Summary: After an emotional parting with your merman, you find yourself desperate for something...meanwhile someone is trying to get your attention.
Pairing: Gaz x reader
Word Count: 2,526 words
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, p in v sex, teratophilia, merman!Kyle, kissing, nonhuman biology, emotions, slight angst, language
A/N: Just in time for the end of mermay!! I told y'all I was thinking about merman Kyle again...
MASTERLIST | Part 1 | Part 2
The first shell appears a week after your confession. Life had kept you from the beach, from your merman. You’d be lying if you said there wasn’t a bit of hesitation as well. Despite your desire to see him no matter what, that fear that he won’t show up keeps niggling in the back of your mind. You want to see him again, but what if that feeling isn’t mutual?
Then the shells start arriving.
You nearly step on the first, not expecting it to be sitting right on your welcome mat first thing in the morning. A big conch shell, colored in shades of pink and yellow. A glance both ways down the street gives no hint as to where it came from. None of the neighbors have them either.
With a shrug you set it on the table near the door before heading to work, leaving the mystery of the shell of circle in the back of your mind.
Another is waiting the next day.
A conus shell this time, cream speckled with black spots.
The thoughts circle at the forefront of your mind this time. Once is coincidence, twice screams intention. Someone is gifting you shells. You can’t think of any admirers. You’re not particularly close with any of your neighbors either.
Maybe you should have invested in that doorbell camera.
As the days pass, more and more shells appear, every morning a new one waiting for you on your doorstep. You’re getting quite the collection on your table. Still, you have no idea who’s leaving them for you. The temptation has been there to get up early, or pull an all-nighter to try and catch who might be responsible. Get a glimpse of your secret admirer. You wouldn’t act on it, instead it’s curiosity that drives this desire. Your heart already belongs to someone.
Guilt eats away at you. It’s been nearly two weeks since you’ve gone to the beach. Does he think you’ve abandoned him? That you’ve lost interest? That you’re too scared to face him after your confession?
This weekend. This weekend you’ll go and finally face him.
****
The air is cooler than you’d prefer as your make your way down the beach. Despite this, warmth tingles in your belly in anticipation. There’s not as many people on the beach this early in the day, even for a weekend. Most were probably still in bed. You would be too, if you weren’t desperate to finally see your merman. Nerves twist low in your belly, but the warmth pooling there quickly shoves them aside.
He’s going to come.
You pick a spot, stripping yourself of your clothes before stepping into the water. It’s cool, goosebumps rising on your skin but you push the discomfort aside, sitting yourself in the sand.
The minutes it takes drag on forever. Those nerves are back, every wave sending your stomach clenching, your heart thudding. He’s not coming. Over and over your mind whispers it. You’ve ruined it, the one good thing in your life. You shouldn’t have told him, you should have suffered in silence.
But then a bulge appears in the water, speeding fast towards the shore through the waves. Familiar purple scales break through the water, a smile tugging at your lips as your merman pulls himself right up to you, so close you can feel his breath on your face.
“Hi,” you breathe, your heart pounding for a different reason.
He doesn’t say anything, but you don’t expect him to. His hands sink into the sand on either side of you, your thighs parting to allow his body close.
“I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long,” you say, reaching a hand up to cup his cheek. “I’ve been busy with life and work.” You’re tempted to tell him of the shells, but it’s not like he could give you advice or his opinion. “I’ve missed you.”
He blinks at you, tilting his face into your hand. His slick skin glides against yours as he practically nuzzles you. Did he miss you too? Did your time away give him a moment to consider what you told him last time, time to mull over your confession? Does he feel the same way?
He leans forward, your arms wrapping around his neck as he presses his lips to yours. Sharp teeth graze your skin, careful not to press too hard and draw blood. He tastes briny as you part your lips, letting him in fully. Salty like the sea, but there’s another taste further below the brine, something distinctly him.
His arms wrap around you, flipping your positions. His tail splashes in the water as he settles below you, gills flaring as he breathes. Reluctantly you pull away from his lips, sitting yourself up over him.
“I meant it, you know,” you say quietly, trailing your fingers down his chest. He stares up at you, hands coming to rest on your hips. “What I said before. I don’t know if you understood, or if you even have a concept of love among merpeople.”
One of his hands slides up your side to your back, pulling you back down to hips lips. No talking, he seems to say, or perhaps it’s his way of saying yes. It only leaves you more confused as you kiss him, hands pressed against his chest.
You can feel him poking through his slit, the hard tip of his cock dragging against your folds. You slip a hand down between your bodies, teasing his tip with your fingers. He bucks in the water, splashing it up around your legs as his teeth scrape against your lip. He’s careful enough not to draw blood, but the skin feels raw. It makes you feel alive.
You pull away from him, shifting yourself so you can palm at his slit, coaxing his cock free. You wrap your fingers around the slick appendage, stroking him slowly. He’s hot and hard in your hand, his hips canting up against you. His nails dig into your thighs, stinging a bit but you pay it no mind, letting him guide you up over his cock.
A moan escapes your lips as your head falls back, your body stretching around his cock. You haven’t touched yourself in those two weeks, trying to avoid dulling any sensations you might miss in these moments. The ridges of his cock drag along your walls, your thighs squeezing tight around his hips at the pleasurable sensation.
“Fuck, you’ve ruined me.” You moan, pressing down until you’re seated fully against his hips. His cock presses deep inside of you, your pussy fluttering around him. “I’ll never feel satisfied by anything but this again.”
For half a second something flashes across his face, something you might have missed had you not known him as well as you do. Pride, maybe? Satisfaction? Something else?
The thrust of his hips upward distracts you from that train of thought, your thighs tensing as he presses his cock deeper into you. Message received.
You begin to move, rocking your hips as you brace yourself on his stomach. You can feel the muscle beneath his thick skin, hard beneath your hands as you use him for leverage. His own hands hold your hips, guiding your movements. The drag of his cock has your head tipping back, eyes fluttering closed in pleasure. There’s nothing like this feeling, and there’s nothing that will ever be able to take its place.
His fingers flex against your skin as you bounce on his cock, the water lapping at your skin. You hadn’t paid attention to the tide charts this morning, far too eager to see your merman again.
Once more, those thoughts are driven from your mind as he thrusts his hips upward, meeting your movements almost desperately. Has he been neglecting himself as well? Does he truly only come for you and no one else?
That thought has satisfaction burning deep inside of you.
“Oh fuck,” you moan, nails digging into his skin as pleasure flows through you, your orgasm quickly approaching. “’M not going to last much longer.”
His fingers dig harder into your skin, his claws leaving marks. He doesn’t care and neither do you, far too focused on chasing your pleasure as you squeeze around his cock. His own back arches in the water, gills flaring as he ruts up into you, pulling you down hard against him.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whine, thighs clamping around him as pleasure rushes over you like a wave, your body jolting.
You slip a hand between you, frantically rubbing your clit as he thrusts hard into you, his tail splashing in the water behind you. His head falls back, exposing his throat as he drives his hips up into you one last time. Your own orgasm rockets through you, your body clamping down around him. You shake above him, eye screwed shut in pleasure.
Suddenly he moves, your eyes flashing open as you suddenly find yourself face to face with him. He sits in the water, chest pressed against yours. His arms come around you, holding you close against him. You stare up into his eyes, feeling the intensity of his gaze as he holds you there, still inside you, the world narrowing to just the two of you.
For a moment you think he might take off into the water with you, stealing you away where no one will find you. You can only hold your breath for so long, but you would enjoy those last few moments with him. You’d drown for him, if it meant you got your answer, if you knew for sure what you’ve been hoping deep down.
Instead he tilts his head down, pressing his lips to yours in a soft kiss. It’s so tender, so sweet, so different from the usual lust-driven kisses he bestows upon you. You cup his cheek, thumb tracing the line of his jaw, holding him against you as long as he is willing to stay.
The water is up to your waist by the time he finally pulls away, his tail floating with every wave that breaks around your bodies. “If there was a way…” you murmur, pressing another soft kiss to his lips. “I would do it gladly.”
He stares down at you for a long moment, those dark eyes focused on your face. He looks like he’s considering something, thinking deeply.
He bends down to kiss you one last time before he moves, depositing you in the sand. He stares at you long and hard for a moment before he turns, disappearing back under the waves.
You sit there for a long moment, thinking over the interaction. What was going on inside his head? What did he seem to be thinking about so intently? Those emotions that flickered across his face...what about them?
The water is tickling the underside of your breasts when you finally move, rising on shaking legs as you make for your now damp clothes. The tide had reached them, soaking the fabric but you don’t care. You’re far too focused on what just transpired, what this means for the future with your merman.
****
It’s two days later and you’re still thinking about your merman. The thoughts refuse to leave, refuse to let you rest. Something happened, but just what...you’re not sure. It’s eating you alive, and the thought was there to skip work and head for the beach, just to try and pry some kind of answer from him that you could understand. But you have bills to pay, so you drag yourself off to your job.
There haven’t been any shells since your trip to the beach, something that leaves you feeling a bit disappointed. Had your admirer followed you and watched you with your merman, getting the hint that there was no interest for any human lover in your life? The thought of someone purposefully watching you has embarrassment flushing through your mind. No one on the beach cared because you were all there for the same reason. But someone outside...someone unfamiliar...someone lacking that purpose watching? It leaves a sick feeling twisting in your stomach.
You return home after work, settling back into your routine. You’ll go back to the beach this weekend, meet with your merman, try to coax something out of him, something you might understand. If nothing else, you’ll try to read what his actions might mean. He held you in his arms, even if just for a moment. He did it by his own volition, held there not by you and your words, but by his own choice.
There was something he wanted to say to you, but he had no way of doing it.
That’s what your mind settles on.
