#agtbtb
Text
a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 18: care
pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127
tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content
summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate’s clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself
but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out
ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting
now, you must make them choose you
[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [17: chivalry]
wc: 5k
chapter warnings: smut with a little angst - oral (fem receiving), use of pet names (kit) - aka life-altering head from a man you can't stand the sight of
recommended listening: hmm stream fact check but maybe add back 2 u (AM 01:27) - nct 127 because that's about the time this takes place and the sentiment is the same (in the words of mark lee "damn, they're really not going back"
You're on fire when you wake up, burning hot, unable to think straight for how your vision swims with fever.
It's excruciating to be alone in this wide bed, empty, whimpering as your fingers reach for the bedside table and the glass of now-oxidized water on it, fumbling enough you hear the shatter as it hits the floor.
You cringe back into the bed, too tired to get up and take care of it, or even to roll out the other side to get a drink, lines of radiating cold keep you bed bound.
Something heavy sinks the mattress beside you.
"___," someone says, distantly, pulling your clenched fist from your face to place a cold metal cup against it. When you can't lift your head you're gently lifted up by a hard set of arms, your head tipped back just so to accept the drink pressed to your lips.
You drink, and taste him. Your eyes fly open, brow knitted.
You'd fight it if you could, would wrestle free of his hold so you couldn't have to accept it, but there's no battle left in you.
Johnny keeps you upright until you're finished, laying you down on the bed as softly as if you were made of gossamer when he moves to clean up the mess, leaving you with your heart racing in your chest as you watch his sloped back bend over his work.
"What are you doing here?" you mumble, finally, after he's returned with a towel to finish mopping up the puddle from the floor.
You can see the muscles in his shoulders tense, hair brushing against them as he shakes his head.
"You're not meant to be alone," he says, softly. "Don't get mad. I gave my word to Doyoung I'd just take care of you while you were sleeping. I'll go get him–."
Take care of you. How ridiculous, you think, turning over to twitch and shiver. You hear him move to leave, cursing yourself for the jolt of fear that runs through you at the thought of being abandoned again.
"Stay," you say aloud.
Johnny doesn't leave but he doesn’t move towards you. You feel your hackles raising defensively as his gaze burns into you from across the room.
"I'm not going to try to mate you," you spit out. Not even if you were the last person on earth, you think, though it's as much a lie in your mind as it would be on your tongue. "Just stay, you don't need to disturb them this late."
"Alright," he says, moving to the door a little more lightly. When he comes back he falls back into his routine of dropping to the floor beside your bed. You knew cats had a stupid habit of establishing or conceding dominance through relative height but it's absurd having him sit on the floor when the bed is big enough for you both.
You roll over to glare at his wide shoulders.
"What are you doing, exactly?"
"I know you don’t feel safe," Johnny answers, resigned. "I haven't . . . I can stay like that, if you want me to."
Your heat-dazed mind still knows what he means, having seen his ears just as black as before–tail curling around his feet. He'd spent more time in his shift than out of it the past 24 hours, and you'd done nothing to stop him.
"If that’s what gets you to shut up, by all means," you say.
Strange how the beast was so much easier to be around than the man, how you can't stomach the sight of the face you'd longed for since you'd first learned to put a name to your desire.
But it's undeniable that having him at your side is already diminishing some of the worst aches and chills, feeling like when your mother used to rub a remedy of menthol on your chest when you were sick as a child.
"And get off the floor," you add, turning so you can't fixate on how beautiful he looks to you, how much you want to wrap your arms around that neck and hold him tight. The sound of him undressing makes your body incandescent with shameful arousal, at least saved from embarrassment by the fact that it can't be helped, and you aren't doing anything about it.
You don't even sneak a look. The air goes frigid as he changes, the scent of juniper stinging your nostrils.
Within a few seconds the bed dips deep beside you, paws the size of your head sinking into the mattress. And then a whuff as he settles, knobby spine beneath the fur and muscle digging into your own.
The minutes drag out as your fox settles, body heat melding with the cool brush of a flicked tail across your thighs twisting in the sheets. His Felid pheromones are laced with a sharp citral, but he's also velvet draped over soft, black leather and warm tea.
You breathe more deeply, body responding to your Alpha like clockwork. The fever making you uncomfortable is also making you feel gooey and pliant with arousal, your hands flexing beside you to keep from reaching for him in the dark.
Minutes pass, an eternity by your own estimation.
Any innocent thoughts of sleeping beside him while he’s in his hybrid form are torn asunder by how far into need you have fallen. Snippets of fantasies play out on loop, intrusively, as the minutes count down.
You try to concentrate on the deep well of hurt inside you but your fox isn't wont to look down into it. She tosses and turns in the sheets, uncomfortable for the fact that she cannot burrow into the side of the thing behind you.
There's a spark of fear inside at what you'll do when you're asleep. Even if you trust him to recognize your boundaries you don't think you can live with the embarrassment of letting the heat overwrite your will to keep him at arm's length.
"I don't think I can do this." You sound so pathetic in your own mind, asking the peaceful night for courage. "Please go.”
A rumble, and then you feel the sweep of his tongue against your neck, the side of your jaw. It's meant to be comforting, a farewell of sorts as the jaguar lifts up off the bed, but you respond without thinking, clinging to his broad neck until he remains.
"Could you . . . Could you do that again?" you ask. You turn away again, convincing yourself there's nothing wrong with this–you need it, can use him while you can.
If Johnny minds, it's not apparent. He licks you in another broad swath, this time across your sensitive neck. You bite back a moan, going limp under his careful grooming.
Your blood should run cold at the memory of the last time an Alpha cleaned you but instead you're dissolving into the healing of it, being rewritten. Salty tears roll from the corners of your eyes as you reach back to twist your claws in his ruff.
It's clearly not an indication for him to stop. You pull his great head forward, raking nails across his thick skin until you hear the distant rattle of his breath and then, finally, what sounds like a purr.
You know his genus can't make the sound–they lack the hyoid bone of smaller cats–but the fact that he's trying makes you only sob harder, curling into him.
You can feel him beneath the form, quiescent and equally as comfortable with you as you are with him this way. Such a sudden change of heart has your own feeling sick; you don't know what it means, don't want to think too deeply into something you still feel like will be snatched away.
Your fingers drift over the back of his massive toes, then curl under them to test the sandpaper pads with your smaller thumb for the prick of claws. You marvel at how he keeps them contained.
"Do you still think of me as a threat?" you ask, as he grooms you. Speaking to him is the only way you think you can stay tethered to reality and the emotions inside you.
There's a careful lick down the back of your neck, dragging your shirt collar.
"Am I still nothing to you?"
You can feel a layer of salt removed along with a few layers of skin by his tongue clearing your wet cheek.
Not nothing, it seems to say.
"Why did you have to be so cruel?" You look at him now, seeing only the slow blink of a relaxed feline. He offers you a place to rest, collapsing onto his side and exposing his belly slightly. You shuffle to lay where his leg meets his broad chest, burying your face into his rich fur.
"I feel like an idiot for letting myself believe, even for an instant, what you said to me." It's a relief to speak without fear of him arguing or shutting you down. "But you wanted me to, didn't you?"
He pauses, pushing into your skull in what feels like reassurance, resting his head above yours with an animal’s sigh.
"And now you want to take responsibility? Only after you feel bad about it? How can I ever trust you again? Why shouldn't I find someone else who appreciated me from the beginning?"
Now you feel the flex of claws from their sheaths, hear the tear in the duvet as a spark of jealousy burns your blank mind.
"You don't want to share me? You should have thought of that before leaving me."
Like dropping a choice cut of meat in front of a starving animal's cage and telling it to wait to consume it. But of course you had also offered yourself willingly.
"I'm yours," you say. "I can't not be yours. If you want me now you have to wait for me. The way I waited for you."
You reach beside you, palm brushing against his slow-breathing side. The power hidden under miles of dark-patched fur is its own kind of aphrodisiac–knowing he could consume you or kill you in an instant, if he wasn't himself.
But he'll never not be himself with you. Though the bond you share is mostly quiet, that connection tells you everything you need to know about his control, and most especially the comfort he has having his omega at his side.
You don't even realize your hand has drifted lower until your knuckles brush against his less-furred belly, startling you both.
You've reached down between your legs to where you're just as saturated with slick as you had been the last time you'd let him touch you. You wait for him to break away or respond cruelly but he only nudges you again with his broad nose, whiskers tickling your eyelashes as you close your eyes.
"Don't stop, please," you murmur, dragging your fingers through your swollen sex. "Keep grooming me, Alpha."
At first you think he won't do it, his chin resting against your head lightly. Then you feel his teeth catch on your hair, as his tongue folds against your ear.
You moan, lightness rolling through your scalp down to your belly with each soft lick. He's being more careful now, probably unsure of how to proceed.
Again, you reach up across the foreign yet familiar shape of him, as you touch yourself to the thought of him going lower. You want that roughness to follow the course of what he's transmitting to you through his care, for him to taste you with that same tongue–
The bed goes hot, as if hell had snapped into existence beside you, and suddenly a male body is pressed dangerously into yours. Within a moment your hand is pinned over your head, his hold loose.
"Look at me, ____."
You look up, whimpering softly, into his stare–dark as honey left to crystallize, darting with concern.
"I'm not trying to mate you," Johnny says, voice rough. He swallows, eyes wandering to your tongue wetting your lips, his own curving in a pained smile. "But I can help you."
You don't want his help. More importantly, you don't want to need it.
"You know you can stop me. Whenever you want, okay?"
It's a statement of fact, not a question. He's ceding control to you, but also you understand the wild orange blossom radiating from him isn't just arousal. He's as terrified as you are of crossing a line–perhaps even erasing it completely with the tension between you.
You can only nod, your tail breaking free of your weight to curl against his bare thigh in invitation. The knowledge that he's naked over you isn't as humbling as the way he looks at you now, eyes half-lidded and gentle. It's as if you're the only thing in the world.
"You can say whatever you want, be as mean to me as you want," He closes his eyes in that same slow blink of a relaxing Felid. "I won't fight you or hurt you. Just please let me take care of you."
As frightened as you feel, you nod, hand under his tightening to let him know you understand.
"You can go back to hating me when the sun rises," he whispers. Then he wrests your hand free of your sex, lifting your glistening fingers to his mouth to gently suck them clean, watching your reaction.
The bed should be on fire for how quickly you've broken out in a tingling sweat, heartbeat stuttering at the feeling of his teeth against your knuckles, nails catching on his full bottom lip.
He leans in to brush against your chin, threading down to your bared throat. He's deliberately running his tongue–much softer now–over the uninjured right side of your neck.
His side.
It makes your fox want to roll over and raise her hips for him immediately but you hold on to the memory of his claws in your throat. Does he still hate you? Is he just using you at your weakest for his own base desires?
"I've never hated you," you say, gasping as he settles into pulling his tongue over your pulse, until the throb matches the one between your legs. "I just . . . I hate what you make me feel."
"Good." He's cleaning you again, hair tickling your jaw as he makes broad swaths on your collarbone. "You should."
You really should, you know. You will, when you can actually form a coherent thought. He's taking advantage of you, exploiting your weakness. Shame should be spiraling you down to a darker place, where you're forced to face what you are.
But he's not touching you or kissing you in a way that implies his need, just grooming you, as you'd asked. The only betrayal here is the fact that it's not your beast but a man–softer and more intimate than you could have ever imagined.
"You taste so good," he murmurs, lifting your loose shirt to access the skin beneath.
"Quiet," you warn. You're already undone by the sight of him lowering his tongue to your breast, lapping the dots of sweat that have collected over your heart.
For a moment your barriers slip and you can taste yourself as he experiences it through the bond.
He won't show you any other affection but the thrum of pleasure inside of him is enough. He's so very pleased to have what little he can of you, each breath chasing his licks marred by the purr he can give you in this form.
You lose yourself in hypersensitivity, legs locked to keep from accidentally brushing against his body. You know even just a taste of contact would have your heat-addled brain demanding he fill you immediately.
His tongue accidentally flicks across your nipple and you seize his skull in your claws so tight he gasps into your skin. You can't tell if it's because of the pain until his tongue wraps around it again, pulling it into hardness as your nails scratch deeper.
"Stop that," you warn.
Johnny murmurs his assent, laving at your underbreast in a manner that is just as maddening. You arch your back, forgetting your grip on his head until he pushes back into it, demanding you pet him.
You have a mind to deny him but it feels so good to have your fingers buried in those soft, thick locks. They've curled under your handling, draped over his jaw and ghosting you every time he dips in to taste you.
The passes of your sharp nails are your way of speaking, of consenting as he drifts lower over the softness of your belly, mouth and breath lighting up your clammy skin. He takes his time in lapping at the salt on your hip bone, earning a smack in the face from your flicking tail.
"Lower," you command, not letting any reason guide you. He glances up, too slow to hide the smug look on his face.
"Clean me, only." You move to remove your loose sleepwear and are unsurprised when he uses brutish force to tear them free of your tail and legs, following them down.
You freeze in anticipation as he pants over your exposed sex, taking you in. His face is hidden but you can feel his smile, hear it in his voice when he speaks.
"Is this your first time?" he asks.
You sigh, staring at the ceiling, hands tightening into fists. You don't have to tell him about Jungwoo burying his face between your legs on his desk, or anything else, really. But you can feel his hesitation and the question is more for your sake than his.
"Yes," you say, unable to make eye contact.
"Good." He settles down over your hips, breathing hot, "I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."
You kick him a bit in retaliation but he pushes your thighs open and apart, tongue drawing through the dripping folds just as tenderly as he had your neck, your breasts.
You knew this would be different. You don't expect the fox's shriek that rips from your throat, muffled beneath your hand, as his head dips with each long swipe, collecting your slick with curls of his tongue.
