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𝗕đ—čđ—Œđ—Œđ—± đ—Šđ—œđ—Œđ—żđ˜ (đ˜Šđ˜©đ˜Ș𝘱𝘮𝘼 & 𝘔𝘎)

MoldaviteGreen

The world’s upside down here

Joined
Dec 7, 2018
Black Mystery Novel Book Cover.png

Trigger warning: this omegaverse story contains potential triggers & dark themes of drug abuse, non-consent, dubious-consent, non-sexualised gore, prostitution, addiction, and more.

Read at your own risk.
 
BANNERS & VISUALS

Valéry Desrosiers.png

Valéry Desrosiers.png


HEXCODE COLOURS
Val: #FF69B4
Zhenya: #D14841
 
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Names carry meaning, always.

Over the years, Zhenya Malahkov's memory of his birth father had faded. Once, he'd have been able to recall the soft edges of the Omega's face, the blonde fall of his hair, and the sweet jasmine of his skin. Once, Zhenya would have been able to recall the sound of the voice that had spoken those words.

But time was a relentless and cruel creature. It did not care to preserve the memories of forgotten children and dead parents. Zhenya had cared even less to restore that which time had stolen. Still, he carried that single piece of his past within him.


Names carry meaning.

Ironic, then, that he carried a name that meant 'noble born' and 'of wealth' when he'd spent the years of his youth fighting for scraps from city-owned dumpsters. Ironic, even still, that he carried a surname but held no true lineage; because it had been pinned to his jacket by the weak fingers of his father, and that note had remained in tatters when the orphanage had found him; clawing and rabid like a beast.

Zhenya would have been lying if he'd said he had not thought of throwing that surname to the wayside and choosing something else. Something entirely his own.

But this city knew him by another name already.
The Belhaven Butcher.
He liked the sound of that better.

"Boss."

And then there was that.

Zhenya didn't turn. His gaze lingered upon the faded photo held within the hung, wooden frame; ignoring his own reflection within the glass.

How interesting, he had thought as he'd surveyed the faces within. A family of three all held close, but there was an obvious distance between them that came in the way their bodies were subtly angled away. A picture of closeness, but only a false one.

Only a singular face within the old photo was familiar; though it was rounded in better health and held a light within the eyes that was not purely greed. Zhenya knew the man's face to be gaunt, pale and hollow; as it had been for the better part of half a decade. How wonderful it would have been to feel that same waxen skin spilt under his knuckles and those cheeks run wet with snot and tears. Zhenya would have liked to have made the man beg. But the coward had fled. I should thank him for that.

This face and this man did not deserve his surname. Desrosiers. Of the roses. Zhenya knew this man for what he was; the stem from which the true rose bloomed.

Zhenya's wolfish smirk was reflected within the glass of the photo frame. His men knew better than to ask for his attention more than once. Instead, one lingered at his back within the stretching quiet. He straightened when Zhenya turned slowly to glance over his broad shoulder, his grey eyes finding the brunette's face. A blonde brow quirked to say; 'Yes?'

"No one is here, Sir." A drawn pause, the silence beckoning the man on beneath the cold cutting of Zhenya's gaze. "We've searched the house. The fridge remains stocked, though scant."

That was answer enough. A stocked fridge was an occupied home. The rose would return.

Zhenya turned back to the family photo, a glint in his gunmetal eyes. "We wait."

A leather-gloved hand rose, the middle knuckle of a forefinger brushing over the photographed face round with boyish youth. How stunning those eyes are.

"We wait
" The glass fractured under pressure, splintering out across the domestic landscape of the photo. "
and I get paid."



⌖


If there was one word to describe Zhenya's men it would, perhaps, be 'meticulous'. It was what made them dangerous; that enigmatic threat of them. They could cross thresholds without ever leaving a thing out of place. They could beat, and cut, and carve, but leave no true evidence. What Zhenya's men did at his behest had always been frighteningly cunning; and it was only ever an extension of the mastermind.

The small, dilapidated town home appeared as if nothing were amiss. There were no cars out the front to indicate a presence. There were no lights on, no splintered door frames, no signs of forced entry. It would appear as if it had when the individual living within had first left. Nothing, as it would seem, was wrong.

Yet, within, there was something predatory lurking. A lazily lounging thing, with long limbs stretched out casually as the creature sank into a tattered arm chair. A patiently waiting, increasingly hungry beast that spun the gold of a signet ring over the knuckle of a thumb; the other pieces of gold jewellery glinting within the stream of moonlight cutting through the slightly parted curtains. The creature waited within the quiet, the promise of a feast the only thing rooting it. Zhenya, dressed in his fine tailored, pinstripe suit, looked every bit the animal he was, draped in the coyote fur of his floor-length coat.

Very little ever elicited the up-kick of Zhenya's heart. Cocaine, rarely. The sweet sound of a man begging for his life before it turned to gurgling within a slit throat, on occasion. He lived for the chase. He lived for the kill. Zhenya had not anticipated the sudden trill of his heart when he heard the approach of footsteps and the key within a lock.

He's here. He's home. He's all mine.

And when the threshold was crossed by a lithe frame, Zhenya would not move. He held still within the blanket of darkness, his eyes always so easy to adjust to the shadow; like always calling to like. Gold glinted as Zhenya gripped the armrest of the chair, and his knuckles turned white with the force. So close. So tantalisingly near. The smile that pulled at his mouth was nothing if not feral.


"Welcome home, little bloom."

The door would close, and lock. Another presence would manifest from the shadow to barricade the young man in. There was no escape. No way out. And if he ran, Zhenya would be thrilled for the chase.

The small lamp beside him lit, Zhenya's fingers still about the cord. The room was cast in a dim, warm glow.

Zhenya, dressed in eccentric finery, looked every bit like the feral creature he wore over his shoulders. Pale, golden hair was finger-raked loose. The silvery scar that slashed across his left cheek cut down over cheekbone and jawline, nearly reaching the wing of the inked archangel upon the thick column of his throat. Those eyes, a grey so cold they were like steel, were pinned upon the pink-haired Omega caught within his own home.

The lamp's cord was released. Zhenya crossed one bulky, long leg over his knee. The smirk he wore was that of the Devil.

"Take a seat." As if there were any other choice. "We have the matter of your daddy's debt to discuss."
 
Names carry meaning.

His mother used to whisper that into his hair at night, when he sat curled in her lap and rested against her thin chest, pretending he couldn’t hear his father yelling at the old television.

“ValĂ©ry. My little strength. My rose of courage. Even in a world that will stop at nothing to cut you down, bloom anyway.”

He hadn’t understood back then. He thought she called him her rose because of his stubbornness– his resilience– the way he refused to cry even when his scraped knees bled through torn trousers, even when the other kids at school laughed about his ragged lunch bags. His slight frame. His gender. But roses were fragile things. Beautiful, yes, but delicate, easy to bruise. And the world had bruised him enough to last a lifetime, over and over until he wondered if anything soft remained inside.

ValĂ©ry still remembered the way she left. The smell of lavender soap and fresh rain as she kissed his forehead, her eyes red and hollow. She didn’t cry. Just whispered, “I’m sorry,” and closed the door quietly behind her. He was only six. He had never heard silence ring so loudly in his ears.

Names were just words when there was no one left to speak them softly.

His father changed after that. Or maybe he’d always been like that, and Val just hadn’t seen it through the veil of his mother’s love. Drinking, using, gambling, always promising that one day, he’d make it big. Always one day. Always tomorrow’s dream on today’s empty table.

But the worst was his voice. Slurred and trembling with rage as he looked at his only sin from across the kitchen table, reeking of stale whiskey and sour sweat.

“She left because of you,” he spat one night when Val was nine, his face red with drink and hands shaking from withdrawal. “You were too much. Always clinging to her. Always needing. She didn’t want a fucking brat weighing her down.”

The words had sunk deep into his chest like shards of glass. He believed them. How could he not, when every time he closed his eyes he saw her walking away, never once turning back to wave. Never once coming back to take him with her and save him from this living hell.

At sixteen, ValĂ©ry dropped out of school. He started scrubbing floors at a greasy diner after class, then stopped going to class altogether when the eviction notices kept coming. Since then, his life had become a blur of bouncing between jobs– waiting tables at cramped restaurants, ringing up cigarettes and scratchers at midnight in fluorescent-lit convenience stores, hauling boxes entirely too heavy for him at dusty backroom warehouses for cash under the table. Anything to keep the lights on. Anything to keep from seeing his father’s eyes go glassy with drunken rage.

Today, he’d worked a double shift at the small family-run restaurant downtown– a job he’d miraculously been able to hold down for the better part of a year, though he knew his time there was coming to an end, and he’d have to restart the entire cycle again. Submit an application, bring his resume in, all but beg on his hands and knees just for an interview, a chance. His manager had barked at him for taking too long with a table of office workers who’d snapped their fingers at him like he was a dog, some of which looked like they wanted to eat him rather than the greasy food he’d delivered to them. Tips were bad. The ache in his feet had traveled up his calves, digging into his knees until every step felt like walking on nails.

He wore what he always did for work: a simple black short-sleeved button down tucked into slim, dark slacks worn shiny at the thighs and knees from years of use. The collar was slightly stretched, the top button missing, revealing the faint line of delicate collarbones. Over it, he wore a faded grey hoodie zipped halfway up against the drizzle outside, the sleeves damp and clinging to his thin arms. Every step felt the puddles soaking into his socks, the soles of his battered black sneakers worn nearly flat. His pink hair was tied back at the nape of his neck with a black elastic, stubborn loose strands plastered to his temples with rainwater.

By the time he pedaled the five miles home on his rattling bicycle, drizzle slicking his hair to his scalp and soaking through his thin hoodie, every one of his bones felt brittle. Each uphill pedal felt like his thighs would split open under the strain.

When he finally turned down their cracked driveway, ValĂ©ry slid off the bike with shaky legs, locking it loosely to the railing. The porch light was off. The curtains were drawn. Everything was how he’d left it when he’d gone to work that morning, nothing out of place. But his pulse
his heart thundered beneath his frail ribs. The air felt heavy, thick with something he couldn’t name. His instincts screamed at him like a wounded animal.

What’s wrong? Did Dad come home early? Did something happen?

Sliding the key into the lock, Val hesitated. Please just be asleep, he thought, pressing his lips together as he turned the metal. Please just let me shower, eat a piece of bread, and sleep. That’s all I want tonight.

The door swung open, silent as an open grave. Warm, damp air greeted him. The smell of the house should have been stale cigarettes and leftover instant noodles, but instead it carried something sharp, clean, expensive. Like cologne layered over steel and blood.

His lungs seized. His steps over the threshold felt weighted, each damp-socked footfall sinking into warped wood floors as if the house itself was trying to drag him back out. The shadows swallowed him, pressing tight against his chest as the door closed behind him. He took one step forward in an attempt to turn the lamp on, and then–

“Welcome home, little bloom.”

The voice came from the darkness. Smooth, deep, curling around him like smoke from a burning cathedral.

ValĂ©ry’s breath caught. His heart lurched so violently he nearly staggered backwards. Behind him, a silent figure shifted, massive and shadowed, clicking the door lock shut. The finality of that click felt like iron bars slamming shut around him.

He was trapped.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, his fingers curling tightly around the strap of his soaked messenger bag, his knuckles aching with the force.

“Who are you?” he rasped, his voice hoarse and small. “My dad– he’s
he’s coming back. He said he was going to take care of something– he said he’d be back–”

A rustle. The sound of gloved fingers brushing worn cord. Then: click.

The lamp flickered on, casting a dim, golden glow across the cramped living room. And there he was– sprawled in his mother’s old armchair like a god bored of Heaven
Lucifer, tired of Hell. The tattered floral cushion sagged beneath his massive, languid frame. Pale gold hair swept loosely over his temples, broad shoulders draped in luxurious fur. He looked out of place here– he didn’t belong here. Scarred face, tattooed skin, a scent beneath the cologne so oppressive that it nearly made Val crumple to the floor. Stormy grey eyes flitted up, meeting his frozen stare with a slowness that sent gooseflesh down the slim column of his spine.

Alpha.

“Take a seat.” His voice was velvet wrapped around cold steel, his posture radiating absolute, terrifying command. “We have the matter of your daddy’s debt to discuss.”

ValĂ©ry’s breath came back to him in short, sharp gasps. Tears pricked at his waterline, hot with shame.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t show him how scared you are.​

“ValĂ©ry. My little strength. My rose of courage.”

He wanted to laugh bitterly at the memory. Courage. What use was courage against a monster who could tear out your roots and crush your petals under his boots?

Slowly, with every single one of his muscles trembling, Val moved to the rickety dining chair across from the dangerous stranger. His knees buckled slightly as he sat, but he forced his spine straight, lifting his delicate chin just enough to keep himself from crumbling. His ocean blue eyes flicked to those of cold, gunmetal grey– defiant, despite the quiver in his plush lips.

“My dad’s debt has nothing to do with me. Say what you came to say,” he stated, his voice barely holding together, “And get out of my house.”

But some small part of him, that wounded, knowing part, already understood:

Monsters never left until they’d torn every last petal from the rose.
 
