cw : fem!reader ◞ rough sex◞ choking ◞ creampie, headlock play ◞ begging ◞ dirty talk ◞ oral sex◞ vaginal penetration ◞ p without plot ◞
"Zuko, please," you plead, your voice breathless and needy as you kneel before him on the plush rugs of his private chambers, the flickering torchlight casting shadows over his regal form.
Your hands clutch at the edges of his deep red robes, fingers trembling with anticipation. "I need it—put me in a headlock. Choke me while you fuck me senseless. Make me yours completely."
Zuko's amber eyes darken with raw desire, his scarred face tightening as he looms over you, His long black hair sways slightly as he reaches down, gripping your chin firmly to tilt your head back, forcing you to meet his intense gaze.
"You beg so prettily," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. "But you know what happens when you ask for my control. I'll squeeze that pretty neck until you're gasping for air, until your pussy clenches around my cock from the lack of it."
Your core throbs at his words, arousal flooding you as you nod eagerly, lips parting in a whimper. "Yes—do it. I want to feel your arm locked around my throat, your strength pinning me down. Fuck me hard while I struggle for breath."
He doesn't make you wait; with a growl, Zuko hauls you up by your arms, spinning you around to face the nearby bed draped in crimson silks. His body presses flush against your back, the hard length of his erection grinding into your ass through the thin fabric of your undergarments.
Rough hands yank your clothes away, tearing the delicate material with impatient tugs until you're bare and exposed, skin prickling in the warm air.
Zuko sheds his own robes swiftly, the layered fabrics pooling at his feet, revealing his toned, scarred torso—muscles honed from battles and rule, cock standing thick and veined, already leaking pre-cum at the tip.
He shoves you forward onto the bed, your hands bracing against the mattress as he climbs behind you, one knee nudging your thighs apart.
"On your back," he commands, voice edged with authority, and you scramble to obey, flipping over to lie supine, legs splaying wide in invitation. Your pussy glistens with wetness, folds swollen and aching for him.
Zuko positions himself between your legs, his weight settling over you like a predator claiming prey. But instead of thrusting in immediately, he leans down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss—tongue invading, teeth nipping your lower lip until you taste the faint metallic tang of blood.
You arch into him, hands roaming his broad shoulders, nails digging into the firm muscle. "Zuko... the headlock. Please, I need it now," you gasp against his lips, hips bucking up to rub your slick entrance along his shaft. He chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest as he pulls back, saliva stringing between your mouths.
"Greedy little thing," he says, shifting to straddle your waist briefly, his cock slapping heavily against your belly. Then, with deliberate slowness, he maneuvers his arm—strong and corded from years of wielding fire—around your neck from the side, hooking it into a loose headlock that presses his bicep against your throat.
The position forces your head to turn slightly toward him, cheek smooshed against his forearm, his scar visible up close as he tightens just enough to make your pulse thunder under his skin.
"Like this?" he taunts, squeezing experimentally, cutting off your air for a heartbeat before easing up. You nod frantically, eyes watering with the thrill, pussy clenching emptily. "Beg louder. Tell me how bad you want my cock splitting you open while I choke the breath from you."
"Please, Zuko—fuck me!" you cry out, voice hoarse already, hands grabbing at his thighs to pull him down. "Lock your arm tight around my neck, make me see stars. Pound into my pussy until I can't breathe, until I cum from the pressure alone."
Your words fuel him; with a feral snarl, he aligns his hips, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance before slamming home in one brutal thrust. The stretch burns deliciously, your walls fluttering around his girth as he bottoms out, balls slapping against your ass.
The headlock tightens in rhythm with his first deep plunge, his bicep flexing to restrict your airway just as he pulls back and drives in again.
You gasp raggedly, the lack of oxygen heightening every sensation—the drag of his thick shaft along your inner walls, the way his pubic bone grinds against your clit with each forceful snap of his hips.
"That's it," he grunts, breath hot on your ear, his free hand pinning your hip down to control the angle. "Take it all. Feel how deep I am while you fight for air."
Stars burst behind your eyelids as he squeezes harder on the next thrust, your throat working futilely against the unyielding muscle of his arm. Your body responds instinctively, legs wrapping around his waist to urge him deeper, heels digging into his lower back.
The restricted breaths make your head spin, pleasure coiling sharper in your core, every vein on his cock pulsing against your sensitive spots as he fucks you relentlessly—out to the tip, then burying himself to the hilt over and over.
"Zuko—harder! Choke me more," you manage to rasp during a brief release of pressure, your voice breaking into a moan as he obliges, locking his arm vise-like.
Vision blurring at the edges, you claw at his forearm—not to escape, but to feel the power there, the dominance that has you soaking his cock even more.
He releases just in time for you to suck in a desperate gulp of air, only to clamp down again as he angles his hips to hit that spongy spot inside you, the one that makes your toes curl.
Sweat slicks your bodies, the room echoing with the wet sounds of skin meeting skin, your choked whimpers, and his guttural praises.
"Look at you—pussy gripping me like a vice when I squeeze. You love being at my mercy, don't you? Begging for my arm around your neck while I ruin this tight hole."
His pace quickens, thrusts turning punishing, the headlock shifting slightly to let you turn your face into his bicep, lips brushing the salty skin as you gasp for more.
The build-up is intoxicating, oxygen deprivation amplifying the fire in your veins until you're teetering on the edge. "I'm—gonna cum," you choke out, tears streaming from the intensity, body trembling beneath him.
Zuko loosens his hold fractionally, allowing you a ragged breath before tightening again, his cock swelling inside you as he chases his own release.
"Cum for me—milk my cock while I choke you," he demands, voice strained, hips pistoning faster. The command shatters you; your orgasm crashes through, pussy convulsing wildly around him, walls rippling in waves that pull him deeper.
You scream hoarsely, the sound muffled against his arm, nails raking down his back as ecstasy rips you apart, juices squirting around his base to drench his thighs.
He doesn't stop, fucking you through the spasms, his headlock unrelenting as he grinds deep one final time. With a roar, Zuko buries himself fully, arm flexing to cut your air as hot spurts of cum flood your pussy, painting your insides white.
The sensation of his release, combined with the pressure on your throat, prolongs your high, drawing out aftershocks until you're limp and quivering.
Finally, he eases the hold, both arms now cradling you gently as he collapses half atop you, cock still twitching inside your filled core.
You cough lightly, drawing in deep breaths, but a satisfied smile curves your lips as you nuzzle his neck. "Again," you whisper, voice raw. "Put me in that headlock and fuck me until I pass out."
Zuko's eyes gleam with renewed hunger, his hand stroking your hair as he rolls you both, positioning you on top but keeping one arm ready. "Insatiable," he murmurs, but there's pride in his tone.
He guides your hips to sink back onto his semi-hard length, already stirring back to life. As you start to ride him slowly, he snakes his arm around your neck from behind, pulling you down against his chest in a loose lock. "Ride me while I control your breath. Beg for it tighter."
You do, grinding down with a moan, the fullness reigniting the ache. "Tighter—choke me as I bounce on your cock. Make me earn every thrust."
He complies, bicep pressing into your throat as you lift and drop, the restricted air making each descent feel electric, your clit rubbing against him perfectly. His free hand roams, pinching your nipples, slapping your ass to spur you faster.
The second round builds slower but deeper, your pleas turning to broken sobs of pleasure. "Yes—lock it in, Zuko. I want bruises from your arm tomorrow."
He squeezes in time with your rhythm, releasing just enough to keep you conscious, his cock hardening fully inside your cum-slicked pussy.
You clench around him deliberately, drawing groans from his lips, the power dynamic flipping slightly as you use the headlock to heighten your control over the pace.
But Zuko reclaims dominance swiftly, flipping you onto your side mid-ride, spooning behind you with his arm locked firm around your neck.
His hips snap forward, fucking up into you from this new angle, the headlock pulling your head back against his shoulder so he can bite your earlobe. "This what you begged for? My arm owning your throat while my cock owns your cunt?" Each word punctuates a thrust, deep and claiming, his balls slapping your clit.
"Fuck—yes! Don't let go," you gasp, hand reaching back to grip his thigh, urging him on.
The pressure builds again, faster now, your body hypersensitive from the first orgasm. He fingers your clit in circles, the dual stimulation overwhelming as he chokes you harder, your vision spotting with bliss.
You cum explosively, pussy gushing around him, the headlock making the release feel endless, like drowning in pleasure. Zuko follows with a muffled curse against your hair, pumping another load deep inside, the warmth spreading as he holds you tight through it all.
Exhausted but sated, you both lie tangled, his arm now a loose drape over your neck, a reminder of the intensity. "Perfect," you sigh, turning to kiss his scarred cheek. He hums in agreement, cock softening but still nestled within you, promising more if you beg again.
synopsis. heeseung loves omegas, but he doesn’t believe in mates—especially fated ones. that kind of destiny is reserved for people like riki and jay. but then he meets you. and the first thing you ask him to do is scent-mark you: an intimate activity shared only between mates. a spin-off from love me (k)not!
warnings. slightly suggestive, fated mates-coded, power imbalance, unjust system and society, harassment against omegas (not by heeseung), &team cameo but they're assholes here sorry! i love them though dw, mating mark, scent-marking, heeseung is a dominant alpha, and a bigger asshole i fear, reader is a cheerleader, alpha!jay being our target again (sorry), alpha!riki, alpha!sunghoon, beta!ahn yujin, omega!rei, sunoo is bi, heeseung is also bi, this omegaverse is partly made up by me! but it’s just a tiny portion of it just to keep the plot going, denial, rejection, angst, not beta read we die like injang, please let me know if i missed anything!
word count. 21,280 words
note. please read this before proceeding 🤎 everything here is purely fictional and it has nothing to do with the members as a person outside of this fanfiction 🤎 also idk how cheerleading works so pls bear with me...
In a private booth of a nightclub, a group of long-legged, broad-shouldered alphas huddle around the table, drinks in hands. The air is layered with pheromones and adrenaline, occasionally flashing with neon lights and blurred with thin smoke.
In the middle of the couch, Heeseung sits leisurely, manspreading with ease. On either side of him, Jay and Riki lean back in a similar posture, each of them engaged in the conversation bouncing between the team.
The team has just won a friendly match against their long-sworn rival, a university from the east, after a frustrating streak of loss for two consecutive tournaments. It wasn’t really a landslide win, considering their competitive skills, but a win is a win. A satisfied smirk curls around Heeseung’s bow-shaped lips, his alpha purring with pride.
Friendly or not, the whiskey surely tastes extra sweet tonight.
“Did you see K’s face just now?” Riki pipes up from his left, still buzzing with adrenaline. Being the last man to score and secure the win for them, it’s obviously hard for Riki to contain his enthusiasm. He’s beaming wide. “I did that. I wiped that smirk off his face, gentlemen!”
The rest of the team roars in reply, infected by Riki’s contagious excitement. Heeseung and Jay wear a fond smile on their lips, clearly delighted to see the younger alpha’s happiness. Glasses clink again as they toast to their win, and to their future wins, and to the sexy, beautiful cheerleading omegas that played a part in keeping their spirits up just now—to which Jay grimaces and Riki rolls his eyes at. Heeseung snorts.
He forgets that he’s friends with a prude and a loyal, claimed alpha.
“Speaking of omegas,” Heeseung tilts his head at Riki when the chatters break into small groups of conversations among the team, leaving him to talk to two of his closest friends. “It’s a surprise to see you here, Ki. Like seeing a four-leaf clover.”
Jay joins in, his signature lopsided grin on display. “I half-expected you to run home to your girlfriend. It’s hard to see you hang out with us at the club now, pup.”
Riki crosses his arms with a dramatic huff. His bottom lip juts out in a pout. In this light, when Riki shows this side of him, free from fake nonchalance and his cool persona, Heeseung sees him ten years younger than his actual age. Riki is so cute.
“I fully expected to run home to her too, hyung. But she forced me to come here. Said something like I should celebrate my win with y’all,” Riki sighs, messing with his newly-dyed hair and tipping his head back. “So here I am. Drinking with you idiots when I could’ve cuddled with my sweet, sweet omega at home.”
Jay feigns offence while Heeseung laughs. The both of them know too well of Riki’s devotion to his girlfriend. Maybe it’s the alpha-omega bond, or just the fact that they’ve known each other practically their whole lives, but Riki is never at ease whenever she’s not around.
But tonight, the alpha seems more relaxed than usual. He’s not playing with his fingers or toying with the hem of his shirt like he always did when his girlfriend is absent. Heeseung wonders why the sudden change until he catches a glimpse of something at the back of Riki’s neck.
His brows furrow. His movement falters mid-air.
“Riki? Is that…” Heeseung squints his eyes, trying to see better while the tips of Riki’s ears slowly redden. From his right, Heeseung can hear a soft gasp from Jay.
“Holy shit. Is that your mating mark, Ki?”
It is. It is a mating mark, Heeseung realises, when a purple neon light flashes on Riki’s wounded skin. The alpha is rubbing his neck sheepishly now, heat sweeping across his cheeks. Despite his sudden shy demeanour, Heeseung can smell the pride in his sandalwood scent, and in that moment he finally notices the subtle layer of sweet vanilla—Riki’s girlfriend’s scent—in Riki’s pheromones.
“Yeah,” Riki confirms, still red like a tomato. “I mated with her last night.”
“Wow,” Jay breathes out in amazement, eyes sparkling in the dim light. “About time, man! You’re finally mated!”
Jay’s exclamation attracts attention and soon, the whole group is congratulating Riki on the milestone. The said alpha is red down to his neck now, clearly not expecting the sudden shift of focus on him but still relishing in the pride of having his mating mark, if the musky lilt to his pheromones is anything to go by.
Heeseung remains a quiet observer, watching as Riki pulls down the collar of his shirt to proudly show the mark. Two other alphas join him as they speak fondly of their omegas, relishing in their identical mating mark on their napes. Beside him, Jay listens with an adoring smile. There’s a certain longing in his gaze when he stares at the mated alphas that doesn’t go unnoticed by Heeseung.
Heeseung averts his eyes away, trying to forget that familiar look on Jay’s face. He almost scoffs at the image.
He knows that look like the back of his hand.
Jay, too, yearns for a mate. Like Riki. Unlike Heeseung.
Mate. It’s the word that is so common in omegaverse but so foreign in Heeseung’s little world.
If Jay is a walking green flag that effortlessly attracts omegas with his gentleman charms, Heeseung is a running red flag that chases after willing omegas. If Jay stays away from wild sex life, Heeseung lives by it. If Jay dates to marry, Heeseung fucks to breathe. He’s everything Jay’s not that Riki was so bewildered when the two first met him.
Don’t get him wrong—he’s not the creepy kind of chaser. Rather, he likes to call himself the sexy one. It’s not hard for him to pull; just a few flirty comments here and a couple of filthy whispers there and the next hour he’ll have an omega to bring home and under him.
He doesn’t know if he’s the only one wired this way, but where territorial instincts stream in his alpha blood, his sexual desires run even harder and faster. It’s like an itch that just won’t get away if he doesn’t scratch at it. He’s an attractive alpha with a high sex drive, he admits it, but is he really wrong to accept any omegas with his long, eager arms?
He thinks not.
Plus, they’re omegas. Heeseung tries not to objectify them, but gosh, the scent wafting from them is always so sweet and inviting. They’re curved softly, meant to hold and love the right, physical way that he’s known how to. He’s a weak man, and an even weaker alpha; Heeseung can’t resist a good fuck between two consenting adults and he always, always consents to being sucked off dry and scratched to bleed.
Fuck, just thinking about it is already making him excited.
Heeseung’s eyes wander, tuning out the conversation about mate as he scans for any attractive omega. It’s starting to bore him—the talk about mate and having a mate and being mated—so he’s entertaining himself with the exposed skin and swaying hips of dancing omegas on the dance floor.
For someone like him that gets off on having sex with omegas and being drunk on their sweet pheromones, mating culture is a big no for him. The idea of being tied to only one omega makes him laugh; it sounds ridiculous to him. He’s an alpha capable of giving and his knot is not limited to only one hole, so why should he settle?
Only hopeless-romantic alphas believe in the belief of fated mates. And unfortunately, two of his friends do. Heeseung mentally rolls his eyes.
He decides that he’s had enough when the mated alphas start talking about having pups; another commitment that makes goosebumps rise in his skin. Wordlessly, he places his shot glass on the table, having sipped only half of it throughout the night.
“Leaving already?” Jay asks, craning his neck when Heeseung stands. The latter only cocks his head to the dance floor with a knowing look. The corner of his mouth curves into a playful smirk when Jay makes a face.
“The usual.”
Jay shakes his head. “Whatever. Just don’t do it raw.”
“I’m always clean and safe, Jongseong.” Heeseung retorts, already taking his leave. “Call me when you’re leaving.”
Whatever Jay replies is muffled by the loud bass and Heeseung couldn’t care less to know what the alpha has said. Probably throwing him insults for using him as his personal chauffeur again. Heeseung only shrugs. Jay’s not his concern tonight. He has a bigger fish, or rather, a pretty wolf, to catch.
His eyes sweep across the space. From where he’s standing, his nose can pick up different scents of alphas and omegas. Even the faint scent of betas are visible, usually amplified by alcohol and adrenaline. He’s still deciding between two male omegas throwing asses back on the dance floor and a group of female omegas giggling at a table not far from him when a spiked scent stabs at his senses.
His nose instantly scrunches, frowning as he tries to detect that smell. An omega in distress. It’s faint, coming from the direction of the exit door, but he can’t see anyone crying or visibly uncomfortable in his line of sight.
Heeseung looks around, momentarily distracted from his initial mission. Nobody seems to notice the scent, however, and Heeseung blames his dominant traits for this. He sometimes forgets that he’s a dominant alpha. Unlike Jay and Riki, his senses are more sensitive and developed, which is a blessing when he’s looking for a hookup and a curse when he’s inside the locker room after a game when the air is drenched in his teammates’ pheromones. Heeseung shudders at the memories. He’s always the first to shower and leave the room because only Riki smells good when sweating.
His thoughts are brought back when the scent intensifies. Heeseung keeps sniffing and blindly follows the trail of wilting daisies and burnt honey, his shoulders braced and jaw tense. He doesn’t know why, but the scent has awakened his senses to a new degree. His alpha is on full alert now.
He passes by dancing bodies and tables to get to the exit door but he’s stopped by a hand on his arm. Heeseung looks down.
A soft, seductive voice reaches his ears. “Heeseung-ssi?”
Heeseung blinks at the smiling omega. After a second of stunned silence, he finally recognises the logo on her varsity jacket and the makeup on her face. Realisation dawns upon him.
She’s part of his college’s cheerleader squad.
The omega is running a hand up and down his arm now, arching her back to flaunt the soft swell of her chest. Behind her, her fellow cheerleaders watch closely, hiding eager smiles behind their palms. Heeseung looks down at her hand, gulping despite himself.
“Spare me a few minutes, will you, my precious, capable alpha?”
Her voice is so enticing, dripping with the kind of allure Heeseung’s so much familiar with. There is a strong wave of her sweet scent—bubblegum and cotton candy, Heeseung notes—coming from her in full force. She’s fluttering her lashes now, hoping he’ll get the message.
Heeseung does; oh does he get the message so well. He knows what she’s hinting on and on any other nights he’ll succumb to the temptation without putting any efforts to think, melting into a puddle of juices at the slightest touch of seductive omegas. It’s a no-brainer decision for him, usually, because he’s always ready to fuck and he always brings a pack of condom with him for this sole reason.
But tonight his wolf is restless. And the reason is none other than the bitter scent still clinging to his nose.
Heeseung gives a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and removes her hand from his arm. The omega frowns, brows almost uniting at the center when the alpha takes a step back.
“Next time, yeah?”
Without waiting for her reply, Heeseung slips away from the crowd, ignoring the sour turn of her pheromones. He can feel their eyes boring into his back, but that’s not his concern now. Following the haunting scent and the sudden flaring instincts to get closer to the owner of it, Heeseung lets his legs bring him closer to the exit door.
Heeseung hates to admit it, but right now, his wolf is thrashing at the bitter scent and his chest feels like caving in. He can feel the itch in his nails; his claws are threatening to sharpen. He frowns.
He’s never reacted this way to any omegas in distress. So why now? Why this particular scent?
When he reaches the door, Heeseung doesn’t waste a second to push it open and steps outside. As he does so, a weight suddenly crashes into his chest, pushing him slightly backwards from the force.
“Oof—”
Heeseung reaches up to steady the figure by the arms. At this sudden proximity, the scent is thicker, the wilting daisies are more prominent it's making his heart constrict. Heeseung lets out a deep exhale and looks down to the person practically in his arms.
A female omega. Clearly in distress, judging by the unshed tears and the tremble in her lips. A familiar varsity jacket drapes across her frame and Heeseung feels his breath stop when he recognises that face.
It’s you. One of the cheerleaders. Heeseung knows many cheerleaders, having been in bed with most of them; but even the most forgetful alpha will remember an omega like you.
A sweet face with a sweeter scent to match, but you are always detached from alphas and their advances. You’re the shy cheerleader his teammates always talk about. The untouchable one. The politely-smile-and-then-reject omega. Heeseung remembers you too well, being one of those rejected alphas himself.
He still remembers how disappointed his wolf was, whining and pouting when a pretty omega he had his eyes on rejected him. But Heeseung is a respectful alpha. He’ll take a no as a no. And you were also so kind when doing so that he moved on from it pretty fast and well.
That was one year ago.
Now you’re crying in his arms, for whatever reasons he doesn’t know and is determined to find out. He can feel your hold on his arms tighten, the spike in your scent when you recognise him, and the hitch in your breath that follows. The bitter scent is definitely coming from you.
“H-Heeseung?” Your voice is so small, like you’re not sure if you can call his name. It’s shaky and breathless. “Please help me.”
Behind you, Heeseung can see three shadows entering the alleyway. Even from the distance, his nose immediately picks up the pheromones of aroused alphas; thick and unpleasant. Your scent lingers amidst the stench, wavering in fear, so heavy he can practically taste it on his tongue. Heeseung instinctively pulls you closer.
“Are they bothering you?”
You nod frantically, the tears now spilling freely down your cheeks. When you speak, your voice is wet from tears and fear.
Nothing can ever prepare Heeseung for the words that are about to leave your mouth.
