallow you whole. “… Fine. Let’s go then.”
“Attagirl. Makki’s driving.”
—
If either alpha’s perturbed by the suffocating silence in the car, they don’t show it.
Matsukawa stares out the window, idly tapping a rhythm against the armrest, and beyond a few amused looks via the rearview mirror, Makki keeps his opinions to himself.
Oikawa wouldn’t give you that grace. The silent treatment’s only ever taken as a challenge with your alpha. In that sense, the gulf of distance between Mattsun’s splayed legs and your own is a welcome relief. Let them dismiss you, mock and snicker. Let them treat you like a poorly trained pet Oikawa’s foisted upon them, incapable of looking after itself.
You don’t care anymore.
You don’t.
As the car passes the outer city limits, Makki finally breaks the stilted atmosphere to ask where you want him to drive.
“There’s a restaurant we used to eat at growing up. It’s near the west exit of the station.”
His eyebrow lifts. “You’re from Saitama?”
You don’t bother answering, you would’ve thought that was obvious.
Makki manages to find parking just ‘round the corner from the restaurant, yet while they’d given some measure of space in the car, the moment your feet hit the ground the two alphas close in on either side, flanking you like overgrown bodyguards.
You’d roll your eyes, only some part of you settles, a loosening in your chest as the sign out front comes into view.
“It’s this one, c’mon.”
The feeling grows when you step inside, the beginnings of a smile you’re quick to smother taking shape. You haven’t set foot in here in years, and it hasn’t changed at all. The same delicious aromas in the air, the same layout, the same artwork hanging in the same places.
When the girl at the front tells you to take a seat wherever, you let them usher you into a corner booth, Makki sliding in after you. You can’t bring yourself to be bothered that he sits close enough that his thigh brushes yours, or that Mattsun’s eyes keep slipping down to your bite, because over his shoulder, through the gap in the kitchen pass, you see him.
For the second time this morning, it feels like you might burst into tears.
“You alright, princess?”
Shit.
“Hm?” You force your attention away, blinking like you’re shaking yourself free of a daze. “Oh, sorry, I was thinking about food. We should get some gyozas with lunch, they used to be really good here.”
They share a look between them, but Makki just shrugs, slinging his arm over the back of the booth behind you, “Sure, Oikawa’s paying.”
Tucked away in your pocket, your phone buzzes with an incoming message. Oikawa’s already sent you two this morning, and another in the car on the ride over.
You pretend to consider the menu Hanamaki slides closer, though you’ve ordered the same thing here since you were twelve. It’s an effort to keep your knee from bouncing, from fiddling with the skirt of your dress or gnawing at your lip – the anxious energy inside of you itching for physical release – while they mull over what they’re going to order.
And from the corner of your eye, whenever you think you can get away with it, you seek him out.
The last time you saw Ryota was two days before your family left Japan. He’s a little bigger than you remember, but the smile’s the same. The same haircut, same uniform. The years have done him well, you think.
You weren’t close exactly, the seven year difference between you–
Another buzz. You ignore it.
– a bigger gap to bridge when you were younger. He was always around, always friendly, just not a friend. There’s a niggling feeling in your stomach that warns you’re betting too much on this, but what choice do you have?
“Y’know your scent gets stronger when you’re all wound up?”
Cheek lazily propped up on the heel of his palm, Matsukawa could almost pass for bored. The sharp glint in his eyes tells another story.
He’s making quite a habit of it – watching you.
Not with idle curiosity, and you can’t imagine it’s with desire. The best comparison you can think of is a house cat staring down the mouse it’s too lazy to kill – maybe not hungry, but predatory all the same.
“I miss it,” you tell him simply. Not a lie. “I didn’t realise how much.”
“Good gyoza?” he quips.
“Sure.”
Makki chuckles. “You know, you could probably convince Oikawa to let you stay here with us a while after he goes back to Argentina. Maybe not without a bite, but…” he trails off, leaving the rest unspoken as Mattsun flags a waiter down.
You find yourself oddly relieved that you don’t recognise him. He doesn’t pay you any mind either, busy jotting down the order Mattsun rattles off, Makki chiming in.
The latter’s arm slips from behind your booth, the back of his knuckles grazing along your side. Your skin prickles at the contact.
It’s an alpha thing. A proprietary thing, less about you and more a point made to everyone else; the same reason they left you alone in the car and then stuck to you like glue on the walk over. Makki and Mattsun don’t necessarily like you, but their pack alpha’s claimed you as his mate and loyalty to him wins out in the end.
So long as you’re bonded with Oikawa, you’ll have to deal with this, too.
Shoulders hunched, you find yourself glancing back to the pass window to distract yourself.
Only this time, Ryota looks up. Meets your gaze head on.
Recognition sparks, a visceral thread between you pulling taut. And he doesn’t give you some perfunctory nod or wave like you expected, he comes alive with it, beaming from ear to ear. It does a strange thing to your insides, like a moment of free-fall. Your cheeks flush with warmth, nerves, or maybe butterflies, fluttering away in your belly.
“Anything else?”
You snap back to attention in time to see Makki shake his head. “That’s all, man.”
Guess your input wasn’t required.
The waiter leaves and both of them seem to lose some of the tension in their shoulders, relaxing back into their seats. Alphas. You’d roll your eyes if you weren’t still reeling.
“Let me out,” you say to Makki, half rising to your feet. “I’m going to use the bathroom before the food gets here.”
The asshole’s probably tempted to make you crawl to get past him. He doesn’t though, sliding on out to let you past, but not before one of their phones chimes.
Mattsun reaches for his just as you brush past Makki, frowning when he reads whatever’s on his screen. “You keep ignoring Iwaizumi and Oikawa, and it’s not gonna go well for you, sweetheart.”
You shrug. “I’m a grown woman.” Not their fucking pet.
You walk off before either one of them can respond and pray they don’t notice the slight jitter in your steps. The bathrooms are down a little corridor behind the kitchens.
A tiny jerk of your chin as you walk past is all you risk.
It does the job. Out of sight, tucked around the corner, you lean against the wall and start a silent count. You make it all the way to forty-three before a worried looking Ryota rounds the corner.
You’ve got minutes with him at best before Makki and Mattsun come looking.
In your pocket, there’s a torn scrap of paper with a list of advocacy groups and pack law firms you’d found last night hastily scrawled from memory. You spent the drive over running through countless versions of what you’d say to him, how you’d convince him to help you.
You don’t have time.
And yet the first thing he does upon seeing you is open his arms – and your feet move without thought, carrying you into them. His chin rests atop your head, your face smushed against his shoulder. He smells just like the kitchen, fire and smoke and rich aromatics, his own scent nearly indistinguishable, and you don’t care.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he murmurs. “Tell me how I can help. You’re shaking.”
You are.
“Is it the guys you were with?” he prods when you fail to summon the words to explain. “The alphas? I… I saw the bite.”
Of course he did. Short of turtlenecks and scarves, there’s no hiding it. Swallowing tightly, you ease yourself back enough to look him in the eye. “We have to be quick. I dont–”
“What the fuck?!”
Large hands grip you by the shoulders, harshly ripping you back.
Before you can stumble and trip over your own feet trying to right yourself, Makki’s there to catch you, wiry arms locking around your waist, dragging you both a few steps back as Mattsun launches himself at Ryota with a roar.
“No! Don’t–”
Too late.
The fleshy thwack of his fist driving into the latter’s face has your stomach threatening to upheave, but as you struggle in Makki’s arms, crying out, Mattsun hits him again, and again, and again, each blow sounding messier than the last.
“Stop!” you shriek. “Please!! He’s a family friend, that’s all! It wasn’t–”
Makki’s hand clamps over your mouth, cutting you off. “Princess,” he whispers lowly, teeth at your ear. “Now really isn’t the time. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”
A tooth flies, blood and spittle spraying over the floor, but Mattsun’s frame blocks you from seeing the worst of the damage he’s inflicting with brutal, heavy fists. You’re left to scream, crying against Makki’s palm while he watches on, unmoved.
“Don’t kill him,” is all he offers.
The wet, gurgling groans tear at you, but it isn’t until Mattsun settles back on his heels, broad chest heaving and turns to look at you that you realise what Makki meant.
There’s no white left in his eyes.
Matsukawa’s in a rut.
Oh no. No, no, no, no–
“Not here,” Makki says when he rises and steps over Ryota’s body, coming towards you. “We’re not doing this here. We’re not sharing her with anybody.”
A newfound sense of terror grips you as Makki steps back, hands raised clear.
You’re a beta, you’re not built to survive this sort of claiming. A knot’s one thing, a rut is another beast entirely – he’ll rip right through you!
“Makki– Makki, please!” you beg, as the bigger alpha grabs you tightly by the arm and starts hauling you towards the fire escape door.
Hanamaki, following behind, grins unrepentantly, “I won’t let him hurt you too bad, but you made this bed, little beta. Hope you’re ready to lie in it.”
Every flinch, every stumbling step is met with a tightening grip and a growl. Your arm throbs as bones grind together. You’re wheezing for breath through thick, hot tears and shaking like a fawn, and no one cares. Strangers part, crossing the road to give the frenzied alpha a wide berth, people avoid your eye.
They don’t care that you’re scared, that you’re a beta, that you’re begging for help.
“We had money on this, y’know,” Makki tells you as the car comes into view. “I thought for sure it’d be Iwa, especially after the way he came stomping down the stairs this morning.” He fishes the keys from his pocket, fixing you a wry look. “I don’t know what you did, but you really got him worked up.”
The car unlocks, and Mattsun nearly tears the door off its hinges ripping it open to toss you in the backseat.
You sprawl, landing on your stomach with a grunt and immediately try to claw your way forward, only for Mattsun to grab you by your waist and haul you back with a guttural growl.
His scent swells, pouring off of him in waves.
You hear his belt buckle clink, the hiss of a zipper and your dress is shoved out of the way.
“Please, please, please don’t do this,” you sob. “You don’t want me, I’m a beta. I’m a beta, I can’t–” your words falter as he rips through your stockings. There isn’t enough room in the backseat, the air’s thick with his scent, too warm from the body heat he’s generating. You’re crying, choking on sobs, still squirming as he crawls in behind you, one hand on the small of your back between your shoulders to keep you down while he lifts your hips, baring your pussy for him.
You hardly hear the other door open, register Makki’s presence sliding in. Not until he pets at your hair. “Do you want me to help?” he asks when your wide, frightened eyes meet his.
You want to say yes.
You try to, but Mattsun chooses that moment to force his thick length inside of you, and all you can do is wail like a wounded animal.
Mattsun makes a sound halfway between a snarl and groan, collapsing forward to drive his cock deeper into you. There’s no omega slick to help him along, you aren’t prepped, and it’s agony. Burning, fiery agony.
And then he starts to pull out, and that’s even worse.
If he knots you, you’ll die. You’re sure of it.
You squeeze your eyes shut, bitter tears leaking out, and nod.
“We’re gonna take good care of you, beta,” he tells you, but it’s hard to focus on his words – on anything other than the panting alpha behind you and the stabbing pain that accompanies every thrust. “But you’ve gotta be good for us too.”
Something wordless passes between them, and you’re abruptly hoisted up between his thighs, your back to his chest, his bear paw hands falling to encircle your waist. It’s easier then for Makki to inch his way closer, eyes cautiously flickering between you both.
“Let me make it better,” he says, reaching a hand to where you’re stretched and squirming around his packmate’s cock. “Let me help.”
The first brush of his fingers against your clit sends a burning jolt of electricity rocketing through you. Your whole body shudders with it, a soundless cry wrenching from your lips.
Makki doesn’t give you a respite.
Mattsun doesn’t either.
The alpha behind you curses, hips snapping upwards in a savage pace while Makki does his best to draw humiliating noises from you – none of which actually distract from the battering of your insides. You’re dizzy, overwhelmed. Sore and split open, shaking with every stroke of his fingers.
You whine and he chuckles, Mattsun’s tongue dragging along the sweat-slicked skin of your neck.
“Mine,” he rasps. “Mine.”
And distantly, you feel the beginnings of his knot starting to grow. Starting to catch on your already overstuffed cunt, but the minute it clicks and realisation settles in, quickly followed by blind panic, Mattsun’s mouth finds a home along your collarbone.
Trapped between the two alphas with nowhere to run, your skin gives way, cutting like butter beneath his teeth.
A mating bite.
His knot swells, sealing you two together as a flood of hot cum fills you up, and Makki presses a sweet kiss to your forehead.
woke up with a nasty ass thought… had to write it down ’cause i’m going crazy. so... yeah! it was supposed to be a short drabble but it turned out into a oneshot… also i only proofread this once… forgive me. dt @iamthatonefangirl @houseofhyde @54nboo
he tells himself not to. not tonight. not when you look so fucking soft and so unaware. but it’s useless—the need is louder than reason.
he turns his head and for a moment he just watches you curled up beside him, breathing slow, lips parted just a little. strands of your hair are stuck against your cheek, and before he can stop himself, he’s brushing them back gently.
his fingers linger, combing through your hair soothingly. then he traces the curve of your jaw with the edge of his knuckle.
your lashes flutter but you don’t wake up. his throat works. rob swallows harshly as he shifts closer, letting his nose nearly touch your temple, breathing you in.
he tells himself it’s enough, that he just wants to touch you, to feel the warmth of you under his hand but his cock aches against the thin fabric of his sweats and he knows this isn’t going to end with him just playing with your hair.
bob’s breathing turns heavier. his chest feel ways too tight. he knows he’s lost the fight and without thinking too long about it, he drags his hand away from your face, shoving the blanket down just enough to free himself. his cock springs against his palm, thick and already leaking.
he hisses under his breath, quiet enough not to wake you. his fist wraps around the base. slowly at first, then dragging up the length, thumb circling the slick at the tip.
his other hand stays in your hair, caressing it softly and threading through strands like he’s soothing you even as he starts fisting himself right beside you.
your face shifts, just barely, a tiny movement against the pillow. it makes him grind his teeth, biting back a groan. he jerks harder now, grip tightening, the bed shaking with the rhythm.
„don’t you dare wake up. not yet,” he whispers.
and fuck—there’s something about the contrast that drives him insane. one hand tender in your hair, the other working his cock like he’s starved for you. every ragged exhale fogs the space between your bodies and his eyes are glued to your parted lips, wondering how they’d look stretched around him instead.
his fist never stops moving, pumping his cock in steady rhythm as he begins to pull the sheets down from your body, revealing the fabric clinging to your hips.
rob slides his free hand lower, brushing over the softness of your thigh, then higher. his fingers ghost over your panties before nudging them aside.
the heat of you nearly undoes him. he grazes your folds with the barest touch and when his fingers come away wet, he whimpers quietly before placing a soft kiss on the back of your head.
he spreads your wetness over your pussy with his forefinger, dragging the mess up and down your slit, coating your folds with your own arousal while his cock throbs in his left hand.
carefully, he presses two fingers to your entrance, circling lazily at first. you’re so wet it takes nothing for him to sink inside, sliding past the tight clutch of your walls.
his breath stutters out in a whisper full of awe. „fuck… so tight,” he rasps „my lovely girl, always so tight.”
he pumps his fingers in delicate thrusts, watching the way your body clenches around him without your mind even catching on.
“sleepin’ so sweet while i’ve got my fingers in this cunt,” he mutters with his thumb brushing over your clit. “don’t even know you’re makin’ a mess all over me, do you?”
he fucks his hand faster now, matching the pace of his thrusting fingers, precum dripping over his knuckles. the wet sounds from your cunt fill the dark room in the most obscene way, and he grins through clenched teeth.
“gonna take it… gonna take my cock even as you sleep because you’re my good girl, aren’t you?”
rob smirks, then lines the fat head of his cock against your entrance, smearing your wetness around before pushing in.
your cunt grips him instantly, taking him inch by inch. bob’s eyes squeeze shut. it’s torture and heaven at once, your walls pulling him in tighter, squeezing around the thick stretch of him.
he stops halfway, gasping. “fuck… oh fuck, you feel so good,” he mumbles under his breath.
your body stirs and a sleepy sound escapes from your throat. he leans down until his lips are at your ear.
“shh… it’s okay. it’s just me. go back to sleep.”
and then he eases deeper. painfully slow. savoring the way your heat pulses around him, every ridge dragging against his thick shaft.
he buries his face against your neck, forcing himself not to rut all at once. every move takes restraint he doesn’t have, but he draws it out, grinding forward until he’s seated to the hilt, balls flush against your skin. he stays like this for a moment before pulling back just a little and sliding back in.
suddenly your breath hitches. a soft, confused sound comes out of your mouth and bob presses a kiss to your temple. „shh… just sleep. let me have it…”
his hips roll again, deeper this time. then again, and again. he sets a rhythm. shallow thrusts that keep him buried, grinding up against your sweet spot. the wet squelch of your pussy fills the silence and he can’t help but press soft kisses to your neck as you’re milking him while you dream.
his hand spreads over your lower belly, feeling himself move inside you. “god, takin’ me so well,” he mutters hoarsely, fucking you slow, enjoying the lazy stretch.
every push is measured, drawn out. his cock goes in deep and steady until his balls slap faintly against your skin. the bed creaks in protest, but he doesn’t care—he’s lost in the unhurried, sleepy fuck.
your lashes flutter, and you let out a soft whimper. your body shifts under his weight. a drowsy frown tugs at your lips.
„robby…?” your voice is full of sleep, it comes out as barely more than a dazed mumble, confusion bleeding through.
he kisses the corner of your mouth, his thrusts never faltering. „shh, baby. it’s me. just relax,” he murmurs, slamming his hips forward again until you gasp.
you squirm under him, thighs shaking. you try so hard to understand the fullness inside you.
he caresses your cheek with shaking fingers, soothing you and coaxing you back into haze. “don’t fight it. just let me take care of you… feels good, doesn’t it?”
your body clenches tighter around him with every lazy roll of his hips.
“that’s it,” he breathes, each movement making you moan. “just lie there and let me fuck you. be a good girl.”
your fingers grab the sheets weakly, you sob as his cock works inside you. the confusion begins to fade under the pull of heat in your belly, leaving you wanting for more.
„robby…” your voice is breathless, needy now. „please… just… harder….”
he stills for a second. his lips brush your ear and he lets out a dark chuckle full of mockery. „harder? that’s what you want, baby?…”
then he shifts, changing the angle which forces a gasp out of you. „oh, we can manage that.” he teases.
he draws back almost all the way, then slams back in, the sudden force jolting you fully awake.
the bed frame shakes with the impact. his grip on your hip tightens, keeping you pinned as he fucks you harder. exactly like you begged for.
“always so needy,” bob whispers, teeth grazing your neck. „is my little slut gonna cum for me?
your nails claw at the sheets now and your voice is breaking on moans. „yes! yes… robby, don’t stop! ’m close—please, don’t stop!”
his cock slams deep, hitting that spot over and over until your whole body trembles beneath him.
your cunt spasms around him as you cry out and your back arches into his chest. your orgasm rips through you, soaking him as he fucks you through it.
he continues to hold you down, keeping you in place and stopping you from squirming. he growls at the way you squeeze him—so tight he can barely move and he rides out every wave of your release until you feel limp.
“oh yeah… cumming so prettily on my cock, fuck yes…” he groans and his hand moves from your waist to your hair, tugging on it so hard it makes you yelp.
his thrusts grow ragged. after a quick moment bob buries himself to the very hilt. his cock twitches deep inside you as his release takes over him, spilling inside you, filling you until it leaks back out around him.
a broken sound tears from his throat, muffled against your neck. „mine. mine, mine, mine.”
his whole body is shaking and he holds you tight, rutting through the aftershocks, grinding his cum deeper into you, unwilling to let go.
when his breathing finally slows, robert presses a kiss to your damp temple. “mine,” he states one last time.
divider by @/saradika-graphics gif by @/isaacsdevil4108, all credit goes to them xx
|| barou shouei x reader || M/18+ | your first heat with barou || wc: 1.2 || ao3 ||
It's the first heat you're sharing with Barou. You both grapple with how to manage it.
minors, antis and ageless blogs dni
notes: hello!! the first of the comm batch for @ltadoriyuujl ✨ it was very fun to write barou and essssp alpha barou. thank you for this delicious idea and please enjoy!!
CWs: afab reader, no gendered pronouns used, omegaverse, aged up barou, alpha barou, omega reader, heat, knotting
The air reeks, and you’re boiling.
You’re out of your skin, really. It’s been a long time since you’ve had a full, proper heat, and you can tell, even in your current state, that your body is not happy about the sudden flush of hormones and overexcitement of your olfactory systems. Everything aches. Each of your scent glands is raised, scalding to the touch. Your mouth is dry, and yet your cunt is drooling between your legs. The backs of your eyes burn.
You curl up in your nest, panting, face buried in one of Shouei’s shirts. It’s a dress shirt, one he wore to that stupid charity event last week, but maybe you should be happy he went to it, because the shirt is drenched in both his cologne and his scent. The collar is the focal point for you, the perfect combination of his Yves Saint Laurent and his own spiced, musky scent that pours into your throat from your open lips. You pant. You salivate.
Shouei’s hand tangles in your hair, stroking down your skull, cupping the back of your neck. He squeezes the nape of it, his hand wide enough that the tips of his thumb and forefingers press into the scent glands at the base of your throat. You moan, keen, and nuzzle into the fabric harder. You’re too heat-addled to realize that your alpha is quite literally next to you now and, you know, a direct source of the same scent you’re glutting yourself on.
Shouei makes himself known; he usually does. He’s good at that. He turns your head, hardly coaxing much. Unignorable, as he always makes himself. His hand is firm on your jaw as he directs your gaze to him. Your eyes are dry and wet all at once. They ache, everything fucking aches. Shouei is perched on the edge of the bed, half in your nest, half not.
You’re not sure when he got there. But you’re glad he’s here now.
“In.” You tug his arm. “Now.”
Shouei exhales a little breath, something like a laugh. You’re lucid enough to know that if you were so demanding sober, he’d probably fight you a little on your tone. Correct you, maybe. He’d still indulge, mind you, but Shouei enjoys when you push and he can push back within reason.
You don’t feel like pushing now, and you hope he doesn’t push you back. Heat is curling up in your guts like magma, and you need it to fucking stop. The pressure pushes down into your cunt, up into your throat, like you’re drowning from the inside.
You make a little, wounded noise. A warm, but not too warm, hand pets over your hair, around the curve of your jaw. Shouei’s hands are so big, so steady, and so good. His wrist rubs around your throat, the scent of him mixing with your own. It tastes good on your tongue. You nuzzle into his touch.
“Move.” Is all Shouei says before grabbing you by the waist and tugging you further into his nest. He climbs over you.
He’s so much bigger than you. He’s a proper alpha, massive in form and presence. His scent is all spice and earth, raining down on you as he straddles you. You’re only in one of his shirts, no bottoms, your cunt is leaking a puddle into your nest. His breath catches when he notices. One of his big hands curls around your inner thigh, thumb catching some of your slick.
“Shouei—” You whine, because it still hurts. It’s better, a little, with Shouei being here, but it still feels like you're suffocating under the force of volcanic heat behind your eyes. “F-Fix it, please?”
Shouei gives you a look. If you were more lucid, you’d see the conflict in his gaze, the harsh set of his jaw. He grinds his teeth, you know. He has to wear a mouthguard sometimes. His shoulders are all bundled up stress. It’s the first heat that you’ve shared, and there’s distinct pressure on him that he struggles to hide with his usual brand of bravado.
It’s a little unnerving, even as your heat is beginning to swallow you whole.
Shouei sighs. It’s a sharp thing, something that has you chirping in the back of your throat, nosing toward him, closer, closer, closer.
He growls as he grabs your hips, flattens you onto your back, and looms over you.
...
Shouei is a good alpha, you think to yourself. You’ve done well for yourself.
It’s the most solid, real thought that you’ve had in hours. Maybe. Time is slippery, as slippery as the space between your thighs that’s drenched in slick. Has been drenched in slick. Probably some of Shouei’s spit, too. He ate you out earlier, you think.
His knot is better, though, as much as you enjoy his mouth on you.
Shouei is a romantic; he knots you for the first time while chest-to-chest. He’s not ‘some heathen who will mount you like a dog’. Instead, he has your knees pressed to your chest, while you chirp and beg and whine to be full.
“Shh, be patient.” If he’d said those words outside of your heat, they would’ve been sharper. But they’re so soft now. Not gentle, but meant to soothe more than command. Maybe both. It has that effect as you nod for him.
Shouei’s cock is imposingly large. Kind of frightening, actually. You’ve gotten used to it on some level. The slide of it into your cunt is aided by the plentiful amount of slick that’s almost gushing from you. He’s still slow, still has his jaw locked as he slides into the hilt.
It’s not enough.
You’re not full enough, and you tell him so as he builds speed. Shouei growls, fucks you harder, deeper, and you can feel the ghost of his knot pressed against the rim of you. The inside of your skull is so fucking hot, so incensed, all you want is that.
Shouei kisses you, hard on the mouth, tongue blundering past your lips. It’s consuming. You moan against his lips as you feel his knot swell. Shouei— he’s feeling it too, his scent is all around you, so spiced it’s making your eyes burn, yet you want more of it.
You imagine that his knot is proportional to his cock. You don’t get a chance to fully see it, only feel it as it pops past your entrance, growing fatter as Shouei’s thrusts shake in tempo. There’s friction on your clit, enough that you’re pulsing around him, eyes rolling back, citrus bursting in the air. Shouei’s tongue is on your scent gland, all growly and toothy, and then his knot fucking pops.
You feel it fill you, stretch you in such a way that it steals your breath. It satisfies the itch in your brain instantly, and it feels so, so right. You claw at Shouei’s back.
He’s shaking a little; you’re within yourself enough to notice.
Shakily, you card through his hair as he’s hunched over you. Your ankles are by your ears, you’ll be so fucking sore tomorrow, and you’re shaking too, but you nuzzle into Shouei’s temple, kiss him there, then down to his scent gland.
You feel his cock and knot twitch inside you, and can’t help but shudder.
Summary: The Lord Daiyokai often shuts you up in an inn, every few days of the month, for the demons that are attracted to your bloodscent. It is one of the few graces he allows. You would think its for your safety, and truly it is. Because not only do you seem to forget that he is a demon, but also a man.
Rumors of a bloodhungry demon arise, one that prowls the edges of this ghost town, devouring its residents under the shroud of moonless nights; Of which steadily approaches. Under the dark viel of a new moon, all desires will be brought to light.
Content warnings: Smut, some lemon if you will, pvp, I dont go into a lot of detail but female genitalia ya, mysogynistic language towards reader, A bit of intimidation/domineering(??) kind of behavior from Sesshoumaru, IDK if that would trigger anyone but he does get kind of murder-y vibes, (not towards reader).
A.N: This is part 2 to part three of this story! Part one will be linked accordingly~
Length: 11.9K
You say my name and I want to knit my bones into your bones, smooth away the boundaries of our heartbeats.
It's late in the afternoon when you come to.
There's something wrong with you. Not wrong enough to worry alarm, but wrong enough for the hum in his gums to buzz to an ache.
Your spare moments of lucidity were fevered and dizzy. You drank whatever he gave and ate from his hand, pawing at his arm and chest with soft, weak sounds that made him wonder what sounds you’d make if he just decided to push back the covers and sheets, and soothe where you’re aching. It's not as if he doesn't know how to soothe you.
Static rose and sparked harmlessly when you touched him then, and he takes note of it with more than a hint of concern.
It's neither rare nor common to find a human with some ability, whether that be spiritual or otherwise. It’s just your luck that you're one of them. It's just his luck that he came across you, treasure that you are.
But you're awake now, and he must look after you. You sit up, wiping the crust out your eyes.
“Rin is resting in her room,” he tells you. “Jaken has left the inn for an errand, and has not returned.” Despite the time, and his patience. Something must have held him up.
“So you just let me sleep all day?” You yawn, your jaw cracks. His hand comes to your forehead and you jolt–another hint of static bolstering his suspicions. Your fever is lowered, and your jaw isn't tense with the pain of discomfort. Good.
You smell like late spring–green and sweet and full. Sunlight. His scent is on you as well, but it's superficial. He needs you to be coated in it. Smothered.
A mating mark would do that. Hormones, pheromones- they are in everything. And the mating gland found within the neck is crucial for the mating bond. He’d have to see where yours is, your glands don't seem to be so close to the surface, even with them being tender and swollen now from your heat when he felt over your skin. He just needs to find them, bite down–He’ll try not to be too savage.
He’s going to do it. Not now- he wouldn't want to do it in such a decrepit place. His manor, assuredly, would be ideal. And of course, it would be when you weren't in a heat. You’ll need to be more clear headed, and he doesn't need a pseudo-rut, this cloud of want and lust influencing his demeanor. Strictly, now, he’s only going to offer you what you need. That's all.
A test for his patience and discipline, if there was ever one.
He’ll ease the pain and lick away the blood, afterwards, you’ll have the time. He’ll wipe your tears. And you’ll mark him too, of course. You’ll need to bite hard, your teeth are blunt, smaller. He’ll need to show you where, how-
You’re talking. They said something. Listen. “Sleeping for so long always gives me weird dreams, you know that?”
“Such as?” He reaches for a plate he has at the ready, cut fruit, ume and pear. He doesn't want to give you something too heavy, yet.
“...It was a storm, but the rain was falling upwards. I was on A-un, I was going…somewhere. Blood…flowers. Fire. ” You shake your head. “I only remember bits and pieces.”
“Sounds nonsensical.” Or an omen, if one is superstitious. He presses a slice to the seam of your mouth. You mumble as you take it.
“You were there too, in your demonic form though.”
This, he pauses. “You've never seen me in that form.” He’s taken great pains to ensure that you haven't.
You grin. “Yeah, so when are you going to show me?”
“Shut up.” He presses another slice to your lips to shut you up before you start. You laugh.
“Hey, are you alright? Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Your hair is pulled back. And the white part of your eyes are pinkish now.” You reach out as if to brush away a stray hair from his forehead. “Are you alright? Did you get so mad you popped a vessel?”
He can't help it–this close, he might as well be tasting you on his tongue, in the back of his throat. His lip curls as a low sound escapes; You freeze, before moving back.
“Um, too close? Sorry…”
Not close enough. He clicks his tongue. “Just eat.”
“Okay. Feed me?”
You're happy with just the fruit, you glutton. But he acquired it for you, didn't he? He watches you eat. Presses each cut of fruit past your lips, teeth. There's something particularly thrilling about imagining your smaller canines, sinking into the flesh of his neck instead. You’d have to bite hard–your teeth are much more blunt and he needs to make sure the mark is deep enough. The rivulets of blood that would escape, run down–He finds himself leaning forward into your space, and has to draw himself back.
He’s noticing though, the way you hold yourself, and the puzzled way you look when you think he can't see you as he looks away, as he feeds you, as you allow him. Your fingers shake before you curl them into fists and it taints your rich honey scent with worry, murky and thick. He knows it has more to do than with the way you moved from him.
“What is wrong?”
A sigh, a hiss from your teeth. “I feel hot. And…jittery.”
“...Are these symptoms familiar?” Here, you pause. But you try to shake off the gooseflesh he sees rise on your skin.
“It's…probably something with my diet, or messed up hormones, or maybe because I'm not used to so much leisure-”
“And the sparks? They've been happening more frequently as you slept.” H offers you another slice. “And there is a storm soon to break. You always get tense when they come around.”
“You think there's something up with that?” You remove the covers and crawl over to his side. He tries to ignore the curve of your spine, or the way you look up at him doing so.
You bite half of the slice he offers you, covering your mouth and pushing the other half towards him. He takes it as you chew over your thoughts.
“So, what are you saying? We kinda-uh, there was a spark last night too, when you touched me.”
“So try it again.”
“Uh, Okay?” Hesitant, you look at him, and reach for his arm. He looks at you, and you take that as permission to lay your hand flat there.
Immediately, there's a spark, and you jolt your hands away.
“Ow?! There is something up with that?! What was that?”
“Try that again.” He holds up his hand as you look down at your own in alarmed confusion.
“Try it again, this time.”
“I don't know man…” You reach with a finger this time. He urges you and you poke the heart of his palm.
Before you touch him, he lets just a hint of youkai energy seep past the lines of his palm. As soon as you touch, there's a tiny spark of light, a crack!
You fall back with a cry, and immediately he’s on top you.
“Are you burned? Hurt? Where?”
“What? No! No, I'm fine,” you sit up and try to push him back, but your hands are shaking harder now, and so too are your shoulders. He leans against your force, ready to fall into you. Your hand curls against his collar.
“...Okay, okay, really. What is this? What the hell is going on? Sesshoumaru?”
“...”
Oh, dear. You look at him, with your eyes wet and wide and confused, and it doesn't do anything but pluck the heartstring known as W A N T in his chest. A low growl builds in his diaphragm; He wants to speak in his own language, console you, cajole, entice, warm. But you wouldn't understand him.
Connections beyond words are made when a pair is made through mating. Would you understand him then? He wants you to. You need to.
He takes a breath, for calm. He's getting out of hand. His intentions aren't good, they hardly ever are, but they aren't meant to cause you distress. Your tears are pretty. But he’d prefer them in a different context.
“It's fine.” He pulls you up, and takes your hands in his own, to help the trembling.
“There are humans with abilities not unlike youkai. That's what this could be.”
“What…? How, why-”
“A series of factors. These abilities are more often present in half bloods, or monks, priestesses. You're one of the rare outliers, it seems. Has this ever happened before?”
“...I guess? I always get sleepy and have weird dreams around this sort of time. You know I get jittery during storms too, so to have both at the same time is just, kinda rattling me up a bit,” you laugh, weakly. “Jaken and Rin could probably tell you more about it.” Since they're the ones who are closest to you in this time.
He should have slotted himself closer to you much, much sooner.
“If it's around the time of your cycle it could be an imbalance of energy. More than simply nerves, you could be responding to or be affected by the storm-which is why you're so rattled now.” He presses your hands down into your lap, better looks you in the eyes.
“Though there's limited ways to prove such.”
“Forget about proving, I just want to stop the shaking. This always happens,” you sigh, washing warm breath into the space between you. Fruit and honey and hot.
“You got a remedy for that?”
“...Stabilizing will help. But first we need to know what the disruption is. The storm will worsen, if you react to that then I can test your energy to see if it is in fact a reaction or response. There is a difference between the two.”
“So if it's not the storm, then…?”
“Then it's your cycle.”
“So is there nothing you can do now to help? How would we even ‘stabilize’ this?” You gesture with your trapped fingers.
Something in his jaw ticks. “Drain the energy, have it expelled. Or, we introduce a foreign element. Your energy would either fight it off, depending on dose, or succumb to it.”
“So like a vaccine then?”
“...?”
“It's, uh, a medicine thing, for really bad diseases and stuff. Introduce a dead version of the virus or whatever and inject it so the body can safely fight it off and build immunity. Some, like measles you only take once. For the flu you need one every season as the virus builds its own immunity and evolves.”
“If that's the connection you can make, then in a sense, yes. This could also just be a one time occurrence. You can't build ‘immunity’ though- not here.”
“What, wait why not?”
_________
Rin combs the brush through A-un’s mane– He closes his eyes in bliss as she works. She's more petting than anything.
You've been busy sleeping, and Jaken is gone doing who knows what. It's not like she can't stand being on her own for a while, but she doesn't want to. And the Lord is kind of antsy right now…
Even if he’s enjoying all the extra sleep, staying cooped up isn't good for anyone, so Rin took off A-un’s muzzles and led him to a relatively clear part of the forest floor, not too deep within the trees, the inn still in sight.
“-and he told me that alphas and omegas are together to make babies, but most people are betas so they too can have babies.” She’s careful with a particular snag. “So I don't know what he meant by that.” He snorts. Talking to A-un is easy–and maybe it's because he can't speak back. He could react and reply, he had his own feelings and thoughts, but Rin took comfort in the fact that if he was judging her, he couldn't verbalize it.
“And he said demons, so does that mean you too? Which one are you? I’m an omega, so I'm supposed to smell sweet. What do I smell like?” He snorts again in answer, eyes still closed, and Rin hums.
“I wanted to ask him, but I didn't want to be rude. If that is rude. What if I smell bad and he just never said anything? That would be soooo embarrassing.” She picks the stray hairs out the comb, rolling it into a ball.
“They didn't know that they're Omega too. I think he's going to tell them all the stuff when they wake up–I think he should. They already like each other.” She rolls her eyes.
There's always been some kind of tension between you two, she's noticed it since she joined, and there always has been one looking at the other.
Maybe now you can be together and get married and maybe she can have siblings again like she used to. It would be nice to be a big sister. Would they have white hair? Would they have pointed ears, or fuzzy dog ears, or a long fluffy tail like Lord Sesshoumaru’s?! They wouldn't look anything like her, that's for sure. Nothing like the familiar faces she once knew.
Suddenly, violently, comes the twist of shame, guilt. She gasps, sits up ramrod straight and tries to breathe through the tightness, like she does after a nightmare, like you’ve told her to.
Count the breaths. In. Hold. Release-slow. In. Hold. Release. Again.
There's no replacing what’s been lost. You can only make the best of what you have now, and hope for the best. You always tell her things like that, and when Jaken and A-un’s eyes become too eerie, when she sees the glint of fangs when her lord speaks and her old scars ache–she goes to you. You're soft and warm in a way that is intrinsically familiar.
She loves it here. She’s not lonely anymore. She’s safe from the dogs and their glinted fangs.
She just hopes nothing bad ever happens to separate this little group.
Suddenly, A-un straightens, and his heads turns towards the trees. But Rin doesn't see anything, and reaches to pat his neck.
“What's wrong buddy? Did you hear a rabbit?” He doesn't pay her any mind, and instead stands to his full height.
“Hey, that's-” That's when she hears the rustle, and she too turns in time to look- and she meets a pair of eyes.
Her heart stutters, suddenly cold.
It's only for around a half second, before the dark blur races through the trees.
A-un’s snout wrinkles into a snarl as he takes stance, head lowered and pupils pinpricks. The comb feels unnatural in her hands as he growls, harsh and guttural.
“A-un, what’s–” but before she could finish her sentence he barks loud, once, and bounds into the trees.
“Wait-!” She’s tugged along a few feet before the reins in her hand are ripped away and she nearly tumbles. The momentum pulls her forward, before she rolls-stumbles into a stop, leaning against the tree. A-un doesn't notice, or care, as he goes after whatever that thing was.
Her heartbeat is so loud in her ears, almost louder than the panic.
She wasn't even supposed to let him out! If you or Lord Sesshoumaru finds out she let him out, and that now he’s running around without his muzzles they’d kill her.
“A-un! Come back! It was just an animal!” It's easy to follow the trampled shrubs he left in his wake, and she runs, hesitantly looking back as the inn gets smaller and smaller in view.
“Both of us weren't supposed to be out here, come bac-!!” Her foot slips on empty air, and she goes tumbling down with a squeal.
“...Ow…” When she looks up, she has a scraped knee, and she's half in a hole-no, tunnel, dug in a hill. As she smooths her hands along to get her footing, the walls are smooth and packed.
It’s really small though. Barely bigger than something you could fit, maybe, if you crouched low. It is roomy enough for her though.
She hesitates for a moment– A-un, and the inn…but childish curiosity wins out, and she enters the tunnel.
She pulls out a gift you gave her, a Flash-light. You told her to use it sparingly, because the batt-ery would die and couldn't be replaced. For a tiny thing, it has a lot of power, and lights up the tunnel with ease. It's deeper than she thought, and she gasps in delight.
It's cool and dark, and she sees other tunnel openings as she runs along, but she just stays straight, dipping down for a while before sharply going up.
It's not too long, and she has to climb, putting the light in her mouth to use her hands. It gets dusty soon, and she covers her mouth and nose with the collar of her kimono. Her light flashes against metal, and up ahead she sees a door.
Thrill, then hesitance. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea…
But it's too late for that. So she goes up to the door, and tries the handle. It turns.
__________
“The foreign element introduced would be my own youkai energy. ‘Energy’ doesn't work on the same level as our biological functions, they can only influence and be influenced by. I don't seek you harm, so there won't be anything to fight off.”
And that felt like something he did not mean to confess, so he just keeps talking so you don't dwell too much on it. “It is strong, so against your force, you'd most likely succumb. A definite ‘cure.’” He takes definite care not to look at your face. Instead, your hands, small in his own.
Human scent glands are smaller, not so close to the surface. He has to search for them, and, there. Tense under the soft flesh, he presses his thumb in circles into the soft part of your wrist. You squirm, but sigh as the initial discomfort fades.
“The issue could be solved either way. Energy can be taken in by simply being near one another, though that method takes the longest. The most effective method would be through ingestion.”
“Ingesting…what?”
“Something holding your energy. I'd need a taste of your blood to know what I'm addressing. But I'd give you my blood after, this is the most potent method.”
You hum, a lilt...pretty thing. “So energy is in…bodily fluids?”
A nod. “Which is why yours is out of balance from your bleeding. It should be stabilizing, but again, the storm.”
“So is that why you've been kissing me like that?”
“...Like what?”
“You like to use tongue. Messy.” You huff. “And you don't come up for air as often as I need you to. Is it to stabilize my energy?”