Wet.

Water dripped from the strings of the young man's hoodie to form shallow puddles upon the floor. It bled from frayed, sodden sneakers, leaking out across the wooden floorboards. Yet, it was the pink hair that held Zhenya's steely attention; plastered to the man's forehead and temples like ribbons of candy. Cold eyes swept low, drawn by the slow fall of water from the Omega's clothes.


Zhenya wondered how much prettier the Omega would look soaked in an arterial spray. The thought had the corner of his mouth lifting, his naturally sharp canine glinting. He said nothing as the Omega found his voice, and then moved to the seat. Zhenya simply observed the buckle of those knees, the downturn of that blue-eyed gaze, and then the shift of something as the Omega steeled himself and took a breath.

Zhenya had carved the tongue from many a man's mouth for less. Instead, he wondered whether the Omega would gag if he found his throat plugged with the thick of Zhenya's shaft. Consequence for speaking like a fucking brat. Roses, Zhenya knew, did not come without thorns.

"Your father's debt has everything to do with you."

Zhenya's hand lifted from the armrest of the chair, dipping into the warmth of his fur coat. A gun, perhaps. His favourite knife, very possibly. But what Zhenya retrieved was a gilded cigar case and a matching lighter inscribed with the initials 'Z.M'. The case snapped open, metallic.

"I'll assume that you know little about the world of gambling and loans, lest you've inherited your father's vices." Zhenya plucked a cigar from the case and perched it between his lips. He spoke around it as he tucked the case back into his pocket. "Loans are not given without insurance, and your father had little to offer."

The lighter was struck aflame, held behind the cup of a hand to the tip of the cigar as Zhenya dragged in a breath. The end smouldered, lit, and he snapped the lighter closed as the first plume of smoke was released from his nose in a dragon's breath. The chair groaned as he leant forward to set his lighter upon the stained table.

"I'm a fairly patient man, aren't I, Jones?" Zhenya spoke to the figure by the door, but the cold glint of his eyes remained sunken deep within that defiant, sapphire gaze.

"Yes, Sir."

Zhenya sank back comfortably within the armchair. "I extended that same patience to your father, malen'kaya roza." [Little rose.] He took another slow drag, the bitterness of the smoke swirling deep into his lungs and held before it tumbled out from his lips. Zhenya took the cigar between his fingers and lowered his arm upon the armrest. "Your father isn't just overdue to pay back the funds. He's extremely overdue. It's accruing interest."

That wolfish smirk flashed again, reaching those steely eyes in a glint. "'Your' house, you say? It hasn't been your house since your father defaulted on his loan with me and skipped town. In fact," Zhenya gestured to the room about them, "it's all mine, and I still find myself short of what your father owes me. Do you know what happens when someone has little to offer as insurance to meet the sum that they wish to borrow?"

The end of the cigar flared, red like hellfire. "They provide the name of a guarantor."

Jones, the mountain of a man by the door, stepped forward and slid a paper contract across the table to the Omega. There, in his father's shaky handwriting, was a name.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Valéry Desrosiers." Zhenya stamped out the cigar upon the armrest, his smile nothing but hungry. "I trust that you have something to offer me as you have inherited your father's immense debt of fourteen million and counting."
 
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Valéry sat very still. Or, at least, tried.

Water pooled beneath his chair, soaking into the frayed canvas of his sneakers until his toes felt numb. He could feel the way his socks squelched with every nervous shift, the cold creeping up his ankles and into his knees like shackles made of ice despite how warm the living room was. The hem of his faded hoodie dripped steadily onto the warped wood beneath him, each droplet echoing too loudly in his mind in the suffocating quiet. His hair, darkened with rain, clung in damp strands to his foreheads and temples, his ponytail sagging coldly against the back of his neck.

It was uncomfortable– he was uncomfortable, sitting rigidly in the old chair surrounded by mountainous men he had never seen before. Val tucked his hands between his knees to still their shaking, pressing them into the damp fabric of his slacks until his knuckles burned. Every breath he took was careful. Shallow. As if inhaling too deep or exhaling too loud would draw this stranger’s attention to him more sharply– violently.

The man didn’t move the way normal people did. Even his smallest gestures– the flick of his wrist to open the gilded cigar case, the delicate placement of the cigar between his lips– radiated casual, terrible power. Each movement felt like a verdict.

“Your father’s debt has everything to do with you.”

The words sank into Val’s chest, heavy as iron and just as cold. Of course it does. Everything always circled back to him. His father’s bitterness. His mother’s departure. The empty fridge. The disconnected power. The purple bruises that bloomed along his ribs when his father’s hands couldn’t grip the bottle any longer.

He could almost hear the older man’s slurring voice in his head, thick with self-victimization and cheap whiskey: “She’d still be here if you hadn’t been born. You took everything from her that day. It was only a matter of time before she ran.”

Val wasn’t sure if he knew better now– he should have. He should have known that his mother hadn’t left because of him. She’d left because of the senior Desrosiers– because of the sorry excuse for a man sitting plastered and raging in this house every night, dragging them both down like a stone tied to their ankles. She’d left him behind because she was too broken to save them both, and his father never forgave him for surviving her absence.

And now look what you’ve done, Dad. Even while you’re gone, you still found a way to ruin my life.

His knees bounced slightly, involuntarily, under the table. He tried to still them but failed, his thighs shaking from exhaustion and adrenaline. His breathing remained quick and shallow, each inhale tinged with the acrid scent of expensive cigar smoke. His pulse fluttered wildly in his throat, so fast it felt like it might burst from his skin– cover the sticky, stained table in crimson carnage, bleed out in the very house he had grown up in. Fate wouldn’t be so kind.

As it were, ValĂ©ry knew nothing about loans, much less gambling. Every single cent was one that he earned through slaving away at dead-end jobs he had never wanted in the first place– anything to survive and stay afloat. He swallowed hard as the Alpha went on to explain the situation. The exact reason he was here. No matter how many paychecks he had sacrificed to his father, given to him with the sole purpose of repaying his debt after Val himself paid the household bills, he was still overdue. And he knew exactly where that money went.

You’re not coming back
are you?

When the other man, Jones, stepped forward and slid the contract across the table, the Omega flinched so hard the chair beneath him creaked. His hands darted out to steady himself on the table’s chipped edge. The paper blurred before him as tears continued to sting his vision, and no matter how many times he blinked, how hard he tried, Val couldn’t stop them from falling. His damp lashes clung together; his breath came out in unsteady, shuddering gasps.

There, in wavering blue ink, was his name.

Valéry Desrosiers.

He stared at it until the letters stopped making sense, twisting into meaningless shapes. A guarantor. His own father had signed him away like a pawn ticket for a broken watch. Just a possession to exchange. Nothing more.

He probably thought this was the perfect solution. One last thing to sell before he ran. One last thing to wash his hands of. Always so fucking cowardly. Couldn’t keep a job. Couldn’t keep his wife. Couldn’t keep his own son safe from the wreckage he made.

His chest constricted so tightly he thought he might be sick. Valéry swallowed against the bile burning at the back of his throat and wiped the wetness from under his eyes with trembling fingers.

“Of course,” he muttered, “Of course he fucking did.”

You always blamed me for ruining your life, he thought bitterly, But it was you. It was always you. And now you’re gone, and I’m the one paying for your fuck-ups again. Like I always am.

Slowly, the Omega lifted his gaze to meet those stormy eyes. His entire body shook, but his chin lifted half an inch. His hair was still plastered to his cheekbones, his lips pale and chapped from the cold and malnutrition, but his eyes
his eyes still burned with a flickering, desperate defiance.

“What do you want from me?”
he asked, his voice breaking at the end despite his effort to keep it strong. Steady. Everything he couldn’t even begin to feel in this moment. “You
you want money? I don’t have any. I don’t have anything. I don’t own anything, I
I wait tables for a living. I can’t even afford to buy a new pair of shoes.”

His hands curled into fists in his lap, his fingers tightening until his nails bit hard into his skin, grounding him against the rising tide of panic. His chest heaved, up and down, with the effort it took to breathe evenly and not hyperventilate, his slim shoulders trembling under his soaked hoodie.

Val could hear his own heartbeat– a rapid, desperate rhythm in his ears. Please just kill me, he thought, numb and wired with adrenaline all at once. Just kill me and be done with it.

But he knew. He knew in the marrow of his bones and from the man’s wolfish, feral grin and the cold amusement in his eyes that he wasn’t here for something as clean as death.
 
The wondrous thing about humans was that there were always subtle tells. It didn't matter how hard they tried to conceal their inner turmoil, it was always written in a movement or micro-expression; plain to see for those who knew how to observe.

Zhenya, keen fox that he was, had learned to watch for the last flickers of terror as the light of a life faded to glassy dullness within eyes. In doing so, he'd learned how to name emotions by how they tasted in the back of his throat as he watched. Burnt, cheap coffee bitterness—for a person's pathetic flirtation. Sharp, honeyed citrus—for a person's hope, yet to shatter. Smooth, rich smoke—for a person's cloying, clawing rage. Zhenya relied on the flavour because he had not known the names of such emotions without. It was hard to name things so seldom felt, if at all.

Those almond-narrow, gunmetal eyes swept with the same lazy grace as his hands. He could taste the Omega's fear; his anguish, like concentrated brine. Zhenya observed it all: the press of small hands between knees; the shake of legs in a bouncing; distracting rhythm; the shallowness of each inhale. Is he trying to avoid the scent of me? Zhenya sank his teeth into the inside of his cheek as hot, sticky need coiled low in his groin. How fucking cute.

Zhenya observed, still, as Jones approached and slid the contract across the table. The Omega flinched with such force he nearly shot from the chair. Nearly tipped over. Just an inch from the swing of it, and he'd be falling down onto the floor, his pretty head cracking hard against floorboards, delicate skull shattering, brain bruising, and that beautiful, warm syrup flowing free. The image of it was enough to have Zhenya's cock straining firm in his trousers. But he didn't fucking like that someone else had made the Omega flinch and nearly fall. The look he shot Jones was feral, and the man stepped back against the door.

"Of course, he fucking did." Spoken like an expectation devoid of any true surprise.

Zhenya's cold eyes slid back to the Omega's hollowed face, the shadows deep beneath those cheekbones. His musing of distance as he'd observed the family photograph was proven correct. He hadn't expected those sea-glass blue eyes to return to him, still rimmed with wetness. Zhenya licked his lips as if he could taste the Omega's tears in the air.

"If I wanted money, malen'kaya roza, we wouldn't be having this conversation. There's more money to be had in the black-market organ trade, than what you can offer me." Zhenya leant forward within the arm chair and pressed his elbows atop his knees. The leather of his gloves moaned a little as he laced his thick fingers together, casual. "They take a single kidney for twenty thousand, and you have two of them." The subtle cock of Zhenya's head was predatory. "But we're bartering over a debt of fourteen million. What I want from you, Valéry, requires your body to be whole."

A shoulder was shrugged, and even beneath the thick fur of his overly extravagant coat it was obvious that it held bulk. Zhenya unlaced his fingers. "To speak plainly, Valéry, I don't want your money. I want you. Everyone knows that this city has eyes and ears, but what people forget is that this city also has mouths. People talk. Rumours spread. I've heard more than just one about the pretty Desrosiers Omega who fucks so good it's a sin."

He reached out to clasp the gilded lighter between his fingers, turning it over to set it flat upon the table. "I've always been a man who doesn't like to miss out." Zhenya leant back within the armchair, languid and lupine. "I'll give you twenty-four hours to tie up any loose ends that you have. Break up with a lover. Quit a job. Withdraw from a class. Twenty-four hours to pack up your life all nice and tidy, so that when I come back for you, there's nothing standing in the way of you becoming my little live-in fuckpet."

The vulgarity of his words rolled from his tongue with the same deep satin as everything else. The grey of his eyes seemed almost silver as they lingered upon Valéry's soaked form, as if Zhenya could see right through the sodden pieces of fabric. As if Valéry was sitting there, bare.

Zhenya wove his hand, dispersing the spell. "Run if you like." That wolfish grin flashed bright. "I love a good hunt."

Zhenya rose from the chair, a behemoth breaking from the ocean of shadow. The darkness didn't swallow him, nor did the low-ceilings. Rather, Zhenya seemed to absorb everything else as if he were a star with his own gravitational pull. There, he lingered, a cold mask of neutrality upon that scarred face.

"Keep the lighter. Pawn it, even. I'll be offended if someone offers you less than ten thousand for it."
The iciness of him cracked just a little, that wicked smirk returning to pull at just one corner of his mouth. "Burn the contract with it if you like; I have more than just that copy."

Over the floor, each of Zhenya's footsteps was a nail in Valéry's coffin; sealing him in, and sealing him deep. The door had been unlocked and opened, Jones already out in the dark beyond. Zhenya lingered upon the precipice of the Desrosiers' home and gave one final glance to Valéry; smug.

"I'll be seeing you soon, Valéry. I'm always up for a game of chase."

The door was shut closed, eerily quiet.
 
His mouth had gone dry long before he understood what he was hearing.

“What I want from you, ValĂ©ry, requires your body to be whole.”

