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kannouo · 6 months ago

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I'm so lucky, lucky!

fandom: obey me pairing: demon brothers x gn!reader warnings: none prompt by @ember-is-clueless: Can I request the brothers with an extremely lucky MC? The MC might not go to gamble a lot but when they do they win every time, it also strays off to other aspects like if they guess which answer is right on a test, they get it correct. Thank you <3 A/N: ty for the request <333 I hope this is okay. this idea was pretty fun to think about actually as there are a lot of scenarios that could happen surrounding this. i also went super far with just how lucky the mc is lol, just letting you know i basically went the superpower route.

LUCIFER

• Lucifer notices how lucky you are very early on during your stay at the Devildom.

• You were somehow always in exactly the right place at the right time to avoid his and his brothers' wrath. When demons at RAD would make any attempt to harm you, you would just happen to run into him or even Diavolo himself before they could do anything. In fact, even when you went against his orders and went out late alone, you would always come back unscathed.

• Lucifer doesn't believe in luck, and therefore isn't comfortable relying on chance alone to keep you out of danger. It might save him a headache or two, but overall, he won't loosen up his overprotective tendencies. What if the one time he puts his faith in your luck to protect you, something goes wrong?

• He realises later on that your luck comes into play with him too. Whenever you're caught alongside the anti-Lucifer squad — if he ever even manages to catch you in the first place — he always just happens to be in a merciful mood that day, so the punishments you all receive are comparatively light.

• He is trying to work on this. He can't have anyone thinking he's gone soft.

• Is admittedly impressed by your ability to pass any test by guessing the answers, but cannot support you getting by on just that. He will still enforce studying time for you and insists you actually make an effort with your schoolwork, even if you don't think it's necessary.

• Lucifer is not amused when his brothers start trying to drag you everywhere with them to use your luck to their advantage, and encourages you not to let them do so. Even if you don't mind it, nothing good comes from them getting their way all of the time.

You were really in trouble this time. Caught trying to give a cup of coffee laced with one of Satan's newest concoctions to Lucifer, it seemed lady luck was absent today. You knelt before him with your head lowered as he glared down at you, but just as he opened his mouth to begin his lecture... CRASH! You jumped at the loud sound of glass shattering in the hallway, followed by a yelp that sounded suspiciously like Mammon. You turned to Lucifer, who had directed his attention to the door, where the sound came from. "MAAAMMOOOOON?" As Lucifer stormed over to the door and out into the hallway, you lived to thank your lucky charms another day.

MAMMON

• Mammon noticed you were lucky pretty quickly, but it took him a while to realise just how lucky.

• He'd make jokes about how lucky you seemed to get all the time for going out at just the right time to always conveniently avoid Lucifer's wrath, but he only took it seriously when he challenged you to a game of poker and lost all of his savings, as well as the jacket and belt he was wearing at the time. He was stunned.

• Mammon might have a reputation for losing all of his money on gambling, but that doesn't mean he's bad at it. He just suffers from the same habit a lot of gambling addicts do — he can't stop. He wins and wins until he loses. So, now knowing you're even luckier than he is...

• How do you feel about being a walking lucky charm?

• He'll take you with him to casinos as "arm candy" and have you blow on his dice before he makes a move, or even just play the round in his place and split the winnings. You don't even have to know the game, just go with your gut and you'll end up winning by complete chance.

• Another thing he likes to do is walk up to random demons and make a bet such as, "do you think this human here can flip a coin that'll land on heads 10 times in a row?" It being a statistical unlikelihood, the demon will usually allow Mammon to take one of their pennies (so they know it's not a fake) and bet against it. They never bet that much grimm on it, but the shocked look on the demons' faces every time as you just keep landing on heads is completely worth it.

• Lucifer isn't happy about any of this.

• Don't worry though. Outside of making bets surrounding you and dragging you to casinos with him, he's practically your personal servant. He has to butter you up so you don't refuse next time, you know? So, he waits on hand and foot for you all day. Practically worships you.

"MC! MC, babe!" You peeked over the couch as you heard Mammon shouting your name from the hall. Just as he passed by the living room, he caught sight of you and broke into a grin, hurrying over and leaning over the back of the sofa. "There ya are! C'mere, take a look..." You shuffled closer so you could get a view of what he was holding. "...Lottery tickets?" You questioned, glancing up at him. "Yeah! I just bought 'em— will you scratch 'em out for me, baby? Please?" He begged. "I'll do anythin' ya want!"

LEVIATHAN

• Levi takes a while to find out about this ability because of how much time he spends in his room. There are very little opportunities for your luck to come into play there... except for in video games.

• The first time you demolished him in a game you told him you had never played before by pure chance, he demanded rematch after rematch until he solemnly concluded that it wasn't going anywhere. You were pretty sure he hated you for it, judging by his refusal to talk to you or message you afterwards, until he invited you back to his room again, this time to play a co-op game together.

• Predictably, he's jealous of your luck. How come you don't even have to try, and all these good things just seem to come to you naturally? It's not fair.

• He mostly gets over any petty resentment he holds after you two start to get closer, and actually really enjoys games where he can team up with you. He's pretty bad at explaining controls, but it doesn't even matter because you always end up with the luckiest possible circumstances. You contribute even when you aren't trying to.

