Chapter 1: Mikhael
Mikhael is hiding in the closet. This is probably a particularly stupid move on his part, but he can’t help it. He’s tucked in the smallest space his tall, lanky body could be shoved into, balled up under a low shelf as he tries to hide. From what, he’s not quite sure. His head has been rather scrambled. It hurts to be all tucked in, what with his bad leg being forced in bent and close to his body instead of stretched out straight in a way that hurts less. Although, with his leg, there’s never really a time when there isn’t pain.
But the point stands that he can’t leave. About a day ago, Mikhael woke up feeling off. He’d ignored it for the rest of the day, but by the time evening had rolled around and he had an erection that wouldn’t go away, he understood exactly what poor timing was striking him down now.
Rut. Of all things, rut. It didn’t feel like three months could be up quite so quickly, but there he was, perpetually stiff, aching, and disgustingly wet.
And of course, rut meant punishment. Mikhael isn’t stupid. Even if he has a new Master who offers him good, kind things, rut is another matter entirely. He’s being a nuisance. He’s being an inconvenience. It’s better to hide himself away early and stay there for the worst of it all. Better that than to irritate his Master and risk winding up locked up against his will.
So Mikhael hides. He spends the better part of the day curled up in the closet willing his erection to go down and feeling increasingly disgusting thanks largely in part to the endless drip of slick leaking out of his hole.
By the time he hears you looking for him, Mikhael was almost hoping you’d just leave it alone. He has his space, you have yours, and while he should have known better than to assume that his Master would ever avoid his, he’d sort of hoped that you just wouldn’t care enough to look.
You open the door soon enough. Mikhael flinches, because of course he does. He’s sort of expecting you to hit him for hiding from you.
“Um, Mikhael?” you ask, doing the exact opposite of that. Mikhael keeps shivering and tucks his head down towards his knees, doing his best to look small. The motion jostles his bad leg, and he winces despite himself.
“Y-Yes?” he gets out after a moment, because not answering you would be a sign of disrespect, and disrespect is very, very bad.
“What are you doing in there? Are you okay?”
Mikhael stays quiet this time. He’s not looking forward to this. You’re going to drag him out of there, surely, restrain him so you don’t have to worry about him getting in the way. Probably strip him down so he doesn’t make a mess. He wants his piano back so, so badly in this moment.
“Can you tell me, please?” You’re using that frightened-animal voice again, pressing, poking, sounding so sweet that Mikhael can almost believe that you don’t want to hurt him. It’s a strange thought. A painful one.
“R-Rut,” he manages eventually, pressing himself back into the far wall of the closet even as he says it. Admitting it makes his chest clench up. He feels sort of like he wants to die and sort of like he wants to fuck into something until every nerve burns out. The latter part is his stupid, awful body’s idea, and Mikhael doesn’t like its insistence one bit.
“Okay. That’s no big deal.” At the very sound of your voice, Mikhael’s erection twitches. That’s... that’s sort of pathetic, even for him. “Can we get you out of there, please? I know that you can’t be comfortable.”
Mikhael makes a low, very unhappy sound. He doesn’t want to be drug out of the closet. It hurts to stay curled up, of course, but it’ll hurt far, far worse when you get angry. His heart is beating much too fast. His breath is coming much too short. He’s shaking like a leaf in strong wind.
Somehow, Mikhael still manages to force himself to nod.
You help ease him out of the closet. All sorts of pathetic, pained noises slip out from behind his gritted teeth, but Mikhael doesn’t manage to pay much mind to them. The movement makes his erection brush up against the fabric of his pants torturously. It’s a struggle not to spread his legs then and there. You’re close to him, so, so close, human body warm and solid and real, and Mikhael catches himself leaning into your touch without thinking about it. Just the smell of you is making him dizzy. The closeness is leaving him acutely aware, once again, of how badly he wants someone in his arms.
He barely makes it out into the living room, even with your help, before he’s flopping down, too exhausted and pained to move any farther. You don’t kick him, which is nice, and you don’t make any awful comments either. Just stretching out his ruined leg makes him hiss. You’re up and moving, grabbing things that Mikhael hopes won’t be used against him.
Unable to see what you’re doing, Mikhael startles when you drop down beside him. You go for his bad leg, which makes him flinch hard ... but all you do is slide a pillow under it. Two more go underneath his head, something small and ridiculously warm goes under his back, and before he knows it, you’re tucking enough blanks in around him that he almost feels warm. His fingers are digging into the fabric much too tightly.
“Wh-What are you doing...?” he asks with confusion. This... this isn’t right. He’s starting to feel dizzy. Every part of him still hurts.
Making you comfortable,” you say simply. “You look like you’re hurting, so I’m trying to help. Is there, um, is there anything else I can do...?” You ask it almost nervously, like you might actually care.
The sound of those words alone makes his hips twitch. His body hurts from his busted knee to the tips of his fingers, all the way down to the awful thing straining between his legs. He’s still leaking, still dripping. Arousal and fear are clouding his mind to the point where he can barely think straight.
“Make it go away,” he whispers, saying it without really thinking. You’re going to hurt him anyway. You’re sure to. There isn’t a hope in the world that you’d actually humor his pathetic self and give him relief.
“Okay. No problem. I’ll make it go away,” you say much too kindly. Mikhael’s stomach lurches. This isn’t right. “Are you okay with me touching you? Like, more than just there. Just soft stuff, like playing with your hair or something. Nothing bad. I just... I think you’d like it if I could offer you more comfort than... than that.” Just the thought of it makes him feel shivery. You’re– You’re actually offering to touch him. His hips jerk again, out of his control. Mikhael’s head tips back. His body feels both frigid and too hot.
Turning his head sharply away from you, Mikhael slowly nods, licking his bite-swollen lips. He can barely believe what he’s agreeing to.
“I’m...” You take a moment, swallow. “I’m going to get your pants off now.” Mikhael does his best not to shake more. You sound so soft and so genuine and the very idea of someone’s hands there is making him dizzy.
You unwind as much of the blankets as you need to. Mikhael is only wearing a loose, warm shirt and a pair of too-short sweatpants– underwear would have only been constricting and messy–, so when you tug the pants down over his hips, his cock pops free immediately. The cool air makes Mikhael hiss, hips twitching as his erection jumps slightly. He spreads his legs on instinct, revealing just enough of the place between his legs that it makes him feel nauseous. His body is acting on its own at this point, and he doesn’t like it. Feeling so out of control when around Master is dangerous.
“Going to touch you now,” you say softly, then, just when Mikhael is expecting a rough hand around his cock, you run a hand through his hair. He flinches at the motion on instinct but melts not an instant later. Fingers in his hair, dragging against his scalp. The touch brings gooseflesh to his skin.
That... that feels new.
You brush your fingers through his hair over and over again, gentler than anyone has ever bothered to be. A whimper leaves Mikhael’s lips. It feels good, every nerve sparking at just that level of tenderness.
But with the contact comes consequences. Mikhael’s hips quickly start to squirm, his thighs tensing as he fights the urge to spread them wide and hope you take pity on him. His body is aching for either something warm and wet around his dick or something thick filling him up. As blissful as it is, the gentle touch to his hair just isn’t enough. It’s absolute torture.
Just as Mikhael thinks he might have to beg, you lean down and wrap your hand around him with no preamble outside a quick, simple warning.
Mikhael has to slap a hand over his mouth to keep himself from moaning. Your hand is fever-warm against his skin, and even the light, teasing pressure is overwhelming to he who’s had nothing up until now.
You stroke up, down, up and down once more and Mikhael thinks he might be dying. Does it always feel like that? His whole body is twitching, the muscles in his thighs spasming as, suddenly, he’s overcome with the urge to snap them shut and grind up into the touch of your hand.
It keeps going. A steady, slow pace that has Mikhael biting down on his lip to choke back noises. He wants to squirm, wants to thrash and buck and press deeper and deeper into your touch. He wants you to move. But weapons don’t get to have choices, and even if his ruined body would allow it, Mikhael knows he’s not allowed to ask you for more than what you’re already giving. No matter what, he can’t be disrespectful.
