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hexonthepeach · 8 months

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a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 12: haze

pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127

tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content

summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate’s clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself

but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out

ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting

now, you must make them choose you

[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [0: prologue] [1: escape, again] [2: lost and found] [3: returned] [4: bound] [5: home] [6: gift] [7: reunion] [8: security] [9: secret] [10: prisoner] [11: gambit]

wc: 5.6k

chapter warnings: involuntary drug use, involuntary marking, dubcon explicit sexual content from a first-person perspective

recommended listening: colorblind - maddox

Lee Donghyuck, callsign Haechan [canis aureus α] (formerly 78th in line for the throne)

In the "first times for everything" category, Haechan ticks off the box for attempting to cook a meal with an erection that just won't quit.

He feels like he's fourteen again, unable to control the blood flow to his dick during co-ed physical drills, when the sight and scent of a few of his comrades had him rushing to the coldest, farthest shower.

Isolation in an Alpha-only designated military program hadn't been much better–just more confusing–but it had taught him how to channel his interest in play, and maybe even a little submission.

For you, however, he's an open book.

No amount of distraction can keep him from focusing on the soft shape of your lips (the thought of them closing around his shaft sends another twitch to his knot, still popped from his last session) or the way your tail has a habit of flicking when you're thinking (wouldn’t it feel so soft against his bare chest when he sank into your presented behind . . .?).

It's this train of thought that has the fire alarm going off and yet another round of poorly-diced garlic, onion, and potato ending up drenched in fire extinguishing agent and the garbage.

In the end he orders a delivery of his favorite fast food–a little bit of everything to please you, of course–pacing until the drone arrives downstairs laden with boxes.

He's feeling the elation of gifting you with your meal in proper Alpha fashion and maybe still a little distracted by the thought of your legs wrapped around him, so when he swipes the door open to the medical wing and immediately drops the armful of precious cargo it's because he is absolutely, 100% not prepared for the sight before him.

Taeil is nowhere to be seen. You, on the other hand, can't be missed.

The room is wall-to-wall fruits and flowers and sandalwood musk with you at the center of it, perched in the high desk chair at the doctor's main station, a VR rig strapped to your head.

It's the sounds, he realizes–the tinny register of whatever is playing on your headphones matched by those coming from your throat, frustrated whines mixed with the occasional cry of pleasure, or maybe pain. Your movements are jerky and awkward and obscured by the loose-fitting medical gown you've changed into but it's clear you're mounting something, kneeling in the wide seat and leaning towards the desk for leverage.

In an instant he's lost his fight with his body, blood rushing from his head so fast he's reeling. He has to adjust himself in his pants, throbbing at the contact, unable to tear his eyes off of you trapped in self-pleasure like you’d manifested from his deepest fantasies.

"You even so much as lay a finger on her and you'll no longer have a pack. You fuck her and it's death." Johnny had gone around the room to each member, making eye contact, ensuring the duck of a head or a verbal affirmation from each.

Not one of them had resisted. Granted, there was still a question of what Taeyong thought was good for the pack but it wasn't worth breaking blood to find out.

A pack couldn't function without a prime, nor could it without complete obedience.

Doyoung had repeated the same thing with a softer edge of civility.

"Any imposition on the prime's mate and you will be forced to accept a duel. Let's not let it come to that."

He'd come back to that memory more than a few times in the last few days, letting it act as a frigid reminder that you were strictly off limits, regardless of animal nature.

He coughs, loudly, trying to announce his presence in a way that you can notice–earning nothing. His face and ears are on fire as he finally decides to take the food out the door and try again–locking the keypad.

Ring the doorbell. Ring the doorbell again.

He takes the opportunity to tuck himself into his waistband beneath his belt and pull his shirt over it, as well as offer a prayer to his ancestors that you'll never see it.

He tries a few times before you open the door, hair wild and eyes starry with arousal, distracted and embarrassed. You've thrown on Taeil's white coat, which only adds a sheen to the fantasy currently playing out in Haechan's head.

Doctor, I need you to check on a huge problem I'm having . . .

"You're here," you say. By the looks of it you're hiding something, holding right past the sliding door. He nervously licks his lips, watching the way your fox-like eyes dart to his tongue.