…He didn't think of it like that. Perhaps he realized earlier on a subconscious level. But- “I do it because I want to.”
“That's it?”
“What other reason could there be? I wasn’t doing it for your health then-” Mistake. Because your eyes alight with that teasing joy you so often encompass.
“But you could. We could. So why not?’’
“Do you know how long it would take to transfer my energy to you via saliva? You’d be better off if I decided to couple with you instead.” And you move closer, grinning.
Sesshoumaru just focuses on smoothing his fingers, and his own scent gland over yours, smoothing up the soft flesh of your inner arm in slow circles, thoroughly. Not the way your mouth curls to a smile, not remembering the taste of them, not the honeyrich floral scent of you thickened, blooming with the smell of lust, the slick he can scent between your thighs.
Sesshoumaru focuses on his motions, and keeping his breathing light and under control.
But you’re, of course, not satisfied with that. Your eyes are alight in a simple joy.
“If, in an autumn field,
a hundred flowers
can untie their streamers,
may I not also openly frolic,
as fearless of blame?”
“We are playing this game now,” his voice, colored in mirth. Unfamiliar for its rarity.
“The Dyer’s River
Should one cross,
Then what do you expect?
Getting stained with passion,
Of course.”
You grin. “Undisturbed, my garden fills with summer growth– How I wish for one who would push the deep grass aside.”
“I can do that.”
“Oh? Do what?”
“Fuck you.” There's a switch in your expression, alert, listening. This is where he tests boundaries.
No, he is not infallible. But he is close. You are the margin of error, chance, and you need to know it.
So he allows this tension and this pause, lets you know he means what he says.
“How long have you wanted to?”
“...A while now.”
“Before Rin?”
“Well before.”
You take his wrist this time, simply holding it as he smooths his thumb across your collarbone. “...You should have said something.”
“That would have been beneath me.”
“To what, admit your feelings? So you waited until I reciprocated so you could just say you're accepting my feelings.”
“Reciprocated, as you said.”
“You should have said something. We could've been close like this much sooner.”
“Do you think restraint is effortless?” He straightens his spine, no longer curved over but still above you. You seem to realize the position you're in, how close; He feels the gooseflesh rise on your skin when he meets your eyes in sudden, reckless abandon.
“Do you take my discipline as flawless?”
“Well, no, no one is perfectly infallible-” you still as his hand comes to your throat.
He traces over the marks he left- shallow, practically an insult. He needs something that will last.
“My Lord-”
“My name. Use it.”
“...Sesshoumaru.”
He sighs a breath. “I want you,” and he pulls you into a kiss too swift to gasp into before he pulls back.
This feels less like a confession than a declaration. Your pupil, round and soft, blown dark and wide. “Not only once, and beyond the flesh…I want the whole of you.”
“Me too. I-I, I want you too.” You rush closer, and he hastens you the rest of his way into his lap.
“I could hurt you. I might.”
“I understand the terms and conditions.”
“Do you?” With a hitch of your breath he shoulders off the layers of cloth between you two. “This is no shallow basin to dip in.”
“I know-”
With you in his lap already, it's easy to smooth his way up the skin of your thighs, pushing aside cloth. He doesn't bother with cajoling you into this, you're already too deep. You jolt, but he’s not going to let you shy away.
He presses into what little space remains, nosing at your hairline and sliding a knuckle through slick, sticky and clear.
“Put your arms around my neck. And don't forget to breathe.”
— — — — — — — — — —
He slides his cock hard and fast through the puffy folds of your sex, but he won't enter. You already came once like this, a swift fluttery thing, and he shivered when you said his name. With his chest laid over yours, it's almost embarrassing how hard you’re worked up when he's not even fucking you properly.
But he's panting too, more controlled, of course, but his face is tucked into your shoulder, mouth grazing your ear, jawline, neck. Kneeling, one arm locked around your waist is all he needs to slide himself through without friction.
“You're not, this isn't-” he bumps against your clit and you squeal. He swallows the sound with a kiss.
“I'm not fucking you properly? Greedy, aren't you.”
“It's not fair.”
“Fair?” He breathes. “I just said I don't want to hurt you.”
‘I, you won’t--please?”
“I won’t. I won't.”
It only takes smoothing your hands up his arms, tracing a pointed ear and a pleading look before he relents, soft for you, where it matters at least.
He has the deltoids and slim waist of a swimmer, and when you trail past the planes of his stomach, the start of a happy trail catches your eyes. It's white, like the rest of his hair, and thick. It looks slick and matted by your combined arousal, and he is big-and pretty. His dick is flushed the prettiest pale pink you ever saw,trimmed white hairs and a bright red at the tip as aligns himself.
He slides inside-just the tip. But the stretch, the feeling of almost-full has you digging your nails in his back, fluttering. He growls a note low in approval.
He fucks you shallow, sinking deeper each time. You grin at the concentrated look on his face and he looks at you in question.
You punch out the words in gasps. “For someone who might hurt me, you're doing a pretty good job of the opposite.” He lays you down to free his hand, petting over your belly.
“I could do better. You're testing me.”
“Always.” You wiggle your hips, earning yourself another delicious inch and a hiss. “Please?”
“Look at you…you're so small and you want me to fuck you?” He thrusts shallowly, and your thighs are already trembling.
“I just..want you to enjoy yourself, too.”
“I'm… limiting myself to what you need. Be grateful.”
“I am. My Lord is so, ah, gracious.” you sigh against his skin, and you feel the tip of his cock head throb in another wave of pleasure.
A dog demon, liking praise. Who would've thought.
The pace he takes is steady but relentless. When you twitch away from the pleasure, he presses you into the sheets, keeps your legs around his waist and drives deeper, he’s basically fucking himself into you, and you’re mortified again at the coil thats tensing in your belly, the familiar tension. He sees this, and his hand comes to the little bundle of nerves, shushing the little sounds of ‘wait’ and ‘too much, too much’.
His eyes are half lidded too. He doesn't look flushed, but his eyes look indulgent and his hair is mussed from your hands running through it. There's sweat beading at his temple and he looks like he’s in love with you.
“There you go,” and he kisses you, breathes into your mouth. “Give me another.”
It's not a mind blowing-earth shattering orgasm. But he bumps against that gummy patch once, twice, and it comes, swift, your back arches away from the sheets.
He holds you down with his weight, and licks into the open cavern of your mouth. You're not doing a good job of being quiet, but that's fine, let it out. The sheets are torn where he raked his claws over, instead of your skin.
When your high dies down, he slips himself out, still half hard and aching along his thigh. Your hands smooth down his shoulders and his chest, and he focuses on that, getting his breathing even.
“Wait, you didn't-”
“Doesn't matter. Lay down.” How soft-You already look tired, droopy eyed and flushed pink.
“It does. You didn't come.”
“One wouldn't be enough for me. I wouldn't have stopped even if you asked.”
“That doesn't sound too bad.” He pushes you down and you sink with a sigh, boneless.
“Two and you're ready for sleep. I don't think you could handle more than five.” You reach and take the tie holding his mussed hair. It falls over you.
“You look different you know.”
“Hm?”
“Your eyes are red now. And those lines on your face are longer. You have fur now.” He didn't even notice the partial transformation; you stroke a thumb along the white fur along his arm.
“Even some on your belly, look-”
“Don't patronize me,” he swats your hand away from the trail on his stomach, and you laugh weakly.
“It's cute. The curtains do match the drapes.”
“What?” You laugh again, burying your face into the sheets. “Look! Even your teeth are a bit longer.” When your hand brushes his jaw, he takes it, opens his mouth to press the pad of a finger against a point.
He lets you run your fingers across the points of his teeth, curious and tentative. Across the top row and bottom, molars, tongue. You look content.
“Look at you. You're being so soft for me. Good boy.”
Fuck the thrill that passes through his bones. He’s not a pet. So he bites down, enough for skin to break and blood to drip into his mouth. You frown. “And you called me greedy.”
Your blood tastes sharp, like something barely ripe. Spring in bloom-warm and full of light, growth and seed. That's you.
So you take back your hand and he pets over your hair as you doze back to sleep, though you stall with sneaking looks at him with your bright eyes. He doesn't reprimand you; the hot rod of desire in his belly cooling in the long quiet moment. You'll rest, and by that time night will fall. He’ll call Rin over to eat her meal with the both of you. She’s been on her own for a hint too long.
In fact, where did she–
Suddenly, he hears glass, fall, shatter. You perk up, the sound loud enough for your ears.
“...Where is Rin?”
He feels his hair bristle. “Where is the innkeeper.”
__________
She gasps, holding the door open a sliver; Daylight cracks into the tunnel so she shuts off the flash-light, peeks, and when she finds no one, opens and crawls inside.
It's empty. Floorboards, the barest pieces of furniture. One look past the barely opened window has her realize she somehow circled back and up to the inn. Was it really that long of a passage, or did time just feel disconnected within that tunnel? It's a bit hard to believe she ended up all the way up…here. She rushes back towards the tunnel she just came from.
It's a little door hidden behind a stack of folding screens. It's painted over to meld into the wall, and when she smacks her hand against it she feels the impact reverb off wall, then rock. It must be the wing of rooms closest to the springs, the wall is warm from more than sunlight, even if she can't fully hear the water.
She’s on the second floor. The mountains are to the north, and with the way the house is placed, she must be in the east wing, so opposite side of where you and the Lord are. That means the tunnel went through earth, and through rock to reach up here. But it was so smooth, she never noticed the transition of earth to rock,only the steep incline.
But the second floor is bare, and untouched, though very clean. Obviously unused for some time, but the air is fresh and smells like old clean clothes.
As Rin looks around at what little there is, her footsteps creak on the long untouched floorboards. One particular loud creak has her gasp out loud–heartbeat thudding erratically when she hears something drop, and shatter in the hallways outside.
There’s someone up here who who oh please please please please please please-
But to no avail. Footsteps quicken and get louder, and she looks around for a place to hide. She spots a chest drawer covered with a sheet by the other wall that she's able to squeeze behind and under just as the door opens.
“Hello?!” Immediately, Rin recognizes the innkeeper's voice.
“Hello…? Are you there?” She walks into the room, footsteps hesitant. “Ren? Hiroya? Did you come to visit?
“...To see me?” Rin just quiets her breathing as she steps into the room.
“Ren? I know it's you. Your brother is too big now to use our tunnel. And, he wouldn't come here, anyways. I don't know why I called for him.
“You shouldn't be here either Lotus. Can't you smell the Lord who's here? Him and his partner.” The sneer in her voice startles Rin, and she tries to sink deeper.
“Why don't you come out? Or ...did you already leave? You left the door open.”
Oh nooooo. She walks over to the door, opening it to peer inside, before shutting it.
“So did you leave? But I did hear something up here, are you hiding from me?” She sounds so sad.
“I'm sorry, you were supposed to visit but this lord and his entourage ... .He’ll kill you and your brother, I can't have that.” And the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock sounds.
“...You know I'm not very good at this game, Ren. Are you here? Are you really not coming out?...Or maybe I'm just talking to empty air,” she sighs. “Wouldn't be the first time. I'll be locking this door. If you’re still here you can wait until I can get some time to talk to you. But I'll be back, don't worry, okay my Lotus?”
She kinda does sound crazy. Are those her sons she’s talking about? Shouldn’t they already be grown up?
The door shuts, and Rin panics as she hears the definite sound of a key turning. She shoots up as she hears the footsteps hurry away.
She waits. Then, she tries the door first, and yep, locked. It's not budging. Checking the door of the tunnel she came through yields the same results.
…She doesn't want to have to break the lock to get out. She can, but that would take time, and too much work. She’ll definitely get caught that way.
Maybe there's another tunnel door here..? But searching the room doesn't offer that option.
There's noise outside.
The window is easy to slide back and look out of, but all she can see from this side of the inn are trees and rock. But she doesn't mistake A-un’s barks and scuffs, it's the same noises he makes when he’s agitated, or being stubborn. He must have flown back, and she doesnt recognize the voice that's shouting back at him, old and booming.
Maybe if she can call A-un here, he could help carry her down? He could spare a moment to help her, right? It's not like she can go anywhere now, locked in this room with both exits blocked. Whoever's yelling doesn't sound like they're leaving anytime soon.
She pokes her head out the window and calls his name, but the sounds don't stop, too busy with one another.
“...to get inside-move-”
‘Who is that at the front? What are they yelling about?’ She leans more to hear just a bit better and–
She slips.
She slips with a cry, and ends up catching herself when her hand slams down on to stop her falling. It hurts, and she cries out again, but that doesn't stop her descent.
“A-un!” But he doesn't come. Her feet aren't touching the floor anymore, and with her weight slipping forwards, she falls the rest of the way with a scream, hands scrambling. She falls, falling for a hot rush through open air, before a hand catches her by the back of her collar-falling with her and slowing her descent from near death to this is going to hurt.
Her eyes shut, she already knows what trouble she's in as she feels those familiar nails at her nape. He lets her hang, toes dragging limply across the grass as he waits for her to fully stand.
“Rin.” She doesn't answer.
“I know you didn't faint. Stand up.” He jostles her a little. “...I will drop you.”
With an inward sigh and a wriggle, he plops her onto her feet. She takes a moment to smooth out her clothes, before turning to the Lord with forced cheer.
He cuts her off (before she could even start) shooting rapid-fire questions. “What were you doing in this wing of the inn instead of staying somewhere close? Why is A-un infront without his muzzles, and why were you leaning out the window?”
“Um…fresh air?” She grins weakly. “Exploring?”
“And A-un? Who is the old man he is barring from the inn?”
Old man? “I don’t know.” He turns to face the noise, the old man's voice carrying over all the way from the front. Closer now, she can hear him better. He's cursing- you and A-un and even her.
With a hint of trepidation, she sees her Lord's sclera are already pinken-ed with blood.
Her voice is tiny. “...It's the rice boy's dad, I think. From yesterday.”
“It is. Senile fool. Come here, interrupting, for what?” Interrupting? interrupting what? He turns away from the noise and back to her before she could ponder.
“You didn't answer my question.” She hesitates.
“Took A-un out…no muzzle. He ran after a r-rabbit. I followed.
“I found a tunnel. It led to there.” And she points to the room she fell out of. “Door is locked now. Both of them.”
“Hm…” He looks up towards the room, around the wall of rock leading to springs, where the water is heated and flows.
“So the hag still has some secrets then? What arrogance.” A-un barks, once, and she jolts. He looks at her without turning his body.
“They woke up and ate, and they've only just gone back to rest. Let's get rid of this fool before he disturbs that any further.” He turns, she follows.
__________
Jaken didn't get a chance to see what got him.
He had the mind to turn the female head of the staff away from him, spewing water into the dark tunnel and nearly drowning himself. The hands gripping him were torn away, as well as some of his clothing; But he had only ended up washing himself deeper into the darkness, and now he wandered, trying to find his way out. But he knew there was more than one.
As long as he wasn't going down, that was progress, right? There were tunnels of all sizes and shapes, some even he could not fit through. He wandered among them, led by his nose, sniffing for the wafts of cool air that would come unbidden.
There had to be a way out, right? He wasn't going to be stuck here forever, or, or devoured by a demon, right?! If, if anything, his lord will surely–
No, no he wouldn't. What is he thinking, would his lord really inconvenience himself to save such a foolish servant in this demon’s lair?
And that's the other thing.
He could see a few feet ahead of him, even in this murky darkness. He could see the trails of a great snake on the floor, claw marks, here and there, skulls and skeletons of both human and animal. There were multiple tracks, and sounds from throughout the great rock would come to his ears. This was a place lived in, and possibly by multiple someones.
He must stay low and stay Q U I E T. He can't risk attention, not here.
Jaken had thought for a while, as he crawled through, and the thought came to him that perhaps with all this wandering, he ended up somewhere close to the mountains his Lord wished to conquer. It would explain all the tracks and bones and demon scent. But he had not wandered that far, surely, and so the only conclusion popped into his brain–
That the demon nests his Lord wished to quell were not in the mountains, but closer to the village itself–that there was more than one naga demon, if these trails, and his eyes and ears, are to be believed.
He could hear the breathing of something very large down here, and very, very dangerous. The smell of sulfur would intense at times as the thing, whatever it was, hissed and breathed.
‘That Numachi-san was married to a demon…what if she lied to my Lord about his death?! What if he’s here and I'm going to be devoured soon by his brood or–!’ A shuffle in the dark, and Jaken ducks through a tunnel above for a view–he scrambles inside the hole, clutching his staff close and muffling his breath.
He waits.
The sound comes closer, until he can see a dark blur from below him, coming from a tunnel below. It -its a demon by scent- almost blends into darkness, but Jaken can see it has some human likeness, a head and arms and torso. Long, pale hair. He can see some scales, and see it look around the tunnel. Jaken cowers as its eyes sweep past his hiding place.
There is more than one demon, the one his Lord had met had dark hair, he said.
“...You're somewhere close by, imp. I smell you underneath your Lord's stench.” Jaken stifles a sound, alarmed.
“You shouldn't be in here. I'm sorry my siblings dragged you down here-do you need some help in getting out?” Jaken could hear mirth in his voice. “Then I'll be leaving now.”
“If you want out, then follow me imp. Lest you be killed and eaten here, of course.” He clicks his forked tongue and then he slithers away.
…He’ll follow at a distance, in case this is a trap. But he does really need to get out. It's not the same voice Jaken heard before he was dragged down here, he doesnt recognize it. But he does, in fact, recognize that scent.
Because the boy who shares the same spiced signature is already dead.
__________
Kushinadahime had– has a bad habit of bouncing her leg whenever she is anxious. She usually takes pains to hide it, but she doesnt care in the face of these guests.
Her sister should be getting their father, or already have him, and taking him to the apothecary. There, they will stay until they get back. The workers have been paid and ushered to their homes while there is still dim gray light. Her bag is packed and ready to go, if only these two, would excuse propriety and just let-her-leave. Her mind races with plans and the worry of them all, her leg bouncing faster. He frowns.
“...I understand you are in a hurry Kushinadahime, so I won't hold you too long–”
“I’ve no time for these pleasantries, Numachi-san.” The older brother's face doesn't change, but the younger twin's face falls even further. He looks like he could weep. She doesn't care right now. If she must suffer through his brother then he must suffer her.
Still, she adds (fake) pleasantness into her voice. “Why don't you go and visit your lovely mother, instead of me? I'm sure she’d readily welcome you both.”
He frowns. “You know why we cannot–”
“I would-” They speak at the same time and look at each other. She doesn't let them stall and cuts them off.
“Oh, I'm sorry, is it because of the demon Lord there? The one who maimed Takashi? Are you scared?’
“...The one who killed him? You found his hair at the scene, right?”
“Perhaps. He does have long, pale hair. Or maybe the two of you arrived a little earlier than we thought.” He frowns deeper as the late sun, hidden behind clouds, paints his hair in shades of silver and grey.
Hiroya Numachi looks like his father, with the pale hair, too dim to be silver and too bright to be pure white. His eyes are so dark that you cannot find the slitted pupils unless you look for them, and he is mannered enough not to show his fangs when he talks.
It all annoys her oh, so, much.
“It's late. You two arrived much later than you usually would.”
“Kushinada-hime, you know I would never–”
“I know that my sisters are secluded and undefended and that I must go to them, before my cycle starts and I lead a trail right to them.” She rises, and dusts off her knees. The floor is reflectively clean.
“...The twins are much more polite and welcoming than you are, you know.”
She ignores him. “What did you come for?”
Hiroya rolls the teacup in his palms, continuing. “That's why I first went to check the mine tunnels, but I didn't find your sisters there. You sent them early, didnt you? Are you sure they arrived safely?”
Her heart jolts, but she ignores that too. “My brother told you that there's no need to ‘help us’ anymore.”
“...I caught an unfamiliar scent there. Two really, but in the way one is marked when you're around someone for a time.
“It was a demon imp, and I think I led him out- he scampered off after a time and I lost his trail fast. Still, I led him far enough before taking a detour back.” His eyes are hard little things when he looks at her.
“The twins were the ones who dragged him within, I bet. That staff of his saved him from a cruel death; the twins aren't very good swimmers.
“But anyhow, you know what this means. An unfamiliar scent, in that place will upset the fragile balance. So what will you do, now that your brother isn't here? Where is his ronin sword? Will you take it up, Kushinada-hime?” She flinches, and at the sight of her unease, he settles down, straightens his back.
“The twins could help me take care of things if I could just go to them, I can take care of it.”
“...Stop with the pretenses, like we don't already know each other. Humour me, why don't you? Why were you named Kushinada-hime and not Inada-hime, daughter of the fields? That would have been less obvious. ”
“That is–”
“Tamayorihime and Toyotahime are even worse. And Ohatsuhime? Truly? I do not think she is nothing.” He hardly blinks as he tries to wear her down. “Strange way to make a distinction.”
She snaps. “What are you insinuating? What do you know? You speak on something you are not privy to nor will you ever be. Our names, are none of your concern. You have yours,” and she sneers, “and we have ours.”
Numachi Hiroya does not react, instead, he just sips at the tea she served.
Ren Numachi, however, has his shoulders hunched up to his pointed ears. The twins are identical in everything but color. Where his brother is more the lotus, Ren is the mud it rises from, dark and cool and gloomy. His nervousness makes his face seem almost softer, and her irritation fades into something more like pity. She’s surprised when he speaks.
“Kiyohime-san…was intentional when she named all of you. Kushinadahime in the tales was the youngest of the eight sisters, and you are the oldest of four. She named the twins after Taiga-san, the rivers. And she named all of you ‘Hime’,” and his eyes met hers. “She must have loved you all very much.”
‘Father named Takashi, as the eldest son. Dutiful, Boasting, Prosper. Ambition. Fathers name means great river, so the twins make sense… So why did father allow her to be named Ohatsu-hime? Or me…?
‘Maybe, mother was being a bit too on the nose–’
Hiroya hums. “She’s late, isn't she? Your youngest. She won't be joining you this time either, I didn't catch her scent there. She might not ever join you.”
“That's a good thing. She’ll be safe here until we get back.”
“Will she? With that Lord? What If that happens? What happens after? That little imp could disrupt what little peace you have, if he goes deep enough.”
“You said you led him far, so he can't–”
His voice rises above hers. “When are you going to take your sister to bring offerings?”
“When I tell Father where Mother’s grave is.” She hisses from gritted teeth.
His eyes flash. “A bit too late for that now, isn't it?”
The two of them glare at one another, caught in this stalemate, and the longer it goes on, the more she feels her anger building.
Who is this half and half monster, pretending to be courteous, pretending to be kind? He might look like his father, but he took his arrogance, and his mother’s temperament, and amalgamated them into some horrid semblance of grace.
Her father wants her to marry this one, even with the unspoken [but true] rumour of his parentage. If not her, then the twins, who see him more as family, and she allows this small betrayal. If only father knew who he was.
A liar. An actor. Pretending to have emotions.
[Why does he remind her so much of herself?]
She'd rather anger spill than tears. “Why did you come here, both of you? To give advice, warnings? Condolences? I don't need to replace a brother,” her lip curls, undignified, “So I would appreciate it if you just went about your business.”
The twins look at one another, in a way that reminds her of her twins. They stare off, and with a sigh, Hiroya is the first to break away.
“Allow me to accompany you towards your sisters.” She pauses.
“...You already went. The demon will be even more aware of us if you accompany me. And I thought you were keeping to yourselves?”
“I went, but I want to make sure the girls are safe. They would be pleased to see me as well. I also wish to give my offerings towards your mother-”
“There is no need. Or want.”
“Oh, I highly doubt that,” he laughs, (and oh she could kill him) and then in humor he recites,
“Now I know well
The pain of it;
When someone awaits me
At their home, I’ll not stay away
But pay my call, as I should.
“I was in a rush when I stopped by–it is disgraceful of me, and I humbly apologize. So please allow me to remedy this mistake.” He bows his head and her eyes fall to his brother.
“And him? What will he do?”
His eyes cut towards his twin. “Lay low. Keep watch.”
Kushinadahime scoffs. “You’re planning something. Aren’t you aware of who the demon inhabiting Numachi-san’s inn is?”
He looks at her like she is daft. “Of course we are aware–”
“Lord Sesshoumaru, Lord Daiyokai of the western lands. He’ll kill you and grill you over a fire.”
“If he has a taste for poison then he can have my flesh,” he shrugs, and she wants to scoff again. The arrogance!
“He took Takashi’s ear, and a finger off each hand.”
“Which ones?”
”What?” What does that have to do with anything.
“Which finger.”
“...Middle finger.” He makes a sound somewhere between a hiss and a grumble.
“He left him with some mobility then. So he isn't a cruel demon. We should be fine.” Now her mouth is open in confused shock as he drains the cup and rises.
“Your poison blend was stronger this time, but it still needs work. You can't kill me with such a weak dose.”
“...I wasn't aiming to kill you. This blend is meant to induce severe bouts of indigestion.”
“You used a venom as a base. You know that wont work on me.” He tosses the empty cup towards her and she catches it with a scowl.
“Well now I know…” He rolls his eyes to his brother.
“Ren-”
“I know, I know what you're going to say and I know what to do brother-”
“Why did you run off earlier then? Where did you go?” Ren rolls his eyes next. They're a hint lighter than his.
Hiroya clicks his snake's tongue. “Never mind, I smell it on you. I know exactly where.”
“What? Where?”
“Making sure your youngest wouldn't get mauled by that demon Lord–” she whirls towards him.
“You used the tunnel? You could've been caught–”
Ren sighs. “I know-”
“Did you now? He already met Takashi, he's already met Kiyomizu-kun, he would have recognized you!”
“I left quick enough-I didn't even get to see Ohatsuhime make it to Yoshida-san.”
“You just couldn't help yourself, right? You nearly got caught by that Lord's servant at the streams as well.”
“I wanted to speak with Takashi then. I just didn't anticipate them being so far from the inn. The most they saw was a far off blur.”
“You are so careless. I hope you didn't get spotted this time either.”
Unlike his brother, Ren doesnt hide his teeth, and snarls, fully. “I was checking on our mother, since you seem so very not worried about her proximity to that Lord-”
“So? Our mother did it, her mother did it. She’ll be fine.”
“And that right there is Father, talking from beyond the grave again,” Ren sighs as he stands.
‘You know, you’re only a few moments older than me?”
“Older all the same.” Hiroya turns to her so sharply she jolts. Whatever he sees there, he takes note of it, and nods. He walks past her and grabs the bag she packed for herself.
“Let us go then, shall we? We don't have much time before nightfall, do we?”
__________
Numachi-san is already outside, behind A-un and trying to calm down the enraged man.
A-un does a good job of corralling them both, snapping at faces and hands if one gets too close; if the man tries getting closer to the front door, or if Numachi-san tries to sidestep him.
“This blasted stead,” the old man is still cursing, “And that impish pest….! Where is he, gathering a list of next possible victims for his lord?! To hell with these thrice-damned creatures and that damned bitch of a concubine!”
Lord Sesshoumaru scoffs. She prays that this man will keep his mouth shut and stop right then and there but he continues.
“An omen if i've never seen one, leeching off of others power and using it to have my son killed- She’s not even married to that Lord, her teeth are not blackened and she still wears a furisode? What vassal needs such long, colorful sleeves, the whore?” Rin flinches. The man has not noticed them walking up to the front, but Numachi-san does. Her eyes widen in horror as she more frantically gestures to get him to stop. He doesn't.
“Her bastard child will end up just as rotten as her, as all the rest of you! A half blood, just like your son Ayumi-chan! But she doesn't look all that strong, is she even his?” He laughs, and then grips his head in his hands. “Does it even matter?! My son is dead. To the hells with all of you! Each and everyone of you! That bitch had my son killed! He’s dead!! My son is dead and I will have recompense. If I still had my blade I would have stormed past that front door and –”
“Why are you yelling from outside the inn? You can't even get in.” A-un straightens as the other two go still and pale, before Numachi-san dips into a deep bow.
The old man splutters, whether in shock or rage.. “I…I, you–”
“‘-You?’” Immediately, his blanched face reddens, and he bows with only his head in the shallowest bow Rin’s ever seen her Lord receive.
“Lord Sesshoumaru, Inu Daiyokai of the Western Lands. This humble one Yoshida Taiga–”
“I didn't ask,” Her Lord sighs, looking more towards Numachi-san. He frowns.
“What are you doing outside the inn?”
“...I wasn't aware that I wasn't allowed to leave.”
“I don't trust you.”
“If I may–” Oji-san cuts in, steps forth. “I have a duty to uphold my family's honor.”
“The same honor you disregard with such disgraceful composure? I turned your son away last evening, and now the father comes to show where he learned such horrid manners?”
“My son is dead,” he snarls, wrinkles deepening in grief. “His sister found the remains of a corpse in the early hours of dawn, within our family's bamboo grove.”
“Casualties are high in this town, no?”
Oji-san throws out a fist, it takes a moment to see it, but flowy gently with the wind is a strand of pale, white hair.
“I found this when I went to check myself. You're the only demon here with white hair, and you already had an incentive.”
Sesshoumaru looks down at the wrinkled fist, the strand of hair.
“It's true that the demon of this town does not have white hair,” he admits. “But do you think I would allow a lowly human’s hands to touch me, whilst I hunt, nonetheless? That is not mine. Neither does the length match.”
“It's yours!” He yells, shaking his fist. “Maiming him wasn't enough, he insulted your pride, your servant and by proxy you. So you just decided to finish the job.”
“Perhaps I should save everyone the nuisance of your bloodline and end it? Your disrespectful nature deserves it.” Anger melts into fear as the Lord leans forward, his eyes bleeding red. The elegant airs that are always so integral to him suddenly melt away in his anger.
“Like Father, like son. Again, you insult my vassal, my ward, my servant and even my steed…Why not the master too? I'm right here. Speak.”
“I came here…to, to demand recompense for my son's murder.”
“Not vengeance? Oh, but you know you’ll die, don't you.” He flinches as the Lord lifts a hand, grabbing his collar and snubbly testing the fabric between his fingers. “You're so old, perhaps you came here looking for an excuse to die?”
Oh. Oh. He’s angry.
“My Lord, please–” Numachi-san butts in, still stuck behind A-un. “He’s just an old man of the village, he’s, he’s grieving. I'm sure one of his daughters will come here soon when they notice he is gone.”
“The rice paddies are on the other half of the village. How did he sneak all the way here without notice?” And he lets the man go, who, to his credit, remains on his feet, albeit shaky. Rin just goes over to pet A-un's neck.
“Why are the rooms on the second floor closed off? Where do they lead?”
“Pardon?”
“Second floor. East wing,” he repeats.” And Rin sees it, the way Numachi-san goes rigid, the way Oji-san goes still, eyes wide and analyzing.
“The rooms and its doors are all locked off.”
“That's not what I asked.”
“They lead nowhere-”
“Rin.” She stands at attention, and comes when he beckons.
“She said she was aways from the inn when she fell into the opening of a tunnel. She followed it and it led to one of those rooms.” He articulated. Numachi-san’s eyes widen even more-in horror yes, but understanding. She looks away just as she meets the woman’s gaze.
“So, where do they lead?” When he looks back to Oji-san, Rin understands what he’s getting at.
He’s probably in his sixties to seventies. His legs are probably as thin and knobbly as his hands are, and to walk all the way here would have taken time and effort he didn't have. The sun would set soon, and it was the night of a new moon. How would he get back in time?
There were other tunnels leading in other directions.
Numachi-san wrings her hands, eyes wide. “Those were just…tunnels that my sons dug when they were younger. They're too big to use them now!” She adds hastily, when her Lord’s eyes narrow. “Just childhood endeavors, I assure you. I’ll, I’lll even show them to you, if you so wish…Its just–”
“Oto-san!” A shout behind draws their attention, at last the humans attention.
Come running up to the inn is one of the prettiest girls Rin’s ever seen. Her hair is pulled away from her face, sleeves tied away for work and face shiny with sweat–But her hair is so dark and shiny, and her face is pale and round like a full moon; A small mouth and thin eyebrows, like her features were painted on. Not like Rin with a few missing teeth, adult ones barely poking out. With her hair and its tendency to knot and poof, or her freckled face.
Maybe she’ll look like that when she gets older, if she starts taking better care of herself?
“Oto-san-!” She runs towards her father, whose face of shock turns to anger.
“Ohatsuhime! I told you to stay with your sister and go where she tells you, why are you-”
“She sent me here!” She yells, rushing forwards and grabbing his arm. She turns and bows profusely to Lord Sesshouamru.
“We are so, so, sooo sorry Lord. My father is going mad in his grief. We lost our mother years ago to the demon, so what happened with Takashi-kun,” she gasps, whether it be from exhaustion or the grief in her voice. “It's affecting us all, but that's no excuse for his behavior.”
“I maimed your brother for less.”
“...I-I understand-”
“Do you now? What will you offer me in recompense?” At this, Oji-san pulls his daughter back behind him. He draws a long blade, the size of his forearm, out of his sleeve.
“Nothing to you, Demon. Your issue is with me.” Rin could weep. He just made the worst mistake he could have.
His sclera are already bloody, and the golden yellow has faded to a bronzed orange, pupils muddy and dark, making his eyes look famished and enraged. He doesn't look angry, no, but calm. Calm and still with malice.
He articulates his words, slowly, clearly. Gooseflesh erupts on her skin. “My patience and my grace are not limitless–you've already depleted their stores. If I didn't trust myself not to kill you slowly and wake my vassal with your screams you would have been dead before you ever saw me.
“I did not kill your son. I don't concern myself with filth I've already tossed. If I had killed him, you never would have been left to worry who did it, but rather where he had gone. Now give me one reason why I should let you go?’ He was so still-He walks forward and they startle, following them as father and daughter tremble back.
“How will you convince me to let you leave alive?”
The daughter falls to her knees, weak with fear. Oji-san stands still, but not firm. “...My son is dead. My anger is justified–”
“And so is mine. You didn't think this through, did you?”
“You have a human child! Do-Do you want her to see this murder?!”
“Rin, get inside.” He doesn't break eye contact, and his hand starts to drip poison. “I can wait until you're far enough away.” Rin hesitates, feet stuck to the ground. Things were falling apart, fast, and maybe, maybe if she called out to you–
The girl, Ohatsuhime, crawls and kneels head to the ground. “I'm sorry! Please, please just allow me to leave with my father–”
“I’ll leave his corpse.”
“Alive, please! Whatever else we have, you can take, Just please–”
“My Lord!” And again, Numachi-san speaks up against the commotion, hands clenched so hard they’d immediately turn red if she released them.
Rin inwardly thanks her for the quiet her shout brings, even if the Lord has his sights set on her now. He’s really really angry–she wonders why. Does it have something to do with you? Are you okay?
Or maybe it's because of what this man said, insulting everyone, except the Lord. Except he did, like his son. Hotheaded and brash. Maybe these people were just prodding at his last nerve.
“...I will…I can tell you more about this town, about the tunnels and my husband–”
Oji-san protests. “Ayumi-chan-!”
“If you would just…let them go, without harm. Please.”
“You will pay for their release, with information.” Is the information worth the price of leaving them alive?
She sighs. “Shingetsu is the name the demon of this town took on, but that is not his birth name. My sons aren't close enough to know what it is though. And…there are more than just those three demons.” Oji-san and his daughter’s mouths drop open in horror, while Lord Sesshoumaru tilts his head in question. He steps away from the two of them, and Rin follows, silent, a shadow–reminder.
At least if he does attack, it won't get too bloody, not with her there…she hopes. She doesn't know how composed he is now. A-un whines as they brush past.
“...Leave. I’ve no more business with you.” A pause, before the girl is heaving her father up and rushing to escape the scene. When she looks back, Rin gives her a shy wave goodbye. Poor girl. She really is so pretty.
“...”
Numachi-san forces a smile. “...You seem agitated. Is your partner having complications? Giving you any trouble?”
“You know I will not handle any disrespect. You have words for me.” She nods.
“I’ll be brief. My husband wasn't faithful.”
“How many.”
“I'm not sure exactly, he was very secretive. But at least three.” She sighs, shudders. “According to my son, they too have white hair and wait for the new moon.”
“‘Too?’”
“The eldest has white hair, like his father.” Oh, so maybe it was one of them that killed the rice boy?
“And their mother?”
She only hesitates for a second, before answering. “She is a demon. And dead.”
Lord Sesshoumaru absorbs the information, before he seems like he spent enough words, waving his hand away as the poison dissipates. A last speck of poison, bright green, flicks out and she flinches horribly to avoid it. “Get inside, and make yourself useful-and scarce. Until I have need of you.” Another bow, and she is gone.
“...I don't trust that woman, and all her secrets. We might not stay here very much longer. But Jakne still has not returned.”
A-un trots forward, head lowered, a whine in his throat.
“You,” he tells Rin, “Smell like a hanyo, if only faintly. How long were you in that tunnel?”
“Not…very long.”
“You will show me. We’ll see if it's as untouched as she says. You,” he turns to A-un, “Shouldn't have run off like that. You left Rin alone–what if it was a decoy? What if she was a target?” He whines again and stamps at the ground.
“And Rin,” she already has her head down. “You're a child, not stupid. What possessed you to follow an underground tunnel in a haunted town? The moment you saw it go past a few feet you should have gone back. You shouldn't have even chased off A-un, let alone take his muzzles off.”
Tears erupt in her eyes as she nods along with the words.
“...I'm sorry.”
He clicks his tongue. “Don't be sorry, be smarter. You know better.”
“I’ll be better.” He sighs.
A hand comes down to smooth over her head in a pat, then another. When she looks up he is already turning away.
“Come. You're going to show me that tunnel, and then you’re not allowed to be on your own. A-un, come.” A-un trots in front with Rin behind, and then her Lord, And even with his eyes white and gold again she feels like she's being stalked. But she’s alright. She’s safe now, from the dogs and their glinted fangs. It's only her Lord behind her, the man that brought her back to life, even if he feels like a danger to it sometimes.
Thunder rumbles overhead, with a crack of lightning.
__________
”Hello? Girls? Are you there?’ It's late at night, and dark within the mine tunnels.
This deep though, there are strains of rock within these walls, and those that jut out, that gleam, ever so faintly. They provide enough to see. The smell of sulfur is familiar, and he keeps his voice to a low reverb off the walls.
“I was supposed to come here with your older sister… but I think she went up ahead. She isn't very happy to see me right now.” There's a pause… scuffling and sounds of movement, before the twins appear, expressions identical in their shock and joy. They jump at him with open arms, and tackle him to the ground.
“You-?! You're here?!”
“You’re late!”
“So late!”
“And stupid!”
“Where were you? What happened, Where's your brother?!” They shout at the same time, and he holds up his hands in surrender, laughing.
“I’ll explain later. I wanted to check up on you two. Are you alright? Do you have everything you need? Is your sister here already?”
“Yeah, she came here before you, and… She’s fine.”
“...Don't pull my tail. How mad is she really?”
There's a great sound like hissing, like boiling hot water poured over cool rock. The sulfur scent intensifies.
“...Very.” They look at each other and shrug. “But we’re fine. We have everything.”
Remembering propriety, they slide back and fold their hands, allowing him to sit up. In the darkness, he can see the white of their eyes, the shine of their hair, reflecting what little light there is.
Now that he looks at them, the twins are looking a bit haggard. Their clothes are the slightest bit wrinkled, and their hair loose and untied. Sloppy.
But he shouldn't even be here right now, so he’ll disregard that.
“We’ve done this before lots of times. You know that Aniue.”
“But there hasn’t been many times I joined you though, this is…”
“We know,” they nod back, moving to hold hands. Always so well behaved and in sync.
They pause to listen, before the sound stops, then starts up again.
He leans closer, and the twins take the hint to squirm closer. “How is she, really?”
They look at each other, probably reading each other's thoughts, and turn back to him.
“Same as always. It's late now so she’s sleeping. Tomorrow we're going to clean the altar and check the rabbit traps to make stew. Rabbit stew is her favorite.”
“Yeah, it's Ohatsuhime’s favorite too. She’s staying with the apothecary since Numachi-chan is a bit…occupied.”
“Why do you call her that? We’ve known Ayumi-san for a while now. She’s nice.”
“I can't call her by first name, can I? She'll slap me with a slipper if I ever did.”
“Moms do have perfect accuracy, in that sort of thing,” a twin, Tamayorihime, he thinks, nods, before speaking again.
“Are you hungry? Are you okay no–”
He cuts her off with a sharp grin. “I'm fine.” That is Tamayorihime, he recognizes the burn on her wrist.
“You and Kiyomizu-kun got into such a big fight, I didn't think it would go so far! There was a lot of blood, we smelt it from so far and we thought–”
“No more. I’m. Fine. Kiyomizu is fine too, it's just a bit of a brotherly spat, you know?”
“Why does your hair look longer?” The other twin, Toyotahime.
“Because…? It grows? And I don't have a tie for it right now.” He draws a hand through the silver strands.
“...Wait, if Ohatsuhime is with the apothecary, then where is Kiyomizu-kun going to be staying?” He shrugs.
“Hell if I know. But you know he can't come here. A grown man would get lost in the tunnels here, and all the fumes would kill him in hours.”
“He wouldn't get lost, he knows his way around here,” And she looks around at the walls, the darkness, more tangible in the dull glimmer. Like you could reach out and grab a handful. Her tail rattles as she speaks.
