Chapter Text
Cuts, Claws & Corruption
Heaven and hell were just words to Pete before Vegas, now absolute.
As all things white - stained crimson or ocean-depth black and blue.
He was consumed.
At this point, why tame the demon, when you can keep him on a leash to wield?
Pete had never had much luck in life. He’d felt – growing up – as if he was walking through life in a field of landmines. Even as a child he could discern the macabre silence and forlorn dead look that precedes deeply troubling news within a moment after it appears. Bringing heartache and a burning throat.
Came to anticipate it on his toes.
Duhkha.
He grew up, it got worse, then much better.
He learnt how to deal with it through meditation in the serenity of a temple, living based on the golden mean. He learnt how to fight – well so. He made it his profession. He fed himself and his grandma, keeping them both along with his childhood friend as safe as he could. Like a shield. Or a shepherd, leading the flock through treacherous terrain and protecting them from harm.
Then he got picked up on Korn’s radius and a pack-life in luxury followed.
He learnt how to love. The kind of love that contained no expectations, no dependency.
The carbonic acid bubbling deep in his chest slowly dissolved.
The definition of comfort became: falling asleep in Tankhun’s bed during drama-nights, a green facemask staining the white sheets washed with honey-smelling detergent, waking up the next day getting scolded only for the omega to forget it five minutes later, stretching out like a cat in Pete’s lap. Then doing things Pete probably really should put a stop to. Like making twenty other bodyguards put on a fashion show with a mythical creature theme. Pol in a fairy costume was glorious, Tankhun was ecstatic, clapping and shouting ‘OH! OH-HO! FLY! FLY LITTLE GLITTERY TEETH SNATCHER! ’ Comfort became discussing Buddhist philosophy with Pol, technology with Arm and fightsports with Kinn, enveloped by the wooden aroma from his lit fireplace. All of Porsche was comfort.
Finally, contentment. The pack felt like grass being green, like the sun rising in the east.
He was like a plant growing in fertile soil, flourishing and thriving with ease and vitality.
Yet he thinks someone must have cursed him tenfold that fateful day in may everything changed. The rug was pulled out from under him, and underneath was a hundred meter drop into molten lava.
It was a tuesday, and late. The mood lighting made him feel warm and cozy. He was simply walking the corridors of the pack residence as any other day, well… more like running.
Him, Arm, Pol and Tankhun were playing a game of tag. Childish, yes. But with four, *cough*, ‘aehhm three’ people trained in any kind of fighting sport you could imagine, a better description would be – childishly exhilarating. Admittedly, they were being excessive with their backflips over the modern furniture, constantly rolling around, jumping off walls and breaking what was most likely ridiculously expensive artwork, oops – and… Pete’s personal favorite – curtain swinging.
They usually kept away from Kinn’s and Korn’s part of the building for obvious reasons. He'd just gotten away from Arm by literally jumping from the railing of the second floor’s overpass looking over the main lounge – towards a newly installed modern chandelier, grabbing it and swinging onto the hallway bridge across the overpass.
“You are out of your mind, PETE! That’s like three floors high a fall!" Arm was astonished.
“Impressive right?”
“You fall, then boom – brain matter everywhere! Think of the cleaners, god,” he chastised as he inched towards the stairs to the second floor. “It’s also super expensive.”
“It’s bolted.”
“Not against your fat ass,” Pol chimed into their earphones.
Pete gave him his best look of disgusted disbelief.
“Sorry! What I meant was your… voluptuous behi-”
“EEIIYY, Pete! Yeah! Don’t listen to mr. shoulders, heads and toes! Show off the acrobatic lessons papa paid for!” A mad cackle followed.
Tankhun was running around in his red bodysock thing fashion- eh whatever, knees jumping up into the air like a chicken, his fingers doing constant little hair flicks, because that's how the drama queen runs. Also clapping and giggling like a child.
Pete couldn't help but laugh along, it was infectious. Pete had been so awkward when he first came here, stumbling over sirs , mrs and ah wha- what?s , a total nervous wreck. Thankfully, Tankhun’s complete lack of apprehension regarding personal space along with appropriate words and actions – quickly threw that out the window. More like pushed it through a high force compactor.
“Oh? What are you guys-? Let go of the damn light fixture Tarzan.” Ken was there as well, lovely . Sounding very indignant.
The beta was leaning onto the wall leading into the hallway on Pete’s left, arms crossed over his chest with a highly disapproving look directed towards Pete. “I will tell Chan about this,” he spat.
My father will hear about this , Pete thought derisively.
“Ah, eh.. Ken.” Pete tried to placate the man with one of his blinding smiles but unfortunately Ken was one of the few people who his charm had zero effect on. Figures, how that beta got a whole tree trunk up his ass was a mystery. Probably was the type to stretch his arms out when holding a baby, as far away from his body as possible. Like it would bite.