It’s dark out when you hear it, the quiet creak of your gate. It draws you to the window, a quick peak out showing a dark figure lumbering up to your door. They’re stumbling and swaying, almost as if they’re drunk. Great. Just what you need.
You pick up your phone, ready to call the police to handle it, but something stops you as you watch them approach. Your porch light flicks on as they near, their hand shooting up to try and block the bright light. Heat floods your face as you realize it’s a man. A very naked man.
You lose sight of him as he steps up to the door, something thudding against it. You stand in the hallway, biting your lip. You shouldn’t open the door. You should call the police and then lock yourself in your bedroom, let them handle a naked drunk man.
Yet...something tickles in the back of your mind, something that has you wrapping your fingers around the door handle.
You unlock the door before cracking it open, finding the man leaning against your door frame. He’s handsome, in the golden light. Dark skin, tightly coiled curls buzzed near his head. He holds something in his hand, lifting it slowly like it’s taking a great effort to move his body.
A shell.
He’s holding a shell.
He holds it out to you, pressing it into the gap between the door. It’s a conch, not unlike the first one that had appeared on your doorstep. Is this your admirer? Is this the man that’s been leaving shells every morning for you to find? A village drunk leaving you little trinkets in hope you’ll notice him?
“Oh,” you say stupidly, taking the shell from his hand. “Thank you.” You look back at his face. “Are you alright? Can I call someone for you?”
He doesn’t say anything, his eyes still focused on your face. His gaze is intense, like he’s trying to see through you, or perhaps communicate with you. You stare back, eyes tracing the smooth skin, unmarred except for a small scar on his cheek. His eyes are dark, almost black in the shadows. They look familiar the more you stare at him. He looks more and more familiar as you take him in.
You stare hard into his eyes, realization suddenly dawning on you.
Summary: You return to the beach, to your merman for another romp in the waves.
Pairing: Gaz x reader
Word Count: 2,058 words
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, p in v sex, unprotected sex, teratophilia, merman!Kyle, nonhuman biology, emotions, love confessions, slight angst, language
A/N: I did say I could turn this into a series, so here's part 2. Highly recommend reading part 1 just to have a better understanding of merman Kyle and their dynamic, and of course the lore.
MASTERLIST | Part 1
The light breeze blows your skirt as you walk in the sand. Distant sounds of pleasure flow along the beach like the waves. You’re heading for an empty spot, warmth already tingling between your thighs. You’re excited to see your merman again. It’s been too long.
The beach had been closed for a week after some Austrian tourist drowned accidentally. There had been talks of closing the beach permanently, but with enough public outcry they had been forced to reopen it to the public.
The thought of never seeing your merman again had sent you into a spiral.
Today is the first day the beach has been reopened. It’s crowded, no doubt all of the regulars had been missing their merfolk partners. Is it an addiction...possibly. But once you’ve experienced it...you’ll never go back.
You find a spot, stripping yourself of your clothes before you wade into the water. It’s warm, your skin tingling as you sit yourself down, waiting patiently.
You don’t have to wait long.
The water bulges as the figure glides through the waves seamlessly and gracefully. It never fails to shock you as you find yourself suddenly face to face with a familiar black gaze. His amethyst skin glitters in the sunlight, drops of water trailing down his face and chest. You follow them, watching them disappear in the divots of his muscles. He’s just as handsome as you remember in your dreams and fantasies, things that had kept you going for the long week without him.
“Hi,” you whisper, lifting a hand to his face, feeling his slick skin as you cup his cheek.
He doesn’t say anything as usual, hovering over you as his tail flicks in the water. You let him push you down, your hair fanning out in the water as he slots himself between your thighs. You like to think he missed you too. Did they understand why no one had been there for a week? Or had they thought you abandoned them?
The thought makes your chest ache.
“I missed you.” You say, staring up into those big, black eyes. “The beach was closed. I couldn’t come.” You explain it to him anyway, wanting him to know you hadn’t been away that long because it was your choice.
If he understands, he doesn’t show it, instead leaning down. You pull him the rest of the way, pressing your lips to his. He tastes briny, lips coated with salt water. You missed his taste, never able to recreate it just right in your memory. His tongue prods yours, pressing between your lips. You tilt your head, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. His skin is slick and rubbery against yours, but you never mind the feeling. It’s unique, so very different from soft human skin.
He’s getting hard just from kissing you, the bulge under his slit starting to press against your thigh. His teeth rake across your bottom lip, the metallic tang of blood meeting your lips. He pulls back but you stop him, holding him close to you.
“It’s okay,” you say, sucking your lip into your mouth to try and stop the blood from his sharp teeth. “It didn’t hurt.”
It really didn’t. You’re far too aroused to feel much of anything beyond pleasure and excitement.
You slide your hand down his chest to the slit at the top of his tail, teasing the sides before slipping your fingers inside. His own lips part, chest heaving as you tease the appendage tucked inside. You watch his face as it twists with pleasure, that human-like side coming through the more he gets aroused.
His own fingers dip between your thighs, careful of his claws as he slips two of them into your slick hole. You gasp quietly against his lips, pussy fluttering around the intrusion. You’d take him just like this with no prep, your body easily ready for him just from sight alone.
You’re so ruined for any human man now.
No one will ever make you feel like he does.
He pulls his fingers from you, pushing you back into the water once more. It’s shallow enough you can still breathe and see, the waves lapping at your cheeks. His hands slide up your body as his cock slips out of his sheath, sliding against the skin of your stomach. It’s warm and slick, coated in his natural lubrication. The ridges press into your skin as he slides against you, maneuvering himself so he can grab his cock.
You hold your breath in anticipation, the narrow tip of his cock dragging through your folds as he lines himself up before pressing into you. Your head tilts back, a moan leaving your lips at the stretch of him. It’s been a long week and you haven’t dared touch yourself, waiting in anticipation for this moment. You’re so worked up, the emotions of the week without him, the week you thought you might never seen him again, having taken their toll. You need release and you need it now.
He presses his hips against yours, sliding into you, spreading you open over his tapered cock. The ridges press up against you, pressing against the most delicious spots inside of you. Your eyelids flutter at the pleasure, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly as you hang on for dear life. No other man will be able to take his place, no other man will be able to make you feel like this.
You’re well and truly ruined for anyone but him.
His elbows land in the sand beside your head, his hips pressing into yours tightly, slotted right up against you as far as he can. He’s so thick and long, sitting so deep inside of you. You’re panting already, worked up and he’s not even started yet. You cling to him, wrapping your arms around his back as he starts to move, slowly thrusting his hips into you. You moan at the press of him inside of you, the feeling of him moving, slick and hard through your walls.
Your legs wrap around his waist, coiling around him like a snake as he moves, thrusting into you. It’s slow and soft, his body grinding against yours. He’s making love to you, even if he doesn’t realize it, even if he doesn’t understand. It’s more than just fucking to you, the soft movements, the deep thrusts of his hips. You can’t see his face, his head dropped to the side of yours, but you like to imagine the look of pleasure, the shine of love in his eyes as he looks at you.
He missed you, you want to think. It’s been a long week for him too.
He continues to thrust into you, the ridges of his cock brushing that spot inside of you over and over. You’re trying not to cum too fast, trying not to end this before you’re ready. It feels too good, though. He feels too good.
“Fuck…” you breathe, your body starting to tremble around him. Your legs are shaking around his hips, sliding against his slippery skin. Your nails bite into his shoulders but don’t even break his thick skin.
He doesn’t care, either numb to the pain or he doesn’t even feel it.
You wish he’d make noise, some kind of sound to alert to you what he’s feeling, beyond just the throb of his cock inside of you. You wish he could talk, you wish he understood you. You might never leave the beach if that were the case, though. You’d camp out, be in the water every day to take him, pleasure him, get pleasure in return.
His hips buck against yours, driving his cock deep inside of you. You can’t hold it anymore, legs squeezing tight around his hips as you cum, nearly going blind with pleasure as it rolls through you like the waves. You’re moaning loudly but you don’t care. There’s echoes of your own moans up and down the beach. Everyone is too lost in their pleasure to care much about anyone else.
You wonder if they’re as down bad as you are.
Your merman goes stiff above you, warm liquid spilling into you as his cock throbs. The two of you still, your breaths coming in pants, his own chest rising and falling with his breaths. You wonder how long he can be out, how long until he’ll have to breathe through his gills again. It’s not the first time he’s been on top, but that time hadn’t lasted long either. It’s like he can’t control himself when he’s on top, hovering over you. Maybe he likes this position the most.
You cling to him for a moment longer, trying to calm the shaking spasms of your body in the aftershocks of your orgasm. You could go another round, ten more rounds easily with him, but you know he won’t. In just a moment he’ll slip from your grip and disappear into the water.
You’re not sure what makes you do it, what as you gripping him tighter as he starts to slip away, just as you knew he would.
“Wait-” you say, gripping his shoulders. He stops, looking at you. Maybe he does understand you. “Don’t go. Just a moment.”
He slots himself back on top of you, letting you guide him so you’re holding him again. You stare up into those big black eyes, trying to read anything, any emotion you can find in them.
“I never want you to leave when it’s time.” you swallow around your admission, a lump forming in your throat. “I’d stay here forever with you, if I could. I just want you to know that.”
He doesn’t say anything, just continues to stare at you silently. You wish he would, or could, say something, give you a look into how he feels, what he’s thinking. You like to imagine him touched by your words, that you’re voicing some deep inner feeling he shares. You want him to feel the same way you do about him. You just need some sign, some glint in his eyes that conveys his feelings.
Still they continue to stare at you, dark and empty.
“I want to say I love you,” you continue, your chest heaving with nerves and the exertion from finally letting go of this heavy weight you’ve been carrying. “But I don’t know if you know what that means.”