“P-Please…Please scent me.” You sob, clutching the sleeves of his T-shirt tighter. Heeseung’s breath stutters. “Please, Heeseung.”
Scent-mark. A low rumble sounds from his chest.
You’re asking him to mark you. To…claim you. It’s basically you asking him to bond with you, to shower you with his pheromones and make you smell like him. Smell like you’re his.
This is not what Heeseung’s looking forward to tonight. The fantasy of saving an omega in distress and scent-marking belongs to Jay, an alpha that was even willing to help an omega in heat out of the goodness of his heart. But not Heeseung. That’s never Heeseung. Heeseung doesn’t play the hero; he’s the one stealing the female lead from them.
Scent-marking is way…too intimate to share between two complete strangers with no interaction—that is, if you consider being rejected to having sex together as zero interaction.
Heeseung looks between you and the shadows closing in, then licks his lips. “I can’t,” he tries, and the broken look on your face damn near makes his heart take the same fate. Heeseung schools his expression, forcing himself to push you slightly away from him.
“I—This is not right. You don’t want this.”
He can’t take advantage of you. This is just your scared omega speaking. Outside of this situation, he’s damn sure you’d refuse any kind of bonds with him. Heeseung might be a sex addict, but he’s not an asshole.
But you pull him with you, shaking your head as you keep taking a glance at the approaching alphas. “I do! Please,” you choke, failing to keep your voice steady as you plead at the alpha in front of you. Heeseung forces restraint to his instincts. “Please just scent-mark me, Heeseung. I-I can’t—They will—” You heave a deep breath, your scent taking a sourer lilt at his refusal.
“They won’t back down unless it’s another alpha.”
Something sharp stabs at his chest, rendering him speechless and frozen for a moment. Heeseung stares at your trembling figure, at your shrinking body as if to make yourself disappear, and it suddenly hits him how disgusting the whole situation is.
They won’t back down unless it’s another alpha.
Alphas only take a no when it comes from another alpha.
Heeseung feels nauseous. His throat closes in and there’s a quiet ringing in his ears. In that heavy, stilled silence, everything is muffled to his senses. Only the echoes of your words ripple in his mind.
Unless it’s another alpha.
It’s a hard pill to swallow; one that Heeseung finds it bitter to believe—because it’s so, so easy to walk away from omegas than force yourself on them. It’s so, so easy to shoot your pride down than dwell on it and go feral over a rejection. It’s so, so easy to respect an omega, even for a fuckboy like him, so why is it hard for other alphas to do so?
And the result of this harsh world, of this fucked up power imbalance is sobbing in his arms, shaking and forcing herself to be okay with an unwanted bond just to save herself. Heeseung’s heart breaks for you, for the fate that follows a beautiful being like you just because of secondary genders and because the world says so.
“Please, I-I don’t—”
“Shh, it’s okay,” Heeseung whispers, rubbing a soothing circle on your arms. Your crying subsides a fraction. “I’ll scent you if that makes you feel better. Is that…okay?”
You blink at him tearily, streaks of salty tears tainting your unblemished cheeks. Even with a swollen face, you still look as pretty as he remembers.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he nods, taking a hold of your wrist when he senses those alphas getting near. “Or we can just get inside and call the cops on them if you change your mind. You can find—”
“No,” you grip him tighter, your previously-calmed scent spiking again. “Cops are useless. T-They won’t—please, Heeseung. You know how they are.”
You know how unfair the system is.
Heeseung swallows hard before he nods, the burnt honey in your pheromones starting to get really thick and sticky. He rubs the inside of your wrists, slow and deliberate, before bringing the scent gland to his nose. It’s the most appropriate point to scent, less intimate than scenting at your neck, which he guesses the last thing you want from him right now.
The tip of his nose caresses the delicate skin tentatively, testing and tasting before he takes a deep inhale. Immediately, the scent of daisies and honey fill up his senses and Heeseung’s eyes flutter shut at the feeling. There is a rush of energy bursting through his veins, his senses tingling and his wolf purring at the sweet combination of your pheromones. Heeseung feels his wolf hum, almost singing and sighing, like his muscles are unknotting in a hot spring.
It’s strange. It’s new. But Heeseung pushes the thoughts aside.
He runs his nose over your wrist over and over again, blanketing you in his pheromones and starting to feel you relax in his arms.
The tension in your shoulders visibly disappears as you let yourself melt into Heeseung. You sigh. Heeseung’s pheromones are just like him; warm spice of cinnamon carried by cool air of sea breeze. It symbolises his fierce persona on the court and his calm demeanour when he’s out of his jersey perfectly. You lean into him further, your squirming wolf unknowingly calms down when being washed by his pheromones.
If Heeseung notices the change in your demeanour, he doesn’t say anything about it, shoving the thought to the back of his mind. His singular focus is entirely on your pulse, nosing at your wrist and pumping out his calming pheromones. When he opens his eyes, they mirror the look in yours: dazed and slightly glassy. The air is now loaded with daisies and cinnamon, intertwining with each other in a perfect, balanced mix of scent.
Heeseung tries to ignore the loud pounding of his heart, but it’s all he can hear. He tries to ignore the stars in your eyes, but it’s all he can see. He tries to ignore how perfectly balanced the mix of your scent is with his. His grip on your wrist tightens, breath caught in his throat. His wolf refuses to let you go, wanting to keep you here, tucked safely in his embrace for as long as he can.
And that thought is so foreign and scary. He really hopes that’s just his wolf and not him.
“Hey, little bunny.” A sick, twisted voice interrupts.
Oh, right.
Those fucking, disgusting alphas.
Heeseung is always slouching, making him appear shorter than he actually is. But in that moment, he’s standing so tall, dominating the space around him like the air is making room for him itself.
He instinctively pulls you behind him, shielding you from the hungry eyes of the approaching alphas. His shoulders are braced like they’re ready for an impact and Heeseung has to force a snarl down his throat when his eyes land on the wolves.
When the shadows step under the light, it takes less than a second for Heeseung to see the jerseys clinging to their bodies before he realises who he’s looking at.
They’re the players from the opposing team that his team just beat tonight.
K, EJ, and Nicholas.
Heeseung grinds his jaw so hard he might pop a vessel.
“If it’s not the mighty Lee Heeseung,” K taunts, wearing a smug smirk like a badge at the sight in front of him. He cocks his head, trying to see you over Heeseung’s shoulders. You cower. “Mind sharing your pretty little cheerleader? She’s exactly my type, shy but slutty.”
Shame spreads across your skin and you screw your eyes shut. Shy and slutty, you bite your lips. You’re nothing but a kinky fantasy for alphas like them.
As if sensing your turmoil, Heeseung stands taller, his eyes narrowing thin.
“Get lost.” Heeseung tries to hold back, but the rage he feels seeps through anyway. “And cover your gland, for fuck’s sake. You stink.”
K’s eyebrows shoot up, his grin turning cheshire. “Come on, man. Are you gatekeeping your cheerleaders?” K tries to take a peek at you, but Heeseung moves and covers you with his whole body. His frown deepens. “You had fucked her already. Don’t be greedy, captain.”
His alpha minions laugh, and Heeseung is now seeing red. Something hot spreads in his chest, burning in his vein like wildfire at the insult. Was it a hit to his ego and his shameless sexual routine? Definitely, but Heeseung never takes it to heart. Rather, it’s the way you gasp and sob into his back, shaken by the disgusting assumption of your dignity and your virginity. The storm of the ocean spikes in the air, taking his pheromones to a dangerous peak, gathering a tide to a new height.
Heeseung doesn’t think he’s ever released pheromones this bad. But something about seeing the same pattern of omegas falling victim to empty-headed alphas makes his blood boil.
Behind him, you whimper, your omega reacting to the agitated alpha in front of you. But Heeseung is now relentless. He holds out an arm around your waist, protecting you from their sight in a tight, almost-possessive grip.
“Watch your fucking mouth. Don’t you get it?” Heeseung seethes, pupils thinning as the laughter dies down. “She doesn’t want you. In what fucking language must she say no for your stupid brain to understand? She’s—”
Mine. She’s mine, his wolf howls. My omega.
Heeseung grits his teeth.
No, she’s not. Get a fucking grip, Lee Heeseung. You don’t have a mate.
“...not a toy.”
The sea-salt bite of his pheromones thickens in the alley. K scoffs, stepping forward in offense but is stopped by Nicholas. The latter has his arm shot out against K’s chest, preventing him from approaching the couple.
“No, K,” Nicholas murmurs, nose sniffing at the heavy pheromones in the air. Underneath the eye-watering spice of cinnamon and the raging storm of Heeseung’ sea breeze scent, there is a tangled sweetness of daisies and honey clinging to it. He visibly gulps. “They’re together. And Heeseung…”
Nicholas throws him a side eye, giving him a once-over briefly. He takes in the sharp glare directed his way, the downturned curl of his mouth, the tense shoulders ready to pounce. Nicholas shudders imperceptibly and shakes his head.
“…He’s a dominant alpha.”
His statement, though meant to deescalate the situation, only rages Heeseung on further. The alpha takes a menacing step forward, eyes narrowing thin at the trio. They falter back.
“Get this in your empty brains you freaks,” Heeseung grits, fuming beyond reason. Nicholas swears he sees something red flickering in his irises.
“When someone says no, you back the fuck off. Dominant alpha or not. Omega or not.” He spits out the word, the venom in his voice nearly poisons the air. “Do you fucking get it?”
His raging pheromones are turning physical, pressing on each pair of lungs like lead on a mattress. Nicholas fights the urge to cover his nose and pulls his two friends backwards with him.
“We get it. Sorry, captain.”
“Not me,” Heeseung hisses. A low growl rumbles in warning. “Her.”
Nicholas licks his lips and nods. He bows down quickly, forcing the other alphas to bend despite it hurting his pride. K reluctantly follows, though his eyes return the glare Heeseung gives him in a similar intensity.
“We’re sorry, omega. Shit, I don’t know your name, but—we’re sorry.”
In the next moment, the three alphas are already retreating. Nicholas aggressively whispers something among them while K visibly restrains himself from running back to Heeseung. He clearly doesn’t mind taking up a challenge with the dominant alpha and Heeseung finds himself not minding to dirty his hands too.
A beat of heavy silence falls upon you. You stay rooted in place, pulse racing in your ears. Heeseung is still facing away from you, ragged breathing slowing down. The air of dense pheromones is thinning out, leaving behind trails of spicy cinnamon and soft daisies.
You let out a breath and your knees buckle.
Heeseung is by your side in a flash, the same, now-familiar arms caging you against his tall frame. You put your hands on his chest, trying to steady the wobble in your legs.
“Hey, hey. You’re okay now. They’re gone.”
They really are. You cry. They’re actually gone.
An ugly sob racks through your chest and soon, the wilting daisies are back, staining the air with crumpled petals and sad flowers. Heeseung tightens his hold. He doesn’t like seeing people cry, but his alpha apparently despises it the most when he sees you in this state.
His calming pheromones pour out in waves, hands carding through your hair gently. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re safe now.”
You’re safe with me.
Your crying slows down. For a few seconds, you let yourself savour the warmth of Heeseung’s embrace. Closer, his pheromones, layered with a faint trail of his body wash, are stronger, filling up the almost-nonexistent space between the two of you. Strangely, the spice and the salt work wonders on calming you down.
Your wolf—previously anxious and distressed—is now quiet.
Heeseung adjusts his hold on you, and in that moment do you only realise in horror how long you’ve been shamelessly hugging him. Like a reflex, you pull away from his embrace, cheeks now flaming red when his shirt is now stained with two big spots of your tears.
“I’m sorry!” Your palms instinctively rub at the stains, as if they can dry out the tears out of the fabric. “I’ll buy you a new shirt.”
Heeseung looks down, silently watching the small of your palms against his broad chest. There’s a strange flutter that follows, quiet and unfamiliar. He hopes that you can’t feel it through the fabric.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Heeseung murmurs, eyes finding their ways back to your face. Red nose, swollen eyes, blotched cheeks. You really went through it, still sniffling as you still try to fix the stains on his shirt. A small part of him twists uncomfortably.
Heeseung catches your wrists, his thumbs moving almost instinctively against the soft skin.Your breath catches as you lift your gaze to look at him.
“Are you okay?” Heeseung asks, voice soft and gentle. You immediately nod, admittedly feeling better after being bathed in his calming pheromones.
“I’m okay. Just a bit thirsty.”
He searches your face, as if trying to detect any kind of discomfort or distress. But in the end, he ends up staring into your eyes, counting the lashes that guard your beautiful eyes.
It should end there. He really should just escort you back into the safety of your friend group and leave you be. Perhaps, he can go find the previous omega, seduce his way back and bring her home. The normal. The usual.
But something inside stirs in protest to that idea, and so instead he finds himself saying: “Let’s get you something to drink.”
The convenience store is bright under the dark sky, located just two blocks away from the nightclub. It’s already past one in the morning, but to the people of the night, it’s only the beginning of fun. From a distance, the queue line is only getting longer.
Beside you, Heeseung is walking on the edge of the pavement, looking out for cars despite the slow traffic. He’s been quiet since the alleyway, seemingly lost in thought. Occasionally, his hand will brush yours, a quiet graze that sends electricity in your system. You try not to react.
The convenience store is empty, save for a group of partygoers sobering up around the round table outside, leaving only a long bench beside the door empty. You stop when Heeseung does, his hand already tapping on the sensory handle.
“Wait here. I’ll buy you something to drink.”
You nod, obediently sitting down. Heeseung takes one last look at you before he enters the store, the harsh lights greeting his tired eyes. He grabs the coldest mineral water and stops in front of the necessities shelves.
Without thinking, his hand moves like it has a mind of its own, grabbing whatever his eyes land on—a heat pack, chocolate, a pack of wet tissues. It’s only when the cashier scans the items that he pauses, staring at the items with wide eyes.
Since when does he…do this?
“Anything to add, sir?”
Heeseung gulps, looks past the cashier’s head, and lands on the rows of pills behind him.
She cried too much, she might have a headache.
And so, as if on instinct, Heeseung adds paracetamol to his receipt.
Outside, the air is cooler, biting at exposed skin like a bug. Heeseung wordlessly sits beside you, placing the plastic bag on his lap. You curiously peek into the bag.
“That’s a lot. Are you hungry?”
Heeseung pauses, realisation dawns upon him. His instincts flare again. “No. Are you? Do you want ramyeon? Or packed rice? I can—”
“No! It’s fine, Heeseung,” you laugh softly, the sound like a melodious chime of a bell to his ears. “I had dinner.”
Heeseung visibly relaxes and nods. He hands you the bottle first, twisting the cap open before passing it over without a word. He watches you drink, takes the bottle from you, and gives you the heat pack next.
You blink at him. “It’s cold,” Heeseung shrugs, pulling your hand towards him and placing the heat pack on your palm. He closes your fingers over it. “This will warm you up a bit.”
For a second, you just stare at him. The warmth in your hand spreads from your fingers up to your chest, where your heart is thumping wildly at his gentle act.
You bring the heat pack to your neck, a gentle smile gracing your lips as you stare at him, cheeks blooming red. They put him in a trance, your eyes, as Heeseung finds himself unable to look away. His gaze then drops to your lips when they move, already clinging to every syllable without even knowing it.
“Thank you, Heeseung.”
The flutter comes back, now more frantic and aggressive than before, like a caged bird trying to escape. This time, Heeseung forces himself to look away, the plastic bag wrinkles under his tightening grip.
“Don’t mention it.”
“I mean it, though.” You counter back, gazing at the passing cars as you feel a gust of chilling wind breezing through. You scoot closer to the heat beside you. “It was really scary. Thank you for helping me out.”
There’s a bitter tone, faint and subtle, to your scent, as if you’re recalling the ugly incident that just happened almost half an hour ago. Heeseung clenches his jaw.
Before he can stop it, his pheromones spill out like soft waves, calming and comforting, cocooning you again like a safety blanket. His wolf hums in quiet satisfaction, watching the way your shoulders loosen, the tension melting off you bit by bit.
Heeseung doesn’t know when or how it happened, but there’s no gap between you now. But he doesn’t hate it like he thought he would. Here, you’re so close to him, your shoulder practically glued to his, seeking warmth from his body heat.
It’s a foreign feeling. A comfortable, foreign feeling.
You stay in that position, slowly getting drunk on his pheromones. Your eyes droop, fighting sleep, but the exhaustion from running away from scary alphas has finally caught up to you. Before you know it, your head dips against his shoulder, breath evening out as your fingers lose their grip on the heat pack.
Heeseung swallows. He doesn’t dare move. From the proximity, he can smell your fruity hair wash, blending smoothly with your scent.
It’s so unfair. Every inch of you smells really good, whether it’s your natural scent or the products that you use. It’s like every inch of your skin decides that you only deserve to smell the best, and Heeseung himself can’t help but agree too. It’s so unfair.
Heeseung finds his hands hover awkwardly in the air, hesitating for a second before settling carefully on your head. His fingers thread through your hair, slower this time.
“Don’t feel scared anymore,” he mumbles, gently caressing the dark strands of your hair.
It’s me who should feel scared.
His fingers freeze in your hair.
Scared. He is scared.
This is not him. If Riki or Jay were to walk in to see him in this state, they’d drag him to the nearest police station and demand they find the real Heeseung. The normal Heeseung. The usual Heeseung.
The Heeseung that doesn’t stay, or spend his time watching people breathe in their sleep. The Heeseung who’s out the door before the sheets even cool down. The Heeseung that dislikes small touches like these; like caressing the hair of the girl he just saved, because the only physical touch he brands himself with is sex.
Not this. Not whatever this is.
He wants to move, but his body doesn’t listen—he stays despite himself. His wolf, like it’s found something it’s been looking for all along, settles deeper instead, quiet and satisfied. You nuzzle closer into his body and Heeseung feels his chest tighten.
Something uneasy creeps up his spine.
This should feel suffocating. It should itch under his skin, make him want to pull away, shake you off, leave.
But it doesn’t. It feels easy. Too easy, in fact.
And it scares the shit out of him.
When your senses return to you, the first thing that greets you is someone’s scent.
Warm, spicy cinnamon and calm, salty sea air.
The memory follows not long after; of angry frowns and disgusting smirks that make your skin crawl. Amidst it all, a familiar face flashes in your mind and you feel your heart stutter.
Heeseung.
The pulse in your wrist thuds violently, as if not letting you forget the owner of the pheromones now wrapped around you like a soft blanket. You faintly remember, in your subconscious, being carried to a car and your roommate, Yujin, hugging you in panic. Unconsciously, you pull your blanket closer to your chest.
Did Heeseung send you home? Did he really…scent-mark you to help you?
You bite your lips between your teeth. The clarity is palpable now that the haziness of pheromones and distress are no longer around. There’s no way an alpha—a dominant one, at that—is willing to scent-mark an omega he has no connections to. The implications are more than the action itself. Heeseung surely knows about that, right?
It feels like a dream. It has to be a dream.
What a capable alpha, your wolf preens. Shut up, you hiss.
Then, as if the universe was insistent to prove you wrong, your eyes land on a plastic bag placed neatly on top of your vanity, a damning evidence of last night’s incident.
No way.
Your brain swirls with possibilities and your own made-up theories that it has started to throb faintly. Before you could lose your sanity, thread by unraveling thread, you rush to the bathroom to, hopefully, get rid of his scent, even when your omega begs you not to.
Unfortunately for the human-you, the cinnamon trails after you even post-showers. It clings to your clothes when you change and it doesn’t let you go even as you sit for breakfast prepared by your doting roommate. It’s strange, really. No one’s scent ever clung to you so stubbornly like this, like a chewing gum latching on shoe soles. You always cuddle with Yujin and even her green tea pheromones never stay with you after washing up.
“It’s a bit odd, yes,” Yujin munches through a mouthful of her own signature pancake. “But it’s not totally out-of-this-world. His scent will fade by this evening, I promise.”
You chew painfully slowly, eyes going wide at another possibility. “You don’t think that I conjured some kind of bond with him, right?”
It’s common knowledge that a thin, fragile bond can be easily formed when an alpha and an omega scent each other, mated or not. After all, context and intention are greatly considered, whether it’s meant for familiarity, protection, or possessiveness—each one will determine how long it’ll last.
You pull at the sleeves of your cardigan, a telltale sign of your anxiousness. The same wilting daisies accent of your scent from the night before comes back, signalling your impending distress. Yujin drops her fork and reaches a hand to yours.
“Hey, hey. Calm down for a sec, Y/N.”
“It’s just,” you swallow harshly, your traitorous mind replaying the scene from last night. Your heart thumps at the base of your throat. “I don’t know—fuck. I forced him to do this. And—and despite the circumstances, he still helped me and now…now I think…”
Your eyes turn glassy, reminded of the wolf residing deep inside you.
“I think my omega might like him.”
Yujin is silent for a moment, assessing the right words to say. It’s obvious to everyone on campus of the nature of Lee Heeseung. He’s not exactly the alpha you’d seek for companionship or commitment; he seems to be allergic to those things.
And to get your wolf to like him…well, let’s say that you’re already set for thousand-words of angst and a life of yearning. Yujin isn’t exactly fond of the idea of dishing out what you already knew. You already seem restless enough with your own thoughts.
“Okay. That’s valid.” Yujin starts slowly, treading through every syllable like a mother to her kindergartener son. “He’s super attractive. It’s understandable. But you can, you know—unlike him.”
You perk up at that, though the doubt clouding your face is more prominent now. “How?”
“Find a better alpha,” Yujin shrugs, as if explaining the world’s simplest equation. “For the record, I do think Heeseung’s a good guy, just not in the romantic department. I don’t know why your wolf is picking a fuckboy out of all alphas, but taste is subjective.”
“It’s because he stepped up and protected me!” You deflect and pause, realising how defensive of him you have become. Yujin raises a brow and you sigh, defeated, slumping in your seat.
“Fuck. Now my omega hates you for badmouthing him.”
“Sucks to be you.”
“Just kill me.”
Yujin shoots you a small smile, pushing your now-cold plate closer to you. You reluctantly take a bite. “Why not someone else, though? You could ask literally any other alpha, like—” Yujin pauses and it takes her less than a second to pick a name. “Jay. Like Jay. He’s like, the safest option, the greenest flag. But why Heeseung? And don’t tell me it’s because he was the only one there—you could’ve just barged in and found someone else. It’s a freaking nightclub.”