“What are you guys? His protection detail or his kiddy daycare playmates? It’s pathetic .”
Grinch.
“They are whatever I want them to be, whenever I want them to be, HUH ,” Tankhun dismissed with certainty. He stopped in front of the bottom of the stairs, staring up at Ken, delivering an eccentric coat flip and jutting his hip out, superwoman pose. Daring the beta to challenge the mentally unstable former heir to the pack.
Pete knew they were Tankhun’s protection detail, obviously. He’d simply currently delegated the actual job of protecting to Pol whilst Arm and Pete kept Tankhun busy enough to not want to watch fourteen hours of some drama where the lead is pregnant with some demon-daddy’s baby.
Out of the corner of his eye, Pete had seen Arm slowly inching towards the stairs as well like the slithery little snake he was.
The same second the beta made a mad dash, Pete was off.
Running into the hallway on the right, away from Ken seemed like the right choice. He almost ran down someone else whilst looking over his shoulders for his chaser. A form flashed in the corner of his eye, in front of him. Last second, he’d jumped high towards the wall, using the momentum to kick himself off it, landing in a summersault to minimize the pressure and continuing running, panicky. He heard a woman's choked shriek.
“Ah, shi-, sorry!” Pete quickly turned his head whilst sprinting and bowed the best he could, doing some kind of ancestor of the wai before continuing much to the bewilderment of the woman, with a hand pressed over her heart.
Presumably an assistant. Those got switched out all the time. It’s fine , he concluded.
He'd told Pol and Arm that whoever wasn't chasing needed to stay on top of Tankhun like a hawk. Childish games aside, Pete didn't fancy having to explain to one of the biggest mafia-bosses in the world how they lost the person they were hired to protect during a game of tag . They wanted to actually keep their jobs after all.
And heads.
After several turns, Pete reached a dead end. He could hear tipper tapper footsteps slamming against the polished wooden floors, quickly approaching from behind. Backtracking, he flashed his keycard across a censor to open a fire exit. It slammed shut. Not really considering his actions, Pete continuously grabbed a hold of the railing either side of the stairs and flung himself down to the next flight, swiftly leaping from stairs to stairs until he reached the basement.
“Where did you go Pete – pspsps come here little kitty…” Arm belted out. “Oh, what’s that? Is that… Is that a titanium gold desert eagle. 440 cor-bon? Wha- Where did that come from?”
Pete laughed as he heard Arm’s voice come from his earpiece. He could hear the fake astonished gape in his voice. Trying to entice him with the most powerful Semi-automatic handgun in the world, dirty, dirty tactic.
“...”
“Wow. You really are like a cat Pete…” he paused before whispering, “not responding at all.”
Pete huffed with a little headshake, sporting a gummy smile. He’d fallen into the dumb trap – expecting Arm to say that he always landed on his feet.
“If I’m the cat, are you the mouse?... you do look like those naked rats.”
“Not a smart thing to say to someone who could plant a… questionable digital trail on you… oh, what’s this in Pete’s search history? ‘ How to make a homemade fursuit? ’ Oh pete… a secret feral-chaser.”
Tankhun’s high toned voice mutedly came through, “OH! I want a fursuit! Me!... What’s a fursuit?”
“Good luck with that Arm, serves you right.”
“No actually… If Pete had a tail, I’m telling you, that thing would be swishin constantly. ‘swish swish’ Such a wonder that badonkadonk doesn’t wear you down.” Pol’s static voice said singsongingly. His earpiece even picked up on Tankhun’s amused shriek. “But really…-” He whispered, “-come back before he actually orders a fursuit thinking it’s innocent and we have to explain it to Kinn.”
Ah… Pete nervously grit his teeth around his smile.“I’m on it.”
The turns never seemed to end, a maze.
Maybe he was the rat.
Well… he was certainly trying to assemble enough good karma to not be reborn as one.
He didn't know this area, probably for a good reason, he really shouldn't have been down there at all. He’d felt the same as he did as a child, when he’d lost track of time and had to walk home from the playground without his best friend, through dark alleyways late in the evening, sprinting between the occasional streetlights.
It was so quiet.
Trying to navigate the web-like concrete hallways down in the basement wasn’t easy. Figuring he'd walk to the other side of the basement, towards the garage and use the private elevator there to get back to tailing Tankhun whilst still successfully avoiding Arm like the plague that he was.
That idea came to be just about as practical as a chocolate teapot.
