#if they make him cry again i will flip | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tonycries · 2 months ago

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I-T G-I-R-L!

Synopsis. Making big, powerful boys break beg and follow your every whim? Easy!

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, NÉEDY boys, making them whine, bondagé, creampíes, GOJO’S POWERS, chokíng Geto, use of “good boy”, cúmplay, spítting, making them CRY, MAJOR overstím, bégging (THEM), pússy-slappíng, oraI (fem receiving), face-ríding, matíng presses, dry húmping, overspill, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.9k (whew)

A/N. Woke up n’ decided I wanna bully them so here we are. Have a lovely day <3

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - MR. AND MRS.

“P-please.”

“What was that?”

“Fuck you-”

It was low - begging - and for the first time, you have that syrupy sweet privilege of hearing Toji’s husky baritone break with such a whiny crack at the end.

Smugly, you swipe an index right across where your puffy pussy was straddling his poor, overworked cock. Collecting the saturated mess along his furious length - still so swollen with the sheer volume he’d been gushing out tonight. All the way up, up, up to that messy puddle of seed glistening all over his flinching abs. “Then…I guess m’not letting you cum inside, Toji. Again.”

“No! No no no- oh.” Toji’s burst of pained moans are cut off when you shove your fingers between his bruised lips. Dewy, green eyes rolling to the back of his head with each suck and slurp at their milky white sheen. “Fuck- you little-” And despite how furious he sounds, you could feel the very tip of his fat head thicken, twitching a jagged pattern along your cervix. With a low growl, Toji narrows his gaze, biting down on your now-clean digits with his sharp canines, “I said- please, my girl.”

Just that simple plea has your boyfriend’s jaw clenching, teeth gritted so viciously at the way you’ve been oh-so-coyly denying him the one thing he’s wanted for what feels like hours now.

“Louder.” your lips curl into a devilish grin, back arching in that perfect bow Toji loved so much. Only deepening the lingering rolls of your hips down his needy tip. “Didn’t hear ya.”

“F-fuck.” Toji’s throwing his head back, thick fingers coming down to splay out across your bent thighs. “Can you- please-” You could feel every minute flex of his muscled thighs when he efforts to buck your sloppy hips deeper - faster - down his fat cock. Only to be halted by ten mean fingernails of yours pinning him down by his curving pecs, “-please. Wan’ cum inside- let me cum inside goddammit, woman.”

Of course, you decide to tease him by slowing down your pace even more. Letting your sloppy pussy just stroll down every greedy inch of his dick. Trying to hold back your content giggle, “I dunno…”

And Toji thinks he could yell out in frustration, he thinks he could sob, “Fuck- I said please. Pretty please? What more do you fucking want?”

He sounded so devastated. And you swear you could spy wet, bulbous tears at the corners of his long lashes, the familiar scar along his lips wobbling with such precious need.

“Hmm–” you’re letting out such a sultry drag of your voice, taking so much of your sweet sweet time that Toji thinks he’s about to lose his mind. About to just flip your bratty self over and shove his thoroughly teased cock into you until you forget about that looming threat of not letting him paint your insides white. Fuck, the things he does for you-

“Call me your wife.”

Shit - Toji’s darkened eyes widen at your little request, jaw hanging open in disbelief and-

“That’s it?” he laughs - laughs. Rumbling out of his broad chest in a hoarse rasp, and those two strong arms of his tug down your limp body to kiss teasingly at your jutted-out lips. Slipping his hot tongue between the seams, “S’all because my hah- baby wanted to be my- my pretty lil’ wife. Well-” Any and every retort is fucked out of your mind when Toji’s spearheading into your mushy g-spot with a harsh rut of his hips. “-what my wife wants, my wife gets.”

The bed is creaking with every riotous slam, smearing the velvety pool of cum even farther between your bodies. Sticking to you like a sloppy second skin, strings of lewd juices form and snap when his massive cock stretches your gummy walls until they gape.

“Shit- shit shit shit, if I knew that was all you wanted-” you’re feeling the languid drag of Toji’s happy trail scratch your throbbing clit. “Please- I would’ve been fucking my wife for s-so long now. Silly girl, s’all I’ve ever wanted- would’ve begged, gotten on my knees-”

“Hngh! Fuck-” you’re squealing when you feel him drip with even more saturated precum to coat your snug channel. One calloused palm of his coming between the two of your slick bodies to smear across the mess from his sweet highs, deftly angling them so that the rounded tips of his fingers are stuffing your leaky pussy with sloppy globs of his seed every time you’re slamming down.

“Now now–” It’s all you can do to gulp in heaving breaths to make your tone sound warning, but even that sounds too breathless - and both of you know it. Babbling away, “-don’t get so cocky- might just- hah, change my mind, husband.”

And fuck. Oh fuck.

Your poor cunt just throbs when in a split-second, Toji’s mouth slacks even further, wrenching out a guttural groan.

And then your gushing walls are milking out every ribbon of velvety cum that splurges into your tight pussy. It’s so much - too much, painting your insides all white with his seed. Toji’s gasping at the feeling of it sloshing around your elastic walls in slow, clingy swivels coating the both of you.

His breath hitches when he spies down at the obscenely white mess below, globs of his cum slobbering messily down your inner thigh. Fuck, he’s never - never - came before you. This was-

“This better be a proposal, y’know.” you hum in amusement. “Or it would be interesting that you came early just becaus-”

“The fuck else would it be?” Toji’s gruffing out, two warm hands gliding to grip onto the globes of your ass. Still irritated. Still embarrassed.

Ignoring your titter, he rams your teasing hips down with a sharp smack! like he was branding all five fingers onto your skin. Plugging your ravaged entrance shut with his weepy dick to stop even more of that thick, gushing cum from trickling out. You mewl when you feel his swelteringly wet tip quirk at the very bottom of your spongy cervix in interest, “Now be quiet and let me fuck you properly as my wife.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Hands-on intervention…

“You really are trying to get us fired, huh, my love?” he’s murmuring gently, “What do you think you’re doing this late, hm?”

Now, Nanami knew he shouldn’t have taken on those extra documents, he knew he should’ve been back home by now. Wrapped up in you and your cute gossip about what happened in your department today.

But here he was, sitting at his empty office. With you - stubborn as you are - straddling him like such a slut on top of his heavily manspread, muscular thighs, his favorite late-night snack. His coworker. His wife.

“I should hah- ask you the same thing, Ken.” you’re grinning, the sinfully tight satin of your skirt hiking up with each slow, teasing roll of your drooly cunt against his clothed erection. It’s so messy. Your syrupy saturated slick mixing in with Nanami’s steadily beading precum. “Didn’t we both agree to no more late nights?”

He’s heaving out a shaky sigh, running a warm hand up and down your arched spine, “I know, I know. I apologize.”

That frantically achy little pulse of your slick-glossed cunt on top of him told him that he wasn’t forgiven just yet. And Nanami gulps - loosening that yellow, speckled tie of his with the tight bobbing of his Adam’s apple. Rich tone shaky - shuddering, even, “How- how do you want me to make it up to you, darling?”

You’re batting your lashes at his expansive mahogany desk. “Well…”

Of course he should’ve seen where this was going - with your high-heel-clad feet swiveling high in the air, digging into his broad shoulders. Stitches in your poor skirt popping and tearing with each bullying thrust your husband’s planting on your ravaged in this tight mating press.

“K-Ken—” you’re letting out such a sickly sweet moan when his fat, weepy tip collides with the very bullseye of your sensitive g-spot. Your fingers work deftly to reach into your skirt pocket - pulling out that familiar tiny hot-pink bullet vibrator.

“Walkin’ around with that during work?” Nanami gasps, barely tearing his eyes away from that heavenly sight of your swollen pussy entrance wrapped around his girthy shaft. “Such a dirty girl you-”

“Oh s’not for me.”

And fuck, Nanami can only watch - can only gape his clenched jaw open when your devious fingers dip the feverishly shaky vibrator down, down, down to kiss so delicately at his thick hilt.

“Oh!” His towering body wracks with a shiver, full, heavy balls clenching so tightly. Hammering his rawly aching cock so thoroughly into you, hips pistoning forwards with the carnal need for more more more- “Wait- Fuck! M-my love?”

“Yes–?” you’re humming, low and sultry and oh Nanami already knows he’s gone. He can only pray he leaves with his sanity intact.

Splaying out two large hands on the sides of your head, the documents on top rustle in sync with those saturatedly hypnotic squelches echoing from your ravishing cunt. “Is this- s’this oh, fuck- please.” Nanami screws his eyes shut when you’re holding down the device even harder onto his glistening shaft. “S’this- is it- because I broke our hah- promise?”

“Maybe.” you’re breathing out into his panting mouth. So enveloped by his weighty figure that it was almost difficult to work your little magic. “Maybe I just got tired of waitin’ around for you to finish overtime, Ken.”

“Please!”

Over and over. That tiny spark is enough to have him barrelling back into your dripping wetness with reckless abandon.

He’s so utterly ruined - glasses sliding down his high nose-bridge, thighs quivering with sensitive need. And you could just feel every fresh wave of heated precum painting your cunt in a glossy new coat. “Fuck- tell me please. Please, darling, m’begging.”

“Promise me no more overtime.” You’re grinning, fingers still steady tracing his most sensitive spots.

“P-promise…”

“N’ to always hurry home to me?”

“I promise! I promise- promise to always come home- to you- always. Please-” he’s startling you with a soft pad of his thumb rolling over your neglected clit. Such a low, broken keen leaving him at when you start drawing harsh, methodical circles on the sensitive spots along his length. “N-no more overtime. Please please please- feels too good- what do I do- what-”

Ah, success looked so pretty.

Nanami’s eyes were already so watery, stern lips trembling with little apologies about “never workin’ overtime again.” So uncharacteristically disheveled in a way that makes your mouth water.

“Shit-” you hiss when that pointed nub of the vibrator accidentally hits your widely stretched-out pussy. The velvety cling of your walls making him hiss furiously. Disrupting, fat tip nudging all those crevices along your snug channel. “Hah- don’t think I’d let you off so-”

Before you can react, he’s hiking a long leg up on the desk to angle his crashes with scary accuracy. Just colliding against your bulbous g-spot with no hesitation. Pushing, with the very edge of his weepy tip - far, so far that you could scream.

Over and over and over- So elastically stretching out your snug hole to your limits to take him in all his long, throbbing entirety.

“Fuck- fuck fuck I know, I know.” He’s alternating between long, rough strokes to shove you further and further up the cool desk, and shallow lingering grinds to mold your pretty walls to the exact form of his swollen shaft. “I’ll do anything- anything, please just- cum.”

It only takes a few more calculated pistons of his hips, and a touchy, teasing smack! onto your weepy cunt before you’re crashing headfirst into your orgasm. Cumming all around his wildly twitching shaft, your velvety walls just mending all around the shape of his pretty cock. Your toes curl, back arching into such a bowing bend. And in the split-second your grip weakens, Nanami’s seizing that hot pink devil in your hand.

“F-fuck wait-” you squeal at at familiar bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzt echoing across the filled-out walls of your cunt. Squeezing inside the tight fit where Nanami’s fat shaft was nestling, tremoring so deliciously against each and every one of your sweet spots. Stuffing you full. “What-”

“Don’t forget - you’re working overtime, too, my love.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - No need for air

“F-fuuuck, gorgeous.” Geto’s melodic moan makes your cunt throb, a fresh gush of your sweet sweet juices slobbering down to where he was slapping your puffed-up clit with his fat head. The angry divot of his tip smacking up once, twice onto the too-sensitive nub.

“So fuckin’ wet f’me-” he whispers from behind, gliding a thumb across the glossy sheen trickling down from the corners of your slit. The sight of his glistening fingers makes him bare you with such a crazed, feral grin, feeding you inch by fucking in languid, bullying rams. “-almost makes me forget the hand around my throat.”

At this, your nails are digging in even deeper around the pale, long column of his throat. Leaving neat, red indents that stand out. And you swear you could spy his leering grin grow even wider at that sinful sting.

“What about it, Sugu?” you’re grinning over your shoulder. Gasping for air at how relentlessly he was trying to squeeze his fat shaft through that tight, glossy ring of muscle.

Each drag of his throbbing shaft has your fingers tightening more around his throat. Making Geto feel so woozy and lightheaded with each little grind into the glistening channel past your puffy folds. “Heh, really like fuck- it rough like this, huh?” A low groan drags at the back of his throat when you start pushing your limp hips back in a jerky little cadence to try and meet his. “Shit- shit shit shit s’too good. You’re suckin’ me up so tight s’almost hard to fuck into ya. Almost makes me wanna-”

“Cum inside?”

This earns you a punishing smack! on your bulging cunt, cool metallic rings of his burning into your skin. So sopping wet and struggling to expand your gummy walls around his expanding girth. Drawing out a dark chuckle from the depths of his chest, “Real funny, gorgeous. You and I both hah- know s’jus’ your hngh! cockdrunk mind talking.”

“Nooo—” you’re tugging him in a desperate, vice-like grip to crash your lips against his. Whining against his lips, “S’not. Really really want you to cum inside, Sugu. F’me - please? Like a good boy?”

It was a little slip of your tongue - really - and you didn’t expect anything more than another teasing slap to your cunt, maybe even a joke at your expense.

But what you didn’t expect was for the sloppy cadence of Geto’s hips to falter just a bit. You’re turning your head just in time to catch that glassy, far-away look in his eyes, jaw slacking open to let out a shocked gasp. You hear a sharp pop! from his toned hips before they’re surging forwards to barrel your poor cunt with every weighty inch of his girth.

Over- and over and over- One large hand of his is catching around yours to squeeze - warningly. Letting out a strangled, “G-gorgeous…”

Oh?

Brows quirking, you’re batting your lashes so syrupy slow, “Are you gonna be my good boy, Sugu? Make me a momma?”

Another lewd push and pull, having you bouncing back on Geto’s sharp hipbones with such loud smacks! of skin-on-skin. Ringing into the humid, heady air and wracking his body with almost-painful shivers.

“F-fuck–” He’s struggling to find the words - to even think with his melty mess of a mind. Such a delicate blush burns at Geto’s scowling cheeks when you’re facing him with a surprised grin - one he hides by latching his lips onto the crook of your neck, hiding away the smile threatening at his plump lips. “God- you’re gonna be the death of me. Don’t you fuckin-”

Your firm grip grows even firmer, resolving to him choking in large, breathy exhales. “Good boy.” Craning your arm around deftly to cup his pretty cheek. “You’re gonna do what I say, right?”

Shit, he was a goner.

It has the same effect, and once again, your big bad boyfriend is reduced back into a whiny mess. He’s planting two strong legs on the drenched silken sheets to fully fuck his bullying cock all the way into the back of your plushy pussy.

Usually sharp tongue so heavy and slurring. Babbling out little pleas into the rhymically jiggling valley of your breasts - “Ohhh yes- yes yes yes please let me- wanna- m’your good boy, right? Let me cum inside, hngh shit! Wan’ you to take it- ah- a-all, make you a momma.”

He lets out wet, feverish pants when you drag him close enough to moan that dangerous little word into his mouth. “Please? Please let me?” Geto nuzzles his cheek into your soft palm, heady movements so slow. Syrupy - like he was moving through molasses. And it’s like he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing when he’s popping one of your fingers into his mouth. Delicate pink lips looking so pretty - depraved - wrapped around your ring finger. “Wanna knock you up- hah marry you.” His eyes roll to the back of his head, “Put a ring on this finger- n’ a baby in ya pretty pussy.”

Meeting that increasingly ruthless cadence by fucking back to memorize each thumping ridge, each prominent vein along his girthy shaft. Twitching. Angry. He’s nodding - nodding so feverishly - tears crinkling glisteningly at the corners of his lids. “Please- please call me that again. Let me make you a momma, please.”

You don’t get to hear the rest of his sentence, because it only takes a few more solid, thorough swallows of his rummaging cock before he’s speechless. So fucking pussydrunk he can’t piece together anything but your name followed by a slurred-out string of profanities. Close. Too close.

Staring into Geto’s heavy, half-lidded gaze, you whisper such a saccharine sweet, “Then, cum inside f’me like a good boy, Sugu.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - “Crybaby.”

It’s by the second orgasm that Choso feels a bit jittery, thighs quivering uncontrollably, chest heaving up and down in pained, ragged little gasps.

It’s by the fourth that Choso feels nervous, he trusts you - of course, he does, you’re his sweet girl after all - and yet he can’t help that churning heat in his pulse. Heavy balls squeezing weakly with each glide of your soft palm down his red, achingly stimulated length.

It’s only by the fifth that Choso is sobbing, big fat tears trailing down to his glossy lips. Such a rosy red and bitten in worry, hips fucking up in jagged, mindless little grinds. Oh, it takes everything in Choso to not cling on desperately to your feverish hand right now - dwarfed by his sheer girth, so glossy with a thick sheen of precum - yet still dragging up and down relentlessly. Treating him like some toy.

“Baby–” your beloved boyfriend’s wet gasp catches in his throat when you swivel a curious thumb underneath his sensitive slit. Letting a fresh gush of his saturated precum glisten down to your wrist. “Baby baby baby- please. P-please, I don’t think I can- ngh- give y’anymore.”

“I think you can.” your leveled hum cuts through his frantic pleas. “Don’t you think? After all, you were so happy getting off to my panties like this, weren’t you? Ruining them?”

It’s like the very memory of his shameful act has Choso fucking his jerky hips up into your soft touch, arching his muscled back into a beautiful curve on your soaked bedsheets. Oh, how embarrassed he felt - how shameful, being caught in the very act by you, fingers deep in your panty drawer.

Despite his very obvious need, he’s shaking his barely-lucid head. Damp, dark tresses sticking to his sweat-glossed forehead, curtaining those glassy eyes. Slurring out, “Fuck! Please m’sorry m’sorry I don’t think- can’t-”

So deceivingly innocently, you’re batting your lashes in a way that has his massive girth jolting ferally in your hand, “But that’s all I really want, Cho~?”

“...”

Leaning down, Choso could feel your mean smirk against his hotly flushed skin. Dragging up his salty trail of tears, kissing so gently meanwhile your next words made him think he’d pass out. Sultry, and whispered right against the shell of his ear, “Then we better make this last one count, right?”

“Ah!” he’s yelping, large hands scrambling for the sheets - the headboard - you when you seat yourself so prettily on his splayed-out lap. Greedy cunt feeding into every long, solid inch of his achy cock in an easy glide. It felt so good - it hurt so good. Fuck, he thinks he’s gonna- “-die.” Choso rasps, jittery hands coming to rest at your waist. “Think m’gonna die- gonna- fuck fuck fuck-”

You didn’t even have to think of moving, yet - because all it takes is for Choso’s gushy tip to be swallowed up by your snug channel - the slightest taste of heaven, the slightest squeeze - before you’re being slammed down onto the plush mattress.

Breath puffing out of your lungs, gasping at the sheer stretch when your dangling legs are being thrown over Choso’s broad shoulders. Wrapping tight into a vice-like grip when he folds you in half, down, down, down into the meanest mating press you didn’t think either of you capable of.

But rationality was the last thing on Choso’s mind, right now.

“Baby—” he’s hissing, fully sheathed inside your dripping cunt to that thick hilt of his. He gulps at the stars bursting behind his lids with each slow, lingering grind. Nuzzling into your touch, “Baby, can’t b-believe you’ve ahh- brought me to this state. M’sorry hah- please forgive me.”

And you almost feel bad - that is, until Choso’s swiping his fat tip against your spongy cervix. Still feeling every single pads of your fingers burning down his raw shaft every time your puffy cunt milks him tight. He’s jutting in jerky, unmethodical little humps - feeling less human than just sheer need.

“W-well-” you’re gasping, when he gives such a ruthless smash into your bruisingly bulging g-spot. Bonelessly, you wrap your arms around his pale neck, tugging him in so close. A full-body shudder wracks through his entire body when you crane your glossy lips up to bite down on his ear lobe, “-how about you cum f’me again to make up for those three limited edition panties you stole.”

His jaw falls even more slack at your little sentence, a shiny trail of drool dripping from the corners of his ravaged lips.

“Baby, please.” he’s hissing, moving pistoning even sloppier into you as if on autopilot. A cracking ah! ah! ah! leaves Choso’s mouth at every bullying crash against your g-spot, every dizzying thrust. “Anything else. Please please-”

Through his blurry vision, the blood roaring in his ears, Choso could make out your soft suckling kiss against his slack lips. “Cum f’me, Cho.”

Maybe it’s that honeyed little nickname, maybe the way the curve of your thumb glides away his mess of syrupy saliva. Or maybe it was the way your velvety walls come to form around him so tight - squeezing almost meanly. Once. Twice.

Choso doesn’t know - nor does he fucking care right now.

“F-fuck I can’t believe-” his eyes snap so comically wide open, letting out such a long, drawn-out drawl of your name. Hips stuttering to smack forwards, “-m’cumming- shit, it hurts- it feels so good. M’cumming m’cumming-”

Choso cums - in ghosting, wispy streams of almost-translucent fluid. Withering out into nothing, until his poor, overworked cock is spurting out just blank heavals. Cumming dry, the only signs of him fucking you through his high being that shaking in his thighs, that frantic twitching of his shaft - flinching to nudge into each dripping sweet spot inside you.

And his broken, pleading cries, “Fuck- m’buying you the hah- wh-whole store. Fuck- please, baby just-” Nudging his sobbing cock even deeper to brand at your cervix, “-just one more.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - TASTE

“You little-”

“What?” you’re leering down at the great Ryomen Sukuna. Pink locks splayed out across the decadent silk sheets, pretty face framed so perfectly by your thighs. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Not quite.” his long, rosy tongue licks a strip up your exposed skin. All the way up from about midway at your inner thigh to just the edges of your drippingly wet panties. Syrupy sweet, and see-through with all your juices. “You really think this is gonna make me say sorry for uh-”

You have to stifle a low laugh when Sukuna cuts himself off with a ragged hitch of his breath. Sharp, cursed eyes widening - just a fraction - honing in to let his greedy tongue loll out. It takes him only a split-second to catch that droopy ooze of your slick, beading through your sopping slit and right onto the middle of his tastebuds.