By the time you brush up against the swollen head of his cock, assumedly red with heat and need, Mikhael can barely take it. A stifled moan does make it out of him that time, sharp and needy and way too shameful.
Your touch lingers there for a moment, fingertips teasing the part of him that makes him want to scream. He’s dripping. He’s dripping all over your hand and even though that means he’s wet enough for everything to feel good, the thought of soiling you almost makes Mikhael sick. You’ll be angry, surely. You’ll be–
With the pad of your thumb, you move to tracing soft little circles against a spot just under the head that makes Mikhael’s hips jut all on their own. He sucks in a too-sharp breath, curling in slightly on instinct as his thighs really do snap together, body thrusting up into your hand.
Mikhael almost chokes. He’s– he’s taking. This isn’t allowed. You’re being kind enough to touch him in the first place, and even if you were one to see beauty in his destroyed form, surely, you’d never want anything as unsightly as his desperation before you. It hurts. His cock is so swollen it hurts, throbbing in time with his heartbeat as you torture that one little spot. Mikhael can feel his knot starting to ache. Soon, it’ll start to swell, and maybe, if you’re truly kind, you’ll let him actually get some form of relief.
“T-Too much–” He manages to choke out when the touch doesn’t stop. He needs to thrust into something. He needs pressure, needs movement.
“Got it,” you reply, as if he didn’t just demand something from you, immediately switching back to pumping his aching flesh like he deserves it. Mikhael tries very, very hard to control his staccato-fast breathing.
But– But now you’re actually giving him the pressure and motion he needs. Your hand is moving, stroking him at a pace that’s actually getting somewhere. Mikhael feels heat building in the bottom of his stomach, sharp and harsh and everything he’s never been allowed before you.
It’s at that point that your other hand goes to his hair again, combing through the sweat-damp strands and scratching blunt nails against his scalp. It’s so gentle. It’s so much. Mikhael thinks that he could likely cry.
It’s getting harder and harder to hold back his moans. His body is moving on its own, wriggling as much as his leg will allow, squirming pathetically. His thighs can’t decide if they want to stay snapped shut or spread and expose himself for you. He knows that you can see between them, see the other part of him that he couldn’t bear to have touched, no matter how wet and aching it gets, clenching tight around nothing. His dick keeps twitching, his hips keep moving into your hand, and Mikhael is suddenly having a very, very hard time not making noise.
“You’re okay. It’s okay,” you soothe, brushing his bangs out of his face. That’s almost worse. Mikhael is so used to his mask, so used to keeping his face hidden that you seeing makes him feel panicky even now. He’s never been more grateful for the bandages still hiding the worst of it.
His skin feels too hot, too tight. No one has ever, ever touched him like this before, and the pleasure, the relief makes Mikhael feel a bit like he’s dying. He never imagined it could feel like this. He was never allowed to touch himself, and no one else bothered with it either– something which he was always grateful for. He knows what worse looks like. But that means that all of this is so, so new. The sheer sensation is almost unbearable.
Mikhael’s head is spinning. He feels delirious with pleasure and he hasn’t even come yet. What it’ll feel like when– if– if you allow him that–
Your hand speeds up again. By now, your fingers are brushing against his straining, swelling knot in a way that means Mikhael can’t hold back his weak, stuttering moans. He wants to know what it would feel like squeezed.
He’s so wet it’s pooling down around him, war, liquid soaking both your hand and his skin. The thought is humiliating. You’re seeing him drip for you, your hand is being soiled by his need, and even worse, he can feel an even bigger rush of it building between his legs. You’ll surely see the stain as soon as he moves. Mikhael swallows hard. He’s so aroused it hurts, but even now, he can’t stop thinking of what punishment is to come.
But heat is building in his stomach, pleasure singing through his veins. Mikhael knows he’s getting disoriented. He thinks he’d be begging you if he didn’t still have some measure of self-control. He can’t focus on anything but the feel of your hand on his skin, and– and–
All at once, something snaps inside of him.
Liquid pleasure rushes over Mikhael like an electric shock, like a crescendo. It’s so intense it hurts, the center of his body all at once becoming the place where you’re touching him.
His insides contract. He can feel himself spilling, pumping out even more fluid over your hand and up his belly. His knot blows quickly, blood rushing to a part of him that’s never had the chance to swell. It aches. It’s fire burning up his spine that Mikhael never wants to end. He's moaning, he’s keening, awful, breathy sounds that should be killing him with shame. Instead, all he can do is thrust helplessly up into your touch.
You respond quickly, locking your hand around his knot and squeezing. Mikhael actually shrieks at that, biting down on his hand until he tastes blood. That feeling– that pressure– it’s so much he feels like he could crawl out of his fucking skin just to escape. His body can’t tell if it wants to thrust into your touch or scramble away before it hurts.
But you sit there with him, squeezing and massaging the part where everything burns the most. Your little fingers press and press at where he’s aching, and slowly, Mikhael starts to come down from it all.
Even when his body goes limp, you’re still holding onto him. From what Mikhael knows, his knot won’t go down for five or ten minutes. He also knows that constant pressure would feel the best, but surely you won’t be willing to go that far. As it is, he’s going to owe you so, so much.
“There we go,” you say when he starts coming back to himself. “That should feel better. Are you okay?” Mikhael’s still-hard cock gives an absolutely pathetic twitch at the sound of your voice alone.
“Y-Ye-Yes,” he gets out slowly, barely able to speak.
And that’s all you say. Mikhael thinks he can feel you smiling at him. He’s really not sure what to do with that idea.
You sit there with him in silence until his knot goes down. Mikhael breathes like he’s dying, purposefully not thinking about the awful puddle of slick wetting his thighs and pooling between his legs. You start stroking his hair again after a while, leaving Mikhael trying not to shudder.
Once his traitorous body has relaxed, you finally let go. Mikhael can feel the loss of your warmth, the sudden absence almost choking him.
You get up for a moment after that, and Mikhael almost thinks you’ve left him. You’re back before half a minute has passed, though, sitting down next to him with what he guesses is a phone in your hand. You poke around at it for a moment, before finally giving the screen one last press.
And then– then– piano music starts up. Mikhael almost chokes. The sound is soft, haunting, a solemn tone that’s more comforting than anything Mikhael could have asked for. Instantly, the music soothes his fried nerves. His body relaxes like strings have been cut, all him shuddering at the familiar sound. You, you gave him music. After everything else you’ve done, you went out of your way to give him something you know he enjoys.
“There we go. That’s better, huh?” You’re smiling, Mikhael can feel it. “Hopefully, the song is alright. I thought you might like it.”
“Thank you, Master,” Mikhael says on reflex. He has to show his gratefulness. He has to show it so obviously you’ll never have any doubt that he means it. After everything you’ve done, he’d better.
“No problem. I’ll sit here with you until... uh... until it comes back. Then I can take care of you again, if that’s okay? Or just whenever you need it. Either way works for me.” You say it so simply that Mikhael almost chokes. You... you intend to help him again. The thought is almost frightening. What he owes you already scares him. What he’d owe you for more is a thousand times worse.
You wipe up his belly with a warm, wet cloth immediately after, cleaning up the sticky, cooling mess of his seed. Mikhael flushes at the touch. Once again, you’re taking pity on him. Once again, you’re being so much kinder than anyone should ever bother to.
Your hand goes to his hair after that, once again brushing through the strands. Mikhael shakes, shakes, and against his will, his whole body goes lax. Between the touch, the music playing in the background, and the exhaustion from actually being allowed to finish, Mikhael is barely conscious. He feels dizzy, fucked-out on too much contact and one strong orgasm.
All you do is keep petting him, humming quietly along with the song. Little by little, Mikhael relaxes. His broken body is too worn-out to last for long, and before he can stop himself, he’s slipping into sleep.
Chapter 2: Ninety
Next chapter yayyyy!!! This time featuring Omega!Ninety, who is trying very, very hard to be a good dog. Warnings this time are a little worse, with a lot of references to rape, dehumanization, and a fuckton of violence. Ninety has been tortured pretty bad... as one would expect from someone who's convinced he's a dog. Ninety is traumatized but Reader is kind of making it better.