He’d walked around the next corner blind, eyes trained behind him to make sure Arm wasn’t following. The beta wasn't fast but he was damn nearly deadly silent like a rat (not naked though) whenever he approached with that too knowing expression on his face, contrasting Pol’s ‘ what’s happening, help ’ expression. They were all trained to be invisible after all.
When Pete turned his sight forward again, he froze .
As if stuck in quicksand, slowly sinking as the panic rises.
He’d forever remember this as the moment when the caterpillar became a butterfly, the moment the clock struck midnight. He could have sworn he heard a flipped coin landing, clinking against the concrete.
The only reason he was insightful enough to move at all – could be credited to muscle memory alone. He smoothly and swiftly aligned himself to blend into the shadows in the corner, hidden behind a wide concrete pillar. Like a rat scurrying into its hole.
Through extensive training he analyzed his surroundings on autopilot. The room itself was that of a huge cement box, roof high and held up by six evenly placed big pillars.
Like a cage.
The room was clearly being used for storage. Junk was lining the edges of the room. Including that round fountain feature in the shape of a globe that Tankhun broke last month when he tried to ‘ get on top of the world ’. It had almost rolled over several people like some kind of game of death-bowling. Half a second later, he realized all of the objects were covered in clear plastic, warning bells rung out. Another half a second had him cataloging the abundance of carpets, blankets and pillows. Those didn't look like they belonged here, they looked way too evenly placed. Purposely added, not scattered… which usually meant… Noise canceling .
Only two exits, he’d noted. The one that he came in from – and one right behind the very reason he’d momentarily frozen in his step.
And that sight was gruesome .
This was a painting made by a macabre artist, past unsettling imagery.
There was a man with loose skin and thinning gray hair – maybe in his sixties. He would resemble any other older business man – if not for him being bare chested and hanging .
No… more like dangling , from a meathook .
Cognate to a butterfly pinned to a board.
Appallingly, the pointy end of it was sticking far out from the man's right shoulder, metal gleaming in the light. Lacerations painted his chest in the form of deep clawing stripes. Like he’d been mauled.
There were things… no , not things. Body parts , he perceived.
Agnate to sacrifices in a demonic ritual, parts belonging to the man had been ripped out and scattered around him. Teeth, fingers, toes, nails, a kidney Pete figured. The red splotches covering the buffet made it hard to tell. It could have been a lung if the guy wasn't still alive and breathing, or well… spasming. His chest was rising and relaxing, though quickly and very unevenly.
Whoever scattered them, possessed no regard for the value of a human life. For the consciousness belonging to another being.
Growing up, Pete had once known a child – a classmate who'd nauseatingly clipped the wings from a bird in the middle of the playground. This was such a child grown up.
“Ah, nah no no no , why are you trying to leave the party early? Did I say you could fucking die ?”
Pete cursed himself for jumping out of his skin at the scorning voice. He hadn't seen nor heard the other man, the sight of him obstructed by another large pillar. Still, Pete was praised for having the very epitome of nerves of steel. To be startled…
Time was slowing down and the world – turning sluggish. Blurry around the edges. Focusing his thoughts took actual effort. And his limbs were heavy, had they always been this heavy? He shifted to adjust to his new center of gravity… leaning onto the pillar, bent like a plant in desperate need of water.
The man who'd spoken wore a clear raincoat over what Pete – despite the horrible lighting, could discern as a half unbuttoned black velvet shirt with glittery silver patterns… and silver rings? Right.. because who said you couldn't debase your humanity in style ?
Long slender fingers t hat slapped the old man’s unconscious cheek.
The room was overall dark, though one of the old chandeliers had been hung up in a makeshift way with thick ropes crossing like spider webs. Similar to a halo, it lit up the scene from above. Beneath it, some kind of oriental rug, probably expensive – undoubtedly a waste to bloody it.
To the right of what this man considered no more than a dangling sack of meat, now stood the torturer with his back to Pete, by a plastic covered table. The table was covered in bloody equipment and fingerprints. Pete could faintly pick up on a pair of pliers, several knives, pokesticks, a saw, a torch. There was some kind of machine as well.
The torture was exessive, beyond so. Based on the coloring around the wounds, the torturer had purposely started off small. Little cuts that grew into burns – that became plying of a fingernail that later progressed into a whole finger, then teeth, organs and lastly brutal slashings. The blood around the hook was fresh.
All of a sudden, the man turned. Alpha , Pete noted.
Red was flickering, bordering on glowing from his eyes.
Demon.
The glowing was a clear sign that this man was beyond mentally unstable, his emotions unmanageable. Or maybe he simply didn’t want to restrain them. As if that wasn't enough of an indication, Pete could see the alpha’s ears ending in pointy ends. That's rare , a trait that was for the most part bred out centuries ago. Red eyes were rarer .