• Thinks it's hilarious a lot of the time, too. If he's in a voice chat lobby he'll start mocking the other players for losing so badly against a total noob. He's surprisingly toxic.

• One time, Levi had to leave his room because Diavolo had arranged a student council meeting on the day where a special, limited-edition figurine of one of his favourite shows was dropping. He damn near had to be dragged away from his computer by Lucifer, and was sulking the whole meeting. Why today of all days...?

• But you just so happened to pull out your DDD and open Akuzon at the exact moment the figurine dropped. Blissfully unaware, you ordered it, thinking nothing more of it other than "Levi will probably like this".

• He was devastated when the figurine was already sold out by the time he got home, but when it showed up at the door anyway, he couldn't decide between being ecstatic and confused. Was this some kind of miracle?!

• When you explained that you had ordered it for him, he literally drops to his knees and starts thanking and praising you.

• Joins Mammon as your second personal servant.

"LOLOLOL, I thought you losers said you were good at this game!" Levi taunted into his headset, provoking the other players in the lobby to talk back, hurling all kinds of insults his and your way in response. "How much of a normie do you have to be to lose that bad against a total noob?" "Levi," you hit his shoulder. "Stop it." Levi looked at you then paused, a sly smile forming on his face as he listened to the other players yell. "They're saying I carried." You furrowed your brow. "Like hell you did! Oh, it's on."

SATAN

• Also doesn't really believe in luck, but his opinion can be changed if you allow him to experiment with it a little.

• Here's a pop quiz about various subjects in the Devildom you should, by all sound logic, know nothing about. Let's see how you perform when all you can do is guess. Huh... they're all correct. Alright then — could you crack this egg for him? Just a regular egg, and he'll see... its a triple yolk. Well... for the final test, here's a random lottery ticket. You couldn't possibly—... did you just hit a jackpot? Seriously?

• After a while of "observing" your unnatural abilities, he is eventually forced to conclude that lady luck really does exist, and she plays favourites.

• Your luck definitely comes in handy, and he will use it to his advantage, mainly to gain the upper-hand in pranking Lucifer. As long as you're around or are the one performing it, it's far more likely for their pranks to succeed. And if they get caught, the punishments are always far less severe, so they can get back to finding new ways to inconvenience Lucifer as fast as possible.

• He also likes bringing you with him to bookstores, because whenever you wander around or randomly pick out a book, it always happens to be some kind of rare edition or cursed book that is... for some reason in a public bookstore. And it's not like the curse will hurt you either. No, you're just too lucky for that.

• Sort of develops a more laid-back attitude to what you do overtime, unlike Lucifer. Satan has full faith in your luck, and doesn't tend to worry much about your safety. That isn't to say he doesn't care, more like he believes fate itself will always keep you safe.

• Also, whenever he takes you to cat cafes or areas popular with stray cats, they always surround you and jump up onto your lap. Even the feistiest of cats are calm enough to be pet by you. He loves this, and tries to take you with him every time he goes out somewhere like that.

"Pspspspsps..." "Oh, that's Paprika. She doesn't have an owner and is scared of people, so she won't—" Satan's sentence was cut short by the usually shy and aggressive kitty jumping up into your lap. She 'mrrp'ed as you pet and cooed at her, and it took you a moment to notice the utter silence from the man next to you. "Satan? What's wrong?" He blinked and gazed lovingly at you, completely starry-eyed. "...I love you."

ASMODEUS

• He knew you were lucky right off the bat. I mean, you had to be with looks like yours. You basically won the genetic lottery!

• Obviously, your abilities go far beyond just good looks. But he honestly doesn't care as much as his brothers do about all of that. He's much more focused on how you are absolutely slaying every single outfit you try on! No matter how hideous a combination is, you always make it look good... How?!

• I would say he's jealous, but that would be a lie. He's still hotter, obviously... but you're close second! Well, no, you're not that close behind, but still!

• If there's anything he is jealous of, it's your lack of bedhead. He's drawing a line, it's completely unfair for you to wake up looking perfect every morning.

• If Asmo were to ever use your luck to his advantage, it would be to score his most desired modelling shoots. Just having you near him makes scouts more likely to approach him, and having you in a picture makes it go instantly viral. You're his lucky charm for stuff like that.

• Doesn't approve of his brothers stealing you away for all kinds of shenanigans though. Mostly because it's taking your attention away from where it should be, on him. He may not take advantage of your luck as frequently as the others, but if that's what it takes to have you all to himself, he might start to!

• Designs a cute little four-leaf clover accessory for you to wear, like a bracelet or a hairclip.

"MC, honey!~" Asmo came running into your room, a big smile on his face. Before you could even speak, he latched his arms around you in a bone-crushing hug, kissing all over your face. "Thank you so much for getting me that photoshoot~ it was amazing!" Confused, you wriggled around for a bit of freedom, and he loosened his grip on you. "I didn't get you anything?" "Of course you did, sweetheart! It's all thanks to you I was lucky enough to come across an opportunity like that~ so, how about a special reward for my favourite lucky charm, hm?~"

BEELZEBUB

• Beel is unlikely to notice unless your luck is pointed out to him. Not because he's stupid or doesn't pay attention to you, but because he just doesn't think in that way. He'll notice when things seem to conveniently always go your way, but he doesn't piece all of those events together and come to the conclusion that you have absurd luck on his own.