His words dripped down his spine like ice water, seeping into his bones until his entire body felt numb. ValĂ©ry stared at the hulking man draped in coyote fur, his silhouette gold and black under the flickering lamp light. The smell of burnt tobacco, expensive cologne, and Alpha musk pressed down on him with suffocating weight, but there was something else underneath it all, weaving throughout the room, thick and musky and dark– it made the Omega’s skin crawl. The scent coiled down his throat, thick as oil, catching there until he tasted bile. It made the fine hairs on his arms prickle upright, a feeling he could only describe as disgust and dread flooding his veins.

He’s
aroused. Because of me. Because I’m scared.

It was absurd. It was grotesque. It was–

“–Rumors spread. I’ve heard more than just one about the pretty Desrosiers Omega who fucks so good it’s a sin.”

The words hit him like a slap in the face. Val flinched again, this time back in his chair, his breath snagging in his chest, his eyes widening to the point his irises looked like two small sapphires swimming in pools of white. Heat rushed through his veins– not the flush of embarrassment, but the jagged burn of humiliation and horror. His stomach twisted with nausea so suddenly that he nearly gagged. Sourness rose to the back of his throat again, burning, and he swallowed it back down, tasting acid.

No. No no no no no no no.

His mind screamed with it, loud and frantic, but his body couldn’t move. He felt pinned in place by those steely eyes, nailed down through the chest like a butterfly in a display case. His lungs strained; he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Shame burned low in his belly as his father’s voice rose up in his head, taunting.

“You were born to be used, boy. That’s all Omegas are good for anyway. Might as well get paid or get a decent meal out of it.”

He was going to be sick.

The words came out of him in a shaking whisper before he could stop them. “You can’t
you can’t just– I-I’m not–” ValĂ©ry’s voice broke and he clamped his mouth shut, tears burning hot down his pale cheeks. He ducked his head, staring down at his trembling hands, fists clenched so tightly his fingernails dug half-moon gouges into his palms.

He felt dirty. Like the man could see straight through his worn clothing to every hidden softness and curve of his body. His scent glands burned under his skin, the heat of his shame prickling there. He wanted to scrub himself raw. He wanted to vanish.

He wants me. Like that. He’s going to–

It was then that the Alpha had spoken that final, damning phrase:

“I’ll give you twenty-four hours to tie up any loose ends–”
“–so that when I come back for you, there’s nothing standing in the way of you becoming my little live-in fuckpet.”

Val’s stomach dropped. He wanted to scream. To rip his own scent glands out with his bare hands, tear the Omega from his body so no Alpha could ever want him again. He swallowed back a broken sob, his chest shuddering with the force of it, biting down on his bottom lip until he tasted blood. The pain grounded him for one single, dizzying moment.

No. I can’t. I can’t let this happen. I won’t survive it.

When the man– no, monster– finally stood with lazy, predatory grace, looming like a towering eclipse before the dim lamp, and began moving towards the door, the Omega’s eyes followed him like a trapped animal’s, wide and unblinking, pupils blown in terror. Each heavy footstep across the floor vibrated his bones, rattling him right down to the marrow.

Valéry sat in silence long after the door clicked shut.

The house felt emptier than it ever had despite how small it was– a cramped kitchen with peeling laminate countertops, a narrow living room strewn with his father’s leftover cigarette butts and unpaid bills, a small closet of a bedroom with the worn twin mattress he used as a bed tucked in the corner. It felt emptier because he knew
it was no longer his.

His body didn’t even feel like his anymore.

But he’d be damned if he didn’t at least try to make sure that Alpha didn’t claim it as his own.


꧁ ê•„ ꧂

By morning, his mind had been made up.

ValĂ©ry hadn’t slept. He couldn’t. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw him: that monstrous silhouette covered in fur, sprawled in his mother’s chair like it had always belonged to him. Smoke curling around sharp teeth and glinting eyes that pinned him where he sat like prey.

His chest ached as he stuffed the last of his belongings into his rucksack. Each breath burned under his ribs, shallow and rapid, as if he couldn’t get enough air. The silence of the house pressed in around him from all sides, suffocating and thick. His father’s slippers were still kicked off by the couch, one turned on its side. A coffee mug sat on the end table, ringed with stale brown residue. A half-empty whiskey bottle lay on its side atop the kitchen table, a thin coat of dust collecting on the glass.

He left me. Val’s teeth ground together so hard his jaw hurt. Didn’t even look back. Didn’t even take his shit. Just left me to rot.

He shouldered the rucksack, the weight of it tugging at his tense shoulders. The orange pill bottle of heat suppressants rattled faintly at the bottom, mocking him with every step he took. The cold morning air bit into his scalp, his hair still damp from the shower he had taken before packing, as he pulled up his hood, the frayed cuffs brushing his knuckles as he zipped the thick, clean cotton up to his chin.

Outside, the street was empty. Early dawn cast everything in a bruised grey-violet glow, the last sodium street lights flickering off as the city began to stir. Valéry gripped the handlebars of his battered bicycle so hard his knuckles blanched, his breath puffing out white into the frigid air as he rode down the silent road, tires crunching over asphalt and old gravel.

Don’t think. Just move. Faster. Faster.

His thighs burned with every push of the pedals, calves screaming as his ragged jeans scraped against tense muscle. Tears blurred his vision, caught on his lashes before they could scorch down his cold face.

He didn’t have a destination. Just away. The bus terminal, maybe. A coach heading south. A coastal city where no one knew his name. He’d slept under boardwalks before, over a decade ago when he had run away from home as a teenager; hidden in alleyways behind seafood diners, eaten leftover fried clams out of bins lined with wax paper. He’d survived worse.

If he hadn’t been reported missing all those years ago, if the cops hadn’t found him
he wouldn’t have had to run away again.

I’ll find work under the table. Wash dishes. Serve old men greasy eggs and weak coffee. Change my name, dye my hair. Disappear.

But dread twisted under his ribs like a hooked blade. Monsters like him
they don’t just let prey slip away.


꧁ ê•„ ꧂


By the time he reached the cracked asphalt leading down to the depot, the sun had begun to rise in earnest, brushing the low-rise rooftops with warm, sickly gold. His breath came in ragged gasps as he skidded to a stop beside the chained bike racks. His hands shook as he fumbled with the lock. Finally, he just abandoned it, letting the bike clatter against the concrete post. Someone else would make good use of it, he hoped.

The rucksack felt unbearably heavy on his slender shoulders as he sprinted across the sidewalk. The depot doors yawned ahead, flickering neon flashing GREYHOUND in erratic pulses of pink and blue. Val nearly sobbed in relief, his sneakers slapping against the pavement as he ran. Warm stale air hit his face as the doors slid open with a hydraulic whine, thick with diesel fumes and burnt drip coffee.

He staggered inside, chest heaving. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed harshly against the dingy ceiling tiles. The terminal was nearly empty– just a janitor mopping near the benches, an old woman curled up on a metal seat with her purse clutched to her chest.

He was almost there. He just needed a ticket– any ticket.

ValĂ©ry’s fingers fumbled for the zipper of his rucksack, searching for the crumpled he’d hidden at the bottom alongside his suppressants– just enough to get him a few cities over. He forced his legs to move toward the line of ticket counters, vision tunnelling at the edges. His pulse beat in his ears like a war drum. His breath rattled, each inhale shallow and burning.

But every instinct in his body screamed at him then. That primal, Omega-born intuition that something– someone– was lurking behind him. A chill prickled at his nape, sinking deep into his bones despite the heat of panic flooding his veins.

His knees went weak. His chest cinched so tight he couldn’t breathe. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring the flickering neon and the grimy tile floor.

Something’s wrong. Someone’s here. He’s here. Run.​

Val’s legs were shaking so badly he thought they’d collapse beneath him. Every instinct screamed at him to move. And move he did. Instead of approaching the ticket window, he veered sharply to the left. His damp sneakers squeaked across the linoleum as he bolted down the dim side hall, ignoring the janitor who jolted at his sudden sprint. Tears cascaded down his face as he shoved open the dented metal door marked ‘RESTROOMS’, the scent of bleach and cheap pine disinfectant wafting over him in a suffocating cloud. He could only hope that would be enough to mask his scent.

“Fuck
fuck
fuck–”

He bent over the counter as he dropped his bag, retching dryly into the sink, his stomach clenching painfully with nausea and fear. He nearly collapsed as he clutched the cold tile of the sink, chest heaving with broken gasps.

Think. THINK, Val. Don’t just stand here like a fucking idiot.

The bathroom lights flickered overhead, buzzing in discordant rhythm with his hammering pulse. Somewhere beyond the door, the muffled announcements of departing buses crackled through old intercom speakers. The sound felt a lifetime away.

Suddenly, instinct seized him by the throat.

Hide.

The Omega staggered sideways, knees nearly giving out as he grabbed his rucksack and stumbled down the row or chipped metal stalls. He shoved one open with shaking hands, wincing at the shrill squeal of rusted hinges, and he half-fell inside, the heavy metal door shutting behind him.

The lock stuck. He fumbled with it, his breath hitching in desperate, wet gasps. Finally, it scraped into place with a harsh metallic clack. Valéry slumped back against the cold tiled wall, pressing his fist to his mouth to stifle the sob that tore through his chest. The smell of industrial bleach and stale urine burned his nose; his sneakers squeaking quietly against the dirty floor as he pulled his knees up to his chest, curling in on himself as tightly as he could. His rucksack was pinned between his thighs and his chest, clutched desperately like a lifeline.

I can’t do this. I can’t. I just wanted to live quietly. Just
pay off his debts, keep the landlord happy, keep my head down. Why the fuck did you leave me, Dad?

Acid rose in his throat. His teeth sank into the white flesh of his knuckles to keep from vomiting or sobbing out loud, his shoulders shaking with each silent heave of his chest.

Please
please don’t find me. Just let me go.
 
Last edited:
Amber spilled from the lip of a crystal decanter, and Zhenya inhaled the rich notes of the whiskey.

"I need to wipe my schedule for today." He said this without looking up. Instead, he placed the crystal stopper back within the neck of the decanter and set it down upon the glossy oak of his desk. His fingers, bare, curled over the tumbler. Zhenya knew that she was looking at him with a pointedly confused glare. "I have things I need to attend to that are far more important."

"More important than your meeting with the Chelkovsky?" Brianna was a smart woman, and harboured sharp edges. Cold, calculating, cunning. She could have been cut from the same cloth as Zhenya if it weren't for the rich ebony of her skin. It was, Zhenya had always supposed, perhaps why he seemed to tolerate the way she talked back at him; a fact quite often held in wonder by all of Zhenya's army of loyalists.

He plucked up the city's newspaper, gave it a flick of his wrist, and set to reading it as he drew the rim of the tumbler up to his mouth. But not before saying, simply and with finality; "Yes."

Things with Brianna, however, were never simple. Zhenya was a fool to think that the early hour of the morning would act as deterrent for his personal assistant to drill him about his intentions, about the logistics that came with housing an average citizen in his penthouse apartment, and about the necessity of safety. Zhenya had finished his first drink as Brianna took a breath to begin her inquisition.

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

"Give me three good reasons why I should cancel the meeting with the Chelkovsky."

Silence stretched as Zhenya refilled his tumbler with a generous pour.

"I'm waiting," Brianna probed. She was leaning upon the black leather of the sofa set, her long legs outstretched at an angle. Fluid, grace and all things feline. They really were cut from a very similar cloth. "Unless you don't have any reasons that'll stand."

Zhenya held up three fingers. "One: because I want the day cleared." His ring finger folded down. "Two: because I hear today has awful weather, and you know how I feel about meeting the Chelkovsky when it's thundering. They give me a headache, as is." Down went the middle digit. "Three: because I have a date with an Omega, and I'd hate to stand him up."


Brianna straightened. "I fucking knew it."

Zhenya's wolfish grin was conspiratorial over the lip of his tumbler before he took another deep swig. It knocked when he set it down, his golden rings glinting. "Of course you did. You, Brianna, miraculously manage to foresee my life." The sarcasm was dripping, but Brianna wasn't standing for it.

"No. I knew it. You've been slinking around this office like a damn weasel. I knew you were up to something." Brianna moved forward to set her clipboard down upon Zhenya's desk. Her chocolate eyes were bright with curiosity. "Who is it?"

A rise and fall of a bulky shoulder. "That's for me to know, and for you to find out. But he's gorgeous, Brianna. You should see the face on him. And his hair
" Zhenya swallowed, thick. "Fuck, he's a sweet little prize."

The knock at the door was the only thing that kept Brianna from peppering him with more questions.

"Come in." Zhenya looked to the opening door, at one of his men whom were brave enough to cross the threshold and linger there in esteemed silence. A blonde brow arched. "Well?"

"He's moving, Sir."

Brianna glanced, confused.

A grin spread over Zhenya's face. Low, as he tipped his head to rest over the edge of the seat's headrest, Zhenya purred up at the ceiling; "Wonderful."

The chase was on.



⌖


As it would turn out, inspiring Brianna's curiosity had proven to be persuasive enough to have her clear Zhenya's schedule. The Omega was running, just as Zhenya had hoped, but that did not require an immediate response. It was better if he gave Valéry a head start. The game wouldn't be over too soon, then.