“Mmm-” he’s licking that lewd little gloss all over his lips without even a shred of abashedness. “Where- uh where were we, brat?”

Without warning, you’re lacing your fingers through his surprisingly soft strands. Pulling - hard enough to make him groan - until the tip of Sukuna’s nose was just kissing at the lacy mound of your cunt.

“I believe…” you’re smirking at the way that’s all it takes for him to slide the thick seam of his tongue between the thin fabric of your panties. Red - to match his eyes. Not wasting even a second when he lets your honeyed sweet cunt drool all the way down to the back of his throat. “Not gonnna make him say sorry” your ass. “-you were in the middle of apologizing for forgetting our little dinner date.”

You don’t think he hears you - you don’t even think he breathes. Because with one, final shuddering breath puffed out onto your quivering pussy, Sukuna is meshing his lips with yours in such a messy kiss. Fast, thirsty. Clashing against your swollen folds, slurping past your flimsy excuse of panties to latch around your throbbing clit. He’s hollowing out his cheeks to give them harsh, methodical little sucks.

“Shit- mmpf- fuck I always forget how sweet you are.” he’s rasping, two large hands coming up to spread the globes of your ass. Pushing you up, up, up to slobber all your saturated slick down the lower half of his face - his cheekbones. “C’mon now, ride my nose- hah, use me with this cute cunt like you always do.”

Fuck, was it tempting. And it takes everything in you to tug away his salivating mouth with a loud squelch! And if you didn’t know any better, you’d have said that the infamous king of curses let out a whine - a whine - watching those delicate strings of spit and slick snap away when you hoist yourself off his greedy mouth.

“What the fuck, woman?”

“I told you, Kuna.” you whine out, as scoldingly as you can. Wrangling against those big beefy arms trying to desperately pull you back down, “You hafta apologize.”

You’re teetering precariously when Sukuna’s entire chest rumbles with a groan, eyes rolling so sassily. “What did you want me to do?” he clicks his tongue. Baring you with such dangerous fangs that glisten with your juices in the dim light. “Had to kill off some scum curses, s’not my fault. M’not apologizing for- shit-”

Any and every retort is knocked out of his mean mouth at that heavenly sight of you running your trembly fingers between your puffed-up pussy lips. Pushing past your panties to run them up and down where your dripping wet cunt needed you most.

“Oh?” you’re quirking a brow at how transfixed he was. Following that shuddering gulp when you roll your neglected clit between two fingers. “Cat got your tongue now?”

His jaw slacks open when you’re teasing your winking hole, glossed-up and already so pliant with where Sukuna had just dipped the edge of his soft tongue inside. His mouth waters at the memory, “I–”

“Or is it that you just don’t hah-” you’re arching your back even more to give him the perfect view. Fingers getting a bit more frenzied, circling around the very edge of that ring of muscle the way you knew he loved to do. “-want this-” Whining out, “-Kuna–?”

That was it.

“Fuck, sit-” Sukuna’s gritting out through clenched teeth. And when you’re only stagnating and hovering tempestuously in front of him, he wraps all four large arms around the small of your waist. “-fucking sit, woman.”

You’re squealing at the force of his inhuman strength, dragging you down unceremoniously onto his awaiting mouth. With this, he’s spitting on your cunt. Once. Twice. Three whole times to add to the glistening gloss that collected down your folds.

“M’sorry, see?” he goads pridefully. Oh, if anyone heard the cruel king of curses apologizing like this, they’d faint. Giving the fat of your ass a branding smack! Hard enough that he could feel all five bumps of his sweltering fingers on your skin. “Fuckin’ little- oh- spoiled little-” But Sukuna can’t even finish his sentence - can’t even think about it with his mind so saturated. Hot tongue mashing in to swerve and drag across those sweet spots hidden at your plushy walls. “Said m’sorry, s’this good enough for you?”

Your pussy such a sopping wet mess that Sukuna can’t help but kiss again. And again. And again and again and- “See m’sorry. M’so, so sorry- fuck just never take this pretty pussy away from me, little brat.”

And now you’re sure he lets out a whimper - raspy, and a few octaves higher than his usual baritone. So deep now that he was just cinching your pulsing clit across his sharp nose. Murmuring, “Stop laughing- can feel ya shaking- before I cancel our dinner reservation for tomorrow. M’renting out the whole fuckin’ restaurant, so ya better give me my fill.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - Bed chem.

“It won’t-” If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that the great Gojo Satoru was pleading right now. Praying. Voice shot, pretty pink lips wobbly, pale hand raw and red from tugging on those fluffy handcuffs. He’s pouting, “Won’t work.”

He was so picture-perfect, restrained tight to the headboard with those customized handcuffs you’d ordered. Blinking his weepy, blue eyes droopily, slurring words that were all bark and no bite.

You’re rolling your eyes, giving his spit-glossed lips a lingering little peck, “Didn’t think you were such a pussy, Toru?”

“F-fuck who are you calling a-” It makes your cunt absolutely drip with a fresh wave of honeyed juices when you give his sensitively overworked shaft another thorough glide of your drooling walls. Meshing your pussy lips with the very hilt of his angry, red cock. “Please- fuck when you’re riding me like that, sweetheart.” he’s yanking frantically on those restraints as if to hold onto your feverishly gliding body. “Think- hngh! Think I really will explode-”

“Oh?” you’re cutting through his babbles, eyes flitting over his powerful arms, those glassy eyes that just seemed to glow in the dim bedroom lighting. “I knew I wasn’t seeing things, so you do think that- ah- your powers are linked to you-”

Your thoughts are spiraling into a gooey mess when Gojo’s uncontrollably strengthened thighs leverage themselves on the silken mattress to just rut up into your squelching pussy.

“Jus’ wanna see, Toru.” you’re huffing, reaching a hand behind your ruthless hips to palm at his painfully squeezing balls. Rolling the soft pad of your thumb over the curve of their straining texture - just the way he liked it, “Wan’ you to cum f’me. Just wanna see.”

“Using all your dirty tricks-” he’s spitting, mouth sagging open to let you plant a few somewhat apologetic kisses down Gojo’s face. “I can’t-” Another harsh buck of his hips, and with such a loudly pornographic mewl he’s bullying his overwhelmed cock up, up, up to swerve into your neverendingly sloppy staccato - right into your sweet spots. “Fine- fucking fine- hah- use me. Use me for whatever- just, please. Fuck I just wanna cum- please—”

You’re very quickly realizing that those handcuffs can do nothing to restrain Gojo Satoru. In fact, the only reason they’re still on him unscathed was purely out of indulging in your cute little play.

Gifting you with such a sexily cocksure grin he tries to mask away his furious flush, his trembling voice with, “N-no, m’not a- hngh! M’not some grade 4 sorcerer. I’m the fuuuck- strongest, why would my powers go out of control when I cum- fuck-

Gojo’s blabbering mouth is cut off with each gripping slide down his achy cock. Molding your plushy walls to each of his eager twitches, so fucking massive that you had to balance your hands on your boyfriend’s broad deltoids to even have him reach each hidden deep spot inside you.

It makes him throw his head back, it makes him cry out, it makes him whine.

And it only takes a few more churning strokes of Gojo’s hips, a few more critical mashes into the spongy bullseye of your g-spot before you’re cumming. So hard that you don’t even realize it at first.

Gojo does, though - of course, he does - fighting back against the velvety cling of your cunt to fuck you into the desk so deeply. So purposefully that he can almost feel every indented bruise of his fat tip hitting against your slick cervix, your bouncy g-spot. Wave after wave having you milking the fucking soul out of him and-

“Fuck m’gonna-” he’s whining, hips stuttering upwards like they’re pained to pull back from your heavenly pussy. If even just to thrust his greedy length all the way back in. Gojo’s breaths come out in ragged pants, chest heaving up and down. Somehow, the hairs on your body raise, and you can feel that familiar tension of pressurized atoms. “Can’t hah- last much longer. Fuck- please. M’close- gonna cum gonna-”

That sobbing little divot at the end of his angry, thick head just bursts with thick, long ribbons upon ribbons of sloshing white cum. Gliding across every inch of your tight pussy, coating all your insides in a creamy color that was so Gojo.

It’s so much - dripping down the corners of your bulging slit in oozing little dredges, making such a mess of your rapidly overfilling cunt. Almost too much - it felt like you could explode.

You’re almost missing that familiar little flash of blue lightning at the corner of Gojo’s pussydrunk eyes. Glowing and almost falling shut with just how fucking good it felt to have your milky cunt sloshing full of his seed. The thought- the thought makes him-

You’re gasping when the lamp by your sloppy bed starts flickering so dangerously, once. Twice. Before bursting into tiny shards that flick at the both of you - only to be stopped, falling to the surrounding blankets just a few centimeters short like they were hit by an invisible wall.

“T-Toru–” the sound of your voice makes something in Gojo’s heating body raise its dark, feral head. And he only wrenches out of those pathetic handcuffs to wrap two big, strong arms around your waist. Face burying into your skin, fucking up into you over and over and-

CREAK!

The bed groans at his rough cadence, so loud even over the dragging wooden noises of some of the furniture nearby inching forward like they were briefly tugged by some magnetizing force - Gojo.

Bingo.

And it’s like something snaps because you’re jolted with a sharp spark of electricity. White-hot pleasure blissing down your entire limp body, and suddenly your high feels like it’s being repeated over and over and-

“Hey- hey, sweetheart?” Gojo’s voice sounds so far away. Lazily, your heavy lids blink back your vision - when did it even become hazy? “...y’know how every science experiment has about five trials?”

“...”

A/N. I don’t want to write a longer version of Gojo’s but the demons in me want to write a longer version of Gojo’s…

Plagiarism not authorized.

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nezuscribe · 11 months ago

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(nsfw, 18+)

gojo hates the fact that you go on dates.

he despises it whenever you bring another guy over, wants to jam a pencil into his ears whenever he hears you moan (horribly) when the guy fails to make you come.

but he loves it whenever you come sulking back to him.

“mmh, f-fuck, ‘toru slow down!” you cry around his fat cock, your fingers digging into his shoulder has your legs lock around his waist.

“you know you love it,” he seethes, his hair flipping into his face as sweat dots at his forehead. you look gorgeous like this; the makeup you so carefully did earlier smudged and running down your face as tears streak down your cheeks.

“y-yeah, but…” you trail off into a loud whine when he drops his hand down to rub at your clit, squeezing your eyes shut at the feeling.

“but what?” he presses, dropping his face down to suck at your neck and chest, leaving behind dark marks in their wake, knowing anybody who saw you would see them.

“you’re usually, fuck, you’re usually not this…” you think about the right word in the midst of his relentless pounding, biting in your lip as he pinches your nipple a between two fingers, tugging at it harshly as you cry out again, “a-aggressive.”

the grin he gives you is toothy, eyes blazing a dark blue as he pulls at your bottom lip, nipping at it as his dick prods at the gummy spot deep within you.

“just need to give you a reminder sweetheart.” he says, nudging at your jaw as you tilt your head towards, giving him room to plant wet and messy kisses on your neck. his hips pick up pace as he feels you clenching more around him, the dim light from his lamp highlighting the way your essence shines around his length, mixing with his pre.

“need a, f-fuck! need a reminder for what?” you pout, your eyes so sweet yet your body so fucking tempting as you pull him closer to you, your nails digging into his back, sure to leave some red lines.

“that, shit,” he takes in a deep breath, his eyes rolling back as he feels himself about to come, “that nobody can fuck you the way i do.”

his thumb on your clit moved faster as your whines and moans fill with his groans, your back arching, tits pressing into his chest as you feel him come inside you, your orgasm following his as you see white. you feel like your about to pass out with the way he continue to pump his dick and and out of you, making sure that you don’t waste his cum.

he slows to a stop, dropping his massive build on top of you as you let him.

“see?” he says after a beat, and despite the fact that he’s cocky and too full of himself, he’s right.

“yeah,” you heave a sigh, giving up as you tug on some of his hairs in annoyance, “you’re my best fuck by far.”

#gojo x reader #gojo x reader smut #gojo x you #gojo x you smut #jjk x reader #jjk x reader smut #gojo smut #satoru x reader #satoru x reader smut #jjk smut #gojo drabble #jujutsu Kaisen

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classyrbf · 3 months ago

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ᯓ★ BABY FEVER! — NANAMI KENTO

“Awe come on Ken, don’t you wanna—ah—cum in me? Fill me up, breed me? Nngh fuck!” You say in a teasing voice, your knees pushed all the way to your chest as his animalistic thrusts push you further into the bed. His pulsating cock and your sloppy hole making a mess on the sheets below. Plap! Plap! Plap! He knocks the wind out of you with each jolt of his hips.

Nanami’s mind is absolutely spiraling at your words. It’s like you flipped some sort of switch in his brain, and it doesn’t help with how tightly your cunt is hugging him either. “This greedy pussy wants my cum, hm? Careful what—ugh, shit—what you wish for, love!” He breathily chuckles through his moans. The bed creaks under your weight, the sheer force of hips knocking the headboard against the wall.

“I want it, Ken! So bad! Hah! Mmmph! Want y-you to put a baby in me!” You nod up at him, pleading eyes and all. The grip he has around your legs tighten and you swear you could see his eyes darken. He’s quick to throw your legs over his shoulder, pushing his weight down on you, folding you into a mating press. “Oh my god!” You swear you could feel the tip of leaky fat cock reach deeper than before, stretching your poor pussy.

“Want me to make you a mommy? Yeah? Is that it? That’s what my sweethearts been wanting all this time?” His lips quirk into a smirk, flashing a wicked grin at you. Your jaw falls slack, eyes wide as his heavy balls slap against the fat of your ass. “I’ll breed this pretty pussy everyday until you’re round with my kids—fuck, yes, yes, keep taking it!” The mere thought makes him feral.

“Yes, cum in me, baby, yes, yes! I’ll take all of it!” You cry out, eyes clenching shut when he roughly slams his hips into you over and over, his cock dragging against your gummy walls before sucking him right back in. The barge of his hips sends your eyes rolling back and you can tell he’s close to cumming, his erratic pace a telltale hint. “You’re so fucking deep in me! Oh my god!”

“This pussy’s gonna make me cum, sweetheart—nnngh—yes, keep squeezing me like that! Fuck, fuck,” he pants heavily, “I’m cumming!” He slams into you once more, the force making you cry out and cling onto his sweaty body. A blissful sigh escaped your lips as you felt his cum paint your insides, a lazy smile spreading across your face. “There you fucking go!” He groans, slowly dragging his hips out before pushing his thick length back in, fucking his sticky cum into you.

Both of you breathe heavily, trying to catch your breath as he pulls out, a mix of your juices and his cum coating his length. His eyes gravitate towards your swollen cunt, watching the way his cum leaks out of you and he’s quick to push it back in with his thumb. The corner of his lips turn into a satisfied smile before he leans down as places a sloppy kiss on your puffy lips, tongues gliding against each other before pulling away. He looks down between his legs, his dick still rock hard.

You let out a soft giggle, spreading your legs for him again. “Gonna breed me some more?” You bite down on your bottom lip.

“Only,” his throbbing top pushes past your messy folds, the warmth of your pussy wrapping around him as he slowly inserts himself inch by inch, “if you ask nicely, sweetheart.”

#—☆classyrbf #anime #anime smut #jjk #jujustu kaisen #jjk x reader #nanami x reader #nanami smut #nanami x reader smut #nanami kento smut #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x reader smut #nanami x you #kento nanami x reader #nanami drabbles #nanami smut drabble #jjk x reader smut #jjk smut drabbles

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stunies · 2 months ago

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very messy word dump below the cut + in tags :^) heh

okay it’s officially been a full day since reading this and i’m going to write down everything i remember feeling from day 1! and then in the tags im going to reread this (for the third time within 24 hours) and add thoughts that i didn’t put down here. SORRY FOR THE MESS & NO PRESSURE TO READ ALL THIS SJKDMF IT IS JUST A LOT OF WORD VOMIT BC IM INSANE OVER THIS FIC

okay i should start from the beginning. Wait I’ll use caps so it’s easier to read if you’re reading it bahahhaa OKAY. The way you write alpha / omega!!! It’s different from what I’m used to reading— and I mean it has a lot of a depth. The way you wrote reader being an alpha = being so protective over Aventurine fucked me up so bad /pos. Reader just wants him safe and they’re so real for that.

Going off on that, I LOVE HOW U WROTE THE READER. Understands Aventurine so well. Will literally do anything to keep him safe. Understands what sets him off and what he’s comfortable with. The part where Aventurine was talking about the next mission & reader seeing right through him ): are you serious /pos. WAIT I SKIPPED TOO FAR AHEAD. When Aventurine was trying to get reader to join the IPC? Dead. Evie DEAD. Reader saw right through him omg. Being able to notice the little changes in his scent, the way he tries to mask it etc etc. I love that so bad.

WHEN READER FOUND HIM IN HEAT FUUUCK. ARE YOU SERIOUS /pos. Fighting the urge to help him vs waiting to just make it better because reader has the power to ): I loved that so much. The struggle was so real. Literally bringing a doctor just to hear that he needs an alpha to help anyways omg. Lowkey when the doctor said that I was like PLEASE LET US HELP YOU PLEASEEEEEEE. But also. I didn’t want him to be scared either you know ):

I skipped over another scene sighs. THE part where reader said ‘I like your eyes because they’re yours” and then the end. Him saying he likes our scent because it’s ours. Are you serious /pos. Be so serious /pos.

Okay the scent gland scenes actually fucked me up so bad (I unfortunately did not dream about anything but maybe that is for the best because I’m still recovering from this scene). The part where he asks for just the wrist. Reader struggling when they FEEL HIS TEETH GRAZE THE WRIST IM GONNA EXPLODE OMFG. The immediate pulling away because we don’t want to scare him please. + the scent gland scene at the end. HE DIDN’T FEEL LIKE HE HAD TO BE ON TOP. We could lay side by side ): I was so happy that he was okay with that omg. Literally all giddy like aaaaa!!!!!! IM NOT A THREAT!! Actually that’s a lie I wasn’t giddy. I was literally in tears jejdkckckckk Aventurine 😭😭 ughhhhhhh /pos

I won’t comment on the actual scene (I am commenting on it right now actually) because I was literally so sad and my heart hurt so badly for him. I wanted him to see himself from our POV for just one moment so he can understand that we genuinely love him and treasure him & want to keep him safe. ):

ABOUT YOUR WRITING ITSELF : insanity. I will just say insanity. How should I put it in words….. just thinking about this fic again is taking all the words out of my mouth shejdjfjj (I say this as I type a 27738 page essay about it). I love how you write. I really do. Your writing style is so beautiful. I haven’t read the other tags under your fic but I’m sure many others have said the same thing!!! They word it better than me I’m sure bsjsjsjsjsk

I just love everything about it. How you add in little details (oh! Speaking of details— Aventurine’s reaction to reader cozying up to her husband in the other fic) HEJDJJDJDJ omg. But in this fic, the little signs of him being scared. Scared 24/7 actually ): I love how you conveyed his fear so much. And the way he tries so hard to hide it. HIM CRUMBLING DOWN TO HIS RAW SELF WHEN HES IN HEAT. AND THE FEAR THERE TOO. INSANE.

^^ How you wrote him so adamant about not needing help at first …. To him asking for the scent gland ….. to him agreeing to use reader. It was all so real. He didn’t just change his mind like oh okay! It took him a while to be okay with it and I love how real it all felt. You write dialogue & little details so well— it actually drives me nuts (/compliment /pos)

Oh this just reminded me. Your description of how Aventurine smells killed me /pos. And how you describe his scent as sweet. I’m really not okay /pos. It fits him so well. And … for reader…. the scent after rain ? Oh my god ???? I love that smell so much. It’s so comforting…. OMG. COMFORTING????????? BECAUSE. Oh wow. I’m really not okay now. I JUST LOVE ALL THE DETAILS LIKE THAT )))): it’s so clear you put so much thought into all these things because your fic has so much depth. I lowkey yanked out Notibility for your other Aventurine fic to highlight the parts I wanted to comment on ehdjdkkck I was annotating it like a book (I’m so sorry if this is creepy I promise I don’t do this on a regular basis. I don’t annotate fics normally. Actually please disregard this because I’m a bit red admitting this) (I just have the memory of a goldfish and can only remember feelings and not actual content) (That’s a lie because here I am remembering a lot of this fic MOST LIKELY BECAUSE I READ IT WITH MY EYES AN INCH FROM THE SCREEN PROBABLY I WAS LIKE O_O) /pos

NIGHT FLOWER: part i

Your place in the world was one of a tool. This was true of every slave: you were all things to be used. Kakavasha understood this about you, and he understood this about himself. It was how he survived all those years ago, and it’s how he survives now. And so, when Aventurine goes into his first heat in years and decides to suffer it alone, you can only think of one way to get him to accept your help: You offer to let him use you.

written for @/lorelune's spring fever collab & @ficsforgaza

13.5k words of omegaverse, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, angst with an eventual happy ending. gn alpha reader + omega aventurine (they each have both amab and afab genitalia). explicit piv sex, reader bottoms, the sex is consensual but emotionally complicated and deeply sad. cw slavery, racism, gendered violence, including very brief and non-graphic (but direct) references to sexual abuse during slavery. the sa and slavery are not eroticized. dead dove do not eat, mdni.

thank you to @acerathia, @minnaci, @owlespresso for all your help with beta reading and to @kosmiccarma for brainstorming omega aventurine hcs!

“I’ve alw███ l█ved ███, Ka██v█s███”

You knew it from the moment you met him.