"I brought you food," he says. He lifts the bag, feeling the slosh of liquid from a crushed sauce container.

"Oh. Yes. Thank you."

You smile and relax.

He's done for, he realizes. If he wasn't before–he is now–seeing what you look like when you're pleased.

It was different with Taeyong–gifting him felt a little like laying offerings at the feet of a fickle god. He can tell you're incapable of dismissing even the tiniest gesture, as if you were starved for it.

It makes his chest feel tight to see it.

"Where's Moon?" Haechan asks, carefully moving past you. He's conscientious of spooking you, knowing you're on edge and buzzing with anxiety.

"In bed," you say, grabbing on to your sleek, dark tail to fidget with it. "It's weird. He's being weird. He said he had to take another suppressant and then he got sleepy again? And locked himself in?"

Haechan goes to Taeil's quarters, overriding the door control. He almost chokes on the smell of the other Alpha's pheromones. Under other circumstances it might be pleasant, even welcome to his jackal, but there's a tinge of metallic bitterness that makes him gag.

He can hear the older man's soft snoring, collapsed fully clothed facedown on his bed. He's glad to be spared the sight of whatever level of rut Taeil's going through in his dreams, if only because you don't need to see the second-in-charge and man providing you with medical care in that state.

He turns around to find you playing with the handle on the takeout bag, absentminded.

"Aren't you starving?" he asks.

Your ears twitch.

"Kind of," you say. You make eye contact with him for a moment, just a little too long to be an accident. "It's hard to want to eat when I'm so . . ."

"Thirsty," Haechan interrupts, smacking his forehead. "I forgot drinks."

"It's fine," you say, blocking him from leaving. He can't hide the sound he makes when your hand presses to his sternum, light but like a lead weight.

"I should get some dishes, too–" he panics, moving back, panicking more when you follow.

"Taeil has his own stash, no?" Your teeth flash as you look up at him, head cocked. "I saw bottles in his specimen fridge."

"It's probably just beer," Haechan says, regretting it instantly when you smile wider, exposing your always just a little too big canines.

"Perfect," you say.

"No, definitely not–I'm on duty and you're on–"

"Why not? The doctor probably shouldn't be napping on the job either. It can be our little secret."

Our little secret.

The words echo like a gong hit through his brain, all those stuffed-down desires finding this particular outlet a nice alternative to the other, unthinkable ones.

He could please you and protect you from the others and it would be one step closer to having you forever. If not for real, then at least emotionally. Yes, that sounds nice.

"We can split just one, no? Before Mark comes back?" Your finger taps something out just beneath his collarbone and his mind goes blank.

Fuck Mark, he thinks. Maybe this will get you to finally sleep, too. Haechan feels a surge of confidence overtake the warning bell at the back of his brain.

"Okay," he agrees.

And oh, does that make you pleased.

Indeed, everything seems perfect and a little easier once you're both sprawled out on the old couch that serves as seating by Taeil's desk, chicken and specialty pizza piled across the low table.

Haechan finds an old melo you've never seen before–a thriller action, not romance of course–to play in the background on the largest monitor.

"Is it a good one?"

"My favorite," he lies, unable to eat. If he's seen it he doesn't remember, too caught up in the graceful and formal way you pour him his share from Taeil's stash, your smile of acceptance when he pours yours in return.

He barely touches his plastic cup of beer, a few sips proving dangerous as you settle cross-legged on the floor to devour chicken wings like they're your last meal.

You're having a good time, sufficiently distracted with food and conversation.

Somehow this is worse than walking in on you masturbating.

That could just be a dream, a thing tucked away he doesn't have to think about besides the occasional reminder of that defiled chair just over there. This experience is alarmingly real in its mundanity.

He's never been on a date before, never hung out with anyone his age that wasn't a designated male or a recruit with the same hopped-up hormones. He's been scratching at the ground in wait of something like normalcy.

And apparently, so have you.

"Cheers," you say, lifting your cup over his knee to tap against his. "I always wondered why people did this in the melos when they're sad. I think I get it now."

"You gotta toast to something happy," Haechan says. The word sad permeates his entire world, more when a sad look crosses your face as you grip your drink tighter.