His face doesn’t change at your admission, still empty and emotionless. It almost hurts more than rejection would. If he rejected you at least you’d be able to move on. His inaction is painful, a searing wound in your chest. This was stupid, trying to put your emotions into words, confessing to him the feelings you’ve been harboring for weeks. You shouldn’t have said anything, instead stewing silently in those emotions for the rest of your life.
“Sorry,” you sniffle, tasting your tears on your lips. “Can you just...kiss me one more time.”
He’s still, stiff where he lounges in the water staring at you. For a moment you wonder if he’ll even give you this before he slips off never to return. Finally he begins to move, leaning in closer until his lips are pressed against yours. Tears stream down your cheeks as you kiss him, trying to memorize the way he tastes, the feeling of his lips against yours in case you never see him again.
He pulls away, staring at you for one more long moment before he’s slipping back into the water, tail flicking as he slips beneath the waves. You sit there for a long moment, just watching the waves roll in, washing over you. The tide is coming in, the water up to your chest. The tears are still falling down your cheeks, and you wipe them away with a wet hand, pushing yourself up to stand.
The thought to never come back out of embarrassment and fear is there for a flash, before it’s driven away by determination. You will be back. If he comes to you again, you’ll know he feels the same, that your admission at least didn’t change anything between you. Perhaps it will. Perhaps he does feel the same, but can’t show it in a way you can understand.
You will see him again, no matter what.
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Summary: The beach is well known among humans. Those brave enough to tread those shores know what they’re asking for, and the merfolk are more than willing to oblige.
Pairing: Merman!Kyle x reader
Word Count: 2,627 words
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, p in v sex, unprotected sex, monsters, monster fucking, merpeople, Kyle is a merman, merman anatomy, public sex, slight emotions at the end.
A/N: This one might be my second favorite of them all. I wish I could draw then I'd show you merman Kyle. Tempted to make this a series...
MASTERLIST
Your feet sink into the sand as you stroll leisurely along the beach. It’s warm, the sun high in the sky shining down on the crystal blue water of the vast ocean before you. There’s a slight breeze coming off the water, bringing with it the salty scent of the sea. It ruffles your skirt around your legs, goosebumps forming on your skin as it shoots up between your thighs, kissing your wet cunt.
Moans sound up and down the beach, bodies writhing with the ebb and flow of every wave. Excitement stirs in your stomach as you near an empty spot, getting closer to the water. There’s no cover, no privacy as you tug your shirt over your head. There’s no need for it. People only come to this beach for one reason. You all know why you’re here. Shame gets left behind in the parking lot.
You fold your shirt and skirt, setting them up higher on the sand before you approach the lapping waves, a knot of excitement and nerves coiling inside your stomach. It’s not the first time you’ve done this, nor will it be the last, yet every time you can’t avoid the nervous shake to your hands.
You wade out into the water until it’s halfway up your calf before you sit, humming quietly as the warmth of it surrounds you. It’s a beautiful day today, which is why the beach is so full.
You don’t have to sit there for very long, the water bulging with the oncoming waves. Something is speeding towards the beach, your body pulsing in excitement. Your breath catches in your throat as you suddenly find yourself face to face with a figure. Big, dark eyes stare into yours, clawed hands sinking into the sand on either side of you. It always makes you jump, his body seeming to materialize out of the sea before you can even blink.
“Hi.” You whisper, taking a moment to catch your breath as you stare at him.
Amethyst skin glitters in the sunlight, beads of water sliding down his face. He’s leaner than he is bulky, but your eyes still trace the peaks and divots of his muscles. He’s beautiful, even if he is so different from you.
He’s human-like at the top but then that amethyst skin disappears under darker purple scales at his waist. His tail is beautiful, swirling with hues of purple. His fins tickle your legs as he pulls himself closer, the spines on his back tucking down as he reaches up, one slippery, webbed hand cupping your cheek. There’s a bit of seaweed draped over his shoulder, your hand raising to pull it off of him. His head follows your movements, watching your hand as you drop the slimy weed back into the water. Your hand lifts again, your fingers softly touching his shoulder. His skin is thick and almost rubbery, much harder to break than your own delicate skin. An adaptation evolved to survive in the harsh world under the water, you suppose.
Your fingers trail back up his arm, following the lines of his muscle before you reach his hand, pressing your palm against it. His skin is cool to the touch, but he’s not cold blooded, at least you don’t think so judging by the other parts of him that are warm.
Your fingertips brush the delicate webs between his fingers, his hand flexing against your cheek. A small smile tugs at your lips. He may be tougher than you are, but he’s still sensitive.
He doesn’t greet you back with words, instead leaning forward to press his lips against yours. He’s careful not to nick you with his sharp teeth as he kisses you, something you’re grateful for. He’s caught you a couple times by accident in the heat of passion. Just something to remember him by.
He’s never spoken to you, at least not in the way humans speak. You’re not entirely sure he’s capable of speaking like a human. He’s never so much as made a single noise in the time you’ve been together. Maybe they communicate like whales and dolphins in the water. Or perhaps they communicate through body language like other mammals.
You’re assuming he’s mammalian...then again you don’t really know all that much about merpeople outside of this aspect of them.
He continues to kiss you, his tongue pressing against the seam of your lips. It’s warm as it presses into your mouth, flicking against your own. He tastes briney and salty like the water you’re sitting in. It’s not an unpleasant taste. In fact, you’ve grown to enjoy it.
His hand leaves your face, sinking into the sand by your side. Your hands fall back as he presses closer to you, keeping you from splashing back into the water. It’s deep enough you might run the risk of inhaling it. What would he do if you started drowning? Could he help you? Would he know how?
You shake that thought from your mind. You like to think he wouldn’t let that happen.
The top of his tail in the front between where his legs would be is beginning to bulge. He’s just as excited as you are about this, well accustomed to the dance the two of you often do. You’re here as much as you can be, and he’s always the one that comes to you, almost like he’s waiting for you.
You’re not sure how he knows, but he always does.
His arms wrap around you, flipping the two of you over so he’s in the water, the waves lapping at the sides of his face. His gills move as he breathes in the water, those big eyes staring up at you unblinking. The first time you saw him, a shiver had run down your spine. He’s just human enough for your brain to see the similarities, but also so very much not human. That doesn’t make him any less beautiful, though. You’ve wandered this beach many times, catching glimpses when you dared to look at the merpeople that frequent here. They’re all so beautiful, yet all so different.
It had taken a lot of time to work up the courage to stick your feet in the water.
Now you can’t imagine having any hesitations.
He’s beautiful to look at, something that would be sculpted out of marble and placed in a museum as a testament to the beauty of merpeople. If he were human, he’d be stunning, someone who would be on the cover of magazines, walking a runway. He’d be someone painted by an artist to be hung in a museum so humans could gaze upon his beauty for centuries. He deserves to be immortalized somehow, remembered for generations to come. A celebrity, someone who is worshiped for his beauty and splendor.
He’d be so far out of your league if he was a human.
He’s not though, yet you still feel blessed as you sit over him, watching as the slit at the top of his tail peels open. You run your fingers along the sensitive skin, his lips parting as you tease the slick folds. His own hand lifts, slipping between your thighs. He copies your movements, careful not to catch you with his claws as he strokes your folds. Your teeth sink into your lip at the feeling of those rough fingers against your sensitive skin. You’re already soaked at the idea of what’s going to transpire, of what you’re about to do.
Your fingers on his slit begin to coax his cock out of its confines, the narrow tip beginning to peek out. You trail your fingers over it, gathering the slippery substance leaking out all over your fingers. You lift them to your mouth, tasting the viscous fluid. The salt from the water mixes with the naturally briney taste of him, the flavors dancing on your tongue.
His back arches as his cock continues to slip out of his slit, growing and growing until the thick length presses against his stomach. Arousal pulses between your thighs, your own natural lubrication soaking his fingers. They press against your clit, a quiet moan leaving your lips as you reach for him. He’s slick and slippery as you wrap your fingers around his cock, dragging your hand along the ridges that line his length. He’s not like a human man, instead tapered from tip to base. His head is narrower while the base is so thick you can barely get your fingers fully around him.
You nearly cum from the thoughts flashing through your head. You’ll never be able to be satisfied by a man again, but maybe that was the whole point. That was why this beach existed, that was why they were so willing to do this.
They must like it as much as you humans do if they keep returning here.
If they have their favorites.
It’s not love, at least not to them. You don’t think so anyway. How many other women does he do this with? How many other women does he stare up at with those eyes? How many other women’s bodies has he touched?
You try not to think about it too much.
You pump his cock, dragging your fingers over the ridges and bumps. His lips part, no sound coming out but you can imagine how sweet he would sound. Breathy moans and groans, needy whines. Would he beg you to make him cum, or would he make you beg? Perhaps both. He always winds up taking control in the end, even if he lets you have control at first like he is now.
His hand slips out from between your thighs, the other lifting so they’re gripping your hips. His claws dig just slightly into your skin, but he’s careful not to dig too deep and hurt you. It’s inevitable though, with his anatomy and your soft human skin. It never seems to give him pause if he hurts you on accident, perhaps because you never react. You don’t care about a little pain. What’s a little pain if this is what you get in return?
He pulls your hips forward, his own way of saying ‘hurry up.’ You can’t delay it anymore, eager to feel him again. You lift yourself up over his hips, your hand gripping the base of his cock. He’s hard and pulsing in your hand as you line him up, slipping the narrow tip inside of you. You never need much prep between your own arousal and the slippery substance that coats his cock. The excitement of getting to fuck a merman is more than enough for you, just as it seems the opportunity to fuck a human gets him just as excited.
Maybe it’s you he’s excited about.
No. You won’t entertain those thoughts.