Gaunt, pallid, weighed down by heavy chains. Irises that glowed like the auroras back in your world. Delicate features that made every passerby in the market stop to read the description on the placard. (Sigonian, it said, although you couldn’t read at the time. Avgin. Male. Omega. Sixteen years old. Sixty Tanba, no tax.) He had an all-consuming scent that was impossible to ignore—one that possessed you, made your heels dig into the dirt, every atom in your body resisting the impatient jerk of the chains at your wrist. Even through your muzzle, through the perpetual stench of carbon-steel and blood, you could smell it: honey and wildflowers. A fragrance that settled deep within you, flooded you with a warmth that felt like home.

Aventurine is not a spiritual person. He once told you this, his smile cold in the glow of an artificial moon. He'd been deeply religious as a child, but hasn’t since cared for fairy tales about fortune and fate, three-eyed goddesses or merciful rainfalls. Hasn't thought about anything like a destined love. He thinks the idea of a true mate is laughable, that no such bond could ever be forged between an omega and an alpha. That nothing so unconditional could ever exist.

You know differently, of course. You've known it from the moment you met him, from the second you laid eyes on him and thought, I need to help you, and I need to protect you, and I need you to be safe, and you’d never once heard the word ‘love’ in your life—slaves are never loved by their masters, after all, and you'd always been nothing but a slave—but every atom of your being knew that you loved him, that you'd always love him.

And when your master cradled your face that night and crooned that he owned you, that you'd always be his obedient, alpha pet—for the first time in your life, you knew that he was wrong.

You didn't belong to your slaver.

You belonged to him.

To Kakavasha.

These days, Aventurine does not smell like honey, and your jaw is not restrained.

Your muzzle was one of the first things that Aventurine threw away when he bought your freedom. According to the Amber Era system, it had been several months since the murder of your shared master. Ninety-five Star Calendar days after the Interastral Peace Corps had arrested Kakavasha. An entire rotation around the black hole at the centre of your wretched galaxy, all of which had been spent in the captivity of some new mistress. She picked you out because she liked your calming scent and the look of your face, but mostly she used you for the fighting pits just like your old master.

Aventurine had been sitting in the audience of your final match, then bought you out right after you won. “I’m in need of a fighter,” he’d said, smiling in his thick furs and jewels. He played the part of a slavemaster perfectly, his gloved hands wandering the span of your aching shoulders, touching the bloodied maw of your mask. “And I’d be willing to pay top credit for yours.”

She protested. You were her most prized possession, one of her greatest investments. Slaves from your planet were hard enough to come by—alphas capable of reproduction, nearly impossible. And you were so well-behaved, so poised, so endearing in a way that was rare for alphas. She was fond of you. Her omega slaves were fond of you too. They would be distraught if you left, and that would complicate her household affairs—and surely Aventurine, as a respectable owner of human capital like herself, could understand how inconvenient that would be?

Aventurine bared his teeth in a gracious smile. (You’d never seen Kakavasha make such an expression before—so disarming, so cunning, a crescent moon beneath snake eyes. He’d never smelt like this either, like an expensive cologne layered with bleach, and it left you feeling nauseous, wondering if he was ill.) He flirted his way into her good graces, made her an offer she couldn’t refuse, and then he brought you into the first-class ship on which he’d arrived. You were so stunned by its luxury—the handwoven carpets, the crushed velvet seats, the imported tea from several galaxies away and the custom-ordered outfit he had bought for you—that you nearly missed the tremble in his hands as he punched numbers into the remote control lock for your chains.

He had regained his composure by the time he pulled away your muzzle, though. He threw it carelessly to the ground—your titanium chains, too. Then kicked both away with his shined leather shoes.

“There,” Aventurine said, smiling cheerfully. “Much better, don’t you think?”

“Vasha—” you started, voice thick with wasted grief, and all you wanted to was reach for him, to double check that he was real, but he placed a finger to your lips and stopped you. You stiffened at the satin touch, but he seemed unbothered.

“‘Aventurine’,” he corrected.

You stared blankly. “What?”

“‘Aventurine’. Like the gemstone. That’s my name now.”

“You—” Your voice caught in your throat. You realized that you’d been holding your breath. You always had the habit of holding your breath in the luxurious, private rooms of very rich men, because you never liked what happened in them. Forcing yourself to breathe, you asked, “You gave yourself a new name?”

“No. The IPC gave me a new name. They gave me a job, too.”

“A job?” you asked, voice faint. Now that you were breathing again, you were noticing once more just how bizarre he smelled. Sterile and expensive and completely foreign. “You’re free now?”

“Well, I’m a freedman, but I don’t know if I’d call myself free. I’m a bit… indebted to the IPC, let’s say. But that’s fine. I can’t complain. I mean—look around. This beats the fighting pits, doesn’t it?” He gestured lazily at your surroundings, and you nodded.

“It’s nice here,” you replied, feeling absurd but not knowing what else to say. Once Kakavasha got talking, it was impossible to get a word in edgewise.

“You like it here? Good. This room’s yours. Mine is the next one over. You’ll live and work here, with me. I’ll make sure you’re paid well. Full benefits, vacation, salary, and overtime. The standard pay for your role is seventy-thousand credits per month, but I’ll see if I can get you more. HR is pretty strict about their hiring policies, but—”

“You’re hiring me?”

Aventurine went very still, his smile tightly controlled. His eyes remained fixed on you, but they seemed less snake-like, now. They looked more familiar. More afraid.

“I’m offering, yes,” he said neatly. “You’ll be part of my personal security detail. I don’t have the contract for you to review yet, unfortunately. I didn’t arrange one ahead of time because, well”—he laughed, as if this were polite conversation and he were making a joke about the weather—“I didn’t know if I’d find you alive. But things worked out in my favour. They always work out in my favour. I’ll make sure they’ll work out in your favour too, so long as you’re with me. So you’ll consider it, won’t you? Staying with—working for me, I mean.”

Your eyes went soft. Beneath the artificial fragrance, you finally caught a hint of his familiar scent—more wildflower than honey at that moment, the way it always is when he’s scared.

“Kakavasha—”

“Name your price,” he said loudly, “and I’ll match it.”

You sighed. “Vasha,” you said more gently, and his shoulders relaxed at the subvocal shift in your timbre, at the famed alpha Voice that necessitated your muzzle, “I don’t care about the money. Of course I’ll stay here. But—what happened? Why did you kill him yourself? Why didn't you let me do it? That was the plan. It was always supposed to be me.”

It was my job, you thought then, just as you had thought to yourself every night, curled up in your bed and trying to recall the scent of fresh honey, to keep you safe.

He shrugged and said, “It would have been too risky to involve you.”

“You were caught and sentenced to death. The risk was already too high.”

“But the stakes weren’t,” he replied simply, and before you could ask what he meant by that, he continued, “and it worked out, didn’t it? I work for the IPC. You work for me. We’re freedmen now. Whatever I've lost, it doesn't matter. Our gains far outweigh it.”

“And what have you lost, Vasha?”

He smiled at you, charming and distracting. A crescent moon beneath snake eyes. “Nothing of value,” he reassured you, and even though you could feel the calm of an omega’s voice washing over you, even though it released all the tension in your body, all you could smell was cologne and wildflowers, and you knew that he was lying.

Vasha once told you, curled up and quiet on the basement floor, that he despised his eyes. They were supposed to be a sign of blessing from Gaiathra Triclops, but they'd never brought him anything but trouble. They were the first thing that the slavers always noticed about him, the feature that made him such an alluring commodity. Their aurora glow, their strange beauty, their promise of a rare opportunity: a chance at owning a specimen of an exotic, endangered species, possibly the last of its kind. These are all things that you've heard in the parlour of your master’s house as he entertained rich company, the crowd of them gawking at his human curios.

Avgin are said to make the most beautiful slaves, he'd often say. And Avgin omegas are said to be the most beautiful among them. What do you all think? They'd all hum, peering closely at Kakavasha’s features, and inevitably someone would joke, I think I'd like to borrow him sometime, and then they would all laugh while your pulse ticked up and you imagined tearing at their throats. Vasha would search for your gaze in these moments, giving you a long, pointed look: Don't do anything stupid.

He’d always been so blasé about it, the way people fixated on his Avgin blood. You'll never understand how. He didn't react to any of the comments, the groping, the innuendos. He was, however, distinctly unimpressed at the way that your master liked to play him up as a rare and expensive acquisition, as a sign of his own status. It's embarrassing to watch, Kakavasha had remarked. Everyone knows that Sigonian slaves are uncommon but cheap—people always think we’ll bring them more trouble than our worth. This was how Kakavasha had ended up in the market in the first place: because his last master had been robbed, and he'd been wrongly blamed for it.

The blame, to this day, has never stopped. People—powerful people, politicians, businessmen, socialites—look at Aventurine’s eyes and immediately reach for their pockets. You've seen it for yourself, these spineless despots and scammers feeling for their wallets. Sigonian, you know they're thinking. Liar, cheat, thief, whore, worthless, worthless, worthless. Your hands tighten around your blade each time, a loaded gun with a finger on the trigger.

Alphas are said to be violent by nature. Aventurine has often called you the one exception to this rule: the most docile, good-hearted alpha he's ever met. But this is a lie. You do have a predator instinct, and it comes out in full-force whenever you’re around these particular types of men. These types who notice Aventurine’s eyes and see a thief; these monsters who see his irises and imagine what it would be like to bed him. You’d kill them if you could. It would be so easy, especially now that you are an IPC dog. The Company is already such a violent force; what would be one more murder?

But Aventurine has never ordered you to punish anyone. (Don't do anything stupid, he always tells you with a glance, smiling through every humiliation.) Nor has he ever seemed bothered enough by these meetings to try concealing his heritage.

A fellow Asset Liquidation Specialist once asked why he didn't just hide his eye colour—it would likely be better for fostering relationships, negotiating deals—but Aventurine had shrugged it off. I'm a gambler working with the IPC, he'd said. Do you really think a pair of coloured contacts would make anyone trust me? He'd laughed, and his voice had carried a threatening edge, and his coworker had shifted visibly at it. Being an Avgin is the least threatening thing about me, wouldn't you say?

You think that Aventurine likes being seen as a threat. Sometimes you wonder if this is why he doesn't mind wearing his eyes so much, but abhors keeping his scent. He washes his clothes until they're free of his disarming sweetness and then masks himself with an unsettling blend of ambergris, jasmine, and wood. And he is on suppressants all the time—hasn’t had a single heat since the day he killed his master. Hasn't smelled like himself, either.

At the end of the day, it’s manageable being an Avgin in this business, he often comments, spraying half a bottle of masking cologne on himself, but you can't be an Avgin and an omega. Wouldn’t you agree?

You'd know better than me, you reply, noncommittally—and truthfully.

But you're an alpha, he observes. Don't you have an opinion?

You don't pay me to have opinions, you always remind him, stone-faced. You pay me to stand here and look scary. And Aventurine always laughs at this, and he always wires you money and calls it a bonus as he pesters you for an answer, and he always gets distracted and starts scrolling through all his shopping wishlists instead. I saw this thing the other day and thought of you. And this too. Would you like either of them? Would you like them both? I’m a very generous manager, you know. I'll buy you anything you like.

But even though he always gets distracted, Aventurine never forgets. Sooner or later, he inevitably circles back to these questions—these anxieties about his scent, about his eyes, about his blood. He never cares for anyone else’s opinions, but he's always been curious about yours. Even when he was Vasha, he wanted to know what you thought.

He’d been sixteen years old and delirious with heat the first time he asked you, face wrinkling with pain as he spilled his thoughts. It was so incoherent, so sad, you thought it must have been about a fever dream. Mama Fenge, he kept saying. Mama Fenge blessed me, She blessed me, I'm blessed, it rained when I was born—did you know that? My luck, I was lucky. The Katicans, they never caught me. They got everyone else, but not me. I was blessed by Her. I'm going to save my people. I will. I'll save my sister. My eyes are proof. My mistress liked them. Said they're beautiful. Worth sixty whole coppers. A blessing. He pulled you close, pressed his scalding face to your scent gland, and his whole body shuddered with relief. This was the first and only time he'd allowed you to hold him, and it was only out of desperation, out of his mind. Do you like them, alpha? Do you like my eyes? Why? Is it because they're beautiful? Because they're from Gaiathra?

“I like them because they're yours,” you'd replied, and Kakavasha had laughed deliriously.

This is when he told you he hated them: I'd close them forever, if I could.

When you were younger—dumber—you had a habit of squirrelling away every spare coin you came across. You collected them in a little purse that one of the omega slaves had sewn for you—a thank-you for always keeping the other alphas away from her—and you hid it underneath a loose floorboard. By the time that Kakavasha was arrested, you'd saved up twenty-nine Tanba. You’d wanted enough to buy Kakavasha’s freedom and then to set him up for a comfortable life.

It had been a stupid plan. An embarrassing one. If you ever confessed it to Aventurine, he'd laugh at you. Slaves can't buy other slaves, he'd say. Leave the schemes to me next time. You’re too good-hearted for it.

You’d already known that, of course. You knew that you didn't have the status to buy him or mate him or even just provide for him, but you wanted to. God, did you want to—you spent every waking moment thinking about it, every sleeping moment dreaming of it. It wasn't even that you desired him, though he was beautiful and fragrant and more delicate than anything that had ever touched you in your life, which was only your master’s hands and your muzzle and your chains. Aventurine would feel so soft in comparison, you’d always figured. It made your heart ache, thinking about getting to hold something so lovely.

But really—that desire came second. What came first was how mated omegas feel safe around their alphas, and you so desperately wanted him to be safe. Kakavasha had looked so frail, so grim, as your master took his chains and led him home from the market, and you could smell the fear coming off him in waves. And you could do nothing to stop it. You had nothing you could use to stop it—nothing other than your hands that could kill for him and your pheromones that could soothe him and your useless heart that wanted to collect sixty Tanba for him. That was all you had.

So you failed in the end. Of course you did. You didn't have the status to buy him or mate him or even just provide for him. You couldn't even do for him the one thing you could have done—which was to kill. And Kakavasha suffered for your incompetence. He had to dirty his hands with blood and gamble his way into wealth and then suddenly he was freeing you, not the other way around.

And now you are comfortable. You'll lead an easy life from now, Aventurine reassured you when he brought you onto his ship all those years ago, and he's kept that promise. What about you? you'd asked him then. Will you lead an easy life with me, if you're working for the IPC? And he had smiled and lied to you: Yes.

It had been a painfully obvious lie. If you were a smarter person, you'd have never believed it in the first place. Aventurine has no interest in leading an easy life, because an easy life would be less profitable, and less profit would mean less safety. And he is always, always worried about being unsafe. It is indiscernible to everyone but you—an alpha (his alpha, always his, even if he doesn't want you) who has watched over him for so long that you can detect every shift in his scent. No matter how much cologne he drowns himself in and no matter how strong his suppressants are, you know when he is afraid.

And here is the bitter truth, the ultimate proof of your shortcomings:

Aventurine is always afraid.

It is a beautiful day on Agnisahr, and you can tell that Aventurine is about to throw up from worry.

You're sitting in the middle of stunning wealth—Aventurine in his feathers and jewellery, you in your tailored jacket—in a lobby made from marble and pale sandstone, with a view of palm trees and rolling, scarlet sand dunes beyond the window. The waitstaff addresses him as Honoured Guest and they keep his crystal chalice filled constantly with water—one of the most expensive commodities on the planet. Aventurine has been drinking from it religiously, which is strange as he typically has the habit of forgetting to hydrate. A faint wildflower scent is drifting from his slender form. These are the only giveaway to his mood: he's otherwise as pokerfaced as ever, smiling calmly as he discusses his plans to sabotage the local government and acquire the planet for the IPC.

“This is a very dangerous mission,” you state flatly.

“All my missions are dangerous.” He takes a sip, one pinky up. “The IPC pays me well for a reason. As they say—”

“‘High risk, high reward.’ I know.” You try not to sound bitter, though you allow yourself to sound tired. “I still do not think the risk is worth the reward in this case.”

“I think over 5.6 million in credits is a great reward, actually. We could do a lot with that kind of money.”

You raise a brow. “What could an extra 5.6 million get you that you can't already buy?” It is—as Topaz would say—‘chump change’ in comparison to his current wealth, which sums to a number so vast that you can't wrap your head around it.

Aventurine pretends to miss the point. “Tons! We could buy a new spacecraft. Get another mansion. Or—we could take a vacation to Penacony. I hear it's quite nice there.” A playful smile. “I could get us a penthouse unit. With a featherbed.”

You frown. Sometimes Aventurine likes to flirt when you're being stubborn—not out of interest, but as a ploy to distract you. He’d developed the habit after he joined the IPC. It used to fluster you, but now it only makes you cross your arms.

“You could die,” you point out.

“You'll protect me.”

“No, I won't. You always find a way to get rid of me when things are most dangerous.” You give him an accusatory stare. “You never let me do my job.”

He's too shameless to deny it. “And it's worked out fine, hasn't it? I haven't died so far.”

“Yes. Just by dumb luck.”

“I beg to differ. My luck is quite reliable.” He sets down his glass. Glances back outside. A microexpression, brows knotting for the briefest second as he studies the sky. “I'm not worried.”

“You're a shit liar.”

That gets him to look at you, letting a small frown pass over his face. “No, I'm actually a great liar. You're just too good at reading me. It's very inconvenient, you know.”

“I can't help it.” You lean toward him, making a show of it as you sniff. An orchid-like scent—faint but unmistakable—has seeped into artificial ambergris and wood. “It's hard to ignore.”

He hums. He isn't frowning anymore—but doesn't look happy, either. “I should change suppressants.” He taps the side of his empty glass, fidgeting. Aventurine never fidgets: it's an amateur giveaway. “These ones clearly don't work well enough.”

“That won't help. I know you too well.” Your eyes soften. He's looking outside again, the blues of his irises distant. “You're worried, Aventurine. More than usual. Let’s back out of this—let Jade handle it.”

“The mission isn't what's bothering me,” he says patiently. “I just don't like this planet.”

“Because you can tell it's dangerous.”

“No. Well—it is, but nothing I can't handle.” He leans back. “I just dislike the weather here.”

You arch a brow. “...the weather?”

“Yes,” he says neatly, “it's too dry here. I'll break out.”

You open your mouth. Close it. It is possibly the most absurd thing you've ever heard, and certainly the worst lie that's ever come from him. For as long as you've known him, Aventurine has had flawless skin, marble-smooth, and ever since being freed, he’s never really cared much for looking handsome so much as looking rich. But he maintains his serious expression: all-in on the farce. “Did you know that outside the capital, this planet hasn't had any natural rain in a quarter of an Amber Era? And the stellar winds are terrible. I don't know how people live on a planet like this.” His eyes narrow at the cloudless sky. “The IPC is going to need to do a lot of terraforming if they want to make this into a merchant hub.”

“Aventurine.”

“It'll be a pain crossing the desert—the elements will ruin my clothes, you know,” he continues. “It won't be so bad while we're on the ships, but we’ve got to go outside from time to time. Can't make any friends otherwise.”

“Aventurine.”

“And there's nothing to do for fun when we’re not working.” He sighs dramatically. “I can't wait to get our 5.6 billion and leave for someplace else. I'm being serious about Penacony, by the way—”

“Aventurine.”

“—though not about the featherbed. I'll get you your own room, obviously. And I'll buy whatever dream experience you’d like. What kind would you want?”

Finally allowed a chance to speak, you say, “One where you retire.”

“Retire? Why would I ever do that?”

“I don't know. Maybe you decide you've made enough money.”

“No such thing.”

“Then you can settle down with someone.”

That makes him smile. It feels mocking. “Me? Settling down? With who?”

“Who knows. Someone who will treat you better than the IPC, I hope.”

“Anyone that nice would run in the other direction. But never mind me. This would be your dream experience. What happens to you in it?”

“I stop chasing after you and get to live out the rest of my days in peace,” you say dryly, and Aventurine blinks. “Please stop deflecting. The IPC gave you a suicide mission. We will both die if we stay here.”

He looks serious now. “I wouldn't let you die.”

“You can't know that.”

“Well, I do. And I've got decent chances at surviving too—at least one in ten.”

You feel like sighing—a deep, aggravated noise is heavy in your throat—but Aventurine doesn't enjoy it when you show anger around him. It's the one omega instinct that he can't ignore, you suppose: unease around an aggressive alpha. Voice tightly controlled, you say, “You’re going to bet your life on one in ten?”

“Sure. My chances were worse on the last planet, and things worked out great. It'll be the same on Agnisahr.” Aventurine raises a hand, calls for the bill. The conversation is over. You lean back in your seat, watching sourly as he pays tens of thousands of credits just for water.

“You know, they say the royal family is backed by an Aeon,” you can't help but point out, once the waiter is gone. A last-ditch effort. Aventurine smiles at it, amused. Like you're a child.

“So what?” He glances outside, at the desolate landscape beyond the oasis—nothing but red sand, a blue, rainless sky, and two radiant suns shining above it all. “The protection of a god is nothing compared to the schemes of human beings. And gods abandon their people all the time, anyway.”

During your tenth day on Agnisahr, you realise that something is deeply wrong.

It takes you some time to understand what’s happening. At first you think that whatever political danger you’ve intuited is much worse than you thought, and that’s why Aventurine has been so pale, so discomforted, so exhausted. Then his scent starts changing—he switches clothes two, three times a day (because of all this heat during Agnisahran days, he tells his new business associates) and spritzes his nape with his cologne almost religiously—and you wonder if he is sick with something. If the food in this planet has something that disagrees with his Sigonian biology, or if he has picked up one of the local filoviruses, or if someone’s poisoned one of his meals because they’ve correctly identified him as a threat. Aventurine dismisses every single one of these theories when you bring it up, and—as if in denial—only attributes it to the weather. (I’ve never done well in deserts, he tells you, his eyes on his phone screen. I'm not used to them. It is above 300 Kelvin, and you do not see a single bead of sweat on his neck, and his cheeks are not even a little flushed.)

You only figure it out when he is too ill to get out of bed one morning and forbids all the IPC staff from coming near his hotel room. It sets off alarms immediately—Aventurine, no matter how sick, will work and see through meetings as long as he is mentally capable of it—and so you naturally ignore his orders and check on him, using the spare key to his sleeping quarters that you're given as a policy. And as soon as the door cracks open—as soon as you step inside only to be hit with a violent, cloying sweetness—you realise what’s happening and slam the door shut behind you.