"Things will get better," he says. "Once you're not . . ."

He doesn't dare finish the sentence, clearing his throat.

"To first times and small pleasures," you offer, clinking his cup and clearing your own.

You look up at him with a slightly glazed-over expression, expectantly. Haechan drinks a little more deeply, savoring the bitter taste of the craft concoction. Taeil had learned how to make NUSA-style beer a few years ago from Johnny, this was probably one of their experiments. Not his favorite, but not bad.

"Can I?" you ask, looking at the empty couch beside him.

"It's probably more comfortable," Haechan jokes, adjusting away as you settle beside him.

"I feel better just having you close, you know." Your voice is so quiet he can barely hear it over a chase scene, having to turn down the volume.

"What?"

"I don't think I can sleep without an Alpha near me, now." You say, shyly. You've wrapped your tail around you, the fur so close he can feel it even if he doesn't dare to reach out and touch it.

"That's . . . That's probably not a great idea."

"Do you think I could go to sleep next to Taeil?"

Your eyes are wide and innocent when you look up at him, as if you're asking permission.

"No," he says quickly. God–he can't imagine what would happen to you if you got into bed with an Alpha in rut. He could, actually–but the thought of anyone touching you makes him sick to his stomach.

He knows Mark won't be long back–Yuta had needed his help with a job according to his message, something about Dys pack witnesses. He has a window of time to enjoy your company. It won't hurt to let you physically closer.

The worst that can happen if Mark finds you curled up next to him is to give him a dressing down. If Taeil wakes up, he can explain that too–

"Take off your coat," he blurts out.

"What?" you ask, eyes widening even more.

"If you're gonna cuddle me I'd prefer you didn't smell like old ringtail," Haechan says, even more humiliated by the explanation.

"Cuddle?"

You take off the layer with a haste that has his head spinning. Your thighs are visible under the short hem of your black gown–oversized t-shirt, really–scent so heady he thinks he can swallow it.

"Don't make it weird, okay?" Haechan says, pretending to be annoyed. "Mark will kill me before Johnny gets the chance."

"You're the one who said it," you say.

He's stiff as a plank as you rest into the curvature of his arm, head sinking into the space between his shoulder and jaw. It's like holding the first blanket of his childhood, the one he’d worn ragged. You're so real–

–he laughs out loud, involuntarily, startling you.

"What?"

"Your ears." Haechan itches his face, hand clamping down on the top of your head to turn it to the screen. You find a better angle that doesn't tickle him, sliding down to rest against his side.

"Better?" he asks. Inside he's screaming, hyper aware of every soft press of your body. Radiating lines of warmth and pleasure seem to erupt from each point of contact, your curves etched into his memory with each breath.

"Your vest is scratchy," you mutter.

Somehow he's taking off clothing now too, heart beating against his ribs when you bury your face in his pectoral muscle–this time much closer. You scent him in earnest, rubbing the side of your mouth against his clothing with each nudge.

"Thank you, Alpha."

Oh fuck. Fuck, he thinks.

He wants to stop you but he's too busy counting to ten in his head, legs spread wide to keep from the shocks of pleasure that occur everytime his cockhead rubs against the band of his underwear.

He can keep it cool, he thinks.

He thinks.

If it means getting to enjoy you pliant and warm against him until the others show up he can survive until that freezing shower. It's naive but the alternative of making you upset is too terrible a thought to entertain.

"Don't make it weird," he reminds you.

"You don't like being called that?"

"It makes me uncomfortable," he says. It's the truth, considering the ache in his balls.

"What would make you comfortable?" Your hand spreads over the other side of his chest, settling over his heart. You must be able to feel it–hear it probably–as his pulse steadily increases.

Thank god for the beer, he thinks. He's much more relaxed than expected, a haze filtering his senses. It could be too long since he's indulged but he also knows now how good an omega like you can be, overriding anything negative.

"No talking, just watching," he says.

"Okay, Haechan." You add an informal note that makes him wish he could bite his fist in his teeth.

