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aklaustaleteller · 6 months ago

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Could you make an imagine where Klaus Mikaelson is the father figure to the reader despite not being her real dad? And her birth father came back trying to take her but Klaus wouldn’t stand for it and wouldn’t let him take the reader?

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Klaus had just been taking a stroll through the woods when he finds himself walking towards the sounds of a beta's broken sobs. Seeing the little abandoned wolf, Klaus takes her home with him, hoping that he'd be able to become her safe place -- which he very successfully does. But what happens when Y/n's biological father returns after ages in hopes of getting her back?

Warnings - None really, other than the fact that it's quite sad (but with happy outcomes I promise <3)

Word Count - 4.0k

Masterlist | please reblog the fic if you like it!

I'm so so so sorry for my absence the past whole week but hey, this is quite literally a 4k worded fic! So hopefully that makes up for it? (Also, thank you for the request, lovely anon. Please do tell me if you like it!!)

Also! I took the idea of Y/n's wolf being a little out of control from this very very amazing fic written by the truly talented @klausysworld Please do give the fic a read, if you haven't already that is, hahah <3

Klaus had been taking a stroll through the woods, his feet carrying him just about anywhere while his mind sped through thoughts a million miles an hour. He made plans, then backed them up with another one, and then made another one, just in case. And he'd just lifted his leg to cross over a fallen tree when his body came to an unnatural halt.

He was never caught off guard, but right now, as he heard hushed sobs and a heart that was beating in a painfully broken rhythm, he couldn't help but gently continue his stroll – in a particular direction with an aim, this time.

His head tilted as he neared the source of the sound, his nose picking up on a beta scent. It had been way too long since he had come across a beta, his major interactions occurring with either other Alphas or Omegas, or Vampires. As well as some other species that rather got on his nerves, such as the witches. It intrigued him.

From quite afar, his eyes finally caught sight of a rather small frame crouched against the rough bark of a tree, a jerk shaking their body every time their back accidently met with it, followed by another painful but gritted howl.

But what made Klaus' frown deepen even further, was the sight of wolf ears growing from the person's head. He felt as though his eyes were deceiving him; he had never come across something like this and if he wasn't mistaken, he was pretty sure that this was just an untrained little wolf -- or perhaps it was the strangeness making him think that there couldn't possibly be another mythical creature that was actually all too real.

So, he walked closer, his head a little ducked and shoulders bunched up on either side of his neck as he tried not to make any sound as that would surely startle the ...child, he realised.

The little frame, sobbing into their hands with their knees bunched up against their torso, belonged to a child. A werewolf child who was beginning to lose control of their wolf, and just then Klaus noticed a tail curling up against the little one's back in order to provide comfort.

He flinched when some wood broke unde his step, alerting the little girl and his heart cracked like a drought-stricken land when she jerked and looked up at him with eyes so big, full of fear swarming them and so much sadness that he could drown in it and not be found.

She immediately backed up into the tree, hissing sharply when her back met the unruly surface but not once did her eyes move away from him. Her lips trembled, a fat tear rolling down her cheek against her will and Klaus noted that the girl could not be older than a decade.

Taking another step towards her, Klaus froze when her wolf ears went back in, and a sob broke out of her mouth.

"Please, sir! I will do whatever you ask of me, but please don't hurt me," she shouted at him, fully breaking down into heart wrenching sobs as she tried to get up on wobbly legs but fell to the ground right away due to the tremor coursing through her body.

Tears blurred his vision for a second before he took the final step toward her which brought him close enough to sit on his knees beside her and rest his hand on her head.

"It's alright, little wolf. I'm not here to harm you," Klaus whispered, feeling her body falling into shambles under his touch. But when she looked up at him with uncertainty in her eyes, he couldn't help but pass her a reassuring smile.

"You are safe with me, sweetheart," he said, now weaving his hand across her forehead to brush away the hair that stuck to it. "Yes?" He asked her with a soft nod, bringing her closer to his chest when she too, nodded. Her eyes were still uncertain but he could tell that it won't take long for her to let go.

This was a child, full of enough naivety to trust a stranger and Klaus was more than glad that he’d found her before someone else could’ve. And maybe his Alpha scent provided her with the extra comfort that she most likely needed, but Klaus wasn’t complaining.

So he rested his back against the tree this time and let her sit in his lap, his arms around her in a way that cocooned her away from whatever that had pained her so terribly, and ready to protect her from anything that came her way with poisonous intentions.

His heart clenched inside his chest when the little girl curled up against him, finally letting the sobs rake through her body and for all the sadness to cause havoc inside her little heart before it left her alone for good.

And for some reason, Klaus just knew to avoid her back. It was clear that she was hurt over there somehow, making him rub his hand up and down her arm instead, and rock the two of them side to side for a little bit. Slowly and slowly, her wails turned into softer sobs and then finally, Klaus heard her heartbeat go back to a normal pace again.

He looked down to see if she'd cried it all out, wanting her to tell him about the culprit who had hurt her like this but when he found that she had slipped into a deep, peaceful slumber, he didn't even think once before carrying her home with him, covering her up under his duvet while he sat on the sofa across the bed, looking at her and telling himself that there was no way he was going to be able to let her go.

He just felt something between them, something that brought them closer in a way he had never experienced before. He felt like he was supposed to love her, care for her, teach her all about the world and show her the wonders. He felt like taking her responsibility, giving her his last name and raising her protected from the world.

Perhaps it was because he, somewhere, saw his inner child in her. The child that so helplessly begged for just some love from his father and got the horrifying abuse instead.

Klaus wanted to take her under his wing and be there for her while she grew up. He wanted this very clearly abandoned little wolf to call him her father, and his brothers her uncles and his sisters her aunts.

He couldn't sleep all night, fearing that she'd wake up and ask for her actual parents. And he knew he'd take her back in an instant if she wanted to, but it would tear him apart into uncountable and unrecognisable shreds.

And so, he waited all night for her to wake up and hopefully deny him when he'd ask her if she wanted to go back home. And Klaus would go to hell and back to build her a home; to become her home.

But despite his stubborn decision to stay up and look after her, Klaus awoke to something soft and comforting touching his whatever exposed skin. And as he cracked open his eyes, the sunlight was already pouring inside his room and one of his blankets was draped over him. And he knew it hadn’t been on him for long as he had felt it sliding across his frame, and yet he couldn’t catch sight of the carer.

That was, until he began getting up and he looked down to find the little girl, sitting beside his feet and looking up at him with doe eyes full of ...joy. He noted that the girl was happy to see that he was finally awake, her heartbeat picking up just a little as a smile slid on her mouth.

“Thank you, Alpha,” the girl mumbled shyly, placing her hands on his knees while she began standing up. And Klaus’ arms instantly went ahead in order to prevent her from falling but she didn’t stumble once, reminding him that she probably had werewolf healing powers that performed with a slight delay due to her young age.

Klaus opened his mouth to say something but when the girl warily wrapped her arms around his neck, standing on the very tip of her toes to do so, he found himself caught off guard, once again. But regardless, he hugged her back rather tightly, lifting her off the ground and bringing her on the sofa.

“Are you okay now, little wolf? Does it still hurt?” Klaus asked her, one of his hands cupping her face while the other cradled her. And his heart swooned when she curled up on him just like the night prior, but this time only soft breaths passed through her mouth.

“The wounds have healed, Alpha,” she mumbled, almost hiding her face by tucking it away in his chest. “But my heart still hurts, I think,” her voice wavered as she confessed, now clenching his henley in her fist due to the unease it brought to her.

“Oh, little wolf,” Klaus sighed, his eyebrows turned into an upside down frown as he looked upon her with pity. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” He whispered, cautious so she wouldn’t shut him off, even though she was too young to know of such a thing.

“My father, he – he kicked me out of the pack yesterday,” she told him with a quivering voice, tears beginning to pool in her eyes once again. “He told me – he said that he doesn’t love me… that – that he never has!” She cried out, a sob aching her throat and wrapping itself around it so tightly that it was almost beginning to choke her.

“He said he doesn’t love me,” she repeated, her body now shaking in Klaus arms as his heart crumpled inside his chest as he noted just how much she cared and felt, and that she was having to relive it again right now.

“Why did he kick you out, darling?” Klaus asked, wanting to end her misery and just a one line answer would be enough for him to go over and slaughter the entire pack.

“He wanted me to learn how to handle the pack once he wouldn’t be there anymore, how – how to be an Alpha,” she told him, tears flowing out of her eyes that had now grown bloodshot red.

And just then, her ears popped out of her head once again, and Klaus couldn’t help but pet the welted ears in order to help her calm down.

“But I didn’t want to! I – I don’t want to take charge after him!” She told Klaus, this time her voice changed its tone to be more convincing and desperate. She sat upright, trying to show Klaus just how much she’d rather work behind the scenes than take the lead officially.

“It’s okay, little wolf – you won’t have to anymore,” Klaus reassured the girl, weaving his fingers through her hair and pressing a kiss on her forehead. “You’ll be here with me, safe and sound, and I will love you, sweetheart,” he whispered, looking into her eys with the purest sincerity.

“I truly love you, little wolf,” Klaus said softly at recieving a questioning look from her, asking if he honestly meant what he was saying. “And I will always show you love.”

She brightened up at that, the shine of a couple stars returning to her eyes as she got up, but then saddened again. “But what about home?” She asked, her tears beginning to dry up on her cheeks as she wiped them away.

“Do you wish to go home?”

“No,” she trailed off, looking away from his eyes as if guilty, causing Klasu to cup her cheeks and turn her back to face him.

“Then I’ll be your home, little wolf,” he smiled at her. “Yes?”

The girl nodded, quickly leaning in to press a kiss on his dimpled cheek.

“What’s your name, darling?”

“Y/n, Alpha,” she answered him, and Klaus wanted more than anything for her to call him her father or dad, but knew that he should give her some time.

“Lovely,” he grinned, taking her in his arms and getting up to let her in the shower and then introduce her to the rest of the Mikaelsons.

And it wasn’t long before Klaus found himself officially adopting Y/n, making her a Mikaelson and his heart had swollen inside his ribs when she’d so shyly asked him if she could finally call him her father.

Over the first couple months only Klaus noticed that her gentle and empathetic nature valued deep and personal connections with people over power and attention. He also learned that the reason she hid her high intelligence and outstandingness in whatever field she chose, was because that was simply ingrained in her beta personality.

So, gradually, books all about betas began to fill shelves in their library quarter of the house.

“Father!” Came in a shrieking voice, followed by his ears picking up on a rapid heartbeat and he was out of the bed in an instant, checking her over to see if she was hurt and he only shook his head when he found that Kol had just been chasing her around the house, early in the morning to keep her interest while Freya made breakfast for her.

“Good morning, little wolf,” Klaus grinned, picking her up off the ground and spinning with her in his hold, pressing as many kisses as he could all over her face as she pressed her palm against his face to keep his stubble away.

Loud giggles and squeaks echoed throughout the mansion as Klaus brought her back to bed with him, letting her lay on top of him.

It quite hurt him that she was too tall to curl up on him now, but it still felt good when her heart pressed up against his despite the many layers of bones and skin and clothing keeping them apart.

“Uncle Kol was chasing me with his vampire speed! Tell him that that’s not fair!” She whined, looking pointedly at Kol who was shaking his head at the door.

“You’re a wolf, little one,” Klaus began, pulling her attention back on him. “You can outrun anyone,” he smiled.

Y/n contemplated that for a second before she moved to sit upright beside him with a pout on her mouth. “Anyone but you, father.”

Klaus laughed at that, tackling her back into bed. “You do not wish to outrun me, now do you, little wolf?” He asked her, getting out of bed and letting her cling to him on his chest as he went downstairs. He knew that as a wolf, she preferred to nuzzle anywhere she found warmth, and that his chest was one of her favourite places.