Also! Conversion disorder! A fun little thing where psychological issues manifest as physical symptoms. Ninety's muteness is because of that, as is his tremors, severe panic attacks, nausea, and bladder control issues. He's kind of wrecked, basically.
(Oh, and please leave me comments,,, ;w; Feed your author)
Ninety is so, so scared. He’s been with you for a couple of weeks, almost a month, and he’s come so close to thinking everything might be okay. He’s been a good dog. He’s stayed quiet and out of the way, heeled by your feet when he’s supposed to, and eaten only what you give him. He hasn’t bit anyone either. He’s only wet himself a couple times, and–, and–
Now, Ninety is starting his heat. He knows the wet, sticky feeling between his legs anywhere. His cock only gets sort of hard, but his cunt drips like, as his old handlers liked to put it, a fucking faucet. He’s feeling way too hot down in his belly. His skin is feeling much too tight. He spends an awkward, awful couple of days squirming, praying that you won’t notice the stains in-between his legs. He stuffs his pants– pants– with paper towels when you’re not looking. He forces himself not to grind on anything.
But no matter what Ninety does, it just keeps getting worse. From day two, he’s drooling behind the mask you let him keep. You’ve surely noticed him shaking. Ninety can barely stand, but he still has to not let it show.
Heats mean being shoved back into his kennel and kept there. He doesn’t have a kennel here, as much as he wants one, so he doesn’t know exactly what you’d do. But there’s no way it can be good. Heats mean big, hot things between his legs, making his hole tear open and bleed. Heats mean being touched and touched until he’s sobbing and pissing himself.
So on day three, when his stupid heat finally gets too painful to ignore, Ninety hides. He takes a mostly empty cupboard in the kitchen, because that’s at least sort of close to food, and holes up for most of the day.
He hears you looking for him. He hears you calling for him. He shakes so hard he’s worried you’ll actually be able to hear it.
While he’s in the under-the-counter cupboard, Ninety keeps getting wetter. He doesn’t have more paper towels. His pants are soaking through and making a mess. You’re going to beat him when you see it. Ninety swallows hard and tries not to think about how scared and hungry he is.
Like usual, his stomach feels like it’s eating a hole in him. He’s always, always hungry, but heats and periods make it worse than ever. He winds up chewing on his fingers after what’s probably a couple of hours, pushing his mask up and slipping them into his mouth for comfort.
He falls asleep eventually, fitfully, hips rocking into nothing.
Ninety is startled awake to the cupboard door opening. He jerks hard enough that he whacks his head on the wood behind him. As soon as his eyes land on you, he’s shaking, teeth clattering together.
The distinct feeling that his bladder is about to give out settles over him at the same time that a wave of nausea does. You must smell his slick.
He forces himself out of the cupboard anyway, moving on tremor-filled limbs. Feeling like he could be sick, he drops to the ground in front of you, rolling onto his back and baring his belly compliantly. He knows you can see the stain over his crotch. He knows he makes a pathetic sight.
“Ninety...?” you start, looking very concerned and not at all angry. “Wh-What are you doing in there–” You glance at his crotch and your words cut off. Ninety gags on nothing. He doesn’t want to think about what will be shoved inside of him now. He doesn’t want to think about the beating that has to be coming or how much it’ll hurt. “Um, heat, right?”
You must see the way he’s shaking. Ninety doesn’t know exactly what you’ll think of that. Some people think it’s cute. Some people just find it pathetic. Ninety hopes you’ll just leave him alone to hide for the rest of this.
“You look scared...” Your voice trails off. Ah, maybe you’re the type that he’s not supposed to show fear around. Dogs don’t have a sense of shame to hide during their heats. Maybe that’s why you’re upset. “Alright. Ninety, I’m not mad at you. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
Ninety’s cunt clenches down at the attention. You’re talking to him with a soft, soft voice. He’s still shaking way too hard, but you’re just kneeling next to him, not standing up to kick him in the belly or trying to slam his head into a wall. Ninety wouldn’t protest if you did, he thinks. You’re Master now. You can do whatever you want with him.
His skin is burning. He feels much too frantic, much too hot. Even his cock is hard now, twitching uselessly where it’s pinned under his little shorts. Ninety is ridiculously glad that you’ve let him have some form of pants.
Slowly, your hand reaches out. Ninety flinches, curling in on himself a bit involuntarily. He’s going to be hit– He’s going to–
Your hand goes to his hair, worn loose since he’s been with you. You drag your fingers through his bangs, pushing them off of his face and scraping your nails lightly against his scalp.
Ninety’s breath catches in his chest. He’s– He’s being petted.
Not like a dog. Not like a bitch to be hurt and bred. Like a treasured pet that might get to sit on someone’s lap, and–, and–!
He shudders so hard he almost thinks he might vomit, whole body going limp. It’s his heat going to his brain, surely, but the affection is planting all kinds of weird thoughts in his head. Your touch doesn’t hurt, somehow. It’s gentle, it’s not pain, but his skin is prickling like electricity instead of burning much too strong. Ninety is drooling and he knows it, can feel saliva wetting his mask as his cunt lets out another slow drip of slick.
On his own, when his guard drops, Ninety’s hips give a pathetic buck into the air. His cunt is still clenching. He needs something inside of him, he needs something to hump against. The arousal is starting to hurt, simmering inside of him achingly. His shorts are soaked. He feels disgusting. He wants you to touch him more than anything, but he doesn’t– he can’t–
Dogs don’t get to be touched like that. Dogs don’t need things. Dogs are quiet and good and stay in their kennels while they’re too useless to fight. Ninety is a dog, even if it’s hard sometimes to remember that.
“Um...” you start again, looking down at Ninety with something almost like nervousness. “Would... would you like me to help you? With the heat, I mean. I know, u-uh, that those can get painful. You probably feel really sick right now, huh?” You press your hand against Ninety’s forehead, so tender.
Ninety’s hole clenches down again at the words. Help. Help. You haven’t forced anything awful onto him yet, and having some relief from the ache between his legs does sound good. Better than he deserves.
You lean up, grab a pen and a pad of paper off of the counter and hand it to Ninety with a soft, concerned smile. Ninety tries not to shake.
It’s hard to write with his hands trembling so badly, but he somehow gets out a shaky, messy, “Yes, Master”. Two words that he knows how to write perfectly. Two words that he’s had to learn. Just writing it feels like he’s handing himself over for pain. He’s agreeing. He’s going to let you ‘help’ him, whatever that may mean. Ninety’s internal muscles flutter desperately.
He needs this. As sickeningly scared as he is, he needs this.
You pick him up after that. Ninety is little enough and light enough that it’s not hard. He shivers even more once he’s in your arms. You’re warm. You’re warm and close and he can feel your breathing, and that’s enough to make his stomach lurch from anticipation all over again.
Clinging to you because he doesn’t know what else to do, Ninety lets you carry him to the living room. He gets to bury his face against your neck for a minute, which is nicer than anything he could have imagined, your neutral, strange scent filling his lungs. You support his body properly. You keep him in your lap when you sit down, not dropping him to the floor to crumble. You leave Ninety facing you, his head still hidden in your chest.
“Alright, puppy,” you say, the affectionate term making Ninety suck in a sharp, painful breath. “I won’t touch you skin-on-skin for now, not unless we need to. This’ll last for a while, so starting slow is okay. You can just sit in my lap and feel good, so no worrying, okay? I’ll take care of you.” You sound confident. You sound kind. Ninety doesn’t know what to do.
When you comb your fingers through his hair again, Ninety shudders. He’s getting your legs wet. The slick between his legs has to be soaking through. He’s always had problems with being disgustingly wet.
But Ninety nods. His whole skin is starting to hurt, every nerve standing on end from need alone. His cunt hurts, like it always does, squeezing down around nothing over and over again now that he has contact, now that someone’s hands are on him. Ninety bites his lip and tries not to pant. He really, really wants to grind against your leg, but that–
Just as he’s thinking that, your hand goes to Ninety’s chest. He braces himself instantly, expecting something painful and bad.