You freeze, unmoving for a slow second. There is, of course, an answer to that. One that you admittedly avoid to admit, because admitting it will admit that there is something underneath that only you know, and you admit that it’s scary to admit that. Fuck this admission! Yujin wouldn’t make fun of you, right?
“I…” You trail off, second-guessing your decision. Should you really tell your roommate? Seeing the eager look on her face, with her sweet, cute dimples showing up, you decide that people with dimples should be banned from this world. Promptly, you’re reminded of your junior—an alpha with Jungwon or something as his name. The both of them possessed dimples that could make any alpha (or omega) drop down to their knees.
Alas, you force yourself to tell the truth.
“I smelled him for afar.” You watch carefully for Yujin’s reaction. “Like, from outside. While I was running from those scary alphas.”
Yujin contemplates. “Did you feel some kind of a pull towards him?”
You don’t even contemplate. “Yes.”
“Holy shit,” Yujin laughs, her grin turning giddy. “This shit is actually real?!”
“What is?!” You frown, not liking being kept in the dark. A playful punch lands on Yujin’s shoulder, who’s now throwing her head back in laughter. Unconsciously, a pout is formed on your lips.
“What is it? Tell me!”
“It’s just, there’s this joke going around,” Yujin hiccups between every inhale, “that an omega will eventually crave for his knot. I can’t believe it’s happening to you!”
The lines in your forehead deepen. You regard your roommate with a look of contempt, thinking of the best spot to hide a body.
“That’s not true. I don’t crave his knot, or whatever it is.” You sigh, bringing a hand to pinch the bridge of your nose. “You know what? I’m just gonna pretend last night didn’t happen.”
Resigned and defeated, you rise and bring your plate to the sink. Your class doesn’t start until the next three hours, and then the evening is reserved for your new routine practice for the upcoming tournament. The ninety-two unread messages from the group chat are still left unopened; you haven’t had time to review the routine video yet.
You put on your apron and reach for the cabinet. When in distress or deep thoughts, other than nesting in your bedroom, you often opt to stress-bake instead. The scent of baked goods always puts you at ease, and it blends sweetly with your daisies and honey pheromones. Everyone who knows you knows to empty their stomach and be ready for a mass sweet-feeding whenever you’re in your stressed baker mode.
Behind you, Yujin’s laughter dies in her throat. Then, a question that stops you in your tracks comes.
“Hey, you don’t think it’s because you and Heeseung are fated mates, right?”
Fated mates. The words settle like a heavy blanket, pressing you down with its weight and keeping you warm altogether.
It’s sacred. It’s ancient. It’s something that you never speak of lightly, afraid that a slip of a tongue would taint the purity of such a bond. Against all odds and critiques on the concept of fated mates, you’re part of the minority who believed in it, no matter how foolish or ridiculous it may sound.
You believe in fated mates. You believe in the name written in the stars, in the love that has been shaped and created just to cherish you. You believe in spending the rest of your life looking for a face that your heart would recognise in a heartbeat, feeling that inevitable pull like you’re each other’s missing half.
But after last night, do you think it’s because you and Heeseung are fated mates?
Heeseung, who’s always made it clear to everyone about his relationship with commitments?
Heeseung, who never shies away when the boys tease him about the girls he sleeps with?
You’re never one to judge someone’s sex life, but you might be a little too concerned about how they view a long-term, committed relationship. Because that’s what you’ve been looking for.
An alpha who’s not afraid to love you loudly. An alpha whose instincts are to love and protect you.
Sometimes, you really envy mated couples. You envy how loyal Riki is of his girlfriend, craving the same kind of devotion to be directed to you. You envy how proud Taesan is to show off his mating mark, like it’s a badge of honour and love that promises forever.
Eventually, your mind drifts to Heeseung. The captain of the basketball team. Someone who deceives people with how approachable he seems, but is actually the most detached.
Heeseung is a perfect and capable alpha. You’ve seen it.
He leads his team with the kind of leadership that becomes a glue, keeping the team together no matter what challenges they’re going through. You know that he’s from the music department, and there are a few songs with his name being credited as the producer, composer, lyricist—you name it. Heeseung is a dominant alpha and uses his authority well, and he knows how to fend for himself.
You admire him, you really do.
But will he devote himself to you? Will he look only for you in a crowd of beautiful omegas, and beautiful omegas who have spent the night with him? Does he share the same sentiment as you when it comes to fated mates?
The churn in your stomach provides an answer clearer than any of your exams had ever done.
You let Yujin’s question fade in the background, letting yourself lose in your element—baking and baking and baking until it feels like you could feed a whole team of athletes. Which is what Yujin has suggested before she leaves for her lab session, after saving a big jar of cookies for herself.
Fated mates.
What a scary thought.
For the first time in his life, Heeseung is actively avoiding omegas.
It’s not any omegas, though. It’s only you. But since it’s you, it’s actually a pretty big deal to him.
Heeseung doesn’t play favourites. He doesn’t believe in fated mates, remember? But last night left a lasting impact in the form of your scent still clinging to him this morning, even after showering. Not to mention how excited his wolf has been when realising that it’s you.
It’s you, for fuck’s sake! The one who rejected him one year ago, and, admittedly, one of the prettiest omegas on campus. You might as well be every alpha’s ideal type. Well, maybe not Riki, that man is proudly claimed and fiercely loyal to his mate. But it’s definitely the case for him and Jay.
Knowing his best friend, Heeseung’s sure you’re just Jay’s type. And his. No. He didn’t say that. He doesn’t have a type, remember?
As if to make it worse, you also have a scent that might just be his favourite one yet. The same scent that is currently invading his senses, dampening other pheromones in the court despite being on opposite ends from you. The same scent that his wolf decides to pick up and single out the moment he steps foot in the campus, recognising you before his eyes can even see you first. The same scent that still lingers in his lungs, mingling with his cinnamon and sea breeze notes like dancing partners.
Yeah, Heeseung is starting to think that he’s slowly going insane.
“Dude, stop staring. You’re scaring them.”
Heeseung blinks, Jay’s voice successfully snapping him out of whatever omega-spell that you have casted on him. Yeap, he nods. It’s definitely that. You’re actually a witch. There’s no other explanation to this other than that.
A blob of freshly-dyed blonde hair pops up beside Jay. “Hyung showed up smelling like daisies and honey and suddenly he’s staring at the cheerleaders like they owe him money.” Riki teases, then grins when he realises something. “Wait, that kinda rhymes—”
“I’m not staring!” Heeseung almost shouts, belatedly realising that he, indeed, has been staring at the group of cheerleaders stretching across the court. Or, to be more precise, he’s been staring at you. He glares at Riki.
“Okay. So why do you smell like one of them then? What’s her name again, Jay hyung?”
Heeseung grumbles. “It’s no one—”
“Y/N.”
“Yes, that one. The shy one.”
Heeseung groans. He kicks Riki’s shins and makes a show of turning his back facing the cheerleaders. But for some reasons he refuses to admit, as if he has eyes on the back of his head, he still can point where you’re standing just from his senses alone.
These stupid, useless alpha senses.
At least Jay takes pity on him. “Your Heeseung hyung saved her from perverts last night. He scented her to calm her down because she was reacting pretty badly.”
Heeseung mentally thanks Jay and continues warming up. He opts to just watch his teammates dribble and stretch just like him. The faint hum of scent neutraliser—a new, advanced one, thanks to that incident with Riki’s girlfriend—rumbles slowly. Somewhere behind him, he can hear you laugh and taste the sweet spike in your scent on his tongue. Heeseung grits his teeth.
What is wrong with his wolf? Please get your tail together.
Riki, on the other hand, is intrigued. “Really? Did it happen after I left? Who were those alphas?”
“Some idiots from that team we beat last night.”
Riki frowns, clearly displeased with the news he just heard. “Well, I’ll keep my eyes on them. How did Heeseung hyung find her?”
Jay shrugs and shoots him a look. Heeseung really hopes he can slap that annoying smirk off his face one day. “Dunno. Ask him. His alpha probably recognised her from miles away.”
Heeseung doesn’t like what that sentence implies. “Shut up. It’s just instinct. Normal alpha-omega reaction.”
“Keep lying to yourself. I can practically see your tail wagging when you smelled your pheromones on her just now.”
“I didn’t—” Heeseung closes his eyes, forcing himself to calm down despite the sudden flare of defensiveness exploding in his chest. He doesn’t know why he’s so reactive and not in his usual calm composure, but he’s pretty sure it has something to do with you. Jay and Riki snicker.
“The only people that believe in fated mates are you two idiots. Do you know that?”
“Yeah, I know,” Riki snorts and looks at him, amused. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean I have a fated mate. That shit is rare. It’s like finding my size in Calvin Klein.”
Jay frowns. “I don’t see the correlation.”
“There is. My dick is just too big, hyung. There’s no size for me—”
“I don’t need to know that!” Jay slaps at Riki’s shoulders while the younger alpha only lets out a full-body laugh. “Save that information for your girlfriend, Riki. I didn’t raise you like this.”
“She already knows that.”
“Nishimura Riki!”
Heeseung is back to zoning out, his energy is suddenly drained out of his soul. That’s usually the case when you have to deal with a Nishimura Riki and a Park Jongseong on a daily basis. His mind, choosing to move at the pace of a snail today, is replaying Riki’s words back like a broken loop.
The realisation hits him five seconds late. “Wait. Did you mean that you and your girlfriend are not…fated mates? I thought you were!”
Riki is trapping Jay in a headlock when he answers. “Nope. We only imprinted on each other from early on because we’re childhood friends.”
“So like…what’s the difference?” Heeseung pauses and hesitates for a moment. He glances at you and then thinks, fuck it. If curiosity didn’t kill the cat then it’ll definitely kill him. “Can you smell your girlfriend in a sea of people?”
Riki scrunches his nose, his hands busy play-fighting with Jay. Heeseung ignores them like it’s a daily occurrence to see them act this way. Which is probably not far from the truth. “Not really? If they’re too many people, like right now, with your stench and too many omega scents—it’s difficult to find her.” Jay tackles his side and Riki yelps. “B-But it’s getting better after the mating bite, though—Jay hyung! I just got my tattoo there!”
“So…you can’t like…” Heeseung licks his lips, his throat suddenly dry. He has a feeling that he’s not going to like the answer Riki’s going to give him once he finishes his sentence. Jay is now on the floor while Riki is pulling him by the legs and dragging him around like a used rug.
“You can’t single her out from her scent alone?”
There. He said it. His two idiotic friends will catch on it and grill him for the problem he partially caused. The other part is, no doubt, his wolf’s fault for deciding to like one single scent. You’re not at fault at all. Never. Wait, who said that?
Riki is breathless from the laughter and play-fight, but he still manages to listen and answer, thanks to his alpha senses. If he finds Heeseung’s questions strange, he only shares his suspicion through a knowing look with Jay.
“Sometimes. Like I said, it’s only when the crowd isn’t too big and when she’s in the same room as me.” Riki finally spares Heeseung a glance, tilting his head in a feigned curiosity. “Why are you asking, hyung? Did you smell Y/N from miles away or something?”
How the fuck did that idiot know?
Heeseung looks away from the teasing grin thrown his way. He really doesn’t like this. “No,” he grumbles. “I’m just afraid if I might be Jay’s fated mate because his pheromones are fucking everywhere.”
“Hey! What the fuck did I do to you?!”
Riki bursts out laughing and high-fives Heeseung with a cheeky smile. On the floor, Jay is already huffing and sulking, mumbling something about ‘always catching strays’ and ‘citrusy pheromones aren’t smelly’. Heeseung sighs quietly when the topic takes a turn into a debate about who has the best smelling pheromones, which is an easy win for Riki, if Heeseung’s going to be honest.
Don’t tell Jay though. Heeseung doesn’t want to lose his passenger princess privilege so soon.
Much to his relief, it’s already time for practice. Heeseung tries to ignore the prickle in his neck coming from your direction as you and your fellow cheerleaders leave the gym to go to your own practice room. He fights the urge to look back, to stride forward and ask you to stay—which is insane, by the way, what the fuck is wrong with him?
Before he slips into his captain mode, however, Jay approaches him with a more serious look on his face. “Calm your flat tits, Hee. It’s normal for her scent to linger; you kinda scented her aggressively to protect her last night.”
Heeseung weakly nods. Jay pats his shoulder. “A deep bond can’t be conjured just from scenting alone, unless you’re fated mates.”
This time, Heeseung doesn’t move, his tension visible in the rigid lines of his posture, the frantic movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
“Yeah,” he croaks, his pulse louder than his own voice. “Hope not.”
Practice goes on for the next two hours. Heeseung eventually falls into routine, finding himself lost in adrenaline and competitiveness. The thoughts of you cease for a moment, replaced by his quick-thinking strategy and sharp reflexes. He keeps dribbling, scoring, and making passes, not even aware of the ticking clock or when the cheerleader squad comes back in to take a break.
The last whistle finally blows before the players dramatically fall in a heap of sweaty, breathless alphas. The practice was particularly grueling, which made his body ache and his shirt clung to his skin. The coach is on fire today, all because his wife has been giving him a silent treatment. Apparently, he forgot to buy diapers on his way home last night.
Source: Nishimura Nosy.
“I think I might die,” Jay huffs, claiming a bench all to himself. His chest rises and falls in a rapid motion. “But even as a ghost, I bet the coach would still unearth my grave to force me to practice.”
“I’ll be Ghost Number Two.” Heeseung deadpans, lying down on the bench next to Jay. The latter continues to talk about something else, which Heeseung would know and remember if he didn’t get distracted by daisies and honey.
Fuck. You’re in the court again.
The urge to corner you, to grab your wrist and ask if you were okay, crawls under his skin again—restless, unrelenting.
Heeseung isn’t stupid. He knows last night, ugly as it was, doesn’t just fade by morning. His alpha has been clawing at him since then, sharp and impatient, demanding he go to you.
But Heeseung doesn’t move.
For once, he’s a coward.
He shoves it down, buries it deep, treating his own wolf like a disease he refuses to catch.
Heeseung blinks at the ceiling in an active effort to not start looking for you and staring at you like a creep. This time, he wonders quietly why your scent smells stronger than before. Perhaps the adrenaline from your routine. But even so, you don’t only smell strong, but you also smell closer—
“Free cookies!”
Heeseung jolts in surprise and whips his head in the direction of that voice. Or, precisely, your voice. His heart, as if trying to shorten his life span, decides not to take a break from the session just now and continues beating even faster.
There, just a few paces away from him, is you, standing in the middle of the court with one of your cheerleader friends. In her hold, there’s a purple Tupperware, its lid nowhere to be found. You stand slightly behind your friend, shyly looking over her shoulders as she talks to his teammates.
“Oh my God, they brought us cookies?!” Jay is already standing up, stretching lazily like a cat. “C’mon, Hee. It’s free cookies.”
Heeseung’s quick to refuse, despite his wolf begging him to go. “Nah—”
But before he can spit out any excuses, Jay is already dragging him, his weeks spent in the gym working out with Riki are finally paying off. “Don’t be ridiculous. Take your portion and give it to me.”
Heeseung groans. He really should start joining their workout session. He can’t be manhandled by his two best friends easily like this.
Distracted, Heeseung fails to register the decreasing distance between you and him. It’s only when your scent spikes sweetly, which hits him in the face like a fucking tidal wave, does he catch your eyes and realises that, fuckfuckfuck she’s here ohmyGod—
“Hi, Jay. Hi, Heeseung.”
Wait hold on, why does his name sound even more beautiful coming from your voice?
He stands like a flag pole beside Jay, actively avoiding your eyes while being fully aware of that pretty pair staring at his face. The floor suddenly looks very interesting, with skid marks from their shoes and some sweat trails. Okay. Ew. That’s gross.
“Hey, pretty ladies.” Jay greets, flashing his attractive smile as he gestures at the container. “Heard there’s free cookies for the taking? Mind if we have some?”
Smooth as ever, Jay doesn’t even realise how easily he has charmed your friend with his simple greeting. Poor omega is already blinking rapidly, almost bouncing on her toes as she practically shoves the Tupperware into Jay’s chest.
“Yes! Yes, of course you can, Jay. There’s only little left! Take them all!”
Your eyes, fixated on Heeseung since he arrived, tries to search his face as you shyly interrupt, whispering into your friend’s ear.
“Offer some to Heeseung too…”
Heeseung doesn’t know whether to curse or thank the Goddess for his advanced dominant-alpha senses, because overhearing those words…it makes his chest feel warm and tight at the same time.
But your friend doesn’t pay you any mind, urging Jay to take the Tupperware from her. Jay, ever the gentleman but still a little shameless shit when it comes to food, takes it from her eager hands. He takes one bite and immediately lights up.
“This is so good! I love that it’s not too sweet.”
Like a mirror reflecting light, you beam widely, returning Jay’s enthusiasm. Heeseung tries to ignore the ugly twist in his chest. “Really? That’s…good to hear.”
“She made these, by the way!” Your friend proudly announces, which makes red blooms across your cheeks, ducking your head down slightly. You’re so shy, so pretty, Heeseung can’t stop staring.
And so good at baking. Such a perfect omega, his wolf continues. Shut the fuck up, Heeseung hisses.
“You’re really good at this, Y/N,” Jay interrupts his internal war, his voice sounding wrong in his ears. “Care to share the recipe?”
Now, is Jay flirting with you? Since when does his voice sound like that?
Heeseung tries to inhale, attempting to calm his fucking irrational wolf down, but all he can smell is the sugary scent of yours, tangling delicately and blending seamlessly with his spicy cinnamon and salty sea breeze. Somewhere in his chest, his heartstrings soften, drunk in the perfect mix of your pheromones, a ghost of a mark from last night.
Maybe that’s what possessed him to snatch the Tupperware from Jay.
Heeseung wastes no time and starts munching two cookies at once, ignoring the gasps from you and your friend and the bombastic side-eye from his fellow alpha friend. The flavour of buttery vanilla and sweet chocolate chips melt on his tongue and Heeseung almost purrs at the taste.
Outside, he makes an effort to look calm.
“These are good,” he comments coolly, trying to make it sound more like a statement than a compliment (he’s failing). This time, he dares himself to meet your eyes, and has to force down another purr when he sees the sparkles in your eyes. “Thank you, Y/N.”
There’s a strange satisfaction blooming in his chest when the blush in your cheeks deepen. You quickly look down to the floor, mumbling softly that could’ve been missed had it not been for his senses.
What kind of pull is this? Why is every sense of his attuned to you? Heeseung swears he can smell the subtle spike of your scent, the sound of your heartbeat and your soft breathing. It’s like his whole body has decided that it wants to worship you.
And Heeseung doesn’t worship. Fuck. This is terrifying.
“Thank you, Heeseung…”
There. Your voice again. Heeseung swallows. His grip on the Tupperware tightens. Seeing you under this light, flushed and softly smiling to the ground while sneaking glances at him—it undoes him in ways he never dared imagine.
The question is already at the tip of his tongue without his realisation. ‘Are you okay? Does what happened last night still bother you?’ The urge to comfort and soothe, now growing like a rolling snowball, threatening to spill from his mouth.
And the scary part is: Heeseung isn’t sure if that desire comes from his wolf or himself.
However, he never gets the chance to, because Jay with his perfect, universe-timing is already pulling him backwards. “Thank you for the cookies! We’ll eat them well!”
Heeseung reluctantly nods, the grip he has on the Tupperware turning knuckle-white.
“What the fuck was that?” Jay whisper-yells when they’re out of earshot, walking back to their previous spot. “And those are not only for you. Give them back to me!”
Heeseung dodges his grabby hand. “Why the fuck are you eating more?” He asks, failing to mask the bitterness in his voice.
“Didn’t they give all ten of them to us?”
“You’ve had two.”
“And you’ve had five!”
“I don’t care. These are mine.”
“You are being ridiculous.”
That’s what it takes for Heeseung to freeze in his tracks. Seeing an opening, Jay quickly snatches the Tupperware from his grasp and runs back to his spot on the bench, not forgetting to flip off the burgundy-haired alpha as he does so.
Heeseung is losing his fucking mind.
Sighing, Heeseung closes his eyes, a faint trail of daisies and honey still clinging to his senses. Even across the room, among the murmur of the gossiping cheerleaders, it’s your voice, the only one clear and crisp to his ears.
I’m being ridiculous.
This isn’t me.
Slowly, his human side starts taking over, all flowery images of you vanish within seconds.
Fuck, he curses. He wishes this scent-marking will be gone by tomorrow morning.
Three mornings later, much to his dismay, your scent still clings to him. On the bright side, it has been notably fading, now only the remnants of daisies and honey underneath cinnamon and sea air; like crunched petals along the shoreline, waiting to be washed away.
Against his own judgment, however, his wolf is fucking devastated.
He’s been whining like a kicked puppy ever since he walked to practice this morning and couldn’t smell his scent on you instantly. He still can spot you from two buildings away, which is still strange, but the lack of spice and salt in your scent is what does it. Heeseung has to fight the urge to march towards you and start scenting you.
His wolf has been restless. And, inevitably, it puts Heeseung in a terrible mood, too. He never knew his wolf was that desperate.
Practice ends late that night. With the tournament just around the corner, everyone is being a little shit at managing their emotions and competitiveness on the court—the downside of having an all-alpha team that people rarely talk about.
Heeseung is not excluded from the equation, though. He almost threw the ball to Taesan’s knot and made his omega pups-less and pregnancy-free when he accidentally made a bad pass. The court had smelled like tension and a barely held-together brotherhood when he left before a cheerleader came up to him to flirt and he wasted no time to drag her to an empty classroom.
Now, Heeseung finds himself making out with that omega, tongue licking up into her mouth while she breathlessly moans into his. It’s been five days since his last fuck, and while he usually can go on without sex for weeks (one month was his best record), he’s been at his wit’s end today. Add the confusion and silent wars he’s been having about you into the mix, and Heeseung is nothing more than a stressed body waiting to be relieved.
Weirdly enough, the frustration he hopes to get rid of stays as frustration. The old sparks he usually feels when having this intimate moment with an omega seems to disappear tonight. In the back of his mind, like a looming cloud carrying a storm, is a hazy image of teary eyes and red, trembling lips.
Something stirs uneasily in his chest.