Sitting her down on the chair next to him, Klaus let her eat her food by herself. Sure, the honey did drizzle down her chin once but he didn’t mind, instantly cleaning it up with his thumb before it could’ve slipped down any further.

Elijah asked her questions about the storybook he had bought her a couple days prior, Rebekah asked her if the girl wanted to help her aunt pick out a dress, Kol warned her against it by threatening to chase her and Freya smacked all of them on the back of their heads, telling them off to let you eat.

“Father, are you free to paint with me after this?” Y/n asked, looking at him with eyes that had truly unintentionally turned similar to a little puppy’s.

Klaus finished his food, noting another thing that her shyness had truly dissipated into thin air. And all that it had left behind was politeness and some convincing eyes that could get the devil to let go of a deal.

“Of course, Y/n,” he smiled, getting up and grinning when she trotted behind him happily with her own empty plate in her hand. He watched as she put it in the sink and washed her hands and mouth, letting her chug down her orange juice for once as he wiped his own mouth.

Once again, she followed him back inside his studio like a lost puppy. Klaus came back out with the heavier and the majority of supplies in his hands while Y/n skipped behind him with the paints and the brushes in hers.

Walking into the front yard, Klaus set down all of their stuff and sat himself in front of her, chuckling when he noticed that she’d already begun twirling her brush around on her canvas, not a single thought in her mind as she let out anything that flashed in front of her eyes, onto the paper.

Klaus on the other hand, decided to make a painting of colours chosen from her hair. Every colour he saw in the midst of her hair strands, he put it on his canvas, slowly and slowly morphing into a tree’s bark.

And when he checked upon her canvas to see where her painting was going, he felt his dimples dig inside his cheeks at the sight of every and any shade of green that she could find – perhaps in his eyes, Klaus realized when she raised her head to look into his eyes and went back to working.

Almost all of his days went like this, waking up to her running into his room after having had a shower, holding her in his arms for a little then taking her down for breakfast, where she would convince him to paint with her for a little.

After that he’d let her go off with Eilajh to read and learn some other things by Freya that she probably needed to learn. He would be out of the mansion during that, out to mind his business and kill his own minions because of their brave stupidity.

When he’d return to the mansion, Y/n would sleepily trod out of her bed and into his arms, let him pick her up and take her to bed where he’d just hold her and tell her how much he loved her, because someone had probably already read her a story or two.

Some nights she would wake up crying from a nightmare about her biological father, and then she would find herself running into Klaus’ arms which were already open, having heard her rushed footsteps and broken sobs.

Her wolf ears no longer popped out since Klaus had spent an insurmountable time helping her take her wolf under her control, but every once in a while, depending upon how bad the nightmare was, her tail would creep out of her shirt and curl itself either around Klaus’ arms or her own back, which Klaus didn’t object at seeing that she only did this when she was crying in his arms.

But once they’d finish painting, Y/n would run into the house with her and Klaus’ painting to show them off to her uncles and aunts, leaving Klaus behind to clean up the mess. But he didn’t mind it one bit, only laughing when she’d come back looking guilty and saying that she was sorry that she’d once again forgotten to help him clean up in her excitement.

And that’s exactly what had happened just now.

“It’s okay little wolf,” Klaus assured her. “You know I don’t mind it,” he said and let her hug him to show him just how bad she felt.

He rubbed her back, and got up with her hand in his, looking down at the back of her head and smiling as she led their way back inside.

“Wait father!” She paused her walking. “Look, the weather has taken a turn,” she stated, pointing at the sky in which angry clouds had begun swirling, the fluffy white ones long gone.

“Does that mean it’s reading time?”

“Yes!” The girl shrieked, jumping up and down, making Klaus laugh as she ran off to meet up with Elijah.

He caught himself grinning long after she had left his line of sight and shook his head, a smile still pasted on his mouth as he turned around to rule over the so-called supernatural adults whom even Y/n was smarter than.

“I see you’ve taken a liking to playing her father, Niklaus,” a rough voice said from behind, and while it hadn’t caught Klaus off guard, what had was the fact that this man was brave and dumb enough to step a foot in such close proximity to him.

Surely, he must have come with a death wish.

“Roman,” Klaus said out loud the name of Y/n’s biological father, his voice full of venom and he could’ve spat at the man in front of him. “I see you’re feeling daring today, perhaps even like dying?” He proposed, taking a threatening step towards the man.

Klaus had, the very next night of when he’d found Y/n, went on to slaughter Roman’s entire pack. He had let the man live since he wanted him to see and live through his own daughter's hatred towards him. So much hatred that she didn’t even look his way anymore, let alone call him her father.

“Let’s not get this messy, Niklaus,” Roman started but before he could’ve finished, Klaus had him pinned against the very door frame he was leaning so cockily on.

“I’m not your friend, Roman,” he gritted through his teeth, knowing that he didn’t need to clarify any further as to what he meant by that.

“Sir,” Roman started, stretching his neck. “I want my daughter back,” he said.

Red flashed in front of Klaus’ eyes as he sped towards Roman, tearing through his flesh and ribs to clench his heart in his fist. “I would’ve been a fan of such bravery had you not made the mistake of calling her your daughter when she fucking refuses to even recognise you,” Klaus finally spat at him, his grip on his heart so tight that it could burst due to the pressure.

“I will rip your heart out and shove it down your throat if you dare once again to call my daughter, yours, or call your lame excuse of a self, her father,” he said, pulling on his heart lightly. “She is mine, and I love her and this is her home now.”

“I am her home,” he gritted his teeth so hard that they could’ve shattered.

Roman’s frame was beginning to get blue, knocking the realisation into Klaus that his hold on his heart was so hard that it was struggling to beat. “Go to the opposite side of the world and never look back here again,” Klaus compelled him, finally taking his hand back out of his chest.

“Now off you go,” he said, maybe shooed. “I am sure you know that a wolf bite can only be cured by my blood,” he hissed venomously, his eyes shining golden as vampire streaks drew themselves through his skin.

And once Roman had finally sped out, Klaus let out a breath and his heart to rest again, his hands trembling at the thought of what could’ve happened right now had he not been who he truly is.

Rushing into his room to clean himself off, Klaus rushed back out to Y/n who was currently sitting in front of Elijah.

“Little wolf!” Klaus called for her as he stood at the doorway of the room, his vision getting blurry when she came running to him with the biggest smile on her face.

“Yes father? Missed me, didn’t you?” She giggled teasingly, wrapping her arms around him and Klaus couldn’t help but nuzzle in the nape of her neck, holding her tightly against him as he kneeled on the floor and felt a tear slip past the slit of his eyes.

“I love you, my little wolf,” he said, whimpering.

“Oh, I love you too, father,” she sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. “You should know that I’ll always be your little wolf.”

“Forever and always, my precious” Klaus breathed, pressing a chaste kiss on her cheek before resting his forehead against it for a moment, breathing in her scent and reminding himself that she’d also become his home now.

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owlespresso · 8 months ago

Text

the golden ivy which clings

omega!luocha/beta!reader you are a beta courier. one of your clients is more interested in you than you'd like. tags: blackmail, coerced intimacy done as a part of @lorelune's a/b/o collab.

Your legs ache. Your muscles twitch with the extended exertion. The last five hours spent on your feet are catching up to you. It’s a trapping of the occupation. Being a courier on the Luofu means you regularly bounce up and down its many layers and areas, rushing from district to district, from the boughs to the canopy. After three years, you’ve long memorized the thin corridors and hardly beaten paths, mapped every vein and pipe and ligament in your seemingly endless pursuit of planning the optimal delivery routes.

Faces blend together in your line of work. You doubt your clients remember much anything about you. You’re a muddy sparrow flitting from branch to branch, a bee gliding from flower to flower, as nameless as any other customer service worker. You earn more than most of your peers, but that’s mostly because you’ve extended your services to stations and ships beyond the Luofu orbit.

…And also because of your status as a perfectly even beta, liberated from the debilitating symptoms of heats or ruts. You have no need for bimonthly off days, and needn’t fear the voracious gazes or grasping claws of wayward alphas. No one is likely to notice a lone, scentless courier, even in areas where the Cloud Knights frequently patrol.

Today’s business sees you on the far ends of Aurum Alley, where night has slipped over the artificial skies like silk over skin, streets steeped in deep shadow. You stick to the walls, underneath awnings and through narrow side paths. Silvery moonlight dapples through a canopy of sunset orange leaves, touching the aged stone path, the askew benches next to the food stalls.

On the furthest side, mist billows from the waters and onto the red wood docks. Quiet, still. Hardly a customer to be seen. It’s been the very same every other time you’ve visited. The only people you’ve seen have been members of the IPC. They’re surely thrilled at the minimal returns the businesses here are receiving. Filthy hawkers, intent on contaminating every locale unfortunate enough to make contact with them. You hope they never see another coin in their entire lives.

Not that it’s any of your business. You’re just a courier. It’s in your best interests to keep your head down and keep your eyes from wandering, lest you attract their attention… or the attention of any other governing body who would disprove of the wares you ferry from place to place.

Near the docks, where the wind churns the briny waves, stands the blond man. A repeat customer, a man you’ve come to know as ‘Luocha’.

“You didn’t have to wait out here,” is the first thing you say to him, adjusting the straps of your heavy bag. Your shoulders have started to ache from the strain of the day's long treks. “It’s cold, isn’t it?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he assures you. He has a delicate kind of beauty, the kind you see in fairytale picture books or depictions of soft omegas in gravure magazines. His cheeks are thin, set of his nose regal. His lips are soft rose, petals curled into a winsome smile. His lashes, thick and blonde, fan against his cheeks every time he blinks. It’s all at odds with his imposing height and strange, cold aura. “Shall we head inside?”

“It’s whatever you want,” you reply drolly.

“Inside, then. You look... tired. Have you been on your feet all day long?” Luocha’s hair sways when he turns and bobs which each sway of his hips. Dim lantern light catches on the ornamental pin which holds his strands in place. Just as striking as the rest of him. You really don’t know how he’s come this far without finding a mate. He surely turns the head of any alpha who catches a whiff of him. Even with your muted sense of smell, you still detect undercurrents of that delicate sweetness. Frosted finger cakes and clean face powder. It’s buried under something bitter and medicinal—only able to be caught in the tender hours of the night. After his work is long done.

“That’s just the job. It doesn’t bother me,” you assure him. The apartment building is darkly lit and nondescript. He doesn’t look like he belongs here, in all his whites and golds, pristine and put together and perfectly pressed.

“Still,” he glances back at you. “You won’t be able to do your job at all if you don’t get enough rest. And I would hate to be deprived of my favorite courier’s company.”

You don’t know what kind of face you’re making, but he takes one look at you and laughs quietly.

“My apologies. Given my occupation, it’s practically second nature for me to be concerned about these sorts of things.” He says with a small shrug. You don’t reply, lips nettling into a frown. If you were kinder, perhaps more naive, perhaps you would have mistaken the sentiment to be genuine.

He doesn’t live in the hollow apartment he leads you to. It’s too ramshackle, mostly undecorated space with a couch, a table and a mismatched arm chair when you walk in. He’s dressed too nicely to tolerate moth-eaten curtains and layers of dust.

“Pardon the state of this place—I don’t actually live here. If it were up to me, we would hold our meetings in a nicer place.” he sighs. You don’t know why he feels the need for small talk. He hasn’t always been like this. During the first few months of serving him, the only words exchanged between you both were basic greetings and fleeting formalities.

“It’s fine. ‘S not like you live here,” you wave him off and deposit your bag onto the leather. It’s an earthy green, the color nearly the same as the worn upholstery. It squelches at the impact, and you tug it open by the zipper. The vacuum of created space is chilled around your arm, goosebumps rolling over your skin. A square package wrapped in plastic, off-worlder medicine banned aboard the Luofu, favored by certain members of Sanctus Medicus.