The torture only increases as you seem to fall asleep against him, hand sinking to his belly. He adjusts you, carefully, forced to pull your body across his lap and onto the couch arm so you're not diving headfirst into it. Your tail has a mind of its own, lifting up from under your clothing to beat weakly against his thigh.

"Y/N," he whispers, holding you upright in an awkward position. "I'm gonna just get up and lay you down."

Your roll over, hands clinging around his neck.

"Don't leave me," you beg.

"No, no," he assures. "I'm just losing feeling in my arm."

"Oh," you say. You adjust, ass wiggling into his thighs.

The sound he makes is humiliating, somewhere between a moan and a yelp.

"Sorry," you say, sitting up–barely–legs shifting to both sides of his hips, breasts inches from his curled-away chest.

"Don't move," he says through gritted teeth.

"What's wrong?" You ask. Your hands connect at the base of his skull. He can't explain that he's throbbing so hard he might come untouched, instead choosing to grab your waist to try and lift you off of him as carefully and gently as possible.

For some reason, his arms can barely move you. You're magnetized to stick to him.

"You're crushing me," he huffs, fighting weakly. "Just let me get up so I can get more comfortable."

"Oh no," you say, backing off of him and sliding down to the floor.

Oh gods is that infinitely worse.

The angle is devastating, your hands on his thighs as you watch Haechan move to stand, only to immediately sit back down again. The sudden movement wracks him with dizziness, and he shakes his head to clear it.

"Is something wrong?"

"I feel like . . . a cotton ball," he says. His mouth may as well be full of it, the room darkening in small blinks as he struggles to concentrate.

"You know, that might be me." You rub circles into his upper legs, nails spiraling in the weatherproof fabric.

"What . . .?"

"Don't you remember they said that I can make you feel good? Like you're high?"

It's decidedly not what he's expecting, or the way you clamber back on top of him and push his uncooperating body down on the cracked synthetic leather.

"I'm sorry." Your tone seems genuinely sad as you play with the hem of your shirt.

"For making it weird? Too late," he says drowsily.

"Not weird. Just fast. Everything will be just fine." You press a finger against his lips, tracing it down to his chin. Then his eyes can't follow, the light somehow chasing your hands.

There's a dumb smile on his face, and he can feel it break a little when you pull off your gown to expose yourself to the filtered air. With the slowed speed of his comprehension he watches a land laid out in an artificial moonlight, a finger beckoning him into the dark.

Something is weird. But he can't think about that right now. He intakes a breath, marveling as your torso resolves in the dim light into something that glows.

Everything is clearer: your beautiful body limned in the flickering light from the muted show, exposed and radiating delicious warmth as your skin pebbles.

You're wearing what looks like a questionable attempt at underwear, straps and lace and even a cute little black bow between the swell of your breasts. That gets his mouth watering again, or rather it would, if it didn't feel like sandpaper.

Why . . .?

Gift-wrapped and placed at his feet, he thinks, distantly aware of the fact that this is all too easy–suspiciously so.

He doesn't drink often but he also doesn't go down that quickly, unless you're made of magic. Maybe you’re like one of those old legends about fox spirits who ate kingdoms, seducing empires into dust.

"You drugged me." He says, clarity on his tongue before his brain can follow.

"Just a little. For us both. So it doesn't hurt," you say, lifting hands to your breasts. He's aware they're his hands only when texture and heat appear under them, divine but passed through a filthy veil of unease.

You're on top of him, mostly naked and riding him, and he's not going to be able to stop. There is no possible way that he will be able to keep from making you sob and moan and beg beneath him when he finally shows you what's been playing in his head 24/7 since he'd first scented you.

But there's something else about this dream-come-true, an awful thing weighing him down he can't stop going back to–that at the end of it, when he eventually wakes up, he'll be dead.

He doesn't realize he's crying until you reach out and stroke his face, bringing your fingers to your mouth and tasting his tears with a gentle dab of your tongue.

"It won't hurt, I promise," you assure him.

"What's going to hurt?" he asks, panicking enough to grasp your ribs. You bend through his hold like water, kissing him.

He's never been kissed like this before, and clearly neither have you. It's awkward and bruising and he can't enjoy it, even as much as you're everything he's ever wanted against him. Gods you are everything–he wants to mold into your life the same way he feels you could for him.