“He spends more time here with mother than we do, after all.”
Outside, with a peal of thunder, it begins to pour.
Taglist: @tanspostsblog @xmenteria
(˵ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°˵) So what did you think~~
Poetry: Ono no Komachi / Ariwara no Narihira / Ariwara no Narihira
Sesshoumaru x Reader {PART 1 OF Part III} Next part
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Summary: The Lord Daiyokai often shuts you up in an inn, every few days of the month, for the demons that are attracted to your bloodscent. It is one of the few graces he allows. You would think its for your safety, and truly it is. Because not only do you seem to forget that he is a demon, but also a man.
Rumors of a bloodhungry demon arise, one that prowls the edges of this ghost town, devouring its residents under the shroud of moonless nights; Of which steadily approaches. Under the dark viel of a new moon, all desires will be brought to light.
Content warnings: Intimidation tactics-Sessh gets pretty scary and domineering with some people in this chapter- a bold line like this will mark where this happens if you wanna skip.
A/N: Tumblr wouldnt allow me to post this in one piece, so part 2 to this particular chapter will be llinked. Also, Its been a while since I wrote, so when I was writing the reader, most people refer to them with mostly 'they' and some 'she/her' pronouns.
Length: 11K
Listen, plato of ancient greece wrote that the souls we each have now are only halves. That in a frenzy of blood, zues severed us from each other, so we rely in the blind tugging of our hearts.
He wakes up hours later, in the dead of night, with the wind blowing and the cicadas screaming.
There is a storm brewing. He can smell it.
The twins, Toyotamahime sleeps to his right and Tamayorihime to his left, breath soft and even, faces peaceful and identical. He hears his father, the stilted, uneven but deep breaths, and when he rises, head ringing, he sees his youngest sister, Ohatsuhime beside him. There is one missing.
He struggles up, ignoring the pain of his missing fingers, his ear. He tries to be quiet, but he stumbles into a wall, biting his tongue at the cry of pain. No one wakes, so he goes on.
Kushinadahime sits at a table, with tea ready, and mochi. She doesn't acknowledge him with more than a wave over to the table. He stumbles over, and sits.
“I knew you would be up at this time. You're always tense this close to the new moon.”
“Yes, well, what if a demon comes inside?”
If she were any less put together she’d roll her eyes. “You sound like Father. That's only happened once in a case of extremely bad luck, Takashi-kun.”
“That's how mother died.” Chased through these halls until a child with a ronin’s sword tried to play hero.
He wasn't alone then. But he wasn't able to do much– his mother still died. The sword leans against the door leading outside, touched by age and use.
“...Mother led him outside the house, she protected us.”
“She still died.”
“She drowned. And the demon is dead now, drowned with her–”
“Just replaced–”
“And he is not as bold as the former. We’re all alive, aren't we? Now, drink your tea.” Takashi glares, and she sighs.
“I know, Takashi-kun, I was there and I'm old enough to remember what happened. But if a demon comes, If this demon decides to finish the job, there isn't much you can do now with a missing ear and finger on each hand.”
Takashi scowls harsher as he takes the mochi. It's fresh, as it always is, of course. A rice farmer should have something to show the bounty of his harvest.
Rice cakes, mochi, sake, they had it all. And while others didn't bother to put in the work, Takashi-s sisters labored to remove the bran from the rice, so they often dined on white rice like elite nobles.
“You don't need to worry, these will grow back soon enough,” he teases through a mouthful. She breaths a laugh. This too is quiet.
“If only! Tell Masaki-san your secret, I'm sure she’d enjoy having her left foot again.”
“Really? I’m not so sure, if she’d have to go back to working in the fields then.” They both go quiet again, and she urges the cup of tea towards him.
“With the storm, we have to make sure to work quickly.”
“We’ll do that tomorrow.”
“You will rest. We have enough people, and you need to heal.”
“I heal fast. Remember how I got my sword?”
“It isn't a wandering ronin this time Takashi-kun, it’s a high ranking demon. The Lord of the Western Lands. You’re lucky to even still be alive.”
“’Lucky?’”
Her shoulders curve inward at the tone of his voice.
But she sighs, sets her cup down. “Brother don’t-”
“Kushinada–”
Her voice rises, suddenly. “You attacked his servant! You know how territorial demons can be, for Kami’s sake Takashi you know–”
“His servant’? His bitch more like. There's only one way they could have inspired such dutiul care.”
Her face reddens, and she hides her hands in her sleeves.
“You speak so uncouthly. Nevertheless, you still insulted his pride by proxy. Just…stay low for now, heal.”
He rises. “I'm going outside.”
“For what?!” She whisper-screams, planting her hands on the table. “It's dangerous!”
“Exactly why I'm taking patrol. Isn't it almost time for you and the twins?” Her eyes narrow.
“You should be making preparations to leave.”
“We already have, we’ll be leaving tomorrow. We’ll be gone for five days. And no, there's no need to escort us this time.”
He frowns. “The blood attracts demons. It's dangerous for you all.”
“So imagine how much more dangerous it would be with an injured person on our hands.”
“I can still protect you all.”
“And we can protect ourselves. The twins need to learn how to get there on their own. They know the way, they just never gone by themselves.”
“No. As long as I'm here you won't go yourselves.”
She frowns. “You coddle them.”
He grins. “In the way you hardly allow me to for you. Ohatsuhime is the worst one though-just wait until she joins you.” He inclines his head towards the door, where the rest of the family sleeps, but his sister is quick to snap. “Don't jinx her. She won't be joining us, you know that. Ohatsuhime, she's the youngest. She's too young.”
There is a chill in the air that he sees her shiver by. “...She is sixteen. You know she won't be young forever. It's a miracle she’s lasted this long.”
“No. But we still have time to worry about that. Maybe, maybe it will be different for her.” She turns away, and shadows hide her face from view, expression indistinguishable in the lily-seed dark.
“Maybe…maybe she’s just late, is all…I don't mind her being a child for very much longer.”
Takashi sighs. His head throbs. “Sorry…Sister, I do not mean to speak on these…feminine issues. It's not my place as a man. And you're right- I don't know what I was thinking, of course she is too young. Just go back to sleep, and please do not wait for me. And no–” he cuts her off, “You can’t convince me to stay.”
She frowns, lowers herself back down. “You could at least drink your tea.”
“You probably drugged it for me to fall asleep.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“Not–”
“You did,” he grins. “You’ve been using your apprenticeship with the apothecary for dubious reasons. Dont think I don't know what kinds of orders you've been taking out behind her back,” he teases. ”The women in town aren't very quiet about where they get their products from. I suspect the population will rise by a few numbers in the next few years, if you catch what I’m-” Kushinadahime snatches his teacup on the table and takes a long drink of it–she holds it out to him.
“There. You know I wouldn't do that to you Takashi-kun. So drink.”
Instead, he goes forward, and takes her half cup, drains it in a single swallow.
“Don't follow me.”
He takes the sword leaning against the door in his mangled hand, and pitches around the cabin. When he finds nothing, he goes further, extending the patrol. The night is humming and teeming and calm. He walks, stumbles in the direction of the bamboo grove.
It's small, something his mother insisted on before the twins were born. It's far from the paddies, to ensure that the pests there don't eat away here. His father planted the stalks, hand dug the little pond and placed a few koi fish there, back when there was still silver circulating in this backwater town and they had their share. Besides then, his father never stepped foot in here, at his mother’s behest. Her alone time. Sometimes…sometimes she would bring one or more of her children here. Never all of them at the same time. But still only sometimes.
{In the days after his mother’s death, still ragged and raw from grief, Takashi would wake, surrounded by his infant sisters, father gone. He would wait until the sun just rose, safe and secure in the pale glow, to rise and look for him. Kushinadahime would rise too, to start cooking breakfast, and check on the babes. Takashi would always find the man, kneeling just in front of the grove, staring within. It looked like he was waiting.
If he took his hand and led him within, could he muster up the courage to tell him the truth?
“Father..I’m…Mother didn't want–”
…He’s not a child anymore.}
He takes his position, deep within the stalks, and raises his sword.
It's the sword of a dead man, a ronin killed when he had stopped by this town, when Takashi was a child. The demon killed him. It's his now. It's hard to hold, his grip shakes from pain, his remaining ear ringing. He can barely stand straight; he has to stop himself from leaning too far on the side of his missing ear.
If only it could grow back. Like a piece of liver, like scraped skin, like scales, like blood. But even that takes time. Time he doesn't have. That he can ill afford to waste.
He needs to get out of here. He needs to learn and train and grow and earn enough money and prestige to get out of here, get his family out of here. Work. Rise the rankings. Become a samurai, or a daimyo even.
Being the son of a rice farmer could mean stability, but he wants more than that. His sisters should be bathing in milk with pearls in their hair. Samurai and Lords should be clamoring for their hands in marriage. He should be wed already to some lovely, demure, dutiful thing. It's not his place. It's not fair.
What did you ever do to earn your place, your privilege? Despite what he told his sister, it has to be more than that. You are very pretty, beautiful enough. But pretty charms aren't enough to earn you a spot besides one of the greatest demon Lords of the past few centuries.
Was he going to train that child as well? Even though she was just a runty little git? Did he not prove more capable than those two? What did you two have that he doesn't?!
It's not fair.
It never has been. So he pushes through and continues his sets. When the blood of his hands makes the blade too slick to hold, he wraps his hands in cloth and carries on.
Stars are slowly fading in the lightening sky, and the sky is brightening. He’s not alone.
He doesn't stop but he notices. The wind still blows, but neither that nor the blood pounding in his ears is enough to deafen the crickets and birds and bugs, who’ve gone silent. Something is here.
He’s being watched.
He knows it.
But he pretends he doesn't. There are the slightest imprints of sounds, and Takashi stumbles in his pain, leaning against the stalk of a bamboo.
Hush.
He tries to breathe. “You know, it's not very good to stare. A bad habit of yours?”
Silence.
The grove goes silent, and in one spine tingling, breath stopping moment, he feels his heart drop.
He turns to take stance–
He doesn't see what gets him. The world flashes white–sharp and keen, laced with pain. It bleeds red, and fades to black.
__________
You wake up with a fever.
Tendrils of a dream cling to you. A voice calling out. Dark tunnels and the smell of sulfur. Somehow, you know not to strike a fire for light.
There is something else in the darkness with you. It slumbers, and you cannot wake it. You must be q u i e t , heartbeat rabbit quick.
There is a man with scales, and pale hair looking for you. You must stay low.
When you wake, it is with a shock, a jolt, a sound caught in your throat. You are fevered- Hot, and raging. Sweat makes your skin clammy, and your body is sore in odd places.
You drag yourself back into consciousness; Sesshoumaru is not here with you.
You are not content to wait, but you do. You wait and you wait, but he does not return. So you get up.
The floors are cool under your feet, as you make your way to the kitchen. It's dark, and clean, Numachi-san must have finished cleaning hours ago.
She’s very hardworking. She does everything here-the cooking, the cleaning, attending to you all. She’s not elderly, but she is an older woman. It must be hard for her.
Maybe there could be something you can do for her, instead of just the odd chore or so. Maybe you could ask Sesshoumaru to let her kids stay here, since you know he'd already be opposed to that idea.
Water slips down your throat, cool. You want a snack but you don't want to go digging in someone else's pantry, that's just rude. So you turn and–
You nearly throw yourself back. Sesshoumaru, your Lord, stands. But his pupils are tiny and sharp, and his jaw is tight. His hand is half out, reaching.
You stay, staring off while your heart tries to settle.
“...”
“...”
“...My Lord, again, you–”
“Why are you not resting?”
“Um,” You look about, set your cup down. He's still stuck in that half motion, reaching for you. “I was thirsty. I woke up and you weren't there?”
“I had business.”
“...Uh huh.” You're not buying it, and the movement of his eyes is unnerving. They follow your every move, from the way you are fidgeting to your blinking.
What the hell. He finishes his motion, takes you by the wrist, when–
“Ow!?” A shock, jars your wrist out of his hold. It stings, sharper and stronger than an odd static jolt.
Sesshoumaru looks at you, as if to ask, what was that?
“Just, some static I guess,” You shake out your wrist. There's no burn, or sparks, but the sting feels fresh. “It's…normal?” He looks at you again, taking your wrist more gingerly this time. There's another shock! But it's weaker, so you just flinch before he tugs you along, back through the dark corridors and to his room.
You pass by the room you share [shared] with Rin, and see her curled up in extra blankets, only the dark of her hair visibly against the sheets. You feel a soft pang of guilt and stop in your tracks to hear her soft snoring. Sesshoumaru stops with you, but after a moment you nod at him, and he shuts the door, and leads you back to his room.
He tucks you in the futon, pressing the blanket under you, like a swaddle. When you try to protest, he presses the palm of his hand to your collarbone, against the mark he left there. You hear the unspoken words, and you listen.
He undresses, down to the simple outer robe, and, unlike before he doesn't sit beside you to watch you sleep, he lays his weight on top of you and your breath leaves in a huff at the sudden weight.
“Is everything really alright?” you squeak.
It's a moment before he speaks, and it's gruff. “You have a fever. Symptoms of preheat.”
“I do feel hot…”
“What else?”
“I don't know, the usual…? I feel sore, though. And hungry.”
“It's too late to eat. It's not good for digestion.”
“It's just a craving.”
“Anything in particular?”
“I want fruit.”
“I will get it for you then.”
“Aw, you’re willing to indulge me?” You tease.
In answer, he pulls his ear from your breast, enough so that he could bury his face in the juncture between shoulder and neck. He licks a slow stripe there, hot then cold.
You try not to shiver. Words come to mind and you hope he can hear them over the thrum of your blood:
“Watching the moon
at dawn,
solitary, mid-sky,
I knew myself completely,
no part left out.”
He lets loose a long breath; exhaustion, or release?
“Dawn and dusk
Is the time I see
My darling:
Yet seeing her is as if I’ve seen her not...”
‘...How much I do love her.’ You hold him a little closer to that strange flutter in your chest.
“...You're much more romantic than I thought you'd be.”
“I have my manners. You are more dense–clueless, than you have any right to be.”
“What.” A low rumble in his throat reverberates through his chest, through you. Your belly warms.
“So you like me then, don't you?”
“...I more than like, you simpleton.”
“Call me names but I know that you like me~.” You reach to slip your fingers through his hair, scratching. He smells like clear water, silk, a rich scent that's distinctively him. He tenses, but his rumble takes on a deeper pitch, then goes softer and what a marvel that is? You melt deeper into the sheets, him, into you.
“I like this.”
“Silence.”
“And I think you do too. If you're being this obvious you must be down bad–and have been for quite some time, am I right?” You laugh. “I'm so glad you’ve finally succumbed to my charms.”
“Go to sleep, or I will leave.”
“You won't.”
“I’ve done it before.”
“You just said that that was business,” you pout. “Did you lie to me?”
“...I did not.”
“You did.”
“Not. I do not lie.”
“That is a lie in and of itself–” He sits up, looms over you. His brow is stern, but you know he isn't upset. The seam of his mouth is too soft for that.
His hair falls around you, a silk curtain. “Go. To sleep.”
“...On one condition.”
“None.”
“Just one! Just one, please? Pretty pretty please?”
“...” You bat your lashes and he frowns deeper.
“...What is it?” Oh wow, you actually got him. You grin. “Come here. I want a kiss.” And for all his stoic cold demeanor, you see the gleam alight in his eyes before he swoops down swift, to press his mouth to yours.
He's gentler than you'd think he'd be, with all his strength and eagerness. You should remember that. You should remember to not test him too far, even though you want to. Even though you imagine him pressing you into the sheets, smoothing his hands past the barriers of cloth to find where you're aching, hot and slick. You want him to kiss you harder.
That's why he's the one who pulls back first, laying back on top of you.
“There. I fulfilled your request. Fulfill mine. Rest. You need it.”
The warmth on your belly spreads, a migration of butterfly wings, your heart and your throat.
“...If you so insist, my Lord.” With his weight a comfort, it isn't long before you fall back into a dark slumber, with no dreams.
__________
He has to keep swallowing back the drool that pools in his mouth.
Like this, buried in softness, your scent coats him, like he’s cavity deep in a cadaver; it sticks to his cheeks, smears across his mouth and chin and fingers and clogs his nose. A spark, short and sharp, prickles his skin, but it's harmless. He breathes through his mouth, tasting honey in the back of his throat, practically panting. He could get drunk on your scent, gods above and below be damned.
Damn you. Damn you and your eyes and hands every temptation and vice he can afford to indulge. A single glance from you, like looking through warbled glass, reflects every desire for you he’s ever had.
He sighs, sinking deeper in your warmth; He blinks back the slow haze your preheat brings. Hells, he feels like a glutton. It will only get worse when you're in proper heat.
It never lasts. A day or so almost. You're dizzy those days, scatterbrained. Doe-eyed. Atleast, that's what he can tell from the few moments he caught you in heat- he’s never been this close before. He feels…Anticipatory. Eager. Possessive.
Another prick of static crawls over his skin with a hitch of your breath, and a noise, deep in his throat, comes out low and even as he buried his face in your belly.
Clothes, robes, sheets- He can smell you through them. Honey, him, the syrupy dampness left to cool between your thighs. A part of him is angered at the thought-but there will be time to satisfy the both of you.
Sesshoumaru is not one to curb his desires–direct them, temper them, indulge when demonic fancy tends. Discipline is a practice he’s only recently mastered. And only nearly.
When It comes to you, it feels less like a discipline and more like a surveying, stalking. His desire has not been hinged, but cultivated. He will reap what he has sowed.
It's only natural. You are his, and you are in need–should he not provide?
The things you are not aware you need, protection from the dangers that have yet to present themselves.
Sesshoumaru’s ire, his wrath, is the tension of a lightning strike, building, building–then a strike too swift to fathom, smoke and soot and ozone in the air.
So, you rest, lovely thing you are, and he rises, slips from your arms. He stalks out the room.
__________
Ayumi has not met many demons.
Ayumi has not met many demons, but the ones she has met she has spent much time with, so she would like to say that she is rather sensitive to certain…circumstances, or incidents, one could say. Encounters. Moments. Situations.
She feels the ripple of chills down her spine, the added, silent presence in her room, and struggles to keep her breathing even and under control.
He already knows she is awake, her heartbeat probably gave it away. So she sits up, and goes to sit on her knees. She lowers herself in a perfect bow, but pushes up slightly, so that she could lift her eyes, her head still lowered.
Lord Sesshoumaru is a rather beautiful demon, but there appears nothing beautiful now. His eyes are pin pricked golden marbles, elongated fangs and claws, and a deep violet slashes something vicious across his face. He moves his jaw, side to side, human features ill fitted for the demon pressing outwards.
“...” She takes a moment to ensure her voice won't falter. “My…My lord, what might I do for you, at this late hour?”
A second of lightning bolt terror–he is a man after all. She thought that the two of you were…but apparently not? But the anger on his face doesn't speak to the kind of violence one might expect.
He, too, takes a minute to speak. It is dark and rumbling when he does. “Your sons…. Twins. Hanyo’s?“ Her heart skips–sinks, a rock on water.
He leans down. “You must have been married to the previous demon of this town.”
‘Previous demon’…So he knows this one is not the one from before? Have they met?
“...The previous demon, yes–no. No, we were not…married. I had my sons out of wedlock.” He tilts his head, a twitch to his ear.
He moves forth, quickly, and before she could contemplate or process or think of what she is to do, he drags her up by the loose collar of her kimono. She holds his wrist, flesh like steel, to keep herself upright and not dangling, he maneuvers her in such a way that he has view to the pale skin beneath her collar. The patches she put there.
“You are hiding your presentation.”
“After my husband's passing, for…safety-!” He lifts her high–lets her go and catches her by the throat, to hold her better. She chokes, toes dangling above her futon.
“Of course, even at your age, even with children…I imagine you would still attract.”
He’s silent for a moment, and for a moment, he darkens. Ayumi thinks he is going to kill her, just because. He is going to snap her neck, just because. Demons have done more for less. Her lover has done more, for less. But he just makes an annoyed sound, drops her unceremoniously.
“Yes, I know of your presentation,” he says. “But what of your sons? The ones that are to be coming here, here. An Alpha and a beta, a fact I was not made aware of?” She doesn't dare lift her head to match his eyes, she has some self preservation. “Tell me about that, would you?”
“I…I had informed your vassal of their arrival and I had just assumed-”
“‘Assumed?’ That, what? I would allow it? Did you tell them the full truth? Or omit some details? Or, did you hold the hope perhaps that one of your sons could come to claim a bride?” And here his lip curls in a snarl, a sneer, teeth white and sharp like little knives.
”Which one? My vassal or the child?”
“No!” She shakes her head, loose hair spilling down her shoulders.
“My sons would not…I wouldn't, they would never…I…”
“Do not waste my patience, woman. I have little to give.” Of course, of course. Her breath is shallow and quick, Ayumi has the sense to know that she is slowly panicking. The coldness of his words, the murderous drag of his eyes could not be mistaken.
This isn't a demon to lash out in anger, no. This one needs reason, and he is calculated. That means his cruelty is calculated too.
But so too, should his mercy.
Ayumi prostrates herself. “My sons…One an Alpha, the other beta. The oldest was to be his father’s heir but he is…against the idea.
“My sons will be coming to town today, or tomorrow, but they will not be here, I swear! They hardly ever stay at the inn-”
“Where?”
“...The town, the other residents usually offer, so I do not know whose home they would–”
“Where.”
“...Taiga-san, the rice farmer, intends to house them for this visit.” And there, the death knell begins to toll. “They are on the other end of town.”
“The same rice paddies you sent my vassal to?” She tries not to flinch, but she does.
“The same house with that insolent boy… You saw what happened to him.”
“My sons will not be coming here. I’ll ensure it. And, anyways my sons… are much better mannered.” A hint of pride, petty and spiteful. She slides her hands out from her forehead, arms laid flat and hands open, palm up.
“They will know to honor and defer to you as soon as they sense your presence in the village. They are smart boys. If you call for them they will come. If you do not wish to see them, they will not make themselves known to you.”
“And if I want their heads?”
“...Then I will bargain for their lives.”
Again, he scoffs. But as he crouches down, the wood doesn't creak. “And what do you have to offer me?”
“...Whatever it is you can take.” She hesitates, but she reaches and pulls off the bandages on her neck. She can only smell the sharp tincture of herbal ointment. She can't smell it, her scent, but she can imagine he can.
Winter wind, salt, chestnut. A refreshing scent, her lover once told her.
All she could smell in the aftermath was the blood in the air. The old, darkened spark is just another ugly reminder.
“It was my negligence and ineptitude that I failed to inform you. I should have told you immediately,” she clasps her hands. “I am sorry my Lord, I am so sorry. Please forgive me-”
“Do you think I want you?” She doesn't respond, but he goes on. “Because you are an omega? Do you think that all demons are so tasteless?”
Again, she doesn't respond, but he reaches out and grabs her face, lifts it so that she is looking at him. “Answer me.”
“No, no, you do not, but you could. No, you are not uncouth.”
“So because I could, you then make me the offer? Why? Do you think I will kill you? Your sons? They must take after you,” He says, shaking her face, and Ayumi almost bursts into tears, ripping her eyes away. Yes, yes, I do think so! You make it so obvious you will. You're all the same.
“I told you to look at me,” she whimpers, but does as he says.
When she looks, his head is tilted at an arrogant angle, and he scowls at her tears. “I will not sully my blade with your blood. I have not fallen so far as to spill omega blood.” He lets her go, but before she could sob in relief, he leans in, smooth and agile like the predator he is, so that his eyes are level with hers, his breath cold like a winter sea breeze.
“But you will give me what I desire. Speak.”
Something in her head goes silent, and while she still shivers, her voice comes out calm. Her vision sharpens, almost. She recognizes this-if she gets too caught up in the feeling, she’ll faint. She speaks.
“My father had driven me out after I had given birth, because I had…coupled with a demon. He then took me-us, here,” the words spill. “The owners of this inn were old, and he killed them, as well as the Daimyo and his samurai who stayed here. Then we came here.” The upper rooms have remained quiet and full of dust for over a decade, now. Ever since her sons left and they stopped playing with all the ghosts up there. Sometimes, she would swear she can hear noise up there. She’d go to check, but more often than not, there were only the ghosts of the past.
“Why were they here?”
“F-For taxes. They were…leveraging taxes.”
“...And he killed them.”
She wasn't there for the slaughter. A small mercy, perhaps. “People were starving then, so they were thankful, and started leaving offerings in the forest. My lover had a human disguise, but people still assumed…so they treated us well. The people of this town believe that my sons took over the role of their father, when he passed.”
“How did they know your ‘husband’ had passed? He fought another demon and lost, devoured. Even if there was a body or remains, he would have reverted to his demonic form when he died, so you couldn't have held a funeral,” his voice, mocking.
Ayumi blinks, slow. Shingetsu must have told him. “...Yes, there was a great fire that broke out in the midst of a storm, years ago. During it, people saw–him fighting the other demon.”
“A white naga?” So they did meet.
“...No one died, for weeks after. Vagabonds and gangs started pilfering through here, again. We knew there was another demon when people started going missing again. Or we found remains.”
“Then?”
“Life went on. My husband had killed anyone who came for the rumors, the glory of killing a prominent demon. When they dwindled, he ate the residents.
“But this new demon took mostly the wandering ronin, or whoever came through. They took people, but not as often as my husband did. Never those too young either. People here called it a kindness,” And the vitriol that comes out with the word shocks her. She covers her mouth as he speaks.
“So your husband killed whomever, and whenever, and then, a demon, who is not one of your sons, came and killed him to take his place. And this demon kills more sparingly, so the people here pool their pitiful offerings as thanks.”
And maybe it's the blood pounding in her ears, or the way his hair almost reflects the moonlight, familiar, but she opens her mouth and says, “No. No, I killed my husband.”
He raises an eyebrow, and draws back into her space. Panic rises in her throat again, a trapped bird. “Oh? You killed him?”
“I…had poisoned him, before he fought the demon.”
“How? Why. Did you know this new demon would fight your husband?”
“I had a feeling…he was going to leave me. Us.” Her nails dig into her palm to quell the sudden heat in her eyes. “I didn't know the demon would attack. But I knew he would die that night.”
And he laughs, at her, just once, a breath, and that felt more derogatory than anything he had done so far in this night. Her face burns with unshed tears and shame, anger. She swallows it all, a burning in her belly.
“You killed your lover. “
“Yes.”
“Is that why your sons have left you? Their scents have long faded from the wood of this place, you know. It better stay that way. “ She nods, frantically.
“O-of course-”
“I won't kill you, you lucky thing. The same courtesy does not apply to your children. Your negligence in informing me of them has ensured this. Perhaps if you had been forthright, I could have lent some leniency…The chance is lost now.” He lets her go and rises, and Ayumi realizes she holds no breath.
“...I should rid myself of you, set your building ablaze. But we can ill afford to leave. There will be a storm soon.”
“Then why don't you leave now to beat it, and save us both some misery.” She blinks, then realizes the fear has numbed over her skin like rain in winter. She is disconnected from her body and her tongue is loose.
She moves, to try and salvage her life. “You, you obviously want to leave, and, well, well the darkness of the new moon will last two nights. Why not leave now while you still have the slightest light?”
“...They are all resting. Why should I disturb it and give myself unnecessary grief?”
Does he care…? No, no, he's a demon, why would he?
“...Your vassal does not have a mating mark.” She’s noticed the unmarked swathe of your flesh, and envied you horribly for it. At the same time, she pitied you—and the child. Rin.
She looks neither like yourself or the Lord, and Ayumi could guess her situation no better than she could yours. She looked happy–but most children are easily pleased. She is a child, but she would grow to be a woman, eventually. She dreads who she’ll grow in to be under the tutelage of you both. Someone should save her.
“I’ve noticed their symptoms, and their lack of notice. Is this their first fever?”
He pauses. “This will pass, as it always has before.”
So it was not. He did not answer her observation on your lack of notice….so perhaps you did not know. If you did…would you stay? Did you even have a choice?
Ayumi remembers those hazy days of fever. She did not enjoy the symptoms, rather, the alleviation of them, even if her skin crawled throughout.
Before she could follow that stream of thought the demon turns on his heel, his long hair moving with him.
“Continue to serve as you have. We will leave once the worst of this storm is over, and perhaps you and your sons could remain with your lives.” His eyes flash. “Heed my words. I will not repeat them.”
Ayumi bows, head to the floor. When she rises, he’s gone.
Ayumi takes a moment–to breathe. She looks around the still little room, and clutches her loose collar close to her throat.
She breathes–Once, twice, thrice. Then she weeps.
__________
You dream of a memory.
It was before Rin joined. You’d settled deep into your situation, having spent the past few months already with your new companions, and a few more in this era in whole. It wasn't as hard as you thought it would be. At least you can semi make a fire now.
A fire that was now slowly dying. The embers crawled across the logs like fire ants, but you were mesmerized by what lay above. The sky, that is.
You never had seen anything quite this beautiful before. You dont think you’ll ever find anything better. You don’t gape, open mouthed anymore, but your eyes are wide and ravenous, drinking it all in. Your mouth curls in a smile.
“Go to sleep.” You jolt, but it's just the Lord. His arms are crossed and his eyes closed, he speaks low.
“Enough stargazing. Rest.”
“But it’s all so lovely.”
“We leave at dawn. I will not hear your complaints.” You laugh under your breath.
“Don’t worry, I won't!”
“Lies.” You laugh again, louder, and Jaken snorts in his sleep. A-un peels open an eye to look at you, before he too returns to rest.
It's quiet for a few moments before he speaks again.
“They are the same stars as always. They will not disappear if you stop looking.”
Mirth colors your voice. “I know that.”
“Then why stare in such awe?”
“Because I’m in love.” The way he goes silent and still so suddenly doesn't sit right with you. But you refuse to let the moment fall into something more awkward.
You stretch a hand out. “I just love the stars. Before I landed here I've never seen a sky like this. Remember that electricity thing I told you about? There's too much of that light pollution to really see the sky. At most, in the city you can see a scattered handful.”
“Typical of humans, to spread their dross even to the skies.” You frown.
“I think it's a shame too that not many people see it as a problem. There was a blackout in…San Francisco? Or Los Angeles? Anyways, there was an electricity blackout and so many people called the authorities to report those ‘strange lights in the sky’. It’s so sad that there are people who don't even know what stars are.”
A scoff. “Humans are simpler and better served when you are dealing with plagues and agriculture and demons. Convenience has made you all indolent.”
“‘Indolent?’”
“Complacent. Lazy.”
“I wasn't asking for a definition,” you frown. And then you pout. “...And I am not lazy.”
“You are. You have none of the skills needed to survive. None of the skills a human your age should have.”
You huff and sit yourself up. “And that's not laziness if it wasn't a necessity to know back when. Besides, I learned quick enough, didn't I? I don't expect anyone to pick up after my slack.”
“What person does not need to know how to search for water, or gather firewood, or to make a fire? Who does not know how to stitch cloth or tell time by sun, to identify poisonous plants?”
“All that is taken care of. We focus on other things, Like curing diseases, or exploring the mysteries and laws of the planet, even other planets. More people can afford an education, and industrial production has only boosted!”
“Produce what? Production for the sake of what? Simply because? That sounds great for your feudal Lords.”
“We dont have Lords-I mean, most of us dont–”
“So you produce for a lord that doesnt make any remedies or facilities available to you.”
You pause. Wher eis this going. “Look at you advocating for the lowly people.”
“I’m not,” he scoffs. “But the symptoms put in place work for a reason. Does your endless labor benefit your life in any meaningful way, or is it just for the sake of capital? Can you eat it what you produce, or use it in any real capacity, or do you endlessly produce for the sake of a possibility of consumption?”
…God damn. You dont need a reality check like this. “Okay mister, I know consumerism is no joke–”
“No, it's not, its a preference, not a commodity. You are disconnected from the fruits of your labour. Even the poorest rice farmer is better rewarded than you are in your era. Has the human lifespan been extended just for you all to live in pointless work, pointless excess and vice? That sounds simply like gluttony.”
Your fingers dig into your sleeve. The tone of his voice is reprimanding, and cold. This feels like it's devolving into an argument, and you don’t like that.
“Well, I don't think you should judge a multitude, the culmination of generations, or even just one era by a singular person. One you don’t know all that much about.”
“...I know far more about you than I care for.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“I know that you are in love.” And you go quiet. “You’re a glutton for the privileges you once held. You act like a sheltered noble, as if the world is in your hands. You get drowsy and antsy before a storm breaks. Your first instinct is to debate and argue, as if you are a scholar-”
“I am–”
“--And you are seldom quiet, and lack proper mannerisms. It is appalling.”
“...Oh, well, please pardon me my esteemed Lord–”
“I do not. Also, you are weak and you have no fear.”
“Fear from what?”
Finally, he opens his eyes, and you hope he’s far enough away to miss the skip of your heart. They are impassive, and alight, twin lanterns glinting off the top glaciers of a frosty mountain.
Gods, you’re whipped.
{...behold, you are beautiful; your eyes are doves.}
“...” He stares at you, and you catch up to what you said.
“I mean–! You’re strong enough to deal with any demons we come across, and humans of course don't stand a chance. So… yeah, what do I have to fear?” You raise your hands and let them fall back to your sides, as you fall back to the grass.
It’s as simple as that. You have protection, you are safe here. What have you to fear?
He doesn't have a response for you, and you think he is in agreement. Or at least tired of talking. Fine either way.
You hum, and open your eyes to the stars again, only to flinch horribly when the Lord stands above you, outlined by starlight.
You didn't even hear him move. “And you have nothing to fear from me?”
He can probably hear the thumping of your blood, does he mistake that for fear? His eyes are just too…direct. His gaze was always sharp, but it's pointed now, like a knife tracing your throat.
You half sit up, leaning on your elbows, not sure to rise or remain. It brings you closer. “...No.”
“No?”
“As long as I don't do anything to earn your ire, right? Or your displeasure, then I’m fine.
“And…Have I displeased you, my Lord?”
You curse yourself as you stumble over his title, but he crept up on you so suddenly and you’re startled.
He leans in. You’re enthralled.
Hair slips down, like a curtain closing in on either side of you, and you’re captured by golden eyes, like the yellow crater pocketed-moon, like gold, like honey. You don't even notice you’ve sat up fully, until you notice you’re counting each individual lash of his eyes.
He speaks. “No.”
“No?” Fuck, your voice cracks.
He reaches, and your hair comes between his fingers. He has to cradle your head to do it, and it's like he’s holding you up for his purview, keeping you in place. If you let your weight fall, would he hold you up?
“....No. Unfortunately for you, I am not displeased.”
“Hm? I-I don’t–” you stutter as his hand moves over your eyes. You have to wonder if he can feel the brush of your lashes with each blink, how lightly his hand rests.
Now you can only hear his voice. “You will see the stars for years hereafter. Now, rest.”
__________
Jaken left right before dawn for the things his Lord needs him to get. He has been foraging from first light to the bright light of noon.
Of course, his Lord didn't give him an exact, precise list, or say, anything, really, but Jaken is also a demon, and he understands that his Lord can't just come out and say the things that you need, the plants he needs to forage, for whatever tinctures, teas, ointments. It's not like you’d know, or even ask, stubborn, pigheaded fool.
You're only human, so you do not understand the significance of what this all means. You will, eventually.
The day is gray as storm clouds gorge themselves with rainwater, soon to burst. This delays their plans–they’ll have to stay within this place for a day or two more, at least until the rains let up enough, for A-un to be able to fly without you two being at risk of a lightning bolt.
But as of right now, rain hasn't yet broken, though the top soil is only slightly damp as he digs for roots. He has to hurry, before these too are weighed down by wet and storm.
…Imagine his lord, with his elegant, noble hand, digging through dirt for tangled roots? Ha!
But, he's done it before, hasn’t he?
{You and the child sleep into the night, set to rise early next morning. The area is wrought with demons, but you wouldn't know if not for the dying screams here and there-Your Lord slays all who dare to come too close to the dizzying trail you leave behind, though he himself stays out of sight.
At night, he returns, to check the state of you both, to brew teas from the plants he foraged himself. Jaken never speaks-too stunned by the display, its implications. You do not know how terrifying you are, to influence the Lord as such.
You don't know how damned you are, little human.}
“Where in the hells…” The foliage is so overgrown and tangled, and Jaken has to claw his way deeper into the forest to get the things needed. Everything is too strangled and dead closer to the village.
He has his staff with him. And with all the time spent under his lord, his scent signature is on him as well. The demon wouldn't dare to touch him, unless he wishes to die. Honestly, Jaken has no issue with drowning this town or setting the forest ablaze if it saves his life.
There's a scent that catches his nose. Faint, but so startingly familiar that it stops him in his tracks.
The rice boy, with his spiced musk. The scent of his blood.
“So, the naga demon dragged him out here then, hm? Pretty far from the paddies.” Jaken shakes his head, rearranging his basket like an old woman.
“...Did he taste well? Or was he as distasteful as his demeanor?”
There's no response. He doesn't know if it's because the demon is not here, or whether he smells the lord's signature and refuses to come out. Either way, it's safe.
He should be safe.
Under no impression is he that he is alone. The tracks are smooth and unbroken, fresh, and typical of reptilian demons. He knows he is a naga demon, in the few words his Lord shared with him before returning to his chambers. To you.
{“The demon of this town is a naga, white scales,” he pauses to think, remember. “Plain dark hair, brown reptilian eyes.”
“Is he a threat, my lord-” His nails sharpen and Jaken swallows his words.
“If he was, I would have killed him where he wriggled, the worm.” He growls, then sighs, pushing his hair away from his face.
He sighs again, harsh and quick, and his fangs are elongated, knife sharp and milk white. Shivers ripple across Jaken’s skin.
He understands his Lord could be–is, agitated. You can always put him in that sort of mood, but your frequent heats, over and over and over and over for months on end would put any demon on the ropes. Surely, being so close to you now is having its toll.
Something will have to break–hunger or carnal. Jaken wonders if he’ll come back to a corpse, and he finds himself hoping that, despite…well, you’ll probably be alright.
“We stay until the worst of the storm abates. They should be over the worst of it then; I will acquire some remedies when day breaks to ease them. There is an apothecary here, so I believe.”}
Jaken knows his Lord would only settle for the convenience of an apothecary, instead of the surety of his own skills and hands in such an inconvenient, meddlesome time. So, Jaken has taken the job, even if he doesn't really like you, even if he is a little late, and, a little lost.
He swats his staff around, trying to clear his way in the general direction of the town. If anything, he just needs to avoid where the ground slopes downwards. Although, those seem to be plenty in this near-untouched forest.
Like now. His foot trips on empty air, a sudden decline, and he stabs the staff into the ground to try and right himself as he falls.
“Why are there so many slopes!?” He screams as he slides. He tumbles down, and he scrambles with all his little might.
“It's a mountain range?! Why does it lead so far down-!”
It's not uncommon for a terrain like this to be bumpy with hills and hidden crags. But the slope smooths further he goes.
When he finally gets his footing, he stands to look past the plants that grow past his height, to see that the slope is far deeper than he thought, almost straight down. As he follows it with his eyes, Jaken sees why.
The opening of a mine, half boarded, stands before him. Its outside is black with ash and soot, blackened hand prints and claw marks. He smells the demon, and he smells more blood of the boy. The smell of sulfur, wafting from deep underground.
‘If it is sulfur I cannot light any fires here,’ he thinks. "It will make an explosion and I’ll die as well.”
Furthermore, just to the side of the opening lies a shrine-altar, of sorts.
Jaken isn't getting close to that thing just to get snatched inside. It's an abandoned mine, yet the wind that comes from it is warm, as if heated by body and breath. The altar has offerings on it, half burned incense, silver utensils, and, strangely, a bowl of rice with chopsticks placed vertically within the bowl.
The rice offering wasn't strange. What was strange was it was expensive white rice, and that there was still steam wafting from the bowl.
It's time to go.
This was definitely the demon's lair, an abandoned mine leading underground. Perhaps the offering was made by a foolish resident, praying for all the people who left handprints as they were dragged inside to their doom as they surely were.
He couldn't hear any screams from inside but he wasn't going to be next. Jaken squints more to see the hands that blacken the wood of the mine’s entrance, both big and small. A plethora of victims.
A rustle has him whirl around, staff at the ready. But he sees nothing, hears nothing. He doesn't drop his guard. Instead, he trudges slowly back onto high ground, looking around for the noise. He did not imagine it.
“Who is there? Come, now, if you value your life.” Nothing, except the wind.
“Do you want me to come find you? Or, are you trying to lure me away from your lair?”
If he uses fire, he risks an explosion with the sulfur in the air. Water is the safer bet, but if he ends up overdoing it, he might draw out whatever’s in the boarded up mine, or wash himself away. He doesn't exactly have the high ground to keep high and dry.
A voice, suddenly, high but male: “Not at all- You're very welcome.”
He doesnt recognize it. Neither does he doesn't get the chance to look. Hands come out from the grasses, grasping his clothes, his hands, covering his mouth–he is dragged into the mine with nary a sound.
__________
You sleep.
Not peacefully. You toss and turn and curl and uncurl. You go between a deep sleep into a half doze, and Sesshoumaru stays there through it all. It's a normal symptom of preheat behavior. You’ll either be completely asleep or awake for the day or two of your actual heat.