Devil.
The alpha ventured further into the light.
The expression this alpha wore gave away so many different emotions that Pete couldn't even name them before they passed, like cars blurring past at night on the highway.
This alpha was… eerie …
And fucking beautiful , etherall .
Pete was astonished.
Cherry red blood splattered across his face, running down full lips, chin, chest into velvet. Between fingers, and dripping onto the carpet. Silver rings and further down, claws that were dragging hair-strands back from obscuring his sight.
He was attractive, undoubtedly.
Prominent cheekbones, tall, muscular. Narrow and sinister dark eyes flickering red and he was eminently dangerous. Nothing short of cruel. To Pete, it could be felt. In the way the alpha held himself, could even be tasted in the air.
He resents, is nothing but disgusted by the part of himself that's bewitched by it all. Normal people, good people on the path to nirvana – aren't attracted to violence. Good people don’t romanticize a torture scene nor the torturer.
Good people can distinguish between attractive and dangerous.
He forced himself to snap out of it. He was good.
The alpha was holding something in each of his hands as he confidently walked up to the dangling man with a smirk on his face. Pete could feel himself starting to sweat. How come they crank up the heat up in the goddamn basement ?
“Wakey wakey, baby.”
The alpha placed the objects on the old man’s chest. Pete heard the bee-buzzing sounds of high voltage electricity previous to the man starting to convulse terribly and Pete flinched at the bloodcurdling scream that followed. Needles might as well have been poking into his brain. He could taste TV-static, even the colors.
The alpha yanked the man's hanging head up by his hair.
“Oh, there you are. Did you think we were done, huh ?” He laughed mockingly, The alpha tilted his own head and blinked slowly, smiling and pushing his tongue against his side teeth between words as he spoke into the man's ear, clearly amused. “Not before you decide to be a good boy and answer my little question, truthfully this time would you.”
His voice burned like rum on a fire.
The man continued letting out little hitched painful screams. In response – the alpha growled loudly .
Pete’s neck started itching, no – stinging.
“Oh my god , SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
That was a flinchingly quick switch from amused to utterly vexed.
The red eyed demon snarled and dropped the last handle of the defibrillator, it boomed mutedly against the carpet. A bruising hold was taken by the old man's jaw, tilting his head up.
Before Pete could analyze it further, his knees wobbled. Actually wobbled , like a baby deer on wet and slippery ice.
Then came the pain.
Someone, something , maybe evil itself, was tugging and slashing at the organs in his lower abdomen. The pain radiated out through his limbs, toes curling.
He had to physically dig his nails into the cement pillar so firmly they almost snapped off, just to keep upright. To not alert the alpha, to not make a single sound. Pete had previous extensive training on how to stay composed, how to listen and fight at the same time. How to keep awareness of all senses and all surroundings at all times. To survive.
How to still fight, even when riddled with bullet holes.
In the kind of pain that made you half monster.
And now awareness and strength was seemingly slipping between his fingers similar to time, because of nothing ?
Had he been drugged?
May- no, wait… he hadn’t eaten.. coffee? No, no one in the compound had the motive, and the place was a fortress.
The room started swinging back and forth, he was a pendulum and his eyesight just wouldn't focus. He was floating, spinning and vibrating.
His abdomen ached .
And he could hear everything .
Water dripping, pipes shifting, the uneasy sound of his own nails scratching against cement, car tires screeching and burning from the garage on the other side of the basement. He could hear Tankhun’s yarring laugh from hundreds of meters above.
Most of all, he could hear the alpha.
He could hear him breathe, lick the blood of his lips, cracking his knuckles and the cracks were gunshots . He could hear when plastic moved against velvet that moved across muscle and bone.
“I swear this fucking family and their dirty fucking laundry that they make us take out. Do I look like the garbage man, huh ?” He humorlessly laughed.
“...”
“ANSWER ME.”
“N-no.”
"You hesitated."
The alpha snarled, annoyed maybe. At the man, Korn or the world – Pete couldn't tell.
The demon moved quickly, lopsided, making his way back to the table and picking up something indistinguishable. Plastic crinkled and stuck to sticky bloody fingers.
“S-stop, stop. Please, I have children… I can't talk, those people – they'll k-kill me" The old man's voice sounded hoarse, lethargic and shaking, full of painful stuttering and moans as he tried to keep still on the hook.
“What do you think this is, a fucking date?” He turned slowly with a smile, leaning against the table in nonchalance. “The fuck do you think I'm doing?”
"They'll kill my children also, my mate .”
"And what exactly is it about your current predicament that makes you think I won't kill everyone you've ever met ? Do you think I’m a considerate… hangman?" He scoffed amusedly.
In the next movement, Pete could smell .