His jaw works as he drinks you in, the pleasure from that hot, tender press so unlike anything you've ever experienced.
When he presses his tongue to your hole, sliding into the fluttering heat, you seize him by his ears to pull him back.
You don't remember them being so soft and on his head, but it's not the only thing that's changed by the new scrape against your inner labia, the texture adding a layer of animal need that has your hips moving on their own against his face, wanting him closer.
Lick after lick has you rising from the mattress. When he swirls his tongue into your hidden bud you know it won't be long before that bright wave inside of you begins its descent.
"Please, Alpha, please," you keen, scratching his skull in a way you're sure leaves blood beneath your nails. He's so patient with you, not stopping the steady stimulation you need to build towards bursting, nose pressed to your skin as he takes every drop of slick you can give him, drool mingling to slide hot down to your tail.
It doesn't matter if it's messy, the opposite of grooming, he's taking care of you–bringing you perfect pleasure and humming in reassurance when you press hard against him. The tighter that winding in your belly the more lazy he is, prolonging it until you're whining, your begging inarticulate.
"Come for me, ____." He doesn't need to order, not with that Felid tone and the thunder you feel in it, electric zings beginning where his tongue meets you and spreading down in radiating pulses as far as your curled toes.
You're breaking with nothing inside you this time, and somehow it's more relieving, prolonged by the constant but unpredictable movements of his mouth and tongue.
He finally eases once your legs constrict around him and you squirm away from the overstimulation, flush rolling through you along with the tiny aftershocks of the first orgasm you've received from your Alpha.
Your first real gift.
If you're glowing, he's incandescently self-satisfied. You watch his silhouette lift against the backdrop of the bluish, clouded city behind him, wiping his face clean just to lick the remnants from his fingertips.
"That won't be enough." He laughs a little, lowering his face back to your mess. "Should I clean you again?"
"Alpha," you try to warn him but it sounds more like a plea, legs trembling awaiting the next attack.
"Yes, kit?" The vibration of his voice against your sex is too much already; the endearment makes your fox fully prostrate.
"I want . . ." you admit.
You'd forgotten what you want to say, whining in the back of your throat. The sound is desperate for other reasons, and he seems to recognize it immediately. He lets go of your thighs, hunching over you far enough away in the dark his body isn't pressed to yours–just your foreheads.
You keep your eyes clenched shut to keep from weeping again, scared of how little control you have left within you. It's too soon, too much, and not enough at the same time. And the worst part is how far away you feel from him, as if just relaxing into this new joy would damn you to be written the way he'd already estimated you.
It's just her nature. That thing.
A violent wave of despair and anger courses through you, unearthed by the comedown.
"Shh," he says. "You're safe. I know I haven't been there for you when you needed it. But you've always been safe with me. Everything I've ever done–"
He pauses, biting his own words, pressing closer.
"I just want to take care of you while I can."
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down until your noses bump against each other.
"I'm still mad at you," you say, searching for his eyes. "I may forgive you, but I can't forget."
"I know," he says, shifting in your grasp.
"If I beg, even if I order you . . . please don't mate me yet. Please. Listen to me, if you can."
He nods his head. You feel your own body quaking transferred to him–or maybe he's feeling it just as intensely. Sometimes you think that it's impossible to tell where you end and he begins.
"I want you to earn me, first," you say. "I want you to know me."
You feel he wants to reply but you don't give him the opportunity, pulling yourself up by his shoulders to kiss him for the first time.
His mouth is softer than his fur, or his hair threaded in your fingers, or even him as he holds, not melting into it the way you wish he could.
He's still unsure.
Johnny doesn't push you any further, letting you be the one to explore his swollen lips, finding them parted and still soaked with you. Instead he opens up for you to better taste yourself on him–tart and so much sweeter with his impression.
When his lips move with yours, finally, it's tentatively hopeful, like his exploration of your body. For all his bravado and confidence you never would have imagined him to be just as shy as you stroke his hairline and he trembles deeper at being touched.
It's what makes you want him more than anything you've ever wanted in your entire life. Not for the first time, or the last.
A part of you wants to be bred until you're dripping his hot release for days, making him stay locked in you for hours as you tear the mattress to shreds beneath you coming on his knot. You want him to lose himself in your body, to finally mark you again now that you're both willing and ready to have each other.
But Doyoung was right. You had to know it was your choice. Even if you never had his love, even if you would always question your own heart with the bond unbroken between you, you had to know if he was worthy.
It's only fair. For both of you.
"Get out of my bed," you say, firmly.
That easy smile again, eyes narrowed with confidence. "Don't you want–"
You shut him up with a claw against the dip beneath his nose, shaking your head a little too hard.
"I know what I want," you say. "Be grateful that you got a taste of it."
He's shocked by your response, but there's a flash of thrill. You think maybe he likes being talked down to, his Alpha so ready to be challenged.
"Fine," he says, appropriately dismayed but also a little more himself in the way he stands over you, once he's managed to pull his pants back on. "I'm staying here tonight, though. I'll get you more water and something to clean up with."
You grunt a little, turning away from him so he can’t see how mortified you are at what you’ve just done, as well as how much you wish you could continue.
"If you need anything else, anything, don’t hesitate to ask. Don’t forget I can feel it, too.” He pauses, letting it sink in that of course, he knows you’re still simmering with lust. “I don't mind being used–"
You throw a pillow in his direction to silence him.
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#agtbtb#nct x reader#nct smut#nct 127 fic#nct fic#nct imagines#nct 127 cyberpunk au#nct 127 fanfic#nct 127 smut#nct johnny smut#johnny suh smut#nct scenarios#nct 127 omegaverse#nct fanfic#nct 127 x reader#nct 127 imagines#nct 127 scenarios
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a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 23: regrets
pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127
tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content
summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate’s clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself
but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out
ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting
now, you must make them choose you
[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [22: sated]
wc: 7k
warnings: explicit smut, foursome, mmmf (including minor m/m), D/s (A/o dynamics), kinks: master/pet, minor humiliation/degradation, cuckoldry, bulge, breeding, heat sex with omega lock, oral (m receiving), double penetration one hole (ck/fingers), pet names (princess, pet, precious, kit/baby kit)
recommended listening: clockwork - taemin
"Don't laugh."
In a long, long list of mortifying experiences this might be one of the worst, if only because of how exposed you feel, propped up on the bed, your mate asleep beneath you as you cycle through another round of excruciating pain and dulled pleasure.
You'd managed to maneuver so you're no longer on your aching knees but seated, hiding the joining of your bodies with your legs locked together. It's little relief as Doyoung passes a washcloth over your heaving chest, clearing drips of sweat and blood.
This was not supposed to happen. Certainly not while the other two Alphas in the room try not to break down laughing at the sight of you.
They’re failing, miserably–or perhaps not even trying to hide it, in Johnny’s case.
Doyoung unbuttons his ruined dress shirt, lips working to hide his amusement, distracted by the sight of his own blood.
You feel horribly that you'd gotten him, in the heat of the moment so to speak, affected by Taeyong's descent into his fox and your increasing distress. But you’d also sucked the sweetness from your fingernails when he'd left to get a fresh towel to clean you, Johnny watching you intently from his post near the door.
Whatever you'd proven of your self-control earlier was not worth maintaining right now. You check your agent repeatedly, feeling the countdown in your head as the room goes dark, neon-stained snow drifts casting the whole scene in a gloomy iridescence.
"We could just bring them to the meeting ground like this," Johnny says. He’s still half-naked but wearing that stupid grin that's been on his face since they'd had to negotiate heaving you together out of the nest.
"It would not help our case," Doyoung says from the bathroom. He returns with water and a street-legal painkiller for you, smoothing down your hair as you drink while you maintain deadly eye contact with the Felid.
"Cold shower? Suppressants?" Johnny offers. "Knock her out?"
You sputter your mouthful, resisting the urge to throw the glass at his head to stop his fatuous commentary.
"It should go away on its own," Doyoung says. "Taeil says it’s common with non-traditional pair bonding. And it being her first time . . . Well. Longest recorded of your lineage was around six hours."
"Absolutely not," you say, gripping your aching head in your hands. "We don't have that time."
"Should have thought of that earlier," Johnny says. "You had all last night to start your little marathon, didn't you?"
He'd expected you to mate Taeyong as soon as possible, of course. You'd seen the impression at the end of the bed where he'd slept in his true form, curled, waiting for you to need him–his continuous offer of assistance left ignored.
No, you were still more than cross with him. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he was what you needed, or allow your hollowed-out heart the opportunity to turn away from your duty.
"Surely you have something better to do than making this worse?" you bite back.
"Right." Johnny checks his fingernails, flexing his hand. "Are you ready to accept my help?"
"Absolutely not." You're self-conscious again, clutching your robe tighter around you.
"It's worth considering," Doyoung sighs. "If it's a matter of biology, there's something inhibiting your body from recognizing this as a completed mating cycle. Taeyong didn't claim you, did he?"
You know why he's asking, having easily seen the bruises and teeth marks indenting your body. To your credit, you think you'd given the other fox more. Doyoung cleans his mate as well, a little more expediently with him still passed out. Taeyong's reprieve looks peaceful by comparison to yours.
You shake your head. "We agreed to wait."
"There's several factors here. A deficiency of viable sperm for fertilization, and a proper knotting. Both of which can be resolved through being bred by your pairbond."
You wince, sniffing a bit. "I don't want him to mate me."
Johnny sighs.
"Then you really are in a bind, aren't you." Doyoung murmurs as he sits on the bed beside you, reaching around your middle to bring you into his shoulder and chest. You could sleep like this if you had the luxury, nestled into the soft embrace of the other Alpha with his sea-salt and herbal aura.
"Tick-tock," Johnny remarks.
You shudder, visibly. "I don't want that pig to even touch me."
Johnny’s fist thumps against the wall in his irritation. "That's a new one."
"What about Jaehyun?" you ask, glancing up at Doyoung.
His head swings away just as another thud shakes the room, hung art pieces sliding out of place with the percussion.
"Absolutely not."
There's a visible indentation in the wall from Johnny's fist–Doyoung sucks his breath through his teeth at the damage.
"You want to force him in front of me, again?" Johnny asks, quietly. "Make him do what you want against his will?"
Red hazes your vision, a little more your own than the anger you feel radiating off of him. You’re sure he doesn’t really see you like that, is just using any means to narrow your selection to him, but you still feel the cruelty in that statement.
It’s just her nature.
"Pig," you repeat.
It would be too embarrassing to explain, anyway, you think, rubbing frustrated tears from your eyes. No, best to make sure the only people that ever knew about this were already in the room.
"Fine, you can help me," you say. "But under one condition."
Johnny perks.
"You knot me." You punctuate your words with a tap of your claws on your target.
Doyoung looks down at you like you've just spoken another language, eyes wide. "Me?"
"If he gets to make decisions on my behalf and against my will I would like to make him regret them," you say, rubbing your face against his shoulder while watching your mate for his reaction.
You see Doyoung breathe in through his nose, braced as if ready to bolt. He holds, turning on the bed to face you instead of Johnny.
“I thought I smelled nice to you,” you say, demurely. From his reaction he’s unimpressed by this tack.
“____, you’re playing a dangerous game right now,” he says. “Do you understand what you’re asking?”
You angle your head, displaying your neck.
"Was all that talk about Alpha duty hot air to you?" you ask, pouting. "Or maybe you don’t want to. You're not afraid of the big bad pussycat, are you?"
Doyoung looks between you and Johnny as if he expects either one of you to suddenly explode from how intensely the Felid is staring you down. You expect it too, until you see a bright smile crack in the shadows.
"You think I'm going to regret it? Want to bet?" Johnny asks.
You maintain eye contact as well as you can as you curl into Doyoung’s hold, licking at the healed stripes of flesh beneath his collarbone. The Lepid tastes just as beautiful as he looks, a surprisingly marble-statue-like physique revealed under his clothing.
"I'm sorry for hurting you, Alpha," you say in-between tonguing his lavender and cream skin, enjoying the little gasp he makes as you kiss his breast, moving to his slender throat as you rub your scent all over him, all the time meeting those green-glared eyes in the dark.
"Are you, though?" Doyoung asks, voice breathy.
Suddenly you're gripped by the back of your neck again, paralyzed as he pulls away to face you. There's unexpected danger in his soft features, the prey Alpha expressing disapproval with lowered brows and a sharp menthol spike in his scent.
“No, I don't think you are,” he says. “All I see is a trapped animal that will turn on me the moment it has the chance.”
All that kindness and uncertainty is gone, Doyoung's throat bobbing as he scents you, nose wrinkling at something immeasurably lacking. He hooks your upper lip to check your fangs–an intelligent thing to do considering the saliva filling your mouth at the fresh taste of his blood.
"You and Taeyong are two of a kind," he sighs. "But at least he's trained. You're not, are you?"
You wrestle in his grasp, submitting involuntarily.
“I thought you were supposed to be nice,” you hiss.
"Did I give my consent for you to taste me?" Doyoung asks.
He's trying to make you meet his eyes, fingertips embedded in your neck muscles as his thumb strokes your hairline. The movements keep the rage in your belly from boiling over. You shake your head, now more upset for having been caught overstepping.
“Look at me, ____.”
The hare’s eyes are brighter, their darkness hazel-touched. He should be afraid of you, bowing to your mercy. You’d expected him to speak sweet lies into your ear to make you compliant, but you're met with the gaze of a wolf instead.
A Kim, indeed.
Doyoung doesn’t seem to be bothered in the slightest by your personality change, lashes falling as he scans your face and your fisted hands.
"Given enough time we could break you in properly but I'm afraid we'll just have to operate under the assumption that you'll behave if you know what's good for you, won’t you, gongjunim?"
You nod, dumbfounded.
"Say it," he says, no less a command for how willingly you comply.
"Yes, Alpha."