Instead, you brush your fingers over one nipple, through the oversized button-up shirt (yours) he’s wearing. The touch sends what feels like literal electricity up Ninety’s spine. His throat spasms and he jolts forward, body trying to make a noise that won’t come out. You do it again, and Ninety curls in on himself. Again, and his legs squeeze together. You’re not even touching with purpose, and it’s already so, so much.
He’s drooling. You stroke over his nipple with a little more intent, and Ninety can feel a trail of saliva escape from under his mask. He’s a dog, he’s a bitch in heat, he’s– he’s so many useless things, getting harder and harder just from one little touch that won’t ever turn into what his body needs.
You give that nipple a little pinch, light enough that it doesn’t hurt a bit, and Ninety’s lungs make a very good attempt at letting him whine.
Just playing with his chest is making him dizzy. No one touches Ninety like that. No one– no one is gentle without taking something away. You might push him to the edge then deny him, might keep going without ever giving him enough, just to see him squirm and cry. But Ninety is a dog, a dog, he reminds himself, and dogs don’t get to complain. He needs to be grateful that you’re touching him, not panicking because of what could be coming next. You’re the Master. You get to decide for stupid bitches like him.
He’s just getting himself used to the idea that you’re going to take this all away when you give your leg, the knee he’s balancing on, a little bounce. The movement presses on everything between Ninety’s legs, not enough to hurt, but enough to make him dig his nails into your shirt and wish he could scream. That– That feels good. Too good, too much, and not enough.
“Go ahead. Move with me.” You run your free hand down Ninety’s back, soothing. He shudders all over, feeling close to throwing up from the pleasure alone, from the not-pain surging up and through his nerves.
As much as Ninety wants to stay still and be a good dog, his body has other ideas. His hips buck, humping down against your leg, and being able to move on his own just makes everything a hundred times more intense. Ninety’s eyes roll, his tongue lolling out a bit when you bounce him again.
Everything down there is so, so wet. His cunt is clenching down, desperate for something inside of him, but Ninety doesn’t think he could take it. Just this, just the pressure of your leg and your hand on his chest is pushing him right to the edge like it’s nothing. He’s been this close a couple times before, but it’s always, always been taken away before any relief.
You don’t stop. You keep bouncing your leg, holding Ninety steady as he grinds helplessly against your thigh. Every movement sends shocks of pleasure through his nerves. He’s overheating, his skin much too small–
Ninety comes before he knows what’s happening. His whole body twitches, shudders, curls in on itself like a dying bug. He bites his lip hard enough to taste blood. The gush of fluid from his cunt feels disgusting, the pulse of his cock even worse. But every muscle in him is clenching down, and–, and somehow, it’s so good Ninety can barely take it. He thinks he’d be screaming if he had a voice, thinks he might be begging for more.
He soars on the high of his orgasm for one moment, two. You pinch his chest and bounce your leg, and it feels like Ninety is never, never going to come down. He’s stretched thin, aching, so, so overwhelmed.
Just as quickly, he crashes right back down into frantic need. His head tips back, uncaring of how much you can see of his face.
Your leg is still moving, moving, and Ninety doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. He wants more, needs more, his body aching and clenching and already stiff and wet all over again. He’s a desperate, pathetic thing, rutting against your leg helplessly, unable to make a sound.
You scratch his back with blunt nails, so, so tender.
It doesn’t take long after that. Ninety is shivering, shaking, praying that he doesn’t wet himself from too much and nothing more. His head rolls to the side, hips grinding down on their own. Everything between his legs is hot, oversensitive, throbbing in time with his heartbeat as pleasure skyrockets all over again. Ninety’s belly goes tight, tight–
With you still bouncing your leg, Ninety comes all over again. Less comes out of his cock this time, but the rush of fluid from his cunt is nauseating. It feels so good. He can barely breathe.
Everything tightens up again, again– Ninety spasms, aches, finally dropping forward to curl in against you again. His hands claw at your shoulders, digging into your shirt. His lungs keep working like he’s supposed to be making noise, even though all that’s coming out is desperate breath.
He thinks for a second that he can’t take this. His body is wound too tight. His cunt is clamping down around nothing, aching for something inside. His head spins, his body floats, and then, finally, it’s over.
Ninety goes limp so quickly it sucks the breath out of him.
You quit moving, taking pity on the stupid bitch in your lap. Ninety lets his sweat-damp forehead lean against your shoulder while he tries to catch his breath, while he waits for his heartbeat to sound a little less like gunfire. He wants to cling. He wants to hold onto you and not let go.
Everything down there feels too sensitive, Even his shorts against his skin hurt. Ninety wriggles miserably, wincing at how sticky and gross he feels. You can’t be happy about having such a mess so close to you. Ninety sort of wonders if this is when he’s going to get beaten, but also feels much too dizzy to really care. He can barely move. He feels like he’s broken.
“Good job, puppy,” you croon, running your hand through Ninety’s hair again. If he could whimper, he thinks he would be.
“You did so good. You were perfect. I hope that felt good, Ninety.”
You keep talking. Just hearing his name from you after that makes Ninety feel weak. The praise is head-spinning. You go back to rubbing his back; soft, solid touches, and Ninety thinks he might be dying.
After a few moments of that, you pick him up again, standing easily. Ninety stays limp against your chest, keeping his head buried by your shoulder. You carry him what feels like back and forth, supporting his full weight with one arm while you grab a couple of things.
When you sit back down, the first thing you do is wiggle Ninety’s shorts off over his hips. He sucks in a breath, afraid that this is where the hurting starts... but all you do is rub a soft, damp cloth between his legs, wiping off his penis, his hole, and the damp parts of his belly. Ninety shivers helplessly at the touch. You’re cleaning him. You’re taking the time to clean him instead of shoving him in a cage to get sticky and dry.
Then, leaving the oversized shirt to keep Ninety covered and warm, you adjust his little body in your lap, tilting him to the side so his bottom rests on top of your thighs. He’s able to fist one hand in your shirt-front like this, and does, not taking the time to think about punishment or pain.
Just when Ninety is starting to get dizzy and weak from the closeness, when his body is finally giving up after so long of being on edge, his mask is pulled down, and something is pressed up to his lips.
Ninety sucks it into his mouth without a second thought– then almost chokes. It’s food. It’s a small piece of cheese, soft and savory against his tongue. Ninety swallows it down as fast as possible, terrified of it somehow being taken away.
But as soon as the cheese is gone, there’s something small and salty at his mouth next; a peanut, most likely. Ninety’s eyes go wide. He looks up at you with confusion, but you’re... you’re smiling. Smiling way too softly.
“It’s okay to eat. I know you’re tired, but let’s get some food in you before you sleep.” You nudge the peanut against his lips again.
Ninety eats willingly. This time, he makes sure to lick at your fingers thankfully. He can be a good dog. He can maybe be worth your time. You give him a raisin next, then two more pieces of cheese.
Shaking so hard he can barely swallow, Ninety resists the urge to bury his face against your shoulder and stay there. You’re feeding him. You’re feeding him by hand and not doing anything painful or bad. It’s like nothing Ninety’s ever had. When he dares to give your fingertips a little kiss, you reward him by running your free hand through his hair once again.
The food is gone soon enough. Either that or you decide he’s had enough. Ninety is so sleepy he can barely keep his eyes open, so that’s probably a good idea. In an action that’s almost more kindness than Ninety can process, you nudge your fingers against his lips one more time, letting him suck them into his mouth. The digits rest against his tongue, solid and warm and real. Ninety suckles obediently, relaxing almost in an instant.
You keep holding him. You let Ninety suck on your fingers, rubbing his back with your other hand. The heat between his legs is gone for the moment, and Ninety’s so tired he doesn’t think he’d care if it wasn’t.
He cuddles up to you on instinct. His brain is probably too scrambled to think of why this is a bad idea, but– but it feels right. You’re soft. You’re warm. Your hand on his back is making Ninety feel a bit like he’s melting. Maybe he really has been a good enough dog to make you like him.