He keeps a pot of ginger tea at the ready for when you awake. It should help.
The child, Rin, is in the room as well, looking over you occasionally with the tug in her brow. He wants to keep her in sight, even though he knows she is capable with the tanto up her sleeve. Capable and willing.
When she glances at you in that worrying way for the nth time, Sesshoumaru beckons her over.
She shuffles on her knees till she is by his side.
“They are not sick.”
“...I know. It happens.”
“So you understand what this is?”
“Cycle. I’ll…get them. Too.”
“I am sure that they have explained to you their terms for their biological functions. But do you understand what cycle I mean?” She looks at him confusedly, and Sesshoumaru sighs.
If only you were a bit more informed, and not so damn dense, you could’ve been the one having this conversation with the child. She’s practically your child already, with the way you dote on her.
[But she is his too, isn't he? He didn't bring her back to life because she wasn't.]
“Demons have higher senses, so we are more aware of our biology than humans are. There are the dynamics, and everyone fits into one of them. Alpha, beta, omega.” He looks the tiny girl in her eyes, darker than lily-seeds. “You and they–are omega.”
“...?” When she tilts her head he continues. “Alphas are dominant, protective and proactive. Often they are the heads of households, and providers. Betas are more mild, and depending on the individual, fall more towards either side of the spectrum. They typically have softer senses and milder temperaments. Most humans are beta.”
“And…omega?”
“...Sweeter smelling, with softer dispositions. By that I mean they are not as aggressive or forward as Alphas, though, that does not mean they are weak, or invalid. Within demon societies they just tend to be raised that way, so culture shapes perceptions. They are desired for their biology, their sweet scents attract.” Her eyes widen with understanding and he nods.
“That is why demons follow the two of you so often. They are attracted to the blood, yes, there is no doubt of that, but also the scents.”
“Is that why you leave? To not eat…”
“No. If I wanted to eat them I would have done so long before we took you in.” We, we, we.
You shuffle and groan in your sleep, and her eyes flit towards you.
“Then why do you…”
“To kill the demons that are attracted to the scent of it all. As well as…” she turns to him, and Sesshoumaru wonders if she is too young, perhaps, for him to be as honest as he wants to be. Whether or not you are listening in your dreams.
“Omegas are also desired for mating. Procreation.”
“Pro…”
“To have children.’ her mouth makes an ‘oh’ shape.
“That is why Alphas could be triggered into ruts, when synced with their omega’s heats, which is another kind of cycle, the one they are in right now.”
“...And you are…”
She doesn't say anything else, but he knows the way her mind races, her voice caught behind. So he adds, “...An alpha. But I do not intend to father any bastards. Just because these are our biological functions does not mean we need to adhere to them.” Despite how difficult it feels to not breathe in your scent like a man risen from the depths. His nails dig into his palm and break skin, just to heal the next moment.
“So they are yours then? Your…omega?” How simple she makes it sound, as if that's all there is to this. But you are. He nods.
“So are you going to marry them then?” That question though, for whatever reason, is what jolts him.
…Why hasn't he ever thought of marriage with you before? He has only thought about having you, enjoying you and weathering your antics and quirks. And he’s always had little doubt of your reciprocation, only the quickness of it.
Blackened teeth do not suit you. He prefers the gleam of your smile under sunlight. Shorter sleeves however, would suit you well.
Rin, with her blatant, [and frankly rude] dead straight gaze, hums.
“It’s, okay. I always knew you liked them.”
“Since when?” It comes out more snide than he intended, but she just shrugs.
“The way you look. At each other.”
That’s it? He wonders, as Rin moves to you. She pulls off his outer chinese robe that's already half off you. She twitches as he does so, and Sesshoumaru’s ears can pick up the soft pop of static that sparks between her hands and the cloth. Rin stands and lifts it, of course, it's much taller than her and pools on the floor.
If it was anyone else they would have lost their hands. But he watches as she fumbles with the fabric, catching hint a beat too late as she turns the robe inside out, and covers you once more. You flinch before you settle back into comfort.
“There. Better.” She grins, dusts her hands like she worked oh so hard, a quirk she's picked up from you.
“Rin.” She hums again in answer, looks at him.
And Sesshoumaru, he has to wonder if she understands the significance of what she did. She is a child yes, but a child under the care of demons and a Prophet. A child who's died once already.
“You will never have to worry about your future. Your physiology will have no bearing on what path you decide to take in your life.”
She pauses, and it seems like she wants to say something before she shakes her head, and smiles. She nods, and with a bounce in her step, she skips out the room.
You slumber on.
__________
The rice daughters are quite infamous within this town. And as the eldest of them, Kushinadahime is the least famous of them all.
‘What a strong, dutiful daughter. How hardworking.”
“As she should be. She takes after her mother.”
“No, the twins do moreso. They're so lovely in their performances.”
“Do you think Taiga-san will arrange marriages to get them out of town soon? You know, Kiyohime was married quite young. They’re above the age she was.”
“To whom will they marry? They have to marry outside the town, they’re beautiful enough.”
“Well, to the other twins of course. They're a bit late, aren't they?”
“Do you think Kushinadahime will marry one first? Or will the twins be paired with one another?
“She should provide an example and marry first. Or maybe she'll make sure they're safe first? Especially Ohatsuhime-chan.”
Especially Ohatsuhime, the youngest of them, and the loveliest. The most famous, the most pitied.
When each daughter was born it was a day of fear. Because common tales will tell that a rice farmer blessed with daughters will have a bountiful harvest, but everyone knows demons love daughters. And they were all beautiful, but Ohatsuhime was beautiful from birth. Some damned, others condemned. Takashi always rejected that nonsense though. He got that from mother.
That's why each one of their names has a ‘Hime’, princess. Why mother washed their hair with white rice water and bathed them in water from the mountain streams. Quite presumptuous of her, and they've carried the tradition even to this day, sneers and looks of envy following after them all their lives.
After mother drowned, those words and looks hung over their heads from thereafter. Takashi was only six years of age, and she was four. The twins were barely over their first year, and Ohatsuhime was just born.
The ominous presence over them faded, as the years passed but now, with the death of the eldest son…
‘Poor Taiga-son, his only son…first his wife and then his son? How cruel. How unfair.”
“Then why didn’t they move like they were first told to? Even before Kiyohime-san…”
“Well, what are they to do now? Kushinadahime must step up now and secure marriages for herself and her sisters. Who else can support them and her father now?’
Yes, as though she has not been the primary caregiver of her family since mother passed and she learned how to work the stove.
[The only thing better than a daughter is an eldest son].
Takashi worked hard in the fields, and he could bargain for other supplies from other families if they needed. If a demon slithered into their home, he would take that discarded ronin sword and defend them.
But beyond that, he never expected to do anything more demanding than some repair at home. As younger children, he almost burned the house down when Tamayorihime asked him to help with dinner once, as she was sick and their father was, frankly, helpless. The twins were too young and Ohatsuhime was an infant.
That's how she tells the twins apart now, by the burn on Tamayorihime’s wrist. She never let him near the stove again.
She made sure their father was cleaned and dressed and fed and took his medication. She and her sisters made the teas and meals, rice cakes, and the mochi and wine and the sake, with the abundance of rice they always had. They cleaned. They worked the fields. Kushinadahime worked with the apothecary, even if the older women told her not to follow her path lest she be single and die childless. The twins loved to dance. Ohatsuhime was still young and wanting to do everything.
Takashi offered protection, and less work among the paddies. He went past the mountain pass every few months to sell and procure things for them. An extra body of warmth in the winter. A voice to talk to in the night. Brother. With father as he was, Patriarch. All he wanted was the world.
And now, he’s probably dead or being devoured and life has to go on anyways like he never existed, isn't that right?
Why now? Why so close to the New moon? She knew she should have forced him back to bed; Even strong as he was, Kushinadahime was strong too, she had to be. And he was weak from pain, she could have forced him.
It's almost that time of month, when she and her sisters cycle syncs. Blood, of any kind, attracts. It's why they always left, huddled somewhere secluded and safe to wait the bleedings out. Most women of the town were older, and weaker, so they oft didn't need to hide, not like them. Not like Numchi-san, or the apothecary, in her golden days. Or, you.
The irony does not miss her. She has only seen an image of you, dizzy from a fall, the image of a perfect damsel that her brother just could not help but to help, a boost to his ego. You and Numachi-san are very similar in this regard.
Who is going to safeguard them now? They are not some pampered vassal, or bride, hiding away in lavish inns with a mighty demon's protection, fostering and mothering children of his.
…She has to go tell her. She and her sisters still need to go. The twins already left much earlier and she must join them. Just until the bleedings stop. Until it's safe to come back. Safe for Ohatsuhime, who has not gotten her blessings despite her age, and safe for her withering, grieving father. For now.
Numachi-san’s twins would not come here now. They wouldn't dare.
Her twins, Toyotamahime and Tamayorihime, were silent as a tomb, despite their tears when she sent them off.
“The usual time, just a few days. You know we can't stay here right now, not…not with what happened. I’ll tell father.”
“What about Ohatsuhime?”
“We can't send her to Numachi-san. Not with that demon there.”
“Then I'll send them both to the apothecary. I’ll force father if I have to. Just focus on getting there safely, okay?” With an embrace, she sent them on their way.
She’ll join them, after she makes sure that her sister and father will be taken care of. She’ll seclude herself with her sisters, until it's safer to be around them.
She jumps as Ohatsuhime suddenly taps her shoulder. She whirls to meet her wide, dark eyes.
“-hime, it's very hot today. Everyone is tired even though it's not noon yet.”
“...Alright, we can stop for a break then and–”
“Kushinadahime,” They always use their full names, no honorifics with one another. “There's. Something else. Tamayorihime and Toyotamahime already left, right?” Something in her tone makes her pause, but Kushinadahime was speaking and cutting her off is just rude so just let her finish her sentence, please?
…She can feel her skin crawling, like it wants to get away from her body.
“In a minute. After the break lets gather what we’ve got-”
“No, Kushinadahime, it’s-”
“And it's almost time to give father his medicinal teas and did you pack the things you'll need–”
“Kushinada-hime,” Ohatsuhime raises her voice. Few of the workers who weren't already have turned to look.
“Father. Isn't. Resting right now.”
“...Well, I can understand why not.” Is a dead son still called prodigal, or just lost? “He'd be working with the rest of us if he could, I bet.”
“No, sister, he…he left, he left.” It's only a moment of pause, before she's suddenly dragging her baby sister back to dry land.
“What do you mean? When?! Why didn't you tell me earlier? Where could he be? Where could he have gone?!”
“He took Takashi-kun’s blade with him. He found something when we went to check the spot again, oh, I told him not to, I told him to stop, he never goes inside the grove but he kept on and we found– I think he’s going to Numachi-san’s inn!”
“What did he find?” She could grip her hair out in frustration, anger, worry. But as Ohatsuhime holds open the fist she kept at her side, Kushinadahime sees the silver thread–no, strand of hair there, and her stomach drops.
And thats the end of part one! Part Two will be linked here if you wanna see what happens next!
the beginning and end (and what binds them together)
part ii: locked out
✦—⋆𓆩✧𓆪⋆—✦
18+ minors dni
pairing: vashwood x gender neutral afab!reader
wc: 1.8k my god this is getting silly
cw: omegaverse au, beta!vash that can switch sexes and is currently in Rut, alpha!wolfwood, omega!reader, reader referred to as "kid" and "kit" by wolfwood. masturbation. dub-conish voyeursim? reader has slight gender envy of secondary sex. not beta read.
a/n: well. here's this ig. if you enjoy this lmk.,.if you wanna talk ab this au pls let me know.,..its cooking me.
part i: gone, gone
✦—⋆𓆩✧𓆪⋆—✦
In the dark, violet blue of night, you twist and turn in your sheets. Sleep is a far-fetched, fickle creature tonight. You know you won't be getting much of it. Not at the peak of your Heat—the worst of the fever bursting beneath your skin. The ache inside you growing so large that you think it'll overtake you entirely and all you'll be is this—empty, starving creature. Desperate. So desperate and hollow and furious and—
Vash and Wolfwood are next door, in the connected room at this motel. The door is locked between you. You had only agreed to return with them on this condition, if you could keep that door locked tight. Bolted shut. But you know they're still there, can barely smell them and—
The worst is that you can hear them. Better than you'd like, especially this late, when the world is quiet and your heart is pounding in your chest. You know that the wall your bed is on shares a wall with the bed in their room.
And Vash is still awake, no doubt dealing with his Rut.
Wolfwood is helping him, staying near him rather than you, so it doesn't also trigger his own Rut. He's being a good Alpha, ensuring that you're safe, and Vash is contained and sweating this out on his side of the door.
Vash is a docile Beta, though, even in Rut.
He just sounds—needy. His voice dampened by the wall, but you can tell it's wane and thin. You suspect that he must be spread out on the bed in their room, with how close his voice sounds. You think, only this wall separates us. Only this.
"Hah—" Vash makes a sound, muffled by the wall, but you can still hear him well. Well enough. "This hurts. It hurts so bad."
"You been through a Rut before?" Wolfwood's voice is low enough that you have to strain to hear him.
"Yeah—ah, it's been awhile, though. My last one was a Heat." You hear shifting, maybe, or maybe you're just imagining it, "but this feels—different. Worse."
"You got an Omega next door you can't get to." Wolfwood says simply and, if you're smelling right, you can tell he's smoking. The faint whiff of tobacco that seeps through their room into yours. It'd be a comfort if it didn't remind you so thoroughly of him—
If it didn't send your mind reeling with thoughts of him or Vash. You wonder how they look right now; are they shirtless and trying to sleep? Are they close to each other? Far? Is Vash flushed red down to his chest? Is Wolfwood affected?
“Yeah—“ Vash gets out, “Agh—I’m so—“ He’s almost whining, “Hot. I’m burning up. I don’t feel good.”
After a moment, Wolfwood curses. “You’re glowing, Spikey.”
"Ha—" Vash sounds pained, "yeah, I guess. My body is fighting it—fever's getting too hot. It thinks I'm—sick."
There's some shuffling. And then another curse from Wolfwood, this one worse.
"You're burning bad." He says and you imagine he's feeling Vash's forehead, his cheek. You wonder what Vash does. Does he lean in? Are his eyes fluttered shut? Or is he looking up at Wolfwood, eyes like wells of the brightest, most brilliant blue you've ever seen?
"We gotta get your temperature down."
"Cold shower?" Vash jokes weakly.
"Nah—bad to shock the system like that." Wolfwood's voice has gone softer. "With Ruts, the fever dips when—"
Your heart kicks up strangely.
“I know—“ You think Vash says.
It goes strangely silent for a while and you’re left to wonder about Vash; is he okay? Does he feel the way you do? Like there's all this pressure beneath your skin, like it's ballooning and pressing against the tender, pink parts of you? You're aching, down in your lower back, your hips—between your legs.
You twist, turn, and try and alleviate the pain. It does nothing to lessen it.
A hiccuping sound from beyond the wall.
"Easy, blondie." You think you hear Wolfwood say, but it's so much softer. A rumble of sound. It's also closer, though, just on the other side of your wall.
For some reason, you flush with even more heat.
"Wolfwood—" A strangled cry, "Nick—hah—"
A hushing. A low coo.
"You don't wanna wake them." Wolfwood murmurs, muffled. Belatedly, you realize he's talking about you.
There's some shifting. You can hear heaving breath, the creak of the bed, you think.
Oh.
A bolt of lightning through your body, a shock, a realization. Your ears burn. All of you burns. You suck in a sharp breath. You hold it, scared that they'll hear you if you let it out, hold it tight inside you. Everything so tight.
You go perfectly still, can hear the roar of your heartbeat. You wonder if they can hear it in the cavity of your chest, too, gushing and jumping—the pulse inside you that is like a live-wire.
You turn over in your own bed carefully, onto your stomach, and it creaks, too. You wonder if they can hear it. You wonder if they froze or if—
"You're a mess, blondie." Wolfwood murmurs, "so desperate—"
Vash moans.
You squeeze your eyes shut. You press your thighs together desperately. The ache inside you blossoms into something sharper, more painful. You bury your face in your arms and try to endure, try to fight through it.
"And sensitive." He continues lowly, far-away, and soft, "you always this sensitive?"
A little keen from Vash. "S-sorta—I guess. Do you get sensitive?"
"Nah—" Wolfwood says and Vash makes another soft sound, almost a mewl. You're trying to keep your breath from heaving.
(In a sudden, bending realization, you wonder if Wolfwood would've done this for you—whatever he's doing to Vash, if you really were his little Alpha. His kit. You wonder if he would've nursed you through a Rut the same way. You imagine him, over you, voice low and smoky, big hand curling around—
Something breaks inside of you at the thought.)
Your hand creeps beneath you, past your stomach, down between the blazing heat between your legs. Slick and slippery and—
Messy.
You're a mess, blondie.
It's so embarrassing. You hold your breath. You try to be as careful and quiet as possible. You're so slippery that your fingers, too small and too shaky, do little for you. They pass over your swollen clit desperately.
"—I just get pent up, I guess." Wolfwood says, "bet you're needy in Heat, too, if this is how your Ruts are."
"Wolfwood—"
"I'm right here." He soothes easily, almost with too much calm, compared to the broken pitch in Vash's voice, "I've got ya."
And then there's a strange sort of silence, where you can just hear yourself—the sound of your own arousal, of theirs, just beyond the wall. You wonder if they're kissing or how Wolfwood is touching him. You imagine Vash, flushed and desperately, hips rutting messily towards Wolfwood's fist. You imagine Wolfwood doing that for you, you imagine Vash needing you, whining underneath you—
Then, suddenly;
"You thinkin' about them?" Wolfwood's voice is dark.
Your heart spikes.
"Ah—" Vash sounds wrecked, "h-how can I not?"
Your face twists, your fingers push desperately inside yourself. You're so empty and so hollow and so—hungry. So desperate. The ache in you builds behind your eyes, all over. Like one, great, tender bruise. Tears prick your eyes.
A low, rumbling laugh from Wolfwood. "You look so guilty."
"I feel so bad—" Vash mourns, "Can't help it—keep thinking about them—keeping thinking about—"
"Knotting them?" Wolfwood's voice is quiet enough that you have to strain to hear it. And God, do you feel bad that you do. Desperately, you want to hear him, hear it all.
You think about it, too, Vash knotting you. Would he get as needy? As desperate and wild and whiny as he sounds? Worse? Would he pin you, or would he be a mess beneath you?
"Y-yeah—" Vash whimpers, "and how they'd taste—how they'd—sound and—"
"They're so stubborn." Wolfwood inhales. "Ornery little thing. Hard to imagine them needy like this but," he exhales, "bet they break pretty, you know? Not easily, but pretty."
Vash moans, shameless enough that Wolfwood hushes him again, and you can almost hear the smile in his voice. Almost hear that wolfish twinge he sometimes gets. Your fingers move faster, hips canting towards them, towards your open palm, now so slick and slippery.
"Probably on the other side of this wall, sleepin' like an angel." Wolfwood says softly, "and you're here, thinking about rutting into them like an animal."
"Hah—you're—you're talking about breaking them."
"Gently, you know?" Wolfwood says and your pleasure is mounting, building, swarming beneath your skin. All up the length of your spine. In the back of your head. "The way I am with you now, blondie."
A broken sound from Vash.
"That's it—" Wolfwood hushes, "just like that, Vash—atta boy."
Your vision whites out with your peak and, without thinking, you sink your teeth into your arm in a desperate attempt to keep quiet. You bite into your skin, hard, and pleasure erupts inside of you—explodes beneath your skin in a rush of heat. It sparkles, bursting, breaking.
You make the smallest of noises around the skin of your arm, teeth still lodged into it desperately. Chest heaving. Your jaw aches. Your head swims.
Silence, except breathing. Yours and theirs. Mingled together in the quiet, dingy motel on the edge of the world.
"Feeling better?" Wolfwood asks softly.
You finally detach your teeth from your own arm.
"Y-yeah—"
"Try and get some sleep. If you need me again, I'm right here." He says and you can tell he's moved away—further from the wall, and into the room. "I'll check in on our little Omega in the morning, too."
Our. It sings in your mind as sleep finally manages to take you, swift and easy.
And in the morning, when Wolfwood pokes his head in—just to make sure you have food and water, he claims, you can't meet his eyes. You can't even look at him, face overheating with prickly warmth. You snap at him, bare your teeth and tell him to get out.
But he just smiles, moon dark and knowing, as he slips back behind your door.
It's very late at my place but I wanted to put this out tonight! This is a commissioned piece :D
WARNINGS: A/B/O set in normal HXH setting, Dubious Consent (both parties), Yandere, Yandere! Feitan x Reader, Female! Reader, Violence, Blood, Biting, NSFW, Home Invasion
Feitan walked with purpose, a ghost slipping between bodies on the busy city street. Streetlights cast his shadow on the ground before losing him again.
The pavement, slick and reflective from an earlier rainstorm, showed the chaos of the streets: passing headlights, flashing billboards, the hurried shapes of people probably too absorbed in their own heads to truly notice him passing by.
The air was thick with the usual scents of the city. The usual suspects of concrete and gasoline, sweat and perfumes. But then, Feitan noticed as he neared his destination, something worse. Cloying, sweaty floral with a heap of artificial alcoholic notes on top. Too much perfume masking something delicate and loud. He barely twitched, but his nose curled slightly in distaste as a woman passed, her scent dragging in the air behind her like a net. Feitan adjusted his cowl higher over his face and kept moving.
He made a turn into an alleyway and jumped from the creaking fire escape stairs onto the rooftop of a nearby building. A homeless woman sitting by a dumpster had seen his movement up the side of the building and had accompanied his ascent with an amazed sounding ‘huh?!’. Feitan started running, jumping from building to building.
Better.
The job was one of subterfuge, something he didn’t exactly excel in, so he probably wouldn’t get to do much, but Chrollo disliked doing jobs with no heavy-hitters there to be sent in if things went wrong, especially when he wouldn’t be there himself. Uvogin, Nobunaga and Franklin were off doing something on the other side of the continent, Bonolenov had a concert he didn’t want to miss if it could be helped, and Phinks had some omega he wanted to break in.
None of the absences bothered him- he had no reason to care, since he only came because he was nearby and no one else wanted to- but he hoped to god Hisoka wouldn’t show up. Feitan barely had the patience to deal with the magician to begin with, but to be cooped up for days with him, Shalnark and the remaining female members who disliked Hisoka nearly as much as him (save for Shizuku, but she seemed to hold no strong negative feelings on anyone) seemed like an annoying way to spend a week.
Descending back into an alleyway and joining the commuters, Feitan neared the address he’d been given and entered. There were three large revolving doors and a large middle manual door, manned by a widely smiling man in a crisp suit, greeting the guests heartily, his eyes following the backside of every woman he let pass.
The hotel was the kind of place that reeked of wealth—clean, crisp air-conditioning laced with golden filigree on each piece of decoration, chandeliers casting soft golden light over polished marble floors, littered with the same kind of horribly well-meaning staff smiling widely at each passer-by. Feitan stepped through the revolving door, his eyes flicking over the main hall.
He didn't belong here, but then again, neither did she.
Pakunoda sat in the foyer like she owned it. One leg crossed over the other, posture effortlessly poised, she barely glanced up from her newspaper as he approached. A half-finished glass of red wine rested on the small table beside her. Her eyes finally lifted from the page as he approached, meeting his unimpressed expression with a vaguely amused tilt of her lips.
"You’re late," she murmured, flicking the newspaper closed with a sharp rustle.
Feitan ignored the remark, his gaze darting briefly to the headlines. Nothing interesting. He shifted his weight, coat rustling as he slid into the chair across from her. "Traffic," he said flatly, though they both knew he hadn’t taken a car.
Pakunoda smirked, tilting her glass slightly. "Mm. And here I thought you got distracted."
Feitan only scoffed. “Do I look like Phinks?”
“At least insult him when he’s present.” Paku said, placing the glass on the side-table, a brown-haired girl filling up the glass up to the rim immediately without being indicated in any way. “How is he supposed to defend himself?”
“He could not even if he was here.” Feitan said, avoiding eye-contact with the waiter who seemed desperate to know if he wanted something to drink as well. “Who choose this place?”
“Not me, if that’s what you’re thinking. Turns out Shalnark objected to the usual place.” The usual place around these parts being an underground sewage pipe turned shelter for Meteor City citizens. “I think he was still upset about that leak into his room.”
“Heh.”
The waiter girl passed by him again, once more sneaking a glance. Feitan tried to ignore the needy wave of servitude he felt her exude, not needing anything. And even if he did, he wouldn’t call on her, and would instead walk to the bar himself, if only to be left alone.
So, he ignored her entirely, but her proximity sent a wave of eucalyptus and musk crashing into his senses, making his lip curl in irritation. The combination was sharp and cloying, like someone had tried to drown themselves in an herbal bath and failed. His fingers twitched against his knee. What would it take for some people to just walk around with scent blockers?
Pakunoda must have noticed his expression shift, because she leaned slightly forward, resting her chin on one gloved hand.
Feitan exhaled sharply through his nose but said nothing.
He had grown up in filth—actual filth. Rotting garbage, the stench of sewage thick in the air, bodies pressed together in cramped spaces, all of it so constant that it dulled his senses over the years. His nose had adjusted to the putrid, to the rancid, until it was nothing more than background noise.
The second they’d gotten out, his sense of smell had gotten sharper, but after a lifetime of scent being a useless sense, he’d found out that he disliked nearly every scent out there. Every omega smelled like a honeytrap, disgusting him with their scents that screamed ‘look at me! I’m here!’. Alpha’s were more of the same, just as loud with their body odor, filling up every room they came in.
It was the reason why, when working, the first thing he cut out of a person was their scent glands.
He was usually better at dealing with it, though, even his annoyance fading after a few weeks in highly populated areas, but he’d just come from a woodland area, having been occupying his own time with some training. The last fight he’d been in should’ve been easy, but he’d gotten nicked with some third grade kitchen knife on a lucky strike, and Shizuku and Uvogin had been there to witness it, saying nothing but giggling like small children.
For that, he needed to train, if only to make sure that never happened again.
But like always, when he was by himself for some time, away from others polluting the air, he always underestimated how much he hated pheromones until he got back to society.
But he could get used to it, it just took a while. This place would serve as a trial by fire, as in places like this, everything was filled to the brim. It was offensive. Scents that were supposed to be "pleasant" felt intrusive, overwhelming, like being suffocated under layers of artificial sweetness, bleach and thousands of cries for attention.
Pakunoda hummed, tapping a finger against the rim of her glass. "You’d think you'd get used to it."
Feitan shot her a sharp glance. "You get used to bad things," he muttered. "Not good ones."
Pakunoda chuckled at that. She didn't press further. She never did when he got like this.
As he left Paku to her drink to unpack his bag in his room and wait for the remaining orders to come in (Shalnark was hidden away in one of the rooms and was doing intel, it was unlikely Feitan would even see him before the job was finished) and so far the set-up had been going as expected, the only hick-up being one of Chrollo’s pet nen-users lurking around the site Machi and Pakunoda were going to infiltrate.
It was all going well, but still, Feitan didn’t like how loud this setup was. An entire floor rented out? Not inconspicuous. Even if the staff didn’t ask questions, too much space meant too many places for annoyances to lurk.
The elevator slowed. A chime. Doors sliding open.
Feitan stepped out—
And choked.
The stench hit him like a punch to the throat, thick and sickly sweet, curling into his lungs before he could stop it. He immediately noticed the source and felt a hint of killing intent leave his body, which was a frustrating lack of control. Frustration seized him as he stared at the origin.
Footsteps. The lazy kind, drawn out, deliberate.
Hisoka rounded the corner, and Feitan’s nose was once again assaulted by a suffocating blast of bubblegum, so aggressively sweet it made his throat seize.
DisgustingDisgustingDisgusting—
He barely swallowed down the urge to gag. His grip tightened around his bag, and for a fleeting moment, he considered hurling it at Hisoka’s smug face.
“Oh, Feitan,” Hisoka drawled, tilting his head with that insufferable smile. “Didn’t see you there.”
The bastard even had the audacity to reel back his scent, as if that did anything to erase the crime he had just committed against Feitan’s senses.
“Forgive me.”
Feitan didn’t hesitate. “Die.”
“Oh my,” Hisoka said, his face smug as he pretended to be the picture of innocence.
Only one person in the world was allowed to smell that strongly, and it wasn’t the fake weak magician that for some reason had been forced into his life.
(Phinks)
(He was familiar.)
“Stay away from my room.” Feitan hissed as he passed Hisoka.
Like expected, Feitan didn’t get to do too much.
It was a lot of waiting around for a call that was unlikely to occur. Usually that meant just sitting around, reading or training, but the overcast weather made Feitan want to walk around a bit, close enough to act if something happened, but just to get out and away from the hotel.
If they ever had a job here again, Feitan would be sure to appeal to the boss that the sewage pipe was better.
Feitan spent the next few hours weaving through crowds, slipping between packed alleyways and busy intersections. The neon glow of shopfronts and the distant hum of traffic blurred into a constant, mind-numbing background. He hadn't meant to be out this long, but the longer he walked, the calmer he felt.
Eventually, he stopped at a small market tucked away from the main streets, a place that didn’t reek of overpriced perfumes and clashing pheromones. The air here was better. Raw vegetables, fresh herbs, the faint scent of soil clinging to produce that hadn’t been drowned in sterilization. He stole whatever he needed, which wasn’t much. A few vegetables, some simple ingredients. Enough to make something edible.
By the time he returned, the halls were quiet, save for the distant murmur of voices behind closed doors. He stepped into his room, already shrugging off his coat, when he noticed movement inside.
You froze, caught in the middle of wiping down the desk.
For a split second, there was only silence.
Then, you started to talk.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, sir—I forgot to put the cleaning sign up.” You fumbled with the rag, eyes wide as you backed away from his space, hands raised in apology. He realised immediately why you were so flustered, as his sword was askew and partially unsheathed on the table, and you’d clearly picked it up to look at it. “I’m done anyway, I’ll leave you be!”
Feitan barely looked at you, irritation flickering across his face before dulling into something more neutral. His grip tightened on the bag in his hand, debating whether this was worth being annoyed over, but he realized he was partly to blame. He should’ve put on the ‘no cleaning’ sign.
Still, he’d remember your face, just in case he sensed something off about the sword. Nothing about you looked like a nen-user, so he tried to drown out the paranoid part of his mind that told him that if you were dead, it was even unlikely that you’d put something odd on his sword.
Then you moved past him, and something strange happened.
Nothing.
No cloying perfume. No overwhelming musk. No sharp, headache-inducing pheromones. It was like walking past a blank space in the air. The absence of a scent was so unfamiliar, so starkly different from the rest of the world, that he almost turned his head to check.
Despite the lack of scent, you were clearly an omega, everything about you signing off ticks in his mind.
You were already at the door, bowing slightly in a rushed, awkward manner. “I really am sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”
Feitan watched you for a beat longer than necessary. His nose twitched, testing the air. Still nothing.
“…Hn,” was all he said in response. Then he turned away, walking further into the room as if you weren’t there at all. Either you had scent blockers stronger than his, or his walk in the city had dulled his senses completely. Unlikely, as he’d been holding his breath the entire walk through the hallway, damned Hisoka once again for acting like a set of nails on a chalkboard by stifling the entire floor.
The door shut behind you with a quiet click.
Feitan continued to look after the closed door longer than he could justify, before unpacking his groceries.
Feitan didn’t bother hanging up the sign the next day, nor did he go for a walk.
He told himself it was out of laziness—nothing more. He just didn’t care enough to dig it out and hook it onto the door. If someone came in, they came in. Not his problem.
And yet, when morning came, he found himself waiting.
Not obviously, of course. He still went about his routine, eating what he’d stolen the night before, sharpening and putting his sword away properly this time, flipping through the newspaper he’d nicked off Pakunoda. But when the faint sound of a keycard slotting into the door echoed through the room, he didn’t move.
You stepped in cautiously, clearly remembering yesterday’s mistake. But when you saw him sitting there—very much present, very much watching—you froze again.
“Good morning.” You hesitated, gripping the cleaning supplies in your hands. “I can come back later.”
Feitan barely glanced up from the book in his hands. “No need.” His voice was flat, dismissive, like he barely cared. Which, of course, he didn’t.
You blinked. “You want me to clean while you’re here?”
A short, noncommittal hum was his only response. He turned a page.
It took you a moment, but eventually, you nodded and stepped further in. He could hear you working—the soft clatter of supplies being set down, the gentle sweep of fabric over surfaces. The usual chemical-clean smell that came with these hotels was there, but it didn’t cling to you the way it did to others. It was faint. Background noise.
He kept reading.
The quiet stretched between the two of you, broken only by the occasional rustle of fabric and the soft clatter of items being put back into place. Feitan flipped another page, eyes scanning the words without really reading them. His attention had settled elsewhere.
You were still moving through the room, wiping down the dresser, dusting the shelves. It wasn’t just subtle—it was nothing.
After another long moment, Feitan spoke, voice as flat as ever. “Why don't you stink?”
You paused mid-wipe, turning slightly toward him. “…Excuse me?”
He didn’t bother looking up. “You have no scent,” he clarified. “Not normal.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, slowly, you went back to cleaning, though your movements were more careful now, like you weren’t sure if you should answer.
“…I use scent blockers,” you said after a moment, your voice slightly lower. “It’s a hotel policy. We’re required to wear them.”
Feitan hummed, absorbing this information. He supposed that made some sense. But most people still had something lingering underneath. You didn’t. Which meant you were lying.
A curious part of him wanted the answers immediately, to stand up and threaten you with things worse than you ever could’ve encountered in those daytime shows most people watched, but he refrained. The troupe was trying to be inconspicuous in a place that was definitely not that, and he doubted Chrollo would be happy to hear they had to move locations because he couldn’t help but torture a random cleaning lady.
Maybe after the job was over.
Once the rest had left.
Maybe.
He turned another page in his book, then finally glanced up, watching as you wiped down the nightstand. He’d go along with you for now. “It work well.”
You blinked, looking briefly startled, as if unsure whether that was a compliment. Then you simply nodded. “Thank you…?”
Feitan said nothing else, letting the silence return.
On day four, a thought came to him whilst you were dragging a wet cloth across a mirror and he was once again pretending to be reading.
(He’d made a bit of a mess. Yesterday you’d been done too quickly.)
A part of him was getting paranoid. This felt like a honey trap, one specifically designed for his tastes. What if you’d been placed in his room for this very reason, to entice him and lead him somewhere. It was all a bit coincidental, that someone fit for his exact preferences would have cleaned his room, while they were in the midst of a job, to distract him while-
He exhaled.
He looked over the edge of the book, a ripple of dark nen surging to life around him. It crackled, swirling with malice and deadly intent. You froze, wide-eyed, your teeth almost chattering from the sheer weight of the energy he was radiating, the cloth in your hands falling to the floor.
Feitan’s gaze was unyielding. His presence seemed to crush the air, the pressure in the room making it harder to breathe. He wasn’t just watching you; he was studying every inch of you. Your body language, the way your eyes flickered, every slight twitch in your muscles. He was looking for any sign of deception, any indication that you weren’t as afraid as you claimed to be.
Your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel the gnawing fear crawl up your spine. This was it. His nen swirled around you, and for a split second, it felt as though the very air around you was being sucked out.
But then, Feitan stopped.
The nen stopped.
You were clear.
For now.
Slowly, cautiously, you turned to face him, still rattled. “Did—did you feel that?”
Feitan didn’t even look up, casually flipping a page. “What?”
Your fingers trembled as you reached down to grab the cloth, the unease still coiled tight in your chest.
“Oh. Never mind.” You hurriedly gathered your cleaning supplies. “I… I need to go. I’m already late.”
Feitan tutted. You clearly weren’t above a little lie. First trying to get away with playing with his sword, and now this.
“Bathroom.”
“…Okay.”
He’d never seen anyone scrub a bathroom so fast.
Feitan was careful. He always was.
The Troupe knew his habits, but they didn’t question him. If he wanted to disappear for a few hours, no one pried. Still, he took extra precautions—choosing the least conspicuous exits, taking indirect paths through the city, shifting into the background like a ghost. If any of them saw him slipping out of the hotel at this hour, they’d assume he was on some personal errand, something bloody, something useful.
Instead, he was watching her.
He had expected something dull. A straight path home, maybe a stop at some forgettable store. Something mundane and simple. But instead, you led him somewhere unexpected. A hospice.
Feitan watched from the rooftops, crouched against the cool metal railing, his sharp eyes tracking every movement. You didn’t just clean there. You weren’t paid for this. You stayed longer than necessary, speaking softly to the sick and dying, adjusting blankets, listening, nodding. He watched you squeeze an old man’s frail hand before leaving, watched the way a woman smiled at you as you tucked her pillows properly.
Disgusting.
He clenched his jaw, fingers flexing against his knee. What was it with people and their constant need to be good? As if it meant anything. As if the world rewarded that kind of useless, bleeding-heart sentiment with anything other than a shot to the back of the head.
Feitan was already unimpressed, but then you had to go and make it worse.
On your way home, you stopped in a quiet alley, crouching down beside a stray dog—a ragged thing, fur patchy, ribs slightly visible beneath thin skin. A pathetic, filthy, creature. Yet you reached out without hesitation, scratching behind its ears, murmuring something under your breath as it wagged its tail weakly.
Feitan’s fingers twitched, exasperation clawing at his chest.
Of course. Of course you were like this. As if voluntary work and politeness wasn’t already some kind of moral superiority. No. You had to do this too. Next you’d read to some children in a hospital and protest for the environment, if your current track record was any indication. It was so nauseating it made his teeth grind.
Still, he didn’t leave.
He remained in the shadows.
Maybe he had been wrong about her. Maybe she wasn’t what he thought she was after all. Maybe she was just another one of them.
At this point, he kinda hoped for it.
Feitan slipped into your apartment as easily as stepping through an open door. Locks meant nothing to him. Shadows clung to him like a second skin, making his movements silent, seamless.
The space was small—modest, clean, and lived-in. It smelled faintly of detergent.
He moved through the rooms without a sound, eyes flicking over everything, cataloging details. Nothing out of place. No hidden weapons, no secret compartments, no signs of anything remotely interesting.
Then he found the pictures.
They lined the walls in small frames, tucked into bookshelves, pinned to a corkboard near the kitchen. Feitan stared, unmoving.
You with the elderly patients at the hospice, some laughing, some frail but smiling. You with friends at a café, mid-laughter, a drink in hand. You in different places—on a beach, in the mountains, in a busy market somewhere foreign.
A good person.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
Exasperation curled in his chest, sharp and unwanted. He had been hoping—half-expecting—to find something else. Some secret that explained why you’d caught his attention. A trace of something darker, something real beneath all the selfless, unassuming nonsense. But no. There was nothing. Just more of the same.
Feitan exhaled through his nose, forcing his irritation down.
What did this say about him? That he’d left his post for what? A sudden urge to see if his cleaning lady was up to anything interesting? There was something off with him lately, and these kinds of actions didn’t help. Feitan looked at himself in a hallway mirror, trying to decipher what he had been thinking coming here.
The frustrated glare he sent himself through the reflection didn’t clear up anything.
It didn’t matter. This was just a test. Whether you were an exception or just another fool meant nothing in the end.
The apartment was quiet when you arrived, save for the faint jingle of keys and the soft hum of a tune under your breath. Feitan had been waiting- why?- while shrouded in Zetsu, his presence smothered into nothingness. He could stand right next to you, breathe the same air, and you’d still be oblivious.
You kicked off your shoes, setting your things down with the heavy sigh of someone shaking off the day. The mundanity of it all was oddly fascinating—the way you rolled your shoulders, the way you peeled off your jacket with an absentminded flick of your wrist.
From the shadowed corner of your room, he didn’t bother to move when you undressed. There was no need; you wouldn’t see him. You stripped out of your work uniform, shedding the day’s exhaustion with each discarded piece of fabric. When your bra came off, you barely even thought about it, tossing it across the room with a tired, careless huff.
It landed right at his feet.
Feitan’s fingers twitched.
Without another moment’s hesitation, he turned on his heel and left, slipping out as quietly as he had come.
The entire walk home Feitan tried to convince himself his heart wasn’t beating rapidly. It shouldn’t.
When Feitan went to sleep later in the night, having spent too long just staring at the wall even for his own mind to justify, he tried to finally make up his mind on what was happening.
You.
It was your fault.
His frustration, his absent-mindedness lately, his debasing one-track mind when it concerned you. He’d even pondered asking around for more intel on you, and while he could probably get away with it without others guessing it was for… unseemly reasons, the sheer possibility of someone knowing he was pawing after an omega woman angered him intensely.
He was supposed to be better than that.
And yet.
Feitan had always been a curious individual. The human body fascinated him—its limits, its weaknesses, the way it reacted to pain, to fear. He liked figuring things out, breaking things down. The world was a puzzle, and he enjoyed taking it apart piece by piece. His work for the Troupe was just another extension of that. Whatever the boss assigned, he did. No hesitation.
But sex? That was different.