"Are you going to do exactly what I tell you to do?"
You hesitate long enough he squeezes a little harder to subdue you, making your ears fold down autonomically.
"Yes, Alpha," you repeat.
"Do you think it's acceptable to use your teeth and claws without permission?"
"No, Alpha."
"You want to bite me like you did him?" He forces your head down towards your unconscious mate with the barest gesture. No, his mate. Of course he would be upset you’d hurt him again–what had he said?
The next time you lay a claw on him, you’ll get like for like.
You whimper a bit remembering the threat, tail twitching, trying to escape even as your cunt twitches around the cock inside you with agonizing need.
“No, no. Never,” you add. You look at Johnny to see if he's going to continue to allow this handling, head yanked back so quickly you let out a yelp. From the corner of your eye you can see the big man rocking with suppressed laughter, entirely unfazed.
"You follow my orders, not his," Doyoung tsks, pushing you down into a crouch.
“An Alpha only provides care to an omega who is willing to submit and please him in turn, not try to devour him, or overpower him.” His hand moves down your back, fingertips tracing the scratches Taeyong had given you, beneath the ruined silk.
“Are you truly a princess? Or are you just a feral stray who bites the hand that feeds her?”
It should be humiliating to hear yourself referred to so lowly but there's almost something comforting about playing your designated role right now. Gods knew you needed someone to take charge and release you from this bind. However furious you are at the indignity you’re also desperate to be free.
“I’ll be good, Alpha,” you whisper into your knees.
"Prove it. Earn what you've requested.” You feel Doyoung bend down to ghost your neck with a kiss, a promise written in the press of his lips that has you trembling again, for entirely different reasons.
"Yes, master." You venture, peering up. You catch him smoothing away an unconscious smile as he stands, brushing his pants clean of the white guard hairs from your tail.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Johnny asks.
"We just need to get your cum inside her somehow," he says, catching your surprised expression and shaking his head firmly. “Indirectly, of course. We could get Taeil to bring us a needleless syringe–”
“No!” You sit up, dizzy from the context switch, no longer relaxed but terrified.
“Anything but that, please,” you beg the two men standing over you. “I’ll shove it in myself if I need to.”
Doyoung sighs. "Taeyong needs to be awake, then, I don't want to risk injuring him."
"I can keep him controlled," you say, forgetting yourself. Both of the Alphas look at you measurably, Johnny turning to watch his partner's reaction with an amused smile.
"Did I ask you to?" Doyoung asks, deadly quiet after.
"I didn’t mean–" you begin.
"Do you truly want to integrate into this pack?"
"Yes, Alpha," you say, bitterly. “I just meant–”
"Then hold your tongue or we’ll find something to fill that pretty mouth of yours."
You close your lips, bowing your head automatically to hide the look you know is on your face–aghast but intensely aroused at the thought of being given what you want as a punishment. It's excruciating feeling your body continue to tighten at the anticipation, oozing slick. Taeyong jerks beneath you, letting out a small noise in his sleep.
“You take care of her, I'll take care of him," Johnny says. You meet his eyes, registering how confident he looks as he approaches. "Wouldn't want to waste the opportunity to show her what she's missing."
You may be the architect of your current defeat but you promise him with a look you’ll find a way for him to go down with you.
“Don’t goad her–” Doyoung says, but Johnny ignores him, sliding on to the bed beside Taeyong, purposefully avoiding skin contact with you. A firebrand of jealousy pierces you at the sight, igniting further in your chest as he pulls the smaller man into his side, enthroning himself at the head of the bed.
"Sure you don’t want to switch places?" Johnny asks, softly, face dipping into Taeyong's wild hair. The foxes' ears tic in his sleep, moreso when he brushes his mouth across them.
“Stop,” Doyoung warns.
You feel the Lepid’s slender arms tighten around you, soft cheek pressed to yours as he helps you adjust. Johnny’s only a few feet away, but still too close, especially as he hoists Taeyong’s body–and by extension yours–onto him.
Doyoung grips your thighs in turn to keep you upright, similar to how they'd carried you earlier, tail pressed into an arc against the Lepid’s cool skin.
“Are you shy, pet?” He whispers, trying to gently prise your closed legs apart. “Ignore him or he'll keep toying with you.”
You try, you do, but a whine erupts out of you the moment Johnny's lips brush against Taeyong's exposed throat, tongue drawn across the yellow and purple bruising from your marks.
You can barely hear the order Johnny gives him over your own pathetic whinging, watching Taeyong blink awake. He's not as wild-eyed as before, the opposite actually–relaxed and languid, ears up and eyes closed as he accepts the grooming.
Johnny looks at you as he licks against the corner of Taeyong's mouth, bent head hiding a deeper display of affection. You hiss when the other fox's hips rut beneath you, your vision blurring.
“I can’t, I can’t–” you murmur.
You brace for Doyoung to punish you but he consoles you instead.
"Shh," Doyoung says, rubbing your head and your spine as you close your eyes against the sight of your mate caring for someone who is not you. "Relax for me."
"It hurts," you keen, not referring to the pain inside you as much as your fox crying out to be treated the same, loved the same. How pathetic, you think, but it can’t be helped. You’d spent a lifetime longing for that affection. Tears escape from your clenched eyelids, trying to turn to bury your face in the Lepid's chest like it's your only escape.
"I can't stand him," you whisper.
"I know," Doyoung says, much more softly. “But you need to let him take care of you.”
“I’m afraid,” you admit.
“He won’t hurt you–”
“No.” You interrupt him, exhaling shakily. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to say no.”
“Oh.” Doyoung looks up, shaking his head. “Do you think it would be easier if you didn’t have to see him?”
You nod, tears wiped away by his sleeve. You feel Doyoung slide the loose sash hanging from your waist, wrapping it over your already-closed eyes. You begin to nervously shake again when the light behind your eyelids is blotted out completely.
"Hey, it's alright," Taeyong urges you, drowsily nudging your cheek with his nose. You accept his gentle kisses, sharing the taste of your mate on his bruised lips. “I’m here. Well, mostly. I think if I come again I'll dissolve into dust.”
You laugh a little against his mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
You can feel his amusement, not expecting the caress of his rougher hands sliding your clothing off, followed by his soft kisses and the roll of his face on your shoulder to mark you with his scent.
“I'm not. If I ever get a chance to be this close to you again,” Taeyong breathes, “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
You sigh in relief, holding him as he comforts you. He's still exhausted, but at least you think he isn't in pain the way you are, just sore and satisfied.
“She’s a gift, isn’t she?” Doyoung says. You hear rustling as he removes his shirt, expecting more until your tail is seized and drawn around your middle, out of the way. “Someday we won’t have to share you. But I think you like it, don’t you, pet?”
His voice is fricative in your ear, removing your robe fully so he can bring your back against his warm, lean chest. Even smooth it feels like the softest fur beneath you, Taeyong's ears tickling your jaw as he whines into your neck. From the movements against you he's receiving his own handling, thighs flexing as Johnny adjusts him.
"Yes, Alpha," you say, arching back. Doyoung follows your lead, kissing you chastely until you plead for more.
“We'll do this properly when we have the time. Right now you're going to give your Alphas what they need, won’t you?”
You’ll never think of him as weak again, you think, not with how he opens your legs and pushes his fingertips experimentally against the constriction where you’re tied together, Taeyong holding onto you as you both cry out.
“Too tight,” Taeyong mumbles for the both of you. Doyoung squeezes him around his root, palm digging into your folds.
“You’re knotted, too,” he says with an edge of disapproval. “Just a greedy little dog rutting into your bitch even if you can’t properly breed her.”
By the answering spurt of release inside you and his groan, Taeyong enjoys that kind of talk. The sensation is translated to you, hips wriggling until Doyoung pinches at the bundle of nerves in your swollen sex, making you jerk.
“You’re going to take it, too, even if it hurts,” he says. “We’ll loosen you up for a real knot, so I can fuck your Alpha’s cum into you.”
“Please, master,” you say, losing yourself. “Please, give it to me.”
“It’s not my choice, pet.” You feel your hand seized, your fingers splayed on a firm, wide chest that isn’t Taeyong’s, sunbaked pine sharp in your nose. “Use him. Make him give you what you need.”
"No, no, I can't," you murmur, pushed towards the inevitable.
"You're better than your animal," Doyoung says. "Do what you’re told and we'll show you what it means to be treasured."
You feel him pull away, extricating Taeyong from your breast in a way that upends you both, forced into your Alpha’s lap. Even if you can’t see it you can feel and hear the man trapped inside you held down to the bed, the soft pleas as he’s cared for in the way you need more than anything.
Johnny’s hand cups the side of your face. Only he can touch you that way–like he's cradling the most fragile thing he’s ever held.
"Don't worry, little kit," Johnny says, so close now his breath warms your ears. "I remember my promise.”
He takes you by the neck more gently just to angle you up, dipping down to kiss you as softly and shyly as before. He’s exactly what you need while also the worst thing possible, the longing and heartache amplified.
“I can wait. Just use me. Pretend I’m giving you what you need.”
The thought of him breeding you sends you down a spiral of desire, restraining yourself by blindly tracing the white and gold and green painted under your fingertips. You’ve tried not to look too much at the design but it’s already tattooed in your heart and mind, as it is over his.
“Would you like to see what’s yours?”
You pull your hand back but he catches it with that Felid swiftness, dragging it lightly down the center point of his breast bone and the contours of his abdominal muscles, defined and damp with sweat. He lets you feel everything you'd disallowed yourself before, breath going ragged when you finally cup him through his trousers.
"Stop being so smug," you whisper, unable to sound serious with how heavy you're breathing, too. His shape and scent is all you need to find yourself just as feral as you'd been in the nest, fumbling to unzip him, his hand wrapping around yours to guide you as you free his cock.
He’s erect but weighed down so much it hangs towards the bed. You're not afraid or disgusted as much as fascinated when your hand traces down the burning-hot, velvety shaft, finding the expected roughness beneath his glans.
“I’m allowed to be pleased. I know–feel how much you want it.” He sounds almost embarrassed; you realize he's stuttering with each pass of your hand down his length. “Is it too much for you?”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
"No," he gasps when you squeeze him, testing him. “Fuck, yes.”
He's bigger than you imagined, thick enough his knot is less pronounced than a Canid's at his base, gently ridged at the end of his shaft. You expect his barbs but beneath your searching touch you find them less pronounced, more textured like his cat's tongue without the same density of spines.
“I want to taste you,” you say.
You can’t see his expression but you know his sense of control has been obliterated by the request. You don't wait for him to argue, bending down to find him with your mouth, lapping up gamey salt from his skin. His tense hand in your hair is all the encouragement you require.
You will use him, you think. You'll break him as much as he's broken you. But you won't be slow, you won't seduce him the way he has tried with you.
You dip your head and find the heavy tip, suckling to taste the dribble of hot liquid already leaking from it. He’s so perfectly bittersweet that you can’t help but wrap your lips around it, trying to draw out the rest. Johnny's hold on your head spreads and clings, not wanting to push you forward despite the rut of his hips into your mouth.
You treat him the way he had you the night he tasted you, smiling to yourself as drool seeps from the corners of your mouth, taking as much of him into your willing throat as you can handle. Within seconds you’re coughing at the sandpaper scratch, pulled free before you can mutilate him with your canines.
“No teeth,” Doyoung warns, startling you for how much you’ve forgotten he’s beside you. “Gently now. Relax your jaw. Don’t worry about making a mess.”
Simple enough instructions, difficult for how suffocated you are when you impale yourself on that length again, fighting the choke. Doyoung murmurs praise where your Alpha is inarticulate. Johnny’s presence glows in your mind as you feel him completely, all his attempts to keep the spend contained within him lost as you fuck him this way.
You sense when his abdomen and testicles tighten, reaching out to understand it with a careful slide of your hand down his shaft, hair and texture and scent incredible under your delicate fingers. You hold him as you take him, as you consume him the way he’s consumed you.
You listen for his grunts and groans of pleasure, the intake of breath, alternating between sucking and drawing your tongue around him as his lean belly flexes beneath the gentle flex of your nails. When you feel that wave crest inside him, so close to breaking, you pull off.
Again, and again.
You’d learned your new lessons well, you think, when the last tease of his heavy weight on your tongue coats it in a hot citrusy, mouthful of him–the rest trapped so painfully inside him you feel his thighs quake under your breasts.
The makeshift blindfold is tugged from your eyes, There’s murder in your gaze lest Johnny’s the one who took it off, but you find Doyoung’s hand against your hair and ears, his face flushed with arousal. Watching that must have done something to him, because he’s no longer attending Taeyong, his hand working himself out of view. The other fox appears to be semi-conscious, only a crack of his eyes showing.
“You have to see what you’ve done to him,” Doyoung says.
You peer up past all that honey, glistening skin to your Alpha’s face. Johnny’s breath is held where he’s fallen back against the headboard, expression completely and utterly shattered. For the first time since he’d held you in the dark–not this bedroom but a tiled room far below it–you see him as he really is.
There’s nothing calculating or cutting in that half-lidded gaze, no raging animal. Just a man who needs you more than he could ever tell you.
Your Alpha.
Completely at your mercy.
“Nothing clever to say, now?” you ask, tongue catching another spurt of white hanging from his thick cockhead, teasing the soft slit to gather every drop. “Did I ruin you for everyone else?”
"I’m not coming in your mouth, precious,” he says with the last reason left in him. He gives Doyoung a look that has your head pulled back, gently but firmly, even as your tongue curls towards your mate’s cock. You know why he hasn’t grabbed you, his own claws ripping the duvet into shreds once more.
“Why not?" you ask, tail thumping against Taeyong’s limp legs. "I can just spit it out."
Doyoung barks a laugh, falling further onto his side. “You’re so fucked.”