• It's only when one of his brothers comment on it that the puzzle pieces all connect and he's like "ooooh." His only real reaction beyond that is a shrug. He frankly doesn't care that much.

• He notices that whenever he takes you out to eat, he always ends up with extra food on his plate that he didn't ask for. He notices that there always happen to be extra replacements for any ingredients he eats when he's on dinner duty, as long as you're in the house. He notices how some vendors are more willing to give him samples on-the-house when you're by his side. It's just not the main reason why he wants you around all the time.

• He loves you because of how unique you are and because of how much you've helped his family. Your luck is convenient, yes, but he doesn't go out of his way to use it for himself. The last thing he wants is for you to think he's using you.

• ...He might ask you to help him sneak food into places though.

• Beel is also unlikely to put much faith in your luck to keep you safe. He knows you've managed to evade danger in the past, but he'd much rather protect you himself so he can be sure.

• Even though he doesn't use your luck to his advantage, he'll ask a lot of questions about what you've been able to do with it in the past. He might ask you to try out a few things solely for experimental purposes, but it's usually just to see how far-reaching your luck actually is. Treats it like a superpower, which it kind of is.

• Such as: what if someone tells you to cook a meal you've never heard of without a recipe? If you just try random stuff, will you end up with a good meal anyway? You tried that one out — the answer was, somehow, yes.

You felt a rough tap on your shoulder. Turning, you were met with Beel, looking very guilty and with a bag full of snacks. "Can you hide these in your coat?" He asked. "Beel, we're at a movie theatre..." You spoke with a hushed voice, looking around warily. "We can just buy popcorn." "I know, but... just popcorn isn't enough." He looked at you with such sad eyes that you couldn't help but give in. You took the bag from him, tucking it under your arm, and he lit up. "Thank you, MC."

BELPHEGOR

• Sure, he noticed, but was pretty sure he wouldn't care about it at all. He sleeps through most days anyway, so...

• He was totally wrong, though. He remembers waking up next to you one morning, cuddled snugly into your chest and arms lazily draped over you from the night before. Groaning, he turned and looked over at his bedside clock... 12:00, it read. He blinked. Had he slept through the beginning of RAD? Without Lucifer or Beel coming to wake him? Seemed unlikely...

• It was only when he checked his DDD that he saw a few messages in the House of Lamentation group chat of Lucifer informing everyone that there had been some sort of mishap with a potion, so RAD's halls were closed off for the day, and perhaps tomorrow. How lucky, he thought. He gets to spend all day in bed with... MC.

• Anyway, he tries to sleep in your bed literally every night from then on, because whenever he does there always seems to be some kind of event that causes RAD to be cancelled or delayed.

• Lucifer bans him from doing this after realising it. He can't just have the entire school year amount to nothing because classes kept getting cancelled, after all. Belphie was not happy about this at all.

• Even when staying overnight with MC is banned, he'll still find ways to use their luck to his convenience. When he naps on them or near them, he's far less likely to be disturbed from his sleep. There's also the bonus of MC helping him and Satan get away with their pranks on Lucifer more often.

• That's what he gets for revoking Belphie's sleepover privileges.

• Your luck sometimes backfires on him, though. Whenever he tries to pull a prank on you, it always goes horribly wrong. To be fair, he probably should have predicted that outcome.

"Belphie... wake up..." You spoke softly into Belphie's ear and he twitched in his sleep. All it took was a few more gentle shakes and he finally stirred, looking at you with sleepy eyes. "Come on, it's time to get up." "What?" He huffed and rested his head back down on top of you. "RAD's cancelled... I don't need to get up..." "It—" You paused and blinked down at the avatar of Sloth. True, it was cancelled for the day, but that announcement was only made about thirty minutes ago. Belphie had been sound asleep. "—How did you know it was cancelled?" The only response you got was a smirk and a knowing look before he went right back to sleep.

#obey me #obey me x reader #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me headcanons #obey me shall we date

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godihatethiswebsite · 4 months ago

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Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Five - On Trial

Apologies for the delay as there were a few speed bumps that my foggy brain just did not want to hump over. This chapter gave me some grief, but I'm still happy with how it turned out :)

Trigger Warnings: religious imagery, ptsd, angst, brief mentions of rape/incest/assault/drugging/coercion/miscarriage

Flat deadened eyes bore chasms through your own.

They peeled away the impregnable shroud of shame masking the abhorrent malefactions of those you’ve wronged.

In a split second of time, those eyes foisted judgment upon all your heinous sins with an executioner’s toll. Damning you to an endless oblivion amongst the cacophony of wailing souls eternally condemned to the River Styx.

Behold! The face of your adjudicator!

Blackened barbed wire constricts the fat of his gluttonous form. Exposed sickly ashen skin held together by threaded catgut, bursting at the seams with bone-white mold. Hellfire caged in little glass vials illuminates the agonized expression glued to a visage of perpetual torment, standing against a backdrop of towering decayed limbs, basking in the multitude of jewel toned offerings left by those who worship at the base of this miserable creature’s sacrificial altar.

…Of all the cheerful residents from the Hundred Acre Wood, who on god’s green earth decided that Eeyore of all things would be the poster boy for Christmas?