His huge, veiny hands slip under her skirt and find purchase on her cunt, gathering the slick leaking from her arousal. Her scent spikes as she bucks up her hips and, to Heeseung’s own surprise, he recoils from the smell of it and breaks the kiss. The girl doesn’t stop her advances, switching to kiss down his long neck instead.
He subconsciously scrunches up his nose, his finger halting its movement for a second.
“What perfume are you wearing?” He asks, voice hoarse from the makeout session. He tilts his head back, allowing access and finding stimulation, but the usual thrill is a bit dull tonight.
“My pheromones,” she manages between kisses, “you like it?”
It’s quite the opposite, to be honest. Heeseung finds himself hating it. It’s too sweet. Too sharp. It sits wrong in his nose, burns at the back of his throat, like inhaling smoke for the first time. His eyes water.
There’s something wrong. He’s not enjoying this.
And to make things worse and more confusing, his chest hurts. It constricts, like his lungs decide to shrink into a ball of unexplained pain. Heeseung’s breath stutters, almost doubling over. His mind is a frantic buzz of noise, chanting something that he can’t seem to fully register yet.
Not my omega. Not daisies. Not honey.
Heeseung feels something twist in his gut.
The nameless omega—he forgot to ask for her name—doesn’t notice the shift yet, the way Heeseung is already a frozen statue of confusion and frustration in her embrace. She continues, trailing down hot, wet kisses along the prominent line of his collarbone and sucks the tender skin.
“Ow!” Heeseung yelps, instinctively pushing her away. The spot stings like a pulsing heartbeat, void of any pleasure that it usually would give. He staggers backwards once.
The girl frowns, clearly not happy being pushed like that. “What’s wrong? Is everything alright?”
“I—” Heeseung hisses, his shirt sitting wrong on his skin, her scent smelling wrong in his nose. He shakes his head. “Shit. I’m sorry, I—I have somewhere to be.”
The girl scoffs, disbelieving. “What?! Heeseung, you can’t just—”
But Heeseung can, and he already does. The alpha is out of the room in the next minute, deliberately the calls of his name and the strings of insults that come from behind him. He makes a run for it.
What the fuck did just happen? Heeseung is never one to refuse a good time with omega, but his wolf is quiet tonight. Too quiet, like it’s being silent on purpose in solidarity for something he’s yet to know—or yet to realise.
The hazy image comes back to his mind, slowly becoming sharp and clear. Heeseung thinks his lungs have turned into bricks when he realises that he’s been imagining you. That his head has been loud with the thoughts of you, even when he’s with someone else.
Why? Why is this happening? Why you?
Heeseung makes a turn to where the locker room is, planning to grab his duffel and leave, when he bumps into Riki and Jay, freshly out of the shower.
“Heeseung hyung?” A shirtless Riki calls his name, then raises a brow when he sees his condition. “Was wondering where you were. But those lipstick stains told me enough.”
Heeseung wipes his neck harshly. Wordlessly, he yanks his locker open and checks himself out in a mirror. He turns his face left and right, yanking down his under eyes, then sighs. Riki and Jay exchange looks. The air is slowly thickening with the pheromones of a distressed alpha, coming from none other than Heeseung.
“You good, mate?” Jay decides to ask him. Heeseung doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he’s as good as he wants himself to be. The alpha lets out another sigh and slams the door closed.
“I think something is definitely wrong with me.”
“Is it practice?” Jay softens his voice, already switching on his therapist-friend mode. “Hee, today’s just that day. Everybody was losing their shits, it’s not just you.”
Heeseung leans his back on the locker and tilts his head upwards. “It’s not that. I mean it biologically. Ever since—” Heeseung pauses, suddenly unsure if saying out loud would make things right. But Riki and Jay have already caught onto it.
“Ever since what?”
Heeseung chooses to deflect. “Look, I was trying to make out with this one pretty omega just now. But no matter how much kissing we did, I just couldn’t enjoy it.” Heeseung points to his sweatpants. Riki and Jay curiously follow with their eyes. “She was practically sucking my tongue and I’m not even bricked up, man!”
Riki furrows his eyebrows. “Not even a spark?”
Heeseung shakes his head. “I couldn’t feel anything. At all. Only,” he swallows harshly. “I only felt disgusted. By her.”
Silence hangs in the room at his revelation. Riki’s expression morphs into something akin to genuine surprise, while Jay only stares at him with a gaping mouth before he starts typing on his phone.
“This is dead serious. You can’t have sex without your dick. That's like a banana cake without bananas.”
Heeseung and Riki grimace. “Please don’t ever compare my dick to a banana again.”
“Or a banana cake.” Riki slaps his shoulder. “That’s my favourite, hyung. Don’t be gross.”
Jay waves a dismissive hand, eyes still glued on his phone. “Right, right. Anyway, I texted Sunoo.”
Heeseung’s eyes go wide like saucer plates at the name and groans. “Sunoo?! Jay, you know he’s still mad at me.”
“I know, but he’s the only one who probably knows the answer to this.” Jay smacks his lips when he reads a new text from Sunoo. “He’s staying back for a lab session. Let’s go to the medicine building.”
And that’s how Heeseung finds himself cramped into a tiny booth of a ramyeon stall, located by the road near the faculty of medicine. A pouty Sunoo is sitting across from him, shooting him his foxy side-eyes as he whines at Jay.
“Jay hyung, why did you bring this traitor with you?” Sunoo pulls at the sleeves of Jay’s hoodie, sulking away from Heeseung. It’s only the three of them since Riki had gone home with his girlfriend just now. “I thought the three of us would include you, me, and Riki.”
Jay sighs exasperatedly. “I had to, Sunoo. That traitor is having a critical dick malfunction and he needs your help.”
The waitress arrives with three bowls of steaming ramyeon. Jay and Sunoo pause their not-so-quiet argument and help her place the bowls on their table. She clears her throat awkwardly, and takes a quick glance at Heeseung before leaving. Heeseung groans internally.
Great. Now words about him and his dick problem will spread around the campus.
“Is STD finally catching up with you?”
Heeseung should know that it was never that easy to get Sunoo off his back. That boy is a professional pouty sulk-er, he’ll never let Heeseung go easily. Not after harassing him with his sass, at least. Heeseung holds back a sigh, already resigned and defeated.
With a grim voice, he apologises to the brown-haired alpha. For the fifth time.
“Sunoo, I am so sorry. I know it was my fault, but for the record, I didn’t know you were serious about pretending to be an omega. Why would you even do that, anyway?”
“Because I like the attention!” Sunoo is fast to defend himself, his pout only deepening. “And because alphas will only spoil me if I was their pretty little soft omega—which I am not! And you exposing my secondary gender to that alpha just ruined my chance to be with him. Who would even call their friend, ‘my cutie little fake omega’, anyway?!”
“I was drunk!”
“A drunk traitor is still a traitor!”
Heeseung turns to Jay, sending him signals to help him out. But his best friend deliberately ignores him, too engrossed in his own bowl, pretending to be a wall. Heeseung rolls his eyes and looks back at Sunoo.
It might not be that easy to console the sulky boy, but Heeseung is labelled a sweet talker for a reason.
“You’re already a pretty alpha, Sunoo. Prettier than any omega I know. Anyone would drop everything for you even if they knew you weren’t an omega.”
Like a switch being flipped, the frown on Sunoo’s melts away, replaced by a beam so wide it shows off his perfect teeth.
“Aw, Heeseungie hyung. You’re now forgiven. Now tell me about this dick problem of yours.”
Jay and Heeseung look at each other and relax into their chairs in relief. Heeseung sends him a look of, ‘That was easy,’ to which Jay raises his eyebrow, ‘Why hadn’t you done it sooner?’
Now, with Sunoo not threatening to kill the burgundy-haired alpha anymore, Heeseung can finally enjoy a few bites of his untouched ramyeon. It’s already a bit cold and soggy, but the broth makes up for it. He retells the story to Sunoo between bites, watching the ever expressive boy react to it with various expressions.
“It’s not uncommon, though. But since it’s you, it must have felt very concerning.” Sunoo hums in thought, tapping his full lips with the thinnest tips of his chopsticks. “Well, Heeseungie hyung, did you imprint on any omegas?”
Heeseung hesitates for a moment before he shakes his head, feeling Jay’s eyes on him.
“No.”
“Hm, okay. Even if it’s due to imprints, it has to come from both sides,” Sunoo rubs his chin, now looking every bit a live action of Detective Conan, minus the glasses. “Did you conjure a bond with anyone? Maybe accidentally?”
Heeseung’s lips part. “I…would’ve known, right?”
“Right.” Sunoo nods firmly, then tilts his head. “Did you scent one of your hookups, then?”
“An almost-hookup,” Jay cuts in, clearly enjoying this interrogation. Heeseung shoots him a look. Jay is always out to rat him out and he’s actually so close to disowning him.
He grunts. “Just…someone.”
Sunoo smiles in amusement. “So you did scent someone. Was it someone you like?”
“Define like.”
“Like them enough to want to kiss them. Like them enough to want to fuck them. Like them enough to even want to scent them to begin with.” Sunoo shrugs. “Pick one.”
Heeseung closes his eyes. Does he like you? Wanting to kiss and fuck someone don’t equal to liking them. Because if that was true, then there’s no other explanation to Heeseung ‘liking’ every omega he has fucked other than him having an insanely big heart—which he doesn’t. He liked the sex and their company; that was all there was to it.
Which leaves him option number three.
Heeseung’s never the guy to sit with his feelings—at least not the romantic kind. You’re an unfamiliar territory; something that he deliberately avoids his entire life, simply because he never sees settling down with a mate as a desirable goal or accomplishment. And, perfectly hidden under his fuckboy persona is also a thin layer of fear.
Fear of getting hurt by the thing that’s supposed to be love.
But does he like you?
Maybe he does. He’s always liked the way you laugh; you always cover your mouth with one hand when you do, like your smile is only visible in the privacy of those who really know you. He’s always noticed the way you touch the tip of your nose when people’s eyes are on you. He’s always thought the natural blush that you have when you’re shy is adorable.
In that one single minute, Heeseung realises that he’s been paying attention to you more than he thought he did.
Fuck. He does like you.
But does liking have to lead to being mated?
That responsibility is way taller and heavier than him and Heeseung is beyond freaked out.
“Earth to Heeseungie hyung?”
“Why does it even matter? What does it even have to do with me not getting a boner during a makeout session?” Heeseung demands, frustration bleeding into his voice. Is Sunoo punishing him for being the reason he fumbled that tall, hot alpha two weeks ago? Will Sunoo truly ever forgive him? He already apologised five times!
Sunoo, seeing enough of his hyung’s suffering, finally relents. “Geez, relax. I wasn’t playing with you. I asked because most of the time this happens,” he gestures at Heeseung and his crotch. Heeseung instinctively closes his long legs. “It’s because the wolf has already liked one omega. An omega they recognise as their mate. It’s the only explanation why you felt disgusted just now.”
Mate. That cursed word again. Beside Sunoo, Jay is whistling.
“Sorry. You mean my wolf, my alpha, likes one omega and decides I shouldn’t fuck around anymore?”
Sunoo nods. “Basically, yeah. But it usually isn’t that easy, hyung. A bond has to have been conjured between your wolf and their wolf by any kind of markings.”
“Like?”
“Like biting. Or scenting.”
Scenting. Heeseung didn’t just do scenting with you, he was scent-marking you.
“But that’s impossible,” Jay interrupts, confusion etching onto his handsome features. His leaning forward now, his empty bowl pushed to the center of the table, which reminds Heeseung of his own bowl. The alpha quickly finishes his noodles. “Scenting between unmated alpha and unmated omega will only conjure a temporary, fragile bond. It should’ve been gone by now—the scenting happened five days ago.”
“Are you sure about that? Because I can detect some floral scent in Heeseungie hyung’s pheromones.”
Heeseung almost chokes on his noodles. “You do?”
Sunoo leans forward, squinting his eyes at him like he’s some kind of lab specimen. “Yeah. It’s faint, but it’s there. Sweet. Floral. Clingy.” He tilts his head again. “It’s weird.”
Across from him, Heeseung is frozen. His grip on the chopsticks tightens. He swallows harshly.
Jay leans back, arms crossed. “But if it’s still there after five days—”
“It doesn’t automatically mean fated mates,” Sunoo cuts in quickly, tone sharper this time. He shoots Jay a look before turning back to Heeseung. “Don’t jump to that conclusion. That’s, like, extremely rare. And also very dramatic.”
Heeseung exhales, shoulders dropping just a little.
Right. Dramatic. His alpha begs to differ.
“It could just be a stronger-than-usual temporary bond,” Sunoo continues, more thoughtful now. “Maybe your alpha overdid it when you scented them. Or the omega was in a heightened emotional state, so the bond lasted longer.”
Jay hums, not entirely convinced.
“But the whole not getting turned on thing?” He gestures vaguely. “That still doesn’t explain it fully.”
Sunoo taps his chin again. “Mhm. That part’s interesting.” He levels Heeseung with a curious look. “Who is this girl, anyway? You seem pretty fucked over her.”
Heeseung groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Can you not say it like that? Like I’m some kind of a broken alpha?”
“You kinda are right now,” Sunoo says bluntly.
“Sunoo.”
“I’m serious!” He leans forward again, eyes lighting up. “Your body is rejecting other omegas. That’s not normal for you. Like, at all.”
Heeseung slumps deeper into his seat. As if it’s not already obvious enough, Sunoo just had to spell it out loud.
“I noticed,” he mutters, defeated.
Sunoo softens slightly at that, sighing as he rests his chin on his palm. “Okay. Look. Don’t panic yet.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You’re literally here because your dick stopped working.”
“…Okay, I’m a little panicked.”
Sunoo waves his chopsticks dismissively. “It’s probably not fated mates. If it were, you’d be way worse right now.”
Heeseung stills. “Worse?”
“Yeah,” Sunoo shrugs. “You’d be obsessing. Unable to stay away. Your senses would go crazy. You’d feel everything they feel, more or less.”
Jay slowly turns to look at Heeseung. Heeseung immediately avoids his gaze. That fucker is always eager to catch his ‘Gotcha!’ moment, it irritates him to the core.
“That doesn’t sound like me,” he says a bit too quickly, the lie tasting acidic on his tongue.
Sunoo mustn't know about the knot of uneasiness in his chest. Sunoo mustn’t know about the face that comes to his mind when he’s kissing someone else. None of his friends must know that he’s obsessing right now, itching to flee and find you in the middle of the night.
“Exactly,” Sunoo nods, unaware of his friend’s turmoil. “So relax. I’ll look into it more, yeah? Might be some weird hormonal response or delayed imprint reaction.”
Heeseung lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah, okay.”
“Or you can do a try-and-error,” Sunoo suggests, reaching over to pat Heeseung’s shoulder. “Just do what you always do—try hooking up with different omegas. Maybe the one you made out with tonight was just a bad compatibility for you.”
Heeseung perks up at that. Sunoo and Jay, not noticing the shift in the air, are already moving forward with a different topic, completely oblivious to the newly-lit determination now burning up his body.
Just do what you always do.
Right. Heeseung has a high body count for a reason. He decides, with a final resolution, that he should solve this his own way.
If Heeseung spends every night for the next two weeks trying to bed different omegas, Sunoo and Jay don’t have to know.
If Heeseung fails each time, unable to enjoy every kiss and friction, Sunoo and Jay don't have to know.
If the pain in his chest worsens every time he leaves the barely-warm beds, Sunoo and Jay don’t have to know.
If Heeseung avoids looking at you, avoids bumping into you, avoids speaking to you—he hopes you don’t know about it.
A quiet voice from his wolf whispers something that he refuses to acknowledge: He hopes you’ll forgive him for being unfaithful.
You’ve been sick for two weeks.
At first it was subtle, like a faint throb in your heart that makes you stop whatever you’re doing. The first time it happened, you were in the middle of a group discussion for an elective subject.
A quiet alpha, or a wolf hybrid named Sunghoon, to be exact, had noticed the way you winced from the pain. He didn’t say anything, but you guessed he told an omega about what he saw because right before you exited the library, one of the girls had passed you a free menstrual pad.
He thought you were experiencing period cramps. You wished it was just period cramps.
Then, it gradually grew to something worse. A sudden stabbing pain in your chest. A twist in your gut, like you were expecting something bad to happen. Sometimes it was random palpitations, where your heart was skipping huge beats, as if you were about to go down on a roller coaster.
Each time it happened, you only placed your palm over your heart, hoping it’d go away. You never understood why, but those pains only came at night, preventing you from getting any good sleep and rest. And each time you tried to close your eyes, there was only one face flashing behind your eyelids.
Heeseung.
Yujin had dragged you to the clinic, but the doctor came to a conclusion that you were just having pre-heat symptoms—which couldn’t be further from the truth, because you just had your cycle one month ago. You’re not supposed to go on your quarterly-cycle of torture for another two months.
“Oh my Goddess, you’re burning up.” Yujin’s palm is cold against your forehead. Her face is pulled into a tight expression. “Let’s just skip today’s classes, okay? I’ll stay with you.”
You weakly nod, barely registering Yujin’s movement around the room. Your body feels like a furnace, the heat simmering in your veins almost rivaling a volcano’s lava. You discard the blanket to get some sort of relief, only to shiver in the cold when the air touches your skin.
After a few minutes of exiting and entering your room, Yujin finally sits by your bed. She helps you with a glass of water and a dosage of paracetamol, careful to wipe any loose drops like a concerned mother. It doesn’t get better, but at least your throat doesn’t feel like it’s being scrubbed with sandpaper anymore.
“How’re you feeling now?”
“Dying, but a bit less dramatic.”
“Good. Wouldn’t want to give Suho from True Beauty a run for his money, would we?”
You chuckle softly, though it sounds more like a seal with a sore throat.
“But seriously, though. It’s been two weeks.” Yujin purses her lips, the worriness still marring her beautiful face. “I’m so worried, Y/N. What’s happening to you?”
You don’t answer right away. “It’s my omega.”
Yujin’s eyebrow jumps. “What about her?”
You also wonder the same thing. Swallowing, you finally let your friend in on the torturous days you have been going through. “One night, after our practice ran quite late two weeks ago, she went a bit hysteric. I couldn’t stop vomiting.” You recalled, eyes distant in memory. “She kept yelling something about a traitor, about rejection. I don’t know, really. But that’s how it started.”
“Two weeks ago, at night, you say?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Yujin is quiet for a few extended minutes, caressing her thumb over your knuckles. The motion puts you at ease, and slowly, you feel the pills begin working their chemicals.
“Did you, perhaps, hear about anything that happened that night?” You shake your head, unsure if your cheerleader squad had mentioned anything. Yujin hums. “Because I think I did.”
“What?”
“So I’m friends with this one omega named Sunoo from my faculty. A pretty boy and a petty gossiper.” Yujin starts, now treading her words slowly as if walking on eggshells. “He knows everyone on this campus. Especially the hot stuff, you know—student body, athletes, cheerleaders.” Yujin eyes you but not unkindly. “He knows you too. Just the basic stuff.”
“Like?”
“Your name, your major, your Instagram account.”
You let out a breath, a bit unsure where this is heading, but listen anyway. “Okay.”
“And because of his impeccable knowledge of gossip, I heard from him about a cheerleader breaking down in the group chat after a certain alpha left her mid-making out, all slicked and horny while he didn’t even pop a borner.”
You hold onto her every word, but for some reason, a dread has settled deep in your bones, like your body is already anticipating some bad news. Your heart, previously beating fast, is now sprinting like it might escape your rib now.
“And that alpha was Heeseung.”
It hits before you can even think.
A sharp, twisting pain lances through your chest, knocking the air out of your lungs like you’ve been struck. Your fingers curl into the sheets, clutching at nothing.
Your omega whines—hurt, betrayed. And suddenly, you understand why. The cries about betrayal. His face haunts you every night, like a painful reminder of the destiny you're subjected to.
You try to swallow once, then twice, before you find your voice back.
“Heeseung?” You try. His name now tastes bitter on your tongue.
Yujin, ever the empathetic, senses it, and tightens her hold on your hand. “Yeah,” she nods. She lets a moment of quiet pass, fidgeting and swallowing like you. Like the news has more stories that she’s yet to tell; an extended part to a nightmare that’s been keeping you up at night. You brace yourself.
“And two nights ago I saw him at Jake’s frat party with a girl. Doing sexy stuff. The usual.” Yujin can’t look at your face, choosing to stare at your intertwined hands instead. “The frat boys told me that he’s been at it almost every night. For two weeks.”
Is it possible to hurt someone this much in a span of five minutes? Getting shot multiple times would’ve hurt less than this.
There’s a heavy silence, then there’s your small, quiet voice, laced with unfiltered hurt.
“What does this have to do with me?”
“I’m saying, Y/N, that you might be facing bond rejection symptoms right now.” Yujin licks her lips. “I’m saying that you and Heeseung just might be fated mates. That night he scented you? You guys conjured a half-bond. And him fucking around with other omegas like this hurts your wolf because she knows—only this kind of bond can do that.”
Is having a fated mate supposed to hurt like this? Like your chest is caving in, collapsing under the torment of unwanted love. Can you even call it love? Whatever it is that you and Heeseung unknowingly have been sharing—Is it even love?
It’s not. It’s just…fate.
You shake your head. There’s hot pain behind your eyes, a sign of an impending doom. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s okay. It’s a lot to take in.”
A drop of tears rolls down your face and in the next blink, everything is already blurry. “I—I think I already knew it.” Your voice is wet from despair, the pain almost feels tangible. “He never meets my eyes anymore and—and every time I see him, I feel like I might die.”
A warm pair of arms pulls you close, and instantly the scent of green tea fills up your senses. Your roommate holds you tight, letting you rest your head in the crook of her neck as you sob into her chest.
Your wolf, the contradict that she is, hopes that it was Heeseung embracing you. Still hoping it was the alpha comforting you, soothing you with his voice and that calming pheromones of his. Still foolishly longing for him despite everything.
You feel pathetic.
Your crying subsides after a while, still curling up against Yujin like a hurt puppy. You’re already losing track of time, if it’s still proper to have breakfast or if it’s already time for lunch. It is Yujin who finally speaks first.
“Do you hate it?”
You let the question linger in the air, turning it over in your thoughts like what you’ve been doing the past hour since you woke up. “I don’t hate the bond. Nor him.”
You pause, gnawing at your lower lip. Then you exhale.