The idea of it felt… wrong. Not because of inexperience, or uncertainty—Feitan had neither, as he didn’t want his dislike to become a weakness—but because it disgusted him. The thought of being tangled up with another person, flesh against flesh, drowned in their filth—it made his stomach twist. Like it would be debasing. Like it would drag him down to something lesser. He had seen the way people clung to each other, weak and desperate, and it made his skin crawl.
It wasn't a popular way for alpha's to think.
He preferred his only 'touching' to be done when he was killing someone, when all that remained was blood on his hands. Blood, so filled with iron, never let him down in its unanimous scent and appearance. Once you’d killed one person, it was the same for any other.
And yet.
His fingers twitched slightly against the sheets. His mind flickered back, unbidden, to the past few days. To the silence of the room while you worked. To the way you passed by him, how you’d moved through your room, rolled your shoulders and hummed to yourself. How he was now able to spot the slight panic in your eyes when you lied to him about menial things he asked you, a fact that equally aroused and angered him.
You could work.
The thought came suddenly, sharply, and yet it settled in his mind like it had always been there, waiting to be acknowledged. If he had to entertain the concept of physical closeness, it would have to be like this. With you.
He exhaled softly through his nose, shifting onto his side.
Tomorrow, then. He would test it. See if the thought held weight.
Feitan didn’t put on his scent blockers the next day.
There was no need. You were no longer a threat—just a curiosity. Something to toy with. And now that he had moved past the initial phase of assessing you, he could move on to the next part of his plan.
Not that he had fully decided what that was yet.
Sex, probably. That seemed the most likely outcome. But if that was the case, why hadn’t he acted already? One answer was that he was simply being cautious.
The other was that he enjoyed this.
A game of cat and mouse, where you weren’t even sure you were being hunted. Every day, you had to come up into his rented floor, moving stiffly around his space, clearly uneasy but unable to acknowledge why. You were always careful not to look at him for too long, careful to keep a professional distance, but that only made it more obvious.
You felt him, and while he was disgusted by the effect himself, he doubted you were similar to him in that regard. You probably felt what every omega felt when they encountered an alpha. Worse probably, since nen-users’ scents tended to be far more effective than just a regular person. Even the first time he’d met you, he remembered how at one point you’d done a double take while walking past him.
And that was even before he stopped wearing his blockers.
Now, there was no filter between you and the oppressive weight of his presence. It was fascinating to watch you try to push through it—how you held your breath at odd intervals, how your fingers fumbled just slightly as you wiped down surfaces. He could practically hear your thoughts scrambling for a distraction, anything to focus on besides him.
You even attempted small talk once or twice. He shot it down immediately.
Your discomfort was amusing.
But more than that, it was telling.
He had been reading—at least, that’s what he let you think. His eyes followed the lines of his book, but his attention was elsewhere. He could see you in the reflection of a full-length mirror, kneeling on the bathroom tiles, scrubbing diligently.
Then, suddenly, you looked up.
And your eyes met his in the mirror.
For a single, stretched-out second, neither of you moved.
Then—color bloomed across your face. You dropped your gaze almost instantly, fingers gripping the cloth a little too tightly.
Feitan turned a page, slow and deliberate.
Interesting.
Maybe you were less opposed to the idea than he’d been imagining.
Room 1509 was a fucking creep.
You’d told your supervisor, told your colleagues, even told Mrs. Brownston while you’d readied her evening fruit cup. 1509 stared, made weird comments, dressed like he was from a weird metal band, and made your skin break out in hives with the odd way his scent would swirl around you. It smelled good, of course it did, he was an alpha, but why did he have to be so creepy about it?!
On Wednesday you’d forced through it, showering the second you got home because you could still smell the remnants of that scent on you.
On Thursdays you wanted to call in sick so bad, but then you’d seen in the groupchat that four cleaners had already called in sick, and you could just already hear the lecture if you came in tomorrow looking right as rain while the rest was still recovering. You went in, hated it, tried to pawn off 1509 to someone else, but since you’d been complaining too much they refused.
On Friday, Paul stepped up and offered to take 1509 for the day if you’d take over a shift when he wanted to visit his uncle’s birthday. Fine by you.
Saturday. 1509 had made a complaint. Supervisor mad, since of course a diamond card client had made the reservation for the creep. No more switching.
You hated this job.
Sunday was your day off, but you still dreamt about that fucking room.
The scent of it stuck in your mind, thick and cloying, something between cedarwood and dark spice, the kind of thing that should’ve been nice but instead wrapped around your throat like a noose. You woke up sweating, heart pounding, convinced for half a second that you could hear 1509’s door clicking open in the hallway outside your apartment.
Monday came too soon.
You dragged yourself in, armed with the strongest deodorizer the supply closet had to offer, and nearly gagged when you saw the itinerary. Deep clean. Full linens. Bathroom scrub.
For some reason, 1509 had decided to let housekeeping in today. Again.
You tried to swap. Again.
"Not a chance," Nina snorted, tapping her acrylic nails against the check-in list. "Besides, you’re the expert now."
Ugh.
By the time you reached the fifteenth floor, your nerves were shot. The hallway was too quiet, the gold sconces casting weird, flickering shadows. Every floor was identical, but lately, you swore this floor felt off. Something was weird, especially since nearly every room on the floor had a no-cleaning sign hanging on the doorknob. Only one didn’t.
Room 1509’s door loomed at the end like a goddamn horror movie set piece.
You knocked.
No answer.
You knocked again, louder.
Still nothing.
Policy said you had to wait at least two full minutes before entering an occupied room, just in case. You checked your watch, forced your breath steady, tried not to think about the weird way your skin felt electric every time you got near this place.
And then—
The lock clicked.
And the door swung open.
1509 stood there, barefoot, shirtless, his too-pale skin catching the light like something inhuman. Like usual, he seemed unwilling to indulge in some base pleasantries like ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’, instead just stoically waiting until you said something.
Internally you just groaned. Why did he have to be shirtless.
…And ripped?
Huh.
Not the body you’d imagined.
1509 had the kind of body that looked carved, muscles shifting under his pale skin like something out of a Renaissance painting—if Renaissance paintings featured creepy weirdos with too-intense eyes and a scent that curled around you like a living thing.
You forced your gaze up. Eyes. Look at his eyes. Not at the shoulders.
"Housekeeping," you said, voice as flat as you could make it.
1509 didn't move.
"Yeah," he murmured, like he was tasting the word, slow and thoughtful. "Come in."
Every instinct screamed at you not to.
But your supervisor had already given you hell for the complaint, and you were not about to get written up over this. You squared your shoulders, gripped your cart, and stepped inside.
Immediately, the scent hit you harder. Stronger than before, like stepping into a wall of it, which was getting to be a problem on the fifteenth floor lately. Alpha scent, dense and dizzying, but this wasn’t your first day on the job. You’d been through worse, and you always came home.
You kept moving, pretending you didn’t feel it. "I’ll start with the bathroom."
"No," 1509 said suddenly.
You froze, fingers still curled around your supply bag.
"...Hm?"
He tilted his head, something almost curious in the way he studied you. "Come here first."
Your stomach dropped.
“Why?”
He made a come hither motion.
"That’s not how this works," you said, forcing a laugh you didn’t feel. "I do my job, and then I leave."
He smiled unkindly, and it felt like he was mocking you. 1509 took a slow step closer, head tilting just a little too much, like some weird bird watching its next meal squirm. Another gust of his scent wafted your way, and your eyes widened in recognition.
"Do you—"
"Nope."
You turned on your heel, grabbed your cart, and walked out.
Didn’t explain. Didn’t look back. Just dragged the cart down the hall, hit the button for the service elevator, and stared at the doors like your life depended on it.
Screw the write-up. You’d deal with it later.
That was not in your contract.
Feitan stood there, completely still.
For a second, his brain didn’t seem to process what had just happened.
You’d left. Just left. No reaction, no fear, no argument—just a flat nope before walking out like he was some inconvenience. Like he wasn’t even worth acknowledging. Like he’d misread your looks yesterday.
His eye twitched.
No hesitation, no stammering excuse, not even the usual, nervous glances that you always gave him. Just that short, clipped nope and then the sound of the cart’s wheels squeaking away like he was nothing.
Nothing.
The pressure in his chest expanded, thick and suffocating, rage bubbling up with nowhere to go. His nen, usually sharp and controlled, bled out in an ugly pulse.
A lightbulb in the bedside lamp burst.
Glass cracked, a sharp, high-pitched snap, and tiny shards sprinkled onto the nightstand. The scent of burnt filament filled the air.
Feitan exhaled through his nose, steadying himself, but his body remained rigid, his mind cycling through a thousand different ways to erase this feeling.
Embarrassment. Humiliation.
His tongue flicked over his teeth, sharp and annoyed.
A knock on his door.
Feitan’s head snapped up instantly, body already in motion before his brain could catch up. He crossed the room in a few quick, soundless steps, something electric curling in his chest—anticipation, irritation, something else.
You came back?
He schooled his expression into something neutral, fingers tightening around the door handle before pulling it open—
Only to be met with Hisoka.
Standing there like an absolute menace, one hip cocked, that insufferable smirk already tugging at his lips.
Feitan slammed the door shut immediately.
Hard.
The loud thud and crack was deeply satisfying.
From the other side, Hisoka let out a low chuckle. “Rude~”
Feitan didn’t answer. He didn’t even move. Just stood there, fingers still curled around the handle, jaw locked so tight it ached. The irritation that had been simmering beneath his skin flared into something sharper, nastier.
Of course it wasn’t you.
Why would he have even though you would return?
For what?
He inhaled slowly, deeply, forced his grip to relax before he crushed the handle in his palm.
Behind the door, Hisoka hummed. “Oh my, don’t tell me you were expecting someone else~?”
Feitan twitched.
He debated opening the door again just to stab him.
Feitan hadn’t meant to come here.
Yet here he was.
Standing at the edge of your street, watching the familiar glow of your window in the distance, the weight of realization settled over him like an iron chain. His route shouldn’t have led him here. He knew the city’s layout well enough to know that. He’d been leaving, having decided to ignore his own anger and frustration before he imploded and destroyed the entire hotel.
So why had he taken this path?
His fingers twitched at his side, restless.
Feitan wasn’t the type to linger. Yet, he stood in the quiet parking lot outside your flat, jaw tight, fingers twitching at his sides. The same old frustration kept bubbling up—how you’d lied to him, walked away, embarrassed him—all while tempting him like the honey pot you were. It was pathetic to punish you for something so small, but Feitan wasn’t the type to let anger simmer away. It needed a target.
Without another thought, he leapt upward, using the railings to climb higher until he reached your floor. Nearly spotted by one of your neighbors, he moved before they could blink, vanishing into the shadows as his shoulders tensed. He was off his game—slow and distracted. He hadn’t even been on the lookout on the way here. Unacceptable.
And yet, before he could stop it, the thought slithered in, insidious and persistent: I could kill them all.
Quick. Easy. He’d go door to door, slicing off the heads of anyone who’d made the mistake of living close to you. A few minutes of work, and you’d feel unsafe for months, knowing how close you’d been to death. By morning, your building would be quieter, but in the days after, you’d be interrogated for hours. The sole door untouched, you’d be hounded for months—years—after he’d gone.
No one left in the building but you.
His fingers flexed, and for a moment, he just stood there, still and calculating. It wouldn’t be difficult—he could be in and out before anyone noticed. You wouldn’t even know—just wake up tomorrow to find the world a little more empty, a little more terrifying.
The thought was tempting.
Feitan tilted his head, considering. Then he exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as if physically shaking the notion off. Pointless. A waste of time. There was no reason to be standing here, letting his thoughts spiral down this path. The vividness of the urge unsettled him—usually his instincts made sense. Usually, his violence had purpose.
Breaking in and fantasizing about killing everyone else in the building didn’t fit that category. If anything, it sounded almost possessive, like he was trying to clear the vicinity and lock—
Oh.
The second he realized what was happening, his pace slowed. So that was it. It’d been a while, after all.
The restlessness, the odd decisions, the damned obsession.
The norm was once every six months for a full week, but Feitan had come into contact with so many product numbing scent blockers that one of the side-effects (namely irregular ruts) had settled into his routine. In his specific situation, irregular meant uncommon. The last one had been two years ago, and he’d locked himself into a bunker using nen-enhanced locks. If he was having sex, it was on his terms, not out of some full-force bodily desperation.
It was already too late for any of that now.
Feitan didn’t bother with subtlety when he slipped into your apartment. The window latch was pathetic—barely a barrier—and the lock gave way with a quiet click under his deft fingers. Inside, he hesitated, just for a moment, one foot still on the windowsill.
He hated how his pulse quickened, how his jaw clenched tighter despite himself. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Before realizing whatw as happening, he’d intended to confront you, maybe lash out, make you regret every stupid choice you’d made. But now, standing in your space, surrounded by remnants of you—your coat tossed over a chair, half-finished tea on the counter, the quiet hum of your fridge in the background—he felt something close to nausea creeping up his throat.
Ridiculous. He had no business feeling anything. Especially not something this... volatile.
He slipped off the windowsill and moved through the room like a shadow, his eyes tracing every detail. It was quiet. Too quiet. You weren’t here. For some reason, that fact scraped against his nerves, and he gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to knock something over just to break the suffocating stillness.
His fingers twitched at his side, flexing and clenching as he stalked deeper into the space, senses on high alert. You’d been here recently—your keys were on the side table, your jacket still damp from the rain. Probably just out on some errand.
The ache in his chest dug in deeper. Why the hell was he even here? He should’ve left the second he realized what his body was doing. Instead, he was pacing your apartment like some feral animal, waiting for you to come back. His control was slipping, crumbling into fractured impulses that made his hands curl into fists just to keep them steady.
Feitan huffed out a breath, forcing himself to slow down and reassess. There was no reason for this. No reason to let your absence bother him, to feel like he needed to punish you for not being here when he decided to show up.
But the thought crept back, sharper now, needling at him like a thorn lodged under his skin: If you were here, he could make sense of it. He’d know what to do with all this energy.
He felt his jaw tighten again, an unspoken snarl building in his throat. Pathetic.
Feitan turned sharply, moving to the window again, fingers brushing the glass as he stared out into the night. He should leave before you got back. Get his head straight. The second he lost control around you would be the second he lost his edge—and that was unacceptable.
But even as he tried to convince himself to go, he didn’t move. Instead, he stayed rooted in your apartment, still and seething, waiting for the familiar sound of your footsteps on the stairs.
It took an hour.
Feitan hadn’t moved a muscle.
The sound of keys in the door. Feitan turned around slowly, muscles coiled and ready. The door creaked open, and you barely had time to react before he was on you—swift and silent, one hand closing around your wrist and yanking you inside. The door slammed shut behind you, and in a blur, you found yourself pressed against the wall, his body caging you in.
Your breath hitched, and a scream lodged itself in your throat, strangled and dying before it could escape. Wide-eyed and trembling, you went completely still under the weight of his gaze—the sheer threat of death holding you captive. You couldn’t scream, but the frantic, uneven gasps spilling from your lips betrayed your panic, teetering on the edge of hyperventilation.
His grip was ironclad, not enough to hurt but enough to keep you from moving. You swallowed hard, and he caught the motion, his gaze flicking down to your throat.
He didn’t say anything at first—just stared, unblinking, his face inches from yours. His aura was suffocating, heavy and oppressive. He noticed every singular detail. The fact you were still in uniform, the small dots of mascara that had smudged under your eyes, the stray strands of hair.
You couldn’t even muster the nerve to speak.
Feitan’s eyes narrowed, and his hand shifted from your wrist to your shoulder, pushing you down. Your legs gave out under the pressure, and you sank to your knees, back sliding down the wall. His hand left your shoulder, but his aura stayed, pressing down on you, making it hard to breathe. Your hands trembled against your thighs.
Silence stretched out, suffocating and tense. When he finally spoke, it was low, almost a growl.
“Stay.”
One word. Commanding. Final. You didn’t dare move, didn’t even consider disobeying, the earlier ease with which you’d walked away from him, still 1509 in your mind, a far off memory.
His gaze stayed locked on you, sharp and assessing. "Why are you scentless?"
You stammered in confusion at the familiar question, words spilling out in a mess before his stare cut through your rambling, forcing you to swallow down the panic. You hesitated, then managed to mutter, “I told you—we’re forced to wear scent blockers.”
His hand shot out, slapping the back of your head—quick and precise. “Don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying,” you snapped, mind reeling with the fact that you’d not even seen him raise his hand. Your words came out sharper than you meant to, but it was clear he didn’t buy it.
“You are.” He’d normally tear off something for the audacity of lying to him so frequently, but stopped himself. “One more chance.”
“It’s a medical thing. The glands kept getting infected,” you began, your voice barely above a whisper. “They were removed when I was twelve.”
You could feel the change in the atmosphere before it even happened. Feitan’s eyes flashed with annoyance, and before you could even react, he slapped the back of your head again—harder this time, frustration evident in his motion.
“Ouch!” You hissed, leaning forward instinctively, even though you couldn’t move. “I told you the truth, didn’t I?”
“Took too long,” he said flatly. “And you are comfortable lying.”
You didn’t reply to that.
Feitan glared down at you, as if blaming you for every issue in the world. You didn’t dare move or speak, staying rooted to the floor where he’d forced you to sit, instinctively knowing that your life could be over in an instant if he decided it should be. His gaze flicked down to your trembling hands, and his lips twitched like he wanted to sneer, but he kept silent.
You knew you had to do something—say something—anything to break the suffocating tension. You didn’t want to die. Swallowing hard, you tried to sound calmer than you felt. “You’re... clearly in a rut, but you don’t seem to want to be. If that makes sense?”
He didn’t respond right away, just stared at you like he was deciding whether to shut you up for good or let you keep digging your own grave. When you didn’t immediately take the hint, he scoffed, lips curling into a bitter sneer. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Your hands clenched at your sides, fighting back the urge to flinch. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Shut up.”
You didn’t. “There’s... there’s suppressants,” you said carefully. “In the cabinet, above the sink. I keep them in case—”
“You think I’d take pills from you?” Feitan said icily, his finger tapping against his upper thigh, the urge to fidget, do anything other than stand still. Revulsion in his own desires and the desires itself warred inside him. It’d be weak to give in, but at the same time he didn’t know how manageable the current situation was.
One thing was certain, and that was that he wouldn’t take any kind of suppressants.
That would be admitting defeat.
You sat on the floor of the narrow hallway, the painted walls of your own home pressing in on you like they were closing in with every breath you took. Your throat felt tight, and you forced yourself to breathe evenly, even as the sting of tears burned in your eyes. Your options were shrinking, the weight of your helplessness sinking deeper with each passing second. The thought of 1509—of him—hurting you made your entire body panic. All you’d done this year was work and volunteer. That couldn’t be how your life ended. You still had so much left to do.
Your voice wavered despite your best effort to keep it steady. “If... if I help you—if I do this for you... will you let me live?”
If anything, your offer further angered him
He closed the distance in a single step, his hand shooting out to grab your jaw again—rougher this time, fingers digging into your skin. You yelped softly, but he didn’t give you a chance to speak.
“You think that’s what I want from you?” he hissed, his voice low and lethal. “Pathetic. Offering your body like it’s some kind of bargaining chip.”
Your breath hitched, and you tried to shake your head, but his grip was too tight. His eyes burned with a furious intensity, and you couldn’t tell if he was angry at you, himself, or both.
“That’s why you’re acting like this, right?” you managed to choke out, barely able to get the words past his grip. “You’re... you’re in a rut, and I thought—”
“Shut up,” he snapped, squeezing harder for a moment before forcing himself to ease off. His lips curled back in a sneer, but there was something almost bitter in the way his gaze bored into you. “You think I’m that weak? That desperate?”
You swallowed thickly, trying not to tremble under his touch. “I-I didn’t mean it like that. I just... I thought it would help.”
He let out a harsh, humorless laugh, clearly unimpressed. “Your help is useless,” he spat. “You’d let me do anything just to save your own skin. Disgusting.”
The words hit like a slap, and your eyes stung with tears again, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away. Despite his anger, he didn’t move—just stayed close, breathing hard and clearly fighting with himself. His fingers loosened a little, no longer digging into your jaw, but he didn’t let go entirely.
Feitan internally felt like he was going insane.
The thought of taking you like that—using you when you were scared out of your mind—made his stomach churn. He wasn’t some mindless animal. His instincts didn’t rule him. He wasn’t one of those desperate, weak things who let ruts tear their minds to shreds.
(...right?)
But it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just the need that clawed at him like it would never be satisfied, his pants tightening beneath his coat and his mind constantly spewing vivid imagery of how good you’d feel. It was this gnawing, uncomfortable urge to make you stop looking so pitiful, to make you stop crying and shaking and acting like he’d break you in half just for speaking. It was possessive and softer than anything he knew how to deal with, and it made his head spin with anger and confusion.
He hated it. It didn’t make sense, and it infuriated him that he couldn’t just shut it off.
The entire apartment felt too small, too cramped with you in it, and every breath you took made him twitch like he wanted to close the distance and either kiss you until you stopped crying or just put his hands around your throat and end the problem entirely.
His fists clenched tighter, and he forced himself to glare at the wall instead of you, his voice rough and low when he finally spoke. “You’re making this worse.”
Your head snapped up at that, wide-eyed and wary, and he hated how seeing you like that made him feel even more unsteady. But no matter how hard he tried to stamp it down, the thought kept circling back—tight and vicious and undeniable.
Mine.
The thought made his teeth grind even harder. It was disgusting. He didn’t need that. Didn’t need to feel anything like that for someone like you. Someone who’d lied to him, embarrassed him, tried to manipulate him just to stay alive.
He wasn’t going to let himself feel this way for a random cleaning lady.
He wasn’t going to let himself get so weak from a mere omega.
He was going to kill you.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t. The idea made his chest feel too tight, his breathing too sharp. He wasn’t supposed to care. He wasn’t supposed to want to keep you safe, even from himself. The silence stretched out, suffocating, and he felt your gaze on him—hesitant and unsure, like you didn’t know whether to speak or stay quiet.
He couldn’t stand it.
Unbeknownst to Feitan, who was unable to do anything but stare directly at you, his internal agonizing made his fingers tense just a little bit more, making the hold on your jaw just that much more painful.
You couldn’t help it. The noise slipped out before you even realized, a tiny, breathy whimper that broke the tense silence. You saw his shoulders stiffen instantly, the air around him going razor-sharp.
He surged forward, lips crashing against yours with a force that stole your breath. The kiss wasn’t hesitant or gentle. Nothing about it was soft or careful. It was raw and unrestrained, his teeth scraping your bottom lip, tongue forcing its way past your lips like he couldn’t stand being denied.
A muffled sound escaped you, half-surprise, half-need, and his hand moved from your chin to cup the back of your head, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
When he finally pulled back, you were gasping for air, and he didn’t move far, just hovered there, forehead almost touching yours, his breath fanning over your mouth.
Feitan’s harsh glare had glazed over somewhat, the earlier frustration and anger abiding, losing to his own instincts.His fingers didn’t leave your hair, and his grip didn’t loosen. You didn’t dare move, just barely managing to keep your breathing steady as you waited for whatever came next.
Feitan’s gaze dropped to your mouth again, his thumb brushing lightly against your jaw as his lips parted, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. His eyes darkened, and you felt his grip tighten just enough to make your heart skip.
“Quiet,” he finally muttered, voice low and gravelly, almost like he was talking to himself more than to you. “Don’t make that sound again.”
You nodded faintly, unsure if you even could make another noise with your heart hammering in your chest.
He stayed like that, barely an inch away, his lips brushing yours with every shallow breath. You could feel the tension still radiating off him, but it wasn’t the same furious energy as before. It was heavier, like the desire had finally settled into his bones and refused to let him move away.
And despite his warning, despite the danger still thick in the air, you couldn’t help the soft, shaky breath that slipped out when his finger traced over your jugular. The moment it did, his mouth was on yours again.
The air felt thick. You’d noticed it immediately, but you’d been too caught up in his rage and the violent way he’d broken into your house to pay attention to it, but now that he was so so so close, it was impossible to ignore. The scent was rich and intoxicating.
Faintly, you remembered having likened it to a noose.
Your head spun, and it took everything in you not to sway. It was like nothing you’d ever experienced before: dark, heady, and laced with something sharp that made your pulse race faster than it should. It didn’t help that he was kissing you again, his presence overwhelming and his scent saturating the air around you, making your thoughts blur together into a hazy mess.
You didn’t even realize you were leaning into him, instinctively drawn closer, until his hand tightened in your hair. He didn’t say anything. You swallowed hard, trying to clear the fog from your brain, but it only made it worse. The scent was in your lungs, coating your tongue, making your mouth dry and your skin tingle.
His mouth found your neck, sharp teeth scraping against your pulse point, and you shivered, a soft gasp escaping you despite your best efforts to stay quiet. He didn’t like that—didn’t like how you tried to smother your reactions—so he bit down, just enough to make you jolt
“Pathetic,” he muttered, voice rough and low against your skin.
Instead of scare you, as his harsh words had done before, now all it did was send tremors of lust coursing down your body.
Both of you were breathing heavily, eyes glazed over and hanging by a thread, on the verge of breaking. When you cast a quick glance toward the door, the fragile thread snapped. His hands roamed across your body, and in a daze of your own lack of control, you tried to mirror his movements, your hands tugging at his coat, silently pleading for it to come off already.
He grabbed your wrist before you could touch him.
“Thats not how this is happening.” He hissed, dragging you on your feet and to your bedroom, where you were pushed onto the bed, distantly noticing the window opened and the lock on the floor. “You. Undress.”
The second you hit the mattress, you scrambled to prop yourself up on your elbows, eyes glued to him as he stood at the edge of the bed, practically vibrating with tension. His command lingered in the air.
Your hands shook as you moved to comply, tugging at the fabric of your clothes with clumsy, desperate fingers. Feitan didn’t move, just stood there watching you, his sharp eyes tracking every inch of skin you revealed. To have him so threateningly watching you made your whole body feel like it was on fire, and the urge to cover yourself was only held back by the instinctive knowledge that he’d just rip your hands away if you tried.
When your shirt hit the floor, his lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but close enough to make your stomach twist with nerves. You hesitated, but his eyes flicked up to yours, warning clear in his glare. Without a word, you continued, peeling away the last of your clothing until you sat there exposed, vulnerable under his predatory stare.
He finally shed his coat, tossing it aside without care, and your pulse quickened.
His hands moved to his shirt, but he didn’t break eye contact, as if testing your reaction. You swallowed hard, unable to tear your gaze away as he pulled the fabric over his head and discarded it just as carelessly. His lean, toned frame was littered with scars and what should’ve been horror at his clear familiarity with violence turned to excitement.
He circled around you slowly, like a shark scenting blood in the water. You felt his eyes on your back, your sides, your legs, and it sent a shiver down your spine.
The tension was almost suffocating, and your hands fisted in the sheets as he moved closer, finally settling onto the mattress with a knee on either side of your hips. His fingers traced along your jaw, rough but deliberate, and he let out a low, almost frustrated sound when you couldn’t hold back a soft whimper. His lips grazed your ear, his voice low and threatening, but there was a rasp to it that betrayed his own unraveling control.
“You’ll be so easy to break,” he murmured, and despite the venom in his words, there was a hint of something almost reverent beneath it that made your inner omega very happy.
His mouth trailed down to your collarbone, teeth scraping just enough to make you flinch, and he laughed cruelly at the way your body tensed under him.
“You’re the one that wants this,” he sneered, his tone dripping with contempt, but his hands moved lower, tracing over your sides in a way that contradicted his words. You swallowed back a retort, too overwhelmed to think straight, and his eyes narrowed as if daring you to deny it. “I’m just obliging.”
You hummed affirmatively, knowing you’d say or do anything to make him continue.
Feitan's hand slid lower, fingers skimming over the curve of your breast, tracing the swell of your hip. His thumb brushed over your nipple and you moaned.
“Pathetic,” he muttered against your skin, but his voice was hoarse, lacking the usual bite, as if your reactions were unraveling him just as much as they were you. He didn’t give you a chance to recover before his mouth moved to your breasts. The feeling of his teeth scraping over your nipple made you gasp, your fingers curling into his shoulders, nails digging in just to ground yourself.
He bit down harder, making you cry and try to pull away from him, which he didn’t seem keen on.
“That hurts…” You said, despite hating the fact that he pulled away from your nipple.
By silent apology, his tongue flicked over the abused skin, soothing the ache before his lips moved lower, trailing rough, open-mouthed kisses down your torso. Each press of his mouth sent a shiver racing through you, and you couldn’t stop the way your legs shifted restlessly, caught between the instinct to close them and the undeniable urge to spread them instead.
His hands slid down to your thighs, squeezing hard enough to leave marks, and you couldn’t hold back the soft whimper that escaped your lips. Before you could process it, he was spreading your legs apart with a single, rough motion, his digits ghosting over your cunt.
You tried to catch your breath, tried to hold onto some semblance of composure, but it was impossible when his hands were tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, brushing so close to where you needed him but never quite giving you what you wanted.
When his fingers finally dipped lower, grazing over your clit, your hips jerked up instinctively, a strangled moan escaping your throat. Feitan’s lips twisted into a mocking smirk as he pressed down just enough to make your vision blur, the pressure light and teasing despite the roughness of his earlier touches.
“What’s that?” he sneered, clearly enjoying the way you writhed beneath him, struggling to hold back the sounds threatening to spill out. “Didn’t you want me to use suppressants? I think you could use them more, don’t you?”
He didn’t wait for an answer—just pushed his fingers inside your pussy, curling them in a way that made your back arch off the bed, another broken moan escaping your lips despite yourself. His other hand kept your hips pinned down, forcing you to take everything he gave without escape.
His thumb traced rough circles, coaxing more desperate sounds from your lips.
Your vision was starting to blur, overwhelmed by the way his hands seemed to know exactly how to undo you, rough and relentless but so perfectly controlled that you couldn’t think straight. An insane part of your mind repeated the same idea over and over again.
If you’d known it’d be like this.
You wouldn’t have left earlier today.
Feitan chuckled, clearly pleased, and his lips found yours again, devouring your mouth with bruising intensity as his fingers continued to work you over, determined to leave you a trembling mess beneath him.
Your body tightened around his fingers, the way they plunged into you relentlessly, and the tension that had been building finally snapped. A wave of pleasure crashed through you, so intense it left you gasping for air, your body arching up into him as shudders wracked your frame. Feitan didn’t let up—he rode you through it, fingers relentlessly pumping inside you as he milked every last tremor from you, watching with a twisted, satisfied smirk as you came undone beneath him.
Your mind was hazy, still trying to catch up with your own body, and you barely noticed when he pulled his hand away, wiping your slick from his fingers on your thighs with a detached sort of efficiency. The absence of his touch left you aching, but that thought barely had time to form before his hands were on your thighs again, spreading them wider.
Your breath hitched when you felt the press of the tip of his cock against your entrance. He hadn’t taken off his pants, merely pushed it down to free his cock, and it felt unfair.
Feitan didn’t give you much warning before pushing his cock inside, the stretch sudden and overwhelming, and you couldn’t stop the cry that tore from your throat. He paused, just for a heartbeat, staring up at the ceiling.
“Please, please, please can you-”
“Please what.” Feitan replied, his gaze snapping down again, irritated you were interrupting him now that he was finally inside you.
“Move!” You begged, your body so overheated it felt like you’d burn up if you didn’t get what you wanted right this instance. A part of you knew your heat had been triggered by his scent, but that thought didn’t hold any power anymore, not like it mattered. “Please just fuck me, I need it!”
He scoffed softly, almost like he couldn’t believe how easily you’d given in, and his fingers dug into your skin as he pulled back just enough before slamming forward again, forcing another broken moan from your lips.
He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust hard and deliberate, like he was trying to drive out every coherent thought from your mind. You couldn’t stop the way your body moved with his, desperate to meet him halfway despite the bruising pace. Feitan’s mouth found yours again, messy and uncoordinated, more teeth than lips.
There was something almost feverish in the way he moved, like he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t get enough of you no matter how hard he pushed. The desperation in his movements was foreign, but it drove him faster, deeper, and your hands scrambled for purchase against his shoulders, unsure whether to pull him closer or push him away.
The room was filled with the sounds of your gasps and his harsh breathing, mingled with the rhythmic slap of skin on skin. The heat between your bodies was suffocating, leaving you lightheaded and completely at his mercy. You could feel the tension building again, winding tight in your core, and the way he shifted his angle, hitting deeper and making your vision blur with the force of it.
Feitan cursed under his breath, his rhythm faltering just for a moment before he picked it back up, even rougher than before. You were barely holding on, unable to think, unable to do anything but cling to him as he drove you closer and closer to the edge once again.
Time seemed to blur, each moment melding into the next as Feitan's relentless pace continued—shifting and changing, never quite letting you catch your breath.
You lost count of how many times he repositioned you—fucking you pressed against the wall, sprawled over the edge of the bed, pulled onto his lap having you ride his cock with his hands digging into your waist. Every new angle brought a fresh wave of heat crashing through your body, each touch rough and unapologetic. He barely gave you time to recover before pushing you further.
Your body ached, skin flushed and sensitive, and yet every time you thought you couldn’t take any more, he’d lean in close and tell you to stop being pathetic, which unfortunately did turn you on tremendously. His need seemed insatiable, and even having heard about ruts plenty in your life, you couldn’t imagine it was like this with everybody.
Hours passed, marked only by the gradual shift from moonlight to the first hints of dawn creeping through the window. Your body was heavy with fatigue, limbs trembling and skin glistening with sweat, but Feitan showed no signs of stopping
By the time the sky began to lighten, his movements had finally slowed, the tension in his shoulders loosening as his breathing evened out. You could barely move, every inch of you feeling worn out and thoroughly claimed, but there was a strange sense of peace settling over the room, the air finally cooling as the feverish heat subsided.
Clarity crept back in slowly, cutting through the haze like a knife. You were drained and felt disgusting- your entire body covered in cum, a little bit of blood–1509 really loved biting–and sweat, but your thoughts were finally starting to piece themselves together.
Fuck.
Reality hit hard, and you couldn’t help but curse inwardly. This was just a break—nothing more. Both of you knew it. Ruts didn’t just end after one night; they lasted at least a week, sometimes more, with only brief windows of rest in between. You’d never shared one with anyone before, and now here you were, trapped with the guy from work who’d broken into your apartment and taken you apart like he owned you.
1509 wasn’t lying next to you. He’d shoved your hands away when you (overcome with hormones and post-orgasmic affection) tried to cuddle, snapping at you to quit being clingy. Instead, he sat cross-legged next to you, reading a book he’d swiped from your shelf. The lamplight cast shadows over his face, and his attention seemed entirely fixed on the pages, but you knew better. He noticed the second your breathing shifted from the slow rhythm of sleep to the shallow breaths of regret.
You pressed a hand to your forehead, trying to force down the panic bubbling up. “Oh god,” you mumbled, covering your eyes. “This is... You don’t even know my name.”
“False. I know your name. You just don’t know mine.”
You hesitated, unsure whether you actually wanted to know, but curiosity won out. “...Which is?”
He turned a page slowly, the faintest hint of irritation creeping into his tone. “Irrelevant. For now.”
A shaky breath left your lips, and you swallowed thickly before forcing yourself to ask the question gnawing at the back of your mind. “Are you... gonna kill me when this is over? You know, just in case I... tell someone?”
Feitan huffed, a dark, humorless laugh slipping through his lips.
When his mind had finally cleared, a part of him had been disappointed in himself, but the other part felt a strange, newfound control. Every inch of his body had been sated, and even the lingering scent of sex only served to further satisfy him. Perhaps denying himself for so long had been a foolish endeavor. Starvation only dulled the senses.
Now that he had you, there was no need for restraint.
“No.” His gaze finally flickered over to you, a cruel glint dancing in his eyes. Every bit of earlier apprehension was gone, his frustration at his own lack of control having shifted into satisfaction. “By then you’ll know better.”
┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: eldest daughter of otto hightower, ser harwin strong is your sworn shield — but what happens when talk of betrothals evokes longstanding sentiments from your protector?
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: harwin strong x fem!hightower!reader.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 12.1K.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), canon-typical misogyny, threats of violence, loss of virginity, inexperienced reader, religious guilt, forbidden romance / relationship, ungodly levels of pining, a hint of dirty talk, praise kink, hair pulling, size kink / size difference, making out, begging, fingering (fem!rec), excessive use of princess as a title, unprotected p in v sex, missionary position, breeding kink if you squint, soft ending + aftercare.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: first time writing for harwin so please be gentle 🫶 I tried to give him more of his own personality since we don’t get to see much of it but BOY did I have so much fun writing this !! I hope you all love it too!
Within the blossoming, emerald grove of the Kingswood, the celebratory nature of the encampment seemed alight with glee. Having traveled at the first light of dawn to make it here, your bones still groaned with the breath of slumber.
It was Prince Aegon II’s second name day, the noble caravan buzzing with delight in regards to your pale-headed nephew. Excitement permeated the air, but it was your concern for Alicent that triumphed above all else.
The unorthodox union between your younger sister and King Viserys was something that had torn a rift through your family, sowing seeds of bitter resentment towards your father, Otto Hightower. His continuous grasp at power at the expense of your kin had made you full of a constant anguish.
With little desire to engage with your father on any political matter, you had distanced yourself from the current feast, sitting soundly along the fringes of the forest. A whistling wind blanketed your tepid features, undeniably stuffy within the confines of your olive-hued gown.
A twinge of campfire smoke fell upon the breeze, accompanied by a delectable myriad of foodstuffs — cooked venison, seared elk, a variety of spices. A gurgle lurched within your stomach, the stirring of hunger biting at you.
As your gaze fell upon Alicent, belly swollen with her second child, Aegon squirming within her grasp, you knew that your time was running short. There were whispers, rumors that you were condemned to the life of a spinster if you were to continue to remain unmarried.
The sister of a Queen, of the Queen, a princess — proposals had made their way to Otto Hightower’s desk, scion of the Hand of the King. Advantageous matches were sure to follow, and you grew despondent at the thought of being shackled to some pompous nobleman.
Marrying for love was always something you sought, the desire to have such affections blossom, to be courted — not thrust into something unwanted. Nevertheless, you resigned yourself to such a miserable existence, counting down the days until your father would break the news to you.
“Sullenness does not suit you, Princess.”
The bemused cadence of Harwin Strong shattered your forlorn contemplation, his timbre disarmingly gentle as he stood a few feet away. One palm rests atop the pommel of his shortsword, clad in lighter armor, tabard bearing the sigil of House Strong.
Becoming your sworn shield was a great honor for his House — his father served as Master of Laws for King Viserys, and he was assigned to safeguard the Hand’s eldest daughter. Harwin had proved a spot of light within the dull, cloudy haze of your life, something that you were grateful for.
Only four name-days your senior, Harwin had become something of a friend, if such bonds were even considered appropriate. Nearly a year had passed since this assignment, and you couldn’t have been any more grateful.
Harwin was incredibly resilient, a man of honor and a Knight of the realm with a sensible streak of humor. He also proved to be a talented listener; you were lucky in that regard. It wasn’t often that one could confide in their protection.
He lacked his usual coat of arms, dressed for the tepid weather, broad shoulders concealed with an azure cloak. The Knight’s mane of brunette curls had been pulled into a half-bun, visage shrouded by a rugged beard.
His gaze followed yours, drawn to the woodlands, a sea of trees with pale bark and lush leaves, stricken by the first lick of autumn. Despondency weighed heavy within your shoulders, a position indicative of self-imposed loneliness.
“It does not,” In agreement, you canted your head, squinting at the angle of sunlight that pooled upon your visage. “Do you intend to join the hunt, Ser Harwin?” You inquired, cupping one hand around your brow.
“Aye, Princess. My father requested my presence, I should do well to heed his wishes,” Harwin stepped closer, coming to stand beside you, staring into the forest you seemed so enamored with. “I should not be gone for very long.”
With a lazy shrug of your shoulders, you idly twisted at a stray thread that hung from your sleeve, tresses roused by the passing gale. “The thought of slaying a helpless animal does not exactly fill me with joy,” You sighed. “Ladies are not permitted to join, as it stands.”
Harwin bristled, jaw tensing for a fraction of a second. It was your heart that had beguiled him so, one of tenderness, innocence; a penchant for kindness to all things, even lowly creatures. With your station, you were often bound to duty, to the whims of those greater than yourself.
As your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, you envisioned laying within sun-warmed meadows, cushioned by verdant grass, surrounded by wildflowers. One could smell the petrichor, the thick scent of a waning midsummer.
“It is tradition, Princess — I take no pleasure in claiming a life, I assure you,” Harwin reassured, broad shoulders heaving with a steady exhale. Breakbones; aptly named for a man of his herculean stature. “Do you not wish to join your Father?”
Mere mention of your callous patriarch had set your nerves ablaze with a flurry of anger, brows furrowing together as you shook your head. “I do not,” Mustering up a threadbare smile, your gaze drifted to your stalwart protector. “He has Alicent and his grandchild to keep him company.”
Otto Hightower was a complicated man — calculating, cunning, and enigmatic. Some time ago, your relationship hadn’t been so horribly frayed; now, it seemed lost forever.