“Are you a member of Sanctus Medicus?” you’re not sure why you ask.

“Oh? I can’t recall you ever asking me such a personal question,” Luocha observes, a mote of mischief in his voice. “Why? Would you dislike it if I was?”

“No. It’s not my place to police anyone's beliefs—but the members I’ve met seem…” you trail off. It isn’t like you to give your opinion so freely, but you can’t imagine someone so discerning falling in line with those quacks.

“Sanctimonious? Self-righteous? Gullible?” Luocha lists for you, leaning against the back of that dowdy couch. He doesn’t move to accept the package, even when you pointedly zip the bag back up. His smile is unreadable.

“All of those things,” you agree, making the three steps it takes to reach him. “Though, I can’t really blame them.”

“And how could you? The long-lived of the Luofu will be roaming the galaxy and enjoying its many fruits hundreds of years after they’re dead and gone. It’s only natural to pursue that which they feel has been hoarded from them.” Luocha plucks the package from your waiting hands, eyeing it with mildly fond intrigue.

“I suppose,” you hum. You’ve already spoken too much. This isn’t a discourse you should be involved in. Sanctus Medicus, despite their incompetence, is still a faction of individuals with enough outreach to meddle in your business, should this conversation get back to them.

Long fingers wrap around your wrist. Your eyes blow wide as you stumble into his chest—sturdy, so different from what you’d expect from someone so beautiful, built well beneath his layers. There is no presage, no forewarning.

Underneath the chamomile slides forth the tender, ambrosial scent which betrays his status as an omega. Your pulse hums in your ears, body frozen stiff—but you remain unblemished by the adrenaline.

“Mister Luocha?” you say.

“So steady, even now,” he observes with infuriating tenderness, breath warm against the shell of your ear. “I suppose I should have expected that from an emanator of Harmony.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, unable but to be proud of how steady your voice remains. Every meeting you have ever had with him replays in your head, rolls by all at once like jittering strips of old-timey film as you pull them from the rusty bank of your memory. What could have given you away in the brief moments you’ve shared together? What in the way that you’ve handed him his contraband belied your true nature? Nothing, you’re sure. He’s discovered this piece of you on his own, and that worries you the most.

“Come now,” Luocha coaxes, the euphony of his voice slipping into something softer and sweeter. “You can be honest with me. We’ve already shared so much with each other, haven’t we?”

“The only thing I’ve ever shared with you are the poisons you order,” you inform him, hands braced against his chest. He tuts at you, and his scent grows all the sweeter. Even you can recognize the excited pheromones he pumps into the air. Your senses are replete with him, tongue made sticky by the devious croon of his voice.

“And you give so much of yourself with that alone,” he insists. “Your willingness to pass illicit drugs into the hands of your customers tells me far more about you than any small talk ever has. A shame, really. You have such interesting thoughts, whenever you deign to share them.”

“What do you want from me?” you ask flatly. Your eyes narrow with undisguised suspicion.

“A great many things, but to start...” His fingers tap a gentle drumbeat atop your shoulder. You shrug him off. A contemplative sound hums deep within his chest, quiet but loud in the dusty still of the room. “Share more of your thoughts with me, Courier.” he beseeches. “You’re always so quiet, when we’re together. I think we’ve known each other long enough to hold better conversations.” His hands slide off of you, smooth and quick as oil slick. It’s a concentrated effort to not bolt out of his reach like a startled fawn.

His gaze bores into your back as you take several measured, extremely normal and calm steps over to your abandoned bag, zipping it back up with renewed zeal.

“I think that was extremely inappropriate.” you share generously.

“I apologize. I only meant to tease, but it seems I’ve pushed too far,” he confesses, genuinely contrite. There is something else about his inflection. Something which sparks alive the long distant urge to soothe. “I don’t often forget myself like this. You must bring it out of me.”

You frown. The feeling dies. It’s not your responsibility to comfort this weirdo. He’s done nothing to earn your sympathy. Pesky biology, however, would dictate otherwise.

“You’ll be delivering to me again tomorrow, won’t you?” he asks, tilting his head. Your internal discourse snaps to a halt, instinct shafted to the side to make way for the sacred tradition known as “doing business”.

“Of course. Same ingredients, same amount?”

“Yes—and a Core Esse, if you’ve the means to procure one—”

You give him a look, but you nod regardless. “Understood. I’ll meet you at the docks, tomorrow—” It’s not professional to walk away while making arrangements with a client, but you very badly want to be out of this stuffy apartment and away from the new, bizarre scrutiny he looks at you with.

You typically avoid knowing anything about your customers beyond the bare basics. However, you can no longer afford Luocha that same distance. Just how much does he know? And where exactly has he pulled your precious secrets from?

The investigation begins tonight. You’re hesitant to call on her, but you may very well need to reach out to a particular contact.

—

Hours worth of feverish research inevitably lead to you just calling the Stellaron Hunter who owes you a favor. You have not the slightest clue where Luocha procured such private information, or how much of it he has. Penacony’s travel logs will be the first place to look. If your bothersome merchant has been there before, it’ll be no mystery where he figured you out. Does The Family still talk about you? And do they look back on your brief term of leadership with nostalgic fondness or embittered hatred?

You care not. Those mistakes are long behind you. The Luofu is a kinder place, somehow easier to navigate despite its Abundance soaked innards, where only the engineers dare wander. Without the protections they are outfitted with, you suppose you’re more vulnerable to mara exposure and all it entails, but you never dwell longer than half-an-hour at a time.

Roots and vines cling to the aged metal paneling and jutting pipes, green and gold particles sour the dim air. The pipes rattle and groan, portions of something neon yellow shooting through the complex web of them at irregular intervals. Flowers sprout from the ropey greenery, some bulbs shut and others agape. Pale petals of pink and white and periwinkle peeled wide open against slick silver and rusted brown. The closed bulbs look oddly wooden, but you’re not stupid enough to touch one.

Luocha could surely excuse you for being mara-struck. The Cloud Knights, on the other hand…

Well. It’s not worth thinking about. The overworld welcomes you back with a gust of fresh wind, washing away the acrid tang of the tunnels. The shallowest of them have several discreet exit and entry points. Crevices in the walls swallow you whole and deposit you in nondescript locations across the Luofu, random alleys and average apartment buildings where it’s easy to sink into the crowds.

Today, it’s a high end district, populated by the high-end homes of diplomats and ranking officials from the Luofu’s sister ships. They come to roost in these behemoth manors a few times a year at most, meaning the streets are emptier than you’re accustomed to. There’s not a soul to be seen or heard, not one resident there to share the wide open road with you. The houses leer at you with wide windows and lacquered doors, sat fat and happy behind their tall gates and gaping lawns.

Luocha calling you here, after all of those clandestine exchanges in that dowdy shell of an apartment, is a statement in itself. Is he threatening you with this obscene display of opulence? You can’t begin to fathom why he’d bother with bothering a simple courier. What does he possibly hope to gain?

The address he sent is among the smallest houses you’ve seen so far. One of the least extravagant, which is to say, still pretty fucking extravagant. The latticework fence is wreathed with delicate cotton roses and the yard is a veritable Eden in comparison to the other lots. The path forward is lined by patches of vibrant wildflowers.

The air is cleaner here, and for the first time since entering the district, you can hear birdsong echoing from the tops of the trees.

How much of this did he plant himself? And how have his neighbors handled living next to a miniature forest? You reach out, palm sliding over the closest oak’s trunk, the bark coarse under your cold palms. Beyond the path, to your left, you hear the babbling of flowing water. The yard isn’t large enough to have a creek, you reason, and the time of your appointment looms close—but you figure you have enough legroom to at very least sneak a glance. Your curiosity for once gets the better of you, sending you through the thicket of green, beyond a copse of trees lined up like appointed sentinels, and over an emerging path of flat stones.

The forest opens into a small clearing. A massive, rock-lined pond nests at the center, surrounded by cattails and watergrasses and other waterfaring plants. The babbling, as you expected, comes from a filtration system stealthily hidden amongst the many reeds.

Sunlight shivers across the gentle waters, stirred up by the afternoon breeze.

A chair has been left unfolded beneath the low-hanging branches of a stout, red maple—a splash of crimson among earthy greens and cool browns.

Cautiously, you pick your way down the slope to the pool, squinting at the fish which flicker and dart between rocks and lotus stems. Mostly koi. Pretty, glimmering things which likely cost an arm and a leg. You’ve been to many aquatic markets, even ferried a few live specimens yourself. You settle by the edge, elbows resting on your bent knees. Cautiously, you extend outstretched fingers towards the water, dragging along the silken smooth surface.

A hand lands on your shoulder.

“My, my—”

You don’t hear the rest of what he says. One moment you’re above water and the next under, your startled flailing sending you straight over the lip.

Luocha is at very least apologetic about your unfortunate (humiliating) spill. He shows you to the washroom and closes the door with a contrite little smile. You run up the water bill for your trouble, the shiver chased from your drenched frame as you step under the hot spray. The shower has room enough for three people, easily. There are two heads and a bunch of silver knobs and dials you don’t feel like fucking with. Rich people and their needlessly complicated household appliances.

You don’t know exactly how long you spend in there, but the mirrors have fogged over by the time you get out. Only once you’ve properly scrubbed the pond water from your skin and tended to your hair do you turn the shower off. The mist sticks to your skin even after a decent toweling. You go through two until you give up and throw on the plush robe he so generously provided. It’s as fine quality as the porcelain tub you spy nestled against the western wall.

The brass glows near gold beneath the warm light. The entire bathroom is all golds and black. Utterly resplendent, but it doesn’t really seem his style.

Is this even his home? You can’t help but wonder as you stroll out the bathroom and into the rest of the house. Most of the interior chambers are linked by wide circular arches. The furniture is cream cushions paired with lacquered dark wood. A sweet smell hangs in the air, but you can’t tell if the potted white lilies on the table beside the sofa are the source.

Luocha stands by the window. Beams of sun hit his face and cast his hair in vibrant gold. He’s ethereal in those shades of sun. He looks delicate, somehow, curves of his body lean under the flowing press of his silken robe.

He looks at you. The dreamy green of his gaze clears your brain of the remaining fog, leaving you cold and alone with the fact that you are alone, together, in an empty house. In a mostly empty neighborhood.

“Your clothes are in the wash,” he smiles. “They’ll be clean in around an hour. Once again, I apologize for startling you—”

“Don’t. I shouldn’t have been skulking around in your front yard in the first place.” The sooner your humiliating slip is forgotten, the better. “Let’s just get down to it. You wanted something delivered, right?”

“All business with you, even now,” Luocha sighs, forlorn disappointment wrinkling his brow. “You don’t have to be so uneasy around me, you know. Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll brew us some tea.”

You do not sit. “You called me here for a reason. I deserve to know what it is.”

“Is your company not reason enough?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. He’s closer now, close enough for you to see how glassy his eyes are. The cloying, sweet smell grows stronger with each step taken, reckless pheromones enough to send a shudder down your spine. Is he… “What if I said I simply wanted to see you?” he breathes, gently cupping your chin. “Should I admit that you’ve haunted my near every thought for the past month, or would that be going too far? Would it frighten you?”

A ruddy flush paints his pale cheeks, cracks in his composure beginning to show. He’s always been the perfect picture of composure, to an irritating degree. The certain grace he moves with used to almost annoy you. So steady, in a world contaminated by constant disruption and imbalance. The very pinnacle of perceived harmony. Perhaps you envied the way in which he carried himself or the freedom he enjoyed as an interstellar merchant, but now—

Now you can say you hardly envy him at all.