Your hands press against his stomach, feeling the muscle underneath his skin flexing as you sink lower and lower on his cock. Your head tilts back as you’re stretched open around him, the ridges on his cock dragging against your walls. They hit all of the right places inside of you, making you feel alive and electric. His cock is warm despite the cool touch of his skin, the contrasting temperatures paired with the warmth of the water splashing against your back has goosebumps forming on your skin.
He’s deep inside of you once you’re fully seated on his cock, stretched open around his thick base. You could cum just like this, but you don’t want this to be over before you’re just getting started. His claws are pinching your skin but you pay him no mind as you stare down at him. Those wide, dark eyes stare up at you, his lips slightly parted. He’s clinging to whatever control he has. You can see it in his face. He’s trying not to flip you over and fuck you into the sand. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. You’d just prefer to be in shallower water if he’s going to do that.
He wouldn’t let you drown...
You hope.
You begin to rock your hips, drawing his cock out of your cunt before pressing it back in. His tip drags along your walls, almost as if he was made perfectly for your pleasure. You use your hands on his stomach for leverage as you bounce on his cock, the ridges catching on that spot deep inside of you with every drag of his cock inside of you. He’s so thick and warm and perfect.
The idea of fucking a merman is enough to make your walls flutter, not to mention the ethereal look of him. His handsome face, his lean body, those big eyes staring up at you. There’s no emotion in them, but deep down you like to imagine there is something. If you stare at them long enough you can see into the depths of them like you’re staring into the depths of the ocean.
You shift your position, grinding your hips against his as you lean back, resting your hands on his tail. It’s slippery and you almost slide right off of him, but you catch yourself, digging your nails into the smooth scales under your hands. He offers no complaint. You’re not capable of breaking his skin with just your nails, no matter how long they are. That doesn’t make him any less sensitive though.
You push your hand against your stomach, feeling the deep press of him as you continue to circle your hips, trying to stave off your orgasm as long as you can. The quicker you cum, the quicker he’ll cum and then the quicker this is all over.
You don’t want it to be over.
You push yourself back up, your thighs squeezing around his hips. You lean over him slightly, trailing your nails down his chest. He writhes under you, his hands sliding to your ass. He helps guide your movements, lifting you up and pushing you back down on his cock.
“Yes, just like that.” You moan, pushing your hands against his stomach again as you continue to bounce on his cock.
You’re close to your orgasm, your body starting to tremble. He’s close as well, his hips bucking up against you. Your walls are squeezing around him as you get closer and closer to the edge, your mind going numb as you try to hold back. You don’t want it to end. One orgasm is never enough. You’d fuck him all day if you could.
If he’d let you.
You can’t stop it though as those ridges push up against your walls, dragging over that spot inside of you. You cum with a loud cry, your back arching as your head falls back. His body writhes in the water tail splashing as he cums, the shockingly warm fluid spilling into you. You’re stretched open around his cock, hands falling against the sand beside his shoulders.
You stare down at him, lips parted as you breathe. His own are still parted and you want to lean down and kiss him. He’ll flip you over soon, deposit you back into the water and sand before slipping back into the waves to disappear until you return to the beach again. You’ll have to put your clothes back on and head home with nothing but his cum sliding down the inside of your thighs to remind you that it really happened.
His arms wrap around your back as you stare down into those eyes, your body pressed against his. You can see it, that...something in the depths of his eyes as you sink into them.
It’s not love.
It’s not.
You just have to keep telling yourself that.
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Kyle in a survival horror scenario where he falls in love with you through the notes you’ve left behind.
He’s entered the research facility that ended the world. He failed to stop the apocalypse from happening, but anger and purpose and guilt drive him to find a way to end it. Even though the building is barely standing, lockdown procedures are still in place, so he searches for any intel that will help access the lower levels, all while dealing with the deadly creatures lurking around every corner.
It starts as a hopeless endeavor. Most of the computers he comes across are useless, either broken or not on the emergency power grid or password protected. He focuses his energy then on combing through file cabinets and desk drawers.
Your desk was his first stroke of luck. You were training a new hire, so you put together instructions and guides for various procedures—one of them is how to override the ground floor lockdown. It’s well written, explaining the steps in detail while keeping in mind that this would be read by someone with little context. Your documents are typed and printed, but you’ve also stuck handwritten post-it notes on several of them. Kyle peels one off and holds it in his hand.
Good luck!
As he traverses deeper into the facility, battling monsters and madness, he keeps coming across your documents and your notes, picking up vital information with words of encouragement stuck to them.
You don’t have to rush!
He finds himself seeking out what you’ve left behind. Initially, it’s because your papers have been the most useful, but on this solo, self-appointed, suicidal mission, he can’t help but also cling to this connection. Everything fell apart so quickly. His team is gone, his home is gone, his world is gone. There’s nothing left, especially not down here. Nothing but your words.
You did great!
Take it easy every once in a while!
It wasn’t your fault! You did your best!
He keeps that last note. Whenever he’s secured a location to rest, he reads it again and again, taking care not to get blood and grime on it. It keeps him sane, or so he thinks.
After he routes power to the servers that host the organization’s research journals, Kyle searches for yours first. The logs are mostly professional, but you have casual entries mixed in as well—notes to yourself that you probably thought no one else would see. They give him a more candid picture of what you’re like. He reads them all, even the ones unrelated to the world-ending event, taking longer than he should when there are monstrosities lumbering outside the barricaded door to this office.
He risks a detour to where the personnel files are stored. It’s worth it to know the names and faces of the people who destroyed the world, that’s all. When he comes across yours, it has a photo of you. He keeps that too, stashing it with your note. The rest he commits to memory.
Level by level, Kyle descends. He’s still pursuing salvation from the nightmare that was unleashed here, but he’s also chasing your ghost. Your notes continue showing up all the way down. He already knew this from your file, but you had a surprisingly high clearance level. He tells himself that you didn’t know what you were signing up for when you joined the research team here. You didn’t know what sinister plots were being carried out, or even if you did, you probably couldn’t just walk away without consequences.
By the time he reaches the lowest floor, what little hope he started with has run out. He’s found no magic cure for this plague of monsters, no secret weakness revealed. All the information he’s come across indicates that the worst case scenario has come to fruition and this disaster is irreversible. He shifts from searching for a panacea to searching for a way to burn everything here to the ground.
There’s only one sealed section of the facility left. He almost doesn’t bother, but maybe what he’s looking for is just behind that door. (Don’t give up! It’s hard work, but it’ll pay off in the end!) When he manages to open it, it reveals a bunker with survivors.
And you are one of them.
He almost can’t believe it. Out of the hundreds of people who worked here, you managed to be among the half a dozen that made it to this safe room. Since Kyle still has his SAS gear on, your fellow survivors think he’s here to rescue them, as if there was anywhere safe left to take them to. They seem flippantly dismissive of the fact that their actions set humanity on a crash course to annihilation.
You know better, though, warily shrinking back to the edge of the bunker, and Kyle feels a swell of pride. You can recognize that it’s not a savior that’s arrived, but a judge, jury, and executioner.
The rest of the room is a mix of top level executives and researchers. In a previous life, he would have seen this as an opportunity to interrogate them for more information. But that Kyle is long dead, so they’ll meet the same fate. He shoots the others before they can even try to defend themselves. You scream in despair, but Kyle is numb to screaming by now.
Your legs have given out, though you still scramble backwards when Kyle approaches. He knows how he must seem to you with gore and blood all over him, some of it painted on by your colleagues. So he smiles and takes out your post-it note and lets you know it wasn’t your fault. He didn’t find what he came here for, but he’ll settle for taking you back with him.
New 'scimitar-crested' Spinosaurus species discovered in the central Sahara
by University of Chicago Medical Center
A paper published in Science describes the discovery of Spinosaurus mirabilis, a new spinosaurid species found in Niger. A 20-person team led by Paul Sereno, Ph.D., Professor of Organismal Biology and Anatomy at the University of Chicago, unearthed the find at a remote locale in the central Sahara, adding important new fossil finds to the closing chapter of spinosaurid evolution...
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to be empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
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.
Okay so hear me out, these are just my own thoughts about your verse, so if I'm ruining the vision don't shoot me! But feel free to correct me.
But I kinda feel like if there were this crazy ass person that decides to make a drug so betas can fully bond to omegas and alphas that some of the guys would just go nutsssss over it. (Like it's literally this one alpha scientist who has no pack but a super crush on his assistant in the lab and wants to make sure it only takes one bite to tie them down cuz he's such a creep that way.)
Like yeah beta still doesn't have heats, no slick, no scent changes BUT bond sickness would go through the roof like with omegas.
Fully aware of the added horror for beta that they have to reapply the bites every so often and that the guys really don't mind and even like it but stillll.
The reassurance that some of them would have by knowing for a fact you wouldn't even last a day on the run without them.
(Also added bonus if it alters a bit of betas mind so that they 'prepare' for heats and stuff like making sure the nest is right on a whim but still their body isn't made to do that so that feeling just comes and goes sometimes and drives them crazy as to why they feel that way. But that's really my own feelings and wants so don't take that thought too serious.)
I don't usually add on to stuff like this, but this is really really important to me.
Since OP didn't explain what's actually changing (lots of things) here's a simple explanation of one of the Big Ones.
One of the biggest changes is a proposal to remove the ESA’s Threatened Species Blanket Rule (FWS-HQ-ES-2025-0029). The Blanket Rule is extremely important because it automatically extends the same protections given to endangered species to all newly listed threatened species, quickly providing prohibitions on harming, killing or trading the species. If the Blanket Rule is rescinded, species-specific rules would have to be enacted, imposing additional procedural delays and uncertainty at the most critical time for the species' survival. And with more and more species in danger each year, that’s a risk that we as a country cannot afford to take.
