Archive of Our Own

There was a time when I woke up to a small, empty residence, mute as if all the sound had been sucked out of it. The child I had kept had been quiet, and so had I, and so had been the world at large⁠—or at least it felt as such, as my own speech gradually decayed, eaten away by fleas and rot.

Now, though, I wake up squinting at the sunlight falling directly on my eyes, having forgotten to draw the curtains the night before. Now, I wake up to a distinct mellow quietness still, but it exists alongside something that lives yet, grows day by day.

Now, I wake up to a little gift curled up in my arms, his feet caught around mine, small hands splayed over my chest. I hold and kiss his palms tenderly, before leaning down to kiss his forehead. He does not wake, but that's to be expected; I still have some time with him yet, lounging in bed, basking in a warmth he intakes from me and becomes his own. When he wakes up, his squinted eyes will stare up at me in blurry confusion before reality sinks in and his dreams float to the surface and dissipate; then, he'll smile at me and say "Good morning" with a quick kiss to my lips, and I'll reply in kind by smiling and letting him. I'll whisper, "Your feet are cold" and he'll hum and cuddle closer, strain on the door of my tainted heart, saying, "You're warm as always."

Eventually, he'll slip out of our embrace, ending it prematurely with an apologetic smile, and attempt to fix himself. His dishevelled clothes will pair well with his hair, which sticks out from the back of his head wildly and contrasts with his typical calmness, makes me laugh out loud and has him confused and then bashful, ducking his head to laugh as well. Pops our bubble of sleepy silence and shifts future tense into present, melts it down into the sound of padded feet over tatami mats and wooden floors, trickling water and rustling of clothes, down the short hallways into the kitchen where I cook for him and he waits for me, making mild conversations.

Things like books, and stories, and people, and us. But not about what I've been through⁠—he never asks about that, and I never tell him. In this house that has slowly become a home, I have deliberately left no space to tread upon rain drenched memories and he has, as always, willingly followed along.

Today, he picks at his food; doesn't quite frown but doesn't quite smile either. It's nothing strange by itself⁠—it can be hard, at times, to muster an appetite in the mornings. With my advanced age, it's a cruel truth to have learned and adapted to, somewhat wistful for the days when I could be more wilful and carefree. In regards to him and the present instance, where I doubt it to be a matter such as indigestion, practice tells me to keep quiet and wait, and wait I do.

Calm and level, halfway through our meal he says, "I've been feeling strange lately."

Immediately, I'm alert. My words are soft and slow, lacking the impatience of youth; a habit I picked up over the years. "Strange? How so?"

He hums, having already weighed his words. "A general ache, for the most part... I was wondering if I was catching the flu."

The way he handles his chopsticks is as precise and proper as ever, strange to observe with his physical age, a misplaced nostalgia. There are no bags under his eyes, but he shifts slightly in his seat and is groggier than usual. The tips of his bangs almost enter his mouth, when he bends his head forward. Noticing all of this, I nod absently.

"Depending on where it's stronger, it could be growing pains as well. Would you like me to check?"

He shakes his head, hair brushing across his face lightly as he does. A bit of a trim would be good, perhaps. "Ah, it's fine. It's nothing too terrible, mostly in the mornings."

The arm that had reached out to him almost unconsciously, uncertain of its destination, decides to tuck his hair behind his ear and away from his mouth. Satisfied in an altogether unbecoming manner, I suggest, "Perhaps you've been sleeping at an odd angle, then."

The fine strands settle behind his ear, but I don't retract my hand, resting it instead on the side of his face, cupping the curve of it. He touches it with his own, pressing it to his cheek further, and smiles before replying, unruffled and at ease, "Hmm, it's possible."

For now, we'll let this conversation slip into the back of our minds, apart from an offer to massage him. Later, we'll go out to browse and shop and I'll buy some books for him to make up for his discomfort, because he'll have rejected the massage, not wanting to bother me.

Being able to read him better now than ever before, was a quiet pleasure in its reassurance and in its constriction, a private ease of my own. And while it was a bitter feeling, knowing that I wasn't his Tamamori, the fact that he couldn't read me as easily as he had in the past was a small comfort as well.

That's how I knew, that taking a different approach was a possibility at all.