The ruthless desire for power he often exuded had never sat well with you, especially as you blossomed into womanhood. His manipulation of Alicent, constant scheming, the cold shroud he wrapped himself in after your mother’s passing.
Harwin was privy to some of the more intimate details between yourself and Otto — it made him fester with some lingering distaste for the elder Hightower. Nevertheless, it was not his place to interfere in such business, but he knew enough.
“You’ve yet to eat,” A chiding lilt permeated his soothing baritone, palm rolling over the pommel, blade snug within its scabbard. “Must I forcibly escort you to the feast?” His question was indiscernible, dancing between humor and stoicism.
“I am not hungry,” Your protest was noticeably weak, betraying your true nature. Harwin’s gaze narrowed as he jerked his head back in the direction of the numerous tables, piled with heapings of foodstuffs. “Must we?”
“I will shield you from your Father if it means you sate your hunger, my Lady.” Humor tugged at his voice as he extended one hand to you, politely helping you from the stone you perched upon. As you stood, he had allowed his touch to linger, longer than propriety permitted.
Something stirred within your heart; calloused, sword-worn palms handled you with a disarming tenderness. For a moment, you nearly envisioned yourself with Harwin, beyond mere bond of a sworn protector and their charge.
It was abhorrently sinful, you knew this — and yet, you could not help but allow the fantasy to gallop within your mind’s eye, even for a second. Harwin was one of the few constants within your existence, one that did not seek to bring you misery.
Once you stood upright, you nearly tore your hand away as if you’d been kissed by fire. Harwin pretended not to notice your sharp recoil, dark brows furrowing together as he moved to follow at your side, keeping a comfortable distance.
Part of him detested this arrangement for one single-minded reason — he was unable to be with you.
If he were not sworn to your side, perhaps he would be one of the eligible courtiers stacked upon Otto Hightower’s desk. Honor demanded that he keep his head about him, treat you with a stoic amicability, but you made it so difficult.
The more he grew to know you, your heart, the harder it became to execute such restraint, to become an observer to the inevitable match your father would find. Harwin prayed to the merciful Gods that this affection would fade with the passage of time.
So far, he was exceedingly unlucky.
Touched by a forlornly disposition that betrayed your jubilant nature, Harwin loathed seeing you this way, your wings clipped. As you walked beside him toward the nearest table, he could feel the hawkish glower of Otto Hightower from across the way.
Lord Lucan Mullendore had attended the nameday festivities with the intention to propose a marriage pact between his House and yours, and if you were not careful, he would get his wish.
Harwin found the elder Lord to be somewhat reprehensible — withered and dull. He was not a foul man, but what young maiden desired a marriage with someone nearly thrice their age? He could not think of one.
It was the opposite of what you deserved, and he knew that he had no say in the matter. Lowering yourself onto the wooden bench, back turned to your Father, Harwin sat across from you, keeping a vigilant watch of your surroundings.
Retrieving a silver platter, you ensured to heap it full with basted chicken and helpings of fruit, plucking a grape into your mouth. “You needn’t spend all of your time with me, Ser Harwin. Your family is in attendance, too.”
A scoff escaped him, lips flashing with a brief grin as he took a swig of frothy ale. “My brother is as grim as he is odd,” He uttered, shoulders rolling in a brief shrug. “Trust me, I would rather remain by your side. You are cheerful company.”
“You called me sullen some time ago,” Unable to withhold a smile, the remark brought a brief laugh to your lips, and Harwin appeared triumphant. “You’ve changed your mind rather swiftly on the matter.”
Tucking one hand beneath your chin, you seemed far more relaxed than you had when he found you ruminating. “I changed yours.” He countered, earning a laugh from the both of you as you continued to eat.
The gnaw of hunger began to dissipate, warmed beneath the midsummer’s sun. It was not a horribly hot day, temperate enough to allow for some reprieve from the heat. The rich, juniper velvet of your gown did little to ease the weather’s sting, however.
“How fares your father, Ser Harwin? I’ve heard that he has excelled as Master of Laws,” Ser Lyonel was a good man, one that seemed to curry favor amongst the Small Council. “My Father speaks highly of his integrity.”
Harwin chortled, halfway through a hearty helping of chicken, eyes shimmering with amusement. “I did not know your Father spoke highly of anyone at all,” He mused, and decided to correct himself. “My apologies, Princess — that was untoward.”
Dismissive of his jab, you seemed to find some humor in it, a smile tugging at either corner of your mouth. “It is exceedingly rare that he does,” You admitted, twirling your fork betwixt your fingers. “Do not apologize, Ser Harwin.”
With a mere nod, the Knight continued, allowing a bout of silence to linger. Hues of aegean fluttered toward your lips, in the midst of biting into a grape, a droplet of juice tumbling down your chin.
It was wildly crass of him to be watching you this way, in all of your resplendence; besmirching your honor through gaze alone. Harwin was often vexed by your beauty and subdued charm, fixated upon you as you continued to feast, his ogling going blissfully unnoticed.
If it weren’t for the locale, he might’ve permitted himself to admire your features for a moment longer. Prying his eyes away, he cleared his throat, a grunt stirring within his chest.
“What will you do while we hunt?” It was an innocuous question, meant to distract himself from the maelstrom of thoughts that raged within his head. He suspected that you would remain by your sister’s side, if allowed.
From over your shoulder, Harwin’s gaze fell across the misshapen form of Lord Mullendore and the taller shape of Lord Wylde, brows creasing together. Both of them were whispering in your father’s ear, conspiring — it was easy to discern what exactly they spoke about.
“Entertain my nephew, if my sister is agreeable to it,” Handling children amidst this setting was likely grueling, especially if handmaidens weren’t available. “If not that, I would like to walk — I so adore nature, and this is an ample opportunity to be amongst it.”
Between your sweet cadence and the conniving Lords, Harwin’s attention centered itself upon you once more. The irritation, however, was not as easy to conceal as he thought. “I can escort you once the hunt has concluded.” He did not fully enjoy the thought of you alone in a forest.
A polite giggle slipped from your mouth, nose beginning to wrinkle with wry amusement. “I do not need your assistance to pick wildflowers, Ser Harwin.” You mused, gaze picking apart his dour countenance, wondering what had angered him.
Adjusting his position, the wood of the bench groaned beneath his weight. The Knight remained eerily quiet for a few beats, allowing himself a threadbare smile to placate your curiosity. “You do not, but the woods are not safe alone.”
“You look agitated,” The soft hush of your voice had barely registered with Harwin, who had busied himself with picking apart the pair of older men from afar. “Whatever is the matter?” As the inquiry fell from your lips, your head began to crane, chasing after his stare.
The sight of Lord Mullendore and Lord Wylde hovering around your father made your stomach plunge, exhale trembling as you turned back around. Harwin took note of your glaring discontent, seemingly sympathetic of your predicament.
A sigh of dismay tore past your parted lips, and you attempted to focus on cleaning your plate, belly screaming with anxiousness. “I prayed to the Seven that he would let this matter rest for today.” Your utterance seemed wrought with discouragement.
Before he could interject with a kind, comforting word, a guard bearing the Targaryen crest approached your table. “The Lord-Hand requests your presence, Princess.” He huffed, shrinking beneath the pointed stare of Ser Strong.
“Of course, Ser — thank you.” Swallowing the bile that began to stir within your throat, you gathered your skirts, skittering from the bench. Your gaze shifted towards Harwin, silently pleading for him to come with you.
As Breakbones began to rise from his seat, wiping his hands against a dirtied handkerchief, the guard abruptly cleared his throat. “Just the Princess, Ser.” He uttered, somewhat fearful of upsetting the hulking Knight.
“Your Lord-Hand can tell me himself.” Harwin grunted, moving to push past the courier with a brief scowl. Caring little for whatever consequences it wrought, he made sure to escort you the few feet it took to make it to the royal table.
Ensuring that his disdainful visage remained hidden, he straightened up, more concerned for you and how you would fare amongst the vultures. Any intelligent man might’ve not gotten so attached to their charge — Harwin did not always consider himself sharp.
The pace of both yourself and Harwin were intentionally sluggish, crawling at a snail’s pace as the two of you made your way toward the King’s table. He stole a glance at you, and he wished to steal you away at that moment.
“Ser Harwin, you needn’t draw the ire of my father,” Beneath your breath, your utterance felt light, somewhat conspiratorial. “Do not get yourself into trouble on my behalf.”
“Isn’t that what I’m best at, Princess?” Harwin remarked, suppressing the urge to grin, lips quirking into the ghost of a smirk. “You cannot dissuade me now — we are nearly there.” He murmured, shifting to stand a pace behind you, casting you in the shadow of his silhouette.
As you stopped before the sprawling table, adorned in a pale cloth and surrounded by members of the Small Council, your eyes found your Father’s staunch expression. “Father.” You greeted, dipping into a curtsy.
The Hand appeared perplexed by Harwin’s presence, lofting a brow at the unexpected intrusion. “You may leave us, Ser Harwin.” Otto uttered, preferring this conversation occur without the additional ears of your sworn shield.
Harwin’s feet felt like weighty stone, anchored to his place beside you, grip upon his pommel becoming unnaturally snug. He did not like leaving you this way, but it was his own Father’s sharp cough that drew him away.
“As you wish, Lord-Hand.”
As Harwin took his leave, you nearly wanted to crawl away with him, flesh yielding to the hawkish glares of Lord Mullendore and Lord Wylde. Both men were twice your age, Lord Mullendore nearly thrice, making your stomach turn with contempt.
“This is my daughter.” Otto presented you with a wave of his hand, and you forced yourself to look elsewhere — at Alicent. The shrewd gaze of your younger sister seemed to hold a sliver of pity, of understanding.
Lord Wylde surged forth first, taking ahold of your hand as he pressed a kiss upon your knuckles. The gesture might’ve been amiable if it weren’t for the lecherous stare he gave you. “Lord Jasper Wylde, Lord of the Rain House.”
“An honor, my Lord.” Unwilling to forget your manners, you decided to placate your Father with pleasantries, bowing before him. You did not say much else, save for one crucial inquiry. “Will you be joining the King’s Hunt this afternoon?”
From a nearby table, Harwin observed with a thinly-veiled agitation, jaw tense as he attempted to bottle his anguish. It would’ve been questionable to many had he allowed himself to be temperamental regarding your situation.
“Of course. It will be a thrilling hunt, that much is for certain,” Lord Wylde mused, straightening his overcoat with a huff. “May the King’s aim be true — slaying a stag isn’t easy work.”
“I am deeply sorry to hear of your third wife’s passing, Lord Wylde — please accept my condolences. I understand she meant a great deal to you.” Made to be some subtle stab towards the Stormlander, you gained some satisfaction in watching him become rather flustered.
Three wives and twenty-five children — Lord Wylde was full of a darkened lust, one that chafed at you the more you glanced at him. It was pitiful, and you did not make an attempt to speak again, hands briefly fisting themselves into your velveteen skirts.
Lord Mullendore stepped forth into the fray, seizing the opportunity to bow before you, attempting to grab your hand. You nimbly evaded the gesture by sidestepping to make way for a servant, carrying hearty pitchers of Arbor Red.
“Lord Lucan Mullendore — a pleasure, Princess.” Amusingly enough, you would’ve rather taken Lord Mullendore over Lord Wylde. The elder man seemed more akin to a kindly grandsire than true a deviant — but the competition was horrid.
“Likewise, my Lord.” With another courteous curtsy, you felt the penetrating glower of your Father pierce through you, brows furrowed together. It was difficult to discern if he was angry or simply indifferent to all of this frivolity.
“The hunt is soon to begin — we should prepare to caravan with the King,” Otto intercepted, knowing that you had played nice for him — for now. Disdain often shimmered within your eyes whenever you looked at him. Perhaps one day, you would shed your naivety. “Daughter.”
As the men rallied the horses and their tracking hounds, you felt your Father’s hand brush over your shoulder in a brief pat. It was rare, the gesture — and you thought little of it.
Lord Wylde and Lord Mullendore reconvened with their respective houses, mounting up to join the King’s hunting party. A semblance of relief rippled through you, knowing that you’d be free of those men for the foreseeable future.
In the midst of the clamor and excitement, Harwin had found you, saddling his horse, a gelding that was of a black coat, dappled with flecks of gray along his muzzle. He had made himself scarce once the Lords departed.
He loathed the scene of Jasper Wylde’s lips against your flesh — unworthy, uncouth. Harwin envisioned knocking the man’s teeth in, not wanting to imagine what he thought of, being in such close proximity to you. His blood ran hot in the aftermath, and this proved to be a worthy distraction.
“Ser Harwin,” Akin to a bird’s song, your soft cadence derailed his current string of thoughts. He turned, a semblance of relief flooding through him, knowing that you didn’t seem too put-off by your former company. “Must you go?”
If it weren’t for the demand of his Father and the upkeep of appearances, he would’ve gladly stayed by your side, content to stroll with you through the wilderness. “I shall return soon enough, Princess. You’ll have to thank me later — you might not see Lord Wylde again.”
A gasp escaped your parted lips, one of obvious shock. “You wouldn’t dare,” You nearly thought he was serious, the way his gaze had narrowed when the word Wylde left his mouth. Harwin chuckled, a grin spreading across his grizzled features. “You should not jest about such things!”
“A man of his inexperience might tumble from his horse, or trip over the undergrowth,” Continuing to tease with thinly-veiled threats, Harwin had half a mind to act; men stumbled often, all he needed to do was push. “I apologize, Princess.”
As a soft huff rippled through your diaphragm, you couldn’t help but let your amusement show. Harwin was notorious for his strength — indomitable, a fury that put others to shame. You did not want to imagine what it would be like if he chose to act upon such urges.
“If those are my choices, I might be better suited for Lord Mullendore.” Despite the lilt of humor that sank into your words, your tone still carried a sense of despondency, of frustration. A disparaging sigh unfurled from you, then.
Harwin bristled, brows drawing together as he sensed your melancholy. He wished that he could rip it all away if he could. The Knight turned fully to you, visibly empathetic towards your plight. “If I may speak plainly, Princess, neither are deserving of you. You deserve someone better.”
Some strange stirring gripped your heart, a surge of elation that you hadn’t quite experienced before. It made your nerves burn, belly churning with a tumultuous fire. Gooseflesh began to crawl along your spine like creeping ivy.
It was the way he looked at you — protective, reassuring, as if you were the sun itself.
No man had gazed upon you with such fierce intensity, and Harwin exuded overprotection, as if he were a stone wall, made to safeguard you from the outside world. As he spoke of you deserving someone better, your mind had leapt to him — Ser Harwin Strong, your sworn protector.
Inklings of sin blossomed within your heart, knowing how wrong it was of you to want him, to desire his company in a way that transcended dignified honor. A peculiar heat slithered over your body like a tepid haze, threatening to smother you from within.
“You have my gratitude, Ser Harwin. I should hope that such a man exists for me — though I fear if he does, it may be too late,” With a wisp of a smile, you folded your hands together. “I am resigned to this fate — it seems futile to flee.”
Gods, he burned for you — the air within his lungs stung, his body incinerated by a fever beset by you, tender hues drawing themselves toward the ground. Harwin dared not touch you, grip ironclad upon his pommel to keep from cupping your chin.
“It is not yet set in stone, Princess.” Despite his insistence and reassurance, you had started to lose faith in it, but you appreciated his attempts, nonetheless. Silence drifted between you both, your countenance one of a subdued sadness.
As the horns of the hunting party began to split the skies, he sighed, a heavy noise that carried more than just concern. Averting your gaze, you peered toward the royal tent, unable to find your sister amongst the group seeing the men off.
“Do not let me keep you, Ser Harwin. I should hope that the hunt proves fruitful for you and the King.” Stepping aside, you kept a comfortable berth as he walked his horse from the makeshift stables, wishing that you could come with him.
With a kindly smile, Harwin nodded, wondering if there was more he could’ve done to comfort you. “You have my thanks,” His chest heaved with a hearty sigh, brows drawing together. “Once I return, we can take a turn about the Kingswood.”
That seemed to make you happy, the promise of a woodland stroll. With a jubilant nod, you watched as he mounted his horse, giving the steed a swift nudge to its flank. As Harwin joined the hunting party, you couldn’t help but grin at the sight of him riding alongside Lord Wylde.
At the conclusion of the hunt, the caravan had at-last found their prey — at the expense of the day, however. It had taken them some time to track down their pale stag, a beast of fur as white as winter’s snow that seemed to evade them at every turn. Instead, they settled for a fawn-colored buck.
Much of your late afternoon was spent alongside your sister and nephew, a welcome respite from the peacocking lords you’d met earlier in the day. It simultaneously kept you from the ire of your father, even moreso.
The woodland promenade that Harwin had offered was no longer a viable option. Upon their return, a bleeding sun painted the horizon in rays of a vibrant orange with twilight encroaching, signaling an end to the festivities.
Returning to King’s Landing alongside your father had proven a strenuous task, with much of your carriage ride spent in a heated spat in regards to being wed. In the end, you resigned yourself to embittered silence.
“You must perform your duty to our House, as your sister has. I will expect your answer in a sennight — should you refuse, the choice will be made for you.”
Otto’s words continued to worm their way into your mind, with a scathing cadence and scornful glare that had made you feel so incredibly small. You should’ve been thankful, with the option of Lord Wylde or Lord Mullendore available to you.
Instead, you were left anguished and bitter by the end of the evening, storming to your chambers without so much as a single utterance. Harwin had been with his Father — he hadn’t seen you since the hunt’s conclusion, save for a brief smile in-passing.
As dusk blanketed the skies above King’s Landing, the glow of the heavens concealed beneath wisps of veiled cloud, you stood beside your window, curtains drawn apart. Anger rippled through you in hot waves, as if you’d been kissed by the fire of some inexhaustible wrath.
Harwin dutifully returned to his station, posted in the corridor that stretched toward the chambers of other nobles, including some of the Small Council. Tucked within the chainmail beneath his breastplate, a clutch of wildflowers resided there, ones he’d picked for you.
Oftentimes, you would greet him each morning and bid him farewell with the approach of dusk, but not this time. It was unusual for him not to see you, and concern began to blister through him. He wondered if it had anything to do with the predicament from earlier in the day.
It would’ve been inappropriate for him to intrude upon your business, but the longer he waited within the eerie silence of the corridor, the more his heart began to lurch. Braziers flickered throughout ornate hallways, dancing shadows falling across his armored frame.
The Knight nearly leaped when the door had opened, accompanied by an unsightly groan that reverberated throughout the corridor. There you stood, fresh-faced and clad in a nightgown of a rich, violet velvet. Your eyes swam with crimson, as if you’d spent ample time sobbing.
Harwin steeled himself, grizzled jaw beginning to tighten at the sight of you, the very picture of such breathtaking beauty. He was reduced to boyish nerves in your presence. His grip upon the pommel of his shortsword became snug, leather grinding against the hilt.
“Princess,” He greeted, baritone smooth and disarmingly gentle, tone betraying his intimidating appearance. “Is something the matter?” From a mere glimpse, Harwin could detect that you were distraught, dismay scrawled into your features.
Words turned to ash upon your tongue, like some weight that prevented you from speaking. Tears began to glitter within your gaze, disdainful and forlorn as you shook your head.
“Nothing is the matter, Ser Harwin. I only wished to bid you goodnight before retiring.” With a trembling exhale, you swiftly rid yourself of the tears that lingered upon the fringes of your eyes. As you attempted to compose yourself, Harwin remained unconvinced.
“You’re a rather poor liar, my Lady.” Harwin rumbled, brows furrowing together as you let out a mirthless laugh. His thick mane of curls tumbled toward his shoulders, unbound from the bun he’d had it in earlier that afternoon, armor glinting through the brazier’s haze.
“I do not wish to spill my woes onto you,” Admittedly, you wanted to forget about it all for the time being, if you could. “Though I do wish for company, at the very least.” It was an invitation you posed, for Harwin to speak with you in the sanctity of your chambers.
A sliver of him felt it wrong, untoward to join you in your quarters, even if it was merely conversation. He knew what burned within his heart, what arduous flame had seared his bones. His sentiments for you were overwhelmingly powerful, like a maelstrom coming to swallow him whole.
It was the hour of the bat, well into the night; stealing a glance, he found his surroundings to be devoid of any onlookers.
“As you wish, Princess.” Maintaining a courtly demeanor, you stepped aside, allowing him to cross the threshold into your chambers. It all felt so vastly daunting, his feelings suffocating him the closer he was to you, the proximity growing slim.
Harwin had been inside numerous times before, but never to this degree, harboring such a strong adoration for you. The Knight appeared somewhat rigid, gaze trailing after you as you moved to sit atop a velvet-laden settee.
“I have one week to deliver my choice of husband to my Father,” Speaking plainly, your sudden confession seemed to ensnare his attention, and yet he masked his anger well. “Lord Wylde or Lord Mullendore — at least he offered me a choice instead of stripping it from me.”
The thought of you wed to some lecherous slime or a boring elder made Harwin’s blood boil for reasons both wretched and divine. Jealousy gnawed at him with such ugliness, and yet he wondered if this was for the best — not having you.
It would cause a scandal, if he were to act upon his feelings — a besmirch upon your honor. That was something that Harwin couldn’t bear, as you had been defiled enough already, being offered to two men completely unworthy of you.
Gritting his teeth together, he bit his tongue, electing to merely move the conversation along. “I apologize, Princess — you have my sympathies.” It was all he could muster without becoming unhinged, or worse, letting his confession spill from his lips.
It was uncharacteristic of Harwin to be so aloof, standing with such rigidity before your door, hand clenched at his side. A wave of discontent gripped you then, as if something was amiss.
Harwin’s cadence held an unexpected bite, as if each syllable was uttered through gritted teeth. His countenance bristled with a thinly-veiled frustration, as if he did very little to mask his true demeanor. A steady exhale escaped him as he attempted to stave his fury away.
“You seem angry,” A part of you assumed that it was merely concern, born from that of a stalwart Knight; the other sliver detected disdain from that of a trusted friend. “This is the hand that I was dealt — I suppose my only choice is to bend to it.”
Knowing that even you could see through his threadbare facade, Harwin’s head hung, thick curls framing his visage. He didn’t want you to pry or ask questions, but he wasn’t exactly making this easy on himself whatsoever.
As you spoke of simply bending to the whims of your father, the Knight nearly protested, but instead, he remained trapped within a reluctant silence. Harwin grappled with his feelings for you, wrestling with them in all his ferocity, wishing to bury them as deep as he could.
It simply wasn’t possible.
In a valiant attempt to change the subject, he reached into his tabard, removing the now-disheveled bouquet of wildflowers he had smuggled away for you. “I wanted to ensure that you still obtained a fragment of nature from the day.”
Presenting you with a handful of vibrant blossoms, your heart violently lurched at the kind gesture. If it weren’t for his station, you would’ve nearly considered it an action taken in courtship — and then, your gaze flickered to his.
Smoldering, intimate, wanting; something lingered there, a tension that had grown into a flickering fire, soon to rage. Harwin gazed at you as if you had moved mountains, pulled the stars from the heavens, and then you came to the sudden realization.
It was an anger born of jealousy.
As your fingers closed around the stems, you were barely able to express your gratitude, involuntarily stepping closer to him of your own accord. The Knight’s breath hitched, praying to whatever Gods that would listen for you to move away.
“Ser Harwin …” With his name rolling from your tongue with such reverence, such exhilaration, Harwin felt his barrier begin to crumble away. Doe-eyed hues shifted to hold his gaze, one that made your belly swirl with a tide of molten heat.
“I do not want you to marry some old Lord,” A husky rasp clung to his tone, as if he said it through sealed lips. Once the confession floated into the slim space between you, he knew that he had reached the point of no return. “The thought alone fills me with such immeasurable fury.”
Breakbones spoke through him, the avatar of his wrath, his ire, his strength — he imagined knocking in Lord Wylde’s teeth numerous times throughout the afternoon. Yet, he clung to honor, even still.
Bewilderment consumed you, accompanied with that of yearning, a want so brazenly powerful that it threatened to swallow you whole. All bonds of propriety were on the precipice of destruction, and yet you openly entertained it with a subdued enthusiasm.
You wanted Harwin Strong.
Desire seemed so unorthodox, a sin that tarnished anyone who dared seek it for themselves, and yet, it was not only desire you sought. His heart was the greatest thing of all, and you realized that you wanted him in all ways — love, above all.
Silence festered between you, and Harwin immediately realized the gravity of his words, the grave error he’d made. His eyes fluttered shut, accompanied by a heavy sigh. “Forgive me, Princess — I should return to my post.”
Before he could flee from his place, he felt your hand seize his forearm, as if quietly demanding that he stay. “What do you mean?” The heaviness of your inquiry could not be mistaken — you wished to know the true meaning of his words, why it filled him with such contempt.
Slightly pained, Harwin feared making his sentiments known, afraid to startle you or worse, turn you away from him. “It is untoward for me to discuss these things with you, my Lady. I should not have spoken of it.” He murmured, but his answer proved to be unsatisfactory.
“What if I told you that I did not want to marry some old Lord either, and that …” A brief pause; gooseflesh flourished along your spine. “That I wanted you?” As the breathy confession slipped from your mouth, Harwin felt the ground beneath him shift.
“Princess …” He began, knowing that all of this seemed completely wrong. If anyone were to know of this, he would be put to the executioner’s block, and you would be disavowed from your House. “I wouldn’t dare besmirch your honor, that I promise.” Harwin murmured.
“I wish for transparency — I wish to know how you truly feel, damn honor. I beg of you, Ser Harwin.” Gods, the temptation — Harwin could no longer resist, his resilience thin in the wake of your words, turning him to nothing more than ash. As you inched closer, the distance between bodies became dangerously slim.
Steeling himself, Harwin felt what resolve he had disappear entirely, nonexistent as he peered down at you, doe-eyed and wanting. The Knight tentatively reached to cup your cheek, brows furrowing together as he spoke with such conviction.
“What I truly feel is not enough,” He murmured, thumb gently tracing circles near your jaw. “I’ve burned for you, wanted you — everything you are captivates me, Princess. Were I not sworn to you, I would’ve asked for your hand.” Harwin uttered, able to hear the hitch in your breath.
Keening into his embrace, your delicate fingers folded over his armored wrist, drawing him closer, closer still until your lips met his own. The kiss was a tentative one, more exploratory in-nature given your own inexperience.
Harwin dared not coerce you into anything, allowing you to withdraw whenever you pleased. The sweetness of your mouth was something he’d unknowingly craved, heat simmering beneath his flesh as he fought against baser instincts. He would not lose himself — not with you.
“I would ask for your hand, even still.” He uttered, watching in silent rapture as you moved to press against him, bosom brushing against his chest. If it weren’t for the layers of armor, he might’ve been driven to the brink of madness.
“I am yours,” You were toying with fire, letting such a declaration out into the open, but you were entirely genuine. “You’ve no idea how much you mean to me, how long I’ve toiled in fantasy, imagining what this might be like, to belong to you.”
Through a tensed jaw, he wanted nothing more than to kiss you again until your lips were swollen, but he ensured restraint, allowing himself to drape an arm around your hips. The leather of his gauntlet gently caressed into your waist, sweeping over the thin fabric of your shift.
At last, you permitted yourself to touch him, palms tentatively coming to perch atop his chest, fingertips tracing idle circles into his tabard. Harwin inhaled your scent, freshened and crisp like that of jasmine and honey, a sweetness that he had grown accustomed to.
The Knight planted a kiss against your crown, cupping your cheek as he sought your gaze. “You are safe with me, I promise you that. Do not feel as if we must act on our desires.” He assured, though your longing stare said otherwise.
“Have you laid with someone before?” The innocuous tone of your question came across as naive, but you knew enough of what went into consummation. You still retained your maidenhead, willing to relinquish it to Harwin, if he chose.
Harwin did not want to lie to you, though the inquiry itself had surprised him. “I have,” Hoping that it wouldn’t ruin things, you seemed perplexed, features warming from embarrassment. “It is not as daunting as it seems.”
Without hesitation, you replied, “I want to try — with you,” As you spoke, his countenance appeared more bewildered and concerned than anything else. He did not want you to feel obligated; your virtue was in his hands, and it was something precious to him. “Is that alright?”
“Princess,” For a moment, you feared you’d offended him, his tone seemingly one of uncertainty. “Are you certain?” For his own sake, he desired your consent thrice over, if necessary. Harwin did not want to seem like some lecher.
A pang of anxiousness settled into your stomach, evoking butterflies from within as you nodded. It was intimidating, the idea of the act itself — yet, you knew that he would take care of you. “More certain than I’ve ever been before.” With a hushed whisper, you gazed at him, stars in your eyes.
Despite your piety, Harwin found himself crumbling in the wake of your stare, as if he’d been scorched by the heat of a thousand suns. His lips parted briefly, gingerly caressing your cheek before he bent to kiss you, ensuring that he was gentle with you.
Mouths tangled in a tender dance, your sheepishness bleeding through, an initial hesitation blossoming into enthusiasm. He cradled you as if you were forged of precious jewels, armored physique pressed snug to yours.
Finding your purchase against his chest, your digits lightly curled into his tabard, stomach churning with a volatile heat. Harwin’s palm idly caressed circles against the small of your back, sending shockwaves throughout your spine. He was endlessly warm, lips coming to claim yours with a disarming gentleness.
The hearth provided a soothing ambiance, crackling in the background, accompanied by the hum of dusk. Moonlight poured in through your scaling window, curtains drawn to reveal pooling silver, gathering across your chamber floor.
As Harwin withdrew, he allowed himself to abandon his guilt, even if it continued to gnaw away at him. “Should you wish to stop, merely tell me.” He murmured, watching as your head bobbed in agreement. Your hands fluttered to his gauntlets, preparing to assist in their removal.
Leather buckles and fastened straps proved to be something of an obstacle as you went about removing it all with his assistance. Slipping his tabard off, you happened to let your gaze linger, flustered when he’d caught you ogling him.
“You are wonderfully handsome, Ser Harwin,” The sweetness of your cadence was unmatched, earning you a genuine smile as the Knight chuckled. “What is it?”
“We do not need to use formalities here — no more ‘Ser’,” It dissolved a bit of your nervousness, tendrils of anxiousness unfurling from your frame. Lifting his breastplate off, he placed the growing pile of armor atop a spacious table. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve laid eyes upon, as is your heart.”
The warm husk of his voice made you shiver with delight, feeling his calloused palm slip beneath your jaw once more, splayed aside your throat. Harwin kissed you with a fervent passion this time, still clad in his chainmail as he let his arms cage you in against him.
A breathy exhale tore past your lips, blinded by the heated kiss, allowing your entanglement to grow in intensity. Clamoring hands found his broad shoulders, able to feel the muscle that rest beneath, nearly rocking up upon your toes to reach him.
It was then that he picked you up, your dress proving to be more of a hindrance than he thought possible. Nevertheless, he used one arm to support you, the other pressed into the small of your back as he traversed your chambers, making for your bed.
The structure itself was grandeur, four columns of rich mahogany, draped in tapestries of gossamer and thick, verdant velvet. Harwin stopped at the mattress’s edge, your back kissing the sheet-clad feathers as he let you stand.
Mouths continued to dance, deepening your entanglement, heat festering like a sweltering wave between bodies. With haste, your palms had relocated from his shoulders to the nape of his neck, fingers threading within the curls there.
His stature engulfed you — large, imposing, and endlessly warm. Harwin’s presence blanketed you, able to feel the sharp cracks of desire as they wafted from him. Calloused hands kneaded into your curves, molding themselves to your form.
Lips parted, a shaky sigh tumbling from your mouth as you attempted to regain even a shred of your composure. Harwin pressed a kiss to your jaw, still hovering around you, a salacious inquiry dancing upon the tip of his tongue.
“Have you touched yourself before, Princess?” His husky, coarse lull made your belly surge with butterflies, thighs absentmindedly shifting together. A coil of tension slowly began to form within you, pulled taut with a deep-seated repression.
Embarrassed, you gave a shrug of your shoulders, smitten beneath his incendiary gaze. “Somewhat,” You always thought it to be sinful, as if the eyes of the Seven were boring down upon you. “Gods, you must think me to be some prude.”
With a gentle shake of his head, Harwin cupped your chin, thumb stroking along your jaw. “I do not,” He replied, reassuring as ever as he pressed a kiss against your brow. “May I remove this?” He questioned, giving your gown a gentle tug.
A brief hitch inhabited your throat, lips parting enough to make way for a subtle gasp. Instead of answering verbally, you nodded, hands untangling themselves from his nape. Sluggishly, you turned around, facing the bed as his deft, calloused digits found the numerous laces along your spine.
Unraveling you from such tight fabric, a brief exhale tore past your lips, gown beginning to loosen. The velvet-and-silk sagged upon your form, leaving you in naught but a simple shift, tantalizingly transparent. Stepping from your nightgown, you shivered as Harwin’s palm graced your hip.
Slowly, he planted a kiss atop your shoulder, the scratch of his beard a most pleasant sensation. A charged silence loomed between you both, the only ambience that of the smoldering hearth, a wisp of wind passing by your window.
Each breath he took seemed taut with heaviness, an exhilaration that you shared in. Showering your flesh in kisses, he continued along the hollow between throat and shoulder, fingers flexing against the ties of your silken shift.
“Harwin,” A tremulous exhale slipped past your lips, reveling in the feeling of his mouth peppering against you. His other arm slipped around you, his large palm coming to cup one of your breasts, kneading into the soft, pliant mount. “Gods.” You gasped.
It was a sound that he had dreamt of for so long — your voice, charmed and wanton beneath his kiss, within his grasp. Harwin felt you lean against his sturdy musculature, even if the chainmail happened to chafe against your back. As his name fell from your tongue, he was beguiled.
Desiring to see him fully, you sluggishly turned within his embrace, digits toying with the remnants of his armor. Wordlessly, your hands drifted to the remaining straps and buckles, wishing to peel it from him, see him completely.
As his chainmail loosened, vambraces and leather tunic following suit, he deposited all somewhere by the wayside.
Bare above his waist, you marveled at the sight of him — taut muscle, as thick as tree trunks, chest covered in a light layer of brunette hair. His flesh was sunkissed, a scar or two embedded into his skin.
Bluish hues bored into you, gentle yet instilled with the flame of ardor, large hands moving to smooth over your hips. Silent, he bent to kiss you, able to hear the brief tremble of your exhale, your hands clamoring to grasp at his biceps, muscle firm beneath your palms.
Flesh to flesh, heart to heart, you felt the stirring of something wicked between your legs, arousal beginning to coalesce as his kisses deepened. Mouths clamored for one another, each kiss charged with a longing, nearly stealing every wisp of air from your lungs.
Harwin’s throat reverberated with a low growl, beard scratching against your silken flesh with every fervent clash of lips. One hand dared to explore, caressing over your hip and derrière, until he gathered the hem of your shift within his fist.
An excitable shiver slithered over your spine, able to feel the slight draft dance across your thighs, fabric being eased up; further, and further still. It was then that you felt his hand beneath the silk, traveling further until he found the warmth lingering between your legs.
Nails dug crescents into his thick biceps, a stutter forming as you parted, foreheads still flush together, hot sighs passing through. Harwin’s calloused digits sluggishly glided over your slick petals, searching for any signs of discomfort that might’ve appeared.
“H—Harwin …” A stifled whimper tore past your mouth, now parted completely as you pressed yourself against him. Perched atop the mattress’s edge, it allowed him to stand between, spreading your legs apart with his physique.
“Hm,” He rumbled, pressing kisses along the side of your face, over the curve of your jaw. “Is that pleasurable, Princess?” Gods, his voice — it was deliciously husky, his timbre akin to the gentle shaking of thunder before an encroaching tempest.
His usage of your title made your stomach contort, that coil of heat now pulled as tight as a bowstring. With a soft moan, your hips lurched forward, seeking the friction of his practiced digits. With a twinge of vigor, he began to let his fingers stroke along your cunt.
“Yes — Gods, yes,” A wanton sigh fluttered into the air, a breathy incantation that filled your mind with some lovestruck haze. “Do not stop.” His lips continued to press a trail of kisses along your throat and what flesh of your collar was exposed.
Reverence seeped into each ministration, each touch echoing with devotion. Harwin’s gaze glittered with a thinly-veiled adoration, covetousness stirring within his heart. As his fingers found a rather pleasing rhythm, he shuddered at the sound of your numerous moans.
With gentle coaxing, you clamored for his mouth once more, lips melding together in a furious passion. Moans escaped you, dancing between heated kisses and wanton sighs, your countenance contorting into an expression of bliss.
Hips surged forward with incessant want, rocking into his hand to gain any scrap of friction. He provided it to you freely, his willingness to please a trait that you were wholly unaccustomed to. His name emerged as an affectionate sigh from your mouth.
“I wish — I wish to touch you,” The hushed cadence of your plea had made Harwin shudder, bones screaming for you in every way imaginable. He had little desire to seek his own pleasure in this matter, preferring his concentration to rest on you. “Please, Harwin.”
Lips ghosted above one another, connecting once more in a fusion of heat, a passion so blistering that it consumed him just as it did you. Harwin grunted into your mouth, clashing again and again, your mouth parting to make way for a thinly-veiled moan.
A sliver of hesitance passed through him, teeth briefly grazing your lower lip, the gesture sudden enough to make you whine. His kiss had evoked such yearning from within, sentiments long suppressed in the wake of your faith, freed from the shackles of sin.
Thick digits continued to warm you, prodding against your entrance as he introduced his thumb, allowing it to circle the pearl of your cunt. A sharp moan ripped through your throat, visage displaying complete and utter bliss as a shockwave of pleasure stabbed at your nethers.
Harwin’s husked voice echoed your name, hot breath fanning beside your ear as he kissed the flesh beneath it. “Where do you need me, Princess?” He murmured, low and lascivious, cadence alone enough to make your thighs shift together to alleviate some tension.
“There,” Accompanied by another flick of his thumb over your pearl, your head jostled in a hasty nod, teeth briefly sinking into your bottom lip. “Gods, Harwin, please!” Desperate pleas escaped into the tenuous heat between you, foreheads nestled together as he toyed with your clit.
The sound of his name upon your tongue was a maddening noise, each syllable drawn-out with ardor. Harwin felt his cock throb incessantly within his trousers, straining with desperation against the leather, begging to be inside of you.
As your countenance unfurled with a carnal delight, he nearly thought of tasting you — throwing himself onto his knees and pleasuring you upon his tongue. As much as he craved it, he did not want to overwhelm you with it all this evening, intending to propose a future opportunity.
A grunt stirred from his chest, noses grazing over one another, kisses of heat peppering flesh as he held you flush against him. Lips clawed for one another, an entanglement charged with a vein of desperation. Hands clasped against his nape, silken fingers carding through thick curls.
It was then that his digits gingerly prodded against your entrance, feeling your breath halt, hips stuttering in surprise. Through a prurient gaze, enraptured, Harwin carefully surveyed your visage for any inkling of discomfort, pressing a kiss against your jaw.
“Ha—Harwin.” With a startled croak, a churning of anxiety swarmed your belly, and yet he soothed you, mouth smoothing over your temples. Wordlessly, he did not continue further until you did, rutting your hips against his hand as if to cement your answer.
“I have you, Princess.” Through a tender baritone, you allowed yourself to relax, trusting in his proficiency. At a snail’s pace, two digits sank forward, invading your cunt with a disarming gentleness, allowing you to grow accustomed to the foreign sensation.
Gripping him with an ironclad hold, you gasped, nails digging crescents into the flesh of his neck, teeth piercing your bottom lip. It was unusual, but certainly not unwelcome — instead, he began a rather lackadaisical rhythm, accompanied by the roll of his thumb over your pearl.
If it weren’t for his arm keeping you aloft, you might’ve collapsed beneath his touch, melting away into wisps of ash. Each sigh was rapturous, wanton moans inhabiting the space between bodies, a feverish warmth crawling over your spine.
This all felt like some distant dream, a mere fantasy that had dug its talons into his mind, now made into blissful reality; he could scarcely believe it. Harwin did not want to forget this moment, lamenting over your flesh, silk and satin beneath his calloused palms.
Halcyon hues surveyed your countenance, enthralled by the delight that had washed over your features, contorted into an expression of ecstasy. Arousal gnawed at his bones, visceral and raw as he urged his digits into your cunt, easing them backward in rhythmic strokes.
His name spilled from your lips with such glee, doing little to veil your pleasure, wanting to sob from it all. You had not yet experienced a release in all of its blistering ferocity, somewhat unfamiliar with your own body; Harwin desired to study it as he would a map, committing all of you to memory.
Mouths seamlessly mold together, as if intended to fit, destined; his frame serves as a warm pillar, as if shielding you from the rest of the world, his alone. Each kiss is instilled with a fierce vigor, a brand scorched upon your swollen lips, and yet, you starve even still.
Through tortuous strokes of his fingers, heat unfurls from within your belly, a sudden and volatile thing, enough for you to nearly pierce his lip with your teeth. Harwin huffs; a low, triumphant sound, tinged with a silent elation as he brings about your undoing, thumb circling your pearl.
A shudder passes through you, tangling like ivy as it creeps up your spine before bliss pools forth, a slick nectar coalescing between your legs. Stifled moans are consumed by his mouth, kisses crawling to lingering bouts of passion, careworn palm soothingly tracing over your thigh.