Nothing – no amount of training nor experience on the street, nothing – could have prepared him for that .
It was intoxicating.
Maybe the alpha lit a cigarette. Maybe the defibrillator had fried skin. Maybe he’d summoned hellfire.
It smelled like a burnt out match.
The smoke in his nose reminded Pete of when he’d visit the temple with his grandma as a child to pay grievances. Of home .
Smokey, spine chilling, sinister.
The smell demanded reverence.
It was changing… ever so slightly, the burning scent was getting heavier just as the alpha seemed to have lost his hunger for torture.
Gasoline .
Anxiety started bubbling up. Burning people alive isn’t a great interrogation technique. Was the devil really going to bring hellfire into the pack home?
Pete snapped his head up as it lulled. He’d almost fallen asleep.
Focus . He dug sharp nails into his thigh, biting against the pain.
Blurry red and yellow light, small suns and burning planets floated by the moving blurry figures. Long ago, late at night when Pete would fall asleep in the back of his grandma's car, neon signs and stop lights, citylife was floating by.
“You’re all the same, you know… typical fucking though alpha bullshit. Even my most disappointing minion found you within a week, did you know?... First comes the self-restraint, the resolution to silence. Then starts the screaming, withering, begging for scraps. And you all whisper about me being the animal,” he scoffed, “and in the end… every, little, birdy, sings .”
Pete had never heard such malice embodied in any voice.
His eyes finally focused. No cigarette, no gasoline, no hellfire.
Just a demon.
“You.. ah..you don't have to do this, you don't . You can claim.. ah, claim I ran away, I won't tell. I swear on my mates life – I won't tell anyone . I'll.. ah..I'll, I'll never speak again.”
The alpha laughed, a bright, loud chuckle. He swaggered back towards the hook and didn't pause until he stood a hairwith away from the man's face.
“You are preaching to the devil. My brother is the one you meet when negotiations are to be had. Me… me you meet solely when you're hanging from the ceiling in chains or hooks, dirtying the carpet with blood… or other things.” His tone demanded submission.
Seconds of silence passed.
“My pack will kill you when they find out.” The man sounded more assured, maybe accepting his fate. Through the haze, Pete mindlessly noted that whatever expression the alpha had on or did, it had made the man change tactics.
Clawed fingers grappled around the man’s throat in an instance. “Just one little snap and it’s tudelu.”
“I liked you a lot better when you hated everyone and refused to cooperate.”
“Oh, I still do. I just love that they need me – and my expertise,” he singsang with a haunted Cheshire grin, taking out the knife from behind his back and waving it on display.
Abruptly, the smell of freshly baked cinnamon buns invaded Pete’s senses.
Mouthwatering.
Burnt match. Gasoline. Cinnamon buns.
Not overbearingly smokey, spicy nor sweet.
If anything, these scents shouldn't go together, they should be irreconcilable.
They're not. At all.
Not heavy, not abrasive but alluring… seductive.
Wha- what?
Pete was having a stroke. He was certain. He simply smelt burnt cinnamon buns instead of toast.
Lethargically, he waved cold air into his face – trying to simultaneously cool himself and get the distracting smells out of his head. The static in his ears faded to voices. He’d blinked and time seemed to have sped by.
The old man’s life was being squeezed out his throat. “Yeah yeah, sure . So predictable, tedious, dull, lifeles -“
The alpha snapped his head in the direction Pete was hiding so quickly the bones in his neck cracked.
“…”
Everything moved as if in slow motion. He was a feather suspended in midair.
The alpha's eyes were searching and searching, now fully red.
Seconds that went on forever. Hell embodied.
Pete knew he was out of the alpha’s line of sight – he’d made sure of it specifically. He also hadn't made a single sound.
What gave him away?
What- Ugh- eh- What else-
… Smell?
Before Pete could even question his own actions, he was pulling out the bottle of scent-blocking spray he carried around for the rare days when Tankhun wasn't in the mood to be the center of attention. When stares made him insecure rather than prideful. Those days were cloudy rainy gray days. Those were days where he wanted to wrap Tankhun up in a blanket and protect him from every dark desire in this world.
Pete took advantage of the hanging man’s throat letting out a painful broken sound under clenched fingers to shakingly unscrew the spray-attachment and dump the liquid on top of himself. He sputtered out the drops that entered his panting mouth.
Then he waited, as alert as his condition let him be.
Fear was crawling up like a spider along his spine and his heart was in his throat.
Through the haze, the demon seemed utterly dazed.
Breathing in big gulps of air, panting and swallowing. He appeared confused… no, no he looked like… like Tankhun when he’d catch them in a lie, eyebrows drawn together.
