Hi yall I'm currently deep diving rw lore to establish a headcanon time scale (how long one cycle is, establish rw date format, etc). I came up with 2 names for the equivalent of a year and wanna ask which one to use.
Why don't i just call it year? Because calculations were made to fit how dates are written in pearls (ex. 1511.110) and i made it that 1 rw 'year' is 20 years so that will confuse the fack outta me
[Remember this is all purely headcanon and I just wanna be consistent with my lil story!!]
thinking about... how soft he’d be. you’re expecting a week of fucking until the point of pain, but instead you get a hopelessly devoted, sweetened keigo. all-prettied up from his rut, but far more interested in tending to you and your illness than his other 👀needs
(nsfw)
keigo is remarkably well-prepared for his rut. he’s had them for long enough to know the ins and outs of the… experience. his apartment is stocked. ready-made meals and frozen leftovers for quick meals between fucks. at least six brands of lubed tucked away into different corners of the penthouse just incase you end up fucking somewhere other than the center of keigo’s ‘nest’.
speaking of his nest—
the whole apartment is the nest, really. feathers and bits of him settled and spread around. the heart of it is his massive bed, piled with sheets and pillows, all covered in his scent. he’d been prepping it for weeks.
he’d given you a good rundown, giving you fair warning, and you felt fairly at ease with the whole process. get fucked within every inch of your life and then have your sweet, bird bf
pamper you.
it all goes according to plan until you come down with something the day before his rut is supposed to start.
you try to ward it off. you steam yourself in a hot shower or two, chug herbal tea and lemon. it doesn’t touch the growing fever, chills, and headache you develop. your last attempt is a long nap, but not before sending keigo a quick text, ‘hey babe, i’m not feeling so good, but i’ll be good by tomorrow 😤”
you wake up to his shadow looming over your bed, eyes bright and alert. the moment you’re awake, he’s checking you over. tilting your jaw every which way, shoving his nose against your pulse point, inhaling and licking.
you shudder, his spit and cold sweat mixing.
“you’re sick.”
obviously.
he’s quick to gather your things. you’d already packed a few overnight bags, and a few of your own comfort items to add to the nest. when keigo notices the little pile of your favorite, soft clothes and plushies, his feathers puff up and shudder.
he drives you to his, keeping a hand on you the entire car ride. he doesn’t make unnecessary conversation, which would’ve thrown you off if you weren’t roasting in the passenger’s seat.
when you get to keigo’s, he’s carrying you off to the nest. you appreciate how plush it is, even if your stupor. it’s comforting, the smell of him surrounding you (you vaguely remember keigo mentioning something about pheromones, but the thought rolls by in passing.)
“i’m going to change you out of these clothes, okay?” keigo’s smooths a taloned-hand up your thigh, playing with the waistband of your pants.
oh.
“don’t you need to fuck me?” you asked, a little raspy and weak.
keigo pauses, smoothing his thumbs over your hip bones.
“i need to breed you,” his pupils visibly dilate. “fuck a baby right here.”
his hand settles of your lower belly pressing down with the slightest pressure. you wince and go to grab his hand, but he quickly snatches your wrist. he shushes you.
“but i can’t really do that when my dove isn’t feeling good, right?”
no, he really couldn’t.
so instead he takes such good care of you, it makes you wish he’d knock you up.
he changes you into his clothes, they reek of him in the best way. the combination of his sweat, old cologne and rut musk choked you in the best way. it settled you into the sheets. keigo looks smitten about it, wings big and on display. they arch over you, even more gorgeous than normal.
the feathers look a bit darker... no, richer. the color of a good red wine that coats your mouth and goes down easy. the feathers look broader, sleek and nearly shining. they were normally fairly plain, but even with your fever, you could make out somewhat of a pattern in the layered feathers.
keigo takes it to dote on you the entirety of his rut. and honestly? it’s so, so sweet.
he’s always on you. holding you, touching you, tracing little shapes into your skin with his talons or rubbing patterns deep into the knots of tension you hold. he feeds you the little meals he prepared and morsels of precut fruits.
he chirps and coos the whole time, expression relaxed and doughy, even if you can see his cock straining in his sweats half the time.
he satiates those desires (though, he exists they’re far-more quiet than a normal rut) with stealing different types of contact. he licks up your cold sweat, or the spare drops of fruit-sticky spit that slip from the corners of your lips. it’s a little gross, sure, but there’s something of him and his big pretty wings that has you lulled and content.
he sucks dark marks into your neck just as often as he dots the skin with little kisses. it’s an ownership thing, ‘this is my mate and don’t you dare fucking touch them’. though you aren’t leaving the penthouse, it still settles something in your chest.
his, his, his.
you sickness wanes near the end of his rut. just enough time for him to breed you for a good twelve hours. the post-sickness already had you worn out, and the rough fucking just means some extra lovely pampering. though, this time, it’s shared. <3