Chapter 3: Fal
I'm back! This time it's Fal's turn, and wow are things ouchie~ This boy is just as traumatized as the rest of them, and while I don't have any specific warnings for this chapter, I do have to remind everyone of the usual-- referenced rape, torture, and a lot of other nasties. Fal's issues come mostly from a lot of stress and a lot of paranoia, and he's never been "used" like quite a few of the others have. This equals a man who is very, very afraid of winding up like his brother, and a man who has absolutely no idea how to trust being treated kindly.... >w> Fun pain, really!
As usual, my tumblr and writing Disord are below, and I greatly appreciate all comments and attention!
There’s a heat between Fal’s legs, and he knows, knows he’s going to fail. At what, he isn’t exactly sure. That always seems to be the surprise when it comes to these matters. That always seems to be the bad part.
He’s a Beta. A Beta who has to, like all the rest, live with the curse of alternating heats and ruts. For a human, one might be better than the other. There might be some relief. For a weapon, there’s no respite from either. Tools don’t get pity. Soldiers don’t get to behave in such unsightly ways.
Even if he has a new Master, Fal isn’t foolish enough to believe that anything will change. You’re softer, kinder, certainly, but even that level of nicety could easily shift to more of the same. More of what he’s used to.
So Fal keeps himself very, very busy. Just like it would have been with his old Master, he finds things to occupy himself. For the first two days, it’s ignoring the problem as much as humanly possible. For the next two, it’s housework-- busy little chores that might even sort of take his mind off of the ache between his thighs. Starting on the second day, he’s slick enough that he has to steal a washcloth to stuff his pants with to avoid making a mess. By the third day, his erection has become a permanent feature.
This one is a heat, because of course Fal’s luck is as such. Vulnerable. Needy. Weak. All of the things that someone so useful and efficient should never be. Everything around that level hurts, aching for something warm to wrap around it or something thick to fill it up. Fal knows much better than to hope for such things. The concept of ‘be careful what you wish for’ is not lost on him. He knows what happens when weapons start to get greedy.
On day four, he moves to doing dishes. This includes taking every dish out of the cabinet, inspecting it for dust, and washing anything that he could possibly deem ‘dirty’ by hand. He doesn’t have work like normal here with you. Simple chores and housework are the best he can manage.
Fal has at least tried to keep himself presentable. He’s dressed as properly as usual, even if he did have to skip underwear to prevent it from applying even more pressure to things. Even if his erection is standing out to the point where he knows he couldn’t hide it. His hair is a mess, he has a feeling, but at least he’s making an attempt to look decent. He’s keeping himself together even while teetering on the verge of frantic, awful panic.
He’s halfway into scrubbing a particularly stubborn plate when the worst happens, when the exact thing he’s been trying to avoid strikes. ‘
“Fal? What are you doing?” Your voice sounds from behind him.
He didn’t even hear you getting close .
Fal startles, dropping the plate before he can catch himself. Immediately, he freezes, hands going up in a gesture of surrender as his breath comes to a stop, heart feeling like it might explode. Wide-eyed, he looks at you, acutely aware of what you’re sure to be seeing.
“I-I’m--” His voice stutters humiliatingly, catches. “I’m simply trying to make myself useful, Master. I had come to the conclusion that, er, housework would be a suitable use for my t-time. Forgive me if I chose wrongly.” He’s stammering. He can barely think straight. Just looking at you is making far too many things that he doesn’t want to think about throb.
His breath keeps coming much too fast. There’s a plate on the floor and Fal doesn’t know if he can pick it up without agitating things. His head is spinning with paranoia, with panic. He’s only barely staying composed.
You’re going to see. You’re going to know. You’re going to punish him for something that he can do absolutely nothing to prevent or control.
“You look nervous,” you say. Fal winces. You have to be taking in his disheveled appearance, the mess of his hair and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the frantic look in his eyes. “Is something wrong? I’m really sorry if I scared you, but--” You take a step forward, and then your eyes flicker down.
It’s everything Fal can do not to whimper. The bulge in his pants is pathetically obvious. There’s no taking this back. There’s no way to hide.
“Fal, what’s wrong?” A direct question. A direct order.
Fal bites his lip until he tastes blood, willing himself to answer you.
“H-Heat, Master,” he gets out, feeling like he could be sick. “Merely heat. I assure y-you, I will be fine. There’s no need for concern.” His voice is shaking horribly. His hands, clasped behind his back, might be worse.
You look at him for a long moment, during which Fal distantly wishes he could crawl into a hole and hide. If he’s lucky, you’ll beat him for hiding things from you. If he’s unlucky, this will be taken as an invitation. He’ll wind up like his brother, like F, suffering through the same things he’s always been forced to ignore. Fal suddenly feels dizzy, feels faint.
“Well... can I make things better at all? I know that those hurt, right? Oh, um, I don’t mean that ! Just like, getting you something more comfortable to wear or something...” You glance at his outfit, at the fitted slacks and button-up shirt, and the too-tight tie around his neck.
“...if you wish to, Master,” Fal replies, feeling a bit like he’s choking. He can’t deny that his outfit is uncomfortable, and anyway, saying no to you would be ungrateful. Even if ‘giving in’ will just get him punished too.
“Okay, then I’ll go find something. We’re pretty close in size, so something of mine should fit you okay... I hope.”
Once again, Fal’s throat tightens. Yours. Yours. Whatever you give him is bound to smell like you. You’re gone and back before he can track it, head spinning much too fast at the very thought of being trapped.
What you come back with is a nightgown, black and ridiculously soft. Fal feels nauseous just looking at it. This-- it’s too nice, too comfortable. He has to be punished for even trying to wear it. You’re either setting him up or taunting him, but Fal moves to get undressed anyway. He gets his vest, his tie, and his shirt off easily enough, but when it comes to his pants... Fal tugs the nightgown over his head first, motions far too jerky. Hopefully, he won’t be punished for not undressing all the way before putting it on.
When he does go to unbuckle his belt, he actually flinches at even that slight jostling to his erection. The tug of fabric alone makes things twitch, makes even worse things clench down hard. Purposefully ignoring the ache, he undoes his pants, sliding them down over his hips with a wince and a barely-stifled whine. His erection springs free, drawing a gasp from his throat before he can stop it. Fal slaps a hand over his mouth on instinct.
In the nightgown, far too much is exposed. The soft, soft fabric is thin enough that the outline of his erection is plainly visible. Shuddering, Fal tries very hard to ignore this. The sleeves are long, the fabric is comfortable, and thankfully, the skirt goes all the way to his ankles, covering his legs.
You’ve been kind enough to turn away while he changed, but when Fal clears his throat, you turn back around. Your eyes soften when you look at him. Fal shakes harder, wringing his hands despite himself. The nightgown smells like you. He’s surrounded by your scent, dressed in the softest thing he’s ever worn, and humiliatingly, already dripping slick down his thighs.
“It looks nice,” you say, making Fal suck in a breath. “Way more comfortable.” You’re smiling. Smiling much too gently. “Now, would you like to sit down. I have blankets and stuff if that would be good?”
“Yes, Master,” Fal agrees mindlessly. It’s not like he can say no.
You take him out to the living room, have him sit down while you lay out a few blankets on the floor for padding, while you dig out more that look so fluffy it makes Fal’s throat feel tight. This is too much kindness.
Fal moves down to the floor, noting with horror that he’s rubbing his legs together by that point. He’s acting too desperate, too obvious.
The softness wrapped around him, the loose nightgown and sudden feeling of being almost warm borders on too much. Fal doesn’t know how he’s supposed to repay you for this. He’s dizzy and aching and oozing slick onto the nightgown for sure, but he owes you far too much now.
Fal looks down at his lap. His erection is standing out, tenting the fabric above it. Between his legs, every part of him hurts. A stupid, desperate part of his brain suggests that he should ask you for help. He’s already going to be punished, he’s already going to be hurt. What’s one more offense when it’ll finally give him some relief?
His head feels fuzzy. He’s hot all over. Everything hurts, and between the pain and the disturbing comfort around him, Fal can’t take it.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” you ask, kneeling beside him like he might deserve the attention. Fal prepares for the worst.
“Make it go away,” he whispers, terror singing through his veins.
You blink for a moment, looking surprised. Just as quickly, you’re right back to a too-tender smile. “Alright. Um, I... I’ll do my best!”