Pete felt like prey. Like a deer freezing in the eyesight of a panther. Hoping the high grass disguises him. Knowing he’s never come closer to death. Even when bullet-riddled.
Almost thirty whole seconds went by before Pete could see him turning his head back slowly, blinking rapidly prior to shaking his head harshly as if to clear it. Disoriently, he went back to the table. Metal was clashing, thick plastic rustling…
Oh, that was a drill.
The old man must have been just about conscious enough to register what the alpha had picked up.
“Y- mh -You've gone, ah, insane .” Now there was real, palpable fear exhibiting from the man's expression.
“YES, YES I HAVE! ” The alphas jaw was shaking and eyes fully red.
“Wha- what-t ah - what happened to you? You were such a sweet child. Is your father driving this? K-korn? We can help you, my pack. You- ugh - you don’t have to follow your dad's orders-s. You don't-t have to k-kill and intimidate.”
“I’m not some fucking dog or their little pet mercenary!... People quake with fear because I have the power to make them afraid!” Pete could see the alpha once again grabbing ahold of the man's hair, this time standing behind him, harshly yanking the head back to an unnatural degree. “Congratulations, my patience has finally run the fuck out. You’re gonna tell me which ever corner of hell the bitch fucked off to, or… you get lobotomized. Easy choice in my opinion.” His lips visibly graced the ear he was speaking into. Bile rose in Pete’s stomach. The alpha sounded bored.. no, almost absentminded.
Worst of all, he kept glancing in Pete's direction, searching as if he was putting on a twisted magic show . A child saying: look what I can do .
And then came the desire .
Pete wanted .
Pete wanted to be painted in red and blue fingerprints. Gasoline burning, consuming them.
Neck prickling, aching to be beared.
He was desolte . Empty and aching.
As a white piece of paper, a desert wasteland. He wanted to be colored in, filled. Filled to every inch, to the very brim, by the alpha before him and all of his madness. It was a need . Not a whim.
This – surely, could be compared to reaching nirvana.
The imprint of those teeth should be buried deep, viscously piercin-
Oh … oh-oh no. NO. Nonononono.
Pete needed to get out of here.
Run. Sprint. Now.
No wait, stay .
Biting through his lips trying not to make a sound, his head was in disarray. The sweat was forming, dripping down his temples, his nails chipping against cement. His breathing changed to a higher frequency. Worst of all – the pain was becoming unmanageable. Stabbing, thrashing… lacking.
And limbs as weighty as iron.
Skittish as a gazelle, he came to the conclusion that he could become unresponsive, in the same room as a… as a panther ravenous.
A dragon that covet body-parts instead of things glittery and shiny.
Whirring aloud, the drill fired off and the alpha looked down upon his handiwork.
It took every fragment of strength Pete had in his entire body and soul to – in that moment vault into a roll from the pillar to the hallway, where he once again was painted inconspicuous by the shadows.
Something was growing stronger in him – and it was hysterical that he was leaving. Thrashing and screaming like a toddler who’d lost its parents in a crowd. Hysterical that he wasn't staying to indulge in the show. To star. To bear his neck.
“OKAY OKAY, I'LL TALK! STOP! STOOOP!...” The man's voice was fading as Pete quickly moved back towards the stairs in which he came from. Every step tested his self restraint, bones grinding like faulty door hinges. He closed his eyes for just a second.
“She's in the Blue Surin hotel! They’ve set up fort in the penthouse, inpenetreb-“
And then there was an echoing gunshot.
He doesn't remember how he got up to his room. Just palms grasping cold metal railing as if his life depended on it and the sounds of heavy doors closing. Once there, he instinctively pressed the button on his earpiece.
He didn’t know what to say, just breathing.
“...Pete?”
“Arm, Pol…” His voice cracked, evidently shaky. “I’m sick, threw up in the hallway. I'll call in Porsche to replace me.” Since his training, he's never had to school himself nor his emotions until now.
“Ew! Which hallway?... Wait, you seemed fine just now, are you okay?” Pol was an angel.
“Probably just nausea from playing Tarzan, serves you right.” Arm was the devil. No wait, the devil’s in the basement.
“Don't worry Pol, I'll be back to playing twister with the rest of you in no time” Pete gave his everything to try and imitate his naturally animated tone.
“Did he say twister? Right? EH! He said twister? Eeeeeh, yes! The board! Pol! Get, come on! What are you waiting for? You’re getting older… oh! Also face masks-”
Pete could hear Tankhun screeching from glee in the background, echoing over both intercoms.
“If you don't die from the nausea I'll convince Tankhun you'd look really pretty as a disney princess… I just remembered this little fairy godmother never got his sweet-tooth revenge.” Scratch that, Pol was worse than the devil.