A mate. He's always wanted one, never dared dream he could have one. Maybe he's just crying because he's happy.

You seem to answer his unspoken question when you pepper his face in lighter, angel's wing dusting of your lips.

But the softness is too much, the affection more like a mother kissing a child. Here behind his closed eyelids he only feels empty, as if subjected to a gesture rather than real love.

After what feels like forever he realizes you're following his moles, eyelashes brushing his skin scattershot across his cheeks and jaw and throat until you find your favorite–at his collarbone.

You'd been the one to tell him his moles looked like the stars. Constellations, actually.

"The original name was Cynosura. Dog's tail." You'd explained. Somehow you were always smarter than you let on.

That same mouth kisses its way back to his throat. Each draw of heat from your tongue and lips is matched by the presence of your teeth, the vulnerability making the Alpha within buck him back to consciousness.

Haechan twists and struggles but he’s as heavy as lead and you’re as light as a leaf. He pants rapidly, breath stopped with the graze of your canines against the sensitive patch of skin somewhere past a third star.

"It will only sting a little bit," you say.

Flame explodes across his vision as your bite sinks in. It's cold and hot at the same time, inferno radiating up his scalp and down through his chest to his toes. It's a body invading his own, tendrils of new feeling opening the way a flower might in the heat of the sun.

At the same time, it rips him in two.

Suddenly that clean and sweet scent in his nostrils is a color he can see, white bruising into pink into red. Blood–that's what he'd smelled earlier in the room–Taeil's no doubt.

Now his.

He's never scented himself, green and earthy. Nor has he ever felt the jackal inside wake up, not even in the Wild, when he'd felt the alien sensation of fur and claws growing where they shouldn’t have been.

It–he–is angry. The snarl erupts from his belly to his chest and explodes in the air, frightening you away with a strangled echo in your own throat. Just as quickly he finds himself on top of you, paws–no, hands–pressing your shoulders into the compressed cushions as you submit, too stunned to fight.

"I'm–I'm sorry," you repeat, eyes glassy. He can see his blood on your teeth. All the beauty of your features have been sharpened into the thinnest edge by the shadows, making you monstrous.

"What did you do?" he asks.

"I claimed you," you whisper.

"No," he says, adamantly. "That's not how it works."

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. You weren't supposed to bite first. You weren't supposed to strip his skin and leave him exposed.

Your expression transmogrifies into something even more awful than satisfaction: confusion.

"I thought you wanted me," you say.

"No," he repeats. Not this way–not with him bleeding and every moment stretched to minutes, hallucinating visions of the real you. It was supposed to be gentle and relaxed and fun, not this nightmare.

He’d let his mind wander so many places over the last few days, hearing your soothing voice over his headset. He’d imagined taking you to one of the few exposed beaches a few clicks far southwest, artificially constructed by where dunes remained as bulwarks for the rising tides but real enough to the memory of places only captured in old melos.

He was going to hold your hand on the shore and watch you chase the waves until you fell into his arms, joyful and exhausted. He’d feed you and care for you until you nuzzled into his chest and told him you–

"But I can feel it." Your voice breaks his reverie. He sees the fox under your half-lidded gaze, the way you bare your throat as you arch beneath him. Even on your back you’re presenting.

"No!" He shakes your shoulders, fingertips digging into bare flesh. "It's not the same."

"You're hurting me."

He hadn't realized his hands were around your windpipe until you'd said anything, regret immediately flooding him so deeply it washes away everything in its path.

He's not supposed to hurt you. He's supposed to take care of you, please you, settle the pulse beneath his fingertips.

There's a bruise on your face that's fading purple and yellow, scratches all across your body that he suddenly fears he's caused. His hands flutter over you, making sure you don't break apart like a porcelain doll dropped on the floor, pieces still held together until they're picked up . . .

He can sense your relief as he caresses your face, trying to mend your cracks–fingertips tracing the deep scars that turn shiny in the dark. Where Johnny had ruined you, you'd said.

Now he knows what that means.

It's so strange, it's almost like he can see himself through your eyes. You're not scared now.

In the wake of panic is pure desire–not just his but a thrumming need to match from you, made stronger by distress. Something inside you wants to be hurt, wants to be subdued. Something needs it.

