#messy rambling that sorta took shape so i removed the rambling and just kept going

[tojisun]

cw: omegaverse, claim/marking bites, injuries

simon’s hunger is palpable, rippling underneath his desperation. he feels his jowls fill with his spit, coiling along the spaces of his teeth to settle underneath his tongue. his gums ache with the need to mark; to claim, searing his bond into the fabrics of your being; to make it so that you cannot exist without him—it will always be you and simon, twined for eternity.

and he knows, christ he knows, that only alphas can stake their claims. that they are the only ones who can seal a bond, but simon looks at you and thinks about how he’s never been jealous of alphas until now.

he presented as a beta. it was never a crutch or anything that churned his passive acceptance into envy, especially in their line of duty—no ruts to hinder a mission, no rift in their captain’s territorial claims, no bouts of unleashed aggression. alphas are difficult to tame, even price said so, and simon understands.

he’s a clean slate. free. there is nothing tying him to his needs; nothing to hinder his clarity. he breathes in air and it is just that—no scent, no ripe fruit for the taking.

simon’s adored it.

but you have to just come along, didn’t you?

pretty omega, all beautiful and soft. crybaby, in bursts, but so vibrant in your love. in your tenderness. your heart is so full of joy, of adoration. some of them slip from your lips, dripping like honey. and when you turn to him, it is always with a sparkle in your eyes like you know you are safe with him.

he’s never wanted to be an alpha before. he’s never had the urge to mark and to claim, until now. do you know what you do to him?

this, he said, bringing your trembling hand down to his building chub. you did this to me.

simon couldn’t smell you but god he wishes he could. he’s heard his captain grunt about your scent before—little bird smelling like an orchard; like apples or medlars. like something sweet and citrus and ripe.

simon wondered how your skin will tear upon the sinking of sharp canines into the tender part of your glands. he wondered if he could be the one to claim you.

and, just like the promise you always are, you told him, yes, all hiccupping while you stared up at him, your hand flexing to fully caress at his chub. please, si?

so here he is now—his arms full of your buzzing warmth, his skin pressed to yours. your shirts have been torn off in each other’s desperation, leaving you bare on his lap, your supple back pressed to the rough drag of his hairy front. he pulls you close like the two of you are not sharing the same breath already.

he leans forward, brushing his lips on the goosebump-littered skin of your nape.

“here,” he rumbles, his breaths coming out ragged and his voice cracking as it drags out from the base of his throat. “i’ll bite y’here. sink my teeth until it’s bleeding, an’ when the scab heals, i’ll bite y’again. an’ again an’ again.”

because simon’s not an alpha. he cannot promise a claiming mark, but this—an eternity of a renewal; a lifetime of his teeth finding their way into the tender press of your skin—is as close as he can give you. and when it heals, he’ll do it again—

“until it takes.”

you hiccup, sniffling, and folding yourself into him. so emotional, his crybaby of a doll.

the first burst of your blood in his mouth makes him twitch, his mind locking in its place. he doesn’t know how much timed passed but when he comes to, it’s to a gnawed piece on your neck. it’s messy and bleeding and beautiful.

his mark.

a seed in your orchard.

“thank you, si.”

simon murmurs in a soothing voice, quiet croons passing through his blood-stained lips as he tips your head towards him and kisses you. the final seal. your part in this dance—the acceptance of the bite.

finally, the two of you are a bonded pair.