It was easy. I'd thought of it ever since I came back to this time period, met him again and instead of killing him, spirited him away to live with me instead. Never once had he complained and never once had he asked to go back, nor had he asked what nightmare the future had held, for me to hold him so closely each night and wake up in a panic if he slipped out.

He was the same as ever, unquestioning and unfaltering in his love, under the wing of which I'd find equal parts solace and unfettered anxiety. There was no physicality to our relationship that went beyond chaste kisses, that slowly grew more heated and open-mouthed, him pressing himself closer to me forcefully until he would part first, visible restraint marring his soft face, hazy-eyed. And that was how it had gone, for the past couple of years, 6 turning into 7 turning into 8, pages flipping until he reached the age of 11.

In all honesty, I was content with this⁠—because it's simple and easy, to slip the drugs into the food I make for him each night. And he eats with ease, helps me wash and dry the dishes even as I lightly scold him and tell him to relax and read, instead of helping an old man like me. He shakes his head and pauses, then with a smile bordering on a private joke, says, "If it's about age, then my memories are far older, remember?", a question to which I can give no response beyond a huff of a laugh.

It's only when I sit down to work that he does as well, settling into my lap, his back to my chest. I wrap an arm loosely around his middle, his presence both heavily needed and much welcome as I make edits and give feedback.

I am not a particularly tall man but thankfully, he has yet to hit any significant growth spurt; in this position, I can easily rest my chin on top of his head if I to, for instance. With him not having presented yet, my scent covers his more subtle one to the extent that every breath I take essentially amounts to inhaling myself; light and lacking the heavy musk associated with alphas, a bit sweet but not too much, slightly sharp but not piercing. If I sift deeper I find his, dimmed fresh rain, not yet bearing any particular association with either secondary genders.

Time passes slowly, sedate and calm as always as I work and vaguely think of my memory of his scent, before shutting it away just as quietly. I spot him bringing a hand up to his mouth to stifle a yawn before lifting it to rub at his eyes; the fine flow of my pen dips and pauses, considering.

I call out to him softly.

"Minakami."

"Hmm?" A drowsy response; I resist the urge to pick him up and tuck him in myself, instead thread fingers through his fine hair.

"You seem tired. How about you sleep early tonight?"

"I can stay awake for a while yet, it's too early..." Another yawn, one he swallows down this time. I chuckle.

"There's nothing wrong with resting more. And you..." Keeping my voice level and mellow is hardly a feat, at this point. I'd learned from him, after all. "Well, you're a growing child aren't you? Since I have work to do, I'll come to bed later."

He frowns at that, protesting without any actual force, "But-"

"Shhh." Holding him close in a hug, I kiss the top of his crown before releasing him entirely, hand on the small of his back as encouragement. "Go now, okay?"

With a good-natured huff and a perfectly natural smile, he clambers out of my lap, accidentally hitting his elbow on a bottle of ink that I hastily reach out to grab; doesn't even register the collision as he totters away to our shared room without a single goodnight. It's only the second time I've done this but it seems to work on him much too well, I note with some bemusement as I pick up my pen and continue working, biding my time.

An hour later, impatience and pinpricks of growing anxiety win out. I leave aside the materials to clean up later.

Inside our room, laid out on our futon and having forgone the duvet in his exhaustion, he lies there sleeping on his back, hand curled on his chest. Approaching his prone body⁠—breathing deep and slow, with no chance of waking⁠—I sit down next to him and caress his face. I don't expect him to stir, and he doesn't either, only leans closer to the touch as if seeking out my warmth.

That's probably the case, all things considered. Without anything covering him, he must be feeling a bit chilly, especially with how the temperature falls during autumn evenings like this, reminding one of how close winter is. To prepare for it.

In a similar vein, I have my own preparations. Gently, I pull apart his legs, reaching between them to cup the flower hidden away from plain sight. I trace the seam, a bit mischievous but the contact does not have him reacting in any way⁠—not until I open it up and circle his small nub, light and easy before the actual task, and his motionless limbs jerk, thighs automatically coming together in an attempt to rub or to hide it away from me. I can't tell, since I don't let them, keeping them open with spread knees and continuing to rub at it, noting his unconscious reactions and allowing them to guide me. With his body a blank slate, there is no outright refusal, only the need for patience as it allows itself to feel arousal.