You know it isn't for you as Johnny struggles to sit up, pulling his cock away from your greedy hands and mouth. His sweat-thick, curled hair hangs over his face and jaw, making him look wild.
“The only place I’m coming is all over that pretty pussy,” he warns. “Present yourself."
Part of you resists the order but you know it's not made with anything but the desire to please you. You melt under the attention, arching your back and curling your tail for him when he takes his place behind you.
"Outside, of course," he assures you, and you have a moment to freeze up in fear before he's slipped his cock between your thighs, shaft so long that even from behind and forced to the side he curves up between your folds. He lets you adjust to the feeling, wrapping around you until you're caged by his long torso and limbs.
"You feel that?" He rocks his hips into your behind, your tail trapped erect between you.
You bite your lip, nodding.
"That's yours. Yours to use as you want, whenever you want."
He licks the soft fur of your ear, making your pussy clench again around Taeyong, your legs closing around him.
"I’m going to show you what it will be like when I take what's mine, once and for all."
His words scald you, make you whimper and grind against him until he takes the lead, moving with shallow and careful strokes against your slipperiness. Soon he's so coated with your slick the glide between your soft thighs is dangerously easy, the small nudges and bumps against your clit maddening. The worst is that tongue-like texture, catching against your most sensitive places to remind you what he really is.
"Is my little kit so needy for her Alpha's cock inside her she'd ride it raw? You want me to fuck you unsleeved and scrape out all that wasted cum you let the others stuff inside you?"
Ancestors, you think. He's such a contradiction in the way he can hold you and stroke you so sweetly but pour filth into your ear.
“I don’t think I have enough inside me, yet,” you whimper. “Need more.”
His jealousy is just as pervasive through the bond. That anger and pride under any other circumstances would make your own flare but in this moment it's the perfect accompaniment to the desire he has for you.
You belong to him, torturing him at how soft and good and warm he knows you are inside, how impossible it would be to deny himself that if he wasn’t moderated by your promise or the other Alphas watching him unravel so easily. You know he’s fucked them, feels comfortable with them, but they’re not what he wants.
He wants you, just you. If you gave it to him he wouldn’t let anyone else touch you, he would mark his territory so fully he’d fight every Alpha on the peninsula to stake his claim. You know it as well as he does, he would die for you. You wouldn’t even have to ask.
"They can't breed you like I can, can they?" he says between higher-pitched groans. You're not meant to answer but you do anyway, wanting to brush his cat's fur backwards to see how he responds.
"You'll find out soon enough," you murmur, lost as he brings his hand down to hold himself against the drive into your folds, increasing the pressure of his tip against your bud.
He nips at your ear. "What did you say, little kit?"
Your little cries are growing louder as your body seizes, the beginning of another climax burning brushfire through you.
"I said, 'I'm not letting you fuck me until I've had every one of your pack inside me.'"
He jerks a bit, pushing into the tight grip of your thighs. You’ve closed around him, trapping him like Taeyong, hands tearing into the bed where he’s ruined it.
"You can try,” he says, dangerously.
"You think they won't?” you pant. "I'll let you watch, of course."
His movements are growing more staccato as he chases his own release, tense hand holding his thrusts against you. The more near his climax the more his hold on his emotions begins to slip, the barriers you'd both enacted temporarily flooded with something other than resentment and animal desire.
You have an epiphany of sorts, mercilessly pushed into Taeyong's chest as he chases a fantasy in his mind of fucking you like this in front of them all to prove his claim, to show how broken you are for anyone else.
"I'm going to make you prove you're my Alpha," you whisper to him. "No combat. No bloodsport. No convenient opportunity. You'll earn it."
He bucks, hard, a wash of hot spend coating you as he starts to orgasm, snarling your name into something monstrous.
"You're going to suffer, Suh Youngho," you say, grinding back into the mess he's holding to you, edged to the point of fierceness. "You're going to know what it’s like to have your mate reject you and seek another in your stead."
His movements still but you realize he's laughing quietly, knot swelling between your thighs. He doesn't believe you, of course. How could you, with you still rubbing against him, unsatisfied.
"Oh baby fox, were you jealous?" With his cock no longer pressed to you he begins to circle your clit, his other hand massaging his hot spend into you from behind, still more oozing out of him he collects to press against your stuffed hole. At the first brush of the rough pads of his fingers, you're pushing back, trying to make him fit.
"You think I would rather fuck anyone else than the first to claim me? My omega? My mate?"
He broaches your lock with two digits, shoving his cum deep into you as Taeyong cries out faintly against the intrusion.
“Let him go,” Johnny says. “Let him go or you won't be able to fit me.”
Powerful contractions begin to roll through you immediately, no longer painfully tight but a rolling release that spreads through every part of your legs and hips and belly, nerves and hormones synchronized to take your mate as deeply as you can, into your womb. It feels incredible, electricity running down every path through your limbs to the top of your scalp and the claws on your toes.
“You're squeezing us so good, kit, want to feel it on me.”
Slick and thick spend gush down your legs as Taeyong is finally freed, an audible noise when he’s pulled from your snare. Doyoung is there to help him escape because Johnny shows no intention of stopping and neither do you, fucking yourself on your mate's fingers until he adds a third and fourth digit.
Your body is being prepared for him, you think, your orgasm extended by how much you want him to fuck you even knowing what that would entail.
"Don't stop, don't stop," you beg, rocking back to fuck yourself deeper on his hand.
"You're going to suffer every day you're not getting all of me." His words are punctuated by stroking into the sucking heat of your body, his bruising touch on your clit turning you into a live wire once more.
"It will hurt me to see you so desperate. I'll have to turn you down even when you beg me. But if that's what my little omega wants, that's what I'll give her," he promises.
"I hate you," you snarl, overstimulated, winding into another build too quickly to make sense. He makes you relax by nipping at your shoulder, keeping you still as he sets a punishing pace.
"Imagine. You could be coming on my cock right now, milking me of every last drop to fill you up," he says. "Don't you want your Alpha's cum inside you?"
"Yes, please, fuck it into me, please Alpha," you sob, jerking as he pulls his fingers away to press his tip against your fluttering hole and pull another wash of sticky heat inside you. That hint of the stretch of him has you demanding more, your hips canting back just as your mouth is clamped shut with slender fingers.
“That's enough,” Doyoung says. Out of the haze of the moment you can feel his hand wrapped around your Alpha’s cock, stopping you–or maybe him–from moving any further. You turn to watch Johnny thrust into the other man’s hold, taunting him to try and stop either of you.
The Lepid only has eyes for you, letting you go but not your mate. He’s calm, measured, as he strokes Johnny into releasing more onto his chest when his cock is lifted away from you. You turn to observe it, leaning down to take what you can in your mouth.
Doyoung warns you off by clearing his throat.
“No,” he says. “Ride his knot.”
You shake your head, legs already collapsed beneath you. “I can’t.”
“Show her still you’re in control. Thank her for the gift she’s given you.”
Johnny understands even if you don’t. You’re swept up in his hold, pulled down onto him, spread for him. But where he should be filling you he’s trapped between your bodies, your legs limp over his.
“What . . .?” Your vision blackens on the edges, nose buried in Johnny’s chest. “I can’t.”
“You will,” Johnny says.
“You will,” Doyoung repeats, holding your lower back to fuck into you with one clean push into your loose heat, no fight whatsoever with the amount of cum inside you. You cry out, held tight against your Alpha as a much longer, thicker cock than the one that’s been inside you for the past few hours is shoved mercilessly into your hole–knot slipping in without friction while another one grinds into your middle.
“Fuck,” Doyoung rasps when he pulls out, burying himself over and over again. If you weren’t held in Johnny’s arms you think you’d be fucked right off the end of the bed, instead forced into his arms, too boneless and weightless to struggle.
“You asked for it,” he says, the rumble of his voice vibrating through you against the sharpness of your half-hearted yelps. “Regret it now?”
You toss your head, regaining your strength to reach for him, burying your fingers in his hair. He’s so big you find yourself perched across his sternum, hips rolled into it and the coarse end of his cock as he curls up and kisses you like he’s the one inside you, like he’s the one coming undone.
From what you can tell you all are, Doyoung holding back nothing as he ruts into you so hard you can feel and hear the slick-stuck slap of him against you, or Johnny, it doesn’t matter with your bonded clutching at you like he might lose you. His hand threads through your wild hair to cup your jaw again, guiding you gently against his lips and tongue.
You moan into his mouth, protesting this new intimacy. You want to focus on the other Alpha and please him in turn so you can prove your resolve. You know he’d already come the moment he was in you as Lepids were wont to do but that he had more to give you–much more, if the knot stretching you is any indication.
You reach back to find Doyoung's damp nape to pull him to your neck. He understands, implicitly, fisting your hair to scrape you with his teeth as Johnny angles into your other shoulder to prove he's first, hesitating with his tongue on your scars when the other Alpha lets out a low growl.
You can feel Johnny rumble beneath you as he returns to kissing you, passion conferred in each brush of his lips against your own, holding you steady in his gaze. Another Alpha's teeth may be indented in your neck, but you're still at his mercy.
“You take my knot so well,” he praises, sinking his fingers into your hips. Doyoung, no longer able to guide you, chooses instead to circle up against your behind and your slick-coated tail like you’re a wall he can break through.
“Do you want to take all of me, little kit?” Johnny whispers.
Your body responds as if it were his threatening to lock you again, making you mewl. You know what he's saying, implicitly. He doesn't understand how it affects you. How could he, when he thinks this is just a game?
Johnny’s thumb spreads beneath your belly, indenting it to feel the cock dragging deep within you, bulging there under his touch. Doyoung inhales against your neck at the sensation, feeling it too in whatever way you respond deep inside.
“Yes,” you breathe, building tension making you seize. "Please."
Johnny looks deep into your eyes, pinning you with an emotion you want to look away from, but can't. You're forced to see all that's there, to bloom within it, like the flowers under your palm. Your shape etched into him: Nelumbo lutea, reaching for the sun.
"Accept me," he urges.
You can't.
"I'm yours," he says.
Not your mine, no. Yours.
You collapse as you begin to throb, pulse-like. It’s not the same horrible tightening as before but something different, a twinge and tremor in your womb that seems to signal completion.
You know your scent will change, your body will adjust. Your heat will break. But you’ll never be the same.
Doyoung says something you can't hear as you chase the fleeting ecstacy of this new release, different in so many ways but most of all for the ease in your chest as you rest on top of the man you love.
Love?
No. It's not possible.
“You’re so full of me already but I know you want more.” Johnny continues, not realizing you're gone. He should sound confident but his voice is raw with vulnerability. His head pushes against yours, pleading. “You can’t leave me. You won’t leave me. Not when you’re swollen with my–”
You scream soundlessly into him, enough of a high-pitched keen in your throat he can’t help but be startled, Doyoung stilling inside you as you break completely around him–all that pleasure tempered with unadulterated despair.
It should be peace, a relief, but instead it’s an instability in the levee holding everything else inside you at bay.
There’s no peak to climb down from in the aftermath of what’s moved through you, your only comfort is how much of a blessing it is to be held while you spiral–how afraid you are of losing something you didn't even knew you had.
"____?"
You feel the panic around you at your reaction, hear Taeyong’s growl as he sits up behind you. Doyoung is already at his side, as if he must protect him from whatever is inside you threatening to break out.
“I told you." Your fist clenches against Johnny’s chest as you roll off of him. “I told you I couldn’t.”
“What’s wrong?! What happened.”
You curl into a ball, defending yourself with your tail wrapped around you. "It's over."
You’d had your moment, your fill, but it would never be enough. Not now, not ever.
"Your heat?"
You don't answer.
"They're early," Taeyong explains.
Johnny finally turns to witness what’s been roaring in your ears for what feels like minutes now.
You watch as the snow swirling outside the window vanishes, pushed down by quiet blades to evaporate on an even warmer wind. Blue lights pierce the gloom, angled downward, blinding you through the dark, one-way glass.
The building begins to tremble, smaller vibrations translated upwards as AVs circle round below. They give a wide berth to an airship, blacker than a starless night and larger than a city block as it descends in a creep past the window, thankfully unable to pierce through the building's surface to see you so exposed.
It doesn't matter. Nothing can escape the surveillance of the people inside. It's only the second time they'd sent this means to bring you home, a symbolic gesture but also a threat.
There's no escaping your return to Old Seoul.
“The Imperial aerostat,” Doyoung sighs, checking his agent as he flees the bed.
“It’s time,” Taeyong says, looking at you with a deep sympathy and resolve.
You turn to Johnny, seeing a wetness on his cheek that can only be an acknowledgment of whatever you’ve let slip through the cracks of your bond.
You try to capture that image in your mind of him more worried for you than the threat of the fleet surrounding their headquarters, for the people inside. It's the last time you ever want to see it.
“I’m ready,” you say.
Inside, you know you never will be.
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#agtbtb#nct 127 fic#nct fic#nct fanfic#nct 127 fanfic#nct 127 smut#nct johnny smut#johnny suh smut#doyoung smut#kim doyoung smut#nct omegaverse au#nct cyberpunk au#nct smut#nct x reader#nct 127 x reader
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a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 22: sated
pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127
tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content
summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate’s clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself
but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out
ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting
now, you must make them choose you
[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [21: confrontation]
wc: 8.4k
warnings: cousin incest, explicit m/f smut (rut sex, breast worship, omega locking) between omega/alpha-passing!omega (trans 2nd gender, use of Alpha as affirmation), switching, a little breeding kink, pet name: baby
recommended listening: i'd pick something sweet from shalala like ruby but let's be real all i've been listening to is wayv's rodeo
You'd woken to a new day well after dawn, clouded by winter snow, watching the swirls of white this far up recede into an unknowable horizon. It's dark outside, but you begin your work to make this space your own bright refuge, your own hospitality in the smallest of measures taught to you by your former servants.