Again, his name flutters from your maw, an enchanting sound that bewitches Harwin like that of a siren’s lull, coaxing him into deep waters. For you, he would’ve drowned a thousand times over — filled his lungs with saltwater to merely glimpse upon your visage.
Clawing for him as if you were being torn asunder, your muscles twitch and spasm in the aftermath, ecstasy oozing from every pore. Shallow breaths burn with wanton desire, hoarse yet exhilarated, gazes interlocking as he inspects you carefully.
“Are you well?” Innocuous, Harwin finds the sheen of perspiration that clings to your flesh to be tantalizing, irises akin to that of a doe’s. Warm and composing yourself, limbs begin to fall slack, head bobbing in a sluggish nod.
“I am,” Your answer is marked by a girlish giddiness, basking within a blissful afterglow as you trace your fingertips across his rugged jaw. The Knight smiles; summertime awakens within your bones, and you feel his grin as you would a kiss. “I am perfectly happy.”
Breakbones, they whisper; and yet, your beloved shield is as gentle as the first breath of spring, as tender as a consoling hand. An ebullient giggle tumbles from your lips, as if incredulity is beginning to truly sink in — Harwin cradles your heart within his palm.
It is the first inkling of joy you’ve felt in some time, misery’s dour haze beginning to dissipate, pierced by this spear of ardor that he wields so passionately. Mouths gingerly press against one another, feeling a low rumble stir within his diaphragm, a noise of elation.
“I’ve dreamt of this, against my better judgment,” Harwin’s softened baritone ushers against your lips in a warm wisp, beard causing ripe friction against satiny flesh. “My heart calls your name.”
A dazzling awe paints your features, blossoming with a girlish glee as you continue to brush your fingertips over his visage, dipping toward his throat. Dying embers blanket Harwin in their resplendence, his breath catching within his throat as your digits card through his curls.
“Where is your judgment presently, Harwin?” The inquiry is genuine, steeped in a dreamlike lament as you cradle his visage within one palm. It is a hunger revealing itself within you, one you thought incapable of feeling; you wonder if he feels it too, in all of its rawness.
Regret does not tarry within his heart as it should’ve — instead, he feels joy, bones resolute with protectiveness, the desire to tether himself to your ribs. “That I belong to you, Princess,” No other would dare tempt his heart in the way that you had. “I would refuse to know another.”
Your throat, thick with a swell of vivification, words melting upon your tongue; you feel the very same. “As I am yours.” It is a hushed sigh, pluming over his shoulder as you plant a kiss over corded muscle.
Burly arms cage you against his chest, the plane of a warm musculature that blankets you with a sense of comfort, gently depositing you onto your mattress fully. Reluctant to slip from his hold, you do not expect to abandon it for long.
With your weight redistributed atop cushions of sheet-swathed feathers and silken duvets, your fingers thread through the laces that hold your shift together. Harwin stands with bated breath, gaze incendiary as his silhouette swallows you whole, eyes ardently drinking you in.
In hasty tugs of his digits, the Knight unburdens himself of his tassets, freeing himself from the tedious confines of armor. He prefers it, but not now, not while you lay atop emerald satin, bare flesh akin to a diamond amongst the rubble.
Sheepishness becomes you, feathering over your features as you shyly sink into the pillows, gaze roving over Harwin as he continues to disrobe. To your carnal delight, his body is the very same, muscle upon muscle, sunkissed and labored, effortlessly handsome.
Stepping forth, the Knight joins you within your bed, an act that, if unraveled, would cost him his head — he cares very little for it. Even when stripped from his garb, he is impressively statuesque, dwarfing you in stature as he makes residence between your legs, the strain slight.
His cock intimidates you instantaneously, a tide of anxiety surging within your belly as it strains against your thigh. Swallowing fear, palms grace taut forearms, dancing upward until you trace his biceps, searching his gaze for any inkling of uncertainty; and there is none, save for devotion.
Careworn fingers languidly drag over your leg, from the crook of your knee to your thigh, thumb rubbing circles against your flesh. It is soothing, intended to alleviate the constant ache of nerves that bloom within your stomach, but it does little to ease your racing thoughts.
“I wouldn’t dare hurt you,” Lips seal themselves to your temples, an oath whispered from the Knight’s own mouth, warm breath billowing over your countenance. Leather and steel cling to him, an amalgamation of scents that burn themselves into your senses. “I promise.”
Pain is to be expected from salacious acts, you know this; and yet it doesn’t sting any less. His indomitable physique settles betwixt your thighs, keeping you spread apart without an ounce of force, knees brushing across his hips.
Embers quiet, glow dimming throughout your chambers, guided only by moonlight which pools through drawn curtains. Holding himself aloft, his hands root themselves by either side of your head, shoulders furled with a tension that screams for some sliver of relief.
Harwin’s head descends, mouth planting several kisses along your throat, gliding over satiny flesh beneath, as saccharine as a honeyed stout. He is deliberate, passion oozing forth as he attempts to quell the nervousness that still dances within your eyes, kneading into your haunch.
“I trust you, Harwin,” Words flutter forth with such tenderness, a solemn vow from you, knowing that he would not impose upon your comfort. A low hum emerges, body rumbling beneath your palms as you hold him close, moaning as he kisses the pulse point of your jaw. “Completely.”
Afforded an honor that few possessed, he took your words to heart, cherishing them with such sacredness, lips stilling along your cheek. Foreheads ghosted against the other, tepid sighs inhabiting the thin space between bodies, soul bared to soul; your fingertips traced his jaw.
Adjusting his body against yours, limbs tangled and muscles taut with excitement. A gasp ripped through your diaphragm, his cock gingerly pressing flush to slick petals, teeth daring to pierce the inside of your cheek.
Eyes seek another, his own pupils eclipsed by desire, a loyalty shown through lips. He envelopes you entirely, so large, so perfect; you tremble beneath him, an involuntary tick marked by your own mounting arousal.
Wordlessly, your Knight begins to shift, ensuring that you are equally as comfortable, length incessantly nudging against your nethers, eliciting a wanton whine from your mouth. Hearts beat in-tandem, a furious pace that looses a grunt from him, gazing down upon you.
“Gently then, Princess.” Harwin rumbles, his own restraint rather threadbare, but he maintains propriety for your sake, intending to take your maidenhead with gentleness. He does just that, hips sluggishly urging forward, cock beginning to sheathe inside of you, inch by inch.
Gooseflesh ices your spine, coupled with a feverish heat that turns your bones to ash, nails digging crescents into his biceps. The stretch is bewildering, and you wonder how this all intends to fit, and yet it does.
Flickers of pain furrow over brow, visage contorting with intermingled bliss and discomfort.
Hips still, allowing you ample time to acclimate yourself to him, and yet you seem eager to continue, back arching into his embrace. His name unfurls from your tongue, a kiss of warmth murmured against his countenance as he caresses along your thigh.
His concern for you is thinly-veiled, worn upon his features through a creased brow, and yet you coax him to continue. “Do not stop, Harwin.” Breathy pleas tumble from your parted lips and he is lost, succumbing to a shred of baser instincts, continuing to urge forward once more.
A choked whimper erupts from your throat, clinging to him as if you were swept away in some tidal surge, visage pressed near his shoulder. A low, thunderous grunt shakes his frame, reveling in the sensation of your cunt tightening around him, taking him so very well.
As your maidenhead breaks upon his cock, he is exceedingly tender, handling you with such fidelity, ensuring that he does not cause you agony. Bliss blossoms over your countenance, flesh screaming with an arduous heat, belly nothing more than molten liquid.
Ceaseless, Harwin heeds your command, cock continuing to sink into you, a blade within its scabbard, sheathing himself until there is nowhere left for him to go. A delighted moan plumes from your mouth, babbling his praises, hitching one leg around his hips.
Furthering the friction, this newfound angle evokes a yearning from him, cock twitching within you. With a brief huff, Harwin knows he treads on unsteady ground, wanting to move with such force, yet he continues to walk the line of restraint.
“Gods, look at you,” Harwin’s voice clouds your mind, like warm tendrils entangling themselves into every thought. The rougher cadence of his tone sends shockwaves through your belly, heat pooling between your thighs. “You are doing well, Princess.”
Such heady praise looses a moan from your lips, bristling with warmth beneath his incendiary words, a fire igniting within you. A shiver courses through your spine, a tremor that snakes over your body, prompting you to clutch him closer.
Bodies urge against one another, friction a delicious feeling, one that yielded to the fervor of the moment. The pebbled peaks of your breasts brush over his muscled chest, hand tangled at his nape, the other digging into his shoulder as his thrusts begin to truly take shape.
Maintaining this element of gallantry, he is gentle still, actions that of lovemaking over entertaining any rougher pursuits. Pleasure unfurls from within you, consuming every fiber of your being, simmering within your blood.
Mouths clamor for one another, lips colliding in a fervent kiss, passion unbridled as he rolls his hips forward, creating a steady rhythm that does not seek to overwhelm you. Harwin savors every shred of heat, every whimper and moan that besmirches your lips, each look of ardor.
Love is unmistakable, the sentiment as crystalline as a midsummer’s sky, hanging heavy within your doe-like stare, hearts grasping; intertwined.
Each thrust is born of urgency as you begin to feel yourself stretched further, his cock gently burying itself into the warmth of your cunt. His muscle becomes your anchor, a hardened plane to sink your fingers into, hold vicelike.
Whimpers emerge, choked from your throat as tongues and teeth dance, cock gently battering away at your nethers, belly pulled taut like a bowstring. Perspiration glitters upon his brow, even if this exertion is fleeting, nonexistent for him.
“Harwin,” Laced with the rasp of desire, his name falls ardently from your lips, body succumbing to ecstasy, arched against him. “Pl—Please, do not stop!” It is nothing more than a mewl, wantonly echoing within his ear as his ministrations become a touch invigorated.
Surrounded by him on all sides, all-encapsulating, your legs begin to squeeze and tighten around his hips, rough hand kneading into your thigh. He fists at the sheets beside your crown, held aloft by an arm furled with rippling muscle.
Beneath you, the bedframe groaned in protest, ancient wood becoming malleable, rattled by the weight of joined bodies. Harwin’s rumbling grunts resonated beside your ear, groans akin to the deep lull of thunder, beard ghosting across silken flesh as you clung to him.
Arousal mounted within him like an encroaching tide, preparing to shatter upon the rock, cock throbbing within you. Ripples of bliss flooded your insides in a rabid heat, the tip of his length kissing your womb, frame shuddering within your grasp.
Pearlescent teeth scraped over the flesh beneath your ear, hot huffs of wanton breaths pluming over your features, prompting you to crane forward. Flush, flesh upon flesh, your body took him well, intended for another, nails crawling past his shoulder.
Even still, his pace did not waver, melding into something vigorous, maintaining every shred of adoration he had for you, poured into each thrust. Friction continued to smolder, a fire growing to immeasurable heights, causing you to let out a strangled moan.
He met every brush of your hips with a bruising thrust, urging forward, allowing you to feel it all, everything; Harwin’s mouth fell into the hollow between throat and collar, kisses warped with lascivious intent. “My Lady.” A low, baritone purr lavished your skin.
With restraint dissolving to naught but ash, the Knight grunted once more, hips rolling forward as he sought to spill his seed, weight bearing down upon you. Greedily, you welcomed it with unrestrained need, encouraging him with babbled pleas of desire.
Harwin’s fantasy had floated through then and there, envisioning his seed taking root within you, giving you every ounce of him. Perhaps then, you would be wed, hands bound, hearts rooted together like ancient trees within a forest.
“Stay,” A whimper tore past your throat, beseeching him to remain sheathed within you, and that was enough for Harwin Strong to crumble. Caging him in against you with vicelike legs, the Knight’s groan sent shivers through you. “Gods, Harwin.”
Gazes interlocked fleetingly, and he succumbed to you, cock battering away within your cunt a moment longer, spilling himself within you. With a spasmodic shudder, his hips urged forward with a sense of finality, warm spent painted your insides, evoking a soft gasp from your lips.
A stickiness clung to your nethers, a foreign sensation that had made you flush, a peculiar heat permeating your features. Harwin’s chest reverberated with a soft huff, stilling within you as he soothingly stroked your thigh.
Muscles burned with the sting of exertion, ragged breathing climbing down from such a pinnacle, heartbeat beginning to steady. A gentle hush filled your chambers, limbs intertwined, his weight no longer blanketing you as it had before.
The pad of his thumb traced your temples, where disheveled tresses kissed warm flesh, caressing over your cheekbone. He dipped forward, planting a disarmingly tender kiss to your mouth, beard prickling your lips as your palm kneaded into his shoulder.
It was then that he pulled himself from you, calmly retreating from your bed to clamor about your chambers, retrieving a cloth from your vanity. Dying embers painted him in such beauty, appearing as some mesomorphic god, tousled curls framing his handsome visage.
Adjusting yourself, you knew that he could not stay — not in the way you wanted him to. Despite this ungodly hour, prying eyes would be waiting in the shadows, knowing that the Knight could not leave your chambers unguarded until dawn.
Returning to you, Harwin did not hesitate to draw you close, desiring to hold you, even if it would not be for very long. “You are so beautiful,” He murmured, brows knitting together as he regarded you with such amity, caressing along your ribcage. “I wish that I could stay.”
“I understand,” A singular digit danced across his collar, neatly smoothing toward his chest. “I … I hope that this is not the end for us, Harwin.” Worry festered within your belly, a growing ache that he would let things die hereafter.
A glint of amusement settled within halcyon hues, his large hand cupping your chin, cradling your countenance within a calloused palm. “Did you think I would act on such desires if I only wanted one night with you, Princess?” His thumb traced your lower lip.
No longer did you feel shackled to sin, but you knew what path you now tread would be fraught with danger, a slope of secrecy. “I do not want you to be my secret,” If it were of your own choosing, you would’ve chosen Harwin. “I want you here, always.” Careening into his embrace, you planted a kiss to his thumb.
Harwin found your sentiment to be heartwarming, and he knew your intentions were entirely pious. As much as he desired to be with you freely, he had already trudged upon innumerable boundaries, propriety withered away to nothing.
“I will never be very far,” Solemn, the Knight nearly shivered as silken digits encircled his wrist, gliding along his forearm. Bodies became flush, distance dissolved, allowing a saccharine heat to blossom forth. “I meant what I said — I belong to you.” For an eternity, if that was what you wanted.
“My heart is yours.” It always would be — from this day, until your last day. “Stay a moment longer.” Through a whispered plea, you beseeched Harwin to linger beside you, desiring his warmth, his heart. With a kiss, you felt him smile against your mouth, drawing you to his chest as he reclined into your pillows.
pairing: suguru geto x afab reader
words: 3,600
contains: oral sex, virginity loss, fingering, and suguru talking you through it.
mood: soft, sweet, and tender.
author's note: this was one of my favorites to write and i thought i should share it here too! also, let's be friends (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ.ﾟ
You wonder what’s so different about this one Sunday morning.
You wake up with Suguru’s body pressed against you from behind. His lean arms wrapped around your torso. His cheek is pressed against the back of your neck, breathing and snoring softly, deeply, down your shoulder.
He holds you as he always does: firmly, as if he was carrying you, and yet gently, as if you were fragile.
This isn’t the first time you woke up in his apartment, and it’s not the first time he ever spooned you in your sleep. Yet somehow your body feels warmer than before, and your skin feels more sensitive to his touch. His sweet and woody scent is heavy and enveloping, lulling you into a dizzying state of comfort. Not quite asleep, but not quite lucid and awake.
You feel him shift from behind you, and you feel something press against the back of your thighs. Something hard and thick and warm. Your legs flinch and your heart starts beating faster as you realize what it was. Suguru wakes up from the slightest tremor in your body. He raises his head to look at you with bleary eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice still deep and gravely from sleep.
You turn your head to meet him and smile, “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry to wake you up.”
He nearly melts at the way you’re nestled comfortably in his bed, in his arms. Your smile looks soft and pretty under the ray of sunlight pouring through the window.
He hugs you tighter and nuzzles his face against your cheek, your neck, “I’m poking you aren’t I? Sorry.”
You blush and laugh softly, “It’s okay. It’s not like you can control it.”
“Yeah,” he sighs.
He points his hips away and lies his head back down the pillow. You feel your chest strain and your body ache from the loss of pressure and warmth. You pull his arms closer, tighter, around your torso like a blanket.
Suguru has always been so careful, so respectful. And so attuned with the ways your body reacts to him. He can feel the way your heart is pounding inside your chest as blood rushes from your heart to your skin, warming your entire body. He can hear the way your breath deepens as a strange sensation overcomes you. Heat. Desire. Lust.
Suguru nuzzles against your cheeks once again.
“Do you want it back?” he asks.
You lean towards his face, your voice barely a whisper.
“Yes.”
He turns his hips again to press his cock against you. Then he slides his leg in between yours. You didn’t even realize how badly you were aching for him, until he pressed his thigh against your cunt and relief washes over you. You hum in pleasure against the pillow.
“You need me don’t you?” he asks, as your thighs start squeezing and rutting his own, enjoying each pulse of pleasure against your clit.
You nod, biting your lip in anticipation.
“Okay,” he whispers. “We’ll take it slow, okay? You can tell me when to stop… when we’ll keep going…”
He starts moving his hips, grinding his cock languidly against your backside. You start rutting against his thigh in a similar rhythm. His fingers brush your hair to the back of your neck and start kissing an electrifying trail from under your ear to your collarbone, sniffing your scent as he goes. His lips are a bit dry from sleep, but you enjoy the contrast between the roughness of his lips and the softness of his kisses.
He pressed his hand firmly against your chest, grabbing a handful of your breast. Then it wanders down to your stomach, to your hips, to your thigh. It lingers under the hem of your shirt–his shirt. That you wear each time you sleep in his place. You take his wrist and pull it upwards, letting him touch your skin.
“I’m gonna raise your shirt. Is that okay? We’ll use the blanket if you’re cold,” he asks, with that smooth, gentle voice. As if his words are melting on his tongue.
“Okay,” you sigh. He reaches for the blanket pooled by your ankles and pulls it over you. Then he raises your shirt to your armpits and starts caressing your breasts. You shiver from the lightness of his touch.
“You’re so soft,” He sighs, rolling your breasts with a warm hand. He relishes the way your nipples shrivel in his fingertips. “So pretty…”
He pulls you gently by the shoulder, wanting you to face him. Your lips drift towards his. Suguru hums in approval, parting his lips to let your tongue meet him. He rolls over on top of you and lets the bare skin of your torsos press against each other, seeking comfort in the warmth and smoothness of your bodies.
Every kiss and every touch, even the scent of his skin, the taste of his tongue, and the small hums and groans from deep in his chest rushes straight down your spine and to your crotch. You pull away, forming a trail of saliva from your tongue to his. You look between his legs and notice his head peeking from under his waistband. The slit glistening with pre-cum.
“I wanna touch it,” you whisper.
“Please,” he replies, almost immediately. His voice is shaking now.
He takes your wrist and lets you fondle him over the fabric. His sweatpants barely cushion his massive length and girth. You caress him with a light and measuring touch. Sliding your hands up and down his hardening shaft, then cupping his balls, feeling how soft they are in the palm of your hand.
“What do you think?” He asks, smiling at the way you look at his crotch with lust-drunk eyes, your lips parted as you feel him. “Keep touching. Get used to the feeling.”
“It’s… thick,” you whisper with a mix of fear and hunger in your tone. Your hand sinks past his waistband, grabbing his shaft. His head drops down your neck with a hiss. His hips start to move, fucking your closed fist. His skin feels even smoother and thinner against your palm, textured slightly by the soft veins snaking underneath.
“I knew it,” he hisses between gritted teeth. “I knew your hand was gonna feel this good.”
He motions you to sit on your shin while he lies on his back. He pulls his sweatpants down to his thighs, exposing the thick cock laying heavily over his abs. He takes you by the wrist and wraps your hand around the shaft, just underneath the crown.
“Keep playing with it, baby. Make me feel good,” he mutters as he wraps his hand around your fist and starts jacking. Teaching you to his preferred rhythm and grip. “I know you can do it.”
You follow his instructions, gazing into his eyes as you gauge his reaction. His cheeks are flushed deep red, his eyes glazed over as he bites his lips and watch your hand slide up and down. He reaches towards your waistband and sinks his hand under your panties from behind.
You feel his finger slide between your lips.
“Aah!” You whimper and shudder. Your hand stops moving as he glides his finger back and forth against your slick cleft.
He wraps his free hand around yours once again and urges you to keep pumping.
“Try to concentrate,” he says with a gentle tone. “I’m just making sure you stay wet while you’re working on me.”
You nod try your goddamn best. But his fingers just feel so long, so smooth and slick, as he teases your bud with each languid stroke. You knew that Suguru had some experience, but it was only around now that you realized the depth of his skill. You start twitching and throbbing against his finger. Your thighs squeezing his hand to trap him in place.
“So sensitive. Have you ever touched yourself? At least once?” He asks, a playful smile on his face. He seems to be enjoying the way you struggle to stay upright and still.
“Of course I have,” you reply, pouting. “But it feels different when it’s you.”
“Oh yeah?” He smiles. “Do you think of me?”
You blush and look away. “I mean, who else do I think about?”
You feel his cock spasm in the palm of your hand. He chuckles softly.
“I think about you too. But this feels better than I imagined.”
He slides a second finger between your lips, now drawing circles on your aching clit. You grunt and whine. The ticklish sensation is too dull, too soft, to relieve the ache building between your legs. You look at him and notice that slight, mischievous slant on the corner of his mouth. He knows he’s torturing you. He’s relishing that starved look in your eyes.
Indignant, you bend down and give a soft lick on the tip of his cock.
“Fuck!” He grunts. His breathing grows heavier as you glide a soft tongue around and around the slit. “Hah… Holy shit.”
“Not so fun when you’re the one being teased, right?” You ask.
Suguru huffs and laughs.
“Are you kidding? I love it,” he replies. “Fuck me up, babe. Make a mess out of me. I wanna beg.”
You bite your lip and smile. Emboldened, you bend down and wrap your lips around the crown of his cock and start coating him with your mouth. Absorbing him, caressing him with your lips and tongue. Suguru groans low, his thighs nearly vibrating underneath your palm as he summons all of his will not to shoot his hips up and gag you with his length.
The taste of his dew drop reminds you of all things honeyed and sweet—ripe mangoes, fresh peach, a drop of caramel, enhanced by the delicate saltiness of his skin. His scent is warmer and smokier like burning wood. And somehow thick and sweet like amber. You dip your head down, wanting to taste more. You want to feel his veins against your tongue, his tip on the roof of your mouth, inching closer to the back of your throat. You suck him with eagerness and hunger that provokes his greed.
“Keep stroking me, baby. Suck the tip and stroke the rest,” he mumbles. “Stroke me while you suck me. Please.”
You wrap your hand around the base of his shaft and start sliding in tandem with your mouth. Suguru groans louder now. The balls of his feet digging and dragging against the mattress. His fingers circle harder on your clit, rewarding you with mutual pleasure.
"Mmph… " You hum as you start rutting against his fingers, and his cock nearly bursts from the vibrations in your throat.
“Oh God, wait. Baby–baby wait. Not so fast,” he gasps, grabbing you by the hair to keep you steady. But you move your head faster anyway, your hand tightening and swiveling around his shaft, wanting to drag him to the edge and lose all control.
“Okay–No–stop, stop, stop,” he pants, pulling you upwards by the scalp. He pries your mouth out of his cock with a wet smack. “Don't make me cum just yet. Not there.”
He sits up and slides you down the bed by the hip, pulling your crotch towards him. Suguru sinks between your legs and pulls your panties to the side, peeking like a chef with his pot. Not only have you soaked through the thin, lacy fabric, he can also see the way your clit and your folds flutter and quiver in anticipation. The feel of his heavy breathing alone is enough to make your hips jump.
“All this for me?” he teases. “I’m touched.”
You bite your thumb and grin towards him. Like a child about to be handed a new toy. Suguru pulls your panties off and starts kissing and nipping the inside of your thighs.
“My turn to take care of you, okay?” he asks, his lips seeking permission, hovering so close to your bud. And when you nod, he dives in. Suguru cycles through several techniques, trying to gauge which one you like best–a wide soft tongue, perhaps small precise licks, hard or soft suckling. And once he finds the right brain-blasting combo his mouth becomes relentless. He spreads your thighs and pins them unto the bed, giving him more access. You grasp, white-knuckled, the pillow underneath you. And you release a low, animalic grunt.
“I know, baby, I know,” he mutters before he dives once again. “Just keep feeling it. Feel good for me, baby. You need to be ready.”
“I am ready,” you plead. Every fiber of your muscle begs for release. Your hips begin to squirm away from him, trying to save your pussy from overstimulation. Suguru had to shift his hands and pin your hips down. “Please just-”
“Not yet,” he cuts off. He reaches upwards to hold two fingers near your mouth. “Spit.”
You look at him, bewildered. He commands you again.
“Spit.”
Reluctant, you gather saliva on your tongue and pour it down his fingers. Suguru sinks back down and starts teasing your entrance. Then he slides a finger. And another. Loosening you up with his lips around your clit.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, as he moves his fingers in and out.
You shake your head, “No. But it feels stretched. Right around the entrance.”
“You need to relax,” he murmurs. “Play with your tits for me, will you?”
You nod and slide your hand on the underside of your breasts, rolling them together, teasing your sensitive nipples. You watch Suguru work his lips and fingers on your core. His hair pooling between your legs. His eyes hazy with love and concentration as he makes a mess out of your cunt. Dribbling all the way down his wrist and chin. Eventually, the stretching sensation fades and you feel softer, more malleable, under his touch.
Suguru sits up and starts jacking his cock. His eyes wander over the flushed and dripping mess of flesh he made out of his own girlfriend. Panting as he imagines his cock driving straight inside you. He leans down and aims his tip between your legs. You flinch and look away in a sudden spike of nervousness.
“No, baby. Hey, look at me,” Suguru says with a soft, low, voice, tilting your face towards him. You look up and meet his gentle, earnest eyes. “I love you, okay? It’s just me. You know I won’t do anything to hurt you.”
He starts kissing your forehead, your lips, your neck, your shoulders. You try to focus on your breathing, drawing on every pleasurable sensation you’ve felt before this moment.
“It’s just a new feeling. You just have to get used to me. You just have to get used to feeling this part of your body.” he whispers, as he starts prodding you with the tip of his cock, coating himself with your fluids. “And once you’ve done it… you’ll crave it again.”
You nod, taking in his words. "Okay. I trust you."
"Good. Good girl."
You grit your teeth and whimper as you feel him enter. He thrusts into you inch-by-inch, pushing and withdrawing and stopping as necessary. It hurts. Then it doesn’t hurt. It’s uncomfortable, and then it’s not. You wrap your arms around him and pull him closer to your body, wanting to be crushed by his entire weight. While somehow wanting to push him away. While wanting to strangle him. While wanting to embrace him. To caress him. To scratch him.
He plunges into a place in your body you never realized was there. And more of him keeps coming and coming. Pushing towards an unknown depth you can never reach on your own. But it’s just him. It’s just Suguru. And you know that he’ll always treat you with unrelenting tenderness and soothing. He’ll never hurt you.
You dig your fingers on the back of his neck as you gaze into the ceiling with bleary eyes. Your head spins. You don’t know for how long you’ve been holding your breath. And if he hadn’t held you the way he did, perhaps your soul would have fallen backwards from your body.
“Yes, God, yes. Just take me, please,” he pleads as he kisses your neck. “I’m almost in…”
He leans down and takes your nipple in his mouth. The sudden prick of pleasure drives him further inside of you, all the way in, until he’s buried to the hilt with a long, satisfied groan. Your cunt clenches and quivers, plugged to the stomach by his girth, surprised that you managed to take this much of him.
“Do you feel that? That’s all of me,” he says, caressing your cheek with tender fingers, laughing softly in wonder. “We’re gonna make love. God, I love you.”
He laces his fingers between yours and kisses you deeply. And even the spaces between your fingers are sensitive to his touch.
"I love you too," you whimper. "I'm all yours."
Suguru’s hips start swiveling in circles against yours. Letting you get used to his length and girth. Then he rocks his hips back and forth in slow, shallow strokes. Fucking you with impossible gentleness. Measuring how fast and how hard he can go before you start to hurt again. Like you have all the time in the world. But you bury your face in his neck, biting his shoulder as you take more and more. Soon, you feel even looser, more comfortable, and the pleasure begins to overtake all else.
You start moving your hips in tandem with his.
“Yes, fuck,” he hisses against your neck. “That’s right baby, make love to me. Feel good with me.”
He picks up the pace, slamming his hips against you and nearly driving you towards the headboard. He’s stretching you again, his shaft slicing against your tight entrance. But Suguru angles his cock and jabs a spot underneath your belly that nearly makes you cry. You no longer mind the pain that’s so deliciously mixed with pleasure. And you notice that any coherent thought escapes you, and any words you want to say dies in your throat. You barely have enough air in your lungs to even moan his name. Or any strength in your arms and legs to keep clinging to him. So you simply lie there and feel him. Feel the way he thrusts and sinks into you. Feel his smooth hand on your waist. Feel his breath against your face as he rambles sweet degeneracy into your ear.
“You’re so tight. So fucking tight. Oh, you’re gonna milk me dry,” he mutters under his breath. “A good girl with a good pussy. I’m so fucking lucky.”
You feel the pleasure build from under your belly, on your clit, your nipples. And then you shatter. Your stomach tightens like a board and your body recoils as the pleasure overtakes you. White hot light bursts in front of your eyes and splatter into pinpricks of color. You scream and cry against the crook of his neck. Your pussy clamping around his cock. Suguru hooks his arm under your waist and thrusts even faster; eager to milk himself while you’re still wound up and tight from your orgasm. The pleasure starts to feel rawer, searing like an electric shock. A gradient from pleasure to pain.
“I know baby, I know, just bear with it. Just bear with it for me. I’m so close,” he grunts, face tight from euphoria. “I’m so close, please, let me cum.”
His jaw clenches and you feel a burst of warmth right inside of you. His hips stutter helplessly by the strength of his orgasm. And then it finally stops. He holds still. His hard grunts melt into soft moans and heavy breathing. Together, you hang onto that boneless, satisfied trance; your minds slipping into reverie. His cock stays buried inside of you for moments, but it feels like a part of you now. Even as he slowly pulls away you still feel him under your skin. The feeling of his touch, the warmth of his breath, the weight and thickness of his cock when it dwelled inside you, feels less of a vivid memory. And more of a phantom sensation that will linger for as long as you let it.
Suguru props himself with both elbows and gazes upon you with love and reverence. He plants a tender kiss on your lips.
“Thank you.”
You laugh weakly, “Thank you? ”
He nods. “Yes, thank you. For the memory, for the trust, for the love.”
Suguru brushes your hair away from your forehead and kisses you there. Letting his lips linger. Then you gaze at each other in euphoric wonder. You have melded with him in body and soul. In pleasure and love. Your skins are matted and slick with sweat, and you can feel his semen dripping down between your thighs; the light from the window bears down your heads like halos. You feel anointed and transformed. And your bodies now feel less like a mystery to yourselves and to each other. Everything has changed now. And your relationship with Suguru will never be the same. The memory of your lovemaking will lie in the undercurrent of your every interaction, now that he has untethered a craving inside your minds. That ever-present need to feel this sense of closeness once again.
Suguru nuzzles his face against yours. Holding your bodies completely still as you take a shared breath and bask in the intimacy, in the sacredness, of this moment.
thank you for giving this fanfic a chance!
pls excuse me if the grammar, dialogue, choreography, and narration is awkward. english is not my first langauge and a lot of things get lost in translation inside my head.
originally posted on ao3
art by m_mifmr on x
warnings: smut, dub-con, memory loss, genocide, war, eren is fucked in the head, possessive eren, toxic and manipulative eren, kidnapping, public sex, blood and gore, biting, domestic life, cabin eren >> but man-bun eren is also hawt so lets have both
word count: 2.9k
this work is purely fictional. i just finished aot, and it easily became one of the greatest shows i've ever watched. one of the reasons i love it so much is probably because it deals with the theme of morality. it's heavy, but very profound. this work is a canon-divergence; therefore, the cruelty shown in the show is also present here. but mostly, it's smut.
He always held you close, like he wanted to fuse his body with yours, as if the cock that was pounding in and out of you and his prominent presence weren’t enough to brand you as his irrevocably.
“Who are you with, darling?”
You had heard this question time and time again, a hint of desperation growing in his voice with each passing day.
“I’m with you,” you said, out of breath, to the person you were lying on top of; your face nuzzled into the crook of his neck. “I’m with you, Eren.”
“Who am I?”
“My husband.”
“That’s right. I am your husband.”
Eren Yeager was your husband. That was the only thing you knew when you opened your eyes four years ago to the ceiling of this very same cabin you now called home. Because he was there, holding your hand and waiting for you to wake up. Because he told you so.
His hair was dark brown, short, and his eyes were the greenest you had ever seen. That was before you realized you didn’t remember what green you had seen—you had no memories prior to that moment. Eren told you the war with Marley just ended, that you were caught in the crossfire when the Rumbling started. At the time, you didn’t know what the Rumbling or Marley were, so you just listened.
“Stay with me.”
You nodded to his neck, assuring him you weren’t going anywhere. He loved to make his presence known, making sure your attention never strayed far. You had no idea why. It was his thing. He loved to be close, touching you whenever he could, around the house, sometimes out of it, leading up to moments like this where he filled you up good and full.
It hadn’t always been like this, though.
—
It was a strange progression. You swore you saw something akin to hatred in his eyes sometimes in the first year of living together. You blamed it on the war, knowing Eren was a member of the Survey Corps who played a major role in winning the war against Marley. He was the Attack Titan who also possessed the power of the Founding Titan—the hero of Paradis who began the rumbling and saved his homeland.
But despite the victory, wars could take so much from a person, leaving only a shell filled with haunted flashes of horrible decisions.
It was hard for you too, having to see him space out when he thought no one was looking, having to be the one whom he took his frustration out on. It was rough when he fucked you for the first time—after your memory lost, at least—bending you in half till your ass didn’t touch the mattress and legs raised high. It was lewd, the way his hot cock drove in and out of your pussy. Eren’s grip was hard on your hair, forcing you to watch. He fucked you like he hated you; when you finally cried, he smiled so genuinely for once.
Things got better as days went by, so you thought you must have done something right. His face looked less hollow and his eyes less empty. After one year together, they even shone with delight whenever he came back from the Survey Corps headquarters after at least a week of absence due to how far it was from his cabin.
He tried to be home as much as he could; you knew he did. For a man who could barely keep his hands to himself whenever you were near and stared everyone off when he took you to the town market, you were surprised he didn't take you to work. You were clingy yourself, but Eren was on a whole other level.
“Greta brought us some potatoes last week,” you recounted the events that happened while he was at work. You both lay on a big white blanket next to each on the riverbank near home. “She couldn’t stop talking about you.”
People loved your husband, revered him. Some were like Greta, coming to your house with gifts just to see Eren.
“You need to stop letting people into our house when I’m not home.” He turned on his side to you. “Didn’t we talk about this?”
“It’s Greta,” you said, your face only a hair’s breadth away from his.
When the Greta in question was a 60 year-old woman, you didn’t have the heart to turn her away.
“Hmm,” he hummed, his hand tucking your hair behind your ear. “What did the old hag say?”
“Very rude, pretty boy,” you chided him, but laughed still.
You were lost in thought a bit before you answered, “Many things, mostly your heroic acts, how you saved Paradis, the usual.” You surveyed his face before continuing. He seemed alright, disinterested even. “She claimed your Titan’s form on the Rumbling day was—imposing—magnificent. I can’t help but want to see it too, you know?”
“You don’t,” he sharply retorted.
And won’t… Greta said the power of the Titans had been eradicated from the world since the war ended three years ago. You would never get to see it, not when you were awake. But when you slept, sometimes you would dream about them, the Titans, seeing them from afar. In some dreams, you would stand on the ground, looking up at one. The earth was flattened, and among the rubble and blood… was you.
When Eren called you by your name, bringing you back to the riverbank, you were on your back staring up at him instead of the sky, your wrists pinned to the ground by his strong hands.
“With me,” he said.
“Yes, Eren.”
—
As time passed, the dreams persisted, always the same ones. It was the start of your sixth year with Eren that you had a new one—a blonde girl in a white dress, leading you through a field of sand towards a pillar of light shaped like a tree.
—
There were four things Eren asked of Founder Ymir when he successfully persuaded her to side with him instead of his brother, Zeke. One, the Rumbling that would lead the Titans in Wall Maria to trample on Marley. Two, the elimination of all Titans and their powers, all except the ones he possessed. Three, the eradication of the Curse of Ymir, in order to live more than the lifespan of 13 years. And four, to erase the memories of one Eldian woman he brought all the way from Marley—you.
With this, Paradis had won the war against Marley. The fact that Eren Yeager would still be in possession of his Titans was not known by anyone, not even his close friends like Mikasa and Armin, to prevent any aggression born out of fear from other nations. All they knew was that the Titan’s powers had entirely been wiped from the world, not a clue about how Paradis would never be defenseless when the time of danger re-emerged.
And on the day he marched with all the Titans back to Paradis, marking the end of the war, as well, no one got a clue—not one—about you.
Looking up from the ground that was painted red with blood was you, so alone, so alive. Eren stopped; the whole army stopped, too. Otherwise, you would have been crushed to death. You didn’t run when his skeletal form swooped down, mouth opened, ready to take you in. You closed your eyes, not the faintest idea what you would become.
His war trophy, a souvenir from his enemy’s land.
When Eren and the Colossus Titans finally left Marley land, it was all quiet.
—
You were grounded. After being caught stealing some fruit and cheese and getting beaten and dragged home by a Marley soldier, your mom forbade you from going out for a week. The next day, you kept yourself in the basement, despite not being forbidden to roam around the house, you were sulking and did not want to see anyone.
You heard the front door slam shut when your mom went out for the day, again when three of your sisters did, bringing the loud chattering with them. Had you only known that would be the last day you would see them, you would have acted more sensible.
Stubborn as you were, you planned to stay in the basement all day, just to be bad. You were nothing but a fool, desperate for your mother’s attention, wanting to hear her knock on the door calling you for dinner.
But then, a few hours later, the ground shook, and it was all too late.
For some twisted reason, the basement of your house was not completely destroyed. When you regained consciousness and finally pulled yourself out of the piles of bricks, you limped up the remaining of the basement stairs and saw what you wished you didn’t—flattened earth and a vast land of blood and heat.
Days later, Eren found you.
And now, you found yourself standing before the horse you were tending to before your thoughts were invaded. That blonde girl you had been seeing in your dreams just showed you everything. You got your memories back, every single one of them.
—
“I’m married.”
After living with you for a year, Eren decided to tell his friends about you. Mikasa and Armin stopped walking, leaving him the only one treading ahead. They seemed to stop breathing altogether when he turned around to face them.
“To whom?” Armin was the first to ask.
“A girl—from Marley. She survived the Rumbling,” Eren said. “I took her, erased her memories.”
Mikasa flinched. “What? Why?”
“Just let me have it.”
“Eren, you are not making any sense.” Armin shook his head, his voice soft and sweet, like he was trying to coax him into seeing reason. Armin was like that, a manipulative fucker when necessary.
“Let me have it!” Eren repeated louder.
“But this is wrong,” Mikasa argued with tears in her eyes.
Again, he made her sad again.
“And the plan to destroy Marley was wrong. Yet, you both agreed. Everyone did.” Eren grunted. “Did I not deserve it, after everything?”
His head was a mess. Hadn’t he given enough? He hated Marley, and a second later he was sorry for what he felt. He did not want to be like this, a slave to freedom from the world tainted with the hunger for power, the world that was nothing like what he saw in Armin’s book, the same one where a dream of wanting to see his loved ones happy turned him into a murderer because of how much he wanted to make it come true.
And he would make it come true, no matter what it took.
—
Eren Yeager was not a good man, and with you, he was reminded of everything. The screams of fright before the loud thud of each footstep, the smell of blood that followed, the face you would make when you knew the truth one day.
He almost strangled you in your sleep, the day he brought you to his cabin. You were an Eldian, a Subject of Ymir just like him; but born and raised in Marley, you were surely brainwashed. All of them were. He had seen example after example. But he was waiting for something from you, and you would give it to him; he knew. So instead of choking you to death, he held your hand until you woke up and told you he was your husband.
When you cried the first time getting fucked so deep by him, he pretended you were sorry for what Marley did to Paradis—a crime you did not commit, he knew, but still. Behind those eyes clouded with lust, you looked at him so lovingly, while he smiled like a crazed maniac.
It was lovely, he had to admit, the way you looked at him. For as long as those eyes stayed on him, he didn’t feel like a monster. They lit up when he came home. You, looking away from whatever you were doing when you heard him call your name and rushing over to jump into his arms, he liked that.
And he couldn’t help but show you how much he liked it, kissing you till your lips gleamed with saliva. Sometimes he would bite you bloody, at first because he was a moody bastard. Now, he just loved the sharp ah you would let out and the way it would turn into a moan when he ran his tongue over the wound.