You scoot in closer, and with hands on Fal’s shoulders, ease him back to the blankets. The touch makes him gasp despite himself. The closeness, the heat of your body makes his insides clench down hard--
And then, you ask him if he can please pull the nightgown up out of the way. Fal’s stomach sinks. The reality of this is quickly setting in. He asked. He asked to be used, and now he’s going to regret it. But--, but because he asked for it, there’s no choice in the matter now. Shaking, hands wracked with tremors, Fal realizes that he now has to play along.
He adjusts himself, getting ahold of the nightgown and, with a flash of panic that leaves his vision blurring, tugs the skirt carefully, carefully up over his hips. The lightest brush against his erection makes him whine, unable to hold the noise back this far in. He wants this. He needs this. Fal desperately tries to convince himself that any form of relief will be worth whatever you decide to do to him, whatever ‘help’ means to you.
Just looking down at himself almost makes Fal choke. He’s never looked so... so desperate. His erection is standing tall, swollen and red and dripping, and he can still feel the way the other part of him clenches, squeezing down slightly with every breath he takes. This is true shame.
So Fal tips his head to the side. You can see this. You can see him. You’re watching him when he’s at his weakest, and somehow, you haven’t hit him for it yet. Maybe, he thinks, you’ll go for breaking fingers first.
“May I have your hand?” you say suddenly, jolting Fal out of his panic. His eyes fly open, flickering over to you on instinct. As soon as the command registers, ever obedient, Fal is holding out his hand to you. “Good,” you say soothingly at that. “Now, I’m going to show you how to do this.
Ever-so-gently, you cup the back of Fal’s hand with yours. It’s warm. Your fingers are short next to his, but the heat is astounding.
While Fal is still stunned by the touch, you bring your hands down to his belly. With a warning to ready himself, you, guiding Fal’s own fingers, wrap his hand carefully around his cock.
A gasp tears through Fal’s chest. He’s back to reality like he’s been shot. That’s-- He-- He, like everyone else, isn’t allowed to do that. Touching himself would have been grounds to be punished, punished, and there you are, guiding his hand so easily. It has to be some kind of trap.
But you stroke Fal’s hand up and down, and the pleasure that sears his nerves takes his breath away. That--, That’s what his body needs. Shamefully, instantly, Fal slaps his free hand over his mouth to hide his noises. It’s a fight not to buck up into the touch from the start.
You guide his hand up and down, giving gentle directions on when to tighten his hand, when to curl his fingers more. Fal obeys, because how could he not? You’re giving orders, and--, and it already feels so good.
When his fingers brush solidly over the head, Fal moans behind his hand, unable to hold the noise back. His hips shudder, his body tries to curl in all on its own, and Fal has never been ashamed of himself like this. A few simple strokes and he’s shuddering helplessly. A few gentle touches, from his own hand, no less, and he might as well be breaking. You press his fingers down a bit tighter, guide him to pump himself a bit more roughly, and Fal very suddenly hits the realization that this is truly happening.
At the feel of one of his guided fingertips skidding over a small, distinct spot beneath the underside of the head, Fal’s head slams back. He’s biting down on his hand now. He’s trying not to cry. Every second of this is too much, but he-- he couldn’t bring himself to stop for anything.
It keeps going. His own hand-- cool and thin and long-fingered, curled around his cock in a motion that feels entirely unnatural.
Fal is panting before he knows it, a moan coming out with every breath. He’s failing miserably at holding still. You can see every facet of his desperate, flushed face, and Fal has never wished for his gas mask back like he does right now. He wants to hide. He wants to curl up in a little ball and catch his breath before he does something truly humiliating.
But Fal’s body has other ideas. His hips buck up into your touch on their own, but-- it’s not enough. His cunt is spasming around nothing, aching for something, anything inside. Without ever having been touched that way, Fal knows exactly what it is his traitorous body is wanting.
“I-Inside--” he pants before he can stop himself. “ Please.”
He’s expecting you to just shove your fingers inside, but instead, you guide his down, pressing one to his entrance. “You can do it,” you say, and Fal whimpers audibly, but obeys.
The first press of his finger inside his body makes his head spin. The touch is so intense it almost hurts. Inside, his walls are hot and soft, clinging to even the one finger like he’s never needed anything more. Fal feels dizzy already, hot all over and every muscle just a bit too tight. Just holding that finger still is already almost too much. It’s already making his nerves burn.
You show Fal what to do, curling your own fingers in the air. Desperate, terrified of what’ll happen if he disobeys, he follows your motions; curling and thrusting his one finger until he’s clenching his teeth. This is too much. His dignity is quickly, quickly shattering.
“Two, if you feel ready for it,” you instruct. Fal shakes. It sounds like torture. His body wants it so badly it hurts.
Fal presses a second finger to his hole, slowly working it inside. The stretch-- the sudden, visceral stretch brings tears to his eyes, a choked off keen to his lips. His legs are spreading on their own, curling up and in and putting everything between them on full display. Distantly, he realizes that he should be ashamed of himself, but all Fal can think of is the pleasure of it all, how nothing hurts when his cunt has something to clench down on.
“Curl your fingers,” you say next. Fal obeys and almost screeches. His fingers are long enough to brush against something that drives him close to tears with the shock of it all. He can’t stay still. He’s biting down on his free hand so hard he can taste blood, and he still, still is making noise.
He’s getting close. Something hot and awful and far too good is building in his abdomen. His muscles are tightening up like vices, like strung cord. Fal thinks he might be about to fall apart.
“There we go. You’re doing wonderful.” You brush his bangs out of his face, warm little fingers stroking over his skin.
Fal thinks of what those fingers would feel like instead of his own.
Whatever force was building snaps.
Feeling himself lock down on his own fingers until they can’t so much as curl, Fal’s cock jumps against his belly, spurting out something warm and sticky. In turn, his cunt gushes wetness, a fresh wave of slick soaking his thighs and the blankets underneath him.
The pleasure is so intense it almost hurts. Fal rolls onto his side, legs curling up as he moans far too loudly into the hand still covering his mouth.
He squirms and writhes for what feels like forever, even his toes curling as pleasure shoots through him like a livewire. It’s simultaneously the best thing he’s ever felt and worse than being shot.
And then-- then, it’s over. The pressure releases all once. Every part of him goes completely, utterly limp. Fal heaves a breath that he couldn’t get in before, tasting blood from where his teeth had sunk into his hand earlier. He’s shaking worse than ever. His whole body feels sort of like he’s been run over and sort of like he’s been drugged.
“Was that okay?” Your voice zaps him out of his daze instantly. Fal tenses, preparing for punishment. That much-- that couldn’t possibly have been allowed. He only took what you offered, certainly, but weapons aren’t allowed to feel those things. You didn’t hurt him. All you did was make him feel good, and that’s, that’s reason for something awful to be coming.
“Y-Yes, Ma-Master...” Fal only barely gets out, voice hoarse and far too shaky. His panic is spiking all over again, anxiety over just how he’ll have to pay. Even muted as it is, Fal is terrified down to his core.
“Hey, relax. You’re okay.” Once again, you run your fingers through his hair, your touch still painfully gentle. Fal’s heart almost stops.
On some awful instinct, he goes limp, leaning into your touch pathetically. He, he shouldn’t be allowed this. You have to be setting him up. There’s no way that his Master could treat a mere tool so softly and not expect something in return.
But there’s an exhausted dizziness settling over him, and Fal doesn’t have the strength to sustain his panic for long. He lets his head tip back, feeling close to tears. He... he can worry about this later. For now, he doesn’t think his body would obey if you ordered it to. Even his thoughts feel numb and slowed to a crawl. He’s tired. His body is weak all over. Perhaps, just perhaps, it would be wisest to enjoy your kindness while it lasts.
Fal breathes in deep, slowly, hesitantly allowing his shoulders to relax. He’s a mess between his legs, covered in stickiness and cooling fluid. It’s disgusting, but what you permitted him to do felt too, too good.
Shame fills him quickly. The idea of it being you to touch him flashes through his mind once again. Something like that... being touched by his Master without any pain, without being hurt. It sounds like a dream that he should be punished for even daring to think.