“I would say that you should wait until your heat is over before making any confessions,” you observe, resisting the urge to swallow and make the problem worse. Omega or not, he still looms large over you.

“I’m in pre-heat, where I’ll most likely stay for the next few days,” one of his hands graces your right shoulder, thumb rolling delicate circles there. “I won’t ask you to… service me through the heat itself, but your company would help soothe the symptoms.” The touch wanders down your upper arm, a smooth, repetitive caress. It feels more like an unconscious gesture or a nervous tic than anything else. A self-soothing sort of motion.

“I’m a courier, not an on-call heat partner,” you inform him. How desperate must he be, to seek out the assistance of a courier of all people? “And I’m a beta. I can’t help you in the same way an alpha could. You know that.”

“And how do you know what will and won’t satisfy me?” he replies cooly, haughtily, as if he did not just sing your praises and plead for succor by your hand. “Betas are known to be particularly adept heat and rut partners due to their versatile nature—”

“I too have read the ‘Galaxy Hitchhiker’s Guide to Dynamics and All their Intricacies’. You don’t need to quote it verbatim to me.” you reply flatly, sounding as unconvinced as possible. Luocha is—dangerous. He is handsome, and he seems very sweet, and always seems well of manners, but you know he hides his daggers deep in his sleeves. The moment you realized you are considering his offer, you feel apart from yourself. Because it is ludicrous an idea.

Luocha’s eyes close. His bright lashes fan against flushed cheeks. “No sexual intimacy has to be involved. While skin-to-skin contact is the most effective method to ease the pain, simply being in the same room as you will suffice.”

The heat of him slips onto your skin, the layers between you thinner than you realized. An absentminded hand roams to the sash tied ‘round your waist, idly toying with the knot. His palm, after a moment of fidgeting, settles on the round of your hip. He gives you a gentle squeeze, but it reminds you more of a cat flexing its claws than a gesture of simple appreciation. He inundates you with scent and touch, pins you like a butterfly to a board, wings splayed open for his searching eyes.

Not that you’ve really tried to fly away at all. A flush of newfound heat encompasses you, unbidden as his scent washes over your palate. You draw him into your mouth and swallow, thighs pressing tight together. It’s ridiculous, really. Inane. Who is he to make you feel so unbalanced?

You find him so utterly vexing. No other man could do this to you, you think. You wouldn’t dare step foot into anyone else’s private home. You wouldn’t consider breaking the strict code of propriety you keep with your customers. But for Luocha, denizen of the Abundance and keeper of your most precious secret, you fear you may do anything.

“I’m a beta,” you repeat quietly.

Luocha remains undiscouraged by your disquiet. Baffling creature, bold beyond reason and reckoning behind his steady, at times coquettish mien. “You can still help me, if you would like. I’m not in the practice of taking unwilling partners.”

You let a poignant pause settle between you, as if you are legitimately considering his request. He leans in, ever so slightly, as if leering at you from three centimeters away is any better than leering at you from five.

Then, finally, after remaining silent for at least thirty long seconds. “Do you prefer blackmailed ones?”

He smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle with it, entire face lighting up with genuine fondness. So utterly vexing, this man.

“Do you really want an answer to that question?” he asks. When you don’t answer, he presses a kiss to your temple.

—

It isn’t as awkward as you thought it would be. Perhaps it’s because Luocha seems to lack shame in almost everything he does. True to his word, he doesn’t touch you without permission. The rest of the day is spent sitting together in the lounge. He reads a book while you sit on the couch, half-paying attention to the news program you’ve put on. Dinner is takeout. The conversation is… bearable. It helps distract you from how close he is, pressed tight to the side of his body.

You stay in the living room until the sun sets, vivid orange light descending to dusky twilight. Eventually, Luocha stands to head to the washroom. A chill replaces the space he once occupied. You don’t allow yourself to mourn the loss. Instead, you haul yourself onto your feet. Black spots swim at the corners of your vision as your body lags a few seconds behind your brain.

It’s just more time wasted, as far as you're concerned, so you push yourself. You stagger until your eyesight clears, intending to make a break for the guest room that certainly must exist. Somewhere. A house this extravagant must have a guest room.

You manage to peek into two rooms, one a particularly extravagant closet and the other a sunroom.

You sullenly retreat back into the main hallway and head for the next door. Luocha slides out of the bathroom and fixes you with a questioning stare. “Where are you going?”

“Isn’t there a guest bedroom?”

“Ah,” he stands there and looks at you for a long moment, like you are a stranger in his home. Which is partially true, you suppose. You are little more than strangers. “There is, but I was hoping…” he looks off to the side with a pointed sigh. “you would spend the night in my bed.”

You stare at him like he’s grown a new head. He stares back, completely unrepentant.

“Because skin-to-skin contact helps?” you supply wryly.

“Right,” he smiles, as though glad you understand. “During pre-heat, an omega craves the constant companionship of a trusted person, preferably a mate, but that label doesn’t apply to our arrangement. Remaining isolated during this time could cause anxiety, depression, feelings of worthlessness, headaches, migraines—”

“You’ve gotten all the pity you’re gonna get out of me.” you inform him crisply. You relent anyway. The wooden floor is chilly as you pad towards him.

Your stoicism “Wonderful. Thank you for accommodating,” At very least, he seems to know that he’s putting this upon you. Luocha’s bed, you think, is far from the worst place you could spend your night. He’s far from unappealing. He smells good. He’s been weird to you, before, but he’s also unwaveringly polite and currently weaker than usual, hazier.

Not like you have much of a choice.

He could easily leak your location to your former allies. The Family’s connections span the universe wide. They could easily track you down and cause you all sorts of trouble, maybe even get you kicked off the Luofu. It’s best to cooperate with him, for the time being. And it’s not like he’s terrible company. He holds the door open for you even now, when you’re here for his sake.

His bedroom is as luxurious as the rest of the house. The floor is dark wood and the walls are black with golden accents. Tapestries hang over tall windows, blocking out the moonlight. A porcelain vase sits atop a combination dresser-vanity, its knobs and gnarled claws a warm bronze. The rest of the furniture is similarly colored, and of similar quality.

What draws your attention the most is the bed. It’s a wide mattress held aloft atop a platform. Gauzy black curtains hang from the top of the thin gold frame, parted to give you a good look at the mountain of pillows and blankets stacked atop of it. This, you recognize.

“Ah, that’s…” you begin, not quite sure how to phrase it. Aren’t some omegas super touchy about their nests? You haven’t the slightest clue as to which compliments to pay and to which part.

“A nest. I typically don’t indulge in the baser instincts that come with heat, but the urge was stronger than usual,” Luocha informs you, padding over to the mattress. He flops backwards on it, swimming through silks and satins like a minnow up a stream. Soon enough, you’ve lost him in the pile. “There isn’t much else for me to do besides twiddle my fingers, and I can only watch television for so long. So I thought: why not? It’ll be as good a way to keep busy as any other.”

There’s a small pause. Luocha hesitates by the vanity, drumming his slender fingers atop the hard wood. There’s something uncharacteristically fretful about the gesture. “What do you think?”

“It looks comfortable,” you nod sagely.

“What glowing praise,” he says, almost beaming. You’re kind of annoyed at how… no, you won’t call him cute. Not even within your own internal dialogue. “I’m glad to hear that. Why don’t you join me?”

He rests up against the headboard, lines of his body lean and lithe. He looks like something out of an old painting, long locks and pale limbs flowing over the dark sheets like

The green of his eyes is startling in the dim of the room. He looks you over, haughty like a monarch on a gilded throne, until his eyelids dip and his head tilts.

“Come here,” he beseeches again. “Please.”

And you do. You cross the threshold of the room, slipping past the open curtains and into the bower of his bed. The mattress dips plush under your hands and knees. Once you’re halfway across, you sit back on your knees—but this is not close enough for him. He needles and pleads with you until you’re close enough to grab. One of his hands wraps around your upper arm, the other at your hip as he tugs you to him, fitting your back snuggly against his front.

You still, but the tension remains wound tight in your shoulders. You’re more amazed at your own stupidity more than anything else. Wasn’t it you who insisted on keeping your clients at arm’s length? All of that haughty professionalism was tossed out the window the moment you succumbed to his pleading—if it could even be called that. He asked nicely.

Your eyes flutter shut. You lean backwards into his chest. His wide hands slide over your body, thumbs rolling circles onto your hips. A soft and sticky feeling settles underneath your skin as his thighs (bigger than you imagined) cradle your own, silken fabric of his robe pooled over the sheets. A low sound rumbles in his chest, suspiciously close to a contented purr.

“I’m so glad you decided to spend time with me, courier.” he coos. His hand glides up your arm to cup your own, long fingers interlacing with yours. A contemplative hum rumbles within his chest as he turns it over. His thumb traces the lines and creases of your palm. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“I suppose I don’t.”

“And that’s why it means all the more to me that you stayed,” Luocha murmurs. He reaches over to the nightstand, and the lamp flickers off. The room is plunged into matte darkness, hardly a glimmer of moonbeam slipping in. “I think that you’re more considerate than you pass yourself off to be. Does that frighten you?”

“I didn’t think you’d be able to talk this much,” your brow wrinkles. “Aren’t you supposed to be too horny to think?”

“I’ll remind you that I’m currently in pre-heat—a process my body uses to prepare for the actual heat.” he says with a light sigh. “Believe me. If I were in heat,” his breath brushed against the shell of your ear, a warm and heady caress. “You would know.” He delicately presses the shell between his teeth, nosing the space behind it with another pleased sigh.

You shudder, and close your eyes. “And what’s the difference between heat and preheat?”

“Ah, I suppose you wouldn’t be able to tell… The pheromones for one,” Luocha squeezes your hand. “Are different. They’re similar to the ones we give off when under threat, a signal that we’ll need help soon… Not all omegas go through it—only an estimated forty percent.”

“I see.”

Luocha smiles, the curve of it pressed against your throat. You don’t like not being able to see him. A predator looming in the dreary dark of his den. “The desire is still present. Less a raging storm, more the gentle lapping of the waves.”

“Poetic. But I still don’t get why you picked me. They have services for this kinda thing. People who know more about it than I do.” If you doubted his sanity before, you certainly do now. What kind of sane omega enlisted the help of a postwoman above paid professionals?

“I would rather you than an unfamiliar alpha some service decided would be an adequate match. Even if vetted, a stranger is still just that. A stranger.” Luocha idly toys with your fingers, thumb rubbing circles onto your palm. It’s a touch too familiar, too tender for what you are. But Luocha permits himself to it, and the rest of your body, with a natural ease. You can’t help but feel lulled by it.

“I see. And you feel safe sharing a bed with your dealer?” Tempting as the siren song of slumber may be, you retain enough wit to pry. The whole thing is too absurd to not badger him a bit more. The arm wrapped around your waist tightens in reply.

“I trust someone who has never been late, never sold my personal information or purchase history and has been nothing but courteous to me.” Luocha lists off your credentials with ease. They feel like they’re straight out of an EULA, or some sort of contract. Out of place in a situation as delicate as this. You could easily tell him as much, but he’s starting to sound sleepy. You would rather he get his rest. And be quiet.

“Of course,” he squeezes the space above your hip, making your pulse spike. “Having the endorsement of an Aeon helps. Especially if said Aeon rules over the Harmony. What a lovely and orderly path to tread, courier. She chose you so well.”

“You should have told me that this thing was gonna make you delusional,” you grumble, writhing in his hold to simply signify your displeasure. A part of you wants to come clean and ask where the hell he learned your secret. It’s obvious that he won’t change his mind, or be swayed by your protestations. But you’re still too stubborn to admit he’s right.

You’re almost annoyed by how comfortable this is. He laughs, breath brushing the crown of your head, but he says nothing else, perhaps sensing that he’s reached your tolerance threshold for silliness. His breathing evens out a few minutes later, chest rising and falling beneath you.