You tried so hard to be a good wife, taking care of him, looking out for him. It had been six years since he’d had you as his, but he still remembered the first time you said you loved him.
It was a sunny day. He came back from the Corps to an empty house. After calling your name for a solid minute and getting no answer, his whole body was showered with panic. He was already back on the horse when you came into view, waving, approaching home. Your other hand carried a fish basket; it didn’t look very heavy.
You wore a white, off-shoulder blouse with a blue skirt; the blouse was all wet. He cursed under his breath as you came close. He could see your tits through the wet fabric, your nipples stiff, begging to be sucked.
“I didn’t get many, but I caught some big ones,” you said, sounding proud of yourself. It was his job to provide for you, but now you were doing it for him. His cock was so damned hard in his pants.
He remembered backing you into the cabin wall, the fish basket dropped and forgotten as he pulled your blouse down and feasted on your soft breasts like a starved beast, out in the open where the scene could be stumbled upon by anyone. You were such a good girl for letting your husband ravage you as he pleased, sucking your tits, licking your cunt, then lifting you up to be bounced on his cock until he marked your womb with his cum.
“Eren.”
“Hm?”
Eren stood there and held you close to his chest, refusing to let you stand, needing to be in you for a tad longer.
“I love you,” you breathed out.
He savored every word without saying anything back. This was what he was waiting so patiently for. Your love, it was all his.
Flashes of events crossed his mind, interrupting his sweet recollections. It seemed that his well-kept secret had now been revealed to you by the Founder herself. Eren got up from the chair he was sitting on, exiting his office in quick strides.
—
Your husband was still in his Survey Corps uniform when he came home in the middle of the night to find you sitting at the dining table and not on your bed, asleep. Now that his hair was longer, Eren loved to tie it into a bun. He was such a pretty monster.
You didn’t run, knowing it was no use since he would find you anyway.
“Just kill me,” you asked. “Please, like you did my family.”
“I see you have met the Founder,” he began. “The girl with blonde hair, Ymir.”
“Did you hurry here?”
“Yes.”
That was why he arrived at odd hours.
“So you knew—that she showed me what I forgot,” you concluded. “Did she show you, too?”
“I already knew it would happen. I knew I would hurry here. I have seen this moment a thousand times already.” He said as he walked up to you before kneeling at your feet. “It’s the curse of possessing the Attack Titan.”
“Tell me, then. What happens now?”
When he didn’t answer, you begged again.
“Please just kill me. I can’t unlove you.”
It hurt so bad just to look at him.
“You don’t have to,” he said, laying his head on your lap. “Keep loving me.”
“You’re cruel.”
“The world is cruel.” He rubbed his cheek to your thigh then raised his head to look up at you. “Regardless, you will have to live with me in it.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then walk away. Leave me. I won’t stop you.” Eren said. “Choose.”
“You just said I had to live with you in this cruel world.” Words went through your teeth.
“But is that your choice?”
—
Eren looked at you. He didn’t say anything about how you would live with him until the day you departed this world, or the fact that you would give him three children, two boys and one girl. They would look so much like him, and that would frustrate you, especially when you were mad at him and had to see them run around the house. And one day, after you had said you loved him for another hundred times, he would finally say it back.
‘I love you, too.’ He heard himself faintly in his head.
But now was not the time. Therefore, all he did was sit there, silently, and waited for you to choose.
english is not my first language. please excuse any mistakes
Born as a beta, you never thought fate would toy with you by giving an alpha as your soulmate. Especially not one like Miya Atsumu, the one whom you went to school through college with and still having to see his face ever so frequently as if he had sworn to never let you live in peace.
For someone who made faces when seeing the lunchboxes your mom packed for you and proclaimed a beta was weak when you first presented at fifteen, Miya Atsumu couldn’t seem to detach himself from you.
So when you had a crush on one of your colleagues at twenty five, having his nose in your business as usual, Atsumu knew instantly.
“Another beta.” Lying comfortably on your couch, Atsumu scoffed. “Predictable.”
“Didn’t ask for your opinions.”
“I’m giving it anyway,” he said in a singsong voice, but his face was without mirth. “You can fuck whoever you want, but I’m getting my fix. That’s non-negotiable.”
Oh, yeah. His fix.
He patted his lap. “Come here.”
Then it all began again. Him cradling you in his lap, hands going all over, lips spilling hateful words.
‘Weak fucking beta.’ He would say. ‘Even Osamu got an omega soulmate. Makes me jealous as fuck.’
But then he would kiss you like the world might end tomorrow, doing everything opposite of what he said. This time was no different. His hot tongue was everywhere he could reach, acquainted itself with yours before leaving a wet trail down your neck.
You protested when he nipped a little too hard, scared he might leave marks. He did that once. The deep purple hickey you saw in the mirror after he left your apartment scared the shit out of you. A little more force and teeth could have broken the skin, and that thought caused chills to run all over your body. You didn’t want to bear his marks.
Yet, Atsumu didn’t care. He never did. His hands were now on your buttocks, squeezing hard through your thin pajama bottoms. He moved you to one of his thighs for better concentration. The hands on your butt now rolled your hips back and forth, to the point your moan finally slipped out of your tightly zipped lips and you forgot about the harsh nibbling on your neck.
“Go whore yourself out,” Atsumu whispered. “Like I fucking care.”
Same here, asshole.
You thought, didn’t say out loud.
Touching each other lifted the heavy weight in the heart caused by the act of not accepting the soulmate bond. Nothing more, nothing less. If not for this calling of intimacy both of you obliged to feel, he wouldn’t be here. You knew that. He said it way too many times.
Still, your cheeks were licked, your lips were tasted, neck wet with saliva. You felt like a prey about to be eaten every time he was close. Yes, he may not care. But he sure was possessive enough of things that were given to him.
Whenever you tried to wiggle out of his firm grasp, he tightened his fist. This time was the hardest you ever felt.
—
In more than twenty years of knowing each other, never once did Atsumu come to you when he had gone into rut. So when he called you two in the morning one week after his last fix, ordered you to pack a bag and tell your boss you would be on leave for a week, you were baffled. It was never more than kisses and touches with him. Your clothes were always intact and on. The idea of that being changed had you flat out saying no.
That didn’t stop Atsumu from coming to get you one hour later though. When he saw that you did nothing to get ready, his jaw was clenched. A split second later, he packed your bag himself, shoving clothes and toiletries in without any care. You were still in pajamas when the passenger door was slammed closed and he hit the gas.
—
There were reasons why betas are not for alphas. Physically, they were incompatible. Betas weren’t designed for alpha’s stamina, not to mention one in rut. At one point, you did not care to count anymore how many times you had blacked out. Fading in and out really fucked with your memory. All you remembered was the non-stop pounding, Atsumu’s breath against your face, and his uncharacteristic cooing, praising you as his good girl.
“Knew you were built for me.” The blond menace pulled on both of your wrists, never stopped his thrusting. “Let me knot you again, okay?” When you shook your head, face wet with tears, Atsumu shushed you softly. “Shhhhh. You can do it, I know you can.”
And you could. But it was not without pain.
“Shouldn’t have waited this long,” Atsumu said close to your lips. “You almost got away.”
He talked too much. But it would have been a big fat lie to deny that his words didn’t turn you on. That his vile confession didn’t affect you.
“Bold of you to even think I would let someone else touch you.” He sounded out of breath, closing to his end. “All the effort goes to waste. No no no no.”
You felt it coming, just seconds before. Then your whole body was taken by the waves of thrills and your whole vision turned white. Atsumu was not your first, but as if he was the harbinger of agony, it hurt when he first penetrated, hurt when he knotted. And when you felt a sharp sting at your sensitive neck, you knew he defied the rule of nature once again by marking you.
Fruitless. That was what it would be. Betas were not made for alphas. Mating bites did not forge any bond with the wrong person and would fade over time. But Atsumu had always been stubborn. One bite turned into two, three, then countless. All you felt was pain and the wetness of blood before darkness took your consciousness like the many rounds before.
—
The mating bites faded within two weeks, all except the first mark, proving to you that even biology could not win over destiny. Same went with all other beta-alpha soulmate couples out there after you had done some research. They were rare, but they were there. You shouldn’t have let Atsumu bite you. Should have known better that things could get weird when it came to soulmates. Now, he wouldn’t get off your ass, had the audacity to move his things to your apartment and yours to his, calling you his girlfriend in front of everyone and expecting to see you at his games.
You didn’t even like volleyball to begin with. And as you watched his magnificent tosses to any players he deemed to have high chances to score, you thought of a way to get out of his clutch.
He needed an omega, the correct designation he always longed for. Because even with all the protective caresses and the promise to never let you go, Atsumu was still mean. Like going back to the ninth grade when you put makeup on for the first time and he gave you the nastiest comment that made you go wash everything off in the school toilet, his words still stung badly when he chose to weaponize them.
‘Samu’s mate smells like she needs to be bred.’ He said that nonchalantly one day at Onigiri Miya, sitting side by side with you at the counter where his twin and his mate helped each other with cooking and serving the hungry athletes who were there to celebrate the day’s victory ‘Don’t know how he stands that. So sweet’
Hearing that made your conversation with Hinata pause. His steely gaze was the first thing you saw when turning to face ‘your boyfriend’.
It didn’t end there. For days Atsumu was in a devilish mood, his jabs that you knew most of them were meant to just rile you up for fun had become a real emotional harm. He still fucked you, make no mistake about that. And it was as devilish as his temper.
‘Too hard, Miya. Too hard.’ You still wouldn’t call him by his first name.
Veiny hands wrapped snugly around your neck, Atsumu only went faster after hearing that. The bathroom mirror was foggy with hot steam from the shower, but you could see enough. One of your legs was perched on the counter, allowing the view of his cock pistoning in and out of you, your breasts bouncing fast.
‘Would have been pregnant already if you were an omega.’ The sentence came out coated with his accent, thicker than normal, like he didn’t have full control of how he spoke. ‘But that’s alright. I can take my time with you. We’ll get there,’ he purred. ‘Still, what a shame, huh?’
Shame his ass for saying that and not letting you leave. ‘Go fuck an omega then.’
He smirked. Pissed you off. ‘Nah.’
As his toss to Sakusa scored a winning point, the loud cheer brought you back to the present. You saw Atsumu eyes staring up at you from the court below and knew what you had to do.
—
Getting an omega who wanted to spend a heat with Miya Atsumu was easy enough. Sending her up to your apartment where he was already there waiting for you was as simple. You drove away then, not far, stopping at your favorite 24-hour cafe because you needed somewhere to sit and waited for the first feedback from the omega girl. Half an hour later, you got a call.
The screen showed the female omega’s name. You picked up and said hello, expecting to hear that everything went well and that you could go find somewhere else to sleep for the next five nights.
But you only heard cries. Not of pleasure, just a full-blown crying with hiccups.
“Hey, are you okay?” you asked, frowning. “Talk to me. What happened?”
“He—he screamed—at me,” she spluttered, almost incoherently, “and only asked where you were.”
You cursed quietly, finally able to stop stirring the poor coffee you ordered without any interest in taking a sip. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know,” she cried. “He left—after the screaming.” Her voice wavered all the more when she kept on trying to speak. “You had to see him. He looked murderous. There was not even a hello. He straight up shouted at me, accusing me of breaking in. When I tried to explain—mentioned you, his face was all red.” A hiccup interrupted the long babbling. “He said he was married to you and showed me the ring.”
You were not sure what crack Atsumu was on, but there was definitely no ring or marriage.
The call was still on when you heard the cafe’s door pushed open. And it was as if you saw the devil with your own naked eyes.
Atsumu walked in.
His strides declared no peace or mercy when he saw you, ignoring the greetings from the two night shift baristas.
Not wanting to cause a scene, you stood up, didn’t say anything when he put his hand on your shoulder and led the way out.
The drive was silent. Your car was left at the parking lot near the cafe, you would have to come and get it as soon as you could before the parking fee turned as murderous as him. When asked where he was going, he answered solemnly, “My place. Yours stinks.”
You just knew it was going to be a long night.
—
Atsumu was the one who got the car out for you the next morning since he was the one who could still walk without wobbling. The sheets you slept on were rumpled. They reeked of cum.
You reeked of cum.
‘You think you’re so funny?’ he asked, knowing you couldn’t answer with his cock occupying your mouth but did it nonetheless ‘You wanted me to fuck her? What was going on in that pretty little head?’
He pulled you by the nape of your neck before pushing your head down, forcing your throat to take more of him till you felt the urge to gag.
‘I thought we had an understanding, baby,’ he said, finally relenting his grip on your head. ‘No whoring yourself out.’ Then he stressed, ‘And no whoring me out. I’m yours.’
‘Do you understand?’
You only nodded.
‘Words.’
‘Yes, Miya.’
‘Atsumu,’ he said, looking like he wanted to throw up. ‘You’re not fucking my brother. Don’t make me imagine that. Call me Atsumu.’
‘Yes, Tsumu.’
Looked like you delivered. Atsumu grinned from ear to ear. ‘Good girl. My best girl.’
That was last night.
A warm kiss to the cheek woke you again, must have dozed off after Atsumu left, but those scenes were not a dream. You heard him whisper,
“I got your car. Parked it at your place.”
He looked like he got a ten-hour sleep while you could not move a limb without feeling sore. Not fair. And the way he looked so good in sheep’s clothing, his wolf’s skin all hidden. Not fair at all.
“Shower.” Your voice was hoarse, but you got the message through. That was good enough.
Summary: Existence is a needful thing. Choice is fickle, nature inescapable. Run to the end of the world, Joel, all those things will still find you.
She'll still come for you.
-OR-
the A/B/O outbreak AU
Rating: Explicit 18+
Content Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Dystopian Society; Outbreak not Cordyceps AU; Light Angst; Slow Burn; Shocking Considering the Implications of Me and This Trope but Alas; Biologically Assigned Soulmates; Power Dynamics; Topping From the Bottom; Government Controlled Reproduction; Segregation of the Designations; Institutionalized Sexism; Vaguely Handmaidien Undertones; Incredibly Soft Despite the Tags; Be Not Afraid, Dear Reader!; Yearning; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Competence Kink; Alpha Joel; Omega MC; Very Soft Joel; Older and Jaded Alpha; Young and Needy Omega; Age Gap; Size Difference; Size Kink
A/N: I've found there is an absolutely shocking lack of A/B/O in this fandom, and this is my contribution to begin rectifying that. I swear that despite the way the tags read, this is entirely and sickeningly sweet soft, comfort, caretaking fic.
Share thoughts, please. It's sort of a different one.
Word Count: 6.3K
Read on AO3
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Genus : Tragedy
To a one Mr. Joel Miller,
500 Sheahan Road
Clallam Bay, WA 98326
United States
We are writing to inform you that as of January 8th, 2015 there remain two weeks until your designated omega’s twenty second birthday, and a year since she has come of age. We have made several attempts to contact you with no response. As mandated by the federal government, you must collect her by January 22nd, 2015 or she will be distributed to another individual of the designation alpha who would be willing to accommodate her.
The omega’s evaluations are all up to date, and she has displayed pristine results in both health and behavioral tests. It is estimated that her first heat will occur soon, and we strongly encourage you to collect before the fever starts and our facility is forced to place her with another willing alpha that may see the process through. As she is part of the Federal Alpha/Omega Pairing Program, and is biologically paired to an alpha already, that being you, if not collected she would be placed in the bidding pool and distributed to the highest offer.
Again, we strongly encourage you to contact our facility with a response on your decision as soon as possible so that we may prepare the omega. We would like to remind you that these creatures are delicate, and unexpected changes to their habitats and surroundings cause high levels of distress. It is of the utmost importance that we proceed in accordance with the omega’s nature.
Enclosed is a brief note from your omega that she has requested to attach:
Dear sir,
I hope that you are well. I have been told that you have not decided if you will come for me, but I ask that you please do. I have been waiting, but they have told me I cannot wait anymore, and I do not know what will happen to me if you don’t come. I promise that I’ll be good if you do.
And at the bottom, in a pristine and swirly pen, and kindly, her signature, there for him to see. The name of the woman, or girl, who seems to have taken all of Joel’s choices from him. He follows the letters with the nail of his thumb, scratching at the ink as if he could make it disappear, make the reality of this poor thing out there in the world waiting for him, disappear.
At the outbreak of the designations, twelve years ago, there had been mass hysteria, mass chaos, a terrible uncertainty of how the world could continue on, segregated into biological designations as it had suddenly become. Thought to be a product of the dwindling population rates, some whispered a government experiment gone awry, a freak genetic mutation had begun to appear within the biological markers of certain people.
Designations: Alpha, Beta, Omega.
It was not that society had unfolded, lost sight of itself, it was more so that from one day to the next, a new and unknown sort of hierarchy had been established, those that were, those that were not. Those that could live their lives as they’d always done, unruled by their biological urges, and those now marked as something new and different and set by a different sort of mandates.
Joel had been one of these people.
The designations had become controlled, weaponized, systemized, almost immediately. Almost. Before the government had mobilized and taken stock and hold of the situation, there had been a momentary lapse of order. Chaos wearing the names and faces of the people he’d once known, people that should have been safe or protected, protective. The true nature of the dynamics were quickly revealed. Obvious: an unmated alpha in need of an omega was a volatile thing, quick to aggression, hungry for violence. Less so: an omega, once thought self sufficient, independent, autonomous, was found to be at times fragile, vulnerable, full of necessity. Both connected by that string of desperation that could only be soothed in a pairing of the two. The desperate drama of being no longer only yourself.
It should have been an obvious thing, the mutation, a byproduct of the dwindling population levels, reproduction rates, was in service of something that would correct this misdirection of nature. Alphas and omegas were, are, idealized pairings for one another in terms of reproduction, in terms of biological pairings. It should have been obvious that this would be wielded as a means of control. It should have been obvious that this was an untenable situation that would cast people into roles that left no choice for autonomy, for freedom.
It should have been obvious to Joel, who almost immediately, and even though he had been well into adulthood, a father to a young daughter, presented as an alpha, growing pains once again this late into his life. It should have been obvious that this was a situation that should have necessitated greater care, vigilance, protection. After all, this was the role of an alpha. He should have listened to this new nature of his that was suddenly, demandingly, presenting itself, acted quicker, stronger, with more wisdom. But he’d failed, he’d continued to fail for years to come after that terrible night when the world had turned back to its base nature in a hedonistic attempt for the preservation of humanity.
Alphas were immediately feared, ostracized, and above all else, obvious. A designation was not a thing a person could hide, especially not an alpha, the truth of their nature. Many were gunned down in the streets at the start, imprisoned, experimented on and sold, debased and tortured. They’d been caught, him and Sarah, separated from Tommy trying to escape the madness. She had, in her innocence and without designation, still only herself, still only his little girl, been caught in the crossfire of a world's desire to tame or trap something it could not understand.
Joel had, in many and the worst of ways, been caught in the crossfire too.
With time, years and the sort of suffering that can only be forced upon anything that is different or out of the norm, a system had been created. Government mandated programs, laws, registries that kept track of the designations. A hierarchy in which those that were essentially and biologically considered stronger than what a normal human should be, were ostracized, exiled, denigrated, muzzled, and those that would be considered weakest, left without any voice at all, without freedom either.
The Federal Alpha/Omega Pairing Program had been established for the continued preservation and furthering of reproductive rates. A registry was created in which all those with the designation either alpha or omega had to present themselves on, biological markers determined, all choices stripped. The program served as a match making machine, when two biological markers presented themselves as compatible, as mates of one another, an omega was assigned to an alpha for keeping. To do with as they’d see fit.
He had gotten word of her only last year. Twelve years of solitude, of nothing, of running from a girl with green eyes he’d not been able to protect and the reality of himself he detested, the what and why of who he was. He’d left Austin, wandered and hidden and groveled in the dirt like a worm until he’d finally found a quiet place to settle. A place alone, undisturbed. And for so long, he’d not been happy, surely, but he had been. Joel had been.
He looks down at the letter in his hand, dragging his thumbnail over the swoop and slope of her signature once again. This was a person who, as mandated by law or biology or fucking whatever, had been deemed as his. His other half, mate, ball and chain. The terrible reminder of what he really was and could not escape, in the form and shape of his perfect opposite.
Last year, when he’d gotten word of her existence, that she’d reached the age of twenty one and was now ready and available for his retrieving, he’d balled up the letter and thrown it with such weightless force into the fireplace in his living room that the air filled wad of paper had fallen limp and nothingful just shy of the flames, rolling in the ashes and dust, coating the reality of this imposed, undesired fate in dark soot. He’d been so angry he’d gone out and howled at the moon like the beast the world would have themselves believe he truly was.
He did not want to be an alpha. He did not want an omega. He did not want to live off the coast of Clallam Bay alone in this house he’d built with his bare hands because he had no other use of them now, no other function or purpose or meaning. He did not want it to be now, he wanted it to be twelve years ago. He wanted to still be a father.
He did not want to be an alpha.
He did not want an omega.
He crumples the letter in his fist, looking out at the bay over the edge of the cliffs from where the cabin is perched. From his spot on the deck he can see as far out as the sea allows, sight stopping suddenly as if the edge of the world had dropped off a ledge. Sometimes he longed, so, so badly, to go find that edge, to drop off it as well. He had only tried once. Never again. The grizzle of scar tissue at his temple, a testament to yet another one of his failures.
The first summons had come two weeks before her twenty-first birthday, and he’d laughed, after the anger, he’d laughed. A girl-woman of only twenty one years, deemed of age, for the role the government or God had deemed her ready for, served up on a platter to him for his own ravaging. For the correction of what nature told was an anomaly that only their coming together could solve. It was sick, disgusting. He wanted no part of it. And so, despite the knowledge that this poor thing was out there, in some government facility, places they took omegas, many orphans, but also, oftentimes separating them from their families for so called safe keeping, just another word for kidnapping. Rearing and breeding and no choices, no choices for any of them ever.
He’d ignored it, turned a blind eye and a revolted heart away from it all, and shirked the supposed responsibilities he owed this omega who he knew nothing about, who knew nothing about him. But nature is, after all, a terrible and inescapable thing. And not even so much the nature of his designation, although that did, unfailingly, play a part in his demise, surely, but the nature of his character, of Joel’s heart, that was the true heavy player. He was not the sort of man who could turn away from someone who’d rely on him, who’d need him. A responsibility. That was, he convinced himself, all he should or could see her as. And for a year there’d been a sort of tugging of a string from behind his navel, an umbilical cord connecting him to his ignored fate. He hated it all. He wanted nothing to do with any of it. He wanted to rot in his aloneness and misery and bitterness, fester in the fear that lived around him from the world. It’s why he’d come here, it’s why he’d exiled himself. Balanced on the tightrope border between the Salish Sea and the Makah Reservation on this high and pristine cliffside cut from the crust of the earth; he was left entirely alone, at peace with only his own chaotic demons to torment him. He wanted it this way, he wanted this; please, please, he’d already given away so much, lost so much of himself. Should he also be forced into this too? To sacrifice the terrible peace of his solitude to save this poor creature that was being forced on him. He wanted to say no, that he didn’t give a fuck, that what would happen to her could, it was no business of his. But those words… another willing alpha, bidding pool, highest offer… they made him see, not even red, black, black and devastating anger or rage or something horrible and base, and what could only be a product of mother nature railing against him for ignoring what he truly was. Something that whispered terrible words of mine, mine, fucking mine. A hiss he did not recognize, did not want to admit he recognized.
He was old, weathered and beaten and past his prime. Unmated. At the end of his line and unmated and purposeless, and his bones were tired, but itching and clamoring within the confines of his skin that this was wrong, that he was wrong, and that he needed to right this immediately.
That she’s waiting, and dear sir, I do not know what will become of me if you do not come. I promise that I’ll be good if you do.
And so Joel goes to her because he knows she is waiting, because fate or purpose or nature is not a thing to be ignored forever.
-
“It’s her birthday today,” the caretaker says, voice ascetic and cold and direct. Not a voice, Joel thinks, for soft things; cadence that has his teeth on edge, hackles raised. “You’ve arrived just in time. She’s been asking for you, and we’d just set her name in the pool, ready to release for auction tomorrow.” That black rage muddies the corners of his vision, and he focuses on the cold shock of the blank white hallway they’re making their way down. Hospital-like, barren and hard, this place, facility, prison, they keep them in, the omegas in the program. He feels slightly sick, uninhibitedly angry as if his teeth would fall out of his skull, as if he could throw himself to the ground as a child throws a fit, spew his anger for the world to see how much he does not want this, how vehemently he’s opposed to it all.
“She may seem young and small, but she’s twenty two now. She’s ready, and she’ll take it as you wish. It’s what she was made for.”
Joel seriously considers, just for a moment, killing the cretinous little man beside him. Take it, he says as if he has any right to speak of you taking anything that Joel would give you, as if it’s any of his business, anything he could ever understand if the beta stench oozing off of him is any indication. He hums nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement. If he parts his teeth he’ll take out a chunk of flesh. He should behave, there are easily frightened things nearby.
White doors with a small circular window at the center line the hall on either side, endlessly down the length of the seemingly endless corridor. The caretaker, white scrubs, pristine like the rest of everything here, and Joel feels suddenly huge and bestial and brutish, marring and dirtying this place that is supposed to be of peace and quiet for the fragile things locked inside.
A terrible place that makes him desolately depressed. You’ve been here so long, and he had not come, and it’s all just one more tally of failure on his rap sheet.
When they finally stop before a singular door, the number fourteen emblazoned in large black, bold print just beneath the small viewing window, Joel suddenly feels– he can’t say for certain, he doesn’t know, or doesn't want to acknowledge the truth of the voices and sounds ringing in his ears, but he knows, recognizes it for the sound of the moment Sarah died all those years ago. His past and present suddenly clashing to meet here in this antiseptic white void, before the door to this fate that’s clamored in quiet waiting for exactly a year today. The sound of her voice, calling his name, saying it hurts, Tommy, his shouts ringing loud and then ebbing soft and as lifeless as she was while the reality of what they were living came to pass before Joel too, could realize. He’d left too, his brother, ran from the truth of Joel at the first easy opportunity. And she’s just there, her voice and her eyes and the feel of her is just there in his mind, on the tip of the tongue of his memory, and then the man opens the door and then there you are.
He feels worse now, hulking, deformed, malformed like he was born wrong. “I’ll give you a moment,” the man says low, that cold voice monotone and almost too quiet to bear now. Joel feels he needs something loud and shocking. He fears he won’t fit through the door. “It’s better if you meet for the first time without distractions. She knows you’re coming.”
He thinks he asks if you’re sleeping, he can’t be sure, but he feels the vibrations of his throat work, his jaw move as if it’d come unhinged, his tongue swollen in his mouth, gums fat and painful, full of bile and terrible memories, and he is a badly made thing in need of some goodness in this moment. And then a shift of the small lump beneath the blankets, the reality of the moment snaps into focus, he steps inside the white box cage you’re kept in. The door shuts behind him, and then it is only him, the thing he would not be, and you, the thing he would not want.
He doesn’t decide it until he finally peers into your eyes, that he can’t, will not, keep you.
Wide, luminous and wet, but not afraid, wholly curious, peering up at him from above the edge of a thick wool blanket. Something drab and gray and stiff looking that immediately sets him on edge, brings that anger back, just the simple sight of the blanket. The two of you stare at each other in silence, the weight of that thing that tells of what you are, sitting heavy between the two of you as he looks down at you from his great height, presence that should be intimidating and cowing, looming over your prone and small form on the bed. But despite his stance, something swelling within him causing him to puff up like an angry dog and want to bear his teeth at you, despite the curtain of tears in your eyes, there’s nothing of the stench of fear.
He shuts his eyes to the sight of you, huffing long and bullish through his nose, mistake, the scent of you, God, help me, and he listens to the rustle and shift of the blankets, opens his eyes to see a little nose peeking out from beneath the gray, drab thing to sniff primly at the air he’s now filling with his presence.
Soft and warm and woman, the smell of a cunt that belongs to him. That’s what it is at its basest. More complexly: vanilla, bergamot, juniper berries, sweat and fever and salt. Taking a plunge off the cliffside, bypassing the sharp teeth of rocks that would kill you, waiting for the dark ice shock of sea and finding nothing but molten life. This is what you smell like.
Worst of all, there is something in you that smells of him. His, yes, but not what he means, not his, him. Something that smells of recognition, like the two of you are the same.
Something chained inside of him rattles at the bars of its cage, desperate to be let out and quenched.
He steps back, frightened at your movement, at the reality of what the two of you are, so obvious here in this cage, at your perking up, your recognition of who and what he is, what he’s come for. You don’t speak, but you tell him. You wriggle beneath the covers, shimmying to turn and face him more fully, still clutching the blanket up high over your mouth, still covering half of your face, and he wants to bark at you to let him see, that he needs to see, but he grinds his teeth together. Molars going to dust down his throat, muscle wrapped around his mandible strung so tight he fears the fibers of it might burst and pop.
You settle on your side facing him now, and then something to beguile him, to bring him to his knees muzzled and obedient and calm, the sweetest, sultry little crooning cry. Something provoking, alluring, something to beckon him to you in surrender and acceptance and welcome, come from your chest up your throat to his ears. He jerks back at the sound, your big eyes still expectant and wet but demanding now. I am here waiting for you. I have been here waiting for you. Come now. He steps back to your bedside, a too small, too stiff metal railed cot he’s going to wrap around that fucking guard, caretaker, idiot, whatever he is when he comes back, falls to his knees, and your little fingers peek out and up and over the edge of the blanket now. And you surprise him doubly, tenfold, more than he can comprehend – but he already decided he will not keep you, he already made up his mind – when you say: “You came. You remembered me.”
He could never have forgotten.
A low hum, a sound to make your eyelids flutter and your legs shift beneath the heavily draped blankets. “Today’s your birthday, sweetheart, is it? Would you like to come home with me as your gift?”
He could never have forgotten.
-
The house that the large man who you’d waited your whole life and then a year for, brings you to – and you can’t be entirely sure, for you’ve so little experience or knowledge – but from what you can think you’re feeling now, from what you can decide, is lovely.
He had taken you in a car, a truck, you like the sound of the word, —ck, —ck, —ck, and driven a long while, through the big city which you’d seen little of, between forest and beside sea, and then finally up a long and winding road and more forest, more trees and green than you’d ever seen in your entire life, until you’d come to a cliffside, the backyard a drop off of air and rock and endless dark water, and a small house perched just there at the edge. Wooden slats, weather beaten and salt lashed, a copper sloped roof, and two pert chimneys, despite the not large area of the house, cabin. It looks, very much, as if it had grown straight from the cliff rock, sprouted by the forest, strong bones that spoke resolutely of remaining where they were no matter how hard the wind howled.
“How did it get here?” You ask the man, alpha, who’s name is Joel who has finally come for you after a life and a year of waiting.
“I made it,” and his voice is rough and demanding of attention, demanding of you, even if you don’t know, although, you do understand, what it is he’s demanding.
And you think, yes, of course. It looks a little, a lot, like him. Obvious, that it came from him.
It would be easy to think that you’re nothing but young and stupid and untried. Just a little omega kept in a cage. But you feel, after this life, not life, of being you and the thing you are, that you’re none of those things despite it all. You had lived, you had been out in the world at one time, even if briefly, even if only as a child, green and inexperienced and innocent, and although you still remain all those things, you had been out there at one point. You had never had a mother or a father, dead when you were an infant, killed in the outbreak, but you had lived with your aunt, your mother’s, many years older, sister, until you’d been ten years old. So you see, and he should see too, this man now before you, this alpha, that you were untried and inexperienced and young compared to him, but you’d had a decade of real life, even if it was the life of a child, even if afterwards it was a not life, but the before, that counted very, very much to you and so deserved respect and acknowledgement. And he should see that, although you do not know, you do understand.
After your aunt had died, and they’d taken you, first to the orphanage, and then to the place for omegas, after you’d started to mature and develop, perhaps that real life had ended. Or been put on hold, waiting for him, this alpha who seems, for all intents and purposes and from what you can gather from his sullen silence and dark looks, nothing like pleased at your presence here now. But then there was the: today’s your birthday, sweetheart, is it? And yes, yes it is your birthday.
It’s your birthday, and you’re free. And yes, you’d lived the not life in the white box for so long, and yes, you are, in fractions, so afraid and knowing so little of the world, but you do know that you want to live and to see the sky.
You want to see the sky every single day.
His big clunking truck rolls to a slow stop before the house, a wide deck wrapping around the entire boxed thing of it, and he starts to move, unclipping his belt, grabbing the bag he’d brought with him stuffed with his clothes he’d promptly tucked and folded you into when he’d shuffled you into the cabin of his truck, and you’d been all thank you, sir, to which he’d given a shake of his head, only Joel. Only Joel. No other words, no other directions, only his hands pulling your strings like a puppet. You had accepted it for the chance to feel his touch, to familiarize yourself with the closeness of him.
You want to know things. You want to know him.
He’d barely said a word the entire drive here, but you could be patient, and they’d prepared you for this, after all. They’d prepared you long and well and told you all they thought you’d need to know. So you find yourself, and not at all shockingly, as you’d waited so long for this, for him, for freedom and the sky, and look, now there’s even sea too, not even a little bit afraid, only anticipatory in bated breath, stuttering heart, excitement.
You had never seen the sea before, and you want to know things. You want to know him.
He jumps heavy and thudding form the truck, and you start to shift, something suddenly frantic and clawing rolling in your chest when you realize he’s leaving the confines of the small space the two of you had found yourselves encased in together, the warm heat from the vents blowing his smell, his smell, all around you. You’d never encountered anything like it before. Salted vetiver and warm cardamom, something sweet and musked and heavy like what your fingers taste like after you’ve pet long and needy at that soft wet place between your legs when the hurt was so tight you felt nothing would sate it. It’s a scent that you think would devastate to have taken away now that you’ve tasted it. And it’s everywhere as the two of you’d sat in his staunchly imposed silence on the truck ride to this place he was bringing you to, his home at what seems like the end of the world. It’s in your nose and down your throat, heavy and cloying and sweet on your tongue, wrapping around your waist and covering your skin and your hands so that you’d even pressed your palms entirely over your face and rubbed yourself like a cat, coating yourself in him.
The door slams, bringing you out of his scent induced reverie and back to the present, and you scramble to undo your buckle too, even though when he’d clipped it for you he’d very sternly said to not take it off, desperate to follow him wherever he’d go. But you realize quickly he’s coming around the front of the truck to your door, and then he’s there pulling it open and letting in a biting gust of wind come off the sea and up the cliffside to slash you across the face with its icy rancor. You shiver, teeth clattering and chattering in your mouth, trying to gather the blankets he’d cocooned you in, his too big, so soft clothes, more tightly around yourself, and find your feet.
He gives a rough but soothing noise, and easy as anything, plucks you up and out of the seat and into his arms, kicking the door closed behind him as he goes. Into his arms. You hold yourself stiff and wide eyed, chewing on the tips of your frozen cold fingers, and staring at him this closely, it’s shocking. Large, had been the first thing. Tall and broad and thick the way they’d said alphas are. This you had expected. The rest, you had not. The eyes, you think, more than anything. His eyes, a strange mix of hazel and brown, but dark. Eyes, that even in your greenness, you can recognize as sad and angry. And the creases at the corners, between his brows, the gray threaded through the lush, dark curls and at the corners of the hair along his jaw. He looks like he would be someone’s father. The patch of bare skin, heart shaped, amongst the whiskers. He’s beautiful, and unthinkingly, or perhaps entirely intentional, you stick out one of your saliva soaked fingers and poke him gently there, only a small prod, to feel what the heart feels like. His gait stops instantly, that permanent frown he’d worn since you’d first laid eyes on him, deepening. “Don’t do that,” he gruffs, continuing his steps up the porch now, the dark, heavy boots you’d noted as he’d taken you from the facility falling thunk, thunk on the wooden boards beneath. He’d not given you shoes of your own. And at his tone, the grumpy look, you have the inexplicable urge to laugh. To laugh at him. Surly, you want to tease, but swallow it, itchy fingertips back into the warmth of your mouth to stop yourself from touching again.
Another gust blows against the two of you as he somehow transfers you, cradled into only one arm, to pull the jingle of keys from his pocket, and you’re jarred with painful shivers, huddling closer into the unbelievably broad expanse of his chest, the unbelievably steaming warm slab. At the touch of your cheek against his collarbone you realize all he’s wearing is a simple, green flannel, no coat, nothing warm. “Aren’t you cold?” It seems suddenly, supremely important you ask, head shooting back up. He peers down his nose at you, finally getting the door open, and his eyes are a very peculiar sort of dark, you cock your head at him, a very strange sort of creature this man is, who’s come to collect you, who you’d waited all your life and a year for.
“I’m fine,” he says.
You don’t believe him.
He sets you down on a large, dark leather sofa, chocolate, the hide smooth and worn and lived in. The rest of the house, not only a house, also a home, for it’s obvious in the way of his things, the way they’re arranged and fixed and the way they too live here, not only exist here. I’ll be like that too, you think. It’s all comfortable, it’s all warm, like a den and a place to relax and be protected, juxtaposed by the sight beyond the large windows, nothing but dark, violent sea as you’ve never before seen.
He really had found a perch at the edge of the world, brought you here to perch as well.
There’s a large fireplace, inlaid with large slabs of dark stone and thick beams of wood, and yes, this too is also obvious in a peculiar and particular way. The house very much looks like it was made by the hands of a single man in some way that you cannot specifically say, but can obviously see the truth of. He made this house, and then he came for you and now he’s brought you here, and you feel, suddenly, so pleased and warm and right. Everything feels so, so right. You sigh dreamily, suffused at once with a tight, deep heat at the pit of your belly, the scent of him everywhere, bubbles floating up from the bottom of you and seeming to pop out your ears. You lean back into the deep couch, wiggling this way and that, rubbing your bottom into the soft cushions to snuggle up, bringing the neck of his sweater he’d put you in up to your nose to breathe deep and long.
He’s moving around, arranging things this way and that, a thick log in the slumbering coals, a pillow here, another blanket atop you, not looking at you, setting a wide berth once he’s settled the throw, not talking to you. It’s fine, let him do as he pleases and needs, you’ll sit here and watch. You can tell he doesn’t like to talk, that words cost him something, and you know so little, but you understand this. Words do cost something, truths, the truth of your before life and your not life. The truth of those realities cost. So, yes, you understand, and he doesn’t have to talk if he doesn’t want to yet. And looking at him, you realize that everything inside of you feels soft and bruised and little. And yet, despite all that, ready, in want and need of him. Ready to be big.
Joel.
You must say the word out loud, his name, for he stops and finally turns to face you. There is something vibrational within him. Different. You’ve never seen a creature as such. You’d never seen an alpha before, not since you’d presented, you’ve never been around one. The caretakers were all always betas, people who would not be affected by the omega’s presence and fluctuations.
He swallows once, twice, twitches and jerks and heaves a big sigh. He’s so full of energy as you, suddenly, in opposition, feel so sleepy and drowsy and ready to close your eyes and only feel warm and relaxed. You like his house, you might love it, even.
Your eyelids droop low, slow blinks, and you watch his face fold into a frown. You want to laugh, he does that so much. They’d said that alphas could have big tempers, that they could be brash and aggressive and loud, but that the omega would naturally temper that. You think it may be true because as you watch him through the weave of your lashes, his frown deepening the longer he stares at you slowly drowsing on his couch which you hope he’ll never make you move from, the jitters and the shakes and the trembling that he’d seemed, just a moment ago, to be so full of, begin to quietly abate.
He takes a step toward you, another and another until his shins meet the edge of the sofa, and you snuggle deeper into the cushions, making yourself into as little a ball as possible, so full of sleepiness.
“How do you feel?”
“I like your house so much,” you slur, head drooping, lashes drooping.
He clicks his tongue, makes that rumbly noise you think is an alpha thing because it has your eyes suddenly clicking open, sleep haze clearing momentarily so that you can look up at him again, and he’s looking at you so peculiarly. You scrunch your nose up at him, there’s no need to look at you so, you’re only an omega, only a little tired, nothing to stare at so strangely.
“I’m–” he clears his throat, makes that rumble, growl, huff sound again, “I’m glad you like it. I wanted you to be comfortable while you’re here.”
And oh, he’s so nice, you tell him, and, “I am. I’m so comfortable.” You melt further into the couch, and he crouches down to peer at you more directly, pulling a soft pillow from the opposite end and tucking it under your head, the large, rough cup of his paw cradling your skull, big fingers weaving through your hair. He arranges you so gently, like he’d take care of you. Like you’re here, finally, finally, you’re here to be taken care of.
It’s what they’d said would happen, and you’d waited so long. You’d waited too long to be let out of the white box, for him to come, to see the sky. And now there was so much; of him, of the house, of the sky, of your whole life and the sea.
You nuzzle your head into his big hand, the heat of it searing your scalp, your ear tucked into his palm. “Brave girl,” he hums. He has such a deep voice, a good voice for an alpha, you think, a very good voice. You feel it vibrating in your toes and in your eyelashes and in your belly. “You’ve been through a great deal, haven’t you?” You want to say yes, you want to remind him that you’d waited for him for so very long, and that when you woke up, if you remembered, you’d be very cross with him for taking so long to come for you.
“You rest now,” he says. “It’s all alright now.” Yes, a very good voice.