Not too fast. Not too slow either. It should work, hypothetically, but the dry-on-dry contact eventually has him pursing his lips and frowning, and that's enough of an indicator to tell me that today will not be like yesterday, where his wetness had come so easily, possibly aided by a wet dream where I distinctly heard him mumble my real name, one he says so rarely. Remembering it makes me want to lean down and take him into my mouth, lick and taste him properly in ways I never have before, make him come for me that way⁠—

Ah. I hadn't considered that course of action at all, had I? There's no reason to be reluctant about it, I reason, although a part of me laments his lack of conscious awareness as I bring his legs over my shoulders and settle myself neatly between him. Trapped, maybe, by the nature of our beings and by my own sickening desires.

He would allow me this, though. I know he would, just as I know the fond curve of my own smile as I nudge my nose against his underdeveloped sex, a silly nuzzle for a sentimental old man, and take him in my mouth. Here, right here, is where his premature scent was the strongest; untainted and pure, despite the burden of age weighing down on him in his waking and dreaming life.

It is here that I experimentally, not knowing for myself whether this is correct, lick and kiss my way in⁠—no particular taste as there's no particular arousal, no particular reaction apart from a breezy sigh⁠—until my tongue touches a smooth surface and he makes a soft noise. Squirms. Immediately, I do it again, feel around and find for myself that small pebble-like thing.

Lips warm around it, I give it a long suck. His breath hitches, and his scent heightens, and I know, then, that I've found it. With renewed vigor, I use my tongue in as many ways as I can think of, swirling and sucking, whatever gets him to make those soft mumbles and legs close in on me; focus on me, a more immature, buried part of me demands. It's easier to think of these things when his eyes are shut, attention not naturally inclined towards myself, and when my own desire clouds my mind like so; nudging my face closer in when he tries to move away, squeezing his thighs as leverage and continuing to lap away even as it proves mildly suffocating.

"Mm..."

He tries to turn in his sleep, but I hold him in place and he stops moving, just as easily. A mild taste begins to reach my taste-buds, proof of success, and as that occurs, my hand trails closer to his opening.

Yesterday it had been one finger only. Before that, for days, was the practice of getting him used to that one finger, until it no longer was such a foreign and tight fit. Today I start with one and go onto two, stroking his plump lips and gathering that wetness before inserting shallowly, unable to pause my own indulgence in the process. Between my tongue and fingers thrusting in and out, methodical and practiced so as to not hurt him, it doesn't take long for a tremble to overcome his legs, shaking madly as the hold his insides have over my fingers tightens, before he comes with a loud sigh and relaxes, limp and physically exhausted.

In the morning, he will retain some of this tiredness, only to once again brush it off as simply poor sleep, not knowing of what took place. Nights of practice, of intimately introducing his body to sensations that are foreign to it in this life, of familiarizing myself with equally foreign actions and his incredibly precious youth. After all, it had been around this season when 'that' had happened, something I remembered well since back then, 'that' hadn't happened to me yet. And so, having witnessed his pains firsthand before rushing for his parents, and having heard about it from him later⁠—it was all something that I retained, to this day.

Of course, all of this does not mean that I go unscathed. Every time, after I clean and tuck him in, it's time for me to take care of my own neglected, aching problem. Being quick and quiet so as to not disturb him further, sighing in equal parts relief and wistful yearning, just like any other night, I join him and am finally able to rest.

The first thing I do upon opening the door is recoil, sleeve of hakama covering my nose near instantly, just as instinctive as the muffled cry of, "Minakami?" that leaves my lips somewhat tremulously. Such a strong, overbearing scent and it could reasonably only belong to one person, but that shouldn't be possible⁠—and it was too early for anyone to visit, so⁠—

Somewhere, from over the back of the house towards our modest storeroom, I hear a clatter followed by a thud. A low, pained whine resounds, and the alpha in me is quick to respond; without lessening my grip over my packet of tea leaves, bought with him in mind. for me to brew and share between us, I quickly stride forward. The air is as if a light rain dipped in honey, cloyingly sweet, sticking itself to me and attempting to obscure my senses, overwhelm me and settle me down. I press on, privately taken aback. It's earlier than it ought to be, but in hindsight, that may simply be due to my interference in this timeline.