“I just hate that I was never given a chance to do this properly.”
Yujin pulls away and makes you face her. She wipes your tears using her sleeves, murmuring sweet words as you feel your chest slightly loosening at her kind gesture. “You might still have it. Go and talk to him, Y/N. If he’s avoiding you like this, he might’ve felt something too, right?”
“If he’s avoiding me like this, he might just not want anything to do with me.” A humourless chuckle escapes your lips. “And to think that I thought I had a chance.”
“Wait, I never asked you this. Do you like Heeseung? Both of you; your wolf and you.”
You don’t answer right away. The question sits between the two of you, heavy and fragile; like a mark refusing to be looked over.
Do you like Heeseung?
Your wolf stirs immediately. Yes, I like him.
The answer is quick. Certain. Definite.
But you purse your lips, forcing yourself to think harder, deeper. Forcing yourself to think about you, not her. You can only come to one conclusion.
“I don’t know,” you whisper, honest. It sounds weak even to your ears. Beside you, Yujin keeps rubbing small, grounding circles over your hand.
“I already know my omega likes him,” you admit softly. “She decided that the moment he stayed and took care of me that night.”
Oh, how pathetic is it to fall for someone for doing something as mundane as staying and taking care of you?
It’s laughable. But it makes your chest ache even more, like your heart was an empty can and fate was crushing it with its tight grip.
“But me…” you continue, voice quieter now, “I don’t even know him like that.”
You shake your head, frustration flickering through your expression.
“I don’t know what he’s like when he’s not surrounded by people, or when he’s not—” you gesture vaguely, like you can scoop up every rumour tied to his name. “That version of him everyone talks about.”
You stare at your hands. “But I wanted to.”
Yujin follows, voice soft. “Wanted to?”
“I wanted to get to know him,” you continue, voice trembling. “When I first found out how my wolf feels for him, I thought it could be like how I’ve always imagined having a fated mate would be: slowly falling in love with them. With him.”
A wistful smile graces your beautiful features, soft and vulnerable. “I wanted to know which game he remembers the most. I wanted to know if the number on his jersey means anything. Silly things like that. Not this.”
Your hand moves to your chest unconsciously, rubbing the surface softly.
“Not like this. Not when it hurts every time I—” you cut yourself off, breath shaking. “Not when it hurts every time I look at him.”
You still remember, after one grueling routine, when the pain was still kind enough to let you come to practice. The players had just finished their practice too, slicked with sweat and looking exhausted as ever. Among the tired alphas, your eyes locked onto Heeseung’s.
You had the instincts to go to him and pass him the cold mineral you’d unknowingly saved for him. But the look in his eyes—it was unreadable. Cold. An abyss that was enough to make you stay rooted in your place.
Then, without even a graze of a smile, he looked away, taking a bottle from Riki’s hand.
It had hurt more than you’d like to admit.
“I think…” you try again, more carefully this time. “If things were different, I would’ve liked him.”
Your throat tightens. This time, you’re reminded of that night before everything turned cruel like this. The warmth of his embrace that lingered. The spice of his scent that clung. The safety of his company that comforted you.
Was any of it real?
“And if things were the same…I think I would've still liked him anyway.”
That’s the truth. A quiet, terrifying truth that settles deep in your chest like an unshakeable ground. The kind of truth that makes even your most grounding friend sit still in your bed.
“And that’s what makes it worse,” you whisper.
Because now it’s not just your omega.
It’s you, too.
The one-week intervarsity basketball tournament has finally begun. Around seven universities have sent their representatives, leading to a flood of humans in different-coloured jerseys wandering around on your campus, its official host.
You’re excused from the whole week’s classes, seeing your cheerleaders and bunches of alphas more than you have ever seen your classmates since the tournament started. It was exciting at first, to participate in such a prestigious tournament that is always the talk of town. But the tight schedules between games is becoming more taxing and demanding.
It doesn’t help that the bond rejection symptoms have only gotten worse, hindering you from giving your best potential at each routine. Which, of course, catches the attention of your captain, and she’s not very amused with it.
“Y/N. If you’re not telling me what is wrong with you, then don’t make me find excuses to put you on the bleachers.” Narin once whispered to you on the third day of the tournament. You merely nodded, trying hard not to scrunch your noise at the sour smell of bubblegum and burnt cotton candy. She eyed you up and down, before she scoffed.
“Don’t get too butt-hurt that Heeseung’s fucking other cheerleaders,” she grunted. You froze. “At least you got your round that night. He fucking rejected me.”
What? The confusion must be clear on your face, because then Narin rolled her eyes, fixing the blue ribbon in her hair before she turned to face you.
“You smelled like him for weeks, Y/N. Don’t think people didn’t know that you two fucked after they won against that eastern university that night.” And then she left, leaving a dumbfounded you in the hallway, standing still like a lifeless statue.
Realisation starts settling in. Did people think you and Heeseung—fuck. You should’ve known.
No wonder many eyes were on you during those days when you still smelled like Heeseung. You thought it was just because Heeseung was one of the most sought after alphas on campus. Not this. Not whatever allegation this is.
Still, the bomb Narin had dropped wasn’t enough to stop yourself from pushing yourself past your limits. You don’t even know what your limits are anymore. They seem to keep expanding with every new pain that blooms in your chest.
You’re still a bit sluggish, but at least Narin is off your back. Whatever bitterness she harbours for you, though not forgotten, is at least tamed on the last day of the tournament.
You knew she wouldn’t understand, but you couldn’t help it if the pain worsens. You wish, for once, that Heeseung would take it slow with the cheerleaders from the opposing teams. Because the pain has become unbearable; cracks turning into holes of emptiness in your heart, faint pulsing turning into straight-up invisible stabbing in your gut. You’re actually surprised that you’re not already bleeding from how real it has felt.
However, deep down, there’s a small, barely-there gratitude for Heeseung for not doing it in front of you. At least you can spare yourself from whatever possible torment this fate has destined for you to face if you had to watch Heeseung fucking another omega in the empty locker room.
But you guess it’s time you finally, actually reach your limit, and your body can’t seem to be more dramatic to choose the last game as its last straw. As Heeseung hoops in the last score for the team, sealing their title as the champion, the audience erupts into the loudest cheer you’ve ever heard. You quickly get to your feet to perform the celebratory routine, but the world is spinning and your head is light when you stand up. You stagger backwards.
“Oh my Goddess, are you alright?” One of your cheerleader friends catches you in her arms, shaking you out of your pained daze.
“I…” you cough, your voice only scratching at your throat. “I just need to. Sit. Yeah. I need to sit down and talk to Heeseung.”
“Heeseung?” The girl, who you finally recognise as Rei, looks over at the center of the court, where almost the whole school is hooting and hollering in joy. “Wait—let me sit you down first. You’re pale as hell, damn.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you’re finally seated. Rei has passed you a bottle of mineral water and fans you with her pink hand-fan. She stays by your side, looking after you as the rest of the world celebrates the first champion of your university team. You’re painfully grateful to her for it.
“Hey. Can I call one of your friends? Or maybe, do you have an alpha I can contact?” Rei starts when you’re not speaking, too focused on not focusing on the pain to remember to talk. “You asked for Heeseung just now. Is he your alpha?”
Is he?
You wish you knew the answer to that too.
Instead, you shake your head. “He’s not my alpha. I just…need to have a few words with him.”
Rei purses her lips, clearly not pleased with your priority at the moment but obliges anyway. “Alright. Let me text my cousin real quick.” She says, already rummaging inside her bag for her phone.
Her statement intrigues you. “Cousin?”
“Nishimura Riki. And he’s not replying. Gimme a sec.” You watch as Rei presses the call button on her phone and puts the device over her ear. You follow her line of sight as she turns to look at the court again. The crowd hasn’t calmed down from the high of the win yet.
“Hello, adopted fuck. I need you to read my text ASAP—Nobody’s stealing your girlfriend, Riki! You can go back to kissing her face after you read my text—Okay, okay! My friend, Y/N, needs to talk to Heeseung. President-level urgent.” Rei pauses, taking a quick look at you before she continues. “Yes. It seems very important. Just get his ass here fast. Yeah—Congrats, by the way. I’m not buying you that Chrome Hearts chain. Bye.”
Rei sighs as she pockets her phone. “Heeseung will be here in five minutes. You good? Do you still need anything? I feel like I should call someone else. You’re friends with Ahn Yujin, aren’t you?” She rambles on. For someone who barely speaks to you, Rei sure is a caring omega.
You give her a small smile.”I’m alright, Rei. I’ll rest after seeing him.”
Rei hums, checking her phone when it vibrates. “Aight, if you say so. I’ll be around here until they move to celebrate at Jake’s frat tonight.” She gathers her stuff and stands up, brushing her pleated skirt with practiced elegance that you know is instilled in every cheerleader’s demeanour.
“You take care of yourself. And I better not see you at the party.”
“Thank you, Rei.” You wave at her and watch as the lines of her frame get smaller, disappearing into the crowd.
Now alone, the weight of reality is finally hitting you square in the chest. You curse, pulling your hair when you realise your stupid, impulsive decision, made in the whim of desperation to get the pain go away.
“This is stupid,” you whisper. Without thinking further, you grab your bag and stand to leave. But before you can flee the scene, a heavy presence with the familiar scent of spicy cinnamon and salty sea breeze drifts into your senses.
“Y/N?”
The sound of your name leaving his lips has locked you in place. The haunting familiarity of his voice, one that follows you into your restless sleeps and every waking hour, engulfs you almost like the night he held you in his arms.
Except this time, there’s a piercing pain in your heart that comes with his presence. A dull, throbbing ache that’s been a constant company to you, manifested into the shape of the man that your wolf yearns for.
Lee Heeseung.
“Y/N?” He repeats, but you don’t dare to face him just yet. “Riki said you wanted to, uh, talk to me.”
Licking your dry lips, you turn to Heeseung, and the sight has almost rendered you breathless.
Heeseung’s still wearing his jersey, standing tall to his height like he’s dominating the air around him. His burgundy hair looks softer under the light, some small strands sticking to his forehead from sweat. His shoulders are squared up, still lined with pride and the high from winning the tournament. He looks at you calmly, but the edges of his eyes are somewhat gentler; if the lights weren’t tricking your eyes.
You gulp, already losing the battle before it has even started. Why does he have to look so handsome?
You force yourself to say something. “Yeah. I did. I mean, I do. It’s important. I think.”
Heeseung is patient. If your nervousness is something unusual to him, he doesn’t comment on it. After all, you’re indeed known as a shy girl among the cheerleaders.
“I’m…I’m going straight to the point and be honest with you.” Is this really happening? You’re scared that if you were to speak more, your heart might leap out of your mouth from how hard it is pumping behind your ribs. You hold your bag tighter, trying to ground yourself.
“I’m listening,” he hums.
The words are simple. His voice is calm. Too calm, like he’s unaffected, like he doesn’t have a clue about what you’re about to say. It almost makes you falter.
For a second, you just stare at him. At the same face your mind has been haunted for weeks, at the same eyes you’ve been avoiding because they make everything feel too real.
Except everything is actually real. You’re just not ready to admit it yet.
Your fingers curl tighter around your bag.
“Did you…feel anything?” you ask, voice smaller than you intended. “That night.”
Heeseung’s brows pull together, confused. “What do you mean?”
Your throat burns. Stop. Turn around. Leave.
“When you helped me,” you stubbornly continue, ignoring the self-preservation act your wolf’s pulling. “When you scented me. Did you feel something? Anything?”
There’s a shift in the air. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Heeseung’s shoulders stiffen. His jaw tightens a fraction. A flash of something that leaves your heart hopeful crosses his face, but it leaves as soon as it comes.
“I was just helping you,” he finally says, almost too quickly. “You were in a bad state.”
The ache in your chest pulses, turning alive with each passing second.
“I know that,” you nod, almost too fast, the throbbing in your head comes back. The headache is well-guaranteed after this, you’re sure of it. “I know. I’m not saying you did anything wrong. I just—I just need to know if you felt it too.”
“Felt what?”
You stare at him. God, he’s really making you say it. Is he truly clueless or is he playing with you? Whatever he is trying to do, he’s succeeding at making you feel smaller and…desperate.
“The pull,” you whisper after a while, “the connection.”
Silent stretches between the two of you. Heeseung returns your gaze, but his black eyes reveal nothing about his thoughts.
You try again. “You felt it too…right?”
There it is. For a fleeting second, you think you see it. That flicker in his eyes. The subtle hesitation. The twitch in his jaw. It almost makes you feel hopeful.
Heeseung exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair.
“Y/N,” he starts slower this time, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “There’s no such thing as that.”
If your heart was made of lead, you’re sure it’d clang to the floor so loud for how fast it drops.
“What?”
“Fated mates. Bond. Whatever you’re thinking.” He shakes his head, like he’s making a show of how ridiculous you sound. “That’s not real.”
The cracks finally shatter, allowing a big, gaping hole filled with utter anguish to take place in where your heart used to reside. Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens.
“But—” you try, voice undeniably trembling now. “Then, what is this?”
Your hand presses weakly against your chest.
“Why does it hurt like this? Why does,” your voice cracks, your omega thrashing wildly inside you, “why does it hurt so much?”
For a split second, panic flashes across his face. There’s a change in his scent. A sharp, biting spice that’s stinging your nose and thick, briny salt that leaves your throat itchy.
Because he knows. He knows this isn’t normal. He knows how he almost went psychosis the moment it happened to him three weeks ago.
But Heeseung’s always been good at leaving—it’s the one thing that’s been keeping his heart in a safe chest without any chances of getting hurt. It’s almost cruel that he never really cares if leaving right after sex would hurt any of the omegas, but he’s never felt bad enough to stop.
And you feel like someone who will make him stay.
So he does what he knows best.
“It’s in your head,” he says, firmer now. “Probably just your heat cycle messing with you. Or stress.”
The moment those words leave his mouth, your chest feels hollow. Your omega, previously hysterical and angry, is now awfully quiet and wounded.
Right. It’s just stress, he said.
You wish it was just stress.
“Oh,” is the only word you can utter. Heeseung nods, as if convincing himself too, and takes a step back.
But for you, it feels too much like a line being drawn.
“Maybe you should get some rest. You look kind of pale,” he suggests, though his voice is slowly getting small the longer he watches the changes in your expression. You’re not looking at him now, just staring at your feet with trembling fists.
The wilting flowers are back in his senses, filling up his nose and beating at his heart like a bat. Heeseung bites his lips, swallowing down the guilt.
“I’ll see you around, Y/N.”
The sight of his retreating back…why is it so blurry?
“You are so fucking stupid, Heeseung.”
Heeseung’s always wondered how his best friend’s citrusy pheromones are going to smell like when he’s mad. Because Jay never gets mad at him. His friend has so much patience that every playful banter always stays as just a playful banter.
But tonight, Heeseung finally senses it. Jay smells bitter, like overripe lemon left too long in hot water. There’s a sharp, metallic tang to it too, representing the control that he’s trying so hard to keep in check. In response to the alpha’s irritated scent, Heeseung’s dominant wolf is itching to draw his claws out, sensing it as a threat.
They’re standing at the backyard of the frat house, where the pool is glowing blue and the night sky is blinking stars. It’s quieter here, with less people hanging around. Many guests have preferred to dance inside, still in celebration mode post-winning.
“What the fuck were you thinking, trying to get into someone else’s pants right after her—her confession?” Jay scoffs in disbelief. He has his back facing Heeseung, the tense muscle of his shoulders visible through the outline of his Polo shirt.
Heeseung, on the other hand, looks more disheveled. The collar of his shirt is misplaced, and there are faint lipstick marks staining his neck and the corner of his mouth. Jay had heard from Riki about what happened between Heeseung and you and the alpha was determined to drag Heeseung out of the bedroom, not before muttering a small apology to the omega he was with. It was all shouts and aggressive whispers between the two alphas until Riki managed to shoo them out.
Which brings them to this moment, where Jay is a ticking bomb and Heeseung is trying his best to calm down. Jay didn’t exactly know who she was, just that he’d seen her face among the cheerleaders. While Heeseung, well, he’s too worked up to explain.
“Confession? What made you think—”
“You guys are fated mates, Heeseung. Can’t you fucking see it?” Jay whips his head around. “This pull you’re feeling is because you guys are fated mates. There’s no other explanation to it.”
Heeseung clenches his jaw. “Those things don’t exist, Jongseong. Not to me.”
“Oh, come on. Then explain your sex problem.” Jay hisses, his eyes turning sharper. “You think I don’t know that you still can’t get your dick wet with other omegas?”
The burgundy-haired alpha doesn’t blink. “It’s none of your business.”
“It is when she could’ve died!” Jay snaps, his scent flaring with his nose. Heeseung grits his teeth, feeling challenged.
Then, softer, like vulnerability leaking through his anger, Jay continues: “You could’ve died, Heeseung.”
Heeseung stills. “What?”
Jay lets out a harsh laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You think so little of this matter, don’t you?” His voice drops, tight and furious. “A half-bond between fated mates when left too long can cause death. And with the speed you’re going with all these nameless omegas, I bet it’ll be her turn to die first.”
Heeseung scoffs, but it’s weaker now. There’s a new fear settling in his chest. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” Jay cuts in sharply. “You’re being stupid. I saw her just now. She’s pale as fuck.”
Heeseung’s quiet for a moment, staring into his friend’s eyes with almost the same amount of resentment. “It has nothing to do with me.”
Like a punishment to his lie, something twists sharply in his chest. But Heeseung is quick to mask his pain under a calm facade, gritting his teeth so hard he might break his jaw. Jay scoffs and rolls his eyes.
“Oh, so you’re doing this again.” Jay steps closer, not backing away. “You’re running away again, like the coward that you are. You’ll just run and run, deflect and disappear. Typical Heeseung.”
Jay knows he’ll hit a spot if he says it, but he couldn’t care less. He watches as the expression on Heeseung hardens, giving away the emotions he kept locked in his chest.
“Don’t.”
But Jay doesn’t stop. Of course he doesn’t.
“You think I don’t see it?” Jay presses, voice rising. “Every time something starts to mean something, you bolt. New omega, new bed, new distraction—anything to avoid actually feeling something real.”
“That’s not—”
“That’s exactly what this is!” Jay gestures wildly, frustration spilling over. “You found your mate, and instead of dealing with it, you’re out there fucking anything that moves just to prove you’re still in control.”
Silence slams between them, heavy and ugly. Both alphas are holding back from spiraling, neck straining from self-control and simmering anger.
Heeseung’s laugh this time is cold. “Mate?” he repeats, like the word tastes disgusting. “You really believe in that shit?”
Jay stares at him, disbelief flickering across his face. “I believe in what’s right in front of me.”
“There’s nothing in front of you,” Heeseung shoots back. “She’s just an omega I helped. That’s it.”
“Then why her?” Jay fires immediately. “Why can you find her in a crowd? Why does your scent stick to her for days—for weeks? Why can’t you even touch another omega without looking like you’re about to throw up?”
Heeseung falters, his words failing him as Jay hits him with those facts. His shaky stance doesn’t go unnoticed by the alpha, though. He’s quick to seize the chance.
Jay inhales sharply. “You know I’m right, Heeseung. You and Y/N share a bond.”
“So what?!” Heeseung snaps, frustration finally cracking through. “So what if there’s a bond? You want me to just—what? Drop everything? Play house? Act like I’m suddenly someone I’m not?”
Heeseung meets Jay’s fiery gaze head-on and shoves his friend harshly. “Stay out of it, Jay. I swear to fucking God.”
“And what? Watch you let her die because you couldn’t care less to acknowledge the bond?” Jay lets out a hollow laugh, pushing Heeseung back just as hard. “And then I watch you die?”
“Shut the fuck up. You know nothing about this.”
Their scents clash; sharp citrus and aggressive spice filling up the space like a warning siren. It almost turns physical, Riki almost bursts through the door when he sees their chests almost touching. But it is Jay who stops first.
Not because he wants to. But because he’s thinking of you.
“My parents are fated mates, Heeseung.” Jay starts, quieter, his voice losing its harsh edges. “Doesn’t mean you don’t believe in it, it isn’t real to other people.”
Heeseung remains quiet, his chest still moving rapidly.
Jay’s eyes turn glassy. He retreats one more step away from Heeseung. “If you don’t want her, reject the bond properly,” he says, breathing hard. “You’re letting someone know that you don’t want her as your mate. At least have the decency to be kind about it.”
Jay unclenches his fists.
“Don’t drag her through this half-assed bullshit where you keep hurting her just because you can’t make a decision.”
Heeseung freezes. Out of all words being shouted tonight, it is this quiet resignation from Jay that hits his heart the hardest.
Am I being cruel? Heeseung lowers his gaze. Am I a coward?
Heeseung doesn’t wait too long for an answer.
“Stop being a coward, Heeseung. I beg you.”
The words hang between them, like unwanted vines curling around a trunk of a tree. Heeseung’s gaze stays rooted to the ground, trying to find his voice.
But he doesn’t get the chance to.
“...Heeseung?”
Your voice, soft as it is, cuts through the air like a blade. Both alphas turn to where you’re standing by the door. The faint light spilling from the moon only highlights how pale your face is, void of any warmth and colour.
You stand there, one hand gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, your other pressed weakly against your chest. Your eyes, God, your eyes. They’re glassy, unfocused, yet locked onto him like you’ve found something you’ve been searching for your entire life.
Beside him, Heeseung can sense the way Jay’s body tenses the way his does.
“Heeseung…” you call for him again and move to get closer.
But then you flinch. Your entire body recoils, your nose scrunches.
There, lingering around Heeseung like an unwanted mark, is a scent you know too well. Fruity bubblegum and cloying cotton candy; a scent that flashes pink in your head, turning into a female rage that hits too close to home. Your gaze catches the shape of someone’s mouth staining his golden skin, and something inside you breaks.
Narin.
Heeseung smells like Narin.
Your hand instinctively goes to cover your nose, eyes slowly going wide. The room goes silent, holding its breath as Heeseung feels it.
The fleeting second where something inside you shatters.
Heeseung steps forward. “Y/N—”
But you retreat faster, away from him like he’s a disease that could kill you.
“No,” your voice cracks, shaking your head as if trying to physically deny what your body is already registering. “No, no, no…”
Your breath comes out in shallow bursts, your fingers clawing at your shirt.