The melancholically predisposed cartoon character was a mess of tangled Christmas lights, having apparently failed in his endeavor to liven up the wilted excuse of a barren evergreen behind him and somehow succeeding in trapping his own pudgy form in the decorations instead – the ‘D’ in December knocked crooked in his fruitless struggles.

A paltry souvenir magnet from someplace sunny holds the calendar aloft, Winnie the Pooh designs posted on the side of your fridge with thick glossy sheets. A gift from your fathers; a new one included in their holiday care package every year.

You’re sure the overstuffed box currently shoved beneath your kitchen table for lack of anywhere more reasonable to house it has its plastic-wrapped replacement buried amongst the other contents. Previous years involved such colorful settings as early 2000’s internet memes or a compilation of fun facts regarding the world’s different varieties of cheeses. Not for your own enjoyment, of course, but for the chagrined expression your family insisted on basking in come Christmas morn.

Not that you admitted to liking this past year's theme of childhood whimsey…

The curlicue numbers on the wintery grid mark the passage of time – crossed out with dry streaks of red ink. Christmas is naught but five days from now, the emphasized date stamped in the upper righthand corner with a glittery ribbon as if the holiday needed even more call for attention. It means almost nothing to you outside of a familial facetime over a microwaved breakfast of cheap eggo waffles.

You’ll suffer congenially through the good natured poking and prodding. Chloe will send a text; Alex won’t. And the day will pass by in a whisper of silence – the magic of miracles stored back in their damp corporate box for cheapened rehashing the following year.

Holing away in the confines of your solitary habitat came with the added benefit of only exposing yourself to the overhyped celebration on a reasonable once-weekly basis, driving to and fro your therapist's office; painfully ignoring the garish spectacle of such yuletide enrichment as fuzzy wonky reindeer antlers wedged atop sticker splattered minivans, off-key fourth graders caterwauling carols in the backseat, tinsel and fiberglass grating on your teeth.

At least, your antisocialness normally would save you from such headaches.

When the pharmacy didn’t bungle communications with your primary care physician and refill your prescription two weeks early.

The voicemail left on your phone this morning was a little more than a minor annoyance. You’d only just finished chasing the taste of bile with citrusy mouthwash, leaning your leaded weight against the cold marble of the sink, stomach still spasming with painful braxton hicks-like contractions. Shaky hands splashed tepid water on your face, wicking away the evidence of exertion and clearing your chin of digested chicken noodle.

You’d only half paid attention to the robotic voice droning over speakerphone, wiping off your face with a disgruntled glare at your reflection and muffling a groan into the pilled fabric of your hand towel at the automated message. This was not a day to be playing at adulthood. This was a day for warm chunky socks and Disney movie marathons.

And now because some overworked new hire chugging Red Bulls probably keyed in the wrong refill date in an over-caffeinated zeal, you were once again paying for someone else's mistake.

(A running theme for your life.)

You shook off the bitter thought with a weary sigh, hanging the damp towel from the plastic command hook on peeling wallpaper. The buzzing of the keypad rattled the counter as you’d cleared out your phone’s voicemail, scooping up the device and trudging back around the corner to begin what should’ve originally been an easy day.

Now, a few hours of lounging had garnered you enough gumption to voyage out amongst proper society once more, rinsing your chubby dinosaur mug from earlier in the sink as your eyes flick up unwittingly to the calendar nearby.

You know what you’re counting even as you abash yourself for it.

The crumpled bag of mostly full coffee grounds has been sitting in your bin for the past two days, put there in an abstract protest to the blatant disregard of your feelings by a caustic alpha. The taste on your tongue has become as phantom as the scent that once clung to your coat rack, wafted away by a bottle of descenting spray the same way you wish to purge his lingering effervescence from where it's taken root in your spine.

The offending bag collects dust at the top of the pile, placed there in a huff at the start of every morning. When its existence mocks your suffering and the grief of a life you’ll never get to live is at the forefront of every painful heave into grimy porcelain, forced onto your knees like the flaccid servient creature that beast has morphed you into.

Still, there’s no sign of refuse or food waste on the flimsy outside packaging. It never stays put long enough to accumulate filth or bury itself in neglected disuse. At the end of the night, when the wounds of before are wrapped in a somnolent layer of protective padding, it returns to its spot amongst the clutter of your countertop, a pitiful idol to the foolish part he’s allowed to fester against your better judgment.

God, you’ve tried so hard to ignore it – you really have. With what little there is to occupy your mind in this lackluster environment, the labor of staying detached is proving arduous. John’s memory agitating the stripped-bare axis of simple order your world rotates upon.

Distraction eludes you at every attempt to forget. The warmth of your nest is the comfort of his leather embrace, the Zofran on your tongue the calloused paw at your nape grounding you in tempered reality. Soft boar hair bristles are his fingers, the zest in your meal his vigor. His face is in the deep prussian sweater jailed to the back of your closet for the sole crime of coming too close to the cerulean shade that haunts your waking memory.

You thought you already knew what it meant to belong to another. To be branded with someone else’s signet like a bored kid in history class taking chunks out of his desk until it was too desecrated with graffiti to be regarded as anything other than his unofficial property. No one wanted to touch what the school bully had already sullied.

Until John.

It didn’t matter that the seat was already occupied. He just scratched out the nameplate with safety scissors and staked his claim with a wad of gum beneath the chair.