Fal almost wishes it could be possible.
Chapter 4: Love1
Hi! I'm very tired and Bipolar has been kicking my ass, but here's another fic for everyone! I've been doing my best to keep writing, and hopefully, another couple chapters of something will be out soon. :3 But anyway, this chapter is Love1 focused, and doesn't have quite as many warnings as last time. There are some references to torture, rape, the usual nasties... as well as a whole lot of emotional vulnerability, but nothing too extreme. Love1 is broken and Reader sort of helps to fix him, basically.
As usual, my tumblr and writing Disord are below!
Love1, by now, knows his physical limitations well. As in, he knows when his faulty, poorly-put-together physical form is failing him more than usual. He’s had to. There’s no room for uncalculated error in the Empire.
And heats are the time when his body fails him the most.
He got the real lottery when it comes to physical fuck-ups-- heat, then period, in immediate succession once every two months. And each one, because Love1 is unlucky this way the same as every other, is utter misery. And now, because fate must actively hate him by this point, his heat is kicking in just on time. Sure, he’s living with you now, not a toy of the Empire anymore, but with you might not be any better.
The best he can expect is to get locked in his room for a couple of weeks, tossed a few water bottles if you’re kind, and left to wait out the suffering then clean up his mess when it’s done. If you’re particularly picky, it might be the bathroom that he gets locked in instead.
As such, you finding out about his heat is sounding like a very bad thing indeed. And yeah, it’s kind of inevitable, but that doesn’t stop bolts of sharp fear from sinking through Love1’s belly at the thought.
He spends a couple of days stumbling around. The first day he notices that the heat is setting in, it’s to joints that ache with a fierceness that makes getting out of bed seem like an insurmountable challenge. Then, it’s a two-hour nosebleed. Laughing that off in front of you would have been easier if his hands weren’t shaking so badly he could barely hold the tissues.
Love1 spends the next two days in misery. He vomits three times under the guise of just having to use the bathroom. His headaches worsen to the point where his vision starts to blur. He flip-flops between freezing and overheating at a pace that leaves him shaking one minute and sweating through his clothes the next. He trips on his own feet six times, hitting the ground hard on every one. And, of course, he starts getting drippy, fluid soaking through a stolen washcloth wedged in his underwear and erection a steady, but fortunately mostly hideable feature.
At some point, Love1 sort of gives up. Without really caring if you find him, he curls up in a corner of his weirdly nice room and stays there. What he did to deserve this room is a mystery. How he’s going to have to pay it back is the bigger, far more intimidating question in that regard.
He hurts. Everywhere, really. Apparently, his body decided that his first heat with you there was the best possible time to make him suffer.
You knock on the door maybe an hour later. By that point, Love1 is just trying to sleep-- trying to ignore the cold aches in his joints, the persistent shivering that won’t leave his limbs. He looks up at the door with pure misery. The only thing he can do is to put on a smile and pretend like everything’s okay, hope that you might believe it.
“What’s up?” Love1 beams, opening the door after forcing himself to his feet. “Did my Master come to visit me for somethin’?”
There’s worry in your eyes, and Love1 feels his stomach sink.
“Are you okay?”
“‘Course I am! Why d’ya ask?” Love1 knows he’s swaying on his feet. He can tell how unsteady he is just from standing there. You’re going to figure it out. He can’t hide it forever. All he can do is damage-control.
“Because you’ve been acting like you don’t feel well.”
“When do I ever?” he laughs, bracing himself against the door frame with one arm. “I’m just defective, Master. You know me, right? It’s not like anything really goes right with this fuckup of a body-- I’m not hidin’ it!”
“Okay... then will you come out here and let me take care of you? This might be normal, but I think you feel worse than usual, and I’d like to help.” You look up at him with concern. Worrying amounts of it. You’re either faking or thinking you want to help, and Love1 doesn’t know which is worse.
But you’ve offered now. Saying no would be being ungrateful-- or worse, disobeying. There’s no way to guess why you’re offering to take care of a worthless weapon, but you did, and now Love1 has been backed into a corner that there’s no escape from. With any luck, you’ll get bored of playing at being nice quickly. With any luck, he won’t get beat. Or worse.
Maybe getting the ‘locked in his room’ part over with would be wise.
“Mmm...” Love1 makes an exaggerated thinking noise, trying to buy time while he figures out the path of least damage. “Why not? Lettin’ my Master take care’a me? That’d be a real privilege!” Paying due respect. One hopeful way not to get hurt too badly when you find out.
On shaking legs, Love1 follows you out to the living room. He stumbles twice, body refusing to listen properly to anything he tells it. Biting back a curse each time, Love1 tries not to show his fear. You already know that he’s kind of broken-- everyone does-- but that’s not stopping you from getting rid of him once you figure out the extent of the damage. And now-- now that he’s away from the Empire for good, there’s nowhere left--
Love1 freezes when he sees a pile of blankets on the living room floor. Nice ones, from the look of it. Soft and fluffy and just what any normal Omega would want. Way, way more than he deserves.
“You can stay there for a while, if you want to.” You smile up at him with kind, kind eyes. “I’m going to get you a couple of things, so please wait for me, okay?” Love1, for once, has no idea what he’s supposed to say.
You leave, scurrying off to the kitchen. Love1 is left staring at a pile of blankets that he’s honestly not sure if he’s allowed to touch. Sure, you said it was for him, but that’s an obvious trick if he ever saw one. It’s not like he can disobey, though, not without getting the shit beat out of him for the trouble. The only choice he’s got is to risk it and settle in, hoping that you’ll value obedience more than what you both know is common sense.
It’s worryingly easy to drop to his knees. The blankets cushion the blow, though, and Love1 drops, shaking, into the pile of them.
As soon as he hits the pile, he’s flat on his face, shaking harder than ever. It’s like the one bit of contact sucked all the will to stay upright out of him, and for all Love1 knows how stupid and dangerous it is, he can’t bring himself to move. He gets to lay there for a long couple of minutes, face buried in something that smells like you. Way too much like you.
“Here,” you say eventually, suddenly by his side. Love1 almost jumps out of his skin. How did he not hear you coming? “Take these, if you would. I brought pain pills and food.” There’s a way-too-gentle tone in your voice.
Love1 somehow manages to haul himself up. He’s swaying bad. He knows you can see his shoulders shaking. The idea of taking pills from your outstretched hand is terrifying, but Love1 knows he doesn’t get much of a choice. Sucking in a shuddering breath, he takes the pills and the outstretched glass of juice-- juice-- and downs them as fast as possible, trying not to think of what they could do to him if you’re wanting to be cruel.
As soon as the pills are down, you’re holding out a plate of actual food. Warm, delicious-smelling food that doesn’t appear to be laced. It’s just rice and meat, and Love1 knows that you seem to want him to eat real food, human food, not military rations anymore, but that doesn’t do much to dampen the idea that you’re offering him something so luxurious.
“Aw, thank-- thank ya’, Master,” he gets out, only choking a bit in the middle. “Don’ know what I did to deserve it though.”
Forcing a smile, Love1 takes the plate. He wants to politely decline, but that’s ungratefulness and also his stomach feels like it’s burning a hole through his midsection at the moment. Heats always do tend to make him hungry-- and most people consider feeding him then to be a waste.
He eats faster than he’s exactly proud of, barely tasting in favor of getting as much down his throat as possible before you can take it away. Just swallowing makes nausea rise in his throat, but it’s not like he’s stupid enough not to at least try. The sensation of being something close to full is bizarre. All this time, he’s been trying not to eat too much, trying to waste as little of your food on his sorry excuse of a body as possible.
But now, just as he’s starting to feel settled, dizzy and drowsy from the strange feeling of not being quite as miserable as usual, you reach down and press a button near the blanket closest to him.
“Heated blanket,” you say. “You can sleep if you want to. If not, this should at least do something to help with the pain. I thought that the big one would be better than a little heating pad.”
The blanket starts to heat up almost immediately. The sudden warmth under him makes Love1 almost shudder. He wants to drop. He wants to fall asleep right there and not have to wake up until all of this is over. He’s too tired. His body hurts in a way that should mean nothing but punishment.