And, so, Zhenya spent his first two hours after sunrise thriving. Eggs Benedict were served to him for breakfast with his usual barista-made black coffee. He showered, shaved. Zhenya didn't dab his usual wood-smoke and amber cologne at the hollow of his throat. He kept his scent natural, wanted Valéry to smell the musk of him unequivocally alone.

Zhenya took his time considering his attire for the day, wondering which would be quickest to come undone when he had his Omega in his clutches and wanted to fuck. Zhenya settled on
something fairly simple: a camel-coloured wool jacket that fell down to his mid-calf, paired with a tight black knit jumper and tailored black trousers. The accent of his belt was silver, and he didn't care to match it as he threaded a gold, rope-chain bracelet about the thick of his wrist.

He'd paused by the mirror within the grand space of his penthouse entry hall, and had taken a moment to run his fingers through his hair. Why bother when it would be mussed soon enough—by storm or violence or ValĂ©ry's shaking fingers? He did it anyway, before sharing a secret smirk with his reflection and moving on.

Zhenya checked his mobile as the elevator descended. His men were well trained enough to send him updates on ValĂ©ry's movements. They'd done this a million times over—for the business, for Zhenya. They knew how to linger at a distance and remain unseen, just as well as they knew when to encroach and create unease. With ValĂ©ry, it remained the latter. This game was between them, after all, and once Zhenya was ducking into his sleek, black Maserati, he called Jones and ordered the men be stood down.

"It's no longer required," Zhenya said into the warm space of the vehicle.

"Boss
?"

Zhenya turned onto the thick arterial road, easing the speed to increase as he sped for the Greyhound bus depot. "I'll be retrieving him myself."



⌖


There were little clues of his Omega's presence left for him like a trail. It was endearing, almost, that a man trying to flee could leave behind so many uncovered traces. Yet another thing Valéry seemed to not inherit from his father, as the senior Desrosiers had vanished from Belhaven without a trace. Zhenya was crouched beside an overturned bike, running his fingers over the pads of the brakes as he considered the warmth to them. Freshly used, only just beginning to cool. His Omega wasn't far ahead.

Beneath glossy, leather shoes, the gravel crunched and then turned to waxy linoleum flooring. He'd seemed out of place within the floral armchair of the Desrosiers home, it was true, but he seemed even more so then under the harsh white of the halogen lights. They flickered and stuttered, some casting more of a urine-yellow glow. Zhenya's stride did not break as his eyes adjusted to the lighting.


Where, oh, where is my little mouse?

Zhenya smelt him before he saw him. He was sure that he could hear the Omega's hammering heartbeat within his ears before he realised that it was his own. Cocaine hadn't earned such a response from him in months, and it was ironic, now, that a simple hunt that had ended far too soon was what did.

Beneath the too-bright halogen lights, there came a flash of that brilliant pink. Somewhere between pastel and richer, candy pink. Zhenya hadn't ever really cared for colours. They most he'd paid attention to them was how blue made the pale of his skin appear icy. Beyond that, he didn't give a shit. Yet he found himself tilting his head, admiring the threads of dyed hair, and wondering exactly what name of pink lay written on the bottle of dye.

Zhenya was moving forward, his footsteps naturally silent. Predator that he was, everything about him came with graceful ease—the silence, the oppressive threat of his aura, the icy chill that settled into bones from the linger of his gaze. He approached from behind, knowing ValĂ©ry had not spied him, and dipped his hand into his coat pocket.

Valéry stiffened. He'd sensed him. Zhenya could not help the creep of a wicked grin across his mouth as he slowed his steps and began to stalk. And then the Omega was running. Their eyes hadn't even met, but Valéry had still known. Zhenya remained where he was before the ticket booth, shared a look with the man behind the counter and then moved off to follow unhurried.


Perceptive little creature, he mused to himself.

What a shame it was though, because Zhenya had been reaching for cash to pay for Valéry's fare, willing to give his Omega a chance to properly run in order to avoid the end of this delicious hunt.

He heard the squeak of sneakers, the slam of a restroom door in the wake of someone in a rush. Zhenya took pause and centred himself, the alien thunder of his heart almost unsettling. It revealed how terribly keen he was for this. It revealed how awfully eager he was to have his hands on Valéry.

By the time Zhenya's bear paw of a hand pressed the restroom door open, there was another by the urinals and no glimpse of pink hair. He moved in, the door clanging closed; eerie and ominous and Zhenya stood still. The man at the urinals was an Alpha, his pheromones were thick, and arrogantly allowed to disperse without care. Zhenya's nose crinkled with his disgust; at how arrogant this man was to release them so cockily, and at the stench. He met the man's eyes when he was given a glare.

"The fuck you looking at, pervert?"

"Leave."

The man was mid-stream, cock held in his hands. "What the fuck? I'm taking a piss. And-hey! What're you looking at? You some gay fucking fa—"

The mirror splashed with arterial red in an arch. Zhenya's language was vulgar, but what he did not stand for were slurs.

The body hit the floor, dick still stuck out of the fly, and the sound of it was heavy and wet. Like a sack of meat striking the cheap tile. Crimson was weeping into the cracks. Zhenya, his favourite all-black butterfly knife dripping haemoglobin, moved to crouch over the body.


Fucking filth.

Zhenya wiped the blade over the man's cheap cotton sweater, ignoring the open gape of the man's throat. He'd delivered a quicker death than he'd meant, but there was a game afoot. Zhenya didn't need distractions.

"Little mouse~" he sung, straightening to stand. Tall as he was, he could see over the stalls if he stepped close to their flimsy doors. He didn't, though. Zhenya allowed the mirage of safety despite how he called to Valéry like a twisted, death call of a siren to a sailor.

"I know that you're here. I can smell you." The dead Alpha's cloying scent had died, but even at its lively peak it had not been enough to hide the undercurrent of soft jasmine and sweet vanilla that Zhenya knew was his Omega.

"You did so well, running from me, but you were far too slow." Zhenya stepped over the crumpled corpse, careful of avoiding the spreading spill of blood upon the tiles. He loomed close to the stalls, directly outside the one he felt Valéry was hidden within; breath stifled, heart running like a rabbit's. How lovely it would be to feel the flurry of that organ in his own palm.

"Oh, Valéry, I've killed because of you now. Doesn't that deserve some gratitude?" Zhenya pressed a palm into the stall's door but did not force it open. Lingered there, smirking and gaze downturned as he folded his knife with a flick and tucked it away. His Omega was so close. His prize was right there. Zhenya could feel the warm swell at his groin but did not move to palm it.

Instead, he stepped closer and looked upward, nose over the stall's upper edge, and cast his cold gaze down upon the huddled Omega. "There you are." Dripped with honeyed danger.

He spied the quiver of hands, the shake of legs, and let his gaze roam slow before lifting back up to Valéry's face.

"Don't worry. I won't fuck you in some dirty toilet stall. Oh
" Zhenya looked down at the corpse, smirked. "Is it the body that bothers you and not the location? I can get rid of it and come back to fuck you over the wash basin." His eyes slid back to Valéry, a curious yet lupine cock to his head. "Would you like that, Valéry? Would you like to watch yourself get fucked from behind in the mirror?"
 
His lungs burned with each shallow, ragged breath. He could hear his pulse hammering away in his ears, the blood roaring so loudly it nearly drowned out everything else– until it didn’t.

“The fuck you looking at, pervert?”

Another voice. Deep, rough. Some Alpha he hadn’t even realized was there. ValĂ©ry’s heart leapt into his throat. No, no, no please–

“Leave.”

“What the fuck? I’m taking a piss. And-hey! What’re you looking at? You some gay fucking fa–”

There was a wet sound. A shick, sharp and final, followed by a gurgle that cut off too soon. The noise was so sudden, so alien in its horror, that Val clamped both hands over his mouth to stop the scream that threatened to rip free from his throat. His tears came harder, hotter, soaking the cuffs of his hoodie where he had them pressed against his lips. His body curled tighter into itself, shaking so badly his bones felt like they might rattle apart.

He heard the sound of something heavy hitting the tile. A dull, wet thud. Then the hush of silence, broken only by a quiet, rhythmic drip
drip
drip.

Blood. That’s blood. Oh god. Oh god, he killed him. He just
he just–

His stomach twisted violently as the copper tang filled the stall. It mixed with bleach and stale piss and rust, and he gagged behind his trembling hands, eyes burning with tears. His lungs clawed for air as nausea surged up his throat, acid-hot and biting.

“Oh, ValĂ©ry, I’ve killed because of you now. Doesn’t that deserve some gratitude?”

He killed him. He killed him like it was nothing.​

The Omega’s entire body went cold. His teeth chattered as he pressed his forehead against the filthy partition, praying it might swallow him whole. He wouldn’t be so lucky.

You’re next, Val. Get out. Get out.

He moved before his mind could catch up. He slid shakily down onto his belly, chest heaving with silent sobs as he pressed himself flat against the filthy tiles, his arm hooked through one strap of his rucksack. His delicate fingers clawed at the grime as he shoved himself under the metal divider connecting to the next stall. His hoodie snagged on a jagged edge, tearing painfully at his arm, but the pain was the last thing on his mind. The stall walls rattled with the force of his scrambling as he dragged himself forward inch by inch, hips catching painfully on old metal before he shoved again, scraping his ribs across the cold tile.

When he finally breached and made it into the next stall, his palms slapped wet against the floor. The smell was stronger here, sharp and metallic. He lifted his tear-blurred gaze and choked on a sob. The pool of blood was spreading across the bathroom floor in a slick, dark river, seeping under the partition towards him. It dripped from fat, lazy droplets from the open gash in the Alpha’s throat. ValĂ©ry’s vision tilted sideways as bile rose hard and fast. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead to the freezing, dirty tile as tears streamed down his cheeks.

I have to move. Please move. Please.

He forced himself upright, hands slipping against the floor, knees aching as he scrambled to his feet. His pulse thundered with ragged, frantic beats. He fumbled with the stall lock with shaking fingers, metal rattling violently– too loud, too loud, oh god– before it snapped open.

The Omega staggered out, vision swimming, the smell of blood all but choking him. The corpse lay sprawled and open-throated by the urinals, dead eyes staring glassy at the flickering halogen lights. His stomach heaved, acid scorching his throat, but he swallowed it down. He had to run. He had to live.

But then he saw him.

The Alpha from last night was there. Standing before the sinks, backlit by the flickering lights that cast his shadow long and monstrous across the bathroom floor. The silver scar slicing through his face looked almost luminescent against the cold pallor of his skin, his gunmetal eyes pinned directly on ValĂ©ry– cold, sharp, unblinking.

Time froze.

Val couldn’t breathe. Every muscle in his body seized. His trembling hand hovered just inches from the door handle, fingers curled but limp with pure, unadulterated terror. He could feel his pulse pounding in his wrists, his throat, behind his eyes. His knees threatened to buckle under him when the strong scent of Alpha musk reached his nose, the tiles tilting violently as nausea rolled through his gut.

Move, Val. Run. MOVE.​

But all he could do was stand there, shaking, tears dripping hot down his chin as his sapphire eyes locked with the cold grey of the Devil himself.

Another surge of adrenaline was all it took. ValĂ©ry’s fingers closed around the door handle, and he wrenched it open before scurrying out.

His gaze flitted wildly around the hallway beyond the bathroom door as he ran. Bright fluorescent lights burned his eyes. His lungs heaved as he stumbled down the empty corridor, sneakers squeaking against linoleum smeared with muddy rain prints. He saw the emergency exit glowing dim red above a metal door and a sob broke from his chest, relief mixing with fear so violently his knees almost gave out.

Move. Move.

He continued bolting down the hallway until he all but collided with the heavy metal door. His hands hit the push bar so hard it rattled in its frame before bursting open with a screech of rusted hinges and the shrill scream of the alarm. The metallic scent of blood still clung to his skin. He almost collapsed again, but instinct, wild and frantic, snapped him back into motion.

Valéry ran. Ran with everything he had left in him, each step burning his lungs raw.

Get away. Get away. Get away.

But the sound of footsteps followed, steady and inevitable as death itself.
 
His Omega didn't seem to be listening. Or, perhaps he was, and that was what inspired Valéry to slide down onto the floor and grind himself beneath the partitions; blunt nails scrabbling over grime. Zhenya watched with the same distant curiosity as a boy with a magnifying glass over a hill of ants. It'd be so easy to kill. It'd be so easy to squash. Yet, somehow, Zhenya found more pleasure in watching Valéry squirm across the floor in his desperate attempt to flee.

"Where are you off to, petal?" A smirk; sinister and toothy. "Leaving without me?"

Their eyes met as Valéry pushed himself up from the floor to stand, those blue eyes sweeping back to meet gunmetal grey. Zhenya offered nothing, only the suggestion of a smirk in the glimmer of his cold eyes as he watched something roll through Valéry as he lingered. An inhale. A tremble. A set of fear-flushed cheeks wet with tears.

He can smell me. It burns him.

The Omega shoved through the door, escaping back out into the terminal.

And Zhenya let him go.