“You’re in heat,” you blurt out, and Aventurine—a shivering, panting mess on the bed—groans in response.

“Why are you here?” He turns toward you, still lucid enough to glare at you through the tangled mess of his hair. His voice is weak, but no less self-possessed: “I was very clear—no company today.”

“I am your personal bodyguard,” you remind him mildly. Your voice is calm—both non-threatening and non-condescending. “Those orders don’t apply to me. If things feel suspicious, I look into it. And they felt very suspicious.” Your brow knits as you study his clothes. Mulberry silk clings to his form, soaked through with sweat. Thin, eucalyptus sheets are tangled up around him. There are only two pillows. No water bottles. No knotting toys.

Nothing.

“You didn't know you'd be in heat,” you realise. “What happened to your suppressants?”

“I don't know.” There’s a quiet, frustrated edge to his voice. Vulnerable too. It makes you think of when you were both still slaves, and Aventurine was confined to the basement of the manor—the one that all omega slaves were made to ride out their heats in. Either they would do it alone or were ordered to spend it with some alpha, usually either a friend of the master or an alpha slave he wished to reward. That's when they're most pliable, he'd tell his guests, or sometimes even you. They get so desperate they'll present themselves to anyone. Then amused laughter from the other party—How obscene!—as you looked away, blood hammering in your ears.

You had been your master’s favourite. His most obedient, most profitable pet—striking enough for his guests to admire, deadly enough for his audiences to bet on, docile enough for him to enjoy. Good enough for him to reward, and he often rewarded you with his most beautiful slave: his Avgin omega. Just don't mark him, he’d said, fastening the muzzle around your mouth. It'll ruin his market value. Who knows if someday he'd sell Kakavasha off to some alpha master who wished to claim him, he said. Though I don't think there's anyone in this star system who'd want a Sigonian for a mate, let alone a Sigonian slave. Then he’d paused, eyes scanning over you. As if contemplating. But maybe they'd try to get Avgin whelps out of him, he added, and you felt like throwing up.

You'd never mate him in those moments, your muzzle always prevented you from saying. You didn't even want to think about touching him, and he didn't want to think about it either. Even in the cruel grip of his heats, with nothing but the thin mat beneath him and his slave’s rags around him, Kakavasha hadn't wanted any kind of contact from you, rejecting any chance of solace. Don't, don't—not again, not again, he'd begged. Then as the nights marched on and his mind grew hazier, he’d start whimpering too: It hurts, alpha. It hurts. Help me. It hurts. Don't touch me. Not again. It hurts. It hurts. Stop it, please stop it.

It gutted you.

It went against every instinct, not to touch him. To let him lie there, in scorching, lonely pain, when all you wanted to do was to dispel it. It would be so easy to press yourself against him and let his skin cool against yours, do the one thing that your body was good at other than killing. But not again, not again, I can't anymore, I don't want it, I never wanted it, and all you could do was sit there, unmoving. Watch as the most delicate, precious thing you had in your life shatter.

And standing here now, watching Aventurine shatter before you once more—it is unbearable. He needs a nest, you keep thinking. He needs a nest and some water and some kind of touch, some kind of relief, but not again, not again, and you’re still a slave, still a worthless and stupid slave, and Kakavasha is still crying on a basement floor and you can't do anything for him.

“You need help, Aventurine,” you say, voice soft, and his whole body tenses. His scent dips, and the scent of florals overwhelms you.

“No,” he breathes, “I don't.”

“You do. You're sick.” You bite your lip. Your heart splits as you suggest it, but you say, “I can call a professional.”

“No,” he spits. The facade is gone. The poker face has cracked. The anger and the pain and the fear are all on full display, and his voice sharpens: “No strangers.”

No foreign scents, you realise he's demanding. A new scent would probably make him feel unsafe.

Then let me help you, you think of pleading, but not again, not again, and you're filled with so much shame at the thought that all you can do is look away.

“Then—can I do anything?” He goes still. “Not—not that, but something to make you more comfortable. I can build you a nest, at least—”

“No.” He takes a deep, shaking breath. “No nests. I don't need one—”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don't,” he says. His voice is wavering now, on the verge of crumbling with fever and pain. “I've never—I’ve never needed a nest, I don't—I don't want to—” He presses his face into his pillow. “I need—I need to be alone, fuck—”

He doesn't mean to whine. The cry for distress is instinct, something that all omegas are programmed to do in heat. You’ve heard that they’ve evolved to make this noise as a way of appealing to nearby alphas for help, but you think this must be a lie as you never once saw your alpha master giving mercy to any of his omega slaves. Still, whether it is your biology or not—the noise that Aventurine makes has your heart aching so much you can't help but step forward. But he shakes his head and inches away, shuddering violently, and then his voice echoes again in that cold basement—not again, not again, and don't touch it anymore, don't use it anymore, don't use me anymore, not again, and it's all you can do to back away until your spine is pressed against the door.

“I'm sorry, Vasha,” you say, strained. “I’m sorry. I'll leave you now.”

As the door shuts behind you, you catch a final glimpse him—face pressed into the pillows, shivering.

If you didn't know better, you'd think he was crying.

When you were both slaves, Aventurine hated seeing you during his heats.

Kakavasha was normally calm around you. Most of the time, he was even friendly (he was friendly to everyone whom he thought could be useful), but he was different during his heats. Sometimes he was vicious; mostly he was withdrawn. Nearly always, he wanted to be left alone. In those moments, all he could register was your alpha scent and his memories of what other people had done to him during his heats. And while you'd have hated to leave him, despised the idea of him being offered to another alpha—even more than that, you hated violating this boundary of his. Hated that you were allowed to do whatever you wanted to him. Hated being the reason he felt so unsafe.

Hated being an alpha.

Now that you no longer have the orders of your slavemaster hanging over you, it is the least you can do to respect Aventurine’s wish of being left alone. He has every right to privacy, and you have every obligation to give it to him. But instead you have been standing here, outside his door, for a full system-hour.

Every time you try to leave, your body is wracked with anxiety. The thought of other people—other alphas—coming near him in this state makes you seethe, your hands flexing at your side. The predator instinct comes out, and the people around you notice it. Every person unlucky enough to walk down this hall scurries away under your glare, even the other IPC staff wandering about to look for Aventurine: Must be their mate on the other side, they remark to one another, and then they're gone.

It is a hard thing to hear. You are not his mate. You are not even a heat partner. If you were, then he wouldn't be in so much pain. Not now, and not back then.

Aventurine has never had easy heats. You keep replaying your memories of all his past ones, each one a wound in your heart: the aching sweetness of nectar and honey; his withering body as he clutched his abdomen and curled up; the tears and sweat staining the mat beneath him. And above all: the fear. The scent of it, the sight of it, the sound of it in his voice. Stronger today than any other day.

By instinct, you know that he cannot persist like this. That this time is somehow worse than all those other times, and that he will become seriously ill if left alone.

After nearly an hour and a half, you finally open the door, fearing the worst.

“Aventurine?” you say quietly, but there's no response, and your stomach drops as you see him.

His body is pale, listless. If it weren't for the fragrance washing over you or the sweat on his temple, you'd worry that he was dead.

Tentatively, you reach out. Rest a hand on his forehead, and it scorches you. He stirs at the touch, doesn't open his eyes—but the quiet sigh of relief is unmistakable. His fingers twitch, as if wanting to reach for you.

“Aventurine,” you say gently. “Aventurine, I'm going to take care of you. Is that alright?”

He doesn't respond. You grimace, pulling away to fetch things for him: several spare pillows from the closet, an extra blanket too. From his suitcase, you grab a few of his sweaters, all thick cotton and fleece. He’d had a sense that Agnisahr would be cold at night. Deserts always get cold after sundown, since sand doesn’t retain heat, he'd told you while he was packing. Or I think so, anyway. Don't know why. Must have read it somewhere. Then he’d given you a long, unreadable look before saying, Make sure to bring a jacket. The warmest one you have. The elements on a planet like Agnisahr can kill a person—even a person like you.

I’m sure I’ll be fine, you’d dismissed him. I can survive anything. Any kind of weather, any kind of illness, any kind of pain: these are all things your species is known for being able to endure, the trait that made you such a prized slave in your master’s eyes, such a useful agent at the IPC. You hadn’t given Aventurine’s warning any thought and hardly paid attention to what you’d thrown into your own suitcase.

It surprises you, then, that you find one of your sweaters in his luggage. Made from Sedanian cashmere and heat tech designed by the Intelligentsia Guild. Cloud-soft and warm to the touch. Aventurine had bought it for you before you were deployed to Jarilo-IV to collect intelligence for Topaz. Warmest thing in the known universe, he’d commented. One of a kind, too. Remember to wear it, alright? Don't let my money go to waste, now.

You stare at it, kneading the fleece between your fingers. You hadn’t mentioned wanting to bring this sweater. You’d lost it in your closet some months ago and forgot about it. Aventurine must have remembered and gone looking for it, because—why? You aren't sure. Probably because it’s warmer and softer than anything he owns, you guess. Of course he’d want to wear it.

You throw it into the pile of things you’ve collected for him.

You take it all to his bed, the mattress dipping as you sit next to Aventurine. One by one, you scent each item with your wrist, watching him carefully the whole time. You’re quiet as you lay them out around him, leaving him undisturbed as you build a nest. You order water and electrolyte drinks too, and you’re quick about going to the door when you hear room service knocking—with how feverish he is, he probably badly needs it.

Aventurine is awake when you come back. His breathing is still laboured, pained—but calm.

“I said I didn’t need a nest,” Aventurine says, though he doesn’t sound angry. You wonder if he’s too weak to be. His voice is faint, and his eyes are barely open—focused on the pile of blankets and clothing around him.

“You’re welcome.” You open a bottle of water, hold it out to him. “Drink.”

Aventurine pauses, stares at the offering like it's some kind of foreign object. But he accepts it eventually, sitting up and taking it from you. He winces with the movement, which he tries to hide. He ignores your frown as he drinks, and he doesn't stop until the bottle is empty.

“There are more,” you say, pointing at the several additional bottles on the nightstand. “And some food and some painkillers. I don't know how well they’ll work. This isn't a normal heat. If you're alright with it, I'll call a doctor and—”

“Everything smells like you,” he says quietly, and you stop.

“...yes. Unless they’re mated, nests usually feel most comforting to an omega when they smell like an alpha.” You swallow, looking away. “...you don't have a mate, and you didn't want a professional, so this was the only option I could think of. I'm sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he says. He picks out one of the sweaters that have made its way into the nest, the Sedanian one. “I don't mind it.”

“Oh.” You let out a breath. “Then—can I call a doctor?”

His grip on the sweater tightens. “No.”

You frown. “Aventurine—”

“I’ve never needed a doctor before,” he says. He sounds unbothered, but he's fidgeting with the sweater now. “I don't need one now.”

A lie. He almost certainly needed a doctor in some of his prior heats, but you don't push the matter. “Maybe you don't need one,” you say instead, “but it would help.”

“I don't need help,” he says, and you look at him in disbelief. He catches your expression, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Not more than you've already done, I mean.”

“I’ve barely—”

“Contact Topaz. Tell her I'm incapacitated. Tell her…” He hums. “Tell her I have food poisoning. The personnel too. It's not time-sensitive, our business on Agnisahr, so it shouldn't matter if I need a few days off.”

“You really need—”

“Give my regrets to our Agnisahran friends. Deliver it in person. They see you as my right hand, so they’ll most appreciate it coming from you. Topaz can help you with the verbiage. And—try to socialise with them a little, won't you? I think that little omega princess of theirs likes you. Some of the courtesans too, and they have surprising influence.”

“I do not want to be around any omega other than you right now,” you say before you can stop yourself, and Aventurine stops, blinking. His expression is blank, if perhaps a little curious—but his scent shifts. You can't identify how. You add quickly, “I’m not leaving you alone when you’re this sick.”

“Ah. Right.” Aventurine looks away. His voice sounds strange, and his heat must be getting to him again, because it carries a hint of pain. “But you have to. The IPC’s goals take priority.”

You frown. “Your life is more important than the IPC,” you say, and he laughs. Loudly.

“What? This is just a heat. I’m not going to die.”

“You don’t know that without seeing a doctor.”

“I do. I’m willing to bet money that I won’t die.” He cuts you off before you can reply: yes, you're always willing to bet on your life. “And even if I do, that would still be less important than Agnisahr. Do you know how many resources are on this lifeless rock?” His mouth slants. “If we mess up here, I’m dead anyway.”

“I wouldn’t let them touch you.”

“Yes, you would—because they would kill you too.” Aventurine sighs. His eyes close, and his brow creases—a sign that whatever reprieve he was lucky enough to get is about to end. “Go do what I asked. Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll… see a doctor if you do.”

You stand immediately. “Alright. I’ll be back to check on you.”

“I know.”

You stop at the door, giving him a long look. Seeing him like this—lying on a proper bed, cradled in a warm nest, with water and food and medicine nearby—you feel a little better. This is leagues beyond what he’d been afforded in his days as a slave, at the very least. Even if he isn’t free, at least he isn’t trapped.

But it still doesn’t feel good, having to step away. The last thing you want to do is talk to other people, pretend to have interest in other omegas. There are an astonishing number of them who are interested in you on this planet—that princess, and some baron’s son, and one of the prince’s favourite paramours—but you can’t bring yourself to care even for business purposes when Aventurine is like this. You can't act as if you are enjoying yourself when you know he is in pain.

You wonder about telling Topaz the truth. You wonder if she’d be worried enough about Aventurine to let you neglect this mission and cover for you instead, without letting Jade or Diamond or anyone else dangerous know. Not that you think that anyone at the Company particularly cares about Kakavasha—it’s only that he’s valuable. Aventurine of Stratagems is valuable. How many worlds have fallen because of him?

But he seemed unwilling to bet on his worth to them. Which is startling, given how often he's bet on it in the past.

“What’s so important about this planet,” you can’t help but ask, “that the IPC would rather you die than lose it?”

He’s silent for a long moment. His eyes are closed—hidden—but you can see his knuckles whiten as he clutches the Sedanian sweater.

“Copper,” he says. “They want it for the copper.”

When Kakavasha first suggested a friendship to you, it had felt like something in between a proposition and a threat:

Go ahead, he'd said. Use me as you wish. You can even stab me in the back if you want. Just be mindful of this: I don't make deals that don't pay off.

It might have been a strange way of making friends in any other circumstance, but in a house of slaves, it was a natural one. You had not been a clever person—still aren't—but you understood that your place in the world was one of a tool. This was the place of all slaves: you were all things to be used. Your body was a thing to be used. It was valuable for its strength, for its hardiness, for its threat in the arena and for its convenience in your master’s bed (or in a dark basement, or within a heat house, or inside whichever omega your mistress ordered you to calm down). It did not surprise you that Kakavasha wanted to use it as well. It did not surprise you that Kakavasha expected you to use him in return.

You never would have, of course. Kakavasha was not a thing to be used—he had always been a mate. Though you were happy to let him use you, because all you were was a tool anyway, so it was really all you could offer him: to be used.

None of this has changed for you. You don't think any of this has changed for Aventurine, either. With each new friendship he makes, he repeats those familiar words: Use me as you wish. And with each person who accepts, this is exactly what they do: they use him, and they use him, and they use him until suddenly they notice he's tricked them and they've got the losing hand.

You damned gambler, they always spit. You Sigonian wretch. All you know is how to manipulate people. Thief, liar, cheat, whore. Despite all these insults, Aventurine always smiles at them. Cry as they might, he’s won his bet and has their world in his palms.

Winner takes all, he sometimes gloats.

Winning and losing. Using and being used. Exploitation and treachery. This is all Aventurine knows; these are his great guiding principles in life. (He's told you this point blank, stacking up chips in his favourite gambling dens with a self-satisfied grin.) You often find yourself coming back to these conversations, particularly when you need to convince him of something.

And right now, you very badly need to convince him of something.

Aventurine is ignoring his doctor’s advice. His suppressants are unstable in extreme temperatures, he's been told. During travel on Agnisahr, they'd degraded, and now he’s experiencing his first heat in several years. Of course it's going to be painful, his doctor had said. I can prescribe you some medication to ease the symptoms, but really—nothing will work better than a heat partner. It doesn't need to be a mate. Any alpha will do.

The doctor had been an alpha. You had asked for a beta or omega, but alphas tend to dominate in Interastral Medical Schools, so they're in short supply. Aventurine had been still the whole time, face unreadable, but you could tell he wanted to throw up at the stench of an unfamiliar alpha. You had stepped between the two of them, not bothering to hide the animosity in your voice. We’ll take the medication, you had said, and the doctor had sniffed the air and nodded at you in approval.

Probably won't need it. An alpha like you could sort him out with just a few rounds, he told you, and both of you stayed quiet as he left.

You still aren't talking, or even looking at each other. Aventurine has lay down in his nest again, closing his eyes, while you stand as far away as physically possible—at the door where you'd just shown the doctor out. With the room shut off again, windows closed and door locked, Aventurine’s scent is starting to flood your senses once more. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him shivering.

“What do you want to do?” you ask.

“Nothing.” He swallows. “I'll be fine.”

He's afraid. You can tell he's afraid. And you can tell he’ll be more afraid if you take even a single step closer to him, so you nod and say, “I'll go pick up your medication, then,” and Aventurine doesn't stop you. You can see him curling up in his nest, face pressed into the cashmere sweater.

But he still doesn't stop you.

After a few more days, Aventurine finally breaks.

There is a rare sag to his shoulders when he calls you to the room, along with a taste of dread in the air. You haven't seen him so vulnerable in years. Aventurine is not an open person, so cunning and self-possessed in his wealth—but Kakavasha was more brittle, more powerless, flayed raw and open even though he didn't often get the whip. (It would ruin his value if he ever scarred—his looks were his greatest selling point, your master said.) He was especially defeated when forced to spend his heats with an alpha he didn't want. You wonder, a vice grip of pain around your heart, whether this entire situation is simply an extension of that. Whether he is calling you here against his will, this time compelled by his pain, rather than his master. Whether this luxury suite feels like that wretched basement to him.

He doesn't look at you when he talks, nor does he sit up. He remains curled in his nest, nearly clinging onto the blankets and clothes.

“That stupid medication,” he pants out, sharp even in his heat, “isn't working.”

“I can tell.” Your brow knots. He’s in so much pain, it is palpable. “I”—you hesitate, voice dropping. “Can I help you?”

He goes quiet. As both Aventurine and Kakavasha, he has always been disinclined to accept help from other people. There is no such thing as unconditional help in his mind—only leverage and weakness. He hates it when people have leverage over him, and he hates being weak. Both are things that can be exploited, and Aventurine always needs to be the one doing the exploiting. He always needs to be in control.

Even like this, the last threads of his sanity about to snap, with every circuit of his omega biology trying to drag him into insensible lust, he fights viciously to be in control.

Winning and losing. Using and being used. Exploitation and treachery. Control and being controlled. This is how he's always lived. This is how he's always survived.

This is the only way to let him maintain control when he is most afraid of losing it.

“I don't mind,” you say quietly, “if you use me.”

Even through the haze of heat, Aventurine’s eyes sharpen. “What?”

“I don't mind if you use me,” you repeat, voice neutral. Unfeeling. The proposal might sound cruel to someone else, but not you. After all—your place in the world is one of a tool, and this is what you've always done as an alpha and a slave: sleeping with people to take care of their needs, or sometimes just their desires. It did always make you feel strangely hollow, but you think it will feel just fine with Aventurine. All you've ever wanted to do is keep him safe, and surely, this will do that, but—

“I'll only help if you want. I don't want to force it.” You lower your eyes. “But if you do want it, I'll be careful with you. You can lead. I promise.”

“...I know.” Aventurine’s voice is weak, cracks with pain, but you can tell he's speaking with clarity. “I know you will be.”

You look up. “Then you'll let me help?”

Aventurine looks away—a sign that he cannot adopt his usual smile. He’s clutching that sweater again, pressed close to his chest.

“Just your wrist,” he says quietly.

You listen carefully. “What?”

“I just—I just want your wrist.” He looks away. “Your—your scent gland. Only that.”

“Okay.”

You get up, then falter. When it was your job to comfort your mistress’ omega slaves, you were told to enter their nests—no permission needed from them, no permission needed from you, because only her permission ever mattered for anything. The omegas were usually too delirious to care, often had even begged for it with the state of mind that they were in. But Aventurine is different. He's not like you, and he's not like them. He's never bent to any of his masters’ wills. And even if he did, you wouldn't want to have him bend to yours.

Instead of climbing into his nest, you ask, “Can I sit on the bed?” He doesn't answer. “Just the edge of it,” you add, and you hear him exhale.

“Fine,” he says, breathing measured.

“Thank you,” you say, and he gives you a confused look. But then you're reaching out with a hand, offering it, and he is quickly distracted.

Aventurine drops the sweater, grabs your hand almost immediately. He turns over your palms, fingers tracing your heartlines—as if testing you, as if mapping out territory. He runs his thumbs along the veins of your wrists, too, right over your scent gland, and you have to force yourself not to shudder at the feeling. You only stay still, letting him explore the contours of your hands, letting him acclimate to the feeling of your skin. He laces his fingers with your own, a latticework trap, and he finally drags his wrist along yours.

Both of you inhale sharply.

You can't react. You know it'll scare him if you do, but it's hard to keep still. The way his scent blossoms, the way it mingles with yours, the way it all washes over you—what you're doing can hardly be called touching, but you feel like you're going mad. Especially when he flushes like that, his vibrant eyes fluttering shut. Especially when the sweetness of honey overtakes your senses. Especially when you can smell the way his body is reacting, all that wetness and heat and slick dripping between his legs. You don't miss the way his thighs rub together, nor the hard outline of his cock straining against his pants.