He was dark matter wedging its way to take up space between condensed molecules, bullying the other elements into submission until his chemical makeup twisted you to something there was no coming back from. Sweeping in with the strength of a category five and the persistence of the big bad wolf.

You despise John for the damage he’s incurred to your house made of straw – all of them really – but you detest yourself even more for the gnawing disappointment flooding your gut that he hasn’t shaken the foundations further.

The hiss of pain between your teeth as you adjust the abrasive scarf around your neck serves as a sobering reminder of the real cancer infecting your cells. Even if the claim was buried under layers, it didn’t mean your flesh didn’t still carry the scars from its etching.

Slinging your purse over your shoulder, you take to the task of unlocking each of the bolts guarding you from the true terrors of an alpha’s altruistic attention.

Please just let this be quick.

The sneer from the old crone in aisle two has you ducking the latter half of your face in the itchy fabric that hides the one thing you’re currently being judged for.

You don’t know her name, but you’ve seen her outside the steps of your apartment enough with her hellspawn of a pomeranian to know she lives in your building. The grey curls of her poodle cut perm do nothing to hide the splotches of alopecia that come with age. Tissue paper skin dappled with sun spots begs for the youth of collagen, gaunt around her cheekbones and only highlighting her witchy exterior, a moth eaten shawl hanging loosely over the quasimodo hump keeping her from standing at a height taller than that of a twelve year old child.

The grouchy bat is clever, though, you’ll give her that. There’s a discerning eye behind those tortoiseshell frames that speak of a bygone prime filled with intrigue and gossip that’s followed her well into her twilight years.

She’s honed her intellect well.

And she knows.

Your skin crawls with maggots under her heated glare, boring subdermal tunnels that reach beyond the capabilities of a simple itch. The writhing anomalies only add to the growing discomfort of waiting in the pharmacy queue for far longer than need be. Ten minutes you’ve been behind the same middle aged man – too diffident to interrupt the conversation going on ahead of you – as what should’ve been a simple snatch and grab of his blood pressure medication turns into three decades of catching up with a bygone acquaintance from primary school.

“–when Janine drank some weird concoction back at Jimmy’s place. Fucking health nut has his own carbonator in his kitchen and she got the bright idea on six shots of cuervo to run a glass of milk through the damn thing. Ended up spewing all over Crystal’s pants.”

To their credit, the pharmacist had at least been working on filling prescriptions as he prattled on with the bald spot beta in front of you, bustling between stocked aisles of jarred substances and counting out little white tablets with every ping from the database. He just didn’t seem to care about the goings on inside the store. “Adam mentioned that when I ran into him at the football match last June. Isn’t that O’Hara’s omega? The one who used to save her gum in a giant ball after she was done chewing it?”

Eww. Seriously?

“Nah, that’s Abigail. Crystal was Billy and Carter’s girl.”

That seemed to catch the other alpha in his tracks, a quizzical brow replacing one of mild interest as he paused his fingers over the keyboard. “Was? What happened to her?”

“Fucking up and left them, that’s what. And right after they supported her through that unfortunate miscarriage too. Came home one day to an empty nest and a note on the table telling them she was done. Poor guys never even saw it coming.”

“Wow. Who would’ve thought she’d turn out to be one of them?”

“Yea,” the beta’s tone turned sour. “Unfaithful bitch.”

The Unfaithful.

That’s what they call you now.

Those who have forsaken their oaths and disgraced the name ‘omega’. The sanctity of packdom desecrated by egocentric bond breakers. Scheming harlots abandoning their worshipful protectors– denying them their designated rights and withholding the gift of eternal peace upon those alphas worthy enough to be chosen.

False omegas. Government apostates to how things are supposed to be run.

Doesn’t matter that those who claim to be victims before the courts are the same conniving bastards stripping us of our bodily autonomy. Nothing is impermissible.

Rape. Incest. Assault. Drugging. Coercion. Words that carry weight become cotton candy deadlifts in the face of a mating bond. It has no undoing – no magic words or medical procedures. There is no running towards the arms of a better pack in hopes of a brighter future; no room for another in the tether of your soul. That anchor has taken root in the rock bed and cannot be claimed outside the mysticism of a scent match.

Crueler parts of the world would hunt you down like the runaway slave they’re too cowardice to admit they perceive you as, a bounty placed upon your head and welts on your back for disobeying, brittle nails clawing at the dirt in a last attempt at freedom, dragged back to your master in an iron wrought collar displaying the shame of your sins.

Suppose you should consider yourself lucky that here, amongst the dredges of refined society, your kind are merely shunned.

Bosom friends all turn their backs, work desks empty into a cardboard box under the guise of ‘performance issues’. The deli at the corner claims they’re closed, red blocky letters drawing blood by the gallons as the patrons inside regard you like you’re nothing more than a sopping wet stray begging for scraps in the rain.

There are no laws that protect from discrimination for people like you. The lease in your fathers’ names and the lie from their lips are the only things sheltering you from homelessness. Others are not so fortunate as to have the word of an alpha keeping them off the street.

The forlorn promise of a better tomorrow is all that greets you now in the wake of devastation. There is no higher contract than the bite marks on your neck.

The scathing look from the disgruntled woman would be warranted by those around you if they were privy to the same suspicions she carried. The signs were all there if they only knew where to look.

“Miss?”