You adjust yourself, settling into his side. Over the next few minutes, he contorts around you, the weight of his arm settling around your waist. Time slips away from you, after that.

The rampant pounding of your heart at last begins to slow. You’re almost calm, wedged between the blankets and body. Your sleep shirt is still wrenched upwards, his bare arm pressed against your stomach. The contact is a boundary crossed, a spark to a hunger you didn’t know you had been harboring. You don’t like it. Some part of your hindbrain rejoices at seeing this man’s needs met, and that delight worries you more than literally anything else Luocha has done or said today.

You stare across the room at the covered window. Slowly and steadily, you untangle your legs, curling them to your stomach. Outside, a frog croaks. The pond babbles in the distance. The air above the blankets is cool on your face and legs as you gently kick the covers back. The chill caresses your skin, sneaks between your robes to give you bumbling gooseflesh. The walls of the nest vent out the worst of the cold. Maybe you’ll ask him about cracking a window open tomorrow. Just a little bit.

—

You wake up a few hours later, and blink into the dark. Luocha stirs next to you. He’s awake. You don’t know how you know, but you can tell. His finger curl ever so slightly against the soft core of you. A shiver ripples across you, robe parted just enough for his fingertips to touch your bare skin.

“...Did you plant the garden outside?” you don’t know why you ask, but you do.

Luocha hums into the crook of your neck. He strokes your stomach, petting you.

“I did,” he answers after a moment, a contented sigh ruffling your hair. “Now get some rest.”

—

You leave the next morning, without breakfast. Luocha is a surprisingly deep sleeper, though perhaps you owe that to his current affliction. You’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. You’re also not going to be lured into skipping work by your own foolish sympathy. He can take care of himself for a miserly ten hours.

The day goes as any other does, at first. You take the shortest route you can find through the Luofu’s abundance-ridden innards, starting at the lower decks first. Packages and envelopes pass hands with little delay.

One of your clients, a buxom woman who owns a silk shop, covers her giggling mouth with an oversized sleeve. You eye her with suspicion. She notices, and giggles harder.

“I don’t mean to offend you, dear courier—it’s just—I hadn’t taken you the type to so openly… wear that kind of perfume.” she says, as if elaborating. You don’t understand what she’s talking about, and you don’t particularly care. You leave her to her frivolities and spirit away, merging back into the crowd with casual ease.

The next few clients each make some degree of face at you. One goes wide-eyed, before schooling his features into his typical, customer-service smile. The next looks at you like you have just thrice cursed his family line, nose wrinkled and eyes narrowed into a beady glare. You resist the quite mean-spirited urge to remind of the legality of his purchases, shoring up your mental fortitude by recalling the sumptuous tips he usually gives.

Your seventh customer meets you beneath the crimson awning of a local cafe. You’re glad to be out of the beating sun.

“Congratulations, by the way,” she says with a smile, nursing a cup of iced tea and ah—you realize, something about you has really changed.

“Thank you, but may I ask what you are congratulating me for?”

“Oh!” she looks startled, and then sheepish. “On the relationship? I didn’t mean to presume….but your scent, today…” she trails off, looking awkwardly to the side.

Fortunately, you don’t need her to elaborate. The context clues snap together with sudden, startling clarity, the peevish behavior you’ve endured all day granted perfect context. Of course, evidence of your business with the merchant would be more apparent to those with keener noses. Your cheeks blood with abashed warmth. You resist the urge to shrivel like an old apple peel, overwhelmed all at once with humiliation, with indignation at yourself and the man who cast this misfortune upon you.

Heavens, how outrageous you must have seemed, walking into the esteemed establishments and parlors of your clients bathed in that ridiculous fellow’s scent! It’s but another consequence of yesterday’s poor decisions. You fume silently as you leave, making a beeline for your apartment. It’ll delay the rest of your deliveries, but that can’t be helped.

Your phone jitters in your pocket as soon as you step through the threshold of your dwelling.

You drop your bag onto the grey throw rug. It lands with a mighty thud, loud enough to make you silently hope the downstairs neighbors had not been enjoying an early afternoon nap. Your jacket gets tossed onto the sofa, keys thudding onto the upholstery. Then, you roundabout to the door. A row of locks catch stray rays of sun. You swiftly latch each one and give the door a rough, cursory shove.

Then, and only then do you check your messages.

You left without saying goodbye.

Your brow furrows. You’d never taken him to be this needy. Every other message above this exchange is polite, but ultimately curt. Most of his recent prying has been done in person.

You were still asleep

It’s alright. When will you return?

After work. Around 8 hours

That long? Could I persuade you to return sooner?

I can’t just skip out

I’ll buy you out. How much do you earn in a day?

Honestly, the nerve of this man! You type a series of poignant expletives out before tactfully deleting them.

It’s more than the money. my clients are powerful. i cant lose those connections

A few poignant moments pass before his reply comes.

Alright. I’ll see you later.

The tension drops off your shoulders. You expected him, in truth, to let loose a most potent threat to ensure your immediate return. A part of you, small and illogical, fears he’ll do his worst regardless. The thought of The Family learning your whereabouts nauseates you, bile churning at the very base of your throat, but surely a man possessed of his many sins is too wise to open his mouth about yours.

Without even realizing it, you have completely trapped each other.

What did he ever do with that Core Esse?

It’s better not to think about it. You have hours more left to move, and your line of work demands utmost focus, lest you drop an organ into the wrong customer’s hands.

Fifteen minutes, you afford yourself. The water chases the sweat from your skin, soap and sponge raking your skin raw. The evidence of him washes down the drain with the suds, leaving you remarkably less agitated. Because, really, who gave him permission to linger on your skin and on your clothes and in your thoughts—who gave him leave to evoke your fear and sympathy and intrigue and misplaced affections? Not you, that much is for certain!

You determine yourself free of the vexing beast’s cloying scent and return to the Xianzhou’s busy streets.

—

Arrogance is one of humanity’s most populated wheelhouses. Next door, its foundations built by fools and geniuses both, stands proud senselessness. If you had to name a tenant they share, then with abrupt acuity, you would surely name the Stellaron Hunters, who, as far as you can ascertain, base their stratagems off the ravings of a lunatic. As you wander to the edge between land and space, you cannot help but wonder what his credentials are, and if anyone has ever laid eyes upon them.

You don’t care enough to ask, though, when you reach the jagged edge. The end of the cargo hold, where the Xianzhou’s artificial sky breaks. Fragments of pale blue and white float amongst the void, growing smaller and sparser until none remain. The ground ends in a series of jagged, shiny edges, as though the metal had been cut clean through. You duck underneath a smattering of ships and starskiffs and cranes and cargo containers. Cold, silvery chrome gives way to the cold, open empty. That is where the man in black waits.

“Blade” is his name. He is a vision against the star-scattered expanse of the empty. Stood beneath a bright, red star, unbothered hy the thin oxygen levels and freezing temperatures. Tall and looming and perhaps irredeemably beautiful. It could be the lack of air talking. You like him more than you like Silver Wolf. She wastes your time with always unnecessary and often personal questions.

“Here for Silver Wolf, I assume?” you ask, already rifling through your bag for the cables and strange, circuit-board devices which she has ordered from you.

“Yes,” he nods, and you appreciate how he says nothing else.

“Alright. Here you are, then. Make sure she knows that she owes me another favor. These things were hard to find. She’s getting the discount of a lifetime.” you hand him three small boxes and he leaves with a nod. A polite and concise interaction. As distant as mostly-strangers should be.

—

“Home” is after that. The skies have gone a bright gold, nighttime looming in the near distance.

Luocha’s home is not your home. You refuse to identify it as such, for doing so opens dangerous doors and implications which are most inappropriate for what you have. You make a brief pit stop to your apartment to gather a night bag, changes of clothes haphazardly crammed into the black canvas alongside a toothbrush and other necessary toiletries.

You nudge the door open with your hip. Pale orange light falls across the threshold and into the dimly lit living room. Luocha sits on the couch, or rather, he lounges. The silken collar of his robe drapes over his right shoulder, exposing a frankly indecent amount of his chest. You pay his naked skin no heed, plonking your bags onto the floor. It’s a welcome weight off your shoulders. You wish you could lay on the floor. A good sleep on that fine, polished wood would fix you.

“Welcome home,” he greets you, daintily depositing the book he’d been reading onto the side table. “I never realized just how long your hours are. You must be exhausted.”

“I’m used to it,” you reply, but you flop onto the opposite end of the sofa regardless. A heavy sigh punches out of you, weary eyes shutting.

“With how much you charge me, I would think you could afford to shorten your shifts,” he says, with sympathy you know is feigned. You crack an eye open to cast him a cursory look—but the room shifts around you in a blur as long fingers curl around your wrist and pull, tugging you onto his side of the couch.

You land with a disgruntled squawk. Your hands curl into silken fabric. and you realize belatedly that you’ve all but been dragged atop of him, left laid out between his legs. You twist, top half of your body turning to the side to level him with a nasty glare.

He’s flushed, is the first thing you noticed. More so than yesterday. His cheeks are dusted in pale pink, a delicate blush that runs all the way to his shoulders. He’s warmer, too. You can feel the heat of him pressed along your body.

“You didn’t have to do that. You could have just asked,” How does someone who looks so willowy have such a strong grip? It’s beyond you, truly.

“Forgive me,” Predictably, he looks completely, and utterly, unrepentant. “You were just so unsuspecting, I couldn’t help but want to surprise you…” You make a point of looking as surly as possible, and the fiend laughs. Quietly, and behind his oversized, crimson sleeve. Unbidden comes to you the shape of his lips around that euphonic sound, what they might look like when parted by soft breaths and dulcet moans— “Ah, please don’t make that face. It only makes me want to tease you more.”

“Enough of your insanity. ” you bite out, pointedly pressing your elbow into his side. You wriggle in his arms. His grip curls tighter around your waist and he sighs, pressing his face into the crook of your neck to take a long inhale. “Let me up!”

“Just a few more moments?” he asks, words mouthed into your skin. You feel hot all the way down to your shoulders. You muster all your resilience with a swallow, but it isn’t enough. A hush falls over the living room.

Against your better judgment, you find yourself lulled by the gentle sound of his breathing, by his warmth at your back. Nearly ever part of you aches. Your legs throb, the tight muscles of your thighs worn and throbbing from a long day’s labor. The scorching pains dig deep into your shoulders and your back—you’re due a nice, long shower, you think.

The dappled sun against the adjacent wall writhes and shifts with the artificial breeze. You can hear the winds shifting through the canopy outside. A songbird sings a trilling little tune. It’s easier to focus on these things while you indulge him and wait to be let up, even if he is being unusually quiet. You’re wise enough to not necessarily be glad for the silence.

His hand cups your hip, shifting you even closer. It’s only a centimeter or two, but it lets you feel the pointed hard thing jutting into your back in greater clarity. Unbidden, your cunt throbs between your thighs. The arousal and exhaustion makes your mind sticky, concrete thoughts difficult to come by among the haze.

“Luocha,” you murmur, and he moans softly, breath brushing against your tender skin. Goosebumps flare across your shoulders and arms despite the heat—the sound the shock you needed to get moving. “This is—” you cut yourself off with a swallow as his lips press to the column of your neck. Your already flagging resistance whimpers out into nothing. Each heavy inhale draws him further in, the scent so sweet and cloying in spite of your muffled senses.