It hurts. It hurts so bad.
It’s like every system in your body is collapsing, failing to cope with the ultimate rejection that comes in the scent of another woman. Your fist hits your chest, forcing the air to flow in because it suddenly feels almost impossible to breathe.
Heeseung feels it now—really, really feels it. The bond is thrashing, frantic, like it’s holding onto something that’s slipping through its grasp. The pained scent of withering daisies starts filling up the air, suffocating both alphas instantly. Jay shifts uncomfortably, looking back and forth from Heeseung to you in alert.
“Hey, hey—Y/N,” Heeseung tries again, softer this time, reaching out instinctively. “Look at me. Y/N—”
“Don’t!” Your voice spikes, sharp with fear. Heeseung freezes, his throat closing up when he sees something you’re yet to realise.
That’s when you feel it—something warm trickling down your nose. You instinctively wipe it and stare at the red liquid smearing your fingers.
Blood. Then another drop falls on your palm. Before you can react properly, it already spills down your chin, past your fingers, dripping onto the floor, tainting the white tiles like a crime scene.
“Fuck.” Jay curses under his breath, his wolf perking up in alarm.
Beside him, Heeseung is beyond agitated. “Y/N!”
He doesn’t think. Heeseung lunges forward, longing to be close to you at that moment. But you’re already shaking your head rapidly, tears spilling uncontrollably now.
“Stop!” you gasp, pale lips trembling like dying petals. “I can’t do this—I can’t—”
Inside you, your omega is screaming in pain. In betrayal. In self-preservation. Her voice, raw and jagged, torn by pain, echoes in your head.
An instinct, primal and desperate, takes over your being.
Cut it off.
Cut it off before it kills you.
You clutch at your chest, lungs burning up like a wildfire. Tears spill out freely, drenching your face in anguish and agony.
Cut it off!
And finally, you let go.
Across from you, just a few paces away, Heeseung feels it like a force, stopping him in his tracks.
It doesn’t come gradually, or slowly. It rips through his body. A violent, invisible force tearing straight through his chest like something sacred being forcibly severed. His breath is knocked out of him.
“Fuck!” Somewhere behind him, Jay is also spiraling, realising what’s going down.
But Heeseung doesn’t know. He staggers, his knees almost giving up as excruciating pain spreads from the scent gland in his neck down to his chest. Something inside him—something he never fully acknowledges—finally snaps. He almost screams.
A thick veil of tears wells up instantly, blurring his vision faster than he could process it.
“Y/N,” his voice breaks, the cracks showing up like poison in daggers. Across from him, you’re already sobbing.
It’s loud and raw, a wailing that stops even the loud music from inside. Your scent, bitter and beyond distressed, is now flooding the space like a broken dam. Your body folds in on itself as if trying to contain something that’s already shattered beyond repair.
Inside of you, your omega goes silent completely.
And it terrifies him. A lot.
Heeseung clutches his neck, where his scent gland is pulsing violently, throbbing in an indescribable pain that feels like it could kill him. And when his eyes find yours, he realises with dread that the pull is no longer there.
He can’t feel you. His wolf can’t feel your wolf.
The constant, aching thread that’s been tying him to you; it’s gone.
You cut the bond from your side.
The half-bond, already fragile with doubt and cowardice, is hanging by its loose thread. If it was a red string like many people had said, Heeseung’s sure it’d waver pathetically by his finger, trembling like a thread losing its kite.
“What…What did you do?” he whispers, voice hollow and shaky.
Heeseung takes a step forward again, ignoring Jay’s warning voice from behind him. His focus becomes singular on you, not minding the many pairs of eyes watching from the other side of the door.
This time, his step is slower and careful, like approaching something fragile. Something that is already broken.
Someone wounded.
You don’t move toward him. You don’t even spare him a look. You just cry, quietly, as now it feels empty where the bond used to be. You can’t feel him.
You can only feel pain.
“Y/N…”
“...I want to leave.”
You wipe your nose, the blood still fresh and wet. You lean on the door for support, still trying to hold yourself up despite the urge to just collapse. Heeseung has to force restraint on himself, holding himself back from running to you. He searches your face, trying to catch your eyes, terrified beyond reason.
The silence is deafening.
At last, you lift your gaze, misty eyes meeting misty eyes.
“I ended it.” Your voice, used to be soft and warm, is now cold. Heeseung feels his lungs stop functioning.
After a brutal battle leaves you drained and trembling, the King of Curses claims you not as a victim, but as his prize—a prize he intends to savor in the most intimate, possessive way imaginable. There is no escape from his bed, nor do you want one.
content: Explicit sexual content (smut), consensual, rough sex, possessive Sukuna, oral sex (male receiving), fingering, dirty talk, marking/biting, power imbalance (but enthusiastic participation), aftercare with a dark edge.
word count: 1,958
song: PILLOWTALK by ZAYN
masterlist ୧₊˚ playlist
The shoji doors slid shut with a heavy thud, sealing you in shadow and silence.
The air in his private chamber was thick—heavy with incense, the lingering scent of blood that wasn’t yours, and the electric hum of cursed energy that clung to his skin like a second layer of clothing.
Ryomen Sukuna stood before you, his broad back turned, shoulders rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths.
He was still splattered with the remains of the last sorcerer foolish enough to challenge him. Dark crimson flecks dotted the pale canvas of his skin, trailing down the defined ridges of muscle and soaking into the waistband of his black hakama.
You should have been afraid.
You were afraid.
But the fear coiling low in your belly was velvet-soft, laced with something far more dangerous: want.
“Still standing?” His voice rumbled through the room, deep and amused—a predator toying with prey. “Most fainted by now. Or ran.”
You swallowed, your throat clicking dry. “I’m not most.”
He turned.
The full weight of his attention crashed into you like a wave.
Four crimson eyes pinned you in place. The lower pair traced the line of your throat, the tremor in your hands, and the way your chest rose beneath the thin fabric of your kimono. The upper pair held your gaze, daring you to look away, to flinch, or to show weakness.
You didn't.
A slow, dangerous smile curled across his lips. “No. You’re not.”
He moved.
You didn’t see him cross the room; you only felt the displacement of air and the sudden wall of heat at your front. A massive hand wrapped around your throat, guiding you backward until your spine met the wooden pillar.
Your breath hitched.
His thumb is pressed gently, so gently against your pulse point.
“Your heart is racing.” He tilted his head, dark hair falling across those burning eyes. “Was it fear, I wondered? Or excitement?”
Your lips parted, but the words stuck in your throat.
Sukuna leaned in, his breath ghosting across your ear.
“Answer me.”
“Both,” you gasped. “Both.”
He laughed—a low, rumbling sound. The vibration traveled through his chest, through the hand cradling your throat, and through the very air between you.
“Good brat,” he murmured. “Honest.”
The hand dropped from your throat only to find the knot of your obi. With a single, deliberate tug, the fabric loosened. Your kimono slipped from one shoulder, baring the curve of your collarbone to the dim lamplight.
Sukuna's gaze dropped.
He didn't rush.
Every movement was measured and calculated, like a hunter savoring the sight of his catch. His clawed hand brushed over the exposed skin of your shoulder, tracing a line downward before stopping at the rising swell of your breast beneath the fabric.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
“So incredibly fragile. And yet…” His fingertip paused. “You walked into my domain. Watched me paint the walls with a man’s insides. And still, when I called, you came.”
You shivered. “You didn’t call.”
“I didn't have to.”
He caught your chin between his fingers, tilting your face upward. His lower eyes studied your expression—the flush creeping across your cheeks and the way your breathing quickened beneath his scrutiny.
“I saw you watching,” he said quietly. “In the middle of that carnage. I saw the way your thighs pressed together.”
Your face burned.
Sukuna’s grin widened.
He released your chin and stepped back, gesturing toward the futon behind him—a bed of dark silk and layered cushions, large enough for a man twice his size.
“Strip. And lie down.”
The command leaves no room for argument.
Every instinct begs you to act, obey, and please. Beneath the instinct, however, is a thrill that ignites your nerves like lightning.
You let the kimono fall.
In a whisper of silk and embroidery, it gathered around your feet. Then trembling fingers threw away your underwear. You walked across the room on wobbly legs, nude in front of the King of Curses, and drop onto the futon.
The silk is cool against your heated skin.
Sukuna observed and trailed behind. With the fluid grace of a wild animal, he crawled onto the bed and settled over you, enclosing you with his body, arms, and commanding presence.
“I'm going to take my time,” he said in a harsh voice, “And you're going to take everything I give you. Understood?”
You nodded.
His claws brushed your delicate skin as his hand moved down your tummy, giving you goosebumps. Feeling the heat radiating from you, he paused at the intersection of your thighs, palm flat against your mound.
“So wet,” he observed, almost curious. “And I've barely touched you.”
“Sukuna...”
“Shh,” he said, putting a finger to your lips. “You'll talk when I ask you to. Right now, I'd like to hear other sounds.”
His lips took the place of the finger.
The kiss was not gentle. It was claiming, devouring, a brand of ownership that sears through your lips and tongue and into the very marrow of your bones. His hand slides lower, fingers parting your folds, finding the slick evidence of your arousal.
He groaned against your mouth.
By the time he pulled back, you were gasping for air. His grin is wolfish, triumphant. Two fingers slide into you without warning, crooking, pressing, finding that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.
“Ahh—fuck!”
“There,” he growled. “There it is.”
Your back arched.
Your hands flew up to grip his shoulders, nails digging into pale skin. Sukuna's laugh is dark velvet as he works his fingers in and out, slow and deliberate, watching your face contort with pleasure.
“Ngh... Sukuna—shit...”
“Such a responsive little thing.”
He added a third finger. “I wonder how you'll take my cock.”
You couldn't form words.
You can only gasp and writhe and cling to him as he fucks you with his fingers, curling and pressing, bringing you closer and closer to the edge.
And then he stopped.
You whimpered.
Sukuna clicked his tongue. “Patience. I'm not done tasting you.”
He shifted downward, between your legs, and the sight alone is enough to steal your breath: the King of Curses, the strongest sorcerer in history, settling his broad shoulders between your thighs.
His eyes never leaving yours as he lowers his head.
The first lick was featherlight, barely a touch, teasing your clit with the tip of his tongue.
“Ngh... Sukuna...”
You cried out.
His tongue is inhuman, impossibly long, impossibly skilled.
He licked you like he's savoring a fine meal, tracing every fold, dipping into your entrance, circling your clit in patterns that build and build and never quite release. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open for his mouth.
“Sukuna—fuck... Please—”
“Please what?” He paused, lips glistening with your wetness. “Use your words, woman.”
“Please... Let me—I need...”
“You need to cum.” It was not a question. “But do you deserve it?”
You could barely think. “Yes... Yes, please, Sukuna, please—”
He rewarded your begging with a deep, sucking kiss to your clit, and the orgasm crashes through you like a wave. Your body convulsed, hands fisting in the silk sheets, a scream tearing from your throat.
“Ahh! Shit... Yes—more...”
Sukuna didn't stop.
He worked you through it, lapping at your sensitive flesh, prolonging the pleasure until you're sobbing, oversensitive, trembling from head to toe.
Only then does he rose.
His cock—massive, thick, veined, already slick with pre-cum at the tip. He stroked himself once, twice, watching your dazed expression with predatory satisfaction.
“You took that so well,” he murmured. “Now, open your mouth.”
You obeyed.
He guided himself past your lips, and the taste of yourself mixes with the salt of his skin, the musk of his arousal. Your tongue worked instinctively, circling the head, sliding along the shaft as he thrusts into your throat.
“Ohh... Fuck...” he hisses. “That mouth... I knew it would feel this good.”
He fucked your throat with measured strokes, each one deeper than the last, until your nose is pressed against his pelvis. His claws carded through your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding you as he takes his pleasure from your mouth.
“Swallow,” he commanded.
You did.
He pulled back, a trail of saliva and cum connecting his tip to your lips.
His eyes are heavy-lidded, dark with hunger.
“On your hands and knees.”
You turned, presenting yourself to him, cheek pressed against the silk. He knelt behind you, and the heat of his body is a furnace at your back. His hand slid down your spine, over the curve of your ass, then lower.
“Look at this,” he groaned. “Soaked. Open. Begging.”
He notched himself at your entrance and pushed in.
“Ohh... Sukuna!”
The stretch was exquisite—a fullness that borders on pain, that tipped over into pleasure so intense it stole the air from your lungs. He didn't stop until he was seated to the hilt, his balls pressed against your slick flesh, his chest against your back.
“Ngh—shit...”
“Breathe,” he murmured in your ear. “You'll take all of me.”
You inhaled shakily.
He moved.
The first thrust was deep, deliberate, a declaration of intent. The second was harder. The third, faster. Soon, he's fucking you with a rhythm that's both brutal and precise, each stroke hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes.
“Ahh... Ngh—yes... Sukuna...”
His hand snaked around to your front, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles as he pounds into you from behind.
“Cum for me,” he growled. “Now.”
You shattered.
“Mhm—fuck...”
The orgasm ripped through you, violent and total, and Sukuna followed right behind, burying himself deep with a guttural roar. You felt him pulsed inside you, hot and thick, filling you with his release.
“Ohh, shit...”
He stayed there, breathing hard, forehead pressed against the back of your neck.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breath, the scent of sex and sweat and incense, the weight of his body pinning you to the futon.
Then he pulled out, rolled you onto your back, and gathered you into his arms.
Not gently—Sukuna is not gentle. But there's a possessiveness in the way he holds you, a claim that goes beyond the physical.
His claws traced lazy patterns on your hip.
His lips brushed your temple.
“The others say I'll get tire of you,” he whispered. “They say you're a distraction. A weakness.”
You tensed.
He laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest.
“They're wrong. You are not a weakness.” His grip tightened. “You are mine and I do not share what's mine.”
He shifted, pulling you closer, settling your head against his shoulder. His heartbeat is steady, strong, a drumbeat beneath your ear.
“Sleep,” he commanded. “I'll wake you when I want you again.”
Hours passed from your deep slumber, you opened your eyes to darkness as you felt the weight of his hand between your thighs.
“Again?” You managed to speak, despite your hoarse voice.
Sukuna's smile is a gleam of teeth in the shadows. “Again.”
And you gave yourself to him, over and over, until dawn bleeds through the shoji screens and the world outside ceases to exist.
In his bed, there is only him.
Only this.
Only the claws and the cushions and the claim that brands you body and soul, and you wouldn't have it any other way.
His hand slid up to cup your throat, his thumb tracing your lower lip with a possessiveness that feels like a permanent brand.
He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear.
“This is Pillowtalk—my version of paradise and a war zone.”
- Summary: Y/N Targaryen is dragged to the Ashford tourney to get her out from under Aerion’s obsession, only for Valarr to publicly ask for her favor and spark a feud that erupts into a brawl in the royal pavilion.
- Pairing: cousin!reader/Valarr Targaryen
- Rating: Explicit 18+ (There’s no explicit content until Part 3. However, Aerion appears earlier in the story, and there are implications about things he may have done to the reader character.)
The small chamber behind the royal pavilion smelled of vinegar, crushed herbs, and hot linen, the practical scents of men trying to mend flesh before bruises could become stories. Torchlight wavered against the canvas walls and turned everything the color of old gold, so even clean cloth looked stained. Outside, Ashford Meadow still pretended it was celebrating. Music drifted in, dulled by distance and fabric. Laughter rose and fell like waves. Somewhere a drunk knight was singing off-key, and the sound might have been funny on another night. In here it only felt obscene, as if the world had decided noise was more important than consequence.
Valarr sat on a plain stool with his shirt unlaced and pulled aside, shoulders bare, skin already blooming purple where Aerion’s fist had landed. A cut split the inside of his lip, and the swelling along his cheekbone was starting to thicken, the kind that would make his face ache every time he breathed through his nose. He held himself still, but not the stillness of comfort. It was restraint, the sort men learned when pain wasn’t allowed to make them undignified. He kept his gaze fixed somewhere just past the maester’s shoulder, jaw tight, fingers flexing once and then going still again.
The maester, grey-haired and brisk, clicked his tongue as he dabbed at Valarr’s cheek with a cloth soaked in something sharp enough to make the eyes water. “You’re lucky,” he muttered, as if luck was a diagnosis. “No fracture that I can feel. Just bruising. And your lip will heal if you stop biting it like a dog.”
Valarr’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “I wasn’t aware I was biting it.”
“You’re aware,” the maester said, and pressed a thumb along the ridge of Valarr’s cheekbone in a way that made Valarr’s nostrils flare. “You’re simply refusing to admit it. Hold still.”
Baelor stood a few steps away, hands clasped behind his back, posture composed, expression quiet. He had changed out of the heavier ceremonial layer he’d worn for the feast, but he still looked like himself, solid and grounded in a way that made other men feel less inclined to act foolish. He watched the maester work without hovering, but his attention never wandered. There was nothing soft in his eyes tonight. Not anger exactly. Something more controlled and more dangerous: disappointment that had turned into resolve.
When the maester finished cleaning and began pressing a warm compress against the swelling, Baelor spoke at last. “Leave us.”
The maester glanced up, hesitated only a fraction, then bowed his head. “Of course, my prince. I’ll return with a salve for the bruising and something for sleep.” His gaze flicked to Valarr, sympathetic but stern. “Try not to get hit again before sunrise.”
Valarr didn’t answer. The maester gathered his things and slipped out, pulling the curtain closed behind him. The sound of the celebration muffled further, leaving a quieter space, heavy with the kind of silence that made words feel inevitable.
Baelor did not fill it immediately. He walked closer, slow, and sat on the bench opposite Valarr rather than standing over him. It was a small choice, but it mattered. It made this less like a reprimand in court and more like something private, something that belonged between father and son.
Valarr met his eyes. He looked older than he had earlier, not because of the bruises, but because his composure had been cracked and he could not pretend it hadn’t.
Baelor’s voice was calm. “You lost control.”
Valarr’s jaw clenched. “Yes.”
“Do you know why that matters?” Baelor asked.
Valarr exhaled through his nose, slow, like he was trying to keep the answer from sounding like excuse. “Because Aerion wanted it.”
“Because everyone wanted it,” Baelor corrected gently. “Aerion wanted it most, but he’s not the only one who feeds on a spectacle. Lords, knights, smallfolk. They love to watch princes behave like animals. It makes them feel safer. It makes them feel equal. And it gives them stories they can twist.”
Valarr’s gaze dropped for a moment, then lifted again. “He spoke about her.”
Baelor’s eyes focused. “I know.”
“He spoke about her like she was…” Valarr’s hand flexed once on his knee, the motion restrained but violent in its intent. “Like she was something to be claimed. Like fear was a game.”
Baelor’s voice lowered. “And you responded by giving him what he wanted.”
Valarr’s throat moved as he swallowed. “I know.”
Baelor held his gaze. “Then tell me why you did it anyway.”
Valarr’s lips parted, then closed again. He seemed to wrestle with the shape of the truth, the way a young man wrestled with admitting he cared too much. Finally he said, voice rougher, “Because I couldn’t stand hearing it.”
“That is not enough,” Baelor replied, not cruelly, but firmly. “Not when the cost is higher than your pride.”
Valarr flinched, just slightly. “It wasn’t pride.”
Baelor’s expression did not soften, but something warm flickered under it, brief and reluctant. “Then call it what it was.”
Valarr looked at the torch flame dancing in the bracket, as if he needed to stare at something that wasn’t his father. “It was fury,” he said. “It was… protective. It was shame, because I could see the way he spoke and how no one stopped him soon enough, and I thought if I didn’t stop him, then I was complicit.” He forced his eyes back to Baelor. “And yes, it was personal.”
Baelor’s gaze stayed steady. “Personal because of her?”
Valarr did not deny it. “Yes.”
Baelor sat with that for a moment, letting it settle. Outside, a distant cheer rose, probably for a song, probably for a drunken boast. The tent walls didn’t care. They only held the air and the truth inside.
Baelor spoke again, quieter. “You asked for her favor.”
Valarr nodded once. “I did.”
“In front of half the realm,” Baelor said.
“Yes.”
Baelor’s mouth tightened. “Do you understand what you did to her by doing that?”
Valarr’s eyes narrowed slightly, not defensive, more desperate to be understood. “I didn’t mean to trap her.”
“You may not have meant it,” Baelor said, “but intent does not erase consequence. You placed her in the center of a storm she did not ask for. You made Aerion’s fixation visible to people who now have permission to whisper. You made Maekar’s refusal a matter of public curiosity again.” He paused, then added, quieter still, “And you made your feelings a matter of politics.”
Valarr’s shoulders rose and fell with a controlled breath. “I know.”
Baelor’s gaze searched his face, taking measure the way he did when he wanted the truth and not the version a son offered to avoid shame. “Then why did you do it?”
Valarr’s answer came faster this time, as if he was tired of circling around it. “Because she deserved to choose something in public that wasn’t chosen for her. Because if I asked quietly, it would have meant nothing. Aerion would still speak about her like he owns her. Lords would still assume she exists only to be bartered.” His voice tightened. “And because I wanted them to see that she is not alone.”
Baelor’s eyes softened a fraction, but the steel remained. “You think your visibility protects her?”
“I think silence doesn’t,” Valarr replied.
Baelor sat back slightly, as if adjusting the weight of what he was hearing. “You sound very sure for a young man with a fresh bruise on his face.”
Baelor nodded once. “Good. Certainty makes men reckless.”
The curtain shifted then, and the maester returned with a small jar of dark salve and a folded cloth. He muttered as he moved, spreading the ointment with practiced hands. “This will help with swelling. It will still hurt. If you can’t sleep, that is your body’s problem, not mine.” He pressed the cloth into Valarr’s hand. “Hold it there. Ten minutes. And stop looking like you’re about to ride into battle again. You’re in a tent.”
Valarr took it without comment, pressing it to his cheek, eyes never leaving Baelor.
The maester turned to Baelor. “He’s fine,” he said bluntly. “Fine enough to be foolish again if allowed. My prince.” He bowed and withdrew once more.
The silence returned, deeper now, because the practical interruption was gone and the real issue still sat between them.
Baelor leaned forward, voice low. “Tell me the truth, Valarr. Not the noble version. The truth you haven’t said yet.”
Valarr held the cloth to his cheek, his other hand clenched on his knee. The torchlight carved his profile into stern lines. When he spoke, his voice was steady but stripped of performance. “I want her,” he said. “Not as a favor. Not as a symbol. I want her as my wife.”