Candles lit, ambient music played once you'd found an appropriate channel. You'd attended to yourself the same, donning another of the traditional robes from Taeyong's closet, hem pinned to keep it from dragging, tied back carefully.
And then, finally, you get to work on your meal. It might be for others, but it’s for your benefit most of all, a gift and a blessing.
Doyoung had delivered on his promise to have everything you needed brought up before you woke. He'd quietly come in to sleep beside you and Taeyong last night after you’d fallen asleep talking, but you never expected him to stay. Today is not much different.
Back when you'd been training you'd been given carte blanche access to one of the many Imperial kitchens servicing your household, after rigorous instruction in much smaller spaces.
What would you do if your mate demanded you bring him his mother's hangover soup after a late night business meeting? What would you make to show another pack's Alpha you respected his tastes in Renaissance Shanghai cuisine?
Traditional Goryeo cooking still eluded you with the new overwhelmingness of garlic on your fingers or onion in your eyes but you had a mastery of technique. It was better to make this, you think, than any of the European dishes you'd grown sick of.
You attack your project within the hours given you, pulling out every ingredient and lining them up like soldiers on the spotless countertops, next to crates of freshly harvested vegetables and a beautiful array of crocks, an entire pallet of eggs awaiting your destruction of them.
You imagine chickens clucking and pecking away deep in the belly of NeoTech HQ and have a laugh at that. You hope they are warm and safe and happy, their little bird bellies full.
Your first guest is, of course, your fellow residents. Doyoung enters, smelling vaguely of snow, as if he's been outside. Trailing him, shyly, is your guest of honor.
"No waiting," you say, pushing plates in front of Taeyong the moment he's near the low island. "You have to tell me if this is edible."
The other fox hesitates, removing his suit jacket, sniffing the air. He looks flushed but relatively healthier, eyes bright as he sniffs at the banchan.
"Do you need help?" his eyes go even more round at the sight of the kitchen. You've managed to keep everything orderly but there is more than enough going on, all 6 ranges and both ovens on for warming.
"I need you to eat," you remark, turning back to your work. "Is there a dish you're craving?"
You empty a bowl of eggs into a pan of sauteed tomato, ears backwards for a response from him as you watch the whites congeal.
"Anything you make," he says, softly.
"Try the jeon," you say. "I understand we both like sweet potatoes?"
You peer over your shoulder to find him eating the last fried slice, crumbs and oil glistening on his mouth.
"It tastes like my sister's." Taeyong sniffs, tears pouring from his eyes.
"Thank you," Doyoung concedes, tying his apron. "He's never had that reaction when I've made it."
Together you fall into a steady routine, Doyoung darting out of the way to allow you to work, managing dishwashing when you begin handing him your used utensils and pans. You don't realize you have a second set of hands at your disposal until the steam from an opened cookpot of radish stew burns you, and your hands are enveloped in long fingers.
"Are you hurt?"
You look up to see Jungwoo's watery gaze.
"No," you say, fighting the urge to pull back. "Can you finish the–"
"Allow me." Taeil fights his way between the other two, already fixated on the next round of jeon in the pan. "Run cold water over it. No ice. Taeyong has an aloe plant somewhere, get a cutting."
It's directed at Jungwoo, who flees just as quickly as the thought is put into his mind.
"Thank you," you murmur, moving to the sink.
"You've done a lot more in this kitchen than Taeyong ever aspired to. Is that fresh crab?" Taeil says.
You preen a bit, remembering how much work it had taken to pick it free of the shell after boiling it.
"I wanted to use it for stew but I ran out of burners. Should we make it now? The chrysanthemum greens are over there."
Taeil laughs a little, adding green onion to the pot that burned you.
"There's more than enough with what's on the table." He looks up at your first glimmer of disappointment, cued to your response in a way that has you back under the tap, fingers shaking.
"Do you mind if I add it to the fried rice? I think we'll have more than enough, then," he says. Quietly, for you–"Thank you. Sorry for oversleeping."
You shake your head, smiling.
"You're just in time. I couldn't do this without you," you say, appreciating the way he takes over for you now.
Your eyes drift over the occupants. The long unloved dinner table you'd cleaned of dust last night is the center of chaos with Doyoung managing the hotplates and the central pot, swatting Taeyong's hand as he steals radish and kimchi to shove into his mouth. You sight Haechan arranging plates, immediately turning away before his gaze can lift past the rice he's diligently doling out.
"Is he coming?" You ask, tail smashed against the cupboards.
"He'll be here," Taeil answers. "They just needed time to arrange everything."
"Is it too early to drink?" you ask, earning a dark look.
"After tonight, I owe you one." he says.
Now that you're unoccupied you hear the door open, are ready for a new intruder. You're not prepared for the silence that takes over–the shock on the other's face as they rush to help the person who came in.
"Found him stuck on the stairwell," Jungwoo says. "___, I think you should come here."
You turn off the water, breathing deeply, rounding the corner to the living space to set eyes on your first real challenge.
Wrapped around Jungwoo is a person you are wholly unprepared to witness, clad in much more comfortable athletics clothing under his sling, his face drawn with effort.
"Mark," you breathe.
Tears make your vision swim as you move to support him–embracing him more, arms encircling his solid chest. After a few moments, his free arm twines around you to pat your back.
"Might be the drugs but I'm kind of . . . Well, no. I'm really glad you're alive," he says, voice husky.
"Because of you," you say, so only he can hear, nose in his ribcage and ear against his chest, lulled back into peace by his steady heartbeat. "I didn't know you'd be able to make it. I hope I made something you like: meat, eggs–"
"Who doesn't like that?" He extricates himself, slowly, more agile than you expected after what he'd been through.
There's something else in his scent–a new bitter melon green that has you holding on even as he hobbles away.
"Let me get you some water," you say, fighting back tears. You're denied entrance to the kitchen by someone already carrying two full pitchers. It's nice to see your needs answered so quickly but you look up into bottomless eyes and drown, smile fading.
"Here."
You try to take Jaehyun's offering, realizing too late he's just telling you that he's taking care of this for you.
"Are you . . .?"
He leans down, lips ghosting your forehead. "Thank you."
Then he's past, bringing Mark his water. You watch them for friction, for a flinch, only to find the younger man nod his head in thanks, your new mate moving counterclockwise around the table to fill each glass.
You feel utterly unnecessary in this moment, picking up the abandoned piece of aloe on the island to rub against your scalded red skin.
"Relax," Taeil says, handing you a plate. "He's coming."
"I feel like I need to do a headcount," you joke. "I need some air."
"Do me a favor–take a walk and try some pranayama," Taeil says. “Breathe through your nose for four seconds, hold the breath for 7 seconds, exhale through your mouth for 8 more. And take your time."
You slip out without protest, heading down to the next level with anxiety clinging to each hair raised on your body. Your rounds of breaths are only a few when you're startled by Yuta at the end of the hallway.
"Princess."
"I burnt myself," you say, lifting up your palm. "Taeil told me to get something for it."
Yuta looks at your hand, then up to you, stony face unbreakable as a smile tugs on his lips.
"Looks like you already found it." He pulls something out from behind his back, the bag heavy and redolent with blood. "I heard we needed beef?"
"Yes. Thank you." You feel nauseated by the sight of so much marbled flesh.
"Have you seen Johnny?" You ask, hyper aware of your last guest.
"I'm here."
You don't turn. At least, not quickly. When you finally do your eyes remain on his chest, the peek of gold skin above a thin shirt, leather jacket padding his shoulders.
"Can we talk?" You ask for him, feeling the question between you.
Yuta leaves without another word, feet pounding on the stairs, clearly wanting no part of this.
"Here?" he asks, quietly.
"Where else." You say, exhausted already. "I have nothing to say others can't hear."
"Fine," he says. "Here."
Something is thrust under your nose, the scent overwhelming enough you immediately begin to sneeze, eyes watering beyond tears.
"Oh," you say, watching him pull back the offering and reaching out to snatch it before he can take it back. You're in a tug-of-war for a moment, your hands brushing against the wide splay of his knuckles around a bouquet of golden flowers, wrapped in paper.
Dedication, you think, though you doubt he brought them to you with any intended meaning.
"Are these from–?"
He sneezes, too, turning away. You have a momentary impulse to place your hand between his shoulder blades, snuffing it out in favor of inspecting the blooms.
"I had them delivered from a place I know in Six. Hothouses, obviously."
"Sunflowers in winter," you say, quietly, sniffing the blooms, sneezing again. Their scent is waxy and slightly artificial but you appreciate the color–the way red and orange hues dance down the petals from purplish-red centers. "They’re beautiful."
"Here," he says, pulling a bag from his jacket. "You can plant them if you want. Or eat them, I don't care. They said they won't grow until they know the time is right, but they gave me the instructions if you want to simulate the light and heat cycles–"
"Johnny." You stop his rambling, heart aching in your chest. "Why did you come back that night?"
"For you," he says.
"For Taeyong," you correct.
He sighs, boots creaking as he moves away.
"If nothing had happened, if Taeyong could have been cured, would you still be here?" You ask even if the answer is clear in his irritation.
"I wanted . . ." He ends his statement before he even begins. "No. I would have left as soon as I knew you were back where you belonged."
"Where I belonged?" You finally look up, meeting his steady gaze. "Where was that exactly?"
"Doyoung is–was–working on a solution to transfer you abroad," he says, leveling you with how sure he is in his answer. “One of the EEC countries accepting designated refugees.”
"Even if I wanted to go North to find my–"
"Don't give me that line about going back into that hell. You were a target there when you were a kid, even more now. That will never be your home."
He realizes his mistake, wiping at his face and his cold-reddened nose and cheeks.
"You would have shipped me off to another country, rather than help me?" You bite your lip to keep it from trembling. "I see."
"No, you don't," he argues. "Everything I've ever done, always, since the first time I dragged you out of that godforsaken pit, was to make sure you were safe. It's not my fault you chose to run headfirst into danger at every opportunity."
"No," you counter, paper crinkling as you hold on to your first offering, fighting the urge to toss it in his face. "Don't twist history to make it seem as if you're prioritizing my needs. You had a decade. Ten years to do something that mattered. Spying on me in my own home doesn't count."
"Right," he says. "Did Jungwoo show you that before or after you fucked him in my bed?"
You slap him. He's too tall to get a good hit but your nails are long and sharp, red scores rising on his jaw. Immediately you've plummeted into regret, feeling the hurt you've caused magnified in the echo in your own, burning face. But you hold fast against it.
"You don't get to make accusations like that without asking me first, directly. Do you understand?"
You watch him battle through the rage, nostrils flaring. It so easily disappears when you're back to hyperventilating, remembering the sting when you'd cut through the back of your own ankle on the floor of his room, unable to see how deep. No you'd just felt it–felt it again when Taeil had been forced to cut you open to restitch the nerves and tendons back together so they could finally heal.
"___," he says, but you're not there anymore. You're underwater. Counting seconds between breaths.
"I'm sorry," he says, forgetting your unspoken directive not to touch you, shaking you.
When you don't respond he crushes you against his chest, flowers mangled, face in your hair.
"Please. No. I'm sorry. I fucked this up–I have so much I want to say and I just didn't–"
"Let her go."
You expect someone who can feel you to intervene, one of the Canids–maybe even Doyoung. But the person who pulls you away one-handed, the other leveling his gun, is your most unlikely of saviors.
"You have a choice to make right now, Suh, so I'll keep talking to you like I don't know you're thinking about ripping my arm off." Yuta's voice is level, posture expectant.
"You're going to take a minute and think about what you owe us as Prime. I'm going to take her back upstairs and let her recover. And then you are going back into that room together, as one. Got it?"
Johnny may have nodded–you didn't see it before he turns and leaves–but immediately you feel the empty hallway grow wider, the space less constrictive.
"Thank you," you say, turning away from him as if an automaton. "You didn't have to."
"Technically speaking, I'm the one who fucked you on his bed," he says. "I'm just not apologizing for it."
You look back at his sly face, too astounded by his candor to feel anything other than morbid amusement.
"Yet," he adds. "Didn't want to ruin our first and last meal together."
"In the spirit of community, and to honor our coming together as a tribunal tonight, I would like to ask that we all hold hands and say a prayer."
Doyoung's voice breaks through the tense silence and the ringing of metal utensils on dishes. It takes a long time for the group to respond, eyes turning heavenward for other reasons.
"From youngest to oldest, please," Doyoung adds, looking directly at you at the head of the table.
You fold your hands in your lap, bowing your head slightly.
"Oṁ amṛta tejovati svāhā," you say.
You realize everyone is looking to you to continue, or for an explanation, but you nod your head instead towards the slack-jawed face of the second youngest, seated as far away as possible.
"Well, that's useful," Haechan says, the table shaking when Mark kicks it's leg instead of the one he'd been aiming for under the table. "Dear Heavenly father. Glad eomma and appa decided to stop fighting and fucking eachother long enough we could enjoy this home-cooked meal."
He looks up, smiling wider at the horror on everyone's faces. "Amen."
"Jesus Christ." Mark repeats, blinking slowly at his plate. "Thank you for this meal we're about to receive. Thank you for keeping me alive a little longer, I guess. Sorry for not having the words to say what I mean. Drugs are great, doctor."
He lifts his water like it's a toast in Taeil's direction as Doyoung sighs heavily beside you.
Jungwoo stands up, earning another, more quiet sigh.
"I would like to thank ____ for the meal." He's toasting you, too, but with what looks like a half-drunk glass of tea. He bows his head, mocking but somehow deferential. "God doesn't deserve the praise for whatever you added to the jjigae to make Haechan cry when he ate most of it earlier."
"It was too spicy–"
Jaehyun pulls him down by the shoulder. You meet his direct stare, unsure of what he's thinking. There's an icy wall between you now that you're bonded, but there's nothing malicious or frightened in his regard.