Aventurine shudders. He brings your hand up to his face, rests his cheek in your palm. His skin is flushed and burning with fever, and it's no wonder that he's sighing with relief at your touch. You try not to stare at the way his mouth falls open. He looks at you for a moment, his gaze a hazy violet and blue—before he closes his eyes again and presses his lips into your wrist.

Fuck.

“Aventurine—” You have to stop, voice strangled, when you feel the full softness of his lips working against your skin. He’s panting now, laboured breaths sweeping over your veins. Then you feel his teeth catch, a gentle nip on your flesh, and when he groans into your racing pulse—deep, relieved, desperate, a noise that makes your gut flare with heat—you realise you can't do this.

You pull back your hand, and Aventurine startles.

“Aventurine,” you say, voice strained. Maybe we should stop, you want to say, but he cuts you off.

“I need”—a shaky breath—“I need more.”

You watch Aventurine carefully. His pupils are dilated, blue irises nearly eclipsed. His cheeks are rosy, and he can't stop panting. You can fully smell his arousal now, even through his silk clothes. He's desperate, needing to be filled.

But he also looks torn. His brows are knotted, and you can taste a faint hint of fear in the air now. His knuckles clutch at the sheets, almost white, and he stares at them. He can't look up. He can't look at you. His whole body is tense, like he wants to bolt—and if he weren't so weak, you think he might actually.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

He doesn't nod. He also doesn't shake his head. His arms clutch at his midsection as he winces. He doesn't look like Aventurine. He looks like Kakavasha. It makes your heart ache as you watch him give into his body’s demands, wearing the same expression he did on the day your master bought him.

“...don't use your Voice on me,” Aventurine—Kakavasha—says quietly.

It takes you a moment to realise what he's asking. “I won't.”

“And”—his eyes somehow grow even more evasive, hidden by his long lashes— “don’t touch my commodity code.”

His commodity code. His commodity code that is seared into his scent gland. His code that, if you kiss, will ease his agony instantly. His code that, if you bite—will chain him to you irreversibly.

“Of course I won't,” you say instantly.

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath.

“And—” Aventurine looks away, jaw tight. His voice is quiet but wrought with tension: “—I don't like when people put things inside me.”

Something claws the walls of your heart.

“That's fine too,” you reply. “I don't mind doing it the other way.”

Aventurine’s sigh is nearly inaudible, but unmistakable. His scent shifts a little bit, the wildflower fragrance fading ever so slightly. But he doesn't come to you. He merely sits there—waiting. Expecting. Maybe dreading. Even in the senseless daze of heat, he’s too anxious to move.

You approach slowly. Though you're overwhelmed by the bouquet of his scent, though you feel a curl of heat in your belly in response to it—you are slow. Alphas are supposedly victims of insatiable lust whenever around an omega in heat, absolved of every action they take, but you are convinced this is a lie. You have never once wanted to handle Aventurine with such cruelty. You think that inflicting violence on him, more than anything else, would go against your biology. Every molecule in your body would reject putting him in such pain or inciting such fear. So you are careful when you approach him, slow as you inch up to him—but you do not think it helps.

Aventurine lies down, his face turned away from yours. His eyes squeeze shut, like he's expecting this to hurt. Uncertainty gnaws at your gut as you lean over him, draping your body over his—the only position you've ever taken an omega in, other than mounting them from behind.

(You do not want to mount Aventurine. You never have. It is an impersonal position, a position that omega biology supposedly would force him to enjoy, a position that alphas have likely dictated him to enjoy. You think there is nothing you would hate more. In your weakest, most selfish moments, in your worst ruts, when you’ve allowed yourself to fantasise about mating Kakavasha—you are always facing each other, and he is always looking at you with his eyes you've always loved, and it always feels intimate. Never impersonal. Never dictated. Never forced.)

Aventurine is so honeysweet beneath you. More fragrant than any omega you’ve ever been with. You glance at his commodity code, trying to ignore the scent of his branded skin, then lean down to press your face against the other side of his neck, where a faint scar mars the otherwise flawless slope of his nape. Like every other omega slave you've ever slept with, the scent gland there has been excised: a precautionary measure to reduce the risk of an unwanted mating bite.

(Not unwanted by them—the wants of a slave never matter—but unwanted by their owners. A mating bite would ruin the code seared into their neck, claim an omega more deeply and permanently than any titanium collar or carbon steel chain. It would hurt their resale value. Only owners are allowed to claim slaves in such a permanent way—and the wants of a slave have no relevance there, either.)

It's a funny thing, this surgical scar. Even with their gland missing, you've noticed that most omegas like having their neck scented by you anyway, probably from some vestigial instinct. You guess that Aventurine won't be any different, that maybe it will comfort him. But when your lips skim the scar left on him by his owner, his entire body stiffens beneath you. His fragrance cuts into your lungs, sharp.

You recoil, as if burned by the touch of him.

“Sorry,” Aventurine is quick to say. He tries to glance at you, but his diamond pupils quickly avoid you again. “Don’t worry about me. Just do whatever you need to do.”

“But you're scared,” you point out, and you see his brow twitch. “You’re scared when I touch you.”

“Not scared,” he lies. “Just…”

When his eyes finally look at you—land on your lips—you understand.

A bite would claim an omega more deeply and permanently than any titanium collar or carbon steel chain. If you lost your mind—give into the insatiable lust of an alpha whenever around an omega in heat—you might bite him, and then you would own Aventurine.

And Aventurine would rather die than be owned by anyone again.

He doesn't need to finish his sentence. You already know what you need to do.

“It's okay,” you say gently, and his brow knots. “I have an idea.”

Aventurine is always afraid.

This is a fact that has haunted you since the day you met him. You've wondered about how to fix it—the bare minimum as his mate (always his, even if he doesn't want you)—and you’ve never quite pinned down how. Because when someone has spent their life in perpetual fear, how do you make them feel safe? When their life is constantly at risk, how do you ever make them feel calm?

You still aren't sure of the answer. But after seeing Kakavasha become Aventurine, you now have a good guess.

It is clear from his scent that Aventurine does not feel remotely safe right now. Not when you leave to fetch something from your own room, and not when you return. The anxiety thickens when he sees, in your hands, a very familiar muzzle.

Aventurine stares. He is not smiling, but he also does not reveal his discomfort on his face, even as beads of sweat line his temple. But his voice is too controlled, too calm, when he asks, “You kept the mask.”

You nod.

“I told you to throw it out,” he points out, “when I freed you.”

“I know. Sorry. I don't know why I kept it.” You remember how tightly you clutched it before the incinerator, thinking about how strange it would feel, discarding something that you'd worn everyday since you presented—but you don't tell him this. Instead, you say, “But it’s convenient.”

Before Aventurine can say anything, you toss him the remote.

“You’re afraid of my bite and my Voice, but you don't have to be with this,” you explain. Your tone is gentle, soothing. Probably disarming coming from an alpha, with how he is in heat. Perhaps that's why he’s studying the remote rather than chucking it away. “You'll be in full control if I wear this.”

Control. Mere seconds after you say it, you can smell his fragrance change again, mellowing. It's only a brief moment of calm that fades when you latch the mask onto your face, but he doesn't smell as nearly as stressed before.

Aventurine watches you carefully as the carbon steel swallows your maw, its old and familiar edges biting into you. For the first time in years, you cannot tell what he is thinking—truly poker-faced even to you.

“You aren't bothered by wearing that thing while we do this,” he says—asks?—and you shake your head. The muzzle was part of you for years. You were wearing it when you killed someone for the first time. You were wearing it when you went into rut for the first time. You were wearing it when your master had sex with you for the first time. It doesn't bother you that you’ll wear it when you have sex with Aventurine.

If you could speak, you would ask him, Why do you think it would bother me? But all you do is gesture for him to sit up. To switch places with you. You lie down—something you've never done with an omega—and wait for him to get on top.

Aventurine stares at you for a long, quiet moment. It's followed by a sigh of relief. Disarmed, he—for the first time in any heat you've witnessed—finally relaxes. His scent wafts over you as he climbs between your legs, and you can feel the heat radiating from his hands as he parts your thighs, almost scalding.

He doesn't bother getting you ready, too needy to think rationally, but he doesn't have to anyway. You've been wet ever since you felt his mouth touch your wrist, hard ever since you heard him groan into it. You're equally desperate to get some relief as you feel his cockhead sliding against your opening, leaking all over your entrance as his slick drips onto your thighs. His breath shakes as he enters you, and he can't hear it with how you're muzzled—but you groan just as deeply as him at the tight stretch.

You hear him swear when you clench around him, watch him lean over you. His arms shake as he supports himself, refusing to succumb to his heat even as he chases his relief. You seek out his gaze (just as in your dreams, facing each other, intimate), and his neon eyes catch on your eyes for a brief, breathtaking second—

—before he looks away.

There's a flash of—you don't know what, maybe pain? Or fear?—in his irises as he does. A twitch of the brow, a tell he'd normally rather die than let slip. You have the realisation, as Aventurine moves inside you, that even while you're muzzled, even while he has complete control over you—he still can't stand having sex with you. Probably because he can't stand being in heat in general, you tell yourself. Don't touch me, don't touch me, don't use it anymore, don't use me anymore. He'd have this reaction to anyone.

Still—you didn't expect him to have this reaction to you.

Your hands twitch, possessed by an old instinct to cover your eyes. But you'd probably scare Aventurine if you moved your arms, so all you do is dig your fingers into the sheets and squeeze them shut. You tell yourself again and again that he'd hate having sex with anyone in these circumstances—not just you. And then you tell yourself, as a desperate, broken moan leaves his branded throat, that he would also come inside anyone in these circumstances, caught within the cruel grip of his heat.

Aventurine stills inside you as he finishes. He pants, sweat dripping down his temple as he shudders in his ecstasy, his spend hot and thick inside you. You can feel his fever break as he comes down from his high, the heat coming off his body easing into a manageable warmth.

Do you feel better, you try to say, but you can't move your mouth while your mask is on. So you wait patiently for Aventurine to come back to himself, watching him carefully as he pulls out and rolls onto the mattress beside you. He finally glances at you then. His eyes narrow once they land on you, confusion flicking through them. Then displeasure. He reaches for the remote.

To your surprise, he immediately punches in the code to unlock your muzzle. Aventurine has apparently remembered the numbers after all these years, as if the moment he freed you has been since seared into his memory.

“Are you okay?” is the first thing you say, and Aventurine gives you a confused look. He’s still panting, dazed, so you ask, “Can I check your temperature?” And when he nods, you confirm your suspicion: he's still much too warm.

There is an ache between your legs and a strange hollow in your gut (because you aren't very experienced with receiving, you think—your body likely just isn't used to the feeling of it), but you quickly forget them. All you can think of is Aventurine, and how he’s still unwell, and how you need to comfort him. The instinct is so strong that you don't even say anything as you get up, straightening out your clothes.

“Are you leaving?” Aventurine asks. His voice is neutral, completely unbothered, but the thought is so horrific to you that you turn back to him with wide eyes.

“Of course not. I'm going to get you water and medicine.” A beat. You stare at Aventurine’s eyes, then think about how he hid them from you during sex. The hollow feeling comes back, but it's mostly eclipsed by your anxiety at the next thought: “...do you want me to leave?”

“Do you want to?”

“I—” I'd rather die, you think. Being forced to leave him right now would feel like tearing out a piece of yourself. You don't know if there's an alpha in this world who could leave their mate in the middle of a heat. And even if he is unmarked, unattached to you—you still think of yourself as his mate. (His, always his, even if he doesn't want you.) “I would prefer not to. I am your heat partner. I'm supposed to take care of you.”

You hear a quiet breath. “Right. Of course. You're always so conscientious.” Aventurine nods, as if convincing himself of something. “Try not to take too long.”

“I’ll come back soon,” you promise, and the air sweetens. Encouraged, you add, voice gentle: “I’ll bring that medication, and then we can have sex as many times as you need after I come back. I'll make sure you're not in any pain anymore.” You pause, studying him. “Is there anything else you need to feel better?”

His fragrance changes once more, this time in a way you don't totally recognize. “No.” His voice sounds strange. His scent is still foreign, fluctuating, possibly hinting at some kind of pain. The heat must be getting to him again—and of course it wasn't enough, what you just did, what you can provide. He likely needs to be filled to get any kind of lasting relief, but you left him empty. “No, that's all I want.”

You nod, forcing yourself to look calm. Ignoring the emptiness in your gut. It didn't feel bad, but you hope it'll feel better next time you have sex. You think it will. Alphas are supposed to be filled with an insatiable lust near omegas in heat, after all. And even though you’ve never felt that before—never felt anything sleeping with all those omegas in your mistress’ house—you are sure you'll eventually feel it around Aventurine.

But the feeling never comes. Even though you can tell that his heat has returned by the time you're back—sweat beading his temples, laboured breaths at his lips, his bottoms now discarded, with full evidence of arousal between his legs—you don't feel much of anything as you reach for your mask again.

“Don't,” Aventurine says, before it can clasp around your face. You give him a curious look. He explains, “Don't. I don't want to have sex again. Not yet.”

You stare at him, shifting. Uncomfortable. Uncertain. Not knowing how he wants to use you. “What can I do?”

He gives you a long look. “Come here. I… I want your scent gland.”

It's a sensible request. If there's a way to seek relief without fucking someone—without fucking you, which he clearly hated doing—you're sure Aventurine would prefer it. So you climb into his nest, holding your wrist out for him, and—

“No.” His voice is quiet. “I want the one on your neck.”

“...oh.”

You stand there, not sure where to move. If he wants you in his nest again, or if he’d rather do this standing. You’re relieved when he demands, “Lie down.”

You expect him to get on top of you when you do. Assume that he wants complete control—but he instead lies down beside you. Presses his body into yours, and then his face into your neck. His nose and lips brush against your scent gland, a full-body shudder running through him, and—

—and now you know for a fact that it is a lie that alphas want nothing other than to fuck an omega when they're in heat. Because even like this, with his lips sweet on your neck, with the sheets soaked with his slick, with his spend leaking out of you—you do not want to have sex with Aventurine. You only want to hold him. You only want him to keep scenting you. You only want to scent him back.

You only want him to feel safe.

You breathe in deeply, lungs flooded by honey. You think of what it felt like to hold him in that cold basement, when he was delirious with fever and pain, and you think about how different his scent is now. How much sweeter it is. How much calmer he feels.

“Do you feel better?” you ask, and he doesn't respond, but you know the answer. His hands come up to dig into your shirt, and he presses into you like you're a sweater in his nest. Silence blankets over you both, calm and warm. His laboured breath starts to improve.

He does eventually speak.

“Has anyone ever told you,” he says, “what you smell like?”

You stare at him. Your master used to say that you smelled good, but he'd never elaborated, and you hadn't wanted him to. “No.”

Aventurine breathes in.

“You smell like—” A little sigh, shaking and feverish, leaves him. “You smell like rain.”

Your eyebrows tick up. “Rain?”

“Yes. Or not just rain, but”—he pauses, next words quiet—“more Iike after it rains. You smell like the desert after a rainfall.”

“Oh.” You don't know what to say to that. Feeling distinctly like it's a silly question, you ask, “Is that a good scent?”

“Some would think so. Especially to people from the desert. You probably smell like a blessing to them. Although…”

Aventurine goes quiet again. You stare at the chandelier above you, all crystal and white gold, and wait.

“Although?” you prompt.

“...although I wouldn't really know,” he says. “It’s just a hunch. I bet it's why so many omegas on this planet like you.”

You couldn't care less about those other omegas. All you care about is Aventurine. “And?” you say. “Do you like my scent?”

His reply never comes. He just breathes deeply again, seeking relief from your neck—not intimacy. Any alpha’s scent would work; that doctor told you so. Any alpha’s touch would work, too. There are no special feelings involved here. Your place in the world is one of a tool, and tools are never especially liked nor disliked. Their value exists only in how they can be used.

You don't know why you even bothered to ask the question.

But then something strange happens: Aventurine curls against you, pressing even further into you. His lashes flutter against your pulse again; it ticks up in response, beating fast against his lips.

“I do,” he says quietly. “I do like it.”

You swallow. ��But I guess that's because you're in heat. Any alpha would smell good to you, wouldn’t they?”

“No.” His fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt. “No, I like it because it's yours.”

You know better than to read too much into his response. Aventurine had already said it earlier: No foreign scents. He's only tolerating this whole arrangement because you don't smell unfamiliar to him. Only able to use you because you are the least threatening option.

But the words break something in you—break the thing that made you unable to throw out that little pouch of copper coins that you were saving up for Kakavasha’s freedom, the part of you that made you wear that carbon-steel mask for him. It is this part of you that has your eyes squeezing shut and your arms wrapping around him. You know he’ll recoil, reject you, but just this once—you need to try.

Aventurine doesn't push you away.

He melts into you instead, inhaling deeply. Your scent gland tingles with the warmth of his breath, the feeling of his lips. He seems—comfortable.

You can't fathom why he’s staying in your arms. Perhaps he's simply desperate for some kind of relief from his heat, just like when you held him in the basement while he was delirious from pain. But Aventurine had spoken to you with clarity just now, and his skin doesn't feel scalding so much as warm, and his scent is so different than from that moment. So sweet and so gentle, without a trace of fear. It makes your heart squeeze. As much as you've always wanted Aventurine to feel safe, you'd never imagined that his scent would be so beautiful when he is.

It makes your heart ache. You've never held anything so lovely before, and you’ve never felt so warm before, and it all makes up for how badly it hurt to let Aventurine inside you. How hollow it made you feel to let him use you. How none of that matters as long as you can keep him safe like this, because you belong to Kakavasha. You'll always belong to Kakavasha, in a fate that was chosen for you on the day you met him.

You're his, always his—even if he’ll never want you.

end part i

thank you so much to lore for hosting a fantastic collab and to my sponsors who funded this fic and got it over the finish line! please go check out @ficsforgaza to find other amazing hsr writers you can sponsor in order to help fundraise! here is my own wip list, if you are interested in seeing more from me!

and thank you most of all to YOU! I appreciate you so much for reading this chapter. thank you so much for sticking it through.

additional end notes

#彡 favorites.#cw slavery #cw racism #cw violence #cw sa mention #the first sentence with the block letters ): it says I’ve always love you ??? gonna go cry now (I already did last night)#‘your eyes went soft. beneath the artificial fragrance / you finally caught a hint of his family scent’ ‘the way it always is when he’s #scared.’ THIS LINE BROKE MY HEART. his facade is not facading . WE KNOW. WE WILL ALWAYS KNOW #‘nothing of value’ god dammit aventurine i want to shake his shoulders so bad. this is killing me #OMG THE COIN PURSE PART. THE READER IS SO SWEET )))))): OMG. I remember the face I made at that part /pos and I did tear up quite a bit #‘you never let me do my job’ YEAH. what’s up with that ????????? aventurine u turd. I WANT HIM TO LET US LOVE HIM SOOOO BAD HGGGRRRRRRRRRRR #‘no im actually a great liar. you’re just too good at reading me. it’s very inconvenient you know.’ okay i don’t know how to explain how i #feel. but can I say I heard this perfectly in his voice ? and it made me react some way. like jaw fell open kind of way. your characteriza #UGH I HATE THE TAG LIMIT characterization** IS SO GOOD I CAN HEAR EVERYTHING IN MY HEAD it’s like a movie is playing in my brain mhm mhm!!!#also the part where we keep repeating aventurine over and over and he keeps talking about what he could buy ): LISTEN TO MMMMMEMEEEEEEEHHRH #‘it went against every instinct not to touch him’ THIS IS WHAT I MEANT in my word dump )): trying so hard but so conflicted because #as an alpha you can make it better for him. but he doesn’t want that so u respect it. but he’s in so much pain ): UGHHHHHHHHHH #the sweater part . are you serious /pos. this is such a cute little detail ): I’m gonna start sobbing again can we give him the world #‘everything smells like you’ im sorry 😭 we don’t have much to work with mr aventurine BUT HE SAID ‘I don’t mind it’ SO🥺🥺🥺#‘copper’ ‘they want it for the copper’ the way I started laughing because r u serious . I’m actually a little . brow twitched. BROW TWITCHE #oh okay the copper! right. the copper. (the table flips over) be so fr rn /pos #the entire wrist scene I read with one hand over an eye and also hidden under my blankets because I was so tense HEJDKCKJCKD #‘aventurine would rather die than be owned again’ my heart shattered into pieces at this btw #him still remembering the pass to the muzzle ): and the ‘are you leaving’ im literally gonna cry all over again /pos #the neck scent gland fucked me up so bad. and the rain scent. and he likes it because it’s ours . x _ x / T_T #i have thoughts about your other fic but I will probably write them tomorrow because now I would like to re-re-re-read this one 😅#I’ve always loved * for the first tag dammit I can’t imagine how many typos are in this whole thing #TLDR : great work !!! loved this > < <33

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bi-writes · 3 months ago

Note

simon being protective of his mail order bride scratches all the right spots in my brain.

mail-order bride

you're almost relieved when you hear the knock at the door. you've been a holding a tree pose for a few minutes too long, and the girl hosting the online yoga class is starting to fry your eardrums with her too-perky voice.

you're sweating bullets, and her hair hasn't moved a fucking inch out of her ponytail.

you mute the television, wiping your forehead before making your way to the front door. you open it with a sigh, not really knowing what you expected to see, but it certainly wasn't the average-dressed man standing on the steps there.

you blink, raising a brow when his eyes roam over you, and you realize suddenly that you're wearing workout clothes, which is showing off a little more than you'd like to some rando standing on your doorstep.

"uh..." you look around a little. "i'm sorry, can i help you?"

he smiles. it's a little unnerving.

"right, yeah, i'm starting a business around here, and i wanted to ask if you've been needing any help with any fixtures around the house. i'm giving a 50% discount if you give me a rating on google."

you open your mouth for a moment, frowning.

"uhm..." you shake your head, "sorry. we don't need any help right now."

"you live here alone? sometimes it's hard to spot when the electric's on the piss, y'know? need a keen eye," he laughs, coming up one of the steps. you shake your head again.