Baelor did not react outwardly, but his eyes sharpened, attentive. “You want her,” he repeated, and the words were not judgment, just confirmation.
Valarr swallowed. “I’ve wanted her for a long time. Longer than I admitted to myself. I told myself it was concern. Family duty. The usual things men say when they don’t want to admit their heart is involved.” He breathed out slowly. “But when I watched Aerion look at her today, when I heard him speak, I realized concern isn’t enough. I can’t keep hovering at the edges of her life like I’m some convenient cousin who steps in when Aerion gets too loud. That does nothing. It only delays harm.”
Baelor’s gaze stayed on him, weighing. “And you believe marriage solves it?”
Valarr’s jaw flexed. “It doesn’t solve everything. But it gives her protection Aerion can’t reach without making war inside the family. It gives her a place beside me that the realm recognizes. It gives her… an ally with standing.” He paused, then forced himself to say the part that mattered most. “And it gives me the right to stand between them without it being a scandal every time.”
Baelor’s eyes narrowed. “You are speaking like a prince, not a boy. Good.” Then his voice hardened slightly. “But marriage is not a shield you hand someone and walk away. It is a chain and a promise. Do you understand what you are asking of her?”
Valarr’s gaze didn’t drop. “Yes.”
“Do you understand what you are asking of Maekar?” Baelor continued.
Valarr’s mouth tightened. “Yes.”
“And do you understand what you are inviting from Aerion?” Baelor asked, and there was no softness at all in that now.
Valarr’s eyes flickered, the first sign of uncertainty in his expression. Then he nodded once. “Yes.”
Baelor sat back, studying him. “Then why ask me now? Why tonight?”
Valarr’s answer was quiet, raw. “Because if I wait, Aerion will move first. He always does. He can’t tolerate being denied. He will find a way to corner her, to humiliate her, to force Father’s hand through scandal or cruelty. And because after today…” Valarr’s voice tightened. “After today I can’t pretend I don’t see the end of that path.”
Baelor’s gaze softened again, but the softness looked tired. He looked like a man who had spent his life cleaning up after other men’s pride and had finally decided he was done doing it gently. “You are asking for permission,” Baelor said slowly.
Valarr nodded. “I am.”
“And you are asking me to involve myself,” Baelor added.
“Yes.”
Baelor’s lips pressed together, and for a moment he looked not like a prince but like a father, caught between love for his son and the brutal math of politics. He looked toward the curtain as if he could see through it, could see the pavilion beyond, could see Maekar’s controlled rage and Aerion’s hungry spite and the way a whole realm would gossip about a ribbon.
When he spoke again, his voice was measured. “This is not something I can decide alone.”
Valarr’s fingers tightened on the cloth. “I know.”
Baelor’s eyes returned to his son. “But I can tell you this: if you intend to ask Maekar for his daughter, you will do it with respect. You will do it with clarity. And you will not do it under the illusion that love is enough to make it simple.”
Valarr’s throat moved. “It isn’t love alone.”
Baelor’s gaze held him. “Then tell me what else it is.”
Valarr’s answer came without hesitation now, because the night had already torn pretense away. “It’s responsibility,” he said. “And it’s choice. And it’s the fact that she deserves one man in this family who doesn’t treat her like a piece on a board.”
Baelor’s expression tightened, and the words landed harder than Valarr intended because they carried an accusation against everyone else. Against Maekar for not ending Aerion’s behavior sooner. Against Baelor for allowing the family to fester. Against the whole House for letting a girl become collateral.
Baelor did not lash out. He simply nodded once, slowly, as if accepting the indictment.
“Very well,” Baelor said. “You want her as your wife?”
Valarr’s chest rose with a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Yes.”
Baelor’s voice was quiet but firm. “Then you will ask properly. Not with favors and spectacle. Not with fists. You will ask her father first, and you will accept his answer whether you like it or not. And you will remember that if he says yes, you are tying yourself to her life in all the ways that will hurt.”
Valarr’s eyes did not waver. “I want that.”
Baelor watched him for a long moment, then leaned forward and placed a hand on Valarr’s uninjured shoulder, firm and grounding. “Sleep if you can,” he said, voice softer now, almost gentle. “Tomorrow we speak to Maekar.”
Baelor’s gaze hardened again, because Baelor knew delay was a luxury when Aerion was involved. “Tomorrow,” he repeated. “Before Aerion has time to turn tonight into another weapon.”
Valarr nodded once, slow and solemn. “Yes, Father.”
Baelor rose, and with him the small chamber seemed to gain weight, as if the decision had pulled the future closer. At the curtain, Baelor paused, looking back once.
“And Valarr,” he said.
Valarr lifted his gaze.
Baelor’s eyes held his, steady and unyielding. “If you ever put your hands on Aerion again in front of a crowd, I will be the one to correct you. Do you understand?”
Valarr’s jaw tightened, shame and acceptance mixing. “I understand.”
Baelor nodded once and stepped out, leaving Valarr alone with the ache in his face, the jar of salve, and the quiet, terrifying relief of having finally said what he wanted out loud.
Outside, Ashford Meadow kept singing.
Inside, House Targaryen began to rearrange itself around a girl who was asleep and had no idea how fast the world was moving toward her.
Morning at Ashford came pale and stingy, as if the sun itself regretted what it had watched the night before. The meadow was quieter, but not clean. Smoke from dying cookfires clung low to the grass, and the air carried the sour bite of spilled ale and stale sweat. Men slept where they’d fallen, wrapped in cloaks or sprawled against wagon wheels, mouths open, armor half-unbuckled. Stewards moved through the mess with pinched expressions, trying to restore dignity to a place that had never truly had it. Somewhere beyond the tents a rooster crowed, insisting on normalcy, and the sound felt absurd against the memory of torches and blood and a prince being restrained like a common brawler.
Inside the royal pavilion, the world was quieter still, not because anyone was resting, but because everyone was measuring their words. A scandal in a lord’s hall did not vanish with daylight. It hung in the seams of conversation like smoke. Servants kept their eyes lowered. Guards stood straighter than usual. Even the soft scrape of a cup against wood sounded too loud.
Baelor watched Maekar from the moment he stepped through the inner curtain, because a man could love his brother and still recognize when the brother was a blade held too tightly. Maekar sat at a table littered with maps, ledgers, and the remnants of a late, joyless meal. He wore no smile, no softness. He looked like he had not slept, and if he had, it had only annoyed him. His hair was brushed back, his jaw set, his gaze fixed on something in the middle distance as if he was planning what to do with a son he couldn’t control and a family that refused to behave like a family.
Aerion was not present, which was its own kind of warning. Aerion never stayed away from anything unless he had been forced, or unless he was sulking in a way that promised retaliation.
Baelor entered first, calm as ever, shoulders relaxed, face composed into a neutrality that could pass for peace. Valarr followed half a step behind, his cheek still bruised beneath the morning light, the swelling less angry now but impossible to hide. He wore a plain tunic instead of court finery, and the lack of ornament made him look more serious, less like a boy playing knight and more like a man who had decided something and would carry it regardless of how it hurt.
Maekar’s eyes lifted as they approached. They flicked to Valarr’s bruised face, then back to Baelor. His expression didn’t change, but Baelor could see the tension pull tighter across his brother’s features, the same way a horse’s muscles stiffened when it sensed a predator nearby.
“What is this,” Maekar said, not a question so much as a demand for justification.
Baelor did not waste time with pleasantries. “We need to speak privately.”
Maekar’s gaze narrowed. “About last night?”
“Partly,” Baelor admitted, voice level.
Maekar leaned back slightly, fingers tapping once against the table, a slow, controlled rhythm that meant he was restraining himself. “Aerion is confined to his quarters,” he said. “He will not attend the lists today. He will not be seen until he remembers he is not the only dragon in the room.”
Baelor’s mouth tightened faintly. “That’s wise.”
Maekar’s eyes focused at the compliment, as if he suspected it was also a criticism. “Say what you came to say.”
Baelor held his gaze for a moment, and in that pause you could feel the history between them: Baelor, always the steady hand; Maekar, always the hammer. Brothers who loved each other, and still could not agree on how to keep their house from tearing itself apart. Then Baelor gestured slightly toward the side chamber, the one separated by another curtain, away from servants and ears.
Maekar stared at him, then rose with abrupt motion. “Fine.”
They moved into the smaller space, the one used for quiet councils, where the light was dimmer and the air smelled of wax and old parchment. A guard remained outside the curtain. No one else followed.
Maekar stood rather than sit, arms folding across his chest, posture hard. “You have five minutes.”
Baelor sat, because Baelor understood something Maekar often forgot: sitting down did not make you weaker. It made you harder to provoke. Valarr remained standing at Baelor’s shoulder, respectful but not submissive, his hands loose at his sides, his spine straight.
Baelor spoke first, voice measured. “Valarr intends to ask for your daughter’s hand.”
The words landed in the room like a stone dropped into still water. Maekar didn’t blink. He didn’t move. For a heartbeat there was nothing, only the sound of the tent fabric shifting slightly in the wind.
Then Maekar’s mouth tightened. “After yesterday,” he said quietly. “After last night.” His gaze cut to Valarr. “This is either bravery or stupidity.”
Valarr met his eyes. “It’s intention.”
Maekar’s expression hardened further. “You already involved her publicly.”
Valarr didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
Maekar’s voice turned colder. “You think asking for her favor was a kindness?”
Valarr answered honestly. “I think it gave her a choice in front of witnesses.”
Maekar’s jaw flexed. “Witnesses also gossip.”
Baelor cut in before Maekar could turn it into an interrogation. “Maekar, we are not here to argue about the favor. That is done. We are here because Valarr wants to make it right, and because it will not get safer for her if we pretend none of this is happening.”
Maekar’s eyes snapped to Baelor, irritation flaring. “Make it right,” he repeated, like the phrase offended him. “As if she’s a mistake that needs correcting.”
Baelor’s gaze stayed calm. “As if she is your daughter and deserves protection that you cannot provide alone while Aerion is still breathing and still convinced the world owes him everything.”
Maekar’s nostrils flared. His voice dropped, dangerous. “Be careful.”
Baelor didn’t back down. “I am being careful. That is why we are doing this in private.”
Maekar’s gaze flicked again to Valarr’s bruised face. “You struck Aerion.”
Valarr’s voice was steady. “Yes.”
Maekar’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think that makes you a better man?”
Valarr shook his head once. “No. It makes me a man who failed to keep his temper.”
Maekar’s expression did not soften. “And yet you’re here asking for a bride.”
Valarr’s gaze held. “Yes.”
Maekar let out a breath through his nose, the closest he ever came to a laugh. “You have nerve.”
Valarr didn’t deny it. “I have reason.”
Baelor watched Maekar closely, because he could already see the reaction building in his brother’s shoulders, the urge to reject out of sheer resistance to being cornered by circumstance. Maekar hated being forced into decisions by other people’s chaos. He hated feeling like he was reacting instead of controlling. And this, Baelor knew, would feel like reaction.
“Say it plainly,” Maekar demanded, eyes on Valarr now. “Why?”
Valarr didn’t reach for poetry. He didn’t dress it up. “Because I want her,” he said. “Because Aerion’s fixation has already caused harm, and it will keep causing harm unless the family draws a line that he cannot cross without consequences. And because she deserves to belong to someone who will not treat her like a possession.”
Maekar’s gaze cooled on the last word. “Possession,” he echoed, bitter.
Valarr didn’t look away. “That’s how he speaks of her.”
Maekar’s mouth tightened, and something flickered in his eyes then, something ugly and exhausted, because Valarr wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t know. Maekar knew. That was part of the problem. Knowing did not automatically solve it. It only made the failure heavier.
Maekar’s voice dropped lower. “You think marriage stops Aerion?”
Valarr answered carefully. “It makes it harder for him to reach her without exposing himself. It gives her a shield he can’t dismiss as ‘Father’s rules’ or ‘sister’s duty.’ It gives her standing beside me.”
Maekar’s eyes narrowed. “Standing doesn’t stop a determined man.”
“No,” Valarr admitted. “But it gives me the right to respond without it becoming a family squabble everyone excuses.”
Baelor spoke softly, because he could feel Maekar’s anger twisting toward the wrong target. “You know what Aerion is. You know what he has already done to her.”
The room went colder.
Maekar’s gaze snapped to Baelor, and for a heartbeat there was raw fury in it. “Do not speak of my daughter as if she is some… broken thing to be discussed.”
Baelor didn’t flinch. “I’m not speaking of her as broken. I’m speaking of what has been done to her.”
Maekar’s hands tightened at his biceps, arms still folded, as if he was holding himself together by force. His voice came out tight. “And what, exactly, do you think has been done?”
Baelor held the silence, because this was Maekar trying to control the conversation by pretending ignorance, and Baelor would not allow him that escape. Instead he looked at Valarr, a silent permission: tell him.
Valarr’s voice was steady, but it carried heat beneath it. “Aerion has tormented her for years,” he said. “He needles her. He corners her. He makes her feel watched in her own home. He speaks to her like she’s obligated to endure whatever he decides to do. And he does it because he believes she will not be protected from him.”
Maekar’s jaw flexed. “I have protected her.”
Valarr did not accuse. He simply stated truth. “You have tried. But you can’t be everywhere. And he’s learned to behave around you and worse when you aren’t looking.”
Maekar’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Has he touched her?”
The question came out like a blade, and for a second Baelor wondered if Maekar had been forcing himself not to ask it for years because asking made it real.
Valarr held Maekar’s gaze. “He has crossed lines,” he said carefully, because he was not going to invent details, but he wasn’t going to soften the truth either. “He has taken liberties that no brother should take. He uses fear and embarrassment as tools. He thinks he’s entitled to her attention, her time, her space. He punishes her when she resists.”
Maekar’s breathing went slow and heavy. The air in the chamber felt too thick.
Baelor’s mouth tightened at the phrasing, because it was the language of men who thought a girl’s worth could be altered by what was done to her. Valarr’s eyes focused too, but his reply was controlled.
“She is herself,” Valarr said. “And she is strong. And she has had to learn strength the hard way because of him.” He paused, then said the part that mattered, the part that was not politics at all. “I want her as she is.”
Maekar stared at him for a long moment, and in that stare you could see the battle happening inside him. The protective father. The rigid prince. The man who hated disorder. The brother who had watched Baelor become the steady center of the family while Maekar carried the uglier work. The father of Aerion, who had to admit his son was dangerous. The father of Y/N, who had to admit his daughter had been harmed under his roof.
Baelor waited, because forcing Maekar faster would only make him snap the other way out of stubbornness.
Finally Maekar spoke, voice low. “If I agree to this, Aerion will see it as theft.”
Baelor replied quietly. “Aerion sees anything he doesn’t get as theft.”
Maekar’s lips pressed together. “He will retaliate.”
Valarr answered without hesitation. “Let him try.”
Maekar’s eyes narrowed. “That is easy to say when you’re not the one who raised him.”
Valarr’s voice softened slightly, not pity, not patronizing, just honest. “I know it’s not easy.”
Maekar’s gaze flicked to Baelor, and there was something almost resentful there, because Baelor’s life had not been without burden, but Baelor’s burdens were different. Baelor did not have Aerion as a son. Maekar did.
Baelor kept his tone calm. “This is not about humiliating Aerion. It’s about giving your daughter a future that isn’t shaped by his obsession.”
Maekar went very still. Then he exhaled slowly, like a man letting go of a weapon he’d been gripping too long. “If I agree,” he said, “there will be rules.”
Valarr nodded once. “Of course.”
Maekar’s gaze hardened. “You will not use her as a banner against Aerion.”
Valarr’s answer was immediate. “Never.”
“You will not parade this as some public victory,” Maekar continued, voice clipped. “No songs, no grand speeches, no romantic foolishness that invites gossip. She will not be turned into spectacle.”
Valarr met his eyes. “I won’t.”
Maekar’s jaw tightened again. “And if Aerion tries to interfere… you will come to me. Not to fists. Not to the lists. Not to a crowd.”
Valarr’s gaze flicked briefly to Baelor, then back to Maekar. “Yes.”
Baelor could see Valarr’s pride balk at the idea of asking permission to defend her, but Valarr swallowed it. That alone told Baelor this was not a boy’s infatuation. It was a decision.
Maekar’s gaze held on Valarr for a long moment, reading him like he read battlefields. Then he said, simply, “I agree.”
The words were plain. No blessing. No warmth. But in Maekar’s mouth, agreement was a mountain moving.
Valarr’s shoulders loosened by a fraction, a breath released. “Thank you.”
Maekar’s expression didn’t change. “Do not thank me,” he said. “Earn it.”
Baelor felt the tension ease in his chest, but he didn’t let it show. He nodded once, solemn. “We’ll speak with her when the time is right.”
Maekar’s eyes remained stern. “She will be told directly,” he said. “Not through rumors. Not through court whispers. I will not have her hearing about her own betrothal from some lady who thinks it’s entertainment.”
Valarr’s voice stayed steady. “I would never allow that.”
Maekar’s gaze flicked down to Valarr’s bruised cheek. “And you’ll keep that face intact until then.”
Valarr’s mouth twitched, the faintest hint of humor, quickly restrained. “I’ll try.”
Maekar’s eyes cut to Baelor. “Your son provoked mine by existing.”
Baelor’s expression remained calm. “Your son provoked mine by being cruel.”
Maekar’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue, because arguing would require him to deny the truth, and he had already agreed. Instead he turned slightly away, as if looking toward the curtain where the guards stood and beyond them the rest of the pavilion, the wider world, where Aerion’s fury was undoubtedly fermenting in confinement.
His voice dropped. “If Aerion ever lays a hand on her again,” Maekar said, and there was a threat in it that made the air feel heavy, “I will end it. I don’t care if the realm calls it harsh. I don’t care if it stains the House.”
Valarr’s voice was quiet but certain. “He won’t get the chance.”
Maekar’s gaze snapped back to him. “Do not promise what you can’t guarantee.”
Valarr didn’t blink. “It’s not a promise. It’s a decision.”
For a moment, Maekar looked almost like he might respect that.
Baelor rose, signaling the meeting’s end before Maekar’s temper could find a new edge. “We’ll proceed carefully,” he said. “Quietly. Properly.”
Maekar nodded once, stiff. “Quietly,” he echoed. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “And Valarr.”
Valarr paused.
Maekar’s eyes held his, hard and direct. “She is not fragile. Don’t treat her like glass because Aerion tried to crack her. She’ll hate you for it.”
Valarr’s reply came without pause. “I know.”
Maekar studied him a second longer, then turned away as if he was done, as if agreement was something he could file away like a duty. “Go,” he said. “Before I change my mind.”
Baelor and Valarr left the chamber together, the curtain falling back into place behind them. Outside, the meadow waited, brightening toward another day of tourney and spectacle, and somewhere within the royal pavilion Aerion simmered, caged but not cured.
Baelor walked a step ahead, face composed, but when he was out of Maekar’s hearing, he let out a quiet breath, the kind of breath that carried relief and dread at the same time.
Valarr touched his bruised cheek absently, then looked toward the edge of the pavilion where the path led to the women’s quarters, where a princess slept or woke with no idea that her life had just been rerouted by men who loved her and men who wanted to own her.
“It’s done,” Valarr said, voice low.
Baelor didn’t look at him. “It’s begun,” he corrected.
what about modern daeron that is completely and utterly obsessed with you? i’m having thoughts again
cw: mdni, nsfw, obsessive/possessive daeron, making out, emotional tension
“daeron…” you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs. this wasn’t curiosity. it was something much sharper—an urgency in his eyes that made your chest tighten, like he needed to know you completely, or he might break. this was obsession.
“i need to know,” he said, his voice dropping to a raw, intimate rasp. he lifted a hand and traced the line of your collarbone above your dress with just the tip of his finger. you shuddered. “i need to know everything. because every moment you’re not with me feels like a theft. you are all i think about. when i dream, it’s you. when i’m trying not to dream… it’s still you.”
his words burned through the quiet, impossible to ignore. you were gullible, but you weren’t blind. something in his gaze, searching and insistent, that pulled at a part of you, you usually kept buried.he saw the surrender in your eyes before you voiced it. a dark, triumphant light flared in his gaze. he took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours with a firmness that left no room for argument, he led you back inside, through the silent, darkened hallways of the mansion, away from the party and into the heart of his private world. meant only for you.
his room is wide, dimly lit, with tall windows half covered by heavy, dark curtains.expensive furniture sits carelessly used: a large bed with rumpled sheets, clothes half fallen to the floor as if discarded mid thought rather than out of laziness. on either side, nightstands cluttered with crystal ashtrays—some still holding thin trails of smoke from forgotten cigarettes—next to scattered rings, a glass with untouched wine. the air carry’s a layered scent: sharp tobacco smoke lingering over something richer—leather, faint cologne, and the dry, almost burnt note of ash. underneath it all, a subtle chill, like stone walls that are never quite warm, no matter how long someone stays. he closed the door behind you, and the click of the lock was the loudest sound in the universe.
he turned to you, leaning back against the door, devouring you with his eyes. “come here.”
you walked to him, each step feeling momentous. when you were within reach, he didn’t grab you. he let his hands come up slowly, framing your face again, his touch reverent.
“i have wanted you,” he breathed, his lips inches from yours, “since i knew what wanting was. you, in this house, laughing with my siblings, being so fucking good and sweet and mine without even knowing it.” he kissed you then, but it wasn’t like a desperate kiss. this was slow. a claiming sip by sip.his tongue traced the seam of your lips until you opened for him with a soft sigh, and then he was delving in, tasting you deeply. his hands began to move. down your neck, over your shoulders, sliding the thin straps of your dress down your arms. the fabric pooled at your waist. he broke the kiss to look at you, his breath catching at the sight of you in your simple lace bra. “gods,” he swore, a prayer and a curse. “you ruin me.”
Synopsis: Two years of Leon Kennedy being almost present. Almost yours. Until the night he comes home too quiet, too raw, and the almost becomes something real.
WC: 3462
Category: Slight Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Slow/Burn.
Came back to finally drop my first Leon fic lmao. Something about the angsty longing trope hits different.