He inhaled deeply; holding the lingering sweetness of his Omega's scent deep in his lungs. He took the time to crouch down by the body, and work his fingers into the man's blood-soaked clothes. Zhenya fished out a wallet, flipped through it in search of something, and then tossed the leather into the sink when he found only cash.

Rising to stand, Zhenya paced casually across the restroom space, and slipped out of the door. He didn't take pause by the mirror to consider the spray of blood across the lapel of his camel-brown coat. Nor did Zhenya bother to try and lock the door behind him. There'd be cleanup here within the half-hour.

Come out, come out, wherever you are~

There was a lightness to Zhenya's step that was more than his natural, fluid grace. If he were a man that bounced with delight, he would have. For the smile that he wore was bright. Manic, even, as he swept through the terminal to give chase. The hunt was back on, and Zhenya's cock had never been harder.

I’ll fuck him so good that he forgets how to walk.

He wondered if Valéry thought the grime and piss that had soaked up into his clothes would keep him safe. He wondered if Valéry thought the presence of blood on his person would stave off Zhenya's want. There were very few things that ever had Zhenya taking pause, and it was not blood nor piss nor dirt. Valéry would have a hard time dissuading the man.

Zhenya, standing in the corridor, smirked. He loved everything about this. It was how he earned his moniker, after all; the Belhaven Butcher. Zhenya was known to toy with his enemies like a cat would a mouse—bat them, trap them, torture them a little and let them run and think they'd survived the worst of it. But he'd always find them, and they'd all end up the same way—mutilated, broken, carved up into pieces so indistinguishable from a whole human that one might think them to be steaks of pork.

Truly, though, what Zhenya loved most were these moments in the hunt when rational, reasoning human conscience was turned off and he gave himself to the primal. Zhenya enjoyed the chase, the flurry of his victim's pulse beneath his fingers as they were finally caught. He lived for that flash of terror. He lived for their desperation and despair. He lived, most of all, for pain.

Zhenya paused, listened, and inhaled to scent the air. It was strongest to his left, deeper down the corridor and away from the main terminal floor. He wondered if his Omega had fled outside, and then groaned low in his throat at the thought of running wild in the dark. Fuck. The dark of his trousers was strained over the swollen, aching girth of him. Zhenya adjusted his cock and set off down the corridor.

A shrillness split the air, but it brought Zhenya no discomfort. Instead, he was grinning, stalking forward as if he had all of the time in the world, and dipped his head beneath the glare of the blinking red light.

Yes. Oh, yes, little mouse. Run outside. Run through the shadows. Let me hunt you nice and proper because it'll be so much sweeter when I catch you.

Zhenya was close to follow as he stepped out through the emergency exit and let the daylight swallow him whole. The late-morning sun struck his hair, appearing gold beneath the bright rays. The threads of it glinted like the rings on his fingers, the bracelet under his coat's cuff, and the single, small hoop pierced through the lobe of his ear. Gold and brown and black. Colours of a leopard. Zhenya's long-legged stride was just as languid.

From behind a locked bus, there was a flash of pink hair, and Zhenya felt a thrill. There were many stationed across the tarmac, all sat in a row. They were parked, and locked, though he knew that perhaps one or two weren't so. Who ever thought to steal a bus for the driver to care when they were finishing their graveyard shift? Zhenya sank his teeth into the inside of his cheek, tasting blood, as he cut to follow in his Omega's path.

"Valéry, you know that this is foreplay," Zhenya called, but it was all velvet baritone purr.

His footsteps were naturally quiet over the bitumen as he slunk between parked buses. He glanced down between each, but followed his nose. Followed the sweet of his Omega like he were a fucking dessert. And he would be, in time. Zhenya was salivating.

"You know that I can smell you, yes?" Zhenya stalked deeper. He ducked down, glanced under the bellies of the vehicles, and glimpsed the sprinting blur of slender legs. Zhenya straightened and took off; quick only because he was becoming hungry. "Run, little rabbit, I'm soon to catch up."
 
He didn’t look back.

He couldn’t look back. If he saw him again, saw the way those cold steel eyes bore straight through his soul and drank him in like fine wine, if he saw that grin– if he saw what the Alpha was feeling through those dark slacks– Val knew he would freeze. And if he froze, his life was as good as over.

His breath hitched with a ragged sob as he dove between two parked buses, the world spinning around him in streaks of sun-glare and diesel fuel. His heart was thundering, a frantic, broken rhythm that felt like it might explode out of his ribs– leap right out of his throat and onto the pavement. Surely that would have been a kinder fate than whatever that hulking brute of a man had in store for him if he were to be caught. Every part of him felt wet and filthy– his palms slick with sweat, his entire front damp with piss and grime and whatever chemicals had been haphazardly wiped onto the floor he’d been crawling on moments ago. Like an insect trying to avoid being squashed, certain death.

Fuck. Fuck, he killed him. He just
just slit his throat, like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter.

He tasted bile again, hot and bitter in his throat, but he swallowed it down. His body wanted to fold in on itself and retch, to empty whatever contents lingered deep in the pit of his stomach. His body wanted to give up. But his mind was screaming at him to keep going, keep moving.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the blood on your shoes. Don’t think about the way his head tilted when– don’t think. Just RUN.​

Valéry slipped along the side of the third bus in the row, weaving his thin body between mirrors and rails, ducking low when he saw shadows shift on the bitumen. His eyes were wild, frenzied, flicking to every exit, every parked shuttle, every stairwell down to the underground station. He needed somewhere. Anywhere. Somewhere to hide. Somewhere to breathe. Somewhere to disappear forever.

“ValĂ©ry, you know that this is foreplay.”

The sound of that voice– smooth and rich and dark as velvet– rolled down the row of buses like a plague wind. Val’s chest seized. His feet stumbled over each other and he slapped a hand against the warm metal siding to catch himself before he went tumbling to the ground, sealing his fate. The sun burned down on the back of his neck, already slick with his own sweat, and he clenched his jaw so tightly his jaw ached.

Please
please
leave me alone.

But he knew, deep down, that it wouldn’t stop. He could hear it in that voice, curling up his spine like claws dragging across exposed bone. A hot, violent wave of nausea rolled through his gut as he pressed himself against the side of the bus, panting. Tears were dripping from his chin onto the scuffed ground below.

“You know that I can smell you, yes?”


He almost bawled out loud at that. Of course he could. Of course. Val’s scent blockers had worn off last night before he had gotten home, sweat and rain breaking apart the thin synthetic compounds. His Omega scent would be thick in the morning heat, heady with cortisol and sheer terror. Sweet vanilla and blooming jasmine and bitter salt. He was exposed. Ripe. Every inch of his pale skin felt flayed raw with that knowledge.

“Run, little rabbit, I’m soon to catch up.”

Move, Val. MOVE!

He darted across the gap between two more buses, ignoring the harsh bite of gravel against the soft soles of his cheap sneakers. His thighs burned. His lungs burned. His mind was fracturing under the pressure of runrunrun screaming through every synapse like wildfire.

A sharp whimper cracked from his throat before he could swallow it down. His vision was blurred, the corners flickering black with panic. Had it not been for the adrenaline flooding his entire body, he might have blacked out completely. Still, ValĂ©ry ran, the echo of the Alpha’s footsteps against the bus lot sinking deep into his bones like iron nails driven into flesh.

He practically skidded around the last bus in the row, his breath coming in ragged gasps that nearly scraped his throat raw. His knees nearly buckled beneath him as his hand slammed down against the cool metal of the door. He tugged at the handle out of pure hopeless instinct, knowing it would be locked like the others–

But it opened.

A startled, choked noise cracked out of his chest. He threw himself inside, nearly falling up the short steps as the door banged shut behind him with a hollow clang that echoed through the empty interior. The stale scent of old coffee and engine oil filled his nose. It was dim inside, the tinted windows filtering the bright morning into a ghostly grey.

Val stumbled down the narrow aisle, tripping over scuffed rubber mats, catching himself on the edges of faded vinyl seats. His thighs trembled so violently he nearly fell. Tears distorted everything into a soupy smear of shadows and sunlight. He didn’t pause to think. His body moved purely on instinct. His eyes darted along the narrow aisle, desperately searching–

Hide, Val. Hide. Anywhere. Anywhere he won’t find you.

His gaze caught on the thin metal door at the back. The cramped onboard bathroom. Valéry continued down the aisle, his knees knocking together from the way his body trembled so violently. He practically fell against the door before wrenching it open with a loud metallic squeal.

It was barely a closet. A shallow plastic toilet bolted to the floor, a cracked mirror above a rust-stained sink. The smell of chemicals and urine was sharp enough to sting his eyes, but he didn’t care. Val crammed himself inside, throwing his bag under the sink and pressing his back to the cold metal wall. With fumbling, trembling fingers, he slid the lock in place. The thin metal latch felt like a paper shield against a bullet.

He’ll smell me. He’ll fucking smell me. God, please
please, just this once. Let me be invisible. Let me disappear.

There was nowhere left to run.​

And ValĂ©ry had always known deep down that he was never meant to be free.​
 
Beneath the harsh of the near-midday sun, there came more tells. A scuff of white rubber soles over the bitumen that hinted at a bus' corner being rounded at speed. The wet drops upon gravel that, when Zhenya crouched to smear his fingers over them and draw the digits up to tongue, tasted like tears. A single strand of candy-pink hair caught between the metal sheeting of a poor patch job on a bus' side. Zhenya took his time. He did not need to strain. This game was good, but it could have been better. He made a mental note to let his Omega out to run in the dark. Only then would a hunt such as this be brilliant.

A little way off, there came a sudden slam. Was it Valéry's lithe body striking the side of a bus as he finally collapsed in utter terror? Was it the presence of another, making themselves known? Something groaned, and Zhenya recognised the sound of it to be un-oiled hinges. It was a door grinding open, announcing yet another shift in their game. Valéry was going inside a bus, taking their chase away from the sun's harsh gaze. Zhenya imagined all the places his Omega could try and hide, but what he loved imagining even more as he stalked forward with a sick smirk, was all the ways he'd drag Valéry out and fuck him on each and every surface of the bus.

I'll have to torch it afterwards, I'll leave it so covered in cum.

But which bus had his Omega slipped inside? Which one of the remaining two held Zhenya's prize? He stalked the length of the second last, searching for clues and for tells but found nothing. He did not need to try for the handle. This bus didn't hold his Omega, and he knew because the intoxicating draw of his sweet scent didn't linger there. Zhenya turned and let his grey eyes sweep over his shoulder to the final bus at his back.

"Fuck
" he grinned; the word half a mutter and half a moan. His pink-haired prey was so deliciously close.

Zhenya turned and stalked around the last bus to the door. There, he lingered. There, he stared at the handle and listened to the wild of his own heart. He'd carved men up, and his heart had remained slow. Why was it that this hunt left him so hot and bothered? So fucking keen? Zhenya didn't care to contemplate. For a moment, he simply existed and had no thought at all besides: Claim. It was a chant, a song in his marrow, and it had Zhenya swallowing thickly.

The door of the bus groaned open slowly, as if Zhenya were trying to be quiet. The sound was ominous as it split through the silence of the cabin, and Zhenya began to climb those few steps to stand in the aisle.

Oh, yes. He's here.

Zhenya inhaled the Omega's sweetness and held the scent of him deep in his lungs like a drug. He exhaled only as he began to stalk down the aisle. Under chairs, Zhenya glanced. In the overhead compartments, Zhenya checked. His hands remained by his sides. Only the steel of his eyes searched for his Omega, following his nose.

This was where the game shifted.

Zhenya set more weight into his steps, making them heavy and foreboding. It was a conscious effort, but one that echoed through the flooring of the bus so deep that he hoped it would reach Valéry's feet. He let his movements become louder, obvious. He made a show to capture the disabled seat and flip it down with a slam as if Valéry really were a mouse and could have hidden in the folded seam. Zhenya was standing before the restroom door, breath heavy.

"You must have a penchant for restrooms, Valéry." Zhenya stepped close, turned his shoulder into the door. But he didn't force it open. Didn't force it to break and bend under the mass of him. He leant, with a thud, and let the door hold him up. "You must really like the idea of me fucking you over the filth."

There would come another thud against the door, but this one was softer. It was Zhenya's temple striking it as he'd tipped his head to lean in, too.

"How much piss did you get on you, Valéry? If you had have asked me nicely, I would have let you walk out, if just to extend this lovely game of ours. But you went and slid on your belly, dirtying yourself like that. No matter," Zhenya turned his face into the door, nose pressing against cheap laminate, "I'll only make more of a mess of you, anyway."

Valéry. Valéry. Valéry. When had Zhenya started to enjoy the way that name curled over his tongue and pressed in against his teeth? When had it gone from 'little mouse' to Valéry?

"Safe to say you've cornered yourself very nicely for me,"
Zhenya turned to press his back in against the door. It groaned under his weight. It bent from his mass. He didn't care if it splintered and caved in, squishing Valéry to a pulp. He'd still fuck whatever flesh there was left of him.