"Thanks," he says, quietly dipping his head in your direction. "For bringing us back together."
"It's been too long," Doyoung murmurs in agreement, hands folding in front of him. "Heavenly creator–"
He has to pause at Haechan's muffled laughter, sitting up to his full height.
"--we have not had an opportunity to be together in a long time. And though it comes with its trials we know that these moments of peace are more precious than we have any right to expect or ask for."
He grips your hand at the left side, making you only more aware of Taeyong's weak and sweaty hold in your right.
"Amen," Doyoung says, quietly staring daggers across the table.
"Amen." Yuta echoes. After a moment he looks up around him, confused. "That's it, right?"
"You're supposed to say something meaningful before it," Taeyong intervenes before Doyoung can explain.
"Oh," he nods, thoughtfully. "Amen."
"Alright well," Taeyong says, finger drifting on his agent. "I'm going to follow ____'s example and share another sutra."
Awkward silence follows his admission, but you squeeze his hand once it's back in yours. He clears his throat.
"’It is like a lighted torch whose flame can be distributed to ever so many other torches which people may bring along; and there– therewith they will cook food and dispel darkness, while the original torch itself remains burning ever the same.’"
The only sound is the bubbling of the stew, Jungwoo offering a solemn nod of understanding.
"Was that AI-generated–" Haechan is cut short by Johnny standing and slamming his palms on the table.
"Are you finished?"
Haechan mimes zipping his lips, but remains silent.
"Good," he says. "Sorry, Doyoung. I have something to say and if anyone interrupts me they can eat from the floor like the animal they are."
No one even breathes in his direction.
"____ is the newest person at our table, but she's also the reason some of us were able to cross paths in the first place."
He looks up, hands flexing on the edge of the table. "We wouldn't be a pack, and we certainly wouldn't be sitting here in the same capacity. For better or worse, we owe her that."
He sits down again, table vibrating with the quake.
"Thank you for that . . . Inspiring gesture," Doyoung murmurs.
"I guess that makes me the last to speak," Taeil says, crossing his arms and leaning back. "I also have known ____ for as long as Johnny. Incidentally, I think by practice amidst designated, we're now also common law married."
Johnny clears his throat, but he defers to the Doctor. You remain in horrified shock, baring your teeth in what you hope resembles a smile.
Taeil raises his glass between you both, and you get the impression from the viscosity of the liquid in it that it's not water.
"May we attend to each other's needs in a way that no longer leads to bodily injury, crisis, or divorce," he says, clearing the shot in one throw. "Let's eat."
The words are echoed–mumbled in Mark's case–the nine descending on the food like they've been starved for weeks. Meanwhile you sit staring at the man across from you, a new hunger manifesting where your appetite should be as you watch him in his element.
As upset as you know Johnny is, he's also content with the atmosphere of normalcy–relaxing into the conversation around the table, occasionally glancing up at you to hold you fixed in his steady gaze. It’s impossible to not feel sadness at being included in this scene, as more of a misfit and outlier than ever.
You don't know what to say, how to relax into it.
"Eat something for me," Doyoung says–not an order–as Jungwoo fishes out crab meat from his own bowl of fried rice to place upon your own and someone else passes down grilled meat.
You pick away at the meal, feeling a dreary sense of finality and the distant sense that, even with you all here, you don't belong. Every bite is flavorless. Taeyong looks just as miserable beside you, black-tipped ears in his pinkish hair pinned back.
"Suppressants?" you ask, leaning in so only he can hear, hyper-aware of the others' eyes on you.
"That. And painkillers. Stimulants, hormonal therapy," he says, swallowing saliva. "I ate a lot already, though–thank you–just trying to let it settle."
You move your chair closer to him, enveloping him with an arm around his quivering shoulders, rubbing his bicep through the layers of fine, loose clothing he'd dressed in for what should have been a more formal affair. He’s not in the state to be doing much, you know.
"Let's try to stomach a little more, and then we can go watch the snow together, maybe?"
He nods, sleepily. Your hand drifts to his head to scratch his scalp at the base of his fur, the sound he makes in his chest loud with the silence that immediately follows.
"Really? Some of us are still eating here," Haechan says across the table, chewing.
"Please, continue." There's a little bit of a snarl in your response, but you don't meet his glare for long, standing up and bowing.
"You'll excuse us," you say, giving Doyoung a measured look before attempting to lift your pack's leader from the table.
He helps you, the both of you navigating Taeyong awkwardly back to their quarters. Johnny moves to stand and you stop him with a flick of your head.
Doyoung tries to guide you to the bedroom but you rally your strength to veer a different direction with Taeyong's weight pressed into your side.
"I'll take care of him," you say, slinging his arm over you as you duck into the nest. "We just need sleep. We’re not going to be able to do this if he's not in the right state of mind."
You think the Lepid will give you a warning or a speech but he simply nods, bending down to make sure you're able to navigate the crowded space before closing the too-small door.
"You don't have to stay," Taeyong says, collapsing into what you hope is just a pile of pillows. Your eyes are adjusting now–seeing the space, finally. It's chaos, yes, but organized in a way you assume has less to do with his mates' concern than his own self-soothing.
Everything is clean and smells of a rich leather and woodspice, green rising up from unlit candles and plants illuminated by soft ultraviolet lamps. The floor is missing under a sea of rugs and blankets and pillows in different colors, shapes and sizes. Trophies of a life that you can only imagine litter ceiling-high shelves, between books and statues and even a little aquarium burbling in the dark.
On the ceiling are stars, of sorts–pinpricks of strung lights spider-webbed beyond a veil of curtains, glass lamps and paper lanterns dimly lit above.
"It's lovely," you say, looking down at his curled form. You make a decision then, shuffling out of your slippers and leaving on the heavy, embroidered robe you'd changed into for the meal.
It's warmer in here than outside, but you still feel a chill as you sink down beside him.
Taeyong's breathing evens out the moment you're in view again, his eyes open and watchful as you pluck a blanket to drape over you both, inching forwards to knock your knees against his.
"Is this going to be alright?" you ask, seeing the uncertainty in his dark gaze. The purplish light paints him almost two-dimensionally, his plush mouth set in a frown.
He nods after a time, radiating that sharp scent of clean musk you know so well.
"I can just hold you for now," you say–more a caution for your fox than his. His tail beats in answer, making you smile. "That helped last night, didn't it?"
"It did," he says. You'd fallen asleep in a similar fashion, fingers laced between each other as you spoke of your histories, your futures. You suspected he’d needed that time even more than you did to feel comfortable with what would happen today.
"We have a lot to work out later. My penance, first, for marking you without your consent," you say, voice cracking.
"Remember. No apologies," he whispers. "Promise me something, though?"
"Anything."
"Only stay if you want to." His words don't match the pleading in his expression, the distress transferred to you through the tenuous bond you share.
"Promise." You find his hands beneath the cover, cold and clammy, lifting them to your mouth to press kisses to his knuckles.
His exhale is a shudder of relief, turning around to press himself closer to you. You have to move a few velvety pillows and what looks suspiciously like a stuffed animal in order to find a comfortable spot behind him, wrapping around his taut back like a smaller, softer sleeve.
This, finally, feels like home.
There's something enrapturing about being so close to someone like you–with Wooyoung out in the Wilds it had been the necessity of shared body heat and the species familiarity that had you locked together at night, no sensuality whatsoever.
Here, pressing your nose into the hair at his nape, a different design is at hand. His heartbeat is loud and steady beneath the white noise of the water filter, slowing with yours. This is safety, you think.
Soon he begins to purr. The sound is too precious for your fox to ignore, finding yourself nuzzling at his bare skin in answer, brought back by the sharp swishing of his tail.
"Sorry," you murmur, pressing a chaste kiss to his spine. His tail swats you again before you can lock it under a leg thrown over his bony hip, hands kept at a safer distance beneath your chin.
"Sleep," you say. You feel languid, finally, tension easing from every muscle and joint and distant throb in the healing of both.
With the heat and the comfort you feel between you, you drift down with him.
"No!" You’re not drowning, now, you’re on fire. Green light arcs across your vision, bound for the valley beneath you. "NO!"
"Wake up," You recognize the command and pull yourself up and out of the abyss, throat ragged from screaming.
A door slams open, air rushing in cold and bitter burnt, and you hear Taeyong growl–loud–shifting over you.
You come back to consciousness with the other fox straddling your hips, strength incredible as he holds you down by your arms while twisted in aggression against the other men outside. It’s still daytime out there, grounding you more in the present.
"I have her. We're safe," he says. "Don't you dare let him in."
Words are spoken, anger pin-pricking at your mind until the door slams shut. The feeling recedes, leaving you panting as sweat breaks over your face and body.
"Shh," Taeyong says, dropping down to press his equally damp forehead to yours. "It was just a nightmare."
"I know, I know," you say, blinking back tears. "I'm sorry to bring them here."
He laughs a little, easing his hold. "You think I haven't had them? I grew up with the airstrikes, too–"
"What did you say?" You feel another wave of cold and pain begin to subsume you, grasping on to rational thought.
"I still dream about the bombings–" his dilated eyes widen, suddenly just as aware. "Wait. That was you. It was so intense. I felt like I was actually there–"
"No," you protest. "No, oh no."
"Shh," he says, eyes flicking over his shoulder, voice lowering. "We'll be alright. Just relax, please."
You begin to cry, prompting him to let you go, fingers soothing your wrists as if to make up for holding them so tightly.
"No, no, ____. It will be alright."
"I really didn't imagine I could ever have that kind of influence. I am a curse, aren't I–?"
Taeyong growls, fisting the pillows beside your head rather than pin you.
"With me," he orders. "Stay with me."
Surprisingly, your fox complies. You hiccup, meekly, watching his face for a sudden change or danger that never arrives. You only see his ears lower, eyebrows raising.
"Damn," he says, quietly, shifting back to take his weight off your thighs.
"What?" you ask, still drowsy, sitting up with your robe hanging from your shoulder.
"That–" he begins. "I think I need to–"
"Go?" you finish for him, followed up quickly by an urgent desire for the opposite. "Please don't go. I can leave if you prefer."
"You don't understand," he says, creeping back.
"Stay," you order.
He looks down at you with disappointment, sinking onto your legs until you can feel what he's so pointlessly tried to hide. He's erect in his loose pants, cock trapped against your robed thigh.
"Oh," you say, cheeks aflame. "Of course. Sorry."
"You always apologize for the wrong things." His eyes clench shut, hips involuntarily rocking into your thighs–just once before he pulls back. "I'm the one who should be sorry. You just . . . you feel so good. You have no idea."
But you do. Warmth spreads through your belly at the sound he makes in the back of his throat, choked and needy.
“I’m going to help you,” you say, rolling your hips up.
"I can't, though–we can wait until–" he's pleading more with himself than you, you think.
"We talked about this. Yes, you can." You grasp at his shoulders to pull him down. He flops down comically beside you, looking defeated. His head is buried in the bustle of pillows beside you, eyes losing focus as you pet him.
"I know I’m not myself, too, but I meant it when I said I wanted you first," you say, running a hand over his head, pushing back his fur to hold his ears down. "Let me fix what I started. Mate me.”
"But . . ." Taeyong's lip wobbles.
"Unless you don't want that? Do you need me to do something . . . Else?"
You're not entirely sure how this will work, but you know it's only fair that you help break his heat. Time was running out.
He pulls you into his arms, sharp chin atop your head.
"You're so precious," he murmurs.
"If you like I can be in control," you say. "I can take care of you. Taeil showed me."
He laughs into your hair, rubbing soothing circles into your back.
"Did Doyoung tell you I'm a pillow prince?"
"You do have a lot of them," you sniff.
That makes him laugh harder.
"I know it must be strange being in another person’s nest. If you . . . we'll help you build your own. Wherever you want it."
"Thank you." You try to keep your voice light but he's tuned into the sadness of realizing how useless it would be without your claims to share it. He clutches you so tightly you have to actively fight the claustrophobia.
"I really should have stayed here," he says. "As useless as I am when I'm in heat–rut–whatever this is, I think I could have taken care of you, too.”
You feel hot and itchy at the admission.
“Do you know, I couldn't stop thinking about you.” His voice is even lower now, nails soothing your spine. “What it would be like to be needed by someone like you.”
"Did you really want to?" you ask. "It's not just because I bit you? Or because of . . ."
There's so much in your mind to try and quiet, doubt ever present. You let his scent infuse you instead, playing with the strands of hair curling under his jaw.
He rubs his face against your hairline, pressing a dry, soft kiss to your forehead.
"I've never been with a girl before, much less another omega . . . Not that I'm not attracted, it was just too dangerous to be with anyone outside the pack. Do you understand?"
You nod.
"So in a way, I'll be your first?"
"You know you feel safe to me, too," Taeyong whispers.
It's a comfort to hear that, after everything. At least even if you feel estranged from them all he's still on your side. Perhaps it's just because you’re family, or shared species or birth designation, but you won't take it for granted.
"How does this work?" you ask. "What can I do for you?"
"We don't need to rush. Let's take it slow and see what we both like, yes?"
You enjoy the thought of exploring with him, even more when he moves lower to kiss your face, smooth lips tracing your features. Unlike Johnny's shyness you think he's trying to keep from appearing desperate, avoiding your mouth until you take it for yourself.
You kiss him, gently, teeth kept locked away as he licks into your lips. He's an incredible lover in this regard alone, stroking your tongue with his and swallowing your soft moans.
Soon you're entwined, your hips rocking together through your clothing, almost more sensual without bare skin. But you want it, stroking his belly beneath his thick shirt until he takes it off. You're immediately exploring the dark, winding pattern of a tattoo wrapped around his lean torso, distracted by how intricate it is.