『••✎••』
There are days when Leon feels almost normal—what you've quietly come to call those rare, fragile stretches where the armor he's worn for so long finally cracks just enough to let something warmer, something human, slip through. He doesn't flinch or pull away when your fingers brush lightly along his arm; instead, he lets out one of those dry, half-hearted quips that almost passes for a real joke, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a way that feels like a small, private victory. There's no forced 'I'm fine' to push you back, no abrupt slide into silence that leaves the room colder than before. For those fleeting hours, he's simply present—solid, grounded, breathing the same air as you—and in those moments, you let yourself believe, even if only for a heartbeat, that the worst might finally be easing its grip on him.
But Leon Kennedy has always been built from almosts, each one layered carefully over the scars like protective scar tissue that never quite heals smooth. He almost says the words you ache to hear. Almost reaches for you in the dead of night when the nightmares rip him awake, his chest heaving and skin slick with sweat—only to turn away at the last second, pressing the heels of his hands hard against his eyes as though sheer force could force the memories back into the dark where they belong. He almost lets you see the full depth of the damage he's carrying, the parts of himself he still believes are too broken to share.
You understood what you were stepping into from the very beginning. Not the polished government operative from classified reports or the myth that lingers in hushed conversations, but the man himself: quiet and watchful, eyes always subtly scanning for exits, for threats, for the next thing that might go catastrophically wrong. The kind of man who carries the weight of entire ruined worlds on his shoulders and still murmurs a soft apology when he dares to set that burden down, even for a moment. He never asked anyone to follow him into the wreckage he lives with every day—never wanted to drag another soul into it—and yet here you are, because Leon doesn't know how to push someone away for good. Even when his walls are highest, the quiet terror that you might actually leave one day sits heavier in his chest than any mission briefing ever could.
When you first met, there was still a faint echo of the rookie charm he'd once had—dry sarcasm delivered so deadpan it took you a second to catch the humor, never trying too hard, never performing for approval. He didn't need to. That very restraint, the way he spoke like someone who'd already stared too long into the abyss and decided pretense was pointless, pulled you in deeper than any grand gesture ever could. But even back then the distance was there, a steady undercurrent of calculation behind every glance, every careful pause, as though part of him was always braced for the next catastrophe.
Time didn't wear those edges down the way you'd secretly hoped it might. If anything, it only made them quieter, more precise, more deeply ingrained. He began showing up at your place because the silence of his own apartment felt heavier and lonelier than the faint scent of gun oil and blood that sometimes clung to his clothes. He'd arrive at odd hours straight from operations—2 a.m., tac vest already half-unzipped, shirt stiff with dried sweat and worse—dropping onto your couch without explanation, body still humming with adrenaline but too exhausted to form full sentences.
Those late nights slowly bled into shared mornings, then into afternoons that felt almost ordinary, and before long he had become part of the quiet rhythm of your life. Not officially, not in any way you could point to without sounding foolish—but undeniably, irrevocably present. A toothbrush appeared in your bathroom. A worn-out duffel that he never fully unpacked settled in the corner of your closet. He didn't talk about it; you didn't press him. You just bought groceries for two and left an extra blanket folded over the arm of the couch. And when he started staying more nights than he left, you began keeping coffee ready before the sun came up, not because you expected him home safe, but because some small part of you needed to be ready when—if—he was.
Tonight, though, something is different.
The front door clicks shut behind him with a quiet finality that sets your teeth on edge. There's no slow shuffle of boots being kicked off, no weary sigh as the weight of the day finally settles on him. Just silence—a thick, unnerving stillness that immediately tells you something has gone terribly wrong.
"Leon?" you call, your voice barely disturbing the quiet.
He doesn't answer at first, but you hear the faint creak of leather as he sets his go-bag down by the door, then the soft thud of something heavier—his gear, maybe—being carefully placed on the floor. He's being deliberate, methodical, which never bodes well. It's how he moves when he's compartmentalizing, when the details of the job are still too sharp and raw to let go of yet.
When he finally steps into the dim light of the living room, your breath catches in your throat. He's clean—showered, even, which is rare after an op—but there's a weariness in him that goes beyond fatigue. His face is pale under the stubble, and the familiar lines of tension around his eyes seem carved deeper, more permanent.
He meets your gaze for a split second before looking away, moving toward the kitchen with that practiced, economical grace of someone who can navigate a dark room without making a sound. The refrigerator door opens, casting a pale glow across his features as he reaches for a bottle of water, but you can see the tremor in his hand, the almost imperceptible hesitation before he wraps his fingers around the plastic.
"Bad one?" you ask, keeping your voice gentle.
He twists the cap off the bottle, takes a slow sip, and then another, as though deliberately composing himself before he answers. The silence stretches, and you let it, knowing better than to rush him.
"You could say that," he says finally, setting the bottle down on the counter with a soft click. He turns, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest in a way that's meant to look relaxed but isn't. "It's done now."
"Did you—" you hesitate, not sure how to finish that sentence. Did you get hurt? Did you have to do something you'll regret? Did you lose someone else?
He seems to understand anyway. A faint, bitter smile touches his lips but doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm fine."
The words land like a slap, not because they're harsh, but because they're so obviously false. Fine is not a word that lives in Leon's world. It's a shield, a placeholder, a way to say 'back off' without having to actually push you away.
But you're not backing down. Not tonight.
"Talk to me," you say softly, taking a step closer. "Please."
For a moment, you think he's going to shut you out completely. His shoulders tense, and his gaze drops to the floor, the familiar wall of silence rising between you. But then something shifts—a flicker of conflict in his expression, a brief, almost desperate look of longing before the mask slides back into place.
"You don't want to hear about it," he says, but there's no conviction in the words. "Trust me on that."
"I'm not asking because I want the details," you reply, closing the remaining distance between you. You stop just short of touching him, giving him space to retreat if he needs to. "I'm asking because I care about you."
A muscle works in his jaw, and you can see the war raging behind his eyes—the part of him that wants to let you in, to finally unburden himself, fighting against years of conditioning that demand he carry it all alone. His breath catches, and for a heartbeat, the facade cracks completely, revealing something raw and broken underneath.
Then, slowly, as though it's the hardest thing he's ever done, he loosens his arms, letting them fall to grasp the edges of the counter behind him. His knuckles are white, and he's staring at a point just over your shoulder, but it's a start.
"Why…?" he begins, his voice barely a whisper, rough with disuse. "Why do you let me keep coming back?"
The question hangs in the air between you, so unexpected it takes a moment for the meaning to sink in. You figured his next words would be about the mission, about the violence and the fallout. Instead, he's asking about you—about the space he takes up in your life, the ghost in your house, the weight he brings with him each time he crosses your threshold.
You could give him a simple answer.
"…Because I want you here."
But that feels too small for the magnitude of what he's asking, for the depth of the vulnerability he's just offered you, however reluctantly.
Something tells you that no matter what words you choose, he'll only take them halfway before discounting them entirely. Leon Kennedy has always been better at finding reasons to leave than to stay, and tonight is no exception. You can already see it in the way he holds himself—poised to bolt at the slightest misstep, convinced that whatever comfort he's found here is temporary at best.
"Leon," you say, your voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. "Look at me."
His eyes finally meet yours, and the pain there is almost unbearable. The weight of his question lands squarely in your chest, and you realize he's been carrying this thought for a long while—a quiet, persistent fear that he's taking more than he's giving, that his presence is a burden you'll eventually grow tired of bearing.
You realize then, the only way through this is to meet that fear with the same quiet insistence he's always used to push people away. Not to argue with him, not to convince him with words, but to show him, in the language he understands best—action, persistence, the kind of unflinching presence that doesn't require proof to exist.
So you take that last small step, closing the distance between you, leaning forward and up until your lips find his cheek. Out of all the nights he's spent over, out of all the small, casual touches you've shared, this is the first you've initiated with this kind of deliberate intent. It's not a kiss of passion, or a prelude to anything more, it's simply an anchor.
For a moment, he doesn't move, doesn't breathe. The muscles in his neck are corded with tension, and you can feel the frantic, bird-like beat of his pulse beneath your lips. His hands, which had been gripping the counter, slowly release their hold, one coming up to rest hesitantly on your waist, the other hovering in the space between your bodies as if he's not sure he has the right to touch you back.
But he doesn't pull away. He doesn't flinch or turn aside. He stays, and that's the only answer you need.
When you finally lean back, his eyes are wide, the pale blue of them almost startling in the dim light. He's watching you with an expression you've never seen before—a mix of confusion, disbelief, and something so fragile it feels like it might shatter if you speak too loudly.
"You really believe that I could just walk away?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. "That I'd get tired of this? Of you?" You gesture vaguely around the kitchen, at the worn-out blanket on the couch, at the toothbrush in your bathroom, at the duffel bag in your closet—all the small, quiet ways he's woven himself into your life.
Leon's throat works as he swallows, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, as if trying to reconcile the reality of what just happened with the carefully constructed narrative he's built about himself. That he's too distant, too caught up in the darkness to even glance back toward the light. That anyone who gets close enough will inevitably be dragged down with him.
"I don't know," he admits, the words raw, stripped of all pretense. "I don't know why you haven't."
"Who else is going to laugh at your terrible jokes and make sure you're eating something other than stale granola bars and coffee?" You say it lightly, but the meaning behind it is anything but. "If you want me gone, Leon, you're going to have to say the words. You're going to have to look me in the eye and tell me you want out, and you're going to have to mean it."
You can feel the way his breath catches, the way he's silently pleading with you to understand that he's not trying to hurt you—that he's trying, in his own clumsy, broken way, to protect you. From the violence. From the nightmares. From the parts of himself that he can't stand to look at, let alone let you see.
"I..." he begins, but the words get stuck, and he shakes his head slightly, as if to clear it. "I'm not good at this."
"At what?" you press gently, your thumb stroking small circles over the fabric of his shirt where your hand rests on his chest. "Letting someone care about you?"
His gaze drops, focusing on the space where your bodies almost touch. "Being... cared for."
And there it is—the quiet admission of a man who has spent so long being the protector, the survivor, the one who carries everyone else's burdens that he's forgotten how to let someone carry even a fraction of his. The idea that he deserves it is so foreign to him it's practically a foreign language.
"You don't have to be good at it," you say softly. "You just have to let it happen."
He doesn't respond, not with words. But the hand that was hovering between you finally comes to rest on your hip, fingers curling around you with a hesitant grip, as if he's afraid you might dissolve under his touch. He leans into you then, just a little, a subtle shift in weight that feels more significant than any grand declaration. His forehead comes to rest against yours, and for a long moment, you just breathe together in the quiet of the kitchen, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound in the room.
You can feel the tension slowly draining from him, the rigid set of his shoulders softening, the frantic pulse under your skin beginning to even out. He's not fixed—not by a long shot. The mission, whatever it was, still haunts the corners of his eyes, and the nightmares will come again. But for now, in this small, fragile space, he's not Leon the government operative, Leon the survivor, Leon the man who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. He's just Leon. The man you fell in love with, scars and all.
"You're tired," you murmur, your lips brushing against the stubble on his jaw.
He lets out a breath that's half sigh, half laugh, the warmth of it fanning across your cheek. "That's an understatement."
"Then come to bed," you say, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. There's no subtext in your words, no suggestion of anything more than rest, and you can see the relief in his expression, the gratitude that you understand what he needs without him having to ask.
"I even bought a new pillow," you add, a small smile playing on your lips. "The one you kept stealing was getting flat."
A real, genuine smile touches Leon's eyes this time, the corners crinkling in a way that makes your heart ache with a mixture of love and sorrow. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know," you reply. "But I didn’t like stealing it back."
He doesn't protest when you take his hand, your fingers lacing through his, leading him out of the kitchen and down the short hallway to the bedroom. The space is simple, uncluttered—yours, but with little pieces of him scattered throughout like breadcrumbs leading back to the person he is when no one is watching. A worn paperback on the nightstand, spine cracked from being read and reread. A half-empty bottle of water. A small, unassuming photograph tucked into the frame of the mirror, the two of you on a rare day off, squinting into the sun, your head thrown back in laughter while he's watching you with a look of fond exasperation.
The same look he's giving you now as you throw the fluffy new pillow right in his face. He barely has the energy to catch it, but he does, cradling it to his chest for a second before tossing it onto the bed with a soft thump.
"It's nice," he says, his voice still raspy with exhaustion.
"It is, isn't it? There was a flash sale if you buy two. The other one's for me, obviously." You wink at him. 'Unless you want to steal this one, too.'
He shakes his head, a faint smile still playing on his lips. "I'll stick to this one. Fair's fair."
The routine of it all, the simple domesticity that you were used to before he'd started showing up less and less as the missions got longer, more dangerous, returns as if no time has passed at all. You watch as he moves to the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him, the sounds of him brushing his teeth, washing his face, the familiar rhythm of someone who knows your space as well as you do.
Truthfully you don't realize he's out until you feel an arm slip around your waist from behind, turning you around to face him. He's still wearing his typical pants and form-fitting compression shirt, but the tactical accessories are gone. For the first time in a while, he's just a man. A man who looks like he's been through hell and back, but a man nonetheless.
You were going to ask if he wanted the bed to himself tonight, but you never got the chance. Like the cheek kiss from earlier, he settles for a different, but equally meaningful gesture. Lips pressed against your forehead, soft and warm and lingering. He pulls back a second later, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, but before it disappears you reach up, your hand cupping the back of his neck, pulling him back down.
This time it’s not on the forehead or cheek. You tilt your head up and press your lips to his, a slow, gentle kiss that brings out more of the quiet, hidden sigh against your lips.
Two years of knowing him and loving him, and only now did you cross that last boundary. The one you both respected but never acknowledged. The one that, if crossed, would be the point of no return.
The world goes quiet. The only thing that exists is the warmth of his lips, the slight stubble that scratches your skin, the way he leans into you, just a little, as if he's finally allowing himself to be supported. The way you both stand there, in the middle of your bedroom, neither of you pulling away, neither of you wanting to break the spell.
He didn’t sleep on the couch that night. Not that he rarely did anymore anyway given your refusal to let him suffer alone when you had a perfectly fine bed. Still, there was still that imaginary line. The one that kept him from completely crossing over. Almost like a stack of pillows placed down the center of the bed, a silent agreement that this was as far as it went. It was a boundary you both silently respected.
But tonight, there were no pillows. Tonight he didn't just lie beside you, he held you. For the first time, he held you the way he’s always wanted.
And for the first night in a very long while, you didn't wake up to an empty bed. You woke up to the weight of an arm around your waist, the gentle rise and fall of Leon's chest against your back, the soft, steady sound of his breathing in your ear. It was a kind of peace you hadn't realized you were starving for until you had it.
And now that you did, you had a sinking feeling you were never going to be able to go without it again.
THE WEDDING NIGHT — Valarr Targaryen x Stark!reader.
third part of the series! After the marriage ceremony, it’s time for the consummation. And Valarr is such a sweetheart with you. a/n: had a little trouble writing this because i see Valarr more like a sub (maybe I’ll write for that too yum)
warnings: 18+ smut, unprotected p n v, loss of virginity, worshiping, fingering, experienced Valarr, size kink ? slight breast play, petnames, creampie, kissing. 2K words.
He did as he promised. A knight of the King’s Guard walked you through the halls while the drunken lords and ladies were carrying Valarr and undressing him. For his luck, he was wearing way too many layers of velvet to be fully undressed when they put him down. Just a black tunic and his breeches untouched.
He was laughing, and lords were tapping his shoulder and whispering in his ear.
When you passed through the group, a few ladies passed a hand through your hair and arms, giving you comforting smiles.
Daeron, after a moment of laughter, shrugged and raised his cup. “To the Prince and his beautiful bride! May their night be…private!”
He spun on his heel, shepherding the laughing guests back inside with efficiency.
The doors swung shut the moment you were inside. Silence descended, thick and sudden. Valarr turned to you, the stern lines of his face softening into concern. He held your hand.
“I meant it” he said quietly. “I didn’t want you to go through that”
“You cared for my dignity or you cared more about lords putting their hands on me? ” you said, teasing. He chuckled.
“A bit of both.” He brought your knuckles to his lips. “Our wedding night belongs to us. No one else.”
The bridal chamber was bathed in the soft glow of firelight and candles. Rose petals were scattered across the bed linens, and a carafe of wine and two goblets sat on a table nearby.
Valarr closed the door, and the world outside ceased to exist. He turned to you, his gaze intense yet unbearably tender.
“Are you frightened?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
You nodded, unable to lie. “A little.”
“There is no need to be.” He stepped closer, his hands coming up to frame your face. “I won’t force you to anything”
You thought for a second. All the little moments you had spend with him made you believe he’s one to trust. And now, he was your husband. With a scared voice you said:
“I want this”
His eyebrows twitched in that yearning passion the moment you said that.
“I want you” no need to tell him twice.
His thumbs stroked your cheeks as he leaned in, and his kiss was nothing like the formal, chaste one in the sept. This was a slow, deliberate exploration. It was soft and seeking, when he pulled back, your breath was shaky.
“Let me help you” he murmured, his fingers moving to the intricate laces at the back of your gown.
He worked with a surprising deftness, his knuckles brushing against your back, sending shivers through you. The heavy fabric loosened, and he helped you step out of it, folding it carefully over a chair. He removed his own doublet and boots with efficient movements, until he stood before you in his tunic and breeches.
He led you to the bed, sitting you on the edge. He knelt before you, taking one of your feet in his hand and gently removing your slipper. He did the same with the other, his touch firm and warm. Then he looked up at you, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight.
“You are so beautiful” he whispered while he kissed your leg, slowly kissing higher and higher.
He rose to sit beside you, his hand coming to rest on your knee over the thin layer of your shift. “May I?”
At your nod, his hand began a slow journey upward, skating over your thigh, his palm hot through the linen. He leaned in and captured your mouth again, this kiss deeper, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you opened for him. The sensation was foreign and dizzying, a slow, molten heat pooling in your belly.
He laid you back against the pillows, following you down, his body a warm, solid weight beside you. His kisses trailed from your mouth to your jaw, down the column of your throat. His fingers found the strap of your shift and tugged it down, his lips following the path it bared, worshiping the curve of your shoulder.
“Valarr…” you breathed, your fingers tangling in his hair.
“I am here, my wife” he whispered against your skin. “I have you.”
He peeled the remaining silks away, baring you to the warm air and his hungry gaze. He stilled, his eyes drinking you in.
“Gods” he breathed, a reverent prayer. He didn’t pounce or seize. He simply looked, his admiration a tangible thing that made you feel beautiful instead of exposed.
His hand caressed the exposed skin, cupping your breast. Then he bent his head, and his mouth closed over one peak. You cried out, arching off the bed as a bolt of pure sensation shot through you. He laved it with his tongue, suckling gently, his hand coming up to caress and weigh your other breast.
The dual assault on your senses was overwhelming, a building tension that was exquisite and terrifying all at once.
His touches were everywhere, learning the landscape of your body. His clever fingers traced your ribs, the dip of your navel, the flare of your hips. He kissed a path down your stomach, his breath hot on your skin, until he reached the lustful sight between your thighs.
You tensed, a fresh wave of nervousness seizing you. He looked up, his eyes filled with desire but clear with understanding. ‘He’s so good with me’ you thought. ‘Almost as if he knew what I feel and think’. You gasped.
“Shhh” he soothed, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “This is just another way to love you. Let me show you.”
His touch was feather-light at first, a gentle exploration that made you gasp. He stroked and circled, learning what made you jerk and what made you moan. When his finger finally slid inside you, it was a slow, careful intrusion. You were tight, and he stilled, letting you adjust to the feeling of him.
“You’re so warm” he murmured, watching your face. “So perfect for me.”
He began to move his finger in a slow, gliding rhythm, while his thumb found a sensitive nub above and began to make lazy, torturous circles. The coiling tension in your belly tightened unbearably. Your hips began to move of their own accord, meeting his rhythm. The world narrowed to the feeling of his hand, the sound of his ragged breathing, the sight of his focused, beautiful face between your thighs.
“So tight f’me…but I’ll make it fit”
He slid another finger, stretching you out.
“That’s it, my love” he encouraged, his voice rough. “Let go. I want to feel you let go for me.”
The pleasure built to a breaking point, a cresting wave that held you suspended for a breathtaking moment before it crashed over you. You shattered with a broken cry, your body convulsing around his fingers as he cleaned with his tongue every drop of your release.
Before you could even come down, he was moving over you, shedding his remaining clothes. You saw him then, fully, the lean strength of him, the evidence of his own desire thick and straining. He settled between your legs, the head of his arousal pressing against your damp, sensitive flesh.
You closed your eyes this time. He noticed.
“My beautiful wife, look at me” his hand took your chin up, making you face him.
“I’m a little scared, that’s all. But I want it”
He smiled at your words, kissing your temple as he kept caressing your cheek. He leaned again to kiss your lips “This will hurt” he whispered against your mouth, his voice thick with apology and need. “But only for a moment. I promise.”
You nodded, wrapping your arms around his neck, trusting him completely.
He pushed forward, a slow, inexorable pressure. There was a sharp, tearing pain and you whimpered into his mouth. He froze, his entire body rigid with the effort of holding still.
“I’m sorry” he gasped. “I am so sorry, my love.”
He held you, whispering endearments into your hair, until the pain subsided into a dull, full ache. You nodded again, and he began to move. It was a slow, rocking rhythm, a gentle claiming. The ache gradually faded, replaced by a new, building warmth, echoes of the pleasure he had given you before.
He buried his face in your neck, his thrusts gaining a little strength, a little pace. His breath was hot on your skin, his groans music to your ears. You moved with him, learning his rhythm, meeting him thrust for thrust.
“Look at me” he pleaded.
You opened your eyes, meeting his intense, love-filled gaze. In that moment, you were truly joined.
His pace faltered, his rhythm becoming frantic. “My wife” he choked out, a final, broken declaration before he spilled himself inside you with a deep, shuddering groan.
He collapsed upon you, his weight a comforting burden, before quickly rolling to his side, taking you with him, keeping you joined. He held you tightly against his chest, both of you slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison.
He stroked your hair, your back, placing soft, lingering kisses on your forehead.
Finally, he spoke, his voice rough with emotion. “Did..did I hurt you?”
“No” You curled into him, your body sore, sated, and utterly his. “It was perfect”
He held you closer. “You are perfect”.
You smiled against him when he suddenly kneeled in front of you in bed, lowering his head to leave worshiping kisses all over you. Your neck, your shoulders, your hands, your thighs.