Also, @why-animals-do-the-thing / @animalphotorefs this seems like something that your reach might help with, and that's relevant to your blog(s).
If you run into issues, try turning off your VPN if you have one, in case it's getting annoyed that you're not "in the U.S.".
If you need a template, I'm putting one I got sent at work under the cut. (But check out the Oregon Zoo link, too! Or better yet, write your own! Unique and individual comments catch more attention than copy-pasted ones!)
"For over fifty years, the Endangered Species Act (ESA) has played a major role in protecting wildlife, preventing nearly 99% of listed species from becoming extinct. This legislation has had support across the country since 1973 because safeguarding America’s wildlife is not only a responsibility, but a proud part of our nation’s history.
The proposed change to remove the ESA’s Blanket 4(d) Rule will result in fewer protections for threatened species and compromise the ESA’s mission. It is imperative to maintain our commitment to protecting endangered species and their habitats.
I encourage the Administration to withdraw all proposed changes to the ESA in order to ensure our country’s wildlife will continue to be protected for generations to come."
Thanks for the tag, I definitely want to jump in here because the most helpful thing any individual can do is write your own comment.
I’m going to give you a little bit of information about the process that’s happening here, why it’s happening, and how you can best contribute to protecting the Endangered Species Act. You can skip it by scrolling to the red text, but you’ll be best set up to comment and help if you know some things about what’s happening first, so please stick with me. I promise to be as simple and jargon free as possible.
First, and to catch people's attention as they scroll, here's two red wolf sisters: a species the ESA actively preserving. This is who we're doing this for.
To clarify one thing: they’re not trying to totally repeal the ESA, the entire law, they’re looking to roll back regulations implementing it/enforcing it to what was being used in 2019. This is still bad! Very bad! But a thing that’s important when dealing with legislation/regulation is precision in the language we use.
Okay, so here’s what you need to know. This is part of what is known as the “notice-and-comment” rule making process, which is federally mandated. This happens with the implementation of regulations to enact new laws, or changes to the interpretation of laws. Laws like the ESA, once passed, are delegated to various federal agencies and departments to enact and make happen, and they do that by deciding what regulations need to exist to fulfill the text and intent of the law. This change to the ESA is happening because one of the earliest executive orders from this administration “directed all departments and agencies to immediately review agency actions to identify those actions that potentially impose an undue burden on the identification, development, or use of domestic energy resources, and, as appropriate and consistent with applicable law, consider suspending, revising, or rescinding agency actions identified as unduly burdensome that conflict with this national objective.” So, as @sweetfirebird said, literally go figure out what laws and regs and protections they can interpret differently, put on hold, or trash for the energy sector. Fucking gross.
This “notice-and-comment” process is the process with which all these federal agencies go about exploring changing regulations. It’s a formal process that is specifically designed to allow stakeholders to have input on what happens. Good news: in the ESA, the public is literally a stakeholder! It’s written into the law that any “person” (basically an individual or a group of individuals) can sue the government for a violation of the law. This is actually historically the prime enforcement mechanism of the ESA. Which means you, as an American on tumblr reading this, have absolutely valid standing to go tell the feds to knock this shit off. And with the way the “notice-and-comment” process works, they actually have to take your argument into account. (Yes, even though we know this admin is a piece of shit and dgaf). Here’s why.
A “notice and comment” process has four major steps.
Agency issues a notice of proposed rulemaking. That’s what you’re looking at in the first link @sweetbirdfire shared. They have to describe what the rule they want to make/change is and explain the legal authority for the rule.
The public must be given an opportunity to participate in a written comment period. That’s what you’re being asked to do - submit a comment before the comment period is over on the 22nd.
The agency must “consider all relevant, timely-submitted comments. If it decides to issue a final rule, the agency develops the regulatory text along with a preamble explaining the rule’s basis and responding to all significant issues raised in the comments.”
Final rule is published.
Okay, so why did I jump to a direct quote from federal documents in the third bullet point? Because that’s the really important shit. When federal agencies move forward with rulemaking after a public comment period, they are required to consider and response to all significant issues raised. And that is why you should write your own comment if you can.
It’s really common for organizations encouraging people to leave public comment to ask people to send in form letters. It’s easy, it takes no time or real work, it shows a lot of general public support on the issue, and they can quote the comment numbers when they’re lobbying.
But! What I’ve been told by serious professional people who work with regulatory agencies is that all those form letters only have the functional weight of a single comment during the “notice-and-comment” process. If 100 people only bring up the same significant set of issues, that requires far less time and work for the agency to respond to than even 20 people writing in with their individual concerns. I’ve seen follow-ups on comment periods where they actually count how many people raised issues on a single topic or concern - but the form letters only counted as one “comment” because they were the exact same thing.
And while the political agency head probably wants to fast-track this process of changing the regs to let the feds tear up whatever the fuck they want, a “notice-and-comment period” is a really good way to gum up those gears. There are still people in lower-level positions who do this daily work and I expect that they’re opposed to this and will go through the whole process like they’re been trained to. Under normal administrations, an overwhelming number of concerns raised during comment periods have stalled the creation/change of specific regulations for a decade. This is a process that works best when as many people as possible participate, and it’s detrimental to our interests as invested members of the public that that isn’t more widely known or the process understood.
So! What does that mean you should do here?
Write your own comment if you have the time/spoons.
Literally, write it in your own words, rather than using the form letters provided. If you make it a “different comment” it has to be considered separately and your concerns on the topic will be given more weight. Even if you just stick to the topics the Oregon Zoo offered: to be clear, they’re really good ones.
But, you’ll have even more impact if you can tie it to specific concerns for you. It takes a little more work so I don’t expect everyone to do this, but if you have some specialized or local knowledge that can be relevant, this is a great time to drop that in. Tie the concern to endangered or threatened species in your specific community, or an ecosystem that you know companies might want to pillage.
Your comment doesn’t have to be super well written or perfectly edited. It can be in language about as casual as you’d use in a tumblr post (with punctuation, though). This isn’t something you’re turning in for a grade - it’s raising your hand to say hey, I object! You’re not a major advocacy group or professional org, you don’t have to be perfect, you just have to tell them how you feel. That being said. Public comments are public record. You can submit them anonymously but don’t include identifying information.
Here’s a link directly to the comment portal. While the site has a text box embedded in the page, you can also submit a document/file containing your comment.
Comments close at 11:59 PM EST (4:59 GMT) on December 22nd. We have less than five days to get more comments in. I’m really not kidding when I say every unique, individual comment makes an impact. Let’s do this.
The 141 as a pack- not in the found family kind of way, but in the hunting kind of way.
They spot you by accident.
Price is the first to clock you, mostly because he’s the sort who notices exits, shadows, people sitting alone. You’re on a stool near the end of the bar, tucked under a blown out neon sign that flickers uselessly overhead. The rest of the place is a mess of dim bulbs and TV glow, but somehow the shadows around you are softer, edged in a kind of warm sheen.
It’s probably just the jewelry.
Tiny pieces, nothing flashy on their own: delicate chain at your throat, a charm on a bracelet, thin hoops catching the light when you tuck your hair behind your ear. But every time you move, something glints. Not bright. Not gaudy. Just enough to pull the eye.
Soap follows the first flash of gold the way a cat chases a laser pointer.
“Ach, look at that,” he mutters around the lip of his beer bottle, elbow nudging Gaz’s. “Sittin’ all by herself. Cute as a button. Like a wee rabbit waitin’ for a fox.”
Gaz leans just enough to see past him. You’re nursing a drink, straw between your fingers, eyes on the shelves of cheap liquor like you’re reading the labels to avoid looking at anyone else.
“Been here a while,” he says. “Came in just after we did. No one’s come up to her twice.” His brow creases. “Keeps looking at the door, though.”
Ghost says nothing, but he’s watching too, tracking the pattern: every time the door opens, your head lifts and your bracelet catches the dark, giving a quick, soft flash. When you realize whoever walked in isn’t who you were hoping for, your shoulders fall. You go back to tracing the rim of your glass.
Nobody comes to sit with you. Nobody stays near you for long.
Too alone. Too pretty. Too jumpy.
Easy.
Price takes it in, slow and steady.
Pack instinct kicks in before any of them say the word. They don’t need to say anything to align on the same thought. It’s in the way their focus narrows, the way their chairs angle subconsciously toward you. A hunting posture, dressed in civilian clothes and half finished drinks.
They’re not the soft, found family kind of pack people romanticize. They’re the other kind; the kind that closes around a target without thinking.
“Could just be waitin’ on her boyfriend,” Gaz offers, because he’s the one who says that sort of thing, even if he doesn’t quite believe it.
“She wouldn’t still be here if he was worth a damn,” Soap replies. “Look at her. Fella’s either stupid or blind.”
Ghost watches your fingers. You’re not fidgeting like a practiced flirt; you’re rolling the straw wrapper tight, tight, tight until the paper is an over wound thread. The kind of nervous habit you don’t perform for attention; it just happens.
“Doesn’t matter,” Price says, deciding for them. “Place like this, someone’ll try their luck eventually. Might as well be us.”
Us, not me.
Price drains his glass and stands. “C’mon,” he says. “Before some drunk fucker with worse intentions gets there first.”
Soap grins. Gaz pushes off the bar. Ghost follows.
The four of them rise together, scatter of chairs on sticky floor, their approach casual enough not to spook you, coordinated enough to close off any direction that isn’t toward them.
You feel them before you see them. The bar is loud- music, clinking glass, too many overlapping conversations- but when they move, the noise tilts. You feel a shadow fall across your little island of dim light.
You look up- and up- and up.
“Evenin’, love,” Price says, taking the middle, anchoring your attention. His voice is warm, edged with something rough. “This seat taken?”