"A dragon?" you ask, pressing your lips to the scales inked into his shoulder. It's a traditional, ancient design–greens and blues muddied by the magenta light. Like the old myths, you think–a fitting enemy for a tiger.
"Yes–" Taeyong gasps as you lick at his nipple, sucking the bud into your mouth. He seems to enjoy it, but pushes you down after a moment.
"May I?" he asks, waiting for your nod before his firm hands trail down your body, plucking at the sash of your robe.
He looks at you dangerously, eyelids lowered as he parts the clothing to reveal your thin underwear. Slick has already drenched your thighs, a little noise erupting in the back of your throat as he curls down, pulling aside your bra to taste you.
"You're so, so soft," he whispers, sucking gently on your breast, rolling the other beneath his thumb. Your hands bury in his thick hair as he pushes the meat of it upwards, exploring your shape. “And sweet.”
You're losing yourself already at the tender laps, sex throbbing as he teases you, ears brushing against your thighs when he goes lower and you shyly close your legs around his head.
"Open up for me, baby." His tone is deeper, a little more rasped with need.
"I should be pleasing you," you whisper, but he shushes you by flipping you onto your stomach. For a moment you're paralyzed by the memory of being face-first on a cold floor, and just as quickly he's recognized it and off of you, soothing your curled back.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to–"
"No, no," you breathe, sitting up. "I'm not afraid. Just. Do you think I could be above you?"
You’d wanted to know what it was like to be with a less dominant mate, you think this might be your only chance.
"I don't think I could say no to that even if I wanted to." His breath leaves him in a shaky exhale as he lies back, pulling you on top of him as you try to strip down, distracted by the hands and mouth fighting to explore every inch of exposed skin. You feel as hazy as if you were sedated, too, moaning when he grabs your thighs to pull you down onto his face.
You fist the pile above his head as his breaths make you cool, his nose brushing against your heat as he laves carefully at the sensitive gland at your inner thigh. It's such a light touch but your body responds intensely, pleasure like butterfly wings brushing inside you as your nipples harden and your toes curl.
"Oh gods," he says, tongue darting out to collect drips of sweat and slick from your skin, dragging across your underwear. "It's better than I imagined. Kind of like ambrosia."
You whine in earnest now, back arched to present yourself for him from above. He licks into your folds, pulling aside your underwear to bury his tongue in your heat. Your hips move of their own accord and it makes him even more bold in fucking you with his mouth; the deeper he works the muscle into you the more you writhe, clamped down by his hands spreading your gap to expose you for him.
He pulls away the moment you feel like you're getting closer to your climax, breathing just as hard and glossy with your release.
"I don't want to breed you just yet," he murmurs, making you whine. "Can I just do this until your legs can't hold you up, anymore?"
"Please, Alph–" you stop, realizing your mistake, but he only laughs, thumbs kneading the fat at the crest of your thighs.
"You can call me that," he soothes.
"Do you like it?" you ask, cocking your head to look down at him. He's not capable of recognizing your question, it seems, as he buries his damp face in your tail, marking you with your own scent.
"Don't you want to breed me, Alpha?" you ask, experimentally.
"Fuck, don't stop," he says, finally shuffling free of his pants, almost making you collapse on him in his haste. You hold steady, moving down his body to take him in your mouth, grabbed loosely by the scalp to stop.
"Let me make you feel good," you say, already licking a stripe up his shaft and tasting salt and something sweeter. He's a solid weight in your hand–a little softer than you expected and lacking a significant knot but perfect, you think. Yours.
"Turn around, then," he says, rough. "I'm not finished."
You don't know what he means until you're dragged bodily back, underwear torn by what you think might be his teeth, unable to see with your face buried in the crook of his thigh as he devours you again. You struggle to wrap your lips around him, too lost in the scrape of canines on your inner thigh and your own muffled noises, feeling the tightness in your belly ebb whenever he pulls back just as you're close to sliding over into bliss.
"Please," you whimper, grip tightening on his cock to slow him down. "Please, Alpha."
"Not yet," he moans, muffling it with your sex. "Want to feel it."
You struggle out of his arms, settling down over his narrow hips to rub desperately against his length, coating him and your fur equally in slick and spit. He pulls you down, holding you tight to keep from riding him as he slides between your folds.
"I can't wait, ____, it hurts so bad not being in you," he groans in your ear. "Tell me you want it."
"Knot me, Alpha." You don't know if he's capable of it but you don't care, too hellbent on having him fill you. It was silly of you to think you could take your time, you know he needs this as much as you do.
"Want you so badly, Alpha," you say. "Breed me, please."
Desperation has you clawing the pillows beneath your legs, trying to angle yourself to guide him inside of you. He holds your hips, hoisting his own to catch you just right. The first slide into your heat is so much different than what you expected, the perfect fit in how easily he can move inside you, hitting the curve in that sensitive place just inside.
He doesn't pull out completely, instead rocking into you until he’s fully sheathed, dragging against muscles inside of you that tighten for you automatically, gripping him hard.
"That’s so good," he repeats, claws digging into your skin below your breasts as he pushes up into you fluidly. "So soft inside too, velvet."
Any concern about him not having a knot to ease your suffering is erased as you feel his thick base stretching you wide, fighting against the constriction that is utterly out of your control, like you can't and won't let him go now that you have him at your mercy.
You hold his head to you so he can lose himself in the pleasure of tonguing your shape, suckling and biting in a way that makes you flutter even more inside.
"You really like that, don't you baby–" He loses his words when you tense on him again, not sure if you're forcing him out or drawing him in deeper.
"Yes, Alpha." Your mind is obliterated, disappearing into the soft light and the ache of pulsating around him. You feel so good and warm and wanted. "Breed me, fill me with your pups."
When Taeyong comes it's with his teeth scraping the softness over your heart, tongue wrapped around your nipple. He jerks inside you as warmth surges in your belly, your voice's higher pitch mixing with his low growls and whines. He doesn't stop pumping into you, throbs of heat radiating between you as you finally can't hold yourself up anymore.
Artificial fur slides against your back, real fur under your stomach where your tail, or his, is trapped between you as he pulls you over. Now on top he fucks you into the pillows, rough but somehow tender, teeth closing on your neck to tug at the healed skin, not breaking it but bruising it deep enough to mark it. It makes you lose yourself, too, scratching his strong back until he bites you more, and harder.
"Don't stop, please don't stop," you cry out, finally feeling that dam break inside of pure euphoria, your own release a hot gush squeezed out of you around him. That tightness in your core doesn't let up even with the tics of pleasure around him softening inside you.
"Good omega, good baby," he says, finally able to make a word that isn't a grunt or moan of pleasure. "Can't stop, you're already making me hard again, I'm sorry–"
"What is happening . . . ?" You can't finish what you're murmuring either, gasping at the way each word makes you seize again, like you never finished in the first place. You expected him to slip out of you but that's not happening, nor is his spend coming out of you.
He picks you up, gently, rolling you both onto your side so you can breathe more deeply, pulling you against him.
"You locked me," He laughs softly, choking a bit as you try to squeeze the muscles inside you experimentally. "Never in a million years did I think . . ."
"Is that bad?" you ask, feeling vulnerable. Taeyong nibbles at your bottom lip, licking immediately after in case he's caused you pain.
"No. It's perfect. You're so perfect it's hard not to believe you weren't actually made just for me."
Your fox is in rapture, being told she's good enough–for once not empty praise but something to make you feel like you belong. You hold his head to yours, noses bumping. Rubbing his scarred ear between your thumb and index makes him pant a little as his fingers dip between your closed legs, buried in your fur.
"Relax for me," he says, "Now we can really take it slow."
"Yes, please, yes," you whimper, gripping his shoulders to push against him. "Yes, Alpha."
"I should be calling you that," he murmurs, licking at your jaw. "Since you claimed me."
"Oh," you say.
There's not very many thoughts in your head with adoration and joy circulating instead but you do remember the physiology of female Alphas being markedly different than yours. It was unfortunate that it was often spoken of in the context of failures of hybrid breeding programs, the unstated prejudice against them even more taboo than male omegas in an intolerant culture.
But you don't feel like a failure, or a mistake. Not now, not with being able to please your mate so thoroughly.
"You feel like both to me," you gasp out as his fingers lazily explore your sex, answered in the tensing of your walls around him. He's still only half-hard but you can feel him rousing for you, ready to give you more.
Taeyong grinds into you, leg twining over yours to deepen his thrusts. "You feel like both to me, too."
Kim Doyoung [Lepus europaeus α]
"This is bad."
Doyoung checks his agent again, the sky already darkening as mid-afternoon passes into evening. It's not just the deadline, or the weight of dread in his chest, but the fact that it's been an hour and a half since your screams turned into different sounds altogether, loud enough for his sensitive ears and unfortunately–everyone else in the vicinity.
"Make a call, then." Johnny says, a cold towel draped over his face. Like some of the other members of the pack he'd already taken it out on gym equipment, hands a little bloody despite healing from pummeling them raw. The others had evacuated to their own retreats not long after clean-up, Mark and Haechan heading down to the lower levels to check in with what little remained of their meal. From the distant sounds of gunfire below some of the others must be running CQD drills as their preferred form of distraction.
"I'll separate them," he sighs. "We shouldn't have left them alone in the first place."
"No, we shouldn't have. But here we are." The Felid is currently stretched out on his couch, having become a somewhat permanent fixture in his home. It wasn’t like he didn’t understand the desire to constantly be near one’s mate, certainly never able to travel far during ritual.
"Are you going to help me?" Doyoung sighs,
Johnny pulls down the cloth, cracking an eye open. "Why? Afraid she'll take a bite out of you, too?”
"It's not her I'm worried about." One of the many benefits of hybrid companionship, he thinks–was being intimately familiar with the mating habits of vulpes vulpes. He checks the syringe gun Taeil had left them–two just in case.
"How do you want to go about this?" he asks.
"I thought you were the planner here," Johnny remarks, tone acid.
"Oh for fucks sake, be an adult about this." Doyoung paces, loosening his tie. He's not sure if he should get fitted into gloves or body armor but he supposes it would only make things worse considering how tight the space is to navigate.
"I go in first and get her. You get Taeyong."
"Brave," Johnny says dryly.
"She can order you, jackass."
"Should I wear earplugs?"
Doyoung doesn't waste another second fielding the Alpha's snark, heading to the dreaded foxhole. Lord knows he's been in a similar position as you before, thankfully with the wherewithal and means to order Taeyong down. It didn't mean you couldn't do the same, just that if his hunch was correct, you lacked the mental capacity to do so.
"____," he asks, quietly, opening the door.
The room is positively drenched in the overripe fruit scent of sex, nothing unexpected considering it had been seeping through the cracks for a while. One of the requirements of any good nest design was ventilation, of course, that had been accounted for but two omegas-worth of perfume could not be contained that easily.
He hears a soft whine, and then a low growl–too deep and masculine to be yours. Of course, he thinks–he knew that burning sensation in the pit of his stomach wasn't imagined. It had been a long time since Taeyong slipped into rut behavior but it was always a strong possibility with the therapy he maintained.
"It's just me," he says, cautious as he slips in, eyes adjusting to the low light.
Thank god his species was nocturnal, although another reminder that it was to avoid being preyed upon by the creatures in the room. Another snarl startles him from behind, causing him to hit his head on the nearest shelf.
Immediately there's chaos as someone–something takes a swipe at him, claws snagging in his shirt. He's thrown back, syringe gun dropping from his startled grip as Johnny threads past him, mostly beast, pinning Taeyong with a massive paw.
Doyoung pulls back as he finally meets your wild, slitted gaze, teeth bared.
"Down," he says, sitting up and fumbling for the medication. As soon as you see it your tail curls, shoulders hunching into a shape best suited for a lunge.
"Get that thing away from me." Your voice is strained, overgrown canines making you lisp slightly. He fights the urge to laugh at your feral appearance, placing it on the shelf close enough to reach in a hurry before raising his hands.
"Do I need to order you, again, Princess?" he asks, keeping his tone neutral even though his heart is racing beyond his control. He's not immune to the instinct to avoid those orange-touched eyes looking at him like he's your next meal, choosing to lock eyes with you.
You know who's in charge, eyes sliding down submissively even as you snap your teeth.
"Don't order me." You shake your head, grimacing after a moment as you adjust under the robe you'd half-heartedly covered yourself with. Doyoung sits up, hand coming to rest on the back of your neck. Immediately you're stilled, tail flopping fish-like behind you.
A cry bursts out of you as Taeyong chooses that moment to fight back, trying to reach up past Johnny to claw him off of you–Doyoung is prepared for his mate's betrayal but not your intervention.
"Sleep!" you bark, voice pained.
It works like a charm–he's never seen Taeyong respond to a command that quickly or effectively, perhaps aided by the exhaustion so clearly lining his face. You look terrible, as well, drenched in sweat, hair tangled around your ears so even their movements are obscured, flattened in pain and anxiety.
It’s not what he expected to find after that prolonged session but he suspects from the minor wounds you both bear your animals had taken over in more than just behavior. You're probably sore.
"Thank you for obeying," he murmurs, stroking your neck. “Let’s get you out of here and bathed–”
"We have a problem." Johnny is human again, thank goodness, already attempting to lift the unconscious Vulpine from the wreckage of unstuffed pillows and torn clothing.
"We do," you whine, hunching down over Taeyong protectively.
"We're stuck."
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#agtbtb#nct 127 fic#nct fic#nct smut#nct x reader#nct 127 fanfic#nct imagines#nct 127 cyberpunk au#nct fanfic#nct omegaverse au#nct 127 x reader#nct 127 smut#nct 127 imagines#taeyong x reader#taeyong x y/n#taeyong x you#taeyong smut
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a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 27: wild
pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127
tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content
summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate’s clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself
but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out
ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting
now, you must make them choose you
[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [26: fallen]
wc: 7.3k
warnings: action violence, mild omega slander
recommended listening: box - nct dream (truly enjoying this ep)
Your face is buried in a strange texture, the scent even more unimaginable. Dirt–real and rich as a forest floor, scattered with dead leaves and flakes of bark. Rot and green and something carbonized as well, a scent map that transports you back a decade and a half, hundreds of clicks due north on the 127th meridian.