"Please, Haechan. Mate me," you say. "Please."

In all his life taking orders he's never once felt this kind of compulsion before, a sudden urge to do whatever is asked, by any means. In a terrifying moment of clarity he understands this is what you've been living with your entire life.

It's the only thing you know.

For a moment you're both suspended, at odds, and then something snaps. He's not sure who moves first but you're quicker than him, still fighting.

You surge up to meet him, grabbing at his face with piercing nails. Haechan's mouth crushes against yours, tasting his own torn skin. You kiss him more eagerly now and he matches your energy, knowing fully that you're hiding nothing.

You do want him, you won't leave him now. You’d chosen him. He’s everything you need.

This time it feels a little more right than wrong, puzzle pieces slotting together by force.

He holds your body firmly against his to keep you from leading. It's made easier when his hand finds the base of your spine to steady you, the other holding your head. Touching you where fur meets skin makes you moan in pleasure, and he lets that be a guide as he finally, finally, grasps at the parts of you that feel most natural.

You’re made of silk, so warm. Not a wiry hair in all that expanse of fur, just the most delicious give as you become tender in his hands. He almost forgets you’re still an animal, remembering when you nip at his chin when he forgets to respond in the way you want.

He has to remind you you’re his. The jackal demands submission.

The most beautiful sound he's ever heard leaves your parted lips as he tugs your head back by your ears, phantom pain in his skull. Your neck is there for him, a bite for a bite, but he resists the urge for revenge.

After this, you'll be nothing to him but a death sentence. But he can still make this choice.

He licks up the sweat over your pulse, swallowing pure gold despite the dryness of his tongue. It’s easy to savor it as he licks desperately into your mouth until you open for him, a blossom offering nectar.

You’re warm and wet, and so, so inviting.

This is alright, he can stop here–he can make you purr and delight you and give you what you need until you choose to stop. He tries to soothe you with brushes over your breasts and belly, his hands as clumsy as if they were truly changed into stubby claws.

A musical series of notes underscores your tiny whimpers, desperate for contact, unable to keep still or relax into the feeling. He's only distantly aware of the clatter of his belt buckle, your nimble hands reaching into his pants to find where he's been trapped and weeping pre-cum for what feels like hours.

“No.” He hears himself say.

His entire body goes rigid at the first contact of your fingers around his shaft, gently exploring his shape and weight. It breaks the few remaining fibers in the thread of his self-control, clinging to the last as he's reminded of how new this is for you, and him.

And how wrong.

"Please don't stop," you say against his closed lips. "I need you so badly."

"I can't," he manages, eyes clenched shut as he presses back against the couch. "Too much. Please don't make me . . ."

"I don't care," you whisper into his cheek. "Mate me."

Haechan lets out a strangled cry as you grab his cock to line it up with your entrance, settling down so horribly slow he's reminded of a snake devouring prey. You're far too tight despite your attempts at preparation, slick pouring down your thighs in what feels like sheets to saturate his clothing.

He’s lost dissolving into you, the sensation both incredible and damning as his abdomen tightens involuntarily, muscles seizing in that familiar build of an orgasm. No, he thinks, no–it can’t end like this–he can barely move, can barely hold a thought in his head.

"I need your help, please," you say. You can’t even take his tip, knees shaking, nails biting into his shoulders through his shirt. It’s impossible to do anything but answer your prayers, seizing your hips to pull you down when he can’t lift his thighs.

There you are–finally–nose pressed to his as you wriggle in his lap clumsily, warm heat smothering him from the tips of his toes to his scalp. You’ve eaten him whole, there’s no going back.

The pace makes the Alpha inside him insane, struggling back to consciousness to take control and force you under him again, tearing away the flimsy underwear as he sinks into you with one, forceful thrust.

For a moment you're both floating in a haze of satisfaction, your jaw slack as he begins to fuck into you, unable to pull out but ramming into you in short strokes.

Finally, finally, the words thrum through him even though he knows there’s no coherent syllables coming from your mouth. You’re just urging him on, wishing he was able to bury himself deeper inside you, feeling the struggle as the drugs take over and his weight collapses onto you instead.