No matter. The desired outcome wouldn't change from this alone.

The smell only grows stronger as I near the source and with my already sensitive nose, my temple soon begins to throb, the effect easily extending to the rest of my body. One step, then another, and then there he is⁠—curled form surrounded by clutter, consisting mostly of old newspapers and books, breathing heavily and arms wrapped around his middle tightly. With sudden fear in my heart, I rush and lean down, holding him up until he's seated on his knees, scanning to see any sign of injury.

Panting and jerking slightly, as if his limbs won't cooperate, he looks up at me with a strained expression. He doesn't ask for anything and lets himself be examined; his small hands in mine burn, forehead feverish to touch. My heart begins to thud in response, but I manage to keep my voice steady.

"Are you alright? What's-"

"There's- Something wrong, I- I think I'm-"

Where his new instincts must be pulling him away from me, warning him of an alpha's presence that he cannot rise to match, he clings to my sleeves and tries not to fall into my arms. In response, I quickly scoop him up, lifting him from the floor where he had collapsed and walk towards the bedroom. His weak alpha pheromones grow stronger in distress and I let off my own in response, more comfort than aggression, and hold him in as much of a consolation as I can, stroking his hair and peppering kisses across his face.

Forehead, eyelids, nose, cheeks. He leans into the touch even as his discomfort grows; he must know what this is as well, must remember it from a previous time, different place. Before he met the younger iteration of me, the original, or me, the future; from another life entirely, he must remember it, just as he remembers everything else. The back of his head cradled in my palm, my lips murmur across his skin.

"It's alright, it's alright."

Chin, ears, corners of mouth, lips. He tries to relax and calm down, only for it to flare up once more, biting the inside of his cheek in misery. I rub his back in understanding.

"I know, I know."

I'd come from the future, so I'd already known when he would present and what he would present as, and had been waiting for the opportune time to test that inevitability, the fault of nature that drew him further away from me. I nuzzle his neck, scenting him in a familiar fashion to soothe him and he relaxes, briefly, before tightening his grip on me again and muffling a cry in his clothes.

It must be painful, and he's so small, it has my heart swelling with unabashed pity. Laying him down on the futon, I tilt his head and capture his lips, kissing him languidly as he thrusts up at empty air, increasingly frustrated. Rather than respond to that, I instead turn my attention towards making quick work of his robes, untying the sash in the middle to loosen them and expose his chest. Eyes squinted enough to look shut, he looks up at me, question on his lips lost as his feverish skin is hit by the relatively cool temperature of the room, sighing in some relief before he winces again, trying to curl into himself.

I don't let him. Holding his arms flat against the futon, he looks directly at me and asks, ignoring his pain for concern towards me instead, "What is it...?"

Lacking a response, I simply give a lidded smile. It's certainly not the first time I've seen him lacking proper cover, but it is definitely the first time for what I'm about to do⁠—which is let go of him to run my hands over it, making him jolt. Warm meeting blazing hot, touching his nipples makes him immediately shuffle to cover himself, shaking his head in fervent denial. I click my tongue in disapproval, carefully prying him off by his wrists, taking a moment to nuzzle the glands there as well. While that relaxes him, I dive down until my mouth's directly above his chest, seeking out his collarbone to kiss and lick.

I feel him take in a shuddery breath to try and ask something, a slight stutter, and before he can I suck deep and hard. Immediately losing his words in the hiss it contorts into, his fingers find themselves clenched in my hair, tugging and trying to pull me off as I hum and licked the purpling mark, tilting my face to peer at him and immediately falling short.

A flush across his face and wide eyes, a rare expression. The last time I'd seen it was the first time I'd leaned down to kiss him properly, both of us breathless but him more stunned, more flustered, considerably happier than my mute relief. In remembrance, I lean closer and he angles his face in kind, anticipating and welcoming a kiss⁠—only to lurch backwards with a strangled cry. His scent informs me briefly of his swirl of emotions before it's rapidly overtaken by another spark of pain, rut intensifying. Flinching, he yanks at my hair in an uncharacteristic manner, and then immediately loosens his grip in apology but he needn't have; I was ready to forgive everything, especially since there's not much else he can do, when so plainly at my mercy.