“You must have had such a hard day. Doesn’t it hurt? Always going home to that empty apartment?” he purrs, voice indulging, dripping with a delirious sort of fondness. And isn’t that always the trouble with these sorts of situations? Does he want you, or are you the closest warm body available for him to rut into? How strong is his grip on reality? You writhe in his lap and he gasps. His grip tightens in response, holding you fast with surprising strength. “You must be so lonely…”

“I’m not, really,” you nearly snarl, finally losing patience with your clinger’s affections. Your voice, alongside the elbow you jab into his side, jars him from his twisted reverie. He chokes, and muffles a groan into the collar of your jacket, at last lifting his lips away from your skin. The breath whooshes out of him at the force of the blow, but his grip barely loosens. “Behave. Or I’ll leave.”

He inhales quietly, and shudders.

Over your brief stay in his lavish home, you have perhaps twice (or thrice) wondered if keeping to your principles was worth it. Why not sink into his touch? Why not drink deep of the physical affection he saturates you in? The fact that you’re contemplating the subject at all is deeply ruffling. Little less than two weeks ago, you would have scoffed at the idea.

Alas, the creature at your back is more siren than man. It wounds your pride. You aren’t just any beta. You’re a prime beta, a beta noticed and beloved by Xipe herself. The gift of Harmony should allow you to smother the scents around you completely. It should grant you immunity to the bothersome urges which so often get in the way of business. He weakens your shored-up defenses, somehow.

“Of course… My apologies.” he sounds contrite, and despite yourself, you soften. Just a tad. “It’s just—well, a little difficult to hold back when you smell like that.”

“Like what?”

Luocha evades the question, without even pretending to humor it.

“Your last customer was an alpha, wasn’t he?” He lifts his head from the hollow of your throat, looking down at your intertwined fingers over your shoulder. His thumb brushes along the back of your hand before he flips it over. His fingertips brush over yours, before curling into a fist around your pointer and middle, giving a gentle tug. He idly toys with your hand while he speaks. Voice a light, low murmur. “A tall man. Black hair, pretty red eyes… They look like candle wicks, don’t they?” He says it fondly, and your heart sinks into your stomach.

Of course he knows Blade. Why wouldn’t he?

You’ve never bought anything from Luocha, but you can tell from what he orders that he’s a merchant who idles in the same, seedy markets as yourself. A man who had asked you to trade him an organ brushing shoulders with a Stellaron Hunter somewhere in the darkest corners of the Luofu sounds completely and utterly plausible. A group of little coincidences which occurred just to be a thorn in your side. How did they meet? You can’t help but wonder. How well do they know each other? What kind of relationship do they have?

You don’t ask any questions. It’s not your place. Getting involved anymore than you already are is just asking for more trouble.

“And if I did meet him?”

He pauses, and laughs a little.

“Well. I am almost in heat. Perhaps I just became… a bit defensive when you came back, smelling just like him. Omegas in heat can be just as territorial of their dens as alphas in rut, though that's often overlooked in the social narrative. We’re supposed to be weak, dainty little things, you know?” If he feels self-conscious about this, he doesn’t show it. He has a tighter leash on himself, now. He sounds more contemplative than resentful.

“You, weak and dainty? I have to laugh,” you don’t.

“I appreciate how open-minded you are,” he says sweetly.

A brief silence falls over the room. You take in the soft sound of the breeze outside. The steady shifting of the trees’ canopies. The steady breathing of that small ecosystem he has birthed and nurtured.

He’s hesitating. A question hangs in the air, tangles on the tip of his tongue. You can’t see his face, but you have a sixth sense for these sorts of things. That, and it’s typical of him to demand more than you’re willing to give. No more ground will you cede to him. If he begs again for you to remain during the duration of his heat, he’ll find himself succinctly refused.

Still, you’d rather not have to go through the uncomfortable hassle of rejecting him. But he clearly thinks better of it, because he stays quiet—only breaking the contemplative quiet to ask you what you would like for dinner, his thumb rolling circles onto your palm.

#hungering for hsr #luocha/reader #luocha #imagine hsr

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august-diehl · 3 months ago

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"Because we prefer any lie to the pain." ↬ DARK | S01E10 ALPHA UND OMEGA | Directed by Baran Bo Odar

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redsovietelise · 1 month ago

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Richtofen being horny // Alpha Omega

#call of duty zombies #edward richtofen #ultimis richtofen #I hate him so much please let me kiss him #I would like to blow him... up

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angelcqre · 6 months ago

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Like Sacrament, like Syrup

Revelation comes with the sound of bells and a letter delivered to him while he's on duty. Thick paper, a heavy envelope, and it's scripture for the way those tired eyes scan the thick paper. He reads the heavy script, a congratulations on claiming and instructions on what to do to ensure that the mating is approved.

And there, her name.

It's oxymoronic - her name, holiest of words, torn down by the angels just as Babylon had been. Brick by boring brick, piece by piece, destroyed just to be rediscovered. The language of angels, followed by the wretched duosyllabic claiming of his surname, a name long since abandoned.

But she, she she she, she has claimed him.

Of course, König has heard of omegas like her - omegas who claim alphas in dangerous jobs, conniving things hoping to coast off of life on a fat, heavy pension, but she chose him, him, all sharp edges and trembling fingers, descendant of Cain and Adam and all men who have known sin and blood on their hands.

Never before has he been chosen - no, it's always been necessity that has drawn others to him, a magnetic force they can't quite resist, but her...

She chose him.

Devotion is a funny thing. He'd never understood the words of the preacher, sat knobby-kneed and fidgeting in the pews of his small hometown's church. Der Weg zum Himmel ist schmal, holprig und voller mühsamer und anstrengender Anstiege, und er kann nicht ohne große Mühe beschritten werden.. The path to Heaven is narrow, rough and full of wearisome and trying ascents, nor can it be trodden without great toil.

But he understands now.

All of this, all of this suffering, is in the purpose of Colette, the light of her holy attention.

He wastes more than a few nights deployed fucking his fist to the sound of her name, followed by that surname, Bauer, so regular compared to the gospel of her. Shoots thick ropes of his spend over the paper until the ink bleeds, and even then, he keeps it, tracing over her name with his eyes, breathing hard through his mask. He counts down the days until the deployment is over, counts the hours and the minutes and the seconds and —

Patience is a virtue he's never had. Too twitchy.

He spends the rest of the mission impatiently taking out anybody who crosses his path, accidentally dispatching an ally in his eagerness to return home to his engel. It doesn't matter; nothing matters save the drive to return from his pilgrimage. Blessed land - he's never thought of the house he lives in as holy land, but with Colette now there, it's papal, anointed ground, blessed.

When his boots land on the driveway to his home, enshrouded in trees, far from civilization, he can smell her. Stepping inside feels holy, sacrilegious - like entering a cathedral, Konig's boots leave prints on the hardwood. Every exhale fans the scent of her, heady, intoxicating, deeper than frankincense.

"Engel.."

His voice echoes through his home, and for the first time, he doesn't find the spacious halls to be empty. No, they're appropriate - a church for him to worship at the altar of his omega. His.

"I'm home."

The smell of omega in his home is gentle, the softest scent of floral notes and vanilla, sticky-sweet and unclaimed, and for the first time, his house feels not like a tomb, but a home. Shelves have been dusted, rugs vacuumed, and, fuck, there's the scent of butter and baked goods in the air.

Dann sagte Gott, der Herr: „Es ist nicht gut, dass der Mann allein ist; ich werde ihn zu einem für ihn passenden Helfer machen.“

And in his bedroom...

Her. Curled up in his sheets, looking small and soft and perfect, a book opened to her side like she'd fallen asleep reading. Her chest rises and falls, full lips parted just so slightly in her respite. She seems so unguarded, so relaxed. Like she belongs here, belongs in his home, spirited away from the rest of the world.

Fuck, she’s even dressed in white, his engel, the pale nightgown she wears doing little to hide the soft curves of her body. So soft looking, his mate, soft hair and soft skin and soft curves. Thick thighs and wide hips, full breasts that just peek out over the neckline of her nightgown.

Lovely. Perfect, no, holy - and his.

Her chest rises and falls, her breath divinity in itself. Descendant of Eve, of the first sin, and yet, as she lies there, tucked so deeply into his bed, he can't help but find her resplendent. The moonlight spills across the skin bared from the blanket tossed off of her, too hot in the midst of sleep, and Christus, she's something else.

His. His mate, his engel, his world. One who can provide forgiveness and absolution with not but a look. His breath catches in his chest, large hands curling up into tight fists then relaxing. Lovely. So incredibly lovely.

“Wer kann eine ausgezeichnete Frau finden? Sie ist viel wertvoller als Juwelen.” He whispers to himself, fingers splaying and fisting with the need to touch.

Konig's gaze darkens as he takes in the sight of his engel curled up so small and soft in his bed. She looks fragile there amongst his dark sheets, pale and lovely, a stark contrast to the harsh edges of his sparsely decorated bedroom. He can see the gentle rise and fall of her chest with each breath, soft lips parted just so, completely vulnerable. His mate. The one who chose him.

He's never seen anything so beautiful in all his years.

The scent of her permeates the room, sweet and sticky like overripe fruit. It makes his head spin and his cock ache, already half-hard just from her proximity. She smells like salvation itself, rich and pure, untainted by his blood-soaked hands.

Konig sheds his fatigues hastily, muscles tight and tense with anticipation. He's never undressed so quickly, boots and belt hitting the floor with dull thuds. The dog tags around his neck jingle softly as he crawls onto the bed behind her, movements predatory and graceful despite his imposing size.

Christus, just looking at her makes him dizzy with want. The curves of her body are barely concealed by the thin fabric of her nightgown, the swell of her breasts visible above the low neckline, just the slightest hint of pink areolae peeking through. He trails his rough, calloused fingers down the soft curve of her side reverently, watching in fascination as she shivers in her sleep. His engel. His mate.

His.

Konig presses closer, the heat of his bare chest searing against her back even through the thin barrier of her nightgown. She smells divine, like absolution and home, like holy smoke and purification and deific chastity. He breathes her in deeply, nose brushing the sensitive spot behind her ear and making her whimper softly. The sound goes straight to his cock.

Gently, so gently, he splays his large hand over her belly, rucking up the hem of her nightgown. She doesn't stir, lost in the throes of deep sleep, even as he slowly maps out the soft, supple terrain of her inner thigh. Christus, she's perfection incarnate. An altar built just for him.

Konig's cock leaks pre-cum impatiently against the swell of her ass. He's dizzy with want, overwhelmed by her proximity. His engel. His everything. He has never needed anything as much as he needs this. Needs her.

His hand trails higher beneath her nightgown, finding wet heat waiting for him between her soft thighs. His mate might be asleep, oblivious to his presence, but her body isn't, slick gathering at the apex of her thighs, soaking the gusset of her panties in acknowledgment of the presence of a superior alpha.

Carefully, Konig hooks his thumbs under the band of her panties, easing them down her thighs. The gossamer strands of slick bridge her cunt to the fabric and he grits his teeth at the sight, having to gently peel them away. Her scent is even thicker now, unrestrained, and it makes his head spin.

She's bare before him, asleep and unaware but still wanting of him, wet for a wretched thing like him. Soft thighs parted just enough that he can see the shine of her slick coating her pretty cunt. Christus, it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Evidence of her need for him, even asleep. Proof she belongs to him.

Konig shifts, settling between her legs and nudging them wider with his knees. He's dizzy with lust, pupils blown black with desire as he looks down at her prone form. She's his. His. Made for him. The Lord has blessed their union and he'll be damned if he waits a moment longer to consummate it.

The head of his cock nudges insistently at her damp folds, already glistening with a hint of her body's sweet readiness for him. Konig's pupils are blown wide, staring down at her with nothing but ravenous hunger as his cock bobs in front of her, engorged head near brushing her soaked folds.

He doesn't bother to stretch her, doesn't bother to warm her up. Why would he? She's his mate, his engel, his. She's made for him, she chose him, wicked and unworthy as he is, and the only thing that he can think as he tears through her maidenhead like tissue paper is that —

This is what Lucifer must have felt like, offering Eve the apple.