You hardly notice when they end their interaction, the off-putting customer service smile from the alpha behind the counter making the pit of your stomach rumble with unease as you scurry to the front, quietly offering up your personal information as you place your ID on the counter.

If he only knew he had the power to blacklist you in his hands…

You fork over the cash in far shorter time than the previous customer did, spending less than two minutes to his twenty before you duck away from the substantial line that’s formed in the time since your subsequent arrival.

It’s your luck the old hag is three guests behind you, averting your gaze to the task of stashing your meds to try and keep from further interaction. Too bad a half century’s worth of smoking comes out in the rasping slur she spits at you from underneath her breath.

“Fucking glitch.”

You’ve heard the words directed at you once before, only far more cutting and uttered from a far different mouth. That didn’t stop the insult from piercing through to bone, a deep ache in your ribs that slows your gait and gives you pause beside the basket drop-off.

A quick glance around confirms a lack of disdain from your fellow shoppers. You’re surprisingly fortunate that her biting remark hadn’t been made any louder. You frequent this shop often enough to be recognizable to most of the staff – though not on any sort of conversational terms. Being blacklisted here wouldn’t just result in an inconvenient trek farther for medical service, but a mark that would deny usage no matter the location.

Every step out your front door is a chance for your past to catch up to you… in one form or another.

A shock of cold jolts you from your far-away stare, startling a yelp that draws brief attention as you jump back from the unwanted contact, hand retreating away at the abrupt offense. Cradling it to your chest, you’re met with cobalt eyes and sunshine hair, a bright eyed pupper beaming up at you from its spot perched at your feet.

“Sorry about him!” An apologetic voice squawks to the left of you, calling your attention to the hobbling beta woman at the other end of the leash. Her neon green marshmallow puffer greets you before her dark curls and round cheeks, a prosthetic hand keeping grip on her furry friend. “He’s a well behaved boy I promise! Ain’t gonna bite ya or anything.”

“Oh no, he’s fine!” The tremble in your words is more from social awkwardness than anything, having been caught off guard in a place far too crowded for your tastes, rolling your shoulders to halt the impulse to scratch. “Just wasn’t expecting a wet dog nose is all.”

The beta, on the other hand, has no problem running a knitted mitten over the back of her neck. “Yeaaaah, it’s not often he gets away from me like that. You see, he’s my service animal.” She calls attention to the black vest around his body, a litany of bright colored patches and big blocky words adorning the functioning harness that you hadn’t quite discerned upon first glance. “He uh… was just alerting to you.”

It takes you a moment to process the words, blinking down at the panting canine regarding you with eyes more keen than the pea-brained expression would suggest.

Good to know even a dog can sense you’re nine different levels of fucked up.

“You can pet him if you want,” comes the gentle offer upon spying the embarrassment painting your features, taking her faithful companion’s inattention in stride. The quirk of her mouth gives you a green light even if her words already did. “Far be it for me to disagree with the boss here when he puts his mind to something.”

The words of declination rest limp on your tongue, a moment’s hesitation giving way beneath the understanding gaze of an impartial animal whose sole purpose is to provide the comfort of love. Crouching down to its level – uncaring of the salt trekked state of the tile – it's almost instinctual to wrap your arms around the retriever for an act that seems so much more dangerous coming from any other being. The muzzle that finds home in the junction of your shoulder roots you through the floor, going beyond solid concrete foundation and miles of serpentine pipeways, winding through terraceous cracks unyielding to the progress of man to find purchase in the damp soil unseen for thousands of years, unbowing to the anything but the turn of the earth.

Calm is not the word; the pounding pulse in your ears and the headrush of being out in public still ring through the chittering bustle of checkout lanes to keep you on your toes. Yet the ache in your soul feels less like a boulder and more like a handful of a pebbled shore.

Pulling away from the smell of damp fur, slobber greets your face in the form of affection, features pulling taut against the playful onslaught trying its best to intrude between the cracks of your mouth.

“Easy does it, bud.” A soft yank on his harness serves as a gentle reminder, turning from loveable pup to esteemed gentleman panting in perfect submission. “No one wants to taste what you had for lunch earlier today.”

You flash her a grateful smile for the interference, fingers moving next to scritch around the bright red collar mostly hidden by dense hairs, a glinting dog bone with cursive scrawl clacking against the knuckles of your hand. “Rocky, huh?”

“Yea,” she chuckles. “Don’t judge, but he was actually my favorite power ranger as a kid.” Her mittened hand joins yours in the thick pelt of his neck, scratching at some secret spot that gets his tail thumping, the appendage a whirling propeller trying in vain to achieve liftoff. How long they must’ve been in each other’s company for such familiarity. “Figured since this little guy was gonna be my hero too, he deserved a name befitting the courage he inspires.”

Her sincerity sparks something in you as you reach back to your own childhood, the sizzling of pancakes on the griddle against a backdrop of Saturday morning shows. Your smile warms at the memory. “Hey, no judgment here. After all, mine was Tommy.”

The moment breaks with shattered glass somewhere off to the right, the both of you reacting with varying degrees of frazzled nerves. You don’t miss the way her hand strikes out with practiced swiftness towards her hip, something nonexistent bumped away from flexing fingers by a patience nudge. Wide eyes glance down at her stalwart companion, already staring back with all the surety of his namesake, pushing her palm further against the smoothness of his head, urging her to stay with him in the safety of the moment. You don’t know the ghosts that haunt her–doing your best to avert your gaze from the glimpse of carbon fiber–but you watch as they retreat with calming breaths back to the place where they were born.