"S-Sorry, Tamamori, this is just-" Through his haze, his faltering vocabulary is palpable as he halts and attempts again, licking his red lips, wetting them further. What a mesmerizing sight. "I don't think- that we-"

He cuts himself off, gripping the sheets beneath him in an attempt to bear the pain, even as he arches his back and invites turmoil. Namely, my hands snaking upwards from his abdomen to his chest, as I continue to lick and suck at the soft skin and jutting bone of his clavicle; fingers pinching and pressing on his hardened nipples, drawing colour into them.

They're so small, their areola smaller. Inexperienced, I take one in my mouth and roll it with my tongue, his sweat sweet to my tongue and loud keen an audible treat. Hairless and innocent all over, the epitome of a bud that has yet to bloom. I haven't seen many nude bodies personally, but illustrations left plenty for the imagination. That's why, as he all but thrashes under me and yet inclines himself perfectly into my touch, I cup the flat expanse of his chest and think of how his body was undeveloped still, and of how it would develop in all the areas I see fit, and of how he wouldn't even mind. Even now, he does not look at me with hate in his eyes, glazed over want warring with confusion warring with rejection.

And none of these is hate. That's all that matters.

I smile, a glimmer of predation slipping out as I play with his little nubs, dusky pink next to flushed skin. Flicking them, pressing them, observing his reactions and figuring out what was him, underneath all the overwhelming scent of abject refusal.

"Is it nice?" I purr, giving a small lick as if a kitten in search of milk. Something that is not yet possible, but could be, just as how the growing ache in my groin can wait to be satisfied.

He shudders. Shakes his head automatically. Clenches his thighs. Rolls his hips up, and I hold them down with ease, stroking his thighs, the level cadence of my voice not giving away my giddy happiness. "It's all for you, my dear little wife. You'll understand, right?"

Despite having such a terrible time, body fidgeting uselessly and heart beating three times faster than usual, he takes my squeezing of his chest and rubbing of rubbed raw nipples and manages to say, with a shuttered breath, "What do you... Mean?"

It's not a question he should be asking, not when his eyes are reddening from how overwhelmed he is. In lieu of an answer, I mouth his skin once more and slowly, slide a finger inside his puffy pussy, ignoring his swollen clit in favour of tracing his hole, before inserting a finger in shallowly. Knowing my shape, it accepts it greedily, quickly coating it in slick, and immediately, with a gasp, he tries to squirm away from my touch. I grab him by the hips and drive my finger deeper inside, tutting softly.

"It'll hurt more if you fight it. I promise, this is only to make you feel better in the long run."

His tenseness only serves to make his wall clench more tightly around my finger, even as he tries to push me away, protesting mindlessly. I know it to be mindless as he says, "But it- it's not right", and the Minakami I know would not care for such things at all. Naturally, I choose to ignore such an uncharacteristic request, dragging it deeper inside before curling it in the way I know he'll like best, has shown to like it best, under the cover of night and all its blessings.

The jut of his hip presses into my palm further as he immediately, without missing a beat, grinds down on my hand and then, despite visibly startled and bewildered, continues to be unable to stop his bodily responses. I can't help but smile, and in response, he throws an arm over his face to hide away. Musing on how strange and bashful it must be for him, to be in such a position at such a time and unable to properly engage due to biological complications, the second finger slips in with ease without him even noticing.

I can't help but lean closer, pressing him closer to me and licking his neck while pushing the two digits in and out and whispering into his ear, slightly mischievous. "See? I told you it wouldn't hurt."

He flinches away, tips of his ears reddening quickly. "But, it's not- I'm not-"

"Whatever you are or aren't," I slip another finger in with ease, cutting off his protest into a hitched cry, "Don't you think it's too soon to decide?"

A third finger, and he bites down on his lip this time, something that has me leaning in to kiss him instead, something that he returns with the same fierceness as ever, despite the situation. Not a bit of harm should be allowed, least of all from himself. Switching the rhythm from something slow to a faster pace has him struggling harder, pushing away at me even as he continues to push down, seeking more but also less, wanting more but in a different way, not like this. Even though it's perfect for him, rocking and shaking as he manages another finger, and then yet another, until there's four whole fingers fucking him with an ease that he likely knows should not be possible, not so soon and especially not like this.