Pete willed his fingers to send a text to Porsche, letting him know Pete was indisposed.
He threw off his earpiece along with all of his clothes. Being sunburnt didn't hurt like this, scolding. He was warm. Sweltering. Blood sizzled in his veins. He was sweating profusely and filled with a fiery anxious feeling. He’d rather have laid on top of the hot coal in the sauna. He couldn't stand the fabric scratching across his skin like sandpaper.
No… he was downright grieving .
He had lost a part of himself tonight and gained one he’d cut off if he could.
The loss of always being able to administer one's very own nature, to not succumb to instinct – is like that of a limb .
This was a chapter of his life he never wished to have been written. To have been sowed from birth and now reaped. It hurt. It’d left him battered. It was tormenting.
Salty liquid graced his taste buds. It was accompanied by burning eyes and stinging, wrecked little whimpers traitorously escaping his throat.
His lower abdomen was being kicked in. It shouldn't hurt like this…
Pete sprinted, legs shaking, into the bedroom and almost threw the bedside drawer across the room in his search for Porsche’s suppressants. He cut his hand on something sharp as he frantically searched yet barely noticed and clutching the packet in his hands once he found it, as if it was made of gold.
Knees folded.
Collapsing on the carpet, face screwing up in pain, Pete swallowed them all, every, single, pill. He’d replace them later, he'd have to remember.
The room was spinning, his upper body was so heavy. The world suddenly tipped forward and became scratchy, feeling like abrasions caused by weaved cotton.
Pete vaguely recalls how he brought his fingers up to his scent gland on the right side of his neck. Preparing himself for the familiar feel of fingers against the rough patch of skin. The oily slippery surface felt like defeat. His fingers slipped down to the carpet, smearing glandoil across spun wool.
Bringing his knees up under his chin, he rocked himself back and forth against the carpet and finally allowed himself to let out soundless and so very painful, broken wretched sobs.
He’d felt – as if he was a vase, a pot filled to the brim with burning liquid – and sharp cracks were arising across his surface, yet all they did was to cut him, and lead eclectic currents through his entire surface, pulsing as the scorching liquid never ran out.
He subconsciously let out wanting whimpers. Come .
Why wasn't he here?
Why had Pete not gotten down on his knees in front of him, in deference to hell, begging to be burnt in sugary cinnamon.
The tears streaked horizontally across his skin, running past his nose bridge then cheek, dripping onto his hand clutching the carpet. Nose snotting.
…Heat .
He’d finally taken the fact into admission. He was in heat… maybe. No … but yes. Being an omega wasn't surprising, yet it was simultaneously unfathomable ...
But… he should be more aroused, right ? He should be overflowing with sexual desire. Other than the unabridged need to submit to the alpha in the basement. Why was it slowly tipping over into unadulterated agony? He’d wondered if the torture he’d just witnessed could even compare.
There is no greater shame in presenting.
It is simply an inevitable part of life for those born with the genetic predisposition of a certain designation. A greater, braver and more progressive world has been built upon the shoulders of understanding and sensitivity.
So then why does self-pity feel like the campsite of self-defeat.
Smoky.
-
Pete woke up sometime much later on the carpet, groggy.
The whole world was being balanced on a boat out at sea, going back and forth along with the wind. It was night, starlight shone in from outside the window, little dots of light against black night sky, beautiful. Even from Pete's view upside down.
The indescribable ache had, during his time unconscious – finally weighed over into unbridled lust. That was fine, it was doable, lust was manageable. Stereotypical to presenting. He had never been so relieved by normality. Sobs of remedy were muted by carpet. He much preferred mindless pleasure to throes and drumming pangs.
Pete closed his eyes and tried to ignore the vertigo. He got up slowly, raising his upper body to lean against the bed. Soft, he’d thought whilst rubbing his face into the cold sheets. He’d forced himself to crawl towards the bedside table, to the best of his ability – clean up the absolute mess he'd made during his desperation. Then he got into bed, finally sinking beneath the duvet, if you asked him, they’d been replaced by silky clouds.
His fingers trailed under the duvet, down his stomach until he reached his cock with a sigh.
Mentally, he analyzed the situation. The alpha..
Pete gulped.
The red eyed alpha.
Pete hadn't belonged to the major-pack long. He spent a year in training – learning the ins and outs of the operation as well as getting familiar with Tankhun, building up trust – which involved a lot of trust falls – or more accurately dramatic fake faintings. Only a few months had passed since he was officially assigned as Tankhun’s head bodyguard. Yet he had heard of someone with red eyes – whispered, gossiped somewhere, everywhere . Someone who provoked low fearful tones, someone of importance. That much he remembered. Along with how much Tankhun really didn’t like ‘ the red eyed Satan spawn ’, or… eh, something of that sort. He’d considered it a metaphor.