She shoots you a look you know she rather wouldn’t, an unspoken apology wrapped in embarrassment as familiar to you as it is to her, understanding passing between mirrored irises. There’s a shuffling of feet as you both scurry on your respective ways, you towards the outside air while her path takes her further inward. A quick glance over your shoulder finds him pressed against her side, snout turned upwards with a lolling tongue and dopey smile, eyes on the caregiver staring back at him with fond devotion. To have something that loves you that much…

Your gaze softens along with your words. “Good boy, Rocky…”

Fire ants bite into your cheek as the sharp crack that accompanies them leaves an outline of lava, the slap mark on your face glowing red hot and searing with the weight behind their assault. It dulls as the molten rock cools, a beating heart on the surface kept in time with the now racing pulse in your neck. The shock of it is almost as painful as the protruding iron shelves getting knocked against your spine, blowback jostling the festive display contents some poor stocker worked so hard on as cardboard cubes of kleenex clatter like ornaments to the muck-stained floor.

The outcry from your lips is muffled in comparison to groaning metal shifting under your weight, hand instinctively flying up as a wall to protect from further onslaught. Heat blooms again even under your careful touch, hissing in a gasp as wide eyes filled with glistening saline catch up a moment before your nostrils take in a familiar decadence.

Her omega scent of rich warm brownie, fresh out the oven – but swallowed from the edges by the beginnings of char. Too high a temp getting cooked for too long, potent in its fury as it cracks and concaves. A sickeningly sweet outer shell transmuting under pressure, turning perfect gooey fudge into bubbling tar.

The visage that greets you is tempered by dread; a mixture of refined beauty and smoldering hate.

White fluffy earmuffs contrast against long chocolate waves spilling like molasses over a matching pristine peacoat – as if not even fate itself dared to sully such purity. If the air of refinement somehow doesn’t outclass you than the designer handbag does. No pack could ask for a more exemplary omega.

You’ve seen those cheekbones on the cover of magazines, that glassy skin splashed clean in luxury skincare ads. Perfect porcelain as artistically rendered as fine chinaware. Every model you’ve ever envied taken shape as your worst nightmare. Dark bambi eyes red-ringed with acidic tears, button nose flaring with each heaving rise of her trembling shoulders. Full pouty lips quiver under the enormous weight of emotions that threaten to claw almond manicured nails through your skin like chainsaws.

There is anger, but there is also pain.

And you caused it.

You do not know which response consumes you more: panic, or shame.

“You–” her voice breaks like her heart, delicate wind chimes in a spring downpour. “You s-stay away from them…” Her words come in a struggle, fighting for stability whilst she hangs onto her composure with a thread as thin as spider silk. “They’re not yours… so… so just– just leave us alone!”

Gone is the lighthearted vision spun in innocent etherealness from that day in the store. Sparkling doe eyes now filled with scorn don’t suit the unblemished being not a foot in front of you. There’s an ingrained sweetness in her now pitiful form that so easily calls to an alpha’s protectiveness, a creature that deserves to be cherished, adorned; royalty reincarnated to a modern day princess.

There are only traces of that now standing a few feet in front of the automatic sliding doors, a smashed box of tissues keeping the mechanism from closing and sending a chill over the entire conversation.

You shrink in on yourself, lowering your gaze in a meek show of submission that speaks where your own voice fails. How could you continue to look her in the eye when you are the reason this woman is suffering? When you are the bad guy in every sense of the word?

Filth. Sullied. Poison. Suffocating her with your very presence as if your own tainted pheromones could overcast hers.

You expect more–deserve more–but she turns on her heels, the sensors allowing passage as she hurries back out the way you suspect she only just came.

You’re as stunned as the bystanders around you, blinking at her retreating form into the small parking lot beyond. You can’t help but watch as she races across the asphalt, thoughts of her own task left behind in a trail of her own tears. Badly muffled whispers start in earnest at the display. Chorused words of ‘wicked woman’ following you out onto the pavement. Tongues lashing into open wounds kept bleeding by your own shame.

That pain is nothing in the wake of the familiar figure of a towering form.

He meets her halfway, hulking mass climbing out from the cab of a blackened range rover at the first sign of her obvious distress. From this far away you can only make out the sounds of heaving sobs, watch as dainty hands clutch the dark material of her protector, the furrow of his brow as he searches for answers to her suffering.

Whatever she responds, you find yourself once more snapped in place by the weight of his stare, looking no less worse for wear than the first time he did.

Logic says the phantom tartness on your tongue is a hallucination ingrained from previous exposure, but the inner omega whining helplessly to be understood doesn’t comprehend the self inflicted wounds she scores with brittle claws at the first chance to taste. In many ways, designative instincts retain the innocence of youth: purely reactionary in their naive disregard. They’re doe-eyed five year olds holding up the mangled body of a broken baby bird and proclaiming ‘they can fix it’. To them, they don’t realize the damage that comes with wishing for a bite of lemon zest when they know that cupcake is theirs, deaf to the scolding of a parent who knows better.

After all, what gives you the right to take what hasn’t been offered? For wishing for the comfort of an alpha’s scent that doesn’t belong to you? All it does is make you feel like the shameful thief the people in the shop think you are.