A hand on his shocks Love1 back into reality much too quickly.
“Love1, you can sleep. I won’t be mad. I want you to rest.” You say it so easily, like you actually mean that he’s allowed to do it.
“Th-Thank ya’, Master. I guess I’ll-- I’ll do as ya’ say.” Forcing what he hopes is a casual smile, Love1 drops to his side. As soon as you’re looking away, he adjusts the blanket, pulling it up around his shoulders where the warmth can sink in properly. It’s utter bliss on his aching joints, heat seeping down to the core of him fast enough to make him dizzy.
Love1 feels his eyelids go heavy. It’s impossible to stay awake for long. Within minutes, he’s drifting into a light, tense sleep born from the fear of being punished for daring to think he’s allowed to be comfortable.
Maybe minutes later, maybe hours, he’s awoken to your voice.
“Hey, um, are you okay?”
Shocking awake, it takes a minute for Love1 to realize just why you’re asking that. He feels hot all over, something tense and tight coiled in his limbs and belly in a way that he’s never felt before. A second of thought, of allowing his head to clear, and Love1 realizes exactly what’s happening with a sickening sense of dread-- His hands are between his legs, he’s harder than ever, the bulge straining against his sweatpants, he’s soaked through the washcloth, and worst of all, he’s grinding.
With a choking sound of fear, Love1 forces his hips to stop. He tears his hands away from that place as fast as possible, even as every instinct in him tells him to leave them right there, to take some form of relief while he still can. Even then, his thighs won’t stop rubbing together.
“Ah-- um, s-sorry, Master,” he gets out, unable to bring any form of cheer to his voice. “It wasn’t, w-wasn’t on purpose, promise.” He swallows, trying to find his voice. “I really, really wasn’t tryna do it.”
A pathetic excuse. He’ll be lucky if you don’t do so, so much worse than shutting him in the bathroom. With his body surging with desperate, desperate heat, Love1 is suddenly much too aware of how wet he is, of the way his cunt clenches down like it needs something to squeeze on.
“It’s okay. Heat, right? I had a feeling something was going on.” Love1 has to force himself not to wince. He’s not supposed to be so obvious. “You’re alright. If you need to do that, go ahead. You won’t be in trouble for it. I can help you if you want to, or I can clear out of here and give you whatever space you need.” You smile at him softly, looking like you want to do something way too affectionate. “Take it easy. You’ll be just fine.”
Humiliatingly, his cunt clenches. Just the sound of your voice. Just the sight of your smile, and his body is begging to be filled. It’s pathetic. He should be ashamed, but-- but--
There’s a hand on his cheek a second later, tipping his face up to meet your gaze. Love1 is suddenly acutely aware of just how much you can see of his face, how exposed he is without the mask that protected him for so long.
It feels like his other mask might be failing him too.
“Do you want me to help you. Tell me no and I’ll leave. That’s all you have to do. You’re allowed to say no.”
Love1’s throat is tight. Breath is coming short. He can feel himself dripping between his legs, his whole body is hot, and it’s never gotten to this point before. He wants your hands on him more than anything.
“Y-Yeah... I’m all yours.” Forcing a smile, Love1 makes himself spread his legs. You’re being kind to him. He’s got to do this right. If he can at least make his worthless wreck of a body appealing to you-- He might be doing something right. He knows well what Lai-tan went through every time.
Just spreading his legs makes things tighten and clench, a fresh wave of wetness spilling out of him. There’s a soaked-through spot on his pants, but instead of going for that or anything else, you just move to lay down beside him, easing Love1 back onto his side and back down to the still-heated blanket. You adjust both of you so you’re at his back, pressed up against him, murmuring soft words all the while.
And then, just when Love1 is starting to think that ‘help’ might mean no relief at all, you wedge a leg between his thighs.
The contact comes as an utter shock. Love1 sucks in a breath, slapping a hand over his mouth to hold in a desperate moan. You can’t see his face like this, thank everything good, and the light pressure alone presses up against everything. Just one nudge is fire up his spine.
Just when that slight pressure alone is making his head spin, you jostle your leg against him. Love1 sucks in a breath, some desperate, awful moan leaving him. It’s so much. You’ve only barely touched him and it’s so much. Another movement, pressing up against everything between his thighs in a way that hovers right between a tease and everything he needs.
“You can move,” you whisper, hot breath against his neck. The permission is apparently all his body needs. Without knowing exactly what he’s doing, Love1’s hips jerk forward, grinding his cunt against your leg. He moans again at that, louder than before, slapping a hand over his mouth to try to contain the horrible sounds. You don’t want to hear his annoying voice. You probably just want to get this over with.
But you meet his grinding with more jostling, sending shocks up his spine like gunshot. It takes barely any time at all for his body to give up any fight it has. All Love1 can do is twitch his hips and make awful, shameful noises into his hand. He couldn’t struggle if he wanted to.
With the blanket still around him, with his body hurting less than it has in a long while even if the ache deep in his bones is never really gone, Love1 is quickly spiraling. Everything is warm. The pain is barely registering in the face of the pleasure radiating out from between his legs. Your warm body is pressed up against his back, and there are a thousand things he needs.
A thousand things that he knows he could never deserve.
A moment later, just when Love1’s head is starting to spin, your arm curls around his waist. The affection makes him shiver. The feel of your warm little hand sliding up under his shirt makes him shudder.
The skin-on-skin contact draws disgusting whimpers out of his throat, weak and shameful and far too pathetic. Your fingers go to his nipple, just brushing over it, and suddenly, Love1 has a lot bigger problems to worry about. His cock twitches again, straining against his sweatpants. He can feel the fresh gush of slick that seeps out of him.
He’s pressing into your touch before he can stop himself, back arching and shoving his chest forward. It feels like presenting. Just the thought of that word makes Love1 wish instinctively that he was on his knees.
You keep jostling your leg. You keep playing with his chest, pinching and stroking and stimulating him way too much, and Love1 keeps helplessly grinding against your leg. The pleasure is quickly overwhelming him. He doesn’t know if he’s going to be sick or something worse, but his head is spinning and he’s shaking so badly he can barely see. Something hot and tight is building in his belly, something Love1 has never felt before. He’s surrounded by warmth and held close to someone’s chest, and--
Like pulling a trigger, something goes tight. Love1 howls, biting down on his hand to muffle the noise. The pleasure burning through every nerve almost hurts. His body tightens, jerks like he’s been electrocuted. Wetness spills from both his cock and the place below it. His thighs clamp down around yours, holding the pressure in place through every shock of good.
Something is finally, finally going right. His body, broken as it is, can at least do this. For a long moment, nothing, nothing hurts-- nothing except the sheer force of pleasure surging over him in waves.
It feels like it goes on forever, but all too quickly, Love1 is dropping down. His muscles relax all at once, taut to limp so quickly it almost hurts.
Suddenly, he’s breathing way too hard, curled in like a dying thing and so relaxed it feels downright unnatural. The awful, awful heat in his belly finally eased up, leaving in its place a head clouded with cotton fluff.
“There we go. That should feel better.” Your soft voice is right behind him. You’re still nudging gently at the place between his legs, sending near-painful aftershocks of pleasure through him. Love1 can’t decide if it feels good or if he wants to squirm away. He’s never been talked to so softly before-- not until you. You act like he’s not just some faulty, useless tool.
You talk to him like he’s a person.
There are tears streaking down Love1’s face before he knows quite what’s happening. He’s never done this before. In all his time of being broken and worthless and wrong, he hasn’t broken down like this.
It’s probably the hormones, his rational brain knows. He’s unstable because of his Heat, and that’s all there is to it.
But the far less rational part of Love1’s mind wants to roll over, wrap both of you up in the warm, warm blanket, and bury his face against your chest and keep crying for a very long while. He’s not supposed to do this. He’s supposed to be logical. He’s supposed to be calculating. He’s supposed to be the defective idiot who always wears a smile and never shuts up.
His mask is broken in more ways than one, and Love1 gets a terrifying feeling that he’s never going to get it back.