You look at him, eyes wide, and for a heartbeat he can see the thought stutter through your head: I should say yes. I should lie.
Then your gaze skips over his shoulder, across Ghost, over Soap’s grin, to Gaz’s more cautious face. Four of them. All big. All dangerous, in the way that sets off every alarm bell you’ve ever had.
Your fingers tighten around your glass. Up close, they’re even more intimidating. Big men, all of them. Broad shoulders. Scarred knuckles. The casual alertness that says they’re dangerous even when they’re pretending not to be.
Your throat works around a swallow.
“N-No,” you say, barely loud enough to be heard over the music. “Um. No, it’s not.”
You don’t move away when he takes the stool beside you, though. That’s the first little surrender.
Up close, he can see the jewelry looks even smaller. A fine chain resting in the dip of your collarbone, charm nestled where his eyes keep dropping. A tiny stud in your ear that catches the bar’s dim light and winks at him whenever you turn your head.
“Good,” Soap says, dropping onto your other side like you’re the natural center of their group. “Be a shame to leave such a lovely lass sittin’ on her own.”
Ghost leans against the bar behind you, silent. Gaz drifts just off your shoulder, close enough that if you tried to slip down from the stool, you’d have to brush past him.
You don’t realize you’re boxed in. Not yet.
“Quiet night for a girl like you,” Soap says lightly, accent softening the words. “You waitin’ on someone?”
You pick at the napkin under your glass. “I was. My friend bailed, though, so…” You give a little shrug, embarrassed. “Just…finishing this before I head home.”
“That right?” Price nudges your drink with a knuckle. “Let us get your last one, then. Call it a good deed.”
Your instinct is to refuse. You start to shake your head. “Oh, no, that’s okay, I don’t wanna- ”
“We insist,” Soap cuts in, already nodding at the bartender. “Same again for the lady.”
You fluster. You’re not used to this kind of attention. Your necklace glints when you duck your head, catching the dim light in a quick flash at your throat.
“Thank you,” you murmur when the fresh drink appears. “You…you don’t have to.”
“What if we want to?” Price asks, lips tipping. “Bit rough, a girl like you alone in a place like this.”
You huff a nervous laugh and twist the straw wrapper tighter. “C-could say the same thing.”
Gaz huffs a small breath. “We’ve got each other.”
“Pack of us,” Soap adds, grin widening.
“Oh.” You glance at all of them again, as if that just made them more intimidating. “That’s…nice.”
Price watches the way your shoulders hunch, the way you angle your knees toward the bar, as if you’re half expecting someone to bump you. “Thank you again.”
“S’okay lass,” Soap grins, leaning in. “We’re not that scary once you get to know us.”
You look at the mask, the beard, the scars at Soap’s throat, the quiet calculation in Gaz’s eyes.
“You’re a little scary,” you admit, voice trembling around the edge of a nervous laugh.
Something pleased curls through Ghost’s chest at that, dark and satisfied. Good. You should be.
“Good instincts,” he says. “Most people don’t have ‘em.”
You fluster, ducking your head, and when the bartender sets down the fresh glass, the cube of ice inside catches just enough of the overhead light to bounce it up, up, directly into the small crystal at your wrist. It flashes once, sharp, a pinpoint of brightness in all the gloom.
You talk.
They ask easy questions- about your job, about living near the river, about why you stayed when your friend left. You answer in fits and starts, words tripping, always circling back to sorry and I don’t usually and this is weird, right?
Every time you move your hands, the charm at your wrist gives a soft, quick gleam. Every time you turn your head, the little studs in your ears catch the bar’s failing lights.
They like how nervous you are. How your voice trembles when Soap leans in to tease you. How you can’t quite hold Ghost’s gaze for long. How you keep saying you should go home but never quite stand up.
You’re not sure how to extricate yourself now that four strangers with war in their posture have decided you’re interesting.
“You got far to walk?” Price asks, casually, after a while. “We’re headed out soon.”
You hesitate. Lie on the tip of your tongue: I drove or I’m just around the corner or My boyfriend’s coming.
You don’t say any of it.
“I live a few blocks away,” you admit. “Down by the river.”
At that, four pairs of eyes sharpen. Enough distance to get you alone. Enough darkness. Not so far that you’ll get suspicious if they offer to walk you.
“Not safe on your own at this hour,” Soap says immediately.
Gaz gives a low, almost gentle snort. “You seen the lot that hangs around near the bridge at night? Nah. We’ll walk you.”
You start to protest, shoulders curling, fingers twisting in the strap of your bag, but he cuts you off with a small, easy smile.
“Let us be gallant, yeah? Last good deed of the night. Then we’re gone.”
You don’t have a good reason to argue with that, and they can see the moment your resistance folds.
“O-Okay,” you say. “If…if you want to.”
Price drops some notes on the bar, more than enough to cover their tab and yours. You slide off the stool, nearly bumping into his chest as you steady yourself. His hands go to your hips without thinking, big palms warm and firm, catching you before you can stumble.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “Got you.”
You look up at him from under your lashes, throat working around a small, flustered sound. He feels you tremble, just a little, like a skittish animal not used to being held.
He squeezes, once, possessive.
Then they take you out into the night
The city is wet from some half hearted rain earlier, pavement slick, puddles glimmering in the bruise colored light of far off streetlamps. You walk in the middle of them without being told to, instinct or training or simple common sense putting you where you’re most boxed in.
Price on one side, Ghost on the other, Soap just ahead, Gaz at your back.
You keep your bag strap clutched tight, thumbs stroking the worn fabric. Every now and then your knuckles bump Price’s hand, and every time, he has to stop himself from catching your fingers and not letting go.
“We do this for everyone, you know,” Soap jokes lightly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s a community service. ‘Walks For Strays.’”
You huff a startled laugh. “Is that what I am? A stray?”
He glances over his shoulder, eyes raking down your body in a way that’s anything but subtle. “Aye. You wandered right into our path, didn’t you?”
“Could’ve been anyone,” you say.
Price knows that’s not true.
He remembers the way his gaze kept snagging on you all night, how hard it was to keep his eyes from drifting back whenever you lifted your drink and the light slipped over your rings. How Ghost, normally content to sit with his back to the room and watch every corner, kept glancing in your direction.
“Wasn’t,” Ghost says quietly. “Was you.”
You don’t seem to know what to do with that. Silence falls for a few steps, your shoes splashing through a shallow puddle that sends a little fan of water up your calves. The reflection shivers there, ripples of light from the lamp above breaking apart and reforming, broken stars at your feet.
When you step up onto the drier pavement again, one of those broken stars lingers, caught on the thin chain at your ankle until it fades.
“Here,” you say softly after a while, nodding toward a side street. “This way.”
The road narrows, buildings rising up on either side. Fewer lights. Fewer people. The river’s smell rides the air, damp and metallic.
Price feels that familiar shift in his chest: the one that comes at the end of a hunt, when the world narrows down to the target and the terrain and what comes next.
You don’t notice. You’re too busy watching your footing, stepping around a cracked bit of pavement, apologizing when you bump Soap with your shoulder.
You stop in front of an old brick building with a cracked stoop and a single tired bulb over the door.
“This is me,” you say, turning to them with that same small, uncertain smile. “Um. Really. Thank you. For walking me.”
“Be rude to leave it here,” Soap says, tongue in his cheek. “You could at least offer us a cuppa, hen.”
Your eyes widen. “Oh! I, um. I mean, my place is a mess, I wasn’t- ”
“We don’t mind mess,” Gaz says.
Price takes a half step closer, not touching you, but close enough that you have to tip your head back to look at him.
You don’t meet his eyes. “I don’t know,” you say honestly. “I’ve never…”
You bite your lip. Nervous. Thinking. You look at each of them, one by one, like you’re weighing something heavy.
You trail off, skin heating, shame and something else crawling up your neck.
Price files that away like it’s intel. Never. Never taken strangers home. Never done something like this.
But she’s out here, with four men twice her size, letting them walk her into the dark.
You could fumble the lock and slip inside alone, door closing in their faces. You could make up a boyfriend, a roommate, a brother.
You don’t do any of those things.
You nod. Tiny, decisive.
“…Okay,” you whisper. “For a little while.”
The satisfaction that rolls through them is dark and mutual.
“Good girl,” Price murmurs before he can stop himself.
You flush all the way to your ears and fumble the key in the lock. When the door finally gives, you laugh, flustered. “Sorry. My hands are…”
She’s shaking, he thinks, pleased.
They follow you inside.
The hallway is dim and narrow, the overhead light bare and buzzing.
“Sorry,” you say, starting up the stairs. “The landlord keeps saying he’s going to fix the lights on the second floor and then never does.”
“Typical,” Gaz mutters.
On the landing, the bulbs are all dead. The only light seeps up from the stained glass window in the stairwell, painting everything in a murky, underwater wash. It brushes your face when you glance back at them.
For a second, your eyes seem to catch it and hold it, pupils blown wide, irises gleaming oddly in the blue green.
Then you blink, and it’s gone.
“This is me,” you say again, stopping at the first door on the left. You unlock it and push it open into darkness. “I’ll get the- oh. Right. Sorry. The hall light doesn’t reach in here. One second, the lamp is…”
You reach inside, patting the wall, fingers feeling for a switch that isn’t there. The four of them stack behind you, big silhouettes in the narrow hall.
“Here,” Price says, hand settling at the small of your back, guiding you in. “We’re not afraid of the dark.”
You give a breathy little laugh. “I kinda am,” you admit. “Just…don’t leave me standing in it, okay?”
The words make something low in Ghost’s chest twist in a way he doesn’t examine.
“That’s not on the agenda,” he says.
You step fully into the apartment. The dim hall light dies as the door swings almost shut behind them. Shadows swallow everything; the noise of the city outside muffles.