His attempts to speak are blocked, too, over and over; whether by biting down on his ear, or licking of his neck, dangerously close to his glands before trailing away. And it is to the sound of both of our panting in my ears, the sound of my fingers and his slick, the natural music of our bodies, to which the fifth is inserted, with my lower region hot and straining, pained and needy. A hiss, a momentary lapse and he nearly slips away since in my fervor, I'd grown complacent and loosened my grip.

Unbidden, a growl escapes me and in the second moment, I find my mouth millimetres away from his glands, canines a sharp threat and pheromones an angry cloak, aching to bite down and force him to submit, make him mine if he was going to make such a fuss, suffocate him in my want⁠—

Any and all frenzied thoughts of such a claiming dashed away at the high-pitched whine he lets out, the scent of his distress sour and piercing through my haze. He was shaking, no longer resisting but shaking under me, afraid of my anger and my hate. The shock of such a sight had me immediately reeling myself back in, kissing his glands in reverential apology.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Did I scare you? I'm sorry."

Open-mouthed kisses, licks and sucking, but no biting, not yet. His whines grow higher in pitch but lower in their fear, comforted by my tangible intent in both words and scent. Gradually the taste of his desire increases and he pants, bringing his hands up to cling to my back as I murmur and reinforce my words with more kisses and thrusts of my fist, his slick dribbling down my wrist, smelling potent and sweet like candy around us.

"I love you. I could never hurt you, you're too precious to me." Unmasked adoration spills out as he twitches down on my fist, swallowed wholly by his pussy, clearly confused about what it needs and desires. He doesn't respond beyond a wet gasp, weakly mouthing at what skin of mine is near his mouth before latching onto my exposed clavicle and sucking it, pushing away at my clothing in desperate need. I give a huff of a laugh, loosen my clothes as well as I can with one hand fumbling around.

No dick will be able to be formed at this rate, that is why his instincts rebel against me even as his body accepts me, and that is why patience is paramount. What I am doing is not fulfilling his base desires⁠—he is not an omega, and while he has submitted, he's still not quite there yet. Not where I need him to be.

For that, I need to be the one to push. First, by removing my fist and leaving him gaping and aching, his sucking shifting into outright biting instead, whether in relief or in complaint, and then quickly replacing it with my dick, that I align with his hole and plunge into with ease.

The gasp that escapes me - at how well he takes me in, or at the automatic tightening of his walls, or the myriad of sensations hitting me at once, like yes, this is what I wanted for so long, so much so that it takes all of my willpower not to become undone there and then⁠—they're all lost in the skin of his ear, from the tip to the helix and back again, nibbling it gently and trying to breathe. Likewise, his muffled scream is lost in how his blunt teeth tear into my skin, either leaving deep indentations or drawing up blood, and I wince but only hug him tighter against myself, connecting us further as he vibrates and struggles, my robes slipping and clutched in his fists.

He's kicking, again, weakly as his tears spill and cling to my chest just as he does, just as he did, just as he's trying not to do. His voice is spilling out the same way too, an uncontrollable and unsteady torrent, frantic undercurrent and rising desperation, thumping at my chest with both feeble hands.

"N-No, wait- Tamamori, this feels strange, s-stop-"

And it's not as though I don't hear him. I do. I love him too much to ignore, and that's why his pleas cut off into a cry as I slam into him again, and again, and again, kissing at his collarbone where he bit at mine and licking at his neck like a particularly desperate breed of cat.

"Don't worry," I say pleasantly, if a bit out of breath, "I'll take care of everything."

Over the wet sounds of an obscene coupling and over his own broken voice and struggle, it proves audible still. And he doesn't reply, couldn't even if he wanted to, with how the only sounds from him seem as if wrenched from a wrecked throat, mix of moans and sobs alike. His instincts, worn down by the influx of his wishes and my own pervasive desire, can only shrink back more and more, as he drags his hands away from my front and digs his clipped nails into my shoulder blades, bringing his hips forward to meet me in hopelessly needy plight.

Is he aware, I wonder, of how debauched he sounds? With all his artificial resistance stripped away, this is what lies. It's difficult for me to keep my wits about at the sight and sound of a Minakami that has never been like this before, has had no reason to be, might never be again. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity, and the realization of how precious this sight is and how worthwhile a memory it would become has my breath growing ragged, pulse quickening and burning away within me, an unbearable thing.