— And how wonderful, to know the downfall of something so cherubic will be on his hands, blood spilled across rough palms. Something holy in the work of ruinous claiming, he muses. Something purposeful.

"Wunderschön…," he murmurs, the praise rumbling up from the depths of his chest. "Perfekt…"

He can smell the tang of blood in the air. Virgin blood, her blood, consecrating this unholy act of claiming what's his. Her eyes, doelike and deep like the ocean, fly open and her pretty lips part on a shriek of pain, fat tears bubbling in her eyes that he promptly bends to lap up like eucharist.

Mine.

The thought pulses in his mind in time with his thrusts, a staccato of desperate, fervent worship, over and over as he fucks his claim into her body. Teeth bared, fresh air kissing his face for the first time in weeks, he hums as she begins to paw at his chest, trying to push him away. Perhaps he'll get her handprint tattooed on his skin, though with how each touch scalds him, he imagines there will be scars.

“Frauen, unterwirft euch euren eigenen Männern wie dem Herrn,” he murmurs, voice fevered and worshipful, drinking in her glassy eyes and her parted lips. “Denn der Mann ist das Haupt der Frau, so wie Christus das Haupt der Kirche, sein Leib, und selbst ihr Erlöser ist.”

Cry as she might, he can feel the way her walls flutter around his pistoning length, her eyes squeezing shut as if this is all a bad dream. A broken sob breaks from her, and he coos at it, coos at how sweet she sounds, his engel, his mate. Each little gasp is rapturous, has hellfire licking up his spine in greedy little waves.

But no. Not until his engel has cum, not until she's broken for him.

His fingers are talons, gripping bruises into the plush swell of her hips as he grinds himself deeper. Deeper and deeper still until his knot is beginning to swell, to stretch her even further open in preparation to lock them together. A calloused thumb finds the button of her clit - he'd researched for this, intent on spoiling his little mate - and begins to roll it back and forth, unpracticed but determined, and she keens, eyes flying wide and lips falling open. She all but bucks into his touch, clawing at him, claiming him with every raised line.

As if she wants him as much as he wants her.

The thought has König's eyes rolling back, jaw clenched in a rictus of rapturous bliss. He can feel it, the telltale throb and swell of his knot as it begins to catch with every harsh, punishing thrust—stretching Colette wider, pushing her to the limits of what her body can endure.

His lips curl upwards, and he bends over, an unstoppable force in the wake of her claiming, lips brushing against the pale column of her neck, taking, tasting, until she's shrieking her pleasure and sobbing.

It's not even when she's limp and trembling and overstimulated that he slows, stills, stops, doesn't dare pause the worship at her altar that has his hips stuttering and his knot swelling, throbbing insistently against the gummy walls of her cunt. Addictive, like this is the only thing that has ever mattered, like this is what he was made to do.

Christus, yes - this is right. This is what he was made for, this act of divine conquest and claiming. To take and ruin and breed, to sow his seed and brand his mate and let the world bear witness to the unholy, rapturous fruit of their joining.

Colette's breathless, pained sobs are like gospel to König—rapturous hymns consecrating the unholy fucking he's laid upon her. Her tear-streaked cheeks glisten in the low light, rosy lips parting on those broken, helpless little sounds as she squirms weakly beneath him in the midst of her undoing.

Overstimulated. How cute.

But Konig isn’t done. His thumb finds her clit and works at it again, rough circles, working her up up up again around his knot, leaving her gasping and mewling and choking out little pleas for him to stop, please. Each word is a prayer, has him humming softly and nosing at the curve of her neck.

His hips stutter, knot finally locking inside of her, and he groans as he begins to spill, scalding cum filling those holy walls until her stomach is just that slightest bit swollen with it. Bred - thoroughly bred.

She already smells like him. Like the slightest hint of violence and lemongrass. She was made for him, his engel, his purpose, and this is proof of that.

“Mein Wunder,” he rasps, dragging his lips against where her scent is strongest. “Gott im Himmel hat dich für mich geschaffen.”

He wonders if Adam felt the same way he feels now, entranced and enamored, but even Eve had been fallible.

His engel is not.

Perfect, she splays beneath him, all soft curves and lips glossy from her spit, and he can’t help the way he growls low in his chest at the sight of her. He’ll worship her, he’s sure of it. The sound of her name, co-lette, curls hot against his ribcage, and he aches to finalize it, to brand her as much as she’s branded him.

His engel, clever as she is, knows what he intends to do when his lips draw back, baring elongated fangs, hollow and dripping with promise.

She'll forgive him for the roughness. He knows she will, she's his mate after all, but for now, he splays a large hand against the small of her back to keep her from squirming off of him —

(his knot isn’t deflated yet, she’ll only hurt herself in her panic. such a silly, foolish little thing, doesn’t she know better?)

— and bites.

Blood, sweet and syrupy, floods into his mouth as his teeth close around her mating gland, coats his tongue and slides into his maw like something holy. Blood of Jesus, eucharist, no, holier than eucharist. No tepid wine can compare to the taste of her, all-encompassing and heavy like sin.

She screams, poor thing. Of course she does, the gland is sensitive and he's sure the venom will burn, but with how she’s close to shattering on his knot again, he's sure she can handle it. He murmurs soft prayers against her throat, lips smeared in her blood, and draws her closer despite the way she thrashes in his arms.

(weaker than him, she's so much weaker than him. something to protect. to hold. to keep locked away in the eden he's made of his home, far away from any snakes who might seek to cause her fall.

to have and to hold and to cherish, he thinks distantly.)

"Mein kleines lamm," he mutters, breath humid and sticky against the ragged tears of the wound. "Ich werde dich lieben bis zu dem Tag, an dem ich sterbe."

And even then - in death, would God be able to rip him from her side? At Saint Peter's gate, would he be able to separate them? Konig is no holy man, no righteous one, and he has no qualms damning this soft little angel to hell alongside him, if it means that her velvet cunt and her sweet moans stay close by.

No, best to damn her to his side.

He snakes one arm around her, even as she goes limp, rabbiting pulse slowing as exhaustion claims her. Drawing her close, he brushes his lips to her brow, to her cheeks, gliding her blood to spread tacky and cold across her face. Such a brave little engel, facing such pain. She’ll never experience anything like that again, he’ll make sure of it.

(except for him, of course.)

The thought has his knot throbbing once more, and he sucks in a sharp breath, clutching her prone form tighter. There will be time for that later, time to take her apart bit by bit so that he might curl up against the cradle of her intestines and stay there forever. Time to breed and take and ruin and—

Later.

For now, he contents himself to hold her, to smooth her hair back, out of her face. To murmur soft revelations against the mating bite he can’t seem to stop going back to, lapping up her blood like the finest wine.

He wonders if her cunt will taste as sweet.

Is it blasphemy, to ruin such a creature? His lips catch on her mating gland, teeth worrying at the edges until fresh blood blossoms across his palate, tinged with the acris taste of his venom. There’s something blasphemous about it, certainly, to taint her so, to make her his, but he supposes that there’s righteousness in it too.

Righteousness in *her*.

Claiming her is a sin worth any punishment. An indulgence he's ached for, dreamt of in the darkest nights on deployment. Only to wake, sweat-slick and aching, to the echo of her name on his lips.

And now she belongs to him. In sickness and in health, for better or worse. He can already see the way she’ll smile and blush as he lists his wedding vows - Ich nehme dich als meine Ehefrau. Ich verspreche dir die Treue in guten und in schlechten Tagen, in Gesundheit und Krankheit, dich zu lieben und zu achten, bis uns der Tod scheidet.

(until death do they part)

#konig x oc #konig cod #alpha!konig #omegaverse!cod #omegaverse cod #omegaverse call of duty #konig call of duty #technically he's a sigma #sigma!konig #but yk #my stuff

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thatswhywelovegermany · 8 months ago

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das A und O

literally: the A and O

the essential, most important, lastingly valid thing

Origin: The Greek alphabet begins with Alpha (= A) and ends with Omega (= O). Made proverbial by the Bible verse “I am the alpha and omega, the beginning and the end, says the Lord God…” (Rev 1:8 EU)

#german idiom

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thebrokenomega · 2 years ago

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Alpha!Soap x Omega!Civilian!Reader (Part 2) (Slight Smut)

I almost believed I had dreamt of Soap and his team when I awoke that afternoon. I took in the surroundings of the room, glancing at the minor traces that Soap had been there. His comforting scent of burnt cinnamon and gun powder lingered in the air, bringing me the slightest amount of comfort. I sat there in his bed for several minutes, hoping he would return to me safely. Slowly getting up, I looked next to his dresser inside the room to see bags of clothes. Curiously, I got up from the bed and gathered up the bags before sitting back in bed. The bags had various amounts of clothing that I could ever need undergarments, shirts, pants, shorts, and dresses.

I grabbed a matching pair of (f/c) thong and bra, (f/c) leggings, and one of Soap's shirts. I paused at the doorway to Soap's room, taking a deep breath of his scent before heading to the bathroom. The bathroom was very clean and nearly perfectly put together. The towels were hung on respective hooks with names for whose towels were whose. Inside the shower was unscented bodywash, with shampoo and conditioner that was also unscented. On the counter was an unopened toothbrush and a new hair brush for me to use. Smiling softly at the gestures, I moved to turn the water on. I let the water pour down on my fingers, waiting for it to warm up to my desired temperature.

Pulling my hand away, I began getting undressed, flinching at the pain in the thigh. Sighing, I sat down on the toilet lid, unwrapping my thigh from the bandaging Soap had done. Hissing at the bruising sight, I looked under the sink to find a medkit. Pulling out the medkit, I sat it down on the counter and opened it up. Grabbing a pair of tweezers, I sterilized it as well as my wound before taking a breath. I held my skin tightly as I pressed the tweezers into the bullet hole. The pain was burning through my veins like a bonfire, and every part of my brain screamed at me to stop. I pinched the tweezers on what I hoped was the bullet and pulled quickly. Screaming at the pain, I grabbed some gauze and held it over the hole.

Looking at the tweezers, I was relieved to see the bullet that had been stuck in my thigh this whole time. Quietly cursing to myself, I carefully pulled the gauze away to see the blood had mostly slowed its flow but was still there. Throwing away the gauze and sterilizing the tweezers once again, I stood up carefully to get into the shower. I relaxed under to hot water, letting it soothe out the sore muscles and wash away the grime from my body. Pumping some of the unscented bodywash into my hand, I began scrubbing the dirt away. I was careful in shaving my legs, under my arms, and between my legs, making sure not to cut myself. Washing my hair of the dried mud, blood, and sweat, I couldn't help but feel a thousand times better.

Getting out of the shower, I grabbed Soap's towel, gently drying my hair before wrapping it around my body. I gently patted the wound dry before I gathered an antibiotic ointment on my finger to rub it around the wound. I was quick to open up gauze and begin to wrap my thigh to make sure it was perfectly covered. Sighing once more, I cleaned up my mess and placed the medkit back under the sink. I took my time on opening the toothbrush and brushing my teeth before placing it aside to take with me to Soap's room. I got dressed carefully, making sure not to strain my leg or pull any of the sore muscles I had from running. After getting dressed, I pulled my (h/c) into a messy bun before making my way to the kitchen.

"If I'm going to be here, I might as well clean the place up." I said softly to myself as I looked at the stack of dirty dishes. Smiling, I glanced around the kitchen and spotted a radio on the counter. Moving over to it, I turned it on, finding a good music station to listen to before moving to start cleaning. Starting with the dishes, making sure to dry them and put them away. I knelt down to check under the kitchen sink for any cleaning supplies. I smiled in victory at the stash of full bottled cleaning supplies. I made quick but efficient work of cleaning the counter tops before moving to wipe the walls down. By the time I had finished cleaning the kitchen all the way, it was four in the afternoon, I had started at two in the afternoon. Deciding to take a break, I grabbed some coffee and toast.