“Lamp’s by the sofa,” you mumble. “Just- hang on…”
They hear you move. The soft thump of your bag dropped on some surface. The scrape of your shoes toed off. Your voice, closer to the center of the room now.
Something inside them unwinds. This is familiar: dark rooms, unknown layouts, a target’s breathing somewhere just ahead. They relax into the predatory rhythm without even meaning to.
Soap’s hand finds the back of the sofa in the dark. Gaz’s foot bumps into the edge of a low table. Ghost’s fingers twitch once, reminding themselves there’s no weapon in them tonight.
“You sure you paid your electric bill?” Soap asks, laughing under his breath when the first lamp you try doesn’t click on.
You huff. “Funny. It worked this morning. I think the bulb just-”
The sentence cuts off.
The silence that follows is sudden and heavy.
“Love?” Price says. “You all right there?”
You don’t answer immediately.
Then, from deeper in the room: “Yeah. Yeah, I’m…here. Just- don’t move for a second, okay? It’ll be easier if you let your eyes adjust.”
There’s a new note in your voice. Not exactly different- still soft, still gentle- but smoother. Calmer. Like something let go.
They stand still, obedient without thinking about it.
The dark presses in.
Slowly, shapes begin to tease themselves out- the paler rectangle of a window, the looming outline of a bookshelf, the shadowed bulk of the sofa.
And you.
You’re standing a few feet away, turned toward them. The faint light from the street outside brushes your outline but doesn’t quite touch your face. For a breath, you look exactly like you did at the bar- small, bare armed, hair falling around your shoulders, the delicate chain at your throat a dim line in the gloom.
The glint of your jewelry answers the glow- your necklace, your bracelet, your rings all picking up that strange, pale color and tossing it back in miniature. It slides over your features, revealing them in slices: the curve of your mouth, the bridge of your nose, the line of your cheek.
Your smile is small.
And wrong.
It’s too wide. Not grotesque, not cartoonish; just a fraction beyond human, the corners of your lips pulled back enough to show teeth that look a shade too long, too thin. Not blunt little herbivore teeth, but fine, needled things that catch the strange light the way deep water catches moonshine.
Price’s hand, half lifted, stills.
“Turn the lamp on,” Ghost says, voice low. A command, not a request.
You tip your head.
“No,” you say, almost apologetically. “I don’t need it.”
The room seems to shift around that answer. The air grows heavier, cooler. The smell of the river outside seeps in under the window frame, only it’s stronger now, richer, like true seawater. Salt and depth and something briny underneath.
The moonlight bleeds in through the window slightly and the faint glow it throws off reveals more details now: the way your pupils have narrowed to vertical slits in eyes that gleam with their own internal shine; the faint, opalescent pattern under your skin along your throat and collarbones, like scales lying just beneath the surface; the way the chain at your ankle has gone almost luminescent, the bones of your bare feet pale as the bellies of deep fish.
Price’s mouth goes dry.
“What are you?” he asks, very softly.
You tilt your head again, studying him.
“You know those fish,” you say, “with the little lanterns? Way down where it’s too dark for anything else to shine?” You give the necklace a small, idle flick, and it swings, hypnotic. “They sit there for hours, just…waiting. Letting the hungry things come to them.”
Soap’s pulse roars in his ears. Gaz swallows. Ghost takes a single, measured step forward like he’s testing how real this is, how dangerous.
You watch him do it. The glow stretched over your face makes your smile seem sharper.
“I didn’t want you to think I was anything but innocent,” you go on conversationally, as if explaining something simple. “That’s important. If the prey knows the hook is there, it won’t bite.” Your gaze roams over them, four big men in a stranger’s dark living room, shoulders tense, instincts finally whispering wrong, wrong, wrong far too late. “Do you know how many things in the deep are drawn to light that won’t harm them? To something that looks small, harmless, soft? They can’t help it. Their brains aren’t built to resist.”
The last word curls like smoke, amused.
“You made yourself pretty,” Ghost rasps, fingers digging into his palms as he fights the instinct to step closer. “So we’d…come to you.”
You tilt your head, pleased. Brilliant boy. You’ve always liked the wary ones. They make the best meals. The most satisfying captures.
“Of course I did,” you say. “The abyss doesn’t chase. It waits. It shines.” You tap your chest lightly with the tips of your fingers. “I just had to sit in the right bar long enough. Predators always think they’re the only ones hunting.”
Your own teeth catch the glow when you smile wider.
“Anglerfish don’t chase,” you say, almost gently. “We wait. We shine.”
The little necklace hangs there, bright and terrible in the pitch black of your living room, and Task Force 141 realizes far, far too late that they never chose you at all.
Bruce introducing Fem!Reader to the family for the first time.
Bruce: This is my biological daughter whom I'm extremely stupidly protective of and hidden from you all
Bruce: Please, be nice. She is weak and fragile and helpless. And, mourning her dead mother.
Everyone looking at Damian for his reaction since he's just barely getting out of the blood son phase
Damian: I need to make a call
Everyone: ...
Cass: That wasn't a negative reaction
Damian in the Batcave making a call to his mother on the Batcomputer.
Damian: Greetings, Omm.
Thalia: Habibi, what is that matter?
Damian: It's father. He has just informed us all that I have sister. A blood sister.
Thalia leaning forward as a lethal gleam in her eyes.
Thalia: Oh?
Damian: She is...
Damian: ... untrained. And, has lost her own mother recently
Thalia: *Gasp*
Damian: I know...
Damian: You need to come to Gotham as soon as possible and train her. I don't think father plans too.
Thalia already setting up a jet to fly in: I WILL BE THERE IN TWELVE HOURS
A/N: Little crack idea for Damian actually being the first to start up the fanclub for his new sibling. No sister of Damian's isn't going to know how not to defend themselves. 😤 And, Thalia jumping at the opportunity to be a girl mom just feels right. She just wanted a blank one to start with and for them to be Bruce's blood.
A/N: I don't know if I got those terms of endearment right.
Synopsis: In the world of jujutsu sorcerery, soulmates are highly coveted as they are the only people who can negate their mate's technique. You are Gojo Satoru's soulmate.
basically an expanded version of this piece-> Gojo Soulmate Au
(Warnings: Yandere, dark, blood, violence, uhhh but its consensual ig, implied noncon)
During one of your few days of break, you decide to treat yourself.
It wasn’t much. Just a day to yourself, with no responsibilities. You got your nails done, window shopped a little. At the end of the day, you visit a nearby cafe. It was busier than usual, you waited a lot longer than you would have liked.
Your drink also takes a while. You scroll on your phone to avoid boredom. It's why you're half-occupied when your name is called, unconsciously moving forward to grab your cup. Your hand accidentally brushes someone else's. You make sure to apologize to him before leaving.
It's a pretty day today. Wispy clouds here and there. The sun shined, but the heat was pleasant on your skin. It felt nice, especially considering the rain last night. The wind was so harsh, beating on your doors, your windows. It was like a monster was nestled right outside your door, begging to be let in.
It was a good day, the best you had in a while. A week after, with school piling up, you're distracted with exams and cruel professors. You hate studying in your cramped apartment, with your cheap fan that squeaks and your noisy neighbors, so you've recently taken to sitting outside. Your headphones are in. You're nearly an hour into the chapter, lost in the world of equations.
That's how you don't notice him until he slides into the seat next to you.
"Hey." He grins. "Been awhile."
You blink, a little distracted. A nervous smile crawls over your face.
"Sorry...do we know each other?" You feel like you'd seen him before. He looked gorgeous. Snow white hair. Pretty pale skin, not a single blemish. His sunglasses were tilted down, revealing pretty blue eyes. This is another reminder that all humans were created unequally; jealousy nags at you.
His smile widens. Odd. It's not fake, but it doesn't feel sincere. You feel like he’s mocking you somehow.
"You don’t remember me? The cafe?" when you continue to look puzzled, it only amuses him further.
"That's alright. Let's reintroduce ourselves!" He declares, "Gojo Satoru, what's your name?"
When you don't respond, he pouts. You yelp when Gojo reaches over to grab your headphones, pulling them off your head to examine them.
"No wonder you can't hear me. If the volume's too high, you could rupture your eardrums," he chides.
Shocked, you can do nothing but gape at him as he fiddles with the controls. What the fuck was his problem? Eventually, he gives it back, extending a slender arm out to you with a Cheshire grin on his face. Amid your bafflement, you don't realize the significance of your fingers brushing against his own. You don't notice the way his eyes quirk down, the way his smile widens ever so slightly. You timidly snatch your headphones back, grateful he didn't manage to break it.
By now, any curiosity you had for this man had mostly disappeared. You were now irritated, but you chose not to show it. Instead, you give a timid smile.
"Listen, I have a lot of studying to do," you say, hoping he'll take the hint. He doesn't.
"Oh, want me to help?" You're quick to grab your textbooks before he can, clutching them to your chest and trying your best not to send him the most scathing look you've ever given someone.
"I'm fine."
He pouts but relents in his torment. Gojo leans back, studying you.
"You're cute," he finally decides on, "gimme' your number."
You blink at him. The way he asked, as though he was so certain you'd comply, you wonder just then if anyone had ever told him no before. You decide right then that you want to be the first.
"No," you respond, starting to pack up. This study session was a lost cause. You're just gonna try to get some peace and quiet in your apartment.
"Whaaaaat?" He childishly asks, "Why not?"
"I have a boyfriend."
"No, you don't," Gojo responds with a grin. You glare, now outright annoyed by his antics. "What's his name, then?"
You don't answer fast enough. He laughs. Even his laugh is beautiful. You were starting to resent this guy.
"Fine fine. Break up with your 'boyfriend' and gimme your number. There's this great burger place that opened up just down the street."