"If you come out, I'll make a deal with you," he purred. "I'll let you choose how I fuck you: with your ass up and your eyes down, like a whore, or with your face up." The door creaked, Zhenya shifting again to turn and press his side flush to it.
"Well? Do you have a preference, Valéry? I don't really care and it won't really matter unless you come out."
 
He hadn’t meant to leave so many clues behind. But ValĂ©ry’s world had been spinning from the moment he sensed the Alpha’s presence in the terminal. Everything had been so painfully bright and disjointed, his ears ringing with the panic that crashed through him like a riptide. He’d barely registered the strands of pink dyed hair torn from his scalp, the tears dripping freely down his face, the way his scraped palms burned from where they’d caught the rough concrete.

He’d barely registered anything except the desperate scream in his mind:
Run. Run. Run.

ValĂ©ry was shaking so hard that his teeth knocked together. He crouched low, his back pressed against the corner of the tiny metal cubicle in the back of the bus, knees tucked to his chest, arms tight around them. The sour stink of old piss and antiseptic cleaner clung to the walls, mixing with the sharp tang of his fear-sweat and the sweetness of his pheromones. He’d tried to press the butt of his palm against his gland to stifle it, but it was no use. He could practically feel him outside the door, hear him moving down the aisle. Each thudding step made his heart leap faster in his chest until it hurt.

How he hadn’t had a heart attack and keeled over yet, he had no idea.

Val could hear him talking. That deep, honey-slick voice curling around his name like it belonged to him.

“You must have a penchant for restrooms, ValĂ©ry. You must really like the idea of me fucking you over the filth–”
“–Safe to say you’ve cornered yourself very nicely for me.”

He hadn’t meant to– bathrooms had always been a safe space for him. He could have privacy. He could hide, from both bullies at school and the alcoholic rage of his father. The Omega squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead to his knees. His breath came in shallow, shaky pulls. Inhale. Pause. Exhale.

He killed that Alpha in the bathroom. He just– just slit his throat like it was just another day for him. There was so much blood. So much


He swallowed, his stomach twisting violently. At the very least, if he puked, he could just hunch over the cheap plastic toilet to the right of him. He could still see the red river on the tiles; the way it pooled and spread, soaking into the grout. The spray of it up the cloudy mirror.

It should have been me. That thought pulsed through him with a cold certainty. It will be me once he’s done using my body.​

The door rattled as the monster leaned his massive weight against it, and Valéry flinched so hard his shoulder blades slammed into the metal behind him. A soft whimper slipped past his clenched teeth before he could bite it back.

“Please
”
It spilled out, trembling, before he could stop it. His voice was small and broken, barely a whisper. “Please
just
leave me alone
”

There was a beat of silence. The kind of silence that pressed down like a blade to the neck. ValĂ©ry sucked in a shaking breath, his chest hitching with sobs he couldn’t quiet.

“If you come out, I’ll make you a deal.”

“Please
I don’t
I don’t owe you anything,” he wept, pressing his palms over his ears like he could shut the man out and talking over what he probably thought was the deal of a lifetime. His tears dripped onto the grimy front of his hoodie. “I didn’t– I didn’t do anything to you
! I-I just
I just want to go home
!”

But his voice cracked on that last word. Home. Because he didn’t have a home anymore, did he? Just an empty shell of a house. Just debts he didn’t make and sins that weren’t his to bear.

“P-please, I’ll do anything else,” he choked out, curling tighter in the cubicle, his forehead pressed to the metal wall. “I’ll
I’ll work it off, I’ll pay you back somehow, I swear, just– just don’t–”

Val’s throat closed around the word. Around the last part of the plea he didn’t want to say for fear of making it real. Around the horrifying truth of what the Alpha wanted. He lifted his head, sea-glass eyes squeezed shut as tears cascaded down. At some point, he’d weep himself dehydrated– he just wasn’t sure when. His voice came so small. So quiet.

“P-please don’t touch me.”


He could hear the man shift outside the door again. The metal creaked and groaned under his mass– ValĂ©ry felt every vibration of it rattle through his bones.

He won’t leave. The thought clawed through him with cruel certainty. He won’t leave. He’s going to
he’s going to


His stomach lurched. He pressed his hand to his mouth to stifle the sobs, quivering so hard that Val feared he could feel it through the floor. Please. Please. Please
 The prayer was silent, voiceless, repeated over and over in his mind as his scent filled the tiny bathroom with fear and hopelessness and the sweetness of an Omega with nowhere left to run.
 
"I'll do anything else."

As if Zhenya hadn't heard those very same words in so many voices. Cried shrill with panic. Groaned low in the last, fading droplets of desperation. Moaned. Screamed. Wept. Stuttered.

Please don't hurt me.
I can pay it back! I swear!
I'll do anything, god, please.
I have a son


a daughter


a wife with a baby on the way

Please don't kill me, I'll do anything else!

Everyone always seemed so keen to do something else, but the issue had always been that there was nothing else. Nothing else that they could provide him that was of the same worth, and nothing else that Zhenya wanted.

Valéry should have considered himself lucky. Zhenya wanted his body whole, wanted the pleasure of it, rather than his usual practice of sheering meat off the bone. He'd rather spread Valéry open, than too butterfly the flesh upon his back to open out his ribcage. Valéry was lucky. He should have been thankful. Grateful. Zhenya huffed air from his mouth that could have been either a sigh or scoff.

The flimsy door was bowing beneath his weight. It would have been so easy for Zhenya to break it down and snatch what was his by that lovely pink hair. If his Omega loved restrooms so much, Zhenya would treat him to a nice hard fuck over the basin. Yet, Zhenya tucked a hand into the deep pocket of his coat and entertained Valéry's pleas with conversation. The Omega should have been grateful for that, too.

"How long do you think it would take for you to work and to earn fourteen million dollars, Valéry?" The question was heavy, because the answer was too. "On top of that, what will be your plan to tackle the accruing interest? My rates are competitive, and for you, I could be persuaded to lower it. Still, twelve percent of fourteen million every year
" Zhenya let out a whistle. "That's one point seven million every year, Valéry. You won't be making enough to cover that kind of interest, alone."

The pad of his finger swept over the warm gold metal of his signet ring, twirling it slowly across the knuckle. "Even if I didn't charge you any interest, Valéry, there's still the matter of recuperating my losses. Nothing is free in this world. Your father knew that. I'd need something in return for taking on the burden of your interest, entirely."

He shifted again, leaning in with his shoulder and turning to press his nose flat to the door. He inhaled, as if the cold laminate was the crook of his Omega's throat. As if he were smelling those pheromones right from the source. His hand lifted from his coat pocket, and the palm smeared low over his groin. Zhenya stroked his swollen, aching cock over the black fabric of his trousers. The moan rose and died in his throat, grey eyes closed.

"Which will bring us back to precisely this same issue, Valéry. You have nothing to offer me besides your sweet body." Zhenya could not help the strain to his voice. He was hungry. He was needy. His Omega's scent was driving him crazy, and he needed that candy hair tight in his fist.

"Open the door and come to me." The call of a siren, luring a sailor over the edge; blinded by sing-song enchantment. "It doesn't need to be horrible for you, Valéry."

Valéry. Valéry. Valéry. Sweet rose.

"I'm a patient man," Zhenya purred.
"I'll at least stretch you first."
 
Anything else. Anything else. Anything but this.​

ValĂ©ry wanted to scream it again, to let the words pour out of him until they became meaningless noises– animal sounds, desperate keening like a dying thing caught under a wheel. But he knew that it would do nothing. The man outside the door– no, not a man, something worse– was speaking with that same cold, distant logic his father used when explaining why he’d hidden grocery money for the betting tables instead. But the Alpha’s logic was crueler. Colder. It stripped the world of any kindness it might have ever held.

How long would it take to earn fourteen million dollars?

His mind reeled as it attempted to stumble through the math. Fourteen million? He couldn’t even keep enough money for rent each month, couldn’t even keep himself in one place long enough to sign a lease without his father’s debt collectors sniffing him out. Fourteen million might as well have been infinity. Forever. It was an amount so possible that trying to wrap his head around it made his vision prickle with dark static around the edges.

Val could hear the beast’s breathing through the door– slow, controlled, each exhale tinted with a deep, hungry rasp.

He tried to think of something else. Anything else. “Doux garçon
mon ange
mon cƓur
” His maman’s voice flickered like candlelight in his mind, faint and soft, but it did nothing to steady his breathing. ValĂ©ry was too far removed from that world now. Too far from gentle hands and lavender perfume. Now, there was only this. Only the heavy hush of the Alpha’s voice curling under the door and settling in his chest like chains.

“Open the door and come to me.”

His chest lurched with another sob. The heel of his palm pressed into his mouth until he tasted blood from his split lip, the copper sting sharp enough to anchor him for just a moment. He shook his head, though the man couldn’t see him.

“It doesn’t need to be horrible for you, ValĂ©ry.”

A strangled, hopeless laugh clawed its way up his throat before he could stop it. Not horrible? Was that supposed to be comforting? He knew what the man saw when he looked at him. A trembling little lamb. A fucktoy. An Omega whose only worth was the softness of his flesh.

He wanted to plead again, to beg, anything else but this. He could do anything else– he would do anything else. He could cook, clean, he could be quiet, he wouldn’t even fight him taking the house. He could disappear, the man would never have to see him again. But deep down, as the Alpha’s scent seeped in under the crack of the door– woodsmoke, oak resin, bitter chocolate– he knew the truth.

There was nothing else. He would pay in flesh.

Valéry sat there for what felt like forever though it had only been minutes. The seconds stretched out until they blurred into each other, until time no longer felt something real. Just a concept. Just another thing the monster could twist and bend and snap in half like a matchstick if it pleased him.

“I’m a patient man. I’ll at least stretch you first.”

That voice was honey and poison in equal measure. Soft. Dangerous. Unyielding.

Val’s body was shaking so badly he may as well have been having a seizure. He pressed his knuckles into the side of his neck in an attempt to will the tremors away. Trying to will himself away, back to another life, another time, a memory of jasmine and honeyed almond milk and La Vie en Rose hummed softly as soft, fragile hands brushed out his hair. “Petit oiseau, Rosette, mon trĂ©sor
”

But his mother wasn’t here. She hadn’t been for years. And no one was coming to save him.

He could hear the man shifting outside of the door, hear the heavy brush of his shoulder as he leaned in, the rustle of fabric over hard flesh. It would have been so easy for him to rip this door open. To grab him by the hair and drag him out onto the filthy bus aisle like a rag doll. To press his face into the cheap vinyl seats and–

A choked sob broke out of him. His chest felt like it was caving in. His breathing was ragged and shallow. His lungs weren’t getting enough air; he was getting lightheaded. He squeezed his eyes shut so hard that it hurt.

“It doesn’t need to be horrible for you, ValĂ©ry.”

The beast’s words from moments ago swirled through his mind, and ValĂ©ry let out a thin, smothered noise– half laugh, half whimper. As if he believed that. As if he could control how horrible this would be.

And yet
​

And yet.​

The truth settled into him like lead, heavy and sickening. There was nothing else. Nothing he could offer that the Alpha would accept. His time was up. He could keep fighting and the behemoth would break down the door and take him anyway. Or he could


He could choose. Or at least pretend to. Maybe that would make it hurt a little less.

His limbs felt like water as he forced himself to move. Up on shaking legs, Val reached out for the latch, fingers slipping once, twice, before he managed to grasp it. His breath hitched and his shoulders shook with another silent sob as he pressed his forehead to the cold laminate one last time.

Please. Please let it be quick. Please let me survive this.

With trembling fingers, he slid the lock open.

The latch gave with a quiet metallic click that felt deafening in the silence between them. For a moment, he couldn’t make himself move. His shoulders were locked up, chest heaving as he stood there with his fingers still wrapped around the little metal nub.

Then, slowly, shaking so bad he could barely keep upright, he pulled the door open.

Dimmed sunlight flooded in over him. It haloed around the Alpha’s massive form where he lurked just outside, casting his shadow down over ValĂ©ry like a looming storm cloud. ValĂ©ry couldn’t bring himself to look up. He kept his eyes on the floor, on the man’s polished shoes. His lips parted around a broken, whispered plea.

“...please don’t hurt me.”

But he knew it didn’t matter. It never had.

Doux garçon - sweet boy
Mon ange - my angel
Mon cƓur - my heart
Maman - mom/mama
La Vie en Rose - Life in Pink; the song by Édith Piaf
Petit oiseau - little bird
Rosette - little rose
Mon trésor - my treasure
 
There came the crackle of cut laughter from behind the door, and Zhenya's cold eyes snapped open. The sound of it was humourless, dry like scorched earth. He supposed that was to be expected since all the wetness that lay within Valéry had come out in tears. A small part of him wondered if his Omega was laughing because he was mad. Because his mind was splintering under the stress. If Zhenya could feel hope, perhaps he'd have felt it then as he considered the possibility of another insane soul appreciating the wild of his own.

Like calls to like, after all.

Yet, the silence returned and began to stretch despite Zhenya's verbal baiting. He tried to lure, to coax, to negotiate, even, but received nothing in return but the drawn, pregnant quiet. There came another sound after a while, one much like a sob choked and caught in the middle of a throat, and Zhenya knew his Omega was still crying.