With a tearful face that lacks the former pinch of pain and discomfort, he pants for me.

"Hngh, ah, ah- Tama, Tamamori-"

"Haah, yes, yes. Right here." With the back of my hand, I stroke his cheek without pause in my movements. Always here.

I can feel when the hormones of his rut begin to shift and change, affected by his submission and drugs; adopt a more saccharine quality, partially his and partially the newly awakened omega. I feel it in more ways than one, with how he clenches tight around me, trembles violently and comes, body overheated and limp apart from his hips that refuse to stop moving, his mouth seeking mine out in a melting kiss, because he's now in his first heat and the future has been rewritten entirely.

With his pussy fed and kept in place by my knot, I slowly flip our positions until his small, naked and used body is slack and resting on top of me and stroke his head. The mix of our dried release over his thighs must not be comfortable but he leans into me, still trembling, his breaths softer, dreamlike almost. Whining and squirming when my hands lightly grazed over his swollen scent glands, he smells of freshly presented omega, not a single whiff of discomfort in his scent or demeanour.

All that training had been a success. I feel myself relaxing, nuzzling into his hair and asking, as clearly as I can manage, "What are you?"

I can feel him opening his mouth, trying to find the words or mulling over them, wondering. He attempts to lift his face for a moment, exhaustion dragging him down only to uselessly mouth at my chest instead. To help him out, I brace him up slightly, seated on my cock still; he slumps forward now, panting from the exertion and the sudden sensation. Caressing his soft and warm cheek, I coax him into looking at me properly. His hair is as askew as when he wakes up from sleep, drool at the corners of his mouth more foreign, and it brings a smile to my face unbidden before I settle myself again, stroking his inner thigh.

I'd given him enough hints. If he didn't answer the way I needed him to, then we would simply continue this until he did. Again I ask, passive and gentle, hand having fallen to the side of his neck, tenderly cupping his torn skin and permanent mark. "What are you to me, now?"

The blue of his hooded eyes gleams brighter than ever, shimmering and slightly lost, dried tear tracks leaving salty trails on his flushed face. He tilts his heavy head, coughs, and finally finds his voice.

"... Yours." His arms, hanging uselessly at his sides, twitch. He can't brace himself like this, but it's alright, since he has me. Sensing the alpha in me trilling, he continues, murmuring his words as if through a fog and unconsciously tightening his hold over my cock, semen and slick alike dribbling out in the process. Such a lewd sight, for my eyes only. My softening dick hardens again and his breath hitches, child-like hands coming to cover his lower stomach with a low whine, his lashes like a fluttering dark curtain.

I don't move, not wanting to cause him needless distress. And so, after a brief pause where he struggles to catch his breath, he presses on, a trembling edge to his voice. "Always yours... Alpha." Saying that, he hiccups suddenly. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes once more and he brings his arms up as if to hug, and with my own eyes widening in alarm, I gingerly reposition him to lie on my chest once more, his tears soaking through my hakama onto my chest, seeping into my heart.

I would worry, but the overflowing wave of an aching devotion permeating his sweet scent, unanswered for so long, was enough. His arms, wrapping themselves around and rocking, whether intentionally or unintentionally, on my dick was enough too. Holding his fragile self tightly in my arms, I respond with reassurance and love of my own, no promises escaping my lips beyond that of kisses on his weeping face.

This is a celebration of its own. After all, my omega loves me deeply, weakly marks his alpha in return, stubs of teeth shakily piercing my skin as he all but loses consciousness once more, drooling anew on my shoulder as I fuck his loose and leaking hole just a bit more, slowly and steadily. Through the haze of our swirling and melding emotions, tilting his head to kiss his tears away and suck his tongue, wet kisses from nose to chin to the side of his neck, nipping at his mark, startling him awake for a second only, where he looks at me as if it's the first time and smiles so lovingly⁠—

And gently, of course. All of this, so gently; even the act of knotting him again, so sudden and unceremonious, is gentle. Even the way his eyes flutter close once more, content and blissful as I change our position to take him from behind, this time, is gentle. We have all the time in the world, now that he is well and truly mine.

I'd make sure of it.