"no, thanks."

he's a wiry man, but he's tall (not taller than your husband, but taller than you). you step back a little and start to close the door. he comes up the steps. out of the corner of your eye, you see the cat slip out between your legs, hissing a little as the distance closes between you and the man.

"wait! can i give you my contact info? i don't have a card, but i can leave you my--"

the sound of simon's truck pulling into the garage gets both of you to look behind. simon doesn't even park all the way inside. he throws the truck door open, stepping out of it, and the man on your steps moves back away from you immediately, making his way off the little porch.

simon looks huge, more so than ever. his steps are heavy, boots hitting the ground like a warning bell, and he's wearing just a short-sleeved shirt that's showing off those glorious fucking arms. you have never doubted simon's strength, but he looks like he could flip a car with the anger that's leaving him in heavy waves. you're surprised that you are not afraid; you just know somehow that simon won't touch you.

"oi!" simon yells, and the man definitely understands he picked the wrong fucking house to be a creepy salesman at when his knees nearly buckle as he tries to walk away. "where the fuck do y'think y'r goin', you twat?"

you sigh deeply, not realizing how much you were shaking until you notice your hands trembling around the doorknob. you watch as simon catches the guy by his dirty jean jacket, nearly lifting him completely off his feet as he drags him towards the fence gate.

"hey! hey! i didn't do anything!"

"i saw ya, ya fuckin' arse, know exactly wot the fuck y'were doin'," simon growls, tossing him onto the sidewalk. he hits the pavement with a cry, holding onto his arm, and simon slams the fence gate closed before pointing at him accusingly. "'f i ever see ya anywhere near m'fuckin' house or even askin' m'wife for so much as fuckin' directions, i'll cut y'r bloody prick off, y'hear?"

you blink as simon comes closer, the cat retreating back into the house once they see him. he keeps walking, crowding you back into the house before he shuts and locks the front door. his chest is heaving, black t-shirt doing nothing to hide the puff of his chest and how large he makes himself when he stands up to other men. he doesn't even need to make himself larger; simon takes up enough space for two men combined.

"he touch you?" simon asks, his voice low. you see his fists clench, and you have no doubt that if you said yes, simon would go outside and paint the pavement a new color with the man's face.

you shake your head frantically, and he lets out a deep breath, reaching up and wrapping a hand around the back of your head and pulling you close.

he bends, pressing his masked forehead against yours, closing his eyes as he breathes in slowly. he rubs at the nape of your neck, soothing you, and you smile when he pulls away, giving him those big eyes that say thank you, thank you, thank you.

simon cocks his head, staring behind you, and you turn with him to see the cat blinking slowly at the two of you from it's place on the windowsill.

"should get you a fucking guard dog instead," simon mutters, pulling his mask off and kicking his boots into the corner. you smile as he walks away, trying to cool your warm cheeks with the backs of your hands.

doesn't he know you already have one?

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #order up

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nochepsicodelica · 3 months ago

Text

More clingy, bear boyfriend Toji thoughts.

He can't stand when you stay asleep once he wakes up in the morning and he chooses to be annoying about it by doing everything he can to wake you up. He'll sit up and lean over you to look at your resting features, admiring how adorable you are for a few seconds before carrying on. He starts by squeezing your waist, hoping the ticklish sensation is enough to make you stir so that he has something to bounce off of. You sleep like a log, though, so he has to try more than one method. He'll blow lightly into your ear and whisper softly about how it's time to wake up, scoffing when you brush him off with a whine. You hope he'll give up and let you sleep a little longer, but he doesn't. He's going to get you to wake up. He tries again, this time smothering the side of your face with kisses, starting from your temple going down to your chin. You love when he does this to you when you're wide awake, maybe this will do it. "Baby... Wake up, already. Let's start the day." Nothing from you, so he whips out the last resort.

NSFW Below

He flips you onto your back and tenderly kisses down your body. You're already more reactive to his touch so he keeps going. Leaves lots of wet kisses on your lower abdomen before he rolls down your panties. The second his tongue drags up your slit, you jolt and minimally scramble up the bed. You don't get very far because Toji is quick to calm you down and pins your legs with his arms. "Relax, mama. It's just me. No need to kick."

You let out a deep breath and your eyes fall shut in relief. It's just Toji.

"I know you wanted me awake, but you didn't have to give me a heart..."you trail off and let out a sharp breath. His tongue is back on you. "A heart attack."

"Mhm," he hums, dismissively, his mouth latched to your clit, sucking and running the tip of his tongue on the sensitive bud. "You'll be relaxed again, soon enough."

Soon enough indeed. It's been less than five minutes and things are already so messy. Your stomach is quivering with your impending release, and you're crying out his name repeatedly because it's the only thing you know when you're woken up this way.

He didn't even have to use his fingers to make you cum, just making out with your cunt was enough to make you gush. You're moaning, trying to ride his face to no avail due to the force he keeps on your hips to let him stay in control. He picks up the pace for you, letting his tongue glide through your folds, from your drooling hole to your clit, where he circles the sensitive bud all over again until you're whimpering and sobbing, jerking in his hold in an attempt to get away from his merciless mouth. He doesn't stop until you're all clean, not wanting to waste a single drop of your sweetness.

"Mmm..." he hums, kissing your twitching inner thighs. "That's all, baby. Good morning."

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yanderenightmare · 11 months ago

Text

♡ TW: NSFW, noncon/dubcon, size-difference, captive darling, punishment, deepthroating, bondage

♡ FEM reader

You beg your big bulky kidnapper not to take your virginity because you’re waiting to give it to someone you love, and he just smiles at you crookedly – stroking your teary cheek as he rests the hefty weight of his big fat veiny manhood on your belly, leaking hot pre while cooing at you with deceptively kind eyes, saying that he thinks that’s a lovely idea.

Flipping you over, he starts prepping your virgin ass instead – spit and four fat fingers stretching it out while you sob and wring your wrists in your fluffy cuffs – all pointlessly as the pink hole starts to give, becoming soft and squishy, swallowing his digits up in wet velvety squelches.

And filling the taut hole up with his massive cock, he rubs your clit and whispers darkly that he’ll save your pretty cunt for when you fall in love with him.

He’s overjoyed to see you’ve already fallen in love with him after only one round of pounding your poor butt into a sore sloppy opening – all but begging him to take your pussy instead.

Obviously, he obliges, sucking the bloated fat of your teary cheek with a hum and a firm squeeze to your sore buttcheek before flipping you back around.

He kisses your lips, your neck, your tits, your stomach – laving down until licking through your pretty pussylips, promptly tongue-fucking the sweet hole until you cum with a shudder.

Smiling into your trembling cunt – he chuckles, feeling it pulse against his lips. “Come on, baby ~” He encourages. “Tell me how much you love me – tell me how much you want my sweet, sweet love.”

He pulls your thighs around his torso, rubbing his messy cock against your slick cunt while nipping at the corner of your lips – patiently waiting for your forced consent. Grossly amused – and aroused.

“Ah – please…” Your lips warble – eyes screwed shut where you try angling away from his steamy breaths.

“Please what, baby? Please make love to your sweet pussy?” He suggests with a moan – hunched over your smaller form with his cock licking your clit as he slides it back and forth between your thighs. “Or do you maybe miss it in your tight ass?”

“No – please-”

“Then tell me, baby. Tell me you want it – tell me you love me, and I’ll give it to you.” He purrs – still while laying open-mouthed kisses on your lips and cheek.

You whimper, crying wetly. “I love you – please make love in my pussy…”

He hums in return – a satisfying rumble as he slips his cock-head through your folds until it settles in your opening.

Your breath hitches at the stretch – then you suck your teeth – hissing as he splits you open and treads your tight virginity over his girth – hugging him air-tight like a condom bought two sizes too small.

“Oh, baby~ so tight~ so tight and good~ wet like a good virgin should be~” He groans, sinking every thick inch inside despite the way you squirm, ignoring your sweet cry when you beg him to slow down.

He’s down to the hilt in a moment – kneading against your womb with his chubby cockhead. Big hands squeeze your ass – using it to pump into you in steady deep-hitting thrusts – his lips on your forehead in a prolonged kiss.

You pant out sticky whines as he ruts inside you – fat cock stretching you badly for your first time – making everything sting numbly, only partly soothed by a tickling pleasure – tummy feeling hot and tight until it all snaps again, leaving you to shake on the massive member, throttling him all so sweetly.

“I love you, baby~ love you and your tight pussy~ squeezing me so good~” He slurs against you, drooling on your skin. “Gonna fill you up with love – all of it – all of it in your sweet pussy~”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Denki, Kirishima, Hawks, Enji ♡ JJK – Mahito, Nanami, Geto, Gojo, Toji ♡ HxH – Uvogin

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

#yandere x reader #yandere #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere smut #yancore #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujustu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #jjk smut #bnha smut #yandere bnha #mha smut #my hero smut

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sweet-as-an-angel · 4 months ago

Text

Cult. [M]

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Raw Dogging, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Implied Unwanted Pregnancy, Power Imbalance, Big Dick! Ghost, Soft Dom! Ghost, Cult Leader! Ghost, Submissive (and Breedable)! Reader, Implied Abortion Attempt, Fem Reader, Profanity.

He’s filthy in the way he treats you, like a common whore, spreading you out over his desk – once-varnished mahogany, now bleached with weeks’ worth of spend, of tears, rubbed raw in places, the phantoms of many a night relentless under your leader – and bearing your body like it’s his god-given duty.

In essence, it is. Albeit, a god he created – fabricated – to lead lambs into a wolf’s den. And with the primal, savage way he forces himself into you, his tip pulsing and throbbing with the many hours he’s subjected you to, you can very well believe he is the very image of a predator.

“Won’t stop ‘til you’re full – ‘til it’s– fuck– ‘til it’s taken,” Simon pants, his shadow cloaking you, the sweat from his broad chest dripping down onto your sodden back. Your cheek is pressed into the desk, and in the corner of your vision, between the narrowed eyes you fight to keep open amidst the electric annihilation sparking between your legs, just below your stomach, you see him with bared teeth and dark eyes that glint with some unholy purpose. A purpose that only makes the feeling writhing inside you stronger, heavier.

With a deft hand – his other planted by your head, a cage – he finds your clit and presses it between two fingers as if it were the stub of a cigarette. He squeezes. Hard.

Your lips quiver around him and a strangled moan escapes you, euphoria becoming you, possessing you as something had him.

You keen on his hand, desperate for contact, for friction, despite him already filling you utterly and without mercy. Your arousal drips into his hand, pools in his palm. It takes all his will not to drink it then and there.

“I know, Doll–” ‘Doll’ – the name he’d given you, the name that reminds you you’re his to use as he pleases. His fingers squeeze your clit between them, a flesh vice. You’re gasping. He doesn’t stop, subjecting you to a pleasure so carnal you know only he can grant you it.

His free hand finds your shoulder, slips down your soaked back – a collage of brutal love-making, of animal rutting, of feral and incessant breeding – leaving goosebumps in its wake. He finds your rump, squeezes it, his hand flipping further between your legs until he finds your epicentre.

You’re so sensitive, and so swollen. He’s done this enough times to know that you’re red there, too.

He finds the spot where you’re connected, the modest sliver of his shaft that hasn’t been consumed by your wanting hole – where your combined arousal slithers out of you, dripping down his tightening ballsack – and plays at the edges of your lips, those that create a milky ring at the base of his cock, those that twitch with the almost overwhelming orchestra of sensations he is subjecting you to, playing you as his instrument.

Your hips twitch, pushing back against him, inadvertently impaling yourself on the inch or two he’d spared you from.

He’s swollen – painfully so. Plugging you, preventing you from getting away. Something you realise all-too late as you try to pull away, to ease the searing ache in your lips, in your womb.

You’re crying, he’s grunting, throat raw with hours of praise, of nothing short of feral growling – curses to something other than his god.

You whine as he withdraws his hand from between your legs, instead coming to cup your breasts and pull you flush against his chest. Squeezing around him again, the bulge of his cock inside you becomes ever more apparent when his hand slips up to your throat and he shunts you forward with his hips.

You’re weak – a ragdoll against him – and you’re pushed back down against the wood. He presses your stomach to the desk, your head now handing over the edge.

“D’you feel it, love?” he rasps. “Gonna give you a baby – put it right there.”

You do feel him, like an eel, slithering into any space he can, any space he hasn’t already occupied. You feel your heartbeat pulsing between your legs, and you feel his in the head of his dick, rabid. You want to sob, want the pleasure coursing through your every fibre to overwhelm you, to send you hurtling into a high nobody else can give you.

But you know this will have consequences.

You know there’s no morning after pill strong enough to overcome Simon’s seed, none strong enough to stand a chance against the sheer amount of his spend. You know this because you’re already pregnant.

You’d originally tried using a multitude of contraband substances – pills, medication, anything you could get your hands on – to stop the inevitable. To prolong it just long enough for you to find a way out of the hole you’d dug yourself into.

When Simon had found them – no doubt with the help of one of his disciples, one eager to please and who would settle for the simple pleasure of being the dirt beneath his boot – he made absolutely certain to undo all your hard work.

For days afterwards, when he gave his sermons, you had to stand, hands clasped in prayer, with his cum rolling down your thighs beneath your compound-issue garments.

And despite how you know you don’t want this destiny he’s imparted upon you, you still urge your hips against his. Especially as you feel him twitching, your hole leaking and almost squealing with his semen and the memory of the many times he’s already pumped you full this same night. He’s ready to bust at any moment, ready to find and create any excuse to empty his load into you, his favourite disciple.

You finish first in a fit of euphoric fury, an outpouring of devotion, a static explosion that leaves you utterly spent and entirely limp, unable to move as Simon continues to pummell you, using you, not stopping until you hear him give nothing less than a guttural roar, throwing his head back as he empties every ounce of his spend into you.

Any chances of escaping, any hopes of the world beyond the company you’d embroiled yourself in – they’re all gone now. Knocked clean out your head and from your reach, your mind nothing but a post-haze. You feel full almost to the point of bursting, but your body settles for a ballooned discomfort in your middle. One which you know will only grow bigger and heavier over the coming months. And no doubt beyond that when Simon deems you capable – worthy – of bearing him more offspring.

Simon is panting behind you, hands planted either side of you, head hanging between heaving shoulders. As if he’s impregnated you with his very soul.

His hand slips across the desk down to your front, where he manages to levy his fingers between your exhausted form and the hard wood beneath. And, as if by divine intuition, he gives a hum. Presses a languid kiss to your exposed neck, uttering a “Well done, love.”

He’s going to be a father.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad X

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sexlapis · 1 year ago

Text

[◉°] … NANAMI KENTO & Y/N BEING A COUPLE FOR 10 MINUTES STRAIGHT… 429k views

⁺ 🧃　 ♡ ₊﹒ ⌣

꩜: actor!nanami x actress!reader

⤷ a short compilation of y/n & nanami moments!

sfw, fluff, accidental kisses, ooc nanami kinda

. art credits to @/osusiudon on twitter

masterlists

౨ৎ first clip

“whereee is nanamiiii?” you whine, filming yourself as you walk around the set, trying to find your favourite cast member. you walk through a door. “nanamiii-oh there he is..”

you look surprised and then you tell the camera, “shhhh..nanami is asleep..”

you tiptoe towards where he lays passed out on a couch with his costume goggles right beside him. you turn the camera around to face nanami, his mouth agape as little snores passed through.

“awwww.. he looks so cute..”

you put the camera close to his face, making nanami look funny. “haha..i’m so keeping this-”

nanami snorts suddenly and shifts in a rapid movement, shocking you and making you drop your phone on his poor face.

“ahh!” you cry. fumbling ensues before you get your camera upright again, pointing it at a now awake, disappointed looking nanami, sitting up on the couch as he stares at you blankly. his hair is messy, tie askew and his eyes tired.

“sorry nanami…did i wake you??”

“…”

nanami sighs and rubs his eyes. “i don’t know _____. did you barge in here, record me and drop your phone on my face?”

“…oops?”

nanami stares at you some more and then you pat his head in apology.

“sorry, nanamin…”

he sighs again. “why are you like this…”

౨ৎ second clip

the paparazzi secretly filmed you and nanami exiting a store (which they had followed you both to). now of course, fans criticised said paparazzi, but after seeing the video themselves…they couldn’t be all that sad about it.

you and nanami walk out of the automatic doors, arms linked and nanami carries the shopping bag.

you’re eating your little treat, strolling with nanami to the sidewalk when he points to your shoes, noticing that your laces are undone.

he speaks and you just shrug, continuing to eat, uncaring of your unlaced shoes that are a hazard.

nanami has you hold the grocery bag temporarily and then kneels down and ties your laces securely, all the while you chew on your food and smile down at him.

he stands up and takes the bag from you to carry once more. you inaudibly talk before linking arms with him again and resting your head on his shoulder while you both walk away.

౨ৎ third clip

the director yells cut and you are immediately running towards nanami and throwing your arms around his shirtless waist, careful to avoid the very intricate, realistic body paint covering half of his body.

“nanami! please don’t dieeeee!” you cry, looking up at him, “who’s going to be my emotional support actor?”

nanami huffs and pats your back, “_____…i won’t disappear..i’ll still be on the set…”

“it’s not the same!” you grumble into his chest. “it’s like you died for real!”

“no it’s not. i’ll visit everyday until this series ends.”

“really?” you look up at him, eyes glossy, “you better not be lying. promise?”

“yes, i promise.” he sighs fondly.

“okay..”

still hugging him, you turn to look at the camera and blatantly check out his shredded torso and thick, strong arms. nanami just stands there, confused.

you rest your head on one of his pecs, looking at the camera and smiling. “i get to do this everyday, you know.”

nanami scoffs and shakes his head at you. you are unbelievable.

౨ৎ fourth clip

you and the a few members of the cast of jujutsu kaisen had agreed to play a game of “silent library”for charity and nanami had agreed to play too, which shocked both the cast and the fans considering nanami rarely participated in games like this.

nanami has struck luck so far but it runs out on the sixth round.

the cards are handed out and suspense rises when you all quickly flip them over.

you groan out loud before slapping a hand over your mouth when you see that you’ve received the death card.

looking around, you notice that nanami and gojo also share the same card, and you point at them confused, while the members who are safe sigh in relief and thank god.

nanami closes his eyes and gojo slumps in his chair dramatically, making a weak noise in his mouth. you snort. you’re quickly hushed.

the name of the game is presented, “suck and blow”, and poorly stifled chuckles ring around the room. you rub your eyes, already dreading what’s about to come.

gojo eyes you, making a come hither motion with his long finger and swear at him silently. nanami is silent and looks between the two of you blankly.

the aim of the game? all three players must pass plastic card between them with only their lips.

your head falls onto the table, gojo is grinning and nanami is, as always, sighing.

the three of you sit on stools, with yourself insisting on being in the middle.

“i could’ve sworn i’ve had a dream just like this…” gojo whispers and nanami is leaning all the way around to smack the back of his head. gojo gasps and utahime scolds at him to shut his mouth.

the plastic card is given to gojo and the timer begins. he sucks it to his lips, cheeks hollow and he looked very stupid. gojo grabs your head and presses the card to your lips, making it seem like you are both kissing. you grunt and begin smacking the side of his face. suppressed laughter can be heard around you as you forcefully pull away from gojo.

you purse your lips, holding the plastic card on them as best as you can and turning to face nanami. he leans in, ready to get this over with.

it happened so fast.

nanami’s face is close to yours as you move to transfer the plastic card to his lips..and then the card falls.

it falls and you’re kissing nanami for half a second.

you gasp and pull back, embarrassed and covering your face.

you hear a squeal, a loud gasp and shocked laughter as you drown in shame. nanami sits there, fiddling, not knowing what to do with his hands and his face is clearly pink.

gojo teases you both to no end and the timer is already up.

it’s safe to say you all lost that round.

౨ৎ fifth clip

nanami is forced to go on a talk show (as he claims his manager made him do it ).

his responses are perfect and polite - nanami clearly has some sort of media training or an upper class background of some sort. it’s like nothing could catch him off guard whatsoever.

nanami is talking and then, the host interrupts. “are you and _____ dating?”

the audience chuckles and nanami is caught off guard. “wh-what?” nanami breathes out, a blush rising from his neck to his cheeks. “what?”

“are you and _____ dating?”

“no…” nanami clears his throat, gulping, “no of course not…”

“what do you mean “of course not?” do you not like _____?”

“what? of course i like-” nanami cuts himself off with a deep sigh and the crowd laughs at his embarrassment and fluster. “_____…_____ is a lovely woman, she’s a respected colleague, a valued friend, she’s-”

“well since you like her so much, let’s bring her out!” the host flings his arm out in the direction of the entrance stairway, “give a warm welcome to _____!”

“?”

the crowd is screaming as you walk in, waving at them with a warm smile on your face and sit next to nanami.

nanami looks at you, face red. “i-”

“don’t let him stop you.” you say, referring to the host’s interruption and the cheers erupting from the sea of people. “keep talking about me!”

nanami sighs. “shit…”

౨ৎ sixth clip

you’re being interviewed on the red carpet by a boisterous, joyful middle aged lady who asks you many questions, one of them being, “fuck, marry, kill”.

“okay fuck, marry, kill with getou suguru, nanami kento and gojo sa-”

“easy,” you cut in, not even hearing the rest of the question, “fuck getou, marry nanami and kill gojo. easiest question i’ve had so far!”

on the other end of the carpet, nanami is being asked the same questions except with actresses, one of them being you.

“fuck marry kill - utahime iori, _____ or shoko ieiri?!”