As I ate, I began thinking of what I could do to speed up the time as I waited for my newly found pack to return. Deciding that today, at the very least, I could at least clean the safehouse. Finishing up my toast, I moved to finish cleaning the safehouse. Time passed quickly as I deep cleaned every part of the safehouse, organizing as I went. I finally made it back to Soap's room and took a deep breath, letting his scent flood me. Smiling, I moved to begin fixing up our room and make it more comfortable. I got lost in the music playing from the kitchen and my thoughts as I moved about the room. Before I even realized it, I had begun to nest on Soap's bed.

I paused everything I was doing and just blankly stared at the nest as the feeling of being vulnerable bubbled to the surface. I hadn't nested in years, I hadn't acted on those instincts in so long. I slowly eased myself into a sitting position in the nest, gently clinging to Soap's shirt. My inner omega beamed with pride at the sight of the nest, eager to show Soap, while I felt open and vulnerable. Memories of the last time I built a nest for an alpha flashed through my mind. The alpha criticized my work and openly told me he knew an omega who did it better. As if his words didn't hurt enough, later that week, I caught him with the other omega. He was so different with her than he was with me. He was gentle and loving with her while he was rough and cruel with me.

Sniffling softly at the hurtful memories that had resurfaced, I curled up with one of Soap's shirts. I had never felt so drawn to someone, let alone an alpha. He made me feel soft and light, and his genuine attention to me was unlike anything I experienced. I felt this pull to him, like I wasn't safe without him around. My inner omega felt excited and calm at the same time when I was around him, and that had to mean something. I would have to do more research when I was more awake and actually able to absorb information, but for now, that would have to wait. My eyes burned with the need to sleep, and rubbing my eyes made no difference.

My eyes began to drift shut from the mental and emotional exhaustion that came with those memories. Deciding to give in, I let myself drift off to sleep. My senses were filled with Soap's heartwarming scent, giving me gentle dreams of being with him and his pack. I woke myself whining out for his comfort. I felt as though I had only slept minutes, but the sun rising told me I had slept hours. Forcing myself out of the nest, I quietly stepped outside, letting the brisk cool pre-autumn air chill me. It wasn't cold enough to need a long sleeve or a jacket, but it was just a comfortable cool. I sat there on the front step with my eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the rising sun mixing with the crisp air.

Opening my eyes, I was greeted with an almost mystical sight. The grass had a light misting of mildew, and a light fog shrouded the distance. The soft calling of the birds was carried by the hushed whispers of a breeze. Basking in the warmth of the morning suns rays a bit longer, I watched the sky wondering where my new found pack was. I found myself hoping very strongly that they were all safe on their mission. Humming softly, I got up and made my way back inside, locking up the safehouse on my way in. I hummed whatever melody came to my mind while I made coffee to sip on. After fixing up my coffee, I headed back to Soap's room. Looking back at the nest, I let myself give into my nesting urges. I opened Soap's closet, grabbing blankets and sniffing for the ones that smelled of him the strongest.

Setting the ones I deemed the best aside, I began searching for extra pillows. Once I had my items set aside, I began stripping the bed of everything on it. If I was going to give into my nesting desires, I was going to let it be done the way my inner omega wanted. I would have to take it apart before the pack returned, but I needed to let the urge out. I shifted over to Soap's bed and began straightening the fitted sheet. Gathering up a couple of pillows, I placed them at the foot and head of the bed as well as along the sides. Moving over to the blankets, I knelt down gently touching the blankets to determine which one was the softest. I gathered up Soap's deep royal blue blanket and began placing it over the bed, pillows included. Gingerly tucking the blanket under the mattress to secure it properly, I maneuvered myself to gather up the second blanket.

It's a deep gray color tone, and it carried his scent the most. Slowly, I placed the blanket on top of the main nesting point, letting it rest in the center to be used to cover my body. I felt content with how the nest turned out, but the only problem was that it was lacking my scent. I moved about fixing Soap's room back into a clean and organized room. Once I got the room fixed back up, I turned out the lights and stripped off my leggings. Letting myself remain in my underwear and Soap's shirt, I climbed into the nest. I pulled the gray sheet over my body, basking in the warmth the blanket provided. A desire began to flourish in my body, a desire to feel full and be mated.

Whining I pulled the blanket over my head, wrapping my arms around my stomach. I really needed my suppressants, but they were ruined by the Shadows. I couldn't go into heat. I couldn't let that happen, not when I was just welcomed into the pack. Rocking my hips back and forth as though I were grinding on something only made my body ache more for a release. My whines grew louder as I shifted my body, so my hips were in the air. I let my sex be presented to nothing but the open walls of the room, gently rocking and pressing them back and forth, seeking some form of relief. The action alone made the muscles around my wound twinge in pain, but the desire was overwhelming. Softly moaning to the open air, I buried my nose into the royal blue blanket. Soap's heavy scent further fueled my desire to be filled and bred.

My right hand desperately began rubbing my clit, slick already making me embarrassingly wet. The light sounds of my hand rubbing quickly at my dripping sex were bouncing off the walls of the room. My hips continued to greedily rock and grind against my fingers as mewls and pleas left my lips. My mind danced with the ideas of Soap praising me and giving into his inner alpha. These ideas ranged from him simply breeding me wherever he wanted to him mating me and laying claim to my inner omega. In the haze of arousal, my mind registered the heated coil beginning to tighten in my lower stomach. Desire burned hotter with each passing second, drawing more whines and moans from my lips. I eagerly eased two fingers into my entrance, swiftly thrusting my hips back against them, seeking my release.

The muscles in the hips and thighs burned and twitched from the action, but my desperation kept me moving. Moaning out loudly, I could feel the coil growing tighter and my walls clinching around my fingers. My mind simply repeated pleas of more, and please, the closer I grew to my climax. Soap's scent shrouded my mind like fog from a hot shower to a mirror. My mind was merely focused on the blissful mix of his scent and my pleasure that I lost the sense of my surroundings. Crying out alpha, the coil snapped, causing my walls to quiver around my fingers. Slick gently oozed down my finger into my hand, making me whine and bury my face into the sheets. I could tell my body was entering a pre-heat stage, flaring my inner omegas' desire to nest and seek a mate.

I whined as I removed my fingers from my sex and leaned up to sit against my feet. With a soft, slow inhale, I got up and began making my way to the bathroom to shower. I was swift to undress the remainder of my clothing and take special care of my thigh. Climbing into the shower, I let the hot water help me clean myself up. I eased myself to the bottom of the tub, lightly curling up under the spray of the water. Why now of all times for my heat to start? The only time the suppressants no longer do their job is when omegas meet their fated pair. That couldn't be it. Soap couldn't be my fated pair. No, this had to be because my suppressants got ruined, and I hadn't had time to get more. That had to be the reason, and I plan to stick with it until proven otherwise. Sighing heavily, I turned the water off and got out of the shower.

Being careful about drying my thigh, I took the time to apply more ointment and gauze. Feeling foggy and like I couldn't think straight, I moved to get dressed and headed to lay back in the nest. I closed my eyes, hoping that if I went to sleep that I would wake up, and my heat would be only a dream. Each dream that came to me was intimate, causing me to occasionally wake up whining before drifting back to sleep. I wasn't sure what time it was, but I immediately nuzzled into the hand that was softly rubbing my cheek. Freezing in fear, I looked up and saw a female her hair was this beautiful mix between dirty blonde and light brown. Her gentle smile was strengthened by the same look in her blue eyes.

"Relax, I am Kate Laswell, and I work with the boys. I went on the mission with them, and we all agreed to regroup here." She calmly expressed watching me and my reactions.

"Is he okay?" I asked, glancing around the room for Soap, unable to even smell his scent on her. A soft smile came to her lips before she got up and moved to the door. Kate opened the door and called Soap. Quick footsteps sounded from the hallway as he approached her. With no hesitation, Kate stepped aside, letting him in his room before closing the door. Flushing, I quickly looked down, embarrassed that he was seeing me like this.

"Oh love, the nest is beautiful. It looks so warm and welcoming, it's perfect." Soap whispered, stepping over to gently cup my face. His rough hand lifted me face to look at him. He smiled his same charming smile, reassuring me that he was okay with me nesting. Everything in me screamed for his touch, screaming for more. I reached up, grabbed a hold of his tactical vest, and pulled him forward.

"Omega, I need your permission to enter your nest first." Soap insisted, making sure no part of his body touched the nest.

"Please~ Alpha, come in." I pleaded, letting my inner omega bleed through. With a please rumble, Soap made quick work of removing his boots and gear. Letting them hit the floor before he climbed into the nest. My hands instantly reached for his face, gently touching the bruising and cuts that most likely came from the mission.

"You're hurt." I whined gently, nuzzling against him. Soap carefully pulled me into his lap, my legs resting on the outside of his.

"Aye, the mission got a little rough, but it's nothing I can't handle." Soap remarked, reaching up to pull the scent blocking patches away from his glands. The heavy hit of his scent drew a whining moan from my lips, my mind registering that my sex was pressed against his own. The amount of willpower it was taking to not grind and get off against him was only making me feel all that more desperate. A low groan snapped me back to reality, and I became aware of him growing excited against me.

"Soap, please." I whined, burying my head into his neck, brushing my nose against his scent gland.

"John, my name is John. I've got you, Omega, do what you need." Soap encouraged, his large hands coming down to my hips. With a soft pull, He rolled my hips forward against his pulling a moan from my throat. Eagerly, I placed my hands against his shoulders and began grinding my sex against his own. Soap leaned back, letting his back rest against the wall, giving me more stability to move how I needed. My rich scent of jasmine and saffron dancing and mixed with Soap's burnt cinnamon and gun powder scent. Mewling in pleasure, I pulled him in for a kiss, the light scratch of his facial hair adding pleasure.

"Good girl~" Soap purred when I pulled back. His praise sparked a shiver to roll through me, more slick oozing out. I could feel how soaked my panties were against my own skin. A faint worry of getting the slick on his jeans flickered in my mind. Soap's hand tugged me against him harder, drawing noises from the both of us. The roll of my hips grew more frantic as I felt my release drawing near. Muttering pleas to him only made his grip on me grow all the much tighter. I came undone, frantic, grinding my dripping sex against his own when he licked at my mating gland. Soap purred at the sight and gently lifted me from him, laying me down below him.

"Good girl~ my turn, okay?" He asked, rutting his hips against me. Nodding quickly, I hooked my legs around his hips, my legs twitching in overstimulation. It didn't take long before Soap shifted to pull his cock free from his jeans. Continuing his quick movements of rutting his half exposed cock agaisnt me, I glanced down to watch him. His cock was glistening with his pre-release, the tip turning red. He was thick, bright blue veins showing from what was exposed. Just as my body was reaching its limit of overstim, Soap gave a low growl as he began to cum. His thick seed painting just above my underwear, moving on instinct, I gathered some on my fingers and cleaned it away. Groaning, Soap gathered more of his seed on his fingers before pressing them into my mouth. Once they were clean, he pulled away, his eyes feeling predatory as he watched me.

Taking a minute to gather ourselves, Soap adjusted his underwear to cover his length. Just as I had worried about his jeans were wet with my slick. I muttered an apology as my face began to burn with embarrassment. Chuckling Soap stripped his jeans, tossing them to the floor before he laid next to me. Pulling me to rest against him, Soap gently scented me.

"For now, don't worry about any of the clothes, I'll clean them or buy more as needed. Rest while you can love." He rumbled lightly, kissing me. I let out a content whine, letting my body relax against his. Sleep pulling me quickly due to my release, leaving me tired.

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