Will he cry while I fuck him, too? Will he cry when I make him come all over us both, and then fill him with mine? Will he cry and beg me to stop as I take him again until nightfall? Through shift change? Through the mess?

"Oh, sladkaya roza," [sweet rose] Zhenya hummed, pressing his face tighter to the door until the tip of his sharp nose squished. He inhaled the sweet syrup, the cloying scent of his Omega's fear and delicious damp skin. How lovely he'd smell, covered in the slick of them both.

"Do you cry now because of what you face, or at the knowledge that your father abandoned you to this?" Zhenya edged away, convinced that the man within would not be lured out. He gripped the edges of the door frame with gold-ringed fingers, and white-tensed knuckles. Arms over his shoulders like wings of the Devil, his shadow drawn long. "Never mind, I suppose. I've always found it delicious when an Omega cries on my cock."

Something scrabbled. It sounded like blunt nails over laminate. It sounded like fingers trying to work a latch but unable to capture and lift it, so it clanged back into place.


What's this
?

The cock of Zhenya's head to the side was lupine. He watched the lock, the red that indicated his Omega still remained sealed inside and just out of reach. He watched it begin to spin, a sliver of green appearing but then pausing. Zhenya's heart was racing. The blood rush through his ears was exhilarating. His cock hadn't ever been harder in his life, and he was sure that a droplet of pre wept from the tip.

Yes.

The latch began to turn and time seemed to stall. Zhenya was caught between one moment and the next; all tense-muscled and taut spine. Leopard that he was, drawn and stretched for the pounce, watching as his little field mouse crept closer. So close. So near.

Come to me, Valéry. That's it.

The latch snapped open and the metallic cling of it echoed through the dead-silent bus. Silent, save for Zhenya's heavy breaths upon the other side of the door. Hot and humid, his breath condensed upon the laminate as he lingered, looming and not daring to move. Why would he when his prize was coming to him? Why would he when Valéry was choosing this? It felt like fucking Christmas.

Yes. Yesssssss.

The door began to creak open and, still, Zhenya did not move. He watched with those cold, steel eyes, narrowed upon the expanding sliver between the door and the frame. He watched for that first glimpse of hair, for that first preview of wet hoodie and damp cheeks. He watched, he waited, he held himself at bay as Valéry appeared before him in the space of the door and whimpered his plea as if Zhenya would care to listen.

"There you are, malen'kiy tsvetok." [little flower]

Immediate satisfaction had always been Zhenya's vice. He found it difficult to stay his hand when he wanted something and, by extension, his blade. There was always just one millisecond of a split second for synapse to fire and Zhenya to act.

But there, within the dimmed sunlight of the bus, he remained eerily still. There was pleasure to be had in stealing something from the unwilling. There was pleasure, certainly, to snatch something immediately and consume it all feral. Zhenya also knew that there was pleasure to be had in humiliation, and the forced participation of it could so often unlock something else within them.

Zhenya stepped back.

He stepped back again. Once. Twice. Until the space between he and Valéry was too long for him to reach. His fingers had been slow to let go of the door frame, but both hands clenched upon the headrests of a seat on either side of the aisle he dwarfed. Ragged were his breaths, an animal starved. Sharp were his eyes, a predator holding targets on prey. But he did not strike, did not lunge.

Zhenya only smirked as he said; "Undress for me, lest you'd like me to fuck you covered in piss and grime. I really don't mind, Valéry. You could have soaked yourself in your own, and I'd still fuck you."

He tipped his nose in a gesture of a nod. "Strip. I want to see all of you."
 
ValĂ©ry didn’t move at first.

He stood there in the dim hush of the empty bus, trembling faintly, as if he were caught somewhere between sleep and waking nightmare. The silence pressed against his eardrums until the only sound he could hear was his own ragged breathing, thin and too quick, hitching high in his chest.

I should run. I should
I should fight. Bite him. Scratch his eyes out. Something.​

Should have, would have, could have. Val’s thoughts felt like someone else’s. They didn’t land. Didn’t spark any real movement in his muscles. His limbs felt too heavy, too empty, as if all the sinew had been stripped away and he was nothing but skin, thin and translucent, draped over quivering bone.

What use was there in fighting when his grave had already been dug? When his casket was already being lowered into the ground?

He was silent aside from the sound of his own breath; only responding to the Alpha’s vulgar words with a slight wrinkle of his nose, his eyebrows pinching together in disgust. What a creep. His fingers twitched at his sides. The knuckles were scraped raw, small crescents of dried blood flaking from where his nails had bitten into his palms. Every movement of his hands sent tiny pulses of pain up his forearms, sharp reminders that he was still in his body. Still here. Still alive, for now.

Why am I alive? Why didn’t I just have him kill me inside? It would’ve been faster. Easier. Not like this. Anything but this.

ValĂ©ry lifted his hands slowly, as if moving underwater. Gripped the zipper of his oversized hoodie. For a moment, he couldn’t gather the strength to unzip it. The fabric clung to his damp skin, darkened with sweat, grime, and his own tears. When he finally wrenched the zipper down, inch by inch, the motion revealed the delicate line of his collarbone and the faint ridge of his ribs, each one sharp beneath the stretched pallor of his skin.

He’s going to see everything. Every bruise. Every mark. Every flaw. Every part of me I keep hidden. It won’t matter. It won’t matter if I hide or not.

Bruises bloomed in dusky lavender and sickly yellow along his sides, remnants of careless jobs, careless lovers, a cowardly father. There was a small purpling mark just beneath his left collarbone, shaped like a thumbprint pressed hard enough to leave its shadow days after the touch had gone.

As he pulled the hoodie off of his shoulders and let it fall from his arms, his candy-pink hair fell forward to veil his face. Under the tinted sunlight filtering in through the bus windows, the dyed locks looked almost luminous. Tears clung to his lashes and spilled silently, dripping onto his bare chest and mingling with the thin sheen of sweat that slicked his fair skin.

Stop crying. Crying won’t make anything better. But he couldn’t stop it. The tears kept coming, slipping down to drip from the curve of his jaw onto the floor at his feet.​

He was so slender, almost fragile, built like a dancer rather than a fighter. His shoulders were narrow, collarbones winged and prominent. Pale stretch marks curved along the outer swells of his chest (with matching ones on his inner thighs) in soft, silvery lines, almost shining faintly in the dim lighting.

His jeans soon pooled around his ankles with the simple unclasp of a button, and he stepped out of them on shaky legs, wobbling slightly as his feet settled back onto the worn floor of the bus. Val had kept his shoes on– his jeans had been loose enough to take off without removing them, and he couldn’t bear the thought of his feet touching the grimy ground, socks or not. His knees were reddened, marked by faint old bruises and the dark scabs of half-healed abrasions.

ValĂ©ry didn’t touch his underwear. Black cotton briefs, stretched thin and slightly frayed at the waistband, clinging tight to his narrow hips. It hid him just barely, outlining the soft curve of him beneath. He didn’t reach to strip them away. Didn’t cover himself, either. He simply stood there in his briefs, trembling like a leaf in a storm, shoulders hunched inward, thin arms crossed over his chest and hiding dusty pink nipples that had hardened from being exposed to the cool air. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts, each breath catching on a quiet whimper he didn’t even try to swallow down.

It’s fine. It’s just a body. He’s going to take it. He’s going to do what he wants with it. And then it’ll be over. I’ve done this before. And maybe, if I’m lucky, he’ll kill me after. Or maybe he’ll keep me, and I’ll just keep being nothing. I’m already nothing. It won’t be any different. It won’t


When his legs gave out, Val didn’t fight it. He folded to the floor, underwear still clinging to him, shins tucked beneath him as he ducked his head down, hair falling like a curtain to hide his tear-damp face.

Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. Don’t give him the satisfaction. Just disappear. Just fade away. Just


His slender shoulders shook with silent sobs. Each one tore through him like a hooked blade, leaving him emptier, more hollow, a quivering husk of exposed bone and bruised flesh and thin, broken breath. He did not speak. Did not beg. Did not look up to meet the Alpha’s eye.

He simply knelt there in his underwear on the filthy busy floor, the ache of grief blooming cold and dark in his chest for the self he would no longer be after today.
 
For a long, delicious moment Zhenya thought that he would have to step forward, sink his fingers into that cotton-candy hair, and wrench the clothes from his Omega's body. No matter, he'd done it a dozen times over. It would have been efficient and quick. Practiced. He could already hear the sound that would tear free of Valéry as he held him tight by hair and scalp. The same sound they always made.

Valéry moved. Not his feet. He stood, still, within the doorframe of the bus' tiny restroom that was more closet than anything else. It was his fingers that moved; skimming over a zipper to drag it down, curling over the hem of a shirt and the stud above a fly. Zhenya watched in eerie silence, unmoving besides the slow slide of his pale-granite eyes.

Zhenya hadn't particularly expected anything. He hadn't cared to consider the details beyond a hot hole and a tight throat. Yet, as they were revealed to him slowly, Zhenya drank in the colours that made up his Omega's palette.

Splotches of mustard yellow and dirty indigo—bruises of undifferentiated ages. Sweeps of cool grey—shadows under collarbones that should have been fuller with good eating. Ghosts of silver—stretch marks across skin, barely noticeable until ValĂ©ry shifted and the dimmed sunlight caught them. Jagged edges of angry carmine—wounds over joints still bright with inflammation. Pinpricks of dusty, desert rose pink—nipples hardened under the chill. Blockage of black—cotton underwear, a final defiance, that did not belong.

Zhenya's blonde brows pulled together into a crease.

"Valéry, you seem to have forgotten something."

Black didn't suit him. Black wasn't right. Black was stark and abyssal and too harsh of a tone against the paler splashes of colour, no matter how pastel or dirty. Black did not belong.

Zhenya was expecting Valéry to obey and bend to peel off his underwear, but he should have known better. Everything he expected his Omega to do never eventuated. It was always something else.

Zhenya watched, instead, with calm and disconnected silence as Valéry crumpled to his torn and tattered knees within the aisle. He said nothing as that pink hair fell about soft face, framing Valéry's features and shielding those tears from Zhenya's gaze. He didn't need to see. Zhenya could taste the salt of them as he ran his tongue along the seam of his lips. He tasted the salt of those tears, but also the mulled dejectedness of Valéry's shame.

The bus' floor groaned under Zhenya's weight as he stalked forward. It creaked again as Zhenya lowered himself gracefully into a crouch; the bulk of his legs held apart so that Valéry was nearly tucked between them. He loomed close enough that the fall of a tear struck the polished leather of the side of his shoe. Zhenya grasped the underside of Valéry's chin with the rough of his fingers and drew his Omega's face upward.

"Do you want to know something, Valéry?" He didn't give the man a chance to answer. Just reached out with his other hand to stroke fingers through that candy-pink hair. "Ever since I saw you, I've wondered what the name of this colour is."

There was a glint to Zhenya's eye as his gaze wandered to the rose-coloured threads, slipping through his knuckles; silken. And then his hand fisted. It caught Valéry's hair at the back of his head, dragged backwards to force the bare of a throat so sweetly slender. Zhenya used his hold upon that hair like a leash, bending Valéry backwards to arch until he could sink his fingers beneath the waistband of Valéry's underwear and rip them off.

The black tatters of them were tossed somewhere Zhenya didn't care to notice. The grin upon his mouth was that same wicked wolfishness as the night before.

"That's what I want." Zhenya's hand, still in Valéry's soft hair, wrenched him harder and higher. It would force Valéry to rise up onto his knees, kneeling rather than sat on his heels. Still, Zhenya would lift higher. He'd drag the man to his feet by his hair if he had to. "Get up."

But Zhenya, himself remained crouched upon the floor. He lingered there, eyes held upon the soft of Valéry's shaft. Zhenya released his Omega's hair in favour of something else.

Valéry would find his waist snatched by hands large enough to almost entirely circle it. Rough and calloused, Zhenya's grip was vice-like as he stole the man's weight from his feet. Valéry was hoisted upwards, held like a doll in the air, until Zhenya stole an ankle and tossed it over one shoulder and did the same with the other.

"I don't like my Omega's soft." Zhenya's steel eyes were cast upward at Valéry, riding his shoulders but with his soft cock in Zhenya's face; nothing to grip onto besides the seats on either side or the Alpha's head. "I said that it didn't have to be terrible for you, Valéry, and I also said I'm a patient man. If you want this over quickly, you'll get nice and hard for me before I fuck you."

Zhenya began to stand. He rose like a behemoth, carrying Valéry on his shoulders, until his Omega was made to bend away from the bus' ceiling. Zhenya's hands held Valéry still, kept him safe from falling. The cold tip of his nose brushed the inside of his Omega's thigh, as he inhaled unashamedly. Zhenya, blonde lashes fluttering as he groaned, clenched Valéry's waist harder.

"Get hard for me."

And Zhenya dipped his face forward, drew Valéry's hips into him, and the hot silk of his mouth enveloped Valéry's soft cock.
 
The Alpha crouched in front of him, looming with all of that impossible heat and mass, and Valéry felt his lungs squeeze tight with terror.