You squint at him, wondering if he seriously just asked you out on a date. Finally, you elect to continue to ignore him, focusing on packing up. He's crazy, you decide on, absolutely bonkers. Who else would wear sunglasses when the sun isn't even out?
"You're leaving?" he tilts his head innocently. "I'm not that bad, am I?"
You don't grace him with a response, already walking away. He calls your name (back then, you didn’t notice he already knew your name despite you never telling him), but doesn't attempt to follow. Thank God.
You know his type: brash, aloof, thinks he can just get what he wants. He was probably a spoiled rich kid too, judging by the fancy watch casually hanging on his wrist. In other words: insufferable.
Hopefully, that'll be the last time you ever saw him. The campus is huge. There's no way you'd ever run into him ever again, right?
~
The universe, it seems, wanted to torture you.
Gojo was everywhere now, a constant presence in your life. No matter where you went, he'd always manage to 'run into you'. You can't go to that cafe anymore because he's always there. If you linger a minute too long in any given area on campus, Gojo will miraculously pop out of nowhere. You unwillingly learned plenty of things about the guy from your forced time with him. He came from a religious tech school, he wants to be a teacher, he’s two years your junior, he was majoring in education, he liked sweets, he hated spicy foods, his favorite animals were dogs, blah, blah, blah.
A few weeks later, your friends even started to recognize Gojo.
"There's a party at Ina's house." Mika said. "You going?"
"Probably." You say, still scrolling on your phone. She shifts from her place on the bed, eyeing you.
"Will your boyfriend also be coming?"
That's what made you pull your gaze away from your phone. You glowered at her. She giggled.
"He's not my boyfriend." You mutter for the nth time.
"Can I take him off your hands, then?" Mika volunteers eagerly.
"Please."
She makes a disgruntled sound and collapses back into the mattress. You frown when she throws a pillow in the air.
"I would if I could, but the guy only has eyes for you." She groans. "God, the way Gojo follows you around like a lovesick puppy is so cute. I wish I could have someone like that in my life."
You roll your eyes. Mika scoffs.
"You should be enjoying this more." She scolds you. "He's hot. And rich—have you seen his car?"
You have. The sleek black looking thing he’s in whenever he pulls by the sidewalk, asking if you wanted a ride. You always declined.
You always say no to him. Getting coffee with him? No. Going over to his place to study? Never. Want to share this calorie-high cake with him? Absolutely not. Your rejections never deterred him. If anything, it only spurred him on. It made you wonder if he was just doing this just to mess with you. It was the only conclusion that made sense. you were pretty, but you don’t consider yourself love-at-first-sight worthy.
“I really don’t get you, he’s the entire package!” Mika complains more at your silence. “How can you just ignore him like that?”
Inwardly, you agreed with her. Gojo was easy on the eyes, and you’d usually be superficial enough to overlook his personality, at least for a night. But you just can’t shake off the feeling of wrongness. It’s not fear, it’s just....he’s off somehow. Hiding something. You don’t know why you feel that way, considering the man seems more than willing to tell you his STNS. You just do.
Ina promised you it would be subtle, but it didn’t take long for the party to get out of hand. Gojo popped up, of course, followed by the group of friends you’d always seen him hanging out with. It didn’t take long for him to find you. You were standing outside, a plastic cup in your hand when he stepped beside you.
“Hey,” he gives an easy smile. You barely toss him a glance. Just when will he get the hint already?
“Your friend seems like she’s having fun back there.” He glances over his shoulder. From the window, you can spot Mika doing something she’d be mortified of sober. You hiss through your teeth, ready to go grab her.
“Nah, let her have her fun.” Gojo grabs your wrist, keeping you in place. Regardless of your general dislike towards him, you don’t flinch. Over the weeks, you’ve grown used to Gojo’s touches. The arms around your shoulders, head pats on your head. He touches so easily, and none so far have been inappropriate. Still, you frown when his hand lingers. You pull your arm away.
Huh. His smile twitched.
“Not your usual scene?” He asks, vaguely gesturing to the house blasting with music.
You shrug, taking another sip from your cup.
“Not really.” You prefer your alcohol a lot stronger, for one. You’re pretty sure this is just Kool-Aid mixed with beer. Gross. You dump it on the grass.
“Not mine, either.” He confesses. You’re surprised by that.
“Really?” You find yourself asking.
Gojo always struck you as an extrovert, but now that you really think about it, he only ever seemed to linger around you. Even the friends he seemed to be surrounded with felt like groupies, there was always a sort of divide between him and them. You couldn’t tell if he instigated it or if they had.
“Yup!” He says cheerily. “So, if we’re both miserable, why don’t we ditch and just—”
“No.” You instantly regret showing him any kind of interest.
“Not like that!” He quickly says. “I mean, unlessifyouwantto, but there’s this great sweets shop right on my street and they’re open extra late!”
You roll your eyes.
“Okay.”
“Really?” Gojo brightens.
“No!” You exclaim. “No, Gojo, I do not want to do anything with you. I’m sorry—so so fucking sorry that you’ve never been told no before, but I don’t like you. I never fucking will like you. Stop trying to buy my affection with shitty sweets, I’m not interested.”
You’ve never yelled at him before, and considering the shock on his face, he clearly hadn’t expected it either. It felt good to wipe that irritating smug look on his face finally. It felt good to yell.
It’s silent for the longest time. Inside, you can hear the music shift. The cheering grows louder.
"Hm, okay," he finally says, "Now, you're starting to piss me off a little."
He's smiling, but it looks different. Less playfulness. More irritation.
You gape at him. "Excuse me?"
“I just don’t get what I’m doing wrong,” he’s saying. “I mean, I’ve tried everything. Why can’t you feel the bond? Is it ‘cuz you aren’t a sorcerer?”
You don’t know how to respond to that. He isn’t talking to you. It’s more like you’re a placeholder, a dummy to vent to.
“Ugh, everything about this is just so frustrating!” He groans. “And my eyes are exhausting me, but if I wear my glasses, I won’t be able to see you.” He runs his fingers through his white hair.
He turns to look at you. “It’s like you think I’m not good enough for you.”
You stare at him. He has the audacity to keep going.
“I’m actively trying here, and you keep blowing me off. It’s not like I’m asking for a blowjob or a quick fuck. Or is that what you typically go for? Hey, I could be that kinda’ guy too. Sleazy, more than happy to bend you over and—”
You weren’t one for violence. Your parents taught you from a young age that using your fists was unacceptable. You are so unconfrontational that you could count on one hand how many times you’ve been in an argument.
The slap was loud.
Both of you stayed still. Your palm was warm. Gojo’s face remained tilted to the left. There was a pink imprint on his cheek.
You came back to yourself when he reached up, pressing his fingers against the spot where you had hit him. Horror filled you. You tried opening your mouth for an apology, but words continued to fail you. You were still stiff, unable to do anything but watch.
You prepared yourself for the backlash. Yelling. Screeching. Maybe an attack.
To your mortification, he moans.
"Fuck," he sighed, "That felt good."
His brilliant blue eyes rolled up in pure euphoria before they drop back down to you.
“Do that again.”
You’d always seen Gojo as harmless. Pesky. Annoying maybe. Despite him following you around everywhere, talking your head off, he wasn’t dangerous.
You’ve never seen Gojo as a threat, until now.
He steps forward. You stumble back.
You were right the first time. He was crazy. He was absolutely insane. You should’ve gone with your instinct.
Gojo doesn’t follow you back inside. You slam the patio door, ignoring the way Ina complains and how harsh you were with his property. You say nothing to him. You say nothing to Mika nor anyone else. You just slide out the front door, fumbling with your car keys.
It isn’t enough.
Even when you’re miles away, tucked in your home, shivering underneath the blankets. It isn’t enough.
You can still feel his eyes, looking infinitely through you.
~
Days later, and you still say nothing.
The change is more than apparent. Gojo doesn’t bother you anymore. It makes it worse, a little. You see him around campus, in that friend group of his. He’s talking and laughing, but you feel like his eyes are always on you.
You cut down everything. You only go out for classes. You barely see your friends anymore. Social interactions slow to a halt the more you huddle in your room. Safe. Away from his eyes.
The more distance you gain from that day, the more you wonder if you just dreamt all that. Maybe you were drunker than you originally thought. The sudden switch up, the look in Gojo’s eyes. That couldn’t have been real.
You will yourself into that safe sense of security for a few more days. Eventually, you get better. You laugh it off when people ask you why you went no-contact for nearly a week. You start meeting up with friends again. Gojo doesn’t appear.
And then one day, you wake up in a bed that isn’t yours, with your legs bound and horribly naked.
Panic. You feel it come up your throat, out your mouth as you thrash wildly around.
“Careful there!” A cheery voice tells you. “Might hurt yourself.”
Anger mixed with adrenaline and fear is a horrible thing. You can’t even see him but you’re hissing regardless.
“What the fuck. What the fuck.” You shriek. Gojo smiles even wider.
“I missed your voice.” He coos, lovingly. “I just couldn’t wait anymore. I need you. I need you. The bond burns when you're not around.”
He drops into the mattress, immediately straddling you. You take your chance, reaching out with your hands. Violence itches at your palms.
You reach out with your nails and dig, right onto his face. You rip past his eye, all the way down his cheek.
You expect a scream, a jerk, pain.
He just moans. Something hard presses up your thigh.
Blood drips from his face. He can barely open his right eye but he’s smiling so wildly it reminds you of that night.
That’s why he didn’t bind your hands. He wanted this.
“You’re starting to get it.” He whispers as blood trickles down his grinning lips. It splatters over your bare skin.
There’s a sound of clinking metal as he unbuckles his belt. He's taking your hand, pressing it up against his bloodied face. His eyes close and he shudders.
“You’re the only one in the world who can destroy me.”