Even if he can barely move he can enjoy the fact that you're just as silky inside, gushing around him, legs locking around his hips as his knot presses against your tight, pulsing hole. It's ecstatic how quickly your body adjusts to take him after resisting, your face scrunched in pain and pleasure–the same that he feels.

"Knot me, please please please," you bleat. "I need it."

"Too much," he protests, rocking into you with short, quivering thrusts. His body is betraying him in contradictions–both flagging and involuntarily cascading towards that final lack of control. "I can’t . . . I’m . . .”

"Wait!" Your order makes him freeze, makes something in his belly clench and burn in pain. Or is that you? The sharpness throbbing through him matches, aching with delayed release.

"Knot me," you say again, pulling his face to yours, forehead pressed to his.

He obeys, knees buckling. You cry out as he drives the thicker base past your stretched muscle. The stimulation with the high is unbearable, he's no longer attached to this plane as he cums immediately, more and longer than he ever has in his entire life.

His hips push weakly into you, but it’s in vain, there’s no give with the lock in place.

It takes him a while to realize you're crying into his shoulder, the little sobs and hiccups transferred to him through the squeeze of your walls around his thick knot, triggering spurts of seed deep into your womb. If he had the energy he would get off of you but there's nothing left in him, not with the sedation.

The only thing remaining is something he never once entertained in his fantasies of having you first.

He feels empty. Hollow.

Maybe it's you, maybe it's him. If he wasn't so tired he'd be sick. He does feel sick, flooded in your negative emotions.

"He was right, it's not enough," you lament, clenching around him, making him suck in breaths as satiety mixed with displeasure courses through you both. "It's not enough. Please don't stop."

"I can’t," he says between blinks of red and black, letting that last thread of empathy burn away. He rolls into the couch, the vinyl creaking under his ear. "You're stuck with me."

For life, he thinks. But not for long.

That only makes you cry more. Your sadness and disappointment is a bitter pill to swallow but the part of him that remains himself is delighted at the sound, returning the favor to taste your tears as he kisses your cheek cruelly through them, until you have to turn your head away.

"I hate you," he says, extricating his arm from your side to burrow as far away as he can, unable to escape. He doesn’t want to feel you hot and soft around him anymore, he just wants to slip into the darkness and hope that there’s no coming back up from under it when his inevitable execution arrives.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Even this close, you sound so far away.

"Too late," he mumbles, arm thrown over his face to keep sympathetic tears back. He knows yours are as real as your whispered apologies; animals don't feel guilt.

Neither will he.

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decadennce · 2 years

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Epic swag villain asks-

For Azale... Syndrome, Tamatoa, and Mor'Du?? However many of those u wanna answer

And for Jupid, how about Alien? (This is a joke)

[For Azalea]

SYNDROME: Was there ever a point they could have been a hero?

-Oh there were multiple points. So many points. Literally at any point in his life before he decided to get into politics he could have been a better person, and honestly if he quit early enough in his political career his path still wouldn’t have been as villainous. If only he was a small town mayor for a few years before deciding to switch careers but alas, he turned out like this </3 but here’s some of the more major turning points in his life where things could have gone differently

I think the first key point that formed his views/outlook today is joining the military as a young adult. I unfortunately haven’t really named the conflict or figured out too many details but the TL;DR is that he went to fight in an imperialistic war and thought it was 100% justified and got radicalized because he’s fucking weird <3 If he hadn’t had that experience I don’t think he would have developed such a strong drive to get directly involved with politics and tbh he probably would have avoided it altogether. Also funny story but he barely met the height requirement at the time when he joined… if only he was just a tad shorter…

This one was in college. Azalea is a huge perfectionist and he wants to constantly do better than his past self, and this translated to him going absolutely fucking insane with studying. If you can’t already tell, he is a Highly Stressed And Anxious Dude. He began to develop a bit of a drinking habit, though he mainly just maintained a state of tipsiness as a shitty second rate anxiety treatment. He never majorly messed up in his studies but man if he did I could honestly see him drinking more to cope with the fact that he’s failing and then completely flunking out of school and just isolating himself while going from dead end job to dead end job for the rest of his working life. Failure is a massive fear of his and this would have fucked him up bad enough to where I don’t think he’d even try to get back to where he was before. So like. Unironcally he would have been a better person if he just went full alcoholic and destroyed his life lol