His knees dug painfully into the dirty aisle. The roughness scraped against his skin, reopening old scabs, but he barely felt it over the adrenaline and shame pumping through his entire system. Tears clung to the dark lashes bordering his red-rimmed eyes, blurring the beast’s sharp, cruel features into something monstrous.

Don’t look at him. Don’t look. Don’t move. Don’t exist.

But fingers curled under his chin, rough with callouses and rings biting cold into his searing skin. His breath hitched at the touch, his cracked lips parting with a harsh inhale that stuttered around a hiccuping cry.

“Do you want to know something, ValĂ©ry?”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t dare; couldn’t. His eyes were almost glazed over in terror, staring up at him blankly as the man’s fingers slid through his hair.

Please don’t hurt me please don’t hurt me please don’t–

“Ever since I saw you, I’ve wondered what the name of this color is.”

ValĂ©ry swallowed hard, his faint Adam’s apple bobbing. But despite himself, a little laugh bubbled up inside of him at the absurdity of it all. His hair color. He was thinking about his hair color. The laugh never left his lips, only squeezed out as a broken breath as the man’s large bear paw of a hand suddenly fisted in his hair and wrenched.

“A-ah–!”

His back arched sharply, the creamy flesh of his neck exposed, breath burning in his chest as he bit down on a cry. As it were, the Omega usually liked having his hair pulled– this was not one of those times, and certainly not this rough. Pain sparked hot and dizzying down his spine, tears he hadn’t even realized he still had spilling free to drip down onto his bare, quivering chest while he whimpered in the Alpha’s grasp. Then–

Riiiip.

The sound of tearing cotton snapped through the quiet like a gunshot. The final shred of his modesty– his dignity– fell away, and his body flushed with shame.

Gone. It’s all gone. I’m nothing now. Nothing. Just skin and holes and tears and–

That was what the monster wanted. His tears. His trembling. The humiliation of having his underwear ripped from his body like a child too stupid to dress himself. Another sharp gasp fell from his lips as his hair was yanked again, forcing him higher onto his knees, and Valéry scrambled to obey, the muscles in his thighs quivering from the effort to remain upright.

“Get up.”

His legs nearly gave out under him, shaking so badly that he stumbled when he tried to rise. But the man didn’t give him the chance to fall. Big, rough hands closed in around his narrow waist, spanning almost completely across his taut belly. ValĂ©ry sucked in a sharp breath, tears dripping hot onto the Alpha’s wrists as his feet left the floor. The world around him lurched and spun as he was lifted like he weighed nothing at all– featherlight– and his blue eyes widened in panic.

No. Nonononono–

His ankles were tossed over broad shoulders, his thighs forced wide open. The cold air of the bus licked against his exposed skin, goosebumps racing across the tender insides of his thighs. His cock was soft and limp, hanging there awkwardly as his hips were tipped forward. There was nothing to hold onto, nothing to steady himself with. Val’s small hands fluttered uselessly before grabbing desperately at the man’s hair, nails biting down into his scalp.

“I don’t like my Omegas soft.”

The words had dropped into ValĂ©ry’s chest like stones, heavy and cold and final. His eyes widened more as his chest heaved with shallow, panicked breaths. He thought he might have keeled over when the man rose with him, like a giant lifting a doll. His back bent painfully against the low bus ceiling, hands scrabbling to brace against it before the Alpha adjusted his grip to keep him from knocking his head. A trembling whimper– high and broken– spilled from his lips as he felt the cool touch of a nose against his inner thigh, the warmth of his breath fanning over gooseflesh.

And then, the Alpha’s mouth was on him. Hot, wet silk enveloping the limp length of him, the sudden sensation making his hips jerk and a sharp cry tear itself from his jugular.

“A-ahn–!”

His entire body went rigid as he was violated, shaking like a caught rabbit in the jaws of a wolf.

“Please
p-please, don’t
!”

But his cock betrayed him. The suction, the obscene wet heat and rough scrape of the beast’s tongue, made him twitch and pulse and fill out despite his terror. His thighs quaked around the other’s head, humiliated heat crawling up from his belly to stain his chest and throat red.

“N-no no no, d-don’t– please, please don’t make me– M-mmhn
!”

Not even ValĂ©ry could stop himself, as inexperienced to that sort of sensation as he was. He’d always been the type to end up losing himself to his pleasure no matter how reluctant he was. Despite his trepidation, his hips rocked, jerking and shallow.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

He couldn’t tell if he was apologizing to himself. To his mother. Or to the broken pieces of him left behind that would never come back.
 
There were hands in his hair, but it didn't bring Zhenya to a pause. Against the soft flesh of his Omega's mound, he swirled his tongue over the flaccid flesh caught within his mouth. Drew it up against the textured roof, pressed it low into the bottom, grazed the soft root of the shaft with his incisor teeth.

Yes. Put your hands in my hair. Pull out threads with your fingers. Bite your nails down into my scalp and make me bleed.

Zhenya's lips peeled away as he tipped his head back, letting the soft of Valéry's shaft slide over the flat of his tongue. He could taste the brine of his Omega's sweat, the bitterness of something that had soaked through his thin layers from his writhe across the floor. But Zhenya could also taste something much richer, deeper, like floral honey and caramelised vanilla-sugar. Valéry's scent was strong there between his thighs, and it translated into the flavour sparking across Zhenya's tongue as he swirled the pink muscle over the plush tip and sucked until his cheeks hollowed.

A pale brow quirked as Valéry begged over him: please and don't and make me. Zhenya wondered what his Omega was truly begging for as he grazed the point of his tongue across the slit, and felt the shaft beginning to swell, firm.

A responsive little creature, aren't you?

The need within Zhenya was far more complex than just insatiable hunger. It went deeper than that. It coiled within his marrow as he held Valéry up above him, straddling his shoulders and bent beneath the bus' low ceiling. A rough hand stroked up over a flank, thick fingers fanning across smooth skin and the notches of ribs.

So thin. So skinny. Does he eat?

Zhenya could fucking devour him whole. His fingers curled, and blunt nails bit into alabaster skin. He curled a thick arm overhead, across Valéry's flanks, to grapple with a hip and hold him tighter. There'd be nowhere to move as Zhenya consumed him. There'd be nowhere to flee to as the slick heat of Zhenya's mouth smeared along Valéry's shaft, silken tongue swirled over plush tip, and flickered beneath the sensitive webbing.

A sound came then, low in Zhenya's throat. A moan, a groan, a snarl. What did it matter? It was curling and velvet and rumbled like thunder within Zhenya's chest. His hands were occupied, and his mouth full. He had nothing to touch the aching swell of his own cock as it pressed out firm; hard and hot within the confines of his trousers.

Zhenya wasn't a man for foreplay. Those he bedded were expected to be wet, or he'd use something other than their slick to fuck them. He'd been known to take another Alpha, to bend them over his desk and fuck then hard until their rim tore and bled. He'd been known to fuck Betas—in change-rooms, in the back of a taxi, in airport bathrooms, in the gym draped over the equipment—until they, too, were ripped and gaping.

But Omegas
.sweet, soft, delicious Omegas were his delight. Always responsive. Always wet. It proved no real challenge to get them to beg. Just as it proved no challenge, now, to inspire Valéry's cock to swell hard in his mouth, filling the cavern of it until it brushed the back of his throat.

Oh, he likes that, doesn't he? He likes my mouth on his pretty, little Omega cock, sucking him hard.

A plunge of his head and Zhenya took Valéry's cock down to the root. Swallowed him whole. Swallowed him rough. Began to bounce his head to grind his wet mouth along the length in a rising tempo. Quick enough to make him come. Quick enough to grant friction, but almost in a painful, oversensitive fashion.

Zhenya's mouth pulled free of Valéry's cock, audible and sticky. His lips were smeared with his own spit, flavoured with the pre that had wept from the slit and laid claim to Zhenya's tongue. They shimmered as they pulled into a wolfish smirk, those cold metal eyes cast upwards at the Omega above.

"How long has it been since you've had your dick sucked, Valéry?" He turned his face, brushed teeth over the soft inner flesh of a thigh but did not bite. Zhenya's steel eyes remained watching Valéry's face from their corners. "How long has it been since you've come down a lover's throat? A day? A month? Ever?"

Zhenya leant forward a little, holding Valéry's body tight to keep him from falling. The cold tip of his nose pressed in against the junction of thigh and groin, dragging across over a full, pink sack. Zhenya, unashamed, nuzzled in under Valéry's cock and inhaled deeply. His eyes had closed as he'd done so, but blonde lashes fluttered as the cold, grey gems opened and looked up.

"Use your words. Tell me."
 
ValĂ©ry couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t be. The world had shrunk down to nothing but the damp heat of the devil’s mouth and the painful arch of his spine as his muscles trembled with the effort of keeping himself from falling.

As if reading his mind (much to his dismay if he had known the man’s thoughts), his fingers tightened in wheat-blonde hair– pulling, tugging, fighting in an attempt to pull his head away from his sensitive groin– a desperate, wordless plea for something he didn’t even understand himself. Something softer. Something kinder. Something that would never come.

Please
please


He could feel every slow drag of the Alpha’s tongue, every graze of sharp teeth along the sensitive underside of his length. Shame burned so hot beneath his skin that Val wondered if it might consume him from the inside out. Spontaneous combustion would have been a better fate than whatever this monster had in store for him. His vision blurred with tears, dark lashes damp as he tried to look away, tried to focus on the world outside of the bus window instead of the golden head between his thighs.

I can’t
I can’t do this


His cock was impossibly hard. Full. It throbbed with every wet pull of the warm mouth wrapped around it, every curl of his wicked tongue. And Valéry hated himself for it. Hated the way his own body betrayed him so easily, hated how his hips gave the tiniest involuntary jerk forward whenever the man sucked him in deeper and growled.

He bit down on his lip so hard he tasted blood. His tears fell in silent drops, splashing into light blonde hair below.

And then the Alpha spoke, voice like steel wrapped in silk, sliding under his skin and leaving something cold and aching in its wake.

“How long has it been since you’ve had your dick sucked, ValĂ©ry?”

Teeth brushed dangerously against his soft inner thigh, ivory against vanilla.

“How long has it been since you’ve come down a lover’s throat?”

A shameless, almost tender nuzzle underneath his cock and against his sack. The sound of the fiend inhaling deeply, huffing his scent like an addict, made the Omega’s stomach turn.

“Use your words. Tell me.”

Valéry felt his chest hitch on a silent sob. His throat felt raw, scraped hollow, as he forced himself to answer. His voice was thin and wavering, barely audible above the low roar of blood in his ears.

“...never
” He swallowed, eyes squeezing shut just so he wouldn’t have to see the man’s reaction– he was sure he’d feel it, soon enough. “I-I’ve
never
n-no one– no one’s ever
done that to me before
”

His voice broke entirely then, dissolving into a quiet, shaking whimper.

Please don’t make me
please don’t make me like this


But even as the thought echoed through him like prayer, his cock gave a helpless throb where it lay against the man’s face, betraying him completely.

Then he felt it.

A dampness blooming slick and hot between his thighs, wetting the curve of his ass and dripping down to smear against the brute’s chest where his legs were parted over broad shoulders. The scent of it bloomed thick and cloying into the stale air of the bus, candy sweet and humiliating. Omega slick. His slick.

No
no no no no–

A fractured sob cracked free from his chest as he felt another fat drop slide down between his cheeks.

I’m slicking– oh God, I’m slicking
he’s going to smell it– he already smells it– he’d going to fuck me, he’s going to–

But even as his panic rose sharp and cold, something else seeped in beneath it like rot creeping through damp wood.

The scent of the devil’s pheromones coiled around him, dark and rich and heavy. Charred oak, leather, dark chocolate melted over hot skin, burnt sugar, and something sharper beneath. The scent of violence. Of iron and heat and hunger. It made his chest tighten with something that wasn’t quite fear, wasn’t quite want. It made his eyes flutter open, pupils blown wide and dark as his lungs struggled to pull in more of that cloying air.

ValĂ©ry’s body felt heavy, molten, as if it were melting under the heat radiating from the Alpha’s flesh. His head felt light. His thighs trembled where they were spread over vast shoulders. His cock gave another pathetic twitch against the man’s face, a small cry slipping free from his bitten lips as his hips gave a helpless, instinctive roll forward.

No
stop, please stop


But his body wasn’t listening. His glands burned hot under his skin. The back of his neck prickled with an aching need to be touched, bitten, claimed. His vision was swimming, not with tears this time but with fire. With something molten and shameful curling low in his gut and behind his navel.

He could hear himself whimpering softly, a broken little sound that he couldn’t stop. He was trembling from head to toe, tears dripping steadily down to soak the stranger’s hair, and still his hips rocked forward in small, desperate jerks as the scent of Alpha pheromones wrapped around him like chains.

“P-please
please
please don’t– I can’t, I-I can’t
please
”

His voice was slurred, trembling, soaked in something that tasted like teardrops and smelled like slick and fear and betrayal. Because he could feel it– he could feel himself slipping under, drowning in the scent and the heat and the heavy, molten thrum of his own biology.

He’s going to fuck me
and I’m going to let him
I’m going to

 
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