“marry _____, fuck utahime and kill shoko. goodnight.” he abruptly walks away, not even waiting for the interviewer to respond and leaves them flabbergasted.

a/n: feel like i rambled a lot in this one..oh well. also i’m not accepting requests for actor!nanami right now🤗🩷

#actor!nanami #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #nanami fluff #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x y/n #nanami kento fluff #kento nanami x reader #kento nanami x you #kento nanami x y/n #kento nanami fluff

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hoshifighting · 1 month ago

Note

Two words. Dilf Cheol. (I am on the brink of insanity thank yewww)

dilf!seungcheol

WARNINGS: smut, fluff, crying, marriage, his kid loves u, shy dilf!seungcheol at the beginning.

oh man, dilf!seungcheol though? i think about it every single day, i swear. and yeah, it all starts with that awkward-ass moment at the café. he’s standing there all buff and shy, trying to work up the nerve to ask for your number, his daughter hanging onto his leg like she’s his bodyguard. her big, curious eyes peeking out at you while he stumbles over his words. “uh… I just… I thought maybe you’d… uh,” seungcheol scratches the back of his neck, all nervous—like he isn’t the size of a tank. “you know, if you’re not busy… you could give me your insta?” he’s waiting for you to laugh at him, probably thinks he’s gonna get rejected because, you know, he’s got a kid and all. like that makes him less attractive or something. but you’re all heart-eyes the second his little girl pipes up with, “daddy thinks you’re pretty.”

dude nearly dies on the spot. he’s so red, you could probably cook an egg on his cheeks. but you just crouch down to her level, giving her the same sweet smile you flashed at the waitress earlier, and say, “well, I think your dad’s really handsome, too.”

game over. you’ve got him hooked, right there.

from then on, you’re texting nonstop. it’s almost like a high school crush thing, except the guy’s a full-grown dad who still somehow makes your stomach flip like you’re sixteen again. his insta’s basically a whole love letter to his daughter, like, every other post is her: her in some princess costume, her making pancakes (or trying to), her at the park with him, her with his dog. sometimes, you’ll scroll through his feed just to see him smile because, damn, it’s so rare he smiles like that anywhere else.

but then there’s the gym photos. god, those gym photos. all sweaty and pumped up, and you swear he’s showing off just a bit for you now that he knows you’re watching. his arms look like they could crush you, but the way he talks? it’s like he’s this big ol’ teddy bear wrapped in all that muscle.

“you eat today?” he texts you at like, 2 p.m., no greeting or anything.

you text back, “noo :(( too busy.”

not even a minute later, you get a notification from some food delivery app—he’s already sent something to your place. he’s like that. doesn’t even ask, just takes care of it. if it’s cold out, he’s dropping off a coat. if it rains, a brand new umbrella’s somehow at your work's door.

one night, you're scrolling through insta, and there’s this photo of him at some fancy work event, all dressed up in a suit and tie. goddamn, you think, biting your lip, because who knew seungcheol could clean up like that? the suit hugs every muscle, and it’s wild how he can look that good in anything from sweats to formalwear. you double-tap, and not two minutes later, he’s texting you.

“you like that one?”

you don’t even bother playing coy. “nah, I loved that one.”

there’s a pause, and you can almost picture him blushing on the other end, even though you’re the one getting all flustered.

“well, maybe you’ll get to see it in person soon,” he shoots back, and there’s a teasing edge to it, the same one that’s been driving you absolutely crazy since you started talking.

you roll your eyes, but your heart’s doing that dumb fluttery thing again. “maybe,” you reply, playing along.

and it’s like, you’re not even sure how this all happened so fast, but seungcheol? he’s always making sure you’re good, like his whole day revolves around making you smile, checking in, making sure you're eating, keeping warm. it’s low-key intense but in the best way possible.

and somehow, between all the little text convos and the insta stalking, you’ve found yourself seriously catching feelings for this dad with the cutest kid, the sweetest heart, and a whole-ass gym routine that’s absolutely unfair.

and you wonder: how the hell did you get this lucky?

seungcheol's always been like that��taking care of you like it’s second nature, probably because he’s used to being in dad-mode 24/7. you kinda feel spoiled, in the best way possible. he’s always looking out for you. it’s not that he’s overbearing; it’s just that this is how he shows he cares. but you know it goes both ways.

so one day, you decide to return the favor. you find this pink polo, something that screams him but in the softest, most endearing way. you know his daughter will love it too, ‘cause she’s all about pink and matching with her dad. you send it to him without saying much, just a little note saying, “thought this would look good on you.” the next time you see him, he's wearing it, and yeah, the shirt hugs his body perfectly. he’s acting like it’s no big deal, but you catch the way he blushes when you compliment him. “didn’t have to do all that,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, but his eyes are softer than usual, that little glint of he’s falling harder than he planned.

but what really seals the deal is how u handle his daughter. every time you two try to plan a date, something comes up—his mom’s busy, or the babysitter falls through, and suddenly, the whole night’s flipped. instead of a fancy dinner, you’re headed to the park or some kid-friendly café, making sure his little girl has fun. and somehow, you end up having more fun on those “ruined” dates, watching seungcheol let loose, running around with his kid while you cheer them on. it’s like you get him, get his life, and he’s not used to that.

and then, finally, one night, the stars align. his mom takes the kid for the weekend, and it’s just you and him. alone.

and oh god, does he reward you.

he’s been holding back for weeks—months even. all that pent-up frustration, that tension from constantly having to play the responsible dad while trying to not let himself get too attached to you, it all comes crashing down.

he’s rough, no question about it. but it’s the kind of rough that makes your whole body sing. his hands are everywhere, grabbing, holding, pressing you up against walls and furniture like he’s desperate to feel every inch of you at once. he’s strong, and he knows it, lifting you like you weigh nothing, carrying you from one spot to the next without breaking a sweat.

the first time, it’s almost frantic. he’s pounding into you like he’s afraid the moment’s gonna slip through his fingers, grunting into your ear, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. your legs wrap around him, but you can hardly hold on—he’s relentless, hitting that spot over and over until you’re crying out, body shaking violently.

you don’t even realize your legs are spasming until hours later, when you try to stand and nearly collapse from how shaky you are. but seungcheol’s not done. oh no. he’s far from done.

before you can even catch your breath, he’s down between your legs, eating you out like a man famished. this time, it’s slower his tongue doing things that make you arch off the bed, hands fisting in his hair as he drags you to the edge again, then pulls you back just to do it all over. every time you think you’re about to lose it, he eases up, grinning against your skin like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

and yeah, maybe it’s been ages for him, but fuck, the man knows how to destroy you. by the time he’s done, you’re a complete mess, legs trembling, heart flying from your chest, your body so sensitive that even the thought of him touching you again makes you shudder.

seungcheol though, he’s the type to take his time. slow and unshakable, like he’s gotta be absolutely sure before he makes any big moves. but with you? he’s struggling. there’s this itch under his skin, this need to lock it down, put a ring on your finger, make it official. and yeah, he’d never say it out loud, not yet. he’s got too much pride to come off that desperate. but every time he watches you with his daughter, every time she calls you her “best friend” or shows you the drawing she made of you three as a family, he’s fighting the urge to drop down on one knee and ask you to make it real.

he hides it well, though, keeps up the usual routine. he keeps taking you out on dates, some with his little girl tagging along, others just the two of you. and he’s always scolding you whenever you show up with yet another gift for her.

“y/n, you’ve gotta stop,” he groans, shaking his head as you hand his daughter a set of pink hair clips that match her favorite doll. “she’s gonna expect something every week at this point.”

but there’s that soft look in his eyes, the one that betrays how much he loves seeing you spoil his kid. he’ll roll his eyes, but you notice how he always says “my girls” now, so casually like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you and her. his girls.

one day, he takes you to her father’s day presentation at school. you’re not sure who’s more nervous, seungcheol or his daughter. but when she walks on stage in her tiny tutu, all giggles and shy smiles, it’s seungcheol who completely loses it. you’re sitting beside him, watching him tear up before she’s even started dancing. by the time the performance is over, he’s full-on crying, holding his face in his hands as you rub his back, trying to calm him down.

“it’s just… she’s growing up so fast,” he sniffs, looking up at you with watery eyes, completely unashamed of the tears streaming down his face. and you can’t help but love him more for it, for how much he loves his daughter, for how raw and real he is when it comes to her.

your intimate life? that’s been steady too, despite how busy things get. with a kid around, it’s not always easy to find the time, but seungcheol makes sure you’re never left wanting. there are the quickies, yeah, when his daughter’s asleep and you’ve got the living room to yourselves, stealing a heated make-out session that somehow ends up with your back pressed against the couch cushions, his hands roaming under your clothes while he kisses you senseless.

but if things get too feral, you two will sneak off to the laundry room or the closet, anywhere you can get a little privacy. he’s fast, efficient, but still so thorough, making sure you’re fully satisfied every single time. it’s like, no matter how quick things have to be, he’s always got this laser focus on making you feel good.

but even with all the passion, he’s still got that soft side. sometimes, it’s just enough to make out on the couch, your lips swollen from kissing, the weight of him pressed against you. and in those moments, there’s this quiet comprehension between you two. you don’t need the sex to feel connected—sometimes, just being close is enough.

but it’s getting harder for him to hold back. every time he sees you playing with his daughter, every time she asks if you’re coming over for dinner, he feels it. that pull. that urge to make you his. and one night, after his daughter’s fallen asleep and the two of you are tangled up on the couch, catching your breath after another one of those wild, stolen moments, he looks at you, really looks at you, and the words just fall out of his mouth.

“marry me.”

it’s not planned, not rehearsed. hell, he hadn’t even thought about it until the moment the words slipped out. but once they’re out there, he realizes he’s never been more sure of anything in his life. his hand tightens around yours, and he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s already bracing himself for the answer.

and all you can think is, finally.

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soaps-mohawk · 2 months ago

Text

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 38: Shattered

Summary: Things aren't okay. They never will be again.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 7,743 words

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, angst, PTSD, nightmares, POV changes, depression and anxiety, medical stuff, injuries, brief description of a possible death, language, mention of weight loss due to medical stuff, emotionally heavy chapter (again), slightly graphic imagery, illness, so much crying

A/N: I just want to make something very clear here since there's a scene in this chapter that might be interpreted this way, but 'mega is NOT suicidal. That's not something that's going to be in this fic, and neither is self-harm. It would have been well warned in advance if that was going to be something coming up in this fic. She's struggling a lot, but she's not suicidal, she's not going to become suicidal, nor will she self-harm even off screen. So don't worry. That's not what's happening. It won't be happening.

Okay, just wanted to make that clear. Enjoy the suffering!

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

The scream slices through the silence seconds before chaos erupts.

John is on his feet and out the door before Kyle is even fully awake. Simon is on his heels down the stairs, the two of them nearly colliding in their rush. His heart thuds in his chest as he sees your door open, the overhead light on. It’s bad. It must be bad if the overhead light is on. You hate the overhead light.

He barrels in like a bull, ready to fight. The screaming has stopped, but it still rings in his ears. The fear, the panic. Something has happened. Someone got in. He should have made you take the room upstairs. He should have put a barrier between you and the door. That window. Someone could break that easily and grab you before they even noticed.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.”

The screaming has stopped, but gut-wrenching sobs have taken its place. He takes a moment to scan the room. Nothing is misplaced. The window isn’t broken, there’s no bodies, no one that shouldn’t be in there.

“You’re okay.” Christine soothes you as you sob. “It was just a nightmare.”

The bright fluorescent overhead light burns his eyes as he stands there, staring at the bed. Christine is right there, having beaten them across the living room, or perhaps she had already been in there, having heard you in your distress before they could. You're tucked in her arms, your face against her shoulder as she holds you.

Nightmare.

The safety and security the cottage promised has faded, leaving you at the mercy of the horrors your mind can conjure up in your sleep. Something twists deep in John’s stomach as he turns, motioning for the others to back up and give you some space. You won’t want them there, and things will only get worse if you notice them.

His heart is still thudding in his chest as he stands there, the sharp sound of your scream still ringing in his ears despite his confirmation of your safety. The other three look just as startled as he feels, standing there tensely in the dark living room. He brings himself to move, turning his back on them for a moment to try and gather his thoughts as he flips on the lamp in the corner. It casts a warm light across the living room, far too warm for how he’s feeling. He’s trying not to panic, trying not to be sick on the floor from the worry. His heart is in his throat, trying to choke him. He’s trying so hard to be strong, not just for him, but for his pack, for you.

He sinks down on one of the couches, rubbing a hand over his face. He had been so sure something had happened, that their safe little bubble had been breached and someone knew about their whereabouts. He had been so sure someone was trying to hurt you with a scream like that.

Maybe someone was, but not in reality.

What is it you dream about now? Your nightmares about your father and your traumatic presentation must seem like nothing now compared to what must haunt your mind. Do you dream of Graves and his torture? Do you dream of them leaving you behind? Do you dream of dying because of their failures?

A hand settles on his shoulder, a body sinking onto the couch next to him. Arms are wrapping around him, easing him against a solid chest.

He’s crying.

He didn’t even realize the tears had started flowing.

He can hear the reverberating voice in his head, yelling at him, telling him not to show such weakness in front of his pack, in front of his team. He’s supposed to be the strong one, he’s supposed to be the stable one keeping the pack afloat and steady. Yet here he is, breaking down in front of them.

“It’s okay.”

Kyle.

His sweet Kyle.

How he’s been neglecting his sweet beta, and yet, how willing Kyle still is to reach out and comfort him in such a time of visible distress. That’s what betas are supposed to do. Mediate and balance the emotions of the pack. How have they been coping with all of this? How have Kyle and Johnny been managing in such a time of disarray and upheaval? Have they been managing it? He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t even know the state of his pack, of the members of his team.

What a failure he is.

He lets himself lean against Kyle, something filling his chest as Kyle’s soft scent seeps into his senses. He’s projecting it, not just for John but also for the whole room. Johnny is crying too, soft sobs tearing from his chest as he sits on the other couch. Simon is on his knees in front of him, trying to get him calmed and breathing.

They’ve been ignoring and denying each other for days, fraying the bonds further while trying so hard not to. The pain they’ve been causing in their emotional constipation and intentional neglect is almost worse than the pain caused by their infighting. At least fighting they were feeling something. At least fighting they weren’t cutting each other off so willingly.

“We can’t do this anymore.” He says, his voice thick and shaky from his tears. “Cutting each other off. It’s not helping anything.” He doesn’t move from where he’s tucked against Kyle’s chest, letting the comfort wash over him for the first time in a week and a half.

How he’s missed this.

“It’s not doing any good for any of us.” Simon says, shifting onto the couch next to Johnny.

“Especially not our omega.” Kyle says, voicing the thought flashing through all of their minds.

“We may not be able to do much to help her right now, but we can focus on each other. That is something we can do.” John swallows thickly, his alpha starting to come back to life, his instincts aware again as he stares at Johnny and Simon. “Doing nothing isn’t good for any of us. We need to have something to focus on, something tangible we can do. Denying each other comfort isn’t going to help anyone.”

“I full-heartedly agree.”

John whips around, Christine standing in front of your closed door. He hadn’t even noticed her enter the room, hadn’t sensed her standing behind them. Johnny and Simon are the only two that don’t look startled, but they must have seen her come out from their position facing your door.

“Sorry.” The corner of her lip twitches up in a smirk. “Thought you would have noticed.”

John clears his throat. “How is she?”

“Settled again.” Christine says, moving over to the chair.

“How long has she been having nightmares?” Kyle asks.

“Since that first day in the med center in Dallas.” She says, sinking into the chair. How heavy this must all be on her shoulders. “I’d almost call them more sleep hallucinations. Mostly of Graves. Seeing him in the room, being attacked by him.”

“Is there anything that can be done to help?” John asks.

“For these kinds of nightmares? Not really.” Christine folds her hands in her lap. “Her brain is trying to process what happened. Until she feels safe enough to truly begin working on processing the trauma, it’s likely the nightmares will continue.”

“Is there anything we can do to help her feel safe?” Kyle says.

Christine’s lips purse as she looks between the four of them. “I’m not sure any of you could do anything right now directly, at least. She’s not open to that yet. Working on your bonds with each other, though, could help her omega finally settle and allow her emotions to even out again. That can help her feel safer, remove that instability and the fear of losing control again.”

All of them share looks, John and Simon staring at one another. They hadn’t even thought about that. Well, at least he hadn’t. Christine had told him months ago that omegas need their alpha when they distress, when their omega takes over. They can come back from it with the help of an alpha...their alpha. Without one, the chances of survival were slim. Yet here you are, trying to do it all on your own. Having to do it all on your own.

That ache in his chest starts again as he stares at Simon. He sent Simon after you, he made Simon go through that process of seeing you in that state and scruffing you. He made Simon be the one to help you through that. He made Simon be there when you needed an alpha most because he couldn’t face the fact that he abandoned you, he left you behind like you were nothing but another faceless soldier.

He wipes his face as the tears start falling again. He truly is a failure of an alpha.

Despite Christine’s reassurances, John can’t help the automatic reaction to your screams. On his feet instantly, his heart pounding in his chest ready to fight bare handed whatever might be causing such a reaction. Whoever might be causing such a reaction. He can’t fight the demons in your head, though, and he’s always greeted by the sight of Christine by your side, comforting you as best she can.

He wants to hate her, wants to be angry at her for taking his place, doing what he should be doing. His alpha scratches at his mind every time he sees her by your side, giving you comforts he should be giving, but it’s his fault. It’s his fault she’s the one there with you. It’s his fault you’re suffering so much. Those thoughts send his alpha crawling back into its cage with its tail between its legs.

It doesn’t matter the time of day, whether it was a nap or the middle of the night, your screams have a pain throbbing deep in his chest. His heart is constantly racing, waiting for that rush of adrenaline at the sound of your terrified scream, at that rush of instinct to protect and fight. He’s not sure how much his heart can take.

He might have a heart attack by the end of their stay at the cottage.

That’s something he’s been trying not to think about.

They can’t stay here forever, no matter how much he knows you’ll want to, how much the others will want to. Eventually they’ll begin to go stir-crazy, itching for something to do. They still have jobs, and Kate can only keep them off the radar for so long, and can only give so many excuses. Eventually they’ll have to go back. Eventually they’ll have to make that decision of what comes next.

He’s going to delay that as much as he possibly can.

They can’t go back while Shepherd is still out there. They can’t trust that anywhere is safe while he’s still skulking around, while he still has contacts that could put them all in danger. That could put you in danger.

That’s not a risk he’s willing to take again.

But what comes next?

What will they decide to do? Can they go back, knowing what the inevitable will be? Can they take that risk of having to leave you again, put you through that constant fear and worry that they might not come back? What if they all leave again? Could you survive the fear that something might happen while they’re away again? Not to them, but to you?

Could they leave you alone again?

Those are thoughts for another day when they’re inevitably faced with the fact they have to return to society and their lives and jobs.

They have time.

He has to make sure you’re okay first.

You’re not okay.

You’re so very far from okay.

The bedside lamp is on, casting a golden glow around the room.

There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there.

It’s one of the rare times you’ve woken before you can react, before you can scream and alert everyone in the house that you’ve had a nightmare. They’ll all come running. All of them.

You hate it.

You hate the nightmares, you hate the fear, you hate the constant pain and worry and the constant knowledge that your pack is right there. They want to go back to how things were, they want things to go back to normal, but they can’t. They expect you to forgive them, to go back to loving them, but how can you after everything?

They left you.

They let this happen to you and they just want you to pretend like nothing happened. That’s what they would do. Go back to normal life after being tortured and forget it all happened because that’s what they do.

You’re not them.

You don’t want to be like them.

Cold. Heartless. Uncaring. Unwilling to put anyone but themselves first.

Fuck them.

The only thing keeping you here is the fact you’re bonded to them. That, and you’re an omega. You’d get picked up off the street and brought right back here to your owner. Or, worse, you’d get picked up by someone looking for a cute little omega to add to their collection.

Or worse.

You’d get picked up by someone else.

Graves. Shepherd.

If you’re lucky, they’d kill you instantly. Leave your body on the front porch for the others to find. You won’t care anymore. You’ll be dead.

You hastily wipe the tears from your cheeks, wiggling yourself back until you’re leaning against the headboard. Your shoulder doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore. It still throbs, still aches, still occasionally almost puts you on the floor when you try to reach over your head with it. Your throat is healing too. Soup isn’t quite as horrible as it was a few days ago. Solid food makes you ache, but at least you can get it down without feeling like you’re swallowing glass.

You still haven’t spoken to them, though.

You can hardly stand to look at them.

Fuck them.

Just the thought of them makes you want to scream.

Dr. Keller says it's normal, being angry. ‘It’s all part of the process.’ The anger, the fear, the pain, the depression. It’s all normal. It’s all part of the process. It’s all necessary. You won’t get better holding it all in. You won’t get better numbing yourself. You won’t get better if you don’t allow yourself to feel everything.

You hate it.

Why should you have to go through all these feelings, all this pain? Why should you be the one suffering because of their decisions? It’s not fair. They should be suffering. They should be in pain. They should be the ones on the brink of insanity because of the fear and the pain and the suffering and their omega constantly screaming at them.

It makes you want to scream.

Screaming will only draw them in, force them closer. Screaming will alert them all, make them all come running. You don’t want any of them near. You don’t want to have to see them again.

Fuck them.

You let out a huff before wiggling back down the bed until your head hits the pillow. You won’t go back to sleep. You never do. At least you have the pain and exhaustion and tumultuous emotions and your very nature to excuse your constant naps, constant sleeping during the day. They don’t need to know you’re not sleeping at night. They won’t care. They don’t care. None of them do.

Fuck. Them.

You want your phone, you want something to keep you occupied. It’s probably lying somewhere on the side of the road shattered beyond repair. That, or it’s back in the barracks. The barracks. Fuck that place. You’ll rip your hair out strand by strand if you have to go back there. It’s not safe, it’s not happy. There’s nothing good about that place anymore.

It’s just a place of pain. You might as well have been tortured by Phil there.

You were tortured there.

It wasn’t a physical torture, but a mental one. The entire experiment was just torture for you. No one thought of you, no one cared about you.

Dr. Keller cares.

It’s her job to care.

Still, you can’t hate her entirely. She’s the only one that understands. She’s the only one that can help. She’s the only one that’s been helping. Not just now, but back then. She cared, she fought for you, she did her best with what she had. Sure, she made mistakes, but so did you. She’s the only one you can forgive.