So you keep your distance from the alpha and his mate, once more stuck in a whirlwind of unintentional trouble. He’s too far away to make out the hues of his eyes, but his body language tells you exactly where he stands in all this. Fingers flexed in a possessive grip, the placement of his hand curled around her mid back, the subtle hunch he takes as he tucks her tearstained face beneath his covered chin.

A choice.

Conceal. Protect. Intruder.

You once wondered at the outcome if you hadn’t run that night; if the call that beckoned you ‘wait’ had kept you rooted to the floor. How would this mammoth have reacted - the one who only watched in pure neutrality as your world crumbled apart? Would he have let his friend make the first move forward? Would there have been an altercation? Spoken words and awkward introductions such as with their Scottish brethren? Did they care about your cowardice? Did the alphas give you chase? Lose your scent in the produce aisle and catch their breaths in the crisp night air?

At last you have your answer.

The judgment he passes as he turns his back to you has far more gravitas than the mopey donkey on your fridge. The conjured images of morbidity that entertained you earlier this morning feels like a holiday in comparison to the way your arteries shrivel from necrosis; down another size and a half by Grinch standards.

(Would it ever grow again?)

Closing your eyes against the sight is all you can do to maintain your sanity.

“Lass!”

As if life hasn’t finished causing you torment enough, the rough brogue catching your ears has your eyes peeling back open, the depression gluttoning away at your insides taking note at the promise of further feast, cackling gleefully at the tousled mohawk rounding the the opposite side of the vehicle his companions are approaching. Concern sits heavy on his brow, footsteps sure of their path as the pair sidle up along the drivers side of their SUV, lemon shuffling his omega through the open door he holds and into the relative safety of the back seat. You expect John to join them – to fuss and coo over her the same way he did for you in the cafe. Your masochism soaks up the envy like a yorkshire pudding at Christmas dinner.

But he makes no move to join his mate, blazing a path that leads beyond.

It’s not her he’s calling out for. It’s you.

Something smothers in your chest at the meaty glove that yanks him backwards, the heft of his brawn outmatched by the iron grip stopping him from advancing any further, shoved back against the shiny black of the range rover. The suspension creaks from the sheer force of the impact, giving you a hint as to the momentum which was suddenly reversed and applied to the hull, vehicle tilting a few centimeters off its wheelbase before thudding back down to settle on its chassis.

Charged static fills the air as overwhelmingly as the growl ripped from their chest – from which alpha you aren’t sure. The palpable anger that must be flaring in their scent chokes those unfortunate few nearby into hurrying along, a group of teenagers giving wide berth as the old man a few cars over shoves something fragile into the boot with a telltale crunch, slamming the latch shut before climbing over his center console to the steering wheel from the opposite side. No one wants to get involved in pack business, much less find themselves collateral damage in a showdown between behemoths.

Where lemon’s mouth is obscured, John’s isn’t, giving you unfiltered access to the snarl he spits up at the man a few inches taller than him. He makes his displeasure clear in a volume still too quiet for you to grasp, but his argument is apparent in the gesturing of his arms, the wildness matched by the heart he so clearly wears on his sleeve. His packmate stands in complete opposition to the outward show of aggression by the former, striking in his marble-like appearance, firm against the blunted chisel of whatever’s being discussed. The only sign that he’s participating comes in the form of the other’s interrupted pauses.

Your thoughts turn to the omega inside overhearing all of this. The discontent she must feel down the bond from those she loves most has to be just as painful as the ability to hear the quarreling itself. What must she be going through–huddled alone in the shadows by herself–having to listen to what you assume is an argument over another woman… one that a mate is clearly defending?

What consumes her more? Is it rage? Betrayal? Anguish? Abandonment? Jealousy? Your heart goes out to her at this moment in a way you’re not sure her packmates are knowing or even empathetic to.

You suddenly flinch as if being struck by the accusatory finger pointed in your direction by the up-until-now stoic alpha, nose to nose with a man he’s spent nights pressed even closer against. Whatever point he makes, there’s no rebuttal from the Scot this time – only a strained moment’s silence.

At last John shoves away the arm holding him, straightening his jacket with a look that says this isn’t over as his companion walks away to the driver’s side door. You don’t pay him further mind though as John huffs out his anger like a bull, raking a hand through his hair before meeting your gaze with far more softness. He sees it in your eyes the same way it reflects in his. Two pained apologies spoken without words.

Dark tint keeps you from seeing them as they enter the vehicle and drive off, peeling away with a nod to the discomfort inside but with enough self control to not endanger the ‘precious cargo’ in the back seat.

You knew the other day was too good to be true. It’s clear now the damage you’ve incurred in your foolish desire to forge a connection. The lies John told you to placate his unthinking selfishness. Why the radio silence has been deafening your apartment.

Nothing is alright. Everything is broken. You’ve ruined god knows how many years of passion and devotion by the sole act of your own pathetic existence.

You’ve robbed her of that–robbed them. Another reminder that they cannot give it to you. She has taken your place. They cannot claim another.

It’s your fault. Your fault.

Your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault…

You can’t breathe.

Something’s crawling up your throat. You can’t–

As customers pass the threshold of the automatic glass doors, no one pays any mind to the sounds of retching in the dumpster.

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