So by this point in his life he’d already strayed pretty far from the hero path because. well. he’d currently be a dictator by this point. But man he really didn’t have to start an unnecessary and ideologically fueled war huh </3 like come on man maybe former territories are former territories for a reason and you don’t have to invade them 60 fucking years later but what do I know <3 And god I don’t know how to succinctly explain the fictional politics around this point bc this conflict is actually more developed(mainly because uhhh this is when the main story happens lol) but here’s another TL;DR - cringe guy invades his neighbor while internal political tensions worsen, gets ganged up on by his other neighbors causing him to start losing, THEN a second civil war happens due to said internal tensions and the overall shitty conditions of uhh everything. Like good job man you really did great things for everyone :)))

I know You’ve seen me post massive essays about this world’s politics on discord but for any random people seeing this I cannot possibly fit it all into one ask because we’d be here all day <3

TAMATOA: What is your antagonist's theme song? (or playlist)

-So a lot of his playlist is based off an event in his backstory that I later removed because it didn’t make sense #oops but here is the link. I think the song that my brain mostly associates with him is poison apple by uncle acid. Somehow my brain decided to associate him with stoner rock <3 OH and also masked jackal by coroner because that’s about being a corrupt politician :D Though honestly he’s not traditionally corrupt in the sense that he bribed people or anything, he just has awful views and policies.

MOR'DU: How are they different from the hero/How are they similar?

-This is such a sexy question because I’ve thought about this in depth in the past. It’s also sexy because Aureus himself isn’t even much of a hero, though of course he is leagues better than most of the characters in this universe. For similarities:

Aureus and Azalea both struggle with morality to some extent, albeit in different ways. In Aureus’ case, it’s a huge deal for him, so much that instead of facing the fact that he was wrong, he instead just changes his moral compass so his actions fit within it <3 Eventually his actions do catch up to him and he can’t rationalize it anymore and he kinda loses his shit and has a breakdown but that’s a ramble for another day and also something that happens post-story. In Azalea’s case, his desire to be right mainly stems from his longing to succeed. If what he’s doing isn’t the correct thing, then wouldn’t that just be failing? Occasionally the thought will come into his mind that he’s not doing the best thing in the world, but he pushes it away because he doesn’t want to deal with it <3 If only this bitch actually self reflected.

They are both very anxious people, but once again the core motivation is different. In Azalea’s case, his anxiety stems from insecurity and the feeling that he’s not, and will never be able to be enough. For Aureus, a major source of anxiety is him being found out for being a spy which is a. pretty obvious one. But another one is he gets overwhelmed with the expectations of life very easily, and he often feels like the world is too fast paced for him. I decided to project my dyspraxia onto him and this is mainly why and wow this is reminding me that I should post a dyspraxreus ramble explaining how it affects him someday ANYWAYS back to the point-

-As for how they’re different…

So this first point is for basic differences. Mainly: Azalea is extroverted while Aureus is introverted, the massive height difference between the two, their conflicting political values, etc etc. uh uhhhh Azalea is outwardly friendly and polite while Aureus can be kind of cold and a bit of a prick sometimes… yeah

Okay so I am losing steam </3 but a lot of their differences are kind of explained in the similarities section since the root of their respective issues are different for each of them

[For Jupiter]

ALIEN: Are they a parasitic, acid-drooling, two-mouthed terror?

-Hi for some reason I misread two-mouthed as unwashed, which he is indeed unwashed a lot of the time however that was not part of the question lol. But yes he is all of these things… and more………….

#my ocs #agent blackthorn #text post #oc info #fenris azalea #jupiter ludwig #this is the first post in his tag and he deserves it because he is cringe and fail #not art #ALSO THIS GOT OUT OF HAND I THINK LOL #I have thought in depth about azalea #I love him but in a throwing him down the stairs kinda way #also i have been tormented by phone calls for the whole day and I worked on this during the downtime epic distraction moment #oh I should tag aureus too bc I talked about them a bit #aureus morozov

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