She’s the only one you want to forgive.

Fuck the others. Fuck your pack. Fuck those fucking soldiers who were never going to care about anyone but themselves, who were never going to care about anything but their jobs and their duties and the good of the world.

You should have been their world.

They couldn’t put you first. They wouldn’t put you first. They didn’t want to put you first.

They won’t change. They can’t change. There’s no hope for change.

You’ll just go back to the way things were before and be forced to pretend everything's okay and that you’re happy and fine and content. Were you ever really content or were you just trying to make the best of the situation? Were you deluding yourself into believing you loved them and cared about them and that they loved you and cared about you to numb the fact you knew deep down that they never would, that they never could. Were you deluding yourself into thinking everything was fine and dandy to hide the constant pain from the knowledge that you would never come first?

The pain begins to burn in your chest again. It’s hot like acid, rising in your chest to your throat, threatening to choke you. It’s a deep pain, one nestled right in against your soul. Tears leak out of your eyes again as you squeeze them shut, pushing your right hand against your chest in an attempt to get it to pass.

You thought you were dying the first time.

You could only be so lucky.

The bond.

It’s trying to break, trying to sever itself, trying to free you from the constant pain, but it can’t.

Maybe because deep down you don’t want it to. Maybe deep down you want to forgive them and move past all of this. Maybe you want things to go back to normal, even if normal means pain and distress and fear. Maybe you want to believe them that they’re finally going to put you first.

‘Maybe’ is only a doorway to disappointment and pain.

Fuck yourself.

Fuck your omega.

Fuck your pack.

Hell, fuck Dr. Keller for not fighting harder, for not doing more.

Fuck Graves and his haunting of your nightmares.

Fuck Kate for choosing you.

Fuck Shepherd for creating the initiative in the first place to try and cover his own ass.

Fuck them all.

You tug the blanket higher around yourself, rolling onto your right side.

Fuck. Them. All.

You don’t want him here.

He does it now, usually in the mornings.

You hate it.

You like it. It’s nice. He’s the only one making an effort.

He never says anything, surprisingly enough. It’s silent as he sits there, steaming cup of coffee in hand. Always coffee, never tea. He won’t sink that low. He brings you a cup, but you can never bring yourself to touch it. You feel like a mental patient stuck in a straight jacket. You could free yourself, but that would bring too much awareness, too many questions, too much pain.

You don’t want to.

So instead you sit there in silence, staring out at the sea. It’s so far away still, yet it’s right there. You can hear it and smell it and see it.

The sea.

They brought you to the sea.

John remembered. He did it for you.

The thought has something stirring in your chest, and it’s not pain or anger.

You hate it.

Johnny leans back in the chair, his eyes on the horizon like yours. He sits there in that chair every chance he gets, usually in the mornings when Dr. Keller takes time for herself and leaves one of them watching you through the sliding glass door. You do feel guilty for forcing so much on Dr. Keller’s shoulders, yet you need her.

You’re not ready for the others yet, no matter how loudly your omega screams at you.

You don’t want them.

Fuck, you desperately need them.

Your eyelids flutter frantically as you try to keep the tears at bay. You can’t cry. You can’t let him know how close you are to breaking down. You can’t.

You can’t reach out.

You can’t take his hand.

How desperately you want to.

You nearly breathe a sigh of relief when the sliding door opens, Dr. Keller’s soft footsteps crossing the wood planks of the porch.

“Ready to go inside now?” She asks, pressing the back of her hand against your cheek. You don’t say anything, don’t react, frozen in fear of everything coming tumbling out in front of Johnny. “You’re getting cold.”

Johnny glances your way and you immediately turn to look at Dr. Keller, scared to look him in the face. That desperate hold you have on the gaping wound in your abdomen will open and your guts will come spilling out like some gory scene in a horror movie.

Disembowelment thanks to your own weakness.

Dr. Keller holds the crutch out for you as you push yourself to stand. Your legs are strong enough you could probably walk without it, but it’s still nice to have it in case you get tired.

If you fall, you’ll never get up again.

It’s the weakness from your liquid diet over the past week and a half. The weakness of being unable to eat solid foods, to properly nourish. You’ve lost weight, your clothes hanging from your body in a way they never did before. You’ve lost the softness that marks you as an omega, but it feels fitting. You don’t feel like an omega anymore.

You don’t feel like anything anymore.

You’re fighting your instincts out of pain and suffering and stubbornness. You keep taping your omega’s mouth shut despite how loudly she screams at you. You don’t want your instincts. You don’t want that need. Eventually it has to go away. Eventually it has to recede and your omega has to go back into her cage and sleep. Eventually you can numb yourself to it and force it away forever.

That will certainly make things easier.

But will it make things better?

No. Probably not.

It’ll make things worse.

But if it allows you to keep your distance, allows you to avoid them, you’ll risk it. You’d take numbness over anything right now.

How you miss those long days of depression while they were away. How you took those days for granted.

Who knew those hours spent worrying about them and their distance and what might happen to them would be for nothing?

What you wouldn’t give for all of them to disappear right now.

How badly it would destroy you.

“She’s at war with herself. That instinctual need is screaming at her, but that emotional pain is keeping her shut away. If anyone is going to get through to her, it will probably be you.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Simon clenches his jaw as he stares at Christine. As much as he wants to hate the doctor and her ability to see straight through him, he can’t deny how necessary her presence has been. She’s the only one you tolerate, the only one you’ll let close. Without her you’d probably be rotting in bed, stuck and unable to do anything out of stubbornness. You won’t let them close, yet you need them close.

You’re going to rip yourself in half, metaphorically and possibly even literally.

He shakes that mental image from his mind. The horrifying images his mind has conjured up over the last few days have his stomach churning. Even his tea no longer looks appetizing.

He put milk in it this time. Almost how he likes it. Almost how he wants it.

“Johnny’s the one actually trying.” Simon says, staring across at her. She doesn’t shy from his gaze, doesn't even flinch. “You should talk to him.”

“While I agree, reintroducing a beta from the pack is the first step, eventually she’s going to need an alpha.” Christine says.

“She needs her alpha.” He argues.

“She doesn’t want her alpha.” Christine counters. “He’s going to be the last she lets close, but she’s going to need some kind of stability.”

“I can’t give her that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Simon clenches his hand around his mug, his knuckles going white. She’s infuriating, yet he can’t be mad at her. Not completely. The good she’s doing for you, for the pack, far outweighs his annoyance with the doctor. She’s right. He knows it deep down, but he can’t. He can’t do that, he can’t put you through that. He’s already done enough. He did his part, he faced his fears, he saved your life. That’s enough for him. It’s up to John now.

John has to do the work to fix it. He broke it, it’s no one else’s job to fix it.

“Maybe both.” Simon finally says, pushing himself up to stand. “It’s not my job to fix this.”

He leaves his mug behind as he stalks out of the kitchen, heading for the front door. He can’t stand being in the house any longer, cooped up with the same five people. Four people and a ghost.

He shakes his head, jogging down the steps into the gravel. He should go for a jog. A long jog. He could jog to town and back. That will clear his head.

That’s a long jog.

If something happens while he’s away, he won’t get back in time. It’ll be his fault because he took the time to do something selfish. He can picture it, coming back to find five bodies laying in pools of blood, dead because he wasn’t there to help, because he wasn’t there to fight.

It’s a ridiculous thought. There’s three other highly trained soldiers in the house. If anyone tried anything, they wouldn’t make it past the door. He can see it now, Price’s alpha coming out in a rage because someone dared try to enter and hurt his vulnerable omega. He’d probably win in a fight ten to one if that happened, and he has Kyle and Johnny to back him up. Christine would take you and run the first chance she could. She wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Not again.

Still, he can’t shake that fear. If he can’t sprint back, then it's too far. If it will leave the pack too vulnerable, he can’t.

To the beach and back, then.

She’s like an angel.

The soft sunlight streaming through the clouds makes her glow. You wouldn’t be surprised if the sun was shining just for her, sending down a beam just to illuminate just how ethereal she is.

The Garrick beauty is genetic.

Kyle is beautiful in terms of a man. He shares the same ethereal glow as his sister, but Ashley? You don’t feel worthy of looking upon her.

“Kyle never mentioned an omega, but then again, he never says much about his job.” She gives another dazzling smile, your heart rate picking up just slightly. “Can’t, I should say. You haven’t been with them long, huh.”

“About nine months.” You say, your voice still a bit hoarse. It’s not quite healed yet. It might be that way forever.

“Such a short amount of time to go through so much.” She says, giving you a soft, sympathetic look. You don’t know how much she knows, though it’s still fairly obvious you’ve been through hell. That you’re still going through hell. “Christine told me a bit about what happened. I don’t blame you one bit for being upset at them. I would have left them, but I know. In a perfect world, right?”

You make a quiet sound. Indeed in a perfect world where omegas have rights and can make their own decisions and could leave and have support in doing so. You’d leave with Dr. Keller or even Ashley, even though you’ve only known her for ten minutes. She has the same magnetic energy as Kyle, so much so you don’t mind the way the scent blockers burn your nose. She probably smells like something warm and soft, something comforting.

“So, tell me about yourself. What do you like to do?” She says, settling in the chair. It’s cool outside, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it one bit.

You scramble for something, anything. What is it you like to do? What are your hobbies? You’re drawing a blank, your mind searching through its filing cabinets to find where you shoved all the things you like to do.

“I like to read.” You finally say, remembering the stack of untouched books on the dresser across from the bed.

“Oh? What do you like to read?” She asks.

What do you like to read? What is a genre? What are books?

“Oh, I read anything, as long as it’s interesting.” Is that the truth? You’re not quite sure.

“I see, I see. Well, there’s quite the collection on those shelves inside. I’m a reader too. Read through those entire shelves over the years.” She grins at you. “We could do a little book club, if you’d like. Read some books and talk about them over some tea. We could get Christine in on it too. Have a little thing just for us girls.”

You nod, staring at her in awe. This is the first time someone outside of your little circle has offered to do anything with you, for you.

You want to do it.

You want to spend time with someone who isn’t your pack, who isn’t Dr. Keller.

“Okay.” You say, still staring at her in awe.

“I could come over on the weekends, or we could do a call if you’re not up to seeing anyone.” She continues, and you’re not sure if she made this plan before she came, or if she’s coming up with it on the spot. Regardless, you're still impressed by her and her dedication to a complete stranger.

“Would...would that be too much?” You ask, your brain starting to wake up again, the wires connecting once more.

“Not at all.” She shakes her head. “I live and work in Exeter, so I’m not too terribly far away.”

You’re not sure where Exeter is off the top of your head. Your mental map isn’t even sure how far away London is...or even where you are on a map of England. Are you even in England right now?

“What do you do for work?” You ask, realizing you’ve been silent for an awkward amount of time.

“I’m a finance lawyer.” She says. “Mum used to say ‘you love to argue so much, you should become a lawyer.’” She laughs. “So I did.”

“You must make a lot of money.” You say. You don’t know how much lawyers make in England relative to the US.

“I make enough to be comfortable.” She says. Enough to travel back and forth every weekend. “Seriously, though, if you need or want anything, let me know. I’m more than happy to come sit with you and give you a break from those stinky men.”

You’re not quite sure what happens to your face. It contorts, muscles shaking off the dust and starting to move before you even realize it. Your lips are tilting upwards instead of downwards. Something is happening. Something that feels good, something that you’ve been missing.

You’re smiling.

You’re smiling. You haven’t smiled in a long time. Weeks. Not since the cameras. Not since your pack left. You haven’t felt like smiling in so long you’re certain you forgot how to. But yet, here you are, smiling at Ashley. It’s not a genuine smile, one that crinkles your eyes and shows joy, but it’s a smile. It almost hurts your face after so long.

She’s funny too.

Stinky men.

They are that.

Your smile falls as soon as the sliding glass door opens, your head whipping around to look. Ashley turns to look too, perhaps out of instinct at your sudden movement.

You’re half expecting it to be one of the guys, maybe Kyle out to ruin the moment, but it’s only Dr. Keller.

“How are things going?” She asks, stepping up beside you.

“Good.” Ashley says. “We’re planning a book club.”

“Oh?” Dr. Keller raises a brow, looking between you. “I think that would be fantastic.”

“You’re welcome to join in if you’d like,” Ashley says, giving Dr. Keller a smile.

You stare up at Dr. Keller, watching the way her lips turn up a smile, her eyes shining with...something. Her hands open and close, tugging at her pants almost nervously. Your brows raise as you look back up at her face. She almost looks...flustered.

Oh.

Another grin forms on your face as you stare between them, Ashley still smiling and Dr. Keller still looking a bit flustered.

Oh.

“You could join us if you want.” You say slowly, still looking up at Dr. Keller.

She seems to snap out of her daze, her gaze darting down to you. She gives you a soft smile, back to her composed, professional self. “If that’s what you’d like.”

You nod. Even though you see her constantly every day, you’re not tired of her existence yet. She’s the only one whose existence in the house doesn’t make you want to gouge your eyes out, the only one you want to talk to, to see, to have around. If you had the choice, you’d be here alone with her.

That’s not possible. You know it’s not.

“A thing for just us girls.” Ashley says. “On the weekends. No pressure whatsoever.”

“I think that would be fantastic.” Dr. Keller says. “A nice little distraction.”

“A nice break from those stinky men.” You say.

Both Dr. Keller and Ashley erupt in laughter.

Another smile tugs at your lips.

You don’t want to be here. You can feel him staring at you from behind. He hasn’t moved since Dr. Keller left, still just standing there like he’s not sure he can approach you or not. You hope he doesn’t. You want him to.

You don’t say anything, still staring out at the ocean, but you can see him reflected in the glass, obscuring your view of the horizon. Hatred burns inside of you as you have no choice but to stare at him, even when you’re trying not to. He’s like a ghost, always haunting you. He always will be.

“I didn’t want to try to rush into this.” He finally says, knowing you’re not going to say anything. You won’t greet him, welcome him into your space. It already feels like an intrusion into your safety, him being here.

Is this becoming a safe space? A nest? No, not that far. It’s becoming sacred to you, though, and having him in it without invitation feels wrong. It makes you uncomfortable.

You hate it.

“But I just wanted you to know that we’re all feeling the weight of what we did, I’m feeling the weight of what I decided to do. We all feel guilty for putting you through that, for forcing you to endure things you never should have.”

He swallows thickly, falling silent for a moment. You almost feel like laughing at his attempt at an apology, another attempt at an apology. Why is he even bothering? He knows you won’t forgive him. He’s probably doing it for himself again, to make himself feel better.

“I know it’s not an ideal situation, being forced in such a small space together, but we all wanted you to know that you’re the one setting the boundaries. If you don’t want us to be somewhere or do something, then you can tell us, or have Christine tell us. If you don’t want to see us at all, we can make our best attempts at that.”

“That would be ideal.” You say, breaking the silence you’ve held for days. It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him since the hospital, since his first sad attempt at an apology.

It shocks him to stillness and silence.

The words hurt, burning your throat like acid as you stare at his reflection in the glass. You hate it, how pathetic he looks standing there. Where’s the big, tough alpha? Where’s the strong protector? Where’s the person that’s supposed to take care of you and care about you?

He never existed.

He left you behind.

He never cared.

Anger begins to bubble within you.

“I’m sorry.” He says, his voice shaking. “I never meant for this to happen-”

“You think your sad attempts at apologies are going to work?” You hiss at him through your teeth. You push yourself to stand, turning to face him. “You left me. You fucking left me there knowing full well what was going to happen!” You’re shouting now. All the quiet movements on the other side of the wall in the main area stop.

They’re all listening.

It’s not like you’re giving them much of a choice not to.

Fuck them.

“I know,” He says, his eyes wide as he stares at you.

“Do you? Do you know?” Your voice is wavering, your throat starting to ache but you can’t stop. Not now. It’s all coming out and there’s no stopping it. “You. Left. Me. You willingly turned your back on me time and time again even when I was being tortured! You leaving was torture enough and you still chose me second. I’ve always been second. I’ve never mattered enough for you to even question anything!”

You let out a sob, the sound cracking in your throat. It hurts, but it will always hurt. You’ll always carry this hurt with you, so you want him to hurt too.

“I asked you once if you would ever leave for me. You said if things got dangerous, if my life were ever at risk because of you, you’d leave in a heartbeat.” The tears are falling, streaming down your face. “Was that a lie?”

He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, staring at you. Does he even remember that conversation?

“Was that a lie?” You shout, making him jump.

His eyes drop to the floor, his scent souring. Good, you think. Let it hurt.

“Answer me.” You say, pushing him to give some response to your question. You need to know. You need him to say it.

“I didn’t intend for it to be.” He says quietly.

“You didn’t intend for it to be.” You say, bitterness coating your tone. “What the fuck does that mean? You said you wouldn’t let me go even if the initiative failed. Was that a lie too? Was it all a lie to keep me happy and complacent? ‘The job always comes first,’ even when my life is in danger, right? The job always comes first over everything, even me. You lied to me.” You swallow the sob threatening to come up. “I want to hear you say it.”

He stands there, tears brimming in his eyes. He hasn’t moved hardly a muscle, still frozen like a statue.

“Say it!” You scream at him, your throat tearing around the words. You’re surprised you’re not tasting blood yet from how raw it feels.

“I lied.” He says, swallowing thickly. “I lied to you and I couldn’t keep my promise. And I’m sorry-”

“Don’t apologize.” You cut him off starting to pace as the anger burns hot in you. “Don’t you fucking apologize to me, you don’t deserve to apologize. You don’t deserve the chance at forgiveness. You’re a shitty alpha and you always have been!”

You let out a sob, wiping at the tears streaming down your face. There’s a tear sliding down his cheek, and it brings you some sort of relief deep down. So he can feel things after all.

“I don’t know what I expected, though.” You let out a sardonic laugh. “You military men are all the same. It’s always about the job and the image and the ‘greater good’ and making sacrifices, even if that means sacrificing your pack. You’re just like my dad. You never wanted an omega, you never wanted me. You cast me out and let me suffer when I needed you most.”

The anger burns hot in you again, shooting through your veins until it’s choking you as you stare at him standing there pathetically. He thought he could apologize, he thought his groveling would mean anything to you. Fuck him. Fuck them all.

“You left me.” You grit out, your hands starting to shake. “You left me! You abandoned me, you let me get hurt! You didn’t care, you never cared about me!” You storm over to him. “Fuck you!” You scream, hitting his chest. “I fucking hate you!” You shove him back, sending him stumbling. “Get out!” You shove him again, pushing him back towards the door. “Get out! I never want to see you again!”

He stumbles back out of the door and you slam it in his face so hard it shakes on its hinges. You click the lock as you sob in pain, pain both physical and emotional. Your chest aches, a tearing feeling burning through it.

The bond.

You don’t care. You don’t give a fuck anymore. You hate him, you hate them all.

The tears and sobs threaten to choke you but you don’t care. You don’t care anymore. You don’t care about anything anymore except the anger burning hot through you, making your hands shake. Your legs give out and you slide to the floor against the door, sliding until you’re laying down on your back on the hardwood. It’s cold against your skin but you don’t care. You can’t care anymore.

If you fall, you’ll never get up again.

Her hand presses against your forehead, wiping some of the sweat beading on your skin. Despite your shivers, you’re burning hot. A fever. You worked yourself up too much earlier in your outburst. She had been proud of you for finally releasing some of it and showing some emotion, but she knew the consequences of getting so worked up would be high. Your omega is still unstable, on top of still trying to physically recover. You hurt yourself doing that, even if it was necessary.

She shushes you as you whine, fingers grasping at the blanket clumsily. She pulls it higher over you, your body shuddering underneath the pile already stacked on top of you. She’d put every blanket she could find over you, and yet you still shiver. Worry floods her again as she stares down at you, your eyes pinched closed. You must be aching, your show of anger taking its toll.

It was necessary, but at what cost?

If your temperature continues to spike, the risk of distress heightens. You can’t handle distress in your current state, which would mean your omega would come out, finally be freed again from the unprotected cage it's been pushed back into. If your omega comes out, that will require John to help, which may only drive you further into distress.

She needs to try and stop this before the situation continues to deteriorate.

But how?

How can she move you past this without the help of your pack? She can’t give you the comfort you need. Medicine or any therapeutic methods can help solve the issue at its core. Sure she can try and lower your fever with medicine, but you need your pack. You need that comfort and stability that only they can offer.

You need someone, and it can’t be her.

If your omega comes back out, they might never be able to get it back in. It’ll be the end of you. All of your recovery, the fight you’ve put up against your body and your instincts and your mind will have been for nothing.

You need someone.

An idea begins to form in her head, her hand resting against your forehead. It’s hot under her hand, your skin burning. You might hate her later for this. It’s risky, but sometimes risks have to be taken in dire situations. Sometimes those risks pan out in the end. What will happen if it fails? The inevitable that’s going to happen if she doesn’t try. It’s a lose-lose situation, but if it works, it could be a win-win.

She can’t help you, but maybe she has someone who can.

She tucks the blankets around you, cocooning you in an attempt to keep you warm and still while she steps away. She won’t be gone long.

She leaves your door cracked open just in case, even though she doubts you’ll be moving much while she’s away.

Just in case.

One can never be too careful.

She heads up the stairs quietly, going slow to avoid startling any of them. She’s intruding on the safe space they’ve made in their solitude. It feels like invading sacred grounds, but it's a necessary invasion. Their omega is in danger. They’ll forgive her.

The bathroom door is closed at the end of the short hallway, a light on inside. The lights are on in both rooms too, glowing beneath both doors, and she takes a gamble. Based on the heaviness of the footsteps above the kitchen she can guess the room on the right is the one Simon and Johnny are staying in. If she’s wrong, she��ll have some explaining to do before she’s ready, and she knows John will have his thoughts about this. Though, with what happened earlier, perhaps he’ll agree. You won’t see him, but maybe...just maybe...

She lets out a deep breath before knocking firmly, waiting a breath before she calls out.

“Johnny, I need your help.”

She just hopes you don’t hate her too much later.

NEXT ->

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