He probably hadn't seen Pete, but he’d smelled him as clear as day.
He must have.
Pete sped up his hand, body going taunt in pleasure and neck straining back against the pillow.
There was no way Korn didn't know that a man was being tortured in the pack-residence.
Pete knew that Korn had methods to extract information from those unwilling to talk. He didn't know that it was this… utterly uncontrolled. This was the opposite of clean. Pete had clearly walked in on something he was never supposed to have witnessed. Few people were let in on this dark and decrepit side of Korn’s business. Pete wasn't one of them, not usually anyways. Not if absolutely necessary. Pete was an asset to Korn in the sense of astute deductions but also too close to Tankhun and Kinn. Pete didn't want to know about this side of Kinn’s business, but his mind was incapable of not connecting the red threads.
If Pete saw or heard something that he really wasn't supposed to… well, he didn't know if he was that kind of irreplaceable.
Pete’s toes curled, clutching the sheets the same moment his hole abruptly tingled, deficient.
He’d have to hide his scent for the rest of his life, taking extra precautions to keep it covered beneath the surface. It would be difficult – it's not like he himself could smell it, but there was no other option. The devil… Korn… this was dangerous territory. He was playing with both hellfire and gunfire.
Right now, Tankhun was being taken care of, protected. Thus Porsche wouldn't come back till morning. The self-prescribed dosage of suppressants should have taken on a good enough effect by then. Enough to be sensible, enough to be scentless with enough spray – maybe. If the perspiration didn't wash it off.
Pete was exhausted but he'd done good.
He was safe.
He didn’t want to be safe.
Maybe he should follow the scent back, rever-
No - no Stop, breath …
After a few minutes of battling these novel parts in his own mind and flesh, he could finally loosen the leash on his self control.
The alpha’s smell had been like… like looking both ways before crossing the street only to be hit by a submarine. Walking away had been the hardest freaking thing Pete had ever done. Now every muscle in his body relaxed. He’d been a marionette doll whose strings got cut.
Now all that was left was… was the desire. He was still in pain, though mostly horny.
Yet maybe, if Pete dug deep enough within himself, to the place in which his sins are kept on lock and key…
He’d have to admit that the line where one ends and the other begins didn't exist. Whether it described – could be classified as painful pleasure or pleasing pain had long been unclear. The two were, to a certain point, intertwined. Fighting over the same territory.
Similar to when shower water gets so bright hot it starts to feel icy.
Tonight had tested just to which point that was.
And so he wasn't really surprised that – when desperation reached a soaring high, shaking fingers reached down to trail between sweaty thighs and cherry red eyes filled every corner of his mind. Tears had trailed from eyelash to cheek and lastly, wetting cotton. That when slick-soaked fingers infused into the craving hole – that clenched rapidly, imaginary black velvet was thrusting roughly above, caressing his chest. Grazing against sensitive skin, sides, nipples.
‘Wakey wakey, baby.’
A frenzied heavy weight pressing him into the mattress and cruel bloodstained hands bruising whitehot, promises of black and blue ensuing. Claws cutting into the plump skin on his outer thighs, hips and wrists. Savagely ripping his thighs further apart. Rope soaked in gasoline restricting but all mobility. Ropeburns singing. All but watched in the tide of heavy breathing.
That he could swear he heard a bright, loud chuckle filled with malice, vicious gratifying snarls following along a drill firing.
Skin between his fangs tasting of sticks of cinnamon and sugar burning by matches lit, dripping scorching hot onto his tongue so sweet. Thrusting, grinding. Sticky copper-tasting fingers embedded in his mouth and pulling hair back brutally, creating an arch of tightly contracting muscles of his spine.
That when he fucked himself on his fingers harder than he’s ever dared to, dirty wet sounds emitting, he imagined it was the alpha’s big thick knot that was carving a home for itself within him.
‘Then starts the screaming, withering, begging, and in the end… every, little, birdy, sings.’
Fangs burying themselves savagely in the place between neck and shoulder, branding him for all of the world to see. He wasn't surprised when the thought had him plunging past the precipice, fingers moving quickly, uncoordinated – desperately. His forearm grinded against his own cock, a teasing touch. Eyes rolling back inside his head, back vaulting, toes curling and grip tighter than lead holding onto the sheets, claws creating rips like knives cutting water as he finished, spasming. Shooting liquid across his own abdomen.
And he wasn't surprised when he imagined the slick running in between his fingers to be cherry red and tasting of pennies, wishing for the snowwhite sheets to be painted with evidence of the pleasure he derives from pain and misery.
He wasn't surprised, he was terrified.