Home.
It can’t be. This dream is too real–trees rising on either side, the chittering of insects and birds echoing from their tops, the moon centered above beyond a green haze of aurora–
No, you think. That shifting light is too distinct in its pattern, too geometrical to be a natural phenomenon. Your head throbs as you slowly register the familiar bright rectangles of color visible through the leafy canopy, the sound-dampened rumble of voices.
“Welcome back to the main event. As our guests return to their seats from the intermission let’s set the scene. Tonight we have a very special stage, a little corner of the Wild carefully transplanted for your entertainment.”
The announcement through a speaker sounds underwater, but Key’s voice is unmistakeable.
You’re back in the arena. But that’s also impossible–there’s no way the breadth of this space could fit even in that huge room. This is something different. A botanical garden? A zoo? Enclosed, you think, much warmer and damper than the Neo Seoul night you’d shivered against earlier on the rooftop.
“For the safety of our esteemed guests we have transported our participants in tonight’s death match to a confidential location, to demonstrate the resources granted to us by our newest corporate sponsor, Zhirafa Technical Manufacturing.”
Zhirafa? The name has no meaning to you.
“This display of our Park clan ally’s newest offerings for private and public security celebrate their new investiture to our NSMP response teams. Let’s hear a few words from our sponsors.”
You pick yourself up, tripping on the ridiculous train of your gown, shaking a small storm of leaf litter free. Your slippers are gone, feet deadened by cold and inactivity, coming back to life with your pacing around the opening in the forest.
“Help!” you shout.
You hear your voice echo in the vast structure beneath the music of some distant advertisement, muffled by the dense trees. Based on the autocar-thickness of the trunks and their building-tall height this isn't new growth–this must have been here for years. That the treetops haven’t broken through whatever is containing them overhead is a testament to how well-architected it is against it.
“The classic Savannah line has been modernized for Neo Seoul’s most prescient threat: the cyber-fitted feral alpha. Tonight’s demonstration is proof that in the war of organic and robotic, the apex predator will always be the one that can’t be killed.”
The music swells above you, scored to a video you can’t see.
This is where real fear finds you, remembering anthems played in the distance over speakers. The constant chatter of gunfire, the arc of rockets overhead. You taste metal and gunpowder just the same. Kicking at the ground with your bare feet displaces weathered shell casings and bits of exploded plastic beneath the leaves.
There’s no way you’ve been transported North. It would take days, not minutes. They don’t even know you’re gone if this stupid game was proceeding with you at its heart.
No, it dawns on you. This must be an NSMR training ground.
You knew them best from the melos, places where new recruits from Seoul had trained to fight against Neo-Manchukoan guerilla forces, acting out their deaths before inevitably meeting them in the Wild.
You have to alert the audience somehow–get out before the event begins. Even if you don’t have a mic and tracker there’s the familiar low-register buzz of drones overhead, you just have to get the attention of one.
“Is anyone out there?” Your voice echoes a little less, the artificiality of the soundscape revealed in how the birdsong and insects continue unphased.
There is something–though–the rustle of leaves nearby that makes you twist around. Your ears swivel towards the noise, hunching low out of instinct and searching for something to use as a weapon.
“No more surprises, please,” you speak without saying, backing away from the unnatural gleam of blue-white in the thicket.
[Present identification, citizen.]
The voice is electronic and uncanny, different from your kidnapper’s in being devoid of any humanity at all.
“I’m not a citizen,” you say, calmly, “I’m Lee ____, born–”
There’s a metal-on-metal sound, pneumatics hissing as the thing breaks free of the bushes, four-legged and bristling with attachments of dull chrome.
The robotic construct is built like and yet unlike any large cat you’ve ever witnessed–larger than Johnny in his original form. It’s surprisingly smooth in its movements despite its clunky profile, its metal claws and chain-like tail just as ridiculous additions as the grenade launcher fixed to its back.
[Scanning] the drone says, giving you the grace of a few moments to keep searching for a weapon as a white net of light is projected from the thin rectangle of its eyeline.
You think for a moment you might have made it before the scanner pulses from white to red, metal jaw opening wide, fangs sharp past the light.
[Level 3 security protocol in effect. Unknown intruder detected. Countdown T-10 to detainment. Do not attempt to flee.]
Terror rushes through you, animal brain screaming to bolt while your rational self tells you to hold, to not give the drone a reason to chase you. It’s absurd, treating an artificial creature as having an instinct but a step to the side is answered by a mirror-like movement.
“Is there anyone there?” you plead. “I was abducted here. Get me out.”
[6 . . . 5 . . . 4 . . .] the impartial countdown continues.
“Nine hells,” you mutter, ripping off your outer robe and approximating the stance of a matador with an angry bull as you begin to back away.
You don’t have experience with these kinds of machines but you understand programmed intelligence–the limitations are cartoonishly absurd no matter how many years of advancement have tried to make them as reactive as a human mind.
[ 3 . . . 2 . . . Engaging protocol.]
You wait until the drone lunges at you, wait longer to watch it break to slam its stun-paneled flank sparking from conduced energy, before throwing the swatch of weighted fabric towards it.
You have seconds of its head and body being covered to turn and bolt, path of retreat already erratic before you glimpse a red-shaded observation camera in front of you, the blink of another–
It’s visible for an instant ahead of colliding with cold metal and 50,000 volts pulsing through you in a heartbeat.
You can’t even scream.
Your body seizes and rolls across the ground–stunned. Heavy thuds hit the earth around you as the drones close in, mechanisms grinding and whirring. One of those wicked three-pronged paws bears down on your chest before you can curl away, pinning you to the earth.
[Cease resisting, citizen.] the drone’s pre-programmed voice is oddly calm. [Further resistance will be met with deadly force, comply until additional units can be engaged.]
“Fuck . . . you . . .” you wheeze with the remaining air from your lungs, screaming once you’re able to pull in air. “Get OFF OF ME!”
Something–someone–rumbles overhead, guttural and loud.
The drones attention on you breaks, met with a flash of chrome as the unoccupied Savannah Panther darts up the side of the nearest tree. It’s absurd watching that stupid thing claw the wood uselessly, unable to fight the pull of gravity on its dense chassis.
The shadow above takes advantage of its struggle, attacking as the drone is sliding down, before its hind paws can hit earth again.
The impact shakes the ground, metal screeching as black furred arms tear the drone’s jaw from its skull with barely any give, a fluid movement stabbing the jagged metal deep into its visor. Sparks fly from the downed Panther, unable to see but further assaulted by that shard pulled out and dug into its neck.
Your own Panther makes the choice between continuing to hold you down and dealing with the more obvious threat–suddenly you’re free. You twist in the soil against the awful pain in your chest, struggling to get up and finding the exposed back of the predator creeping towards your savior.
Without thinking you pounce, climbing on the back of that wretched thing.
You have to hold on for dear life as the drone drops and rolls you both, limbs and head rotating to try and dislodge you. You grasp the cannon-like protuberance from its back, claws digging into the exposed pneumatics at its base to disable its hindquarters before several hundred kilos of angry robot can buck you off.
“Why don’t you just self-destruct–” you hiss, tearing your hands raw hooking into the gaps of its plating for its more-fragile innards. A rotor dies, the cat stumbling as you feel the launcher under your chest whir into life.
[PleaaAAAse comp comp comp–]
The electronic voice jitters into intelligible speech as you rip another cable or hose–some snakelike thing spewing gas in your hand, the entire forest floor blinking red from the malfunctioning unit as the launcher fires.
You brace yourself against an explosion–realizing that the cannon lacks compression and ignition when there’s a pop and the grenade rolls to the ground, barely out of range. The sight of that palm-sized canister makes your entire body go cold, fear breaking your fight into flashes of horror.
Faded green writing on a metal can, leaves in a circle. Biotechnica.
“It’s a bomb, eomma?” you ask.
“Spring,” your mother corrects. “Bom, not bomb. But yes, a bomb.”
She pulls the seedling blooming from the torn canister, showing you the remaining markings in English.
“Nothing is burning. Where did everyone go?”
You’d looked around you at the new growth, strange for it being in the middle of what had once been a bustling refugee market. No people remain–wrecked stalls enveloped in fresh herbs and blooms out of season, bamboo and fruit trees bursting through the cracked pavement of the train station.
“A long time ago someone predicted the planet would go silent, if we kept destroying and polluting it.” Your mother says. “Men made this to try and stop it.”
You accidentally kick something at your feet–a dense twisting of vines and mushrooms that appears to be vaguely human-shaped, like someone curled onto their side. Spores rise up into the cold winter light, like specks of gold.
“When you see this, don’t touch it, don’t even move towards it, ____, just . . .”
“RUN!” you scream your order, looking up to see that dark-furred hybrid bash its opponent drone a final time into the shuddering, splintered remains of a tree trunk.
You can make it, you can get out of here, both of you–
Crunch.
The sound is more horrible than the pain with the adrenaline rushing through you, metal jaws closed on the back of your thigh gripping you in place and pulling you facedown into the dirt.
You fight against the stuttering hold, feeling cloth and muscle shred between twin fangs, crawling towards the protector who’d taken your instruction literally, but towards you, not away–kicking something just past your head–
The explosion compresses the air inward before blowing it out, the force of its blast throwing you free and against the nearest tree.
You know it’s not an incendiary grenade. There’s no red flash or the heat of fire–no sound except the ringing in your ears from the sonic boom.
Your vision streaks with green-yellow, a swirl of dust washing over you and that familiar smell . . . something like the rain after a drought. It's burning so deep with each lungful you can only cough as the scent fills your lungs and nostrils, trying to get it out.
Through misty eyes you see the thing beside you, booting back to life, cat-like jaw working beneath its blinded visual sensor. The battered Panther drone picks itself up from newly-formed moss and plant-life, red lights blinking on its chassis casting the newly grown meadow in shades of horror. You claw weakly at the grass, cringing away from the metal claws.
And then, a roar–
–not from the drone, but him.
He’s so real and loud it breaks past the damaged muffle of the explosion to resonate within you, that black belly and the ghost of its weight over you so familiar it hurts more than the oozing, aching awfulness in your leg or the internal damage from your pathetic fight.
You’re back in that abandoned building, terrified and dying as Taeil and Yuta try to keep you amongst the living, your unlikely savior a thing with no resemblance of the man buried within.
It’s not an easy fight for him, at least, not with the Panther drone recognizing the threat of 1500 PSI of bite force in the jaw closing around its armored neck. The cats rise in a two-legged, clawing grapple, the earth drumming beneath you with each stomp of claws beside your face, metal and organic, dirt and contagion blinding you as you shrink away.
Not a thing, no. Your mate.
“Youngho,” you whisper, realizing too late it's the wrong time–the jaguar pausing for a moment in its battle to twist around towards you, yowling when metal claws rake across his thick black hide.
“Left side,” you gasp. “Wires, left side.”
The jaguar hears you, at least in the backwards turn of those gold-dusted ears. He uses the unbalanced weight of the construct against it, climbing atop it the way you had, but much more elegantly, rolled with less visible damage.
Sparks fly as he tests each weakness with yellow-white teeth embedding in the metal and synth plating, ripping chunks free until the repeating electronic scream of that thing dies, the grenade launcher in its back unable to fire with the critical point of information cut clean.
It drops to the shifting ground, just so much scrap. Leaves twine around it, growing slowly at least, shoots erupting through a metal carcass.
The flesh-and-blood cat roars over its frame, triumphant, clawing and kicking roots over its destroyed corpse. He’s unaware of the danger, only visible to you as the self-destruct cycle begins, numbers streaking across the lit visor screen where its eyes should be.
“Run,” you say, having already given up, cheek pressed into the familiar scent of home.
Jaws close on your back, snagged in the fabric, picking you up as he drags you away like just another kill. You make it as far as the brush, leaves ripping at your face, before the world explodes again.
This time in fire.
Everything about this entire ceremony-turned-circus has been sucking him down into the last point of control but this is the final straw on the camel’s back. Mark is incensed, claws out without any conscious control to hide them.
He’s starting to understand what Johnny had said about it hurting every time, that after a while the pain of them piercing the skin barely registers. The constant burn in his ears and his spine is more worrisome.
“We need to speak to the Crown Prince,” he says, shoving Haechan back when he slithers up beside him. The younger Canid is on a warpath, having already chucked the last Kim attache’s tablet into his face so hard it knocked him unconscious.
“Against the rules.” The servant seems to be enjoying the experience of saying no to their ragtag Nyctos contingent–all four of them with Renjun limping beside him, supported by Taeil. Yangyang had already been transported to one of the medical centers, unable to be roused from the stun that had crashed his system while Yuta went to security to investigate the feeds.
The man’s eyes keep flicking up between a personal roster of wagers and the modified stage behind them with its ghostly phantoms of trees and lights in the 360 degree model of the next arena.
The fight should have already started a long time ago, but Key has stopped announcing anything besides advertisements, agitated murmurs in the crowd revealing that something is deeply wrong beyond the obvious absence.
This ends now, Mark thinks. If they want their bets and bloodsport it can wait.
“Tell him the Princess Consort has been kidnapped,” he finds himself saying, earning the immediate attention of the men–no, the buzzards–flocking around his cousin and pack leader. They look down on them from the vantage of their booth, Choi Siwon laughing.
“Impossible,” Elder Bang says, leaning over the edge as he pokes slowly at his agent. “This building is secure.”
“We were attacked by an unknown assailant, a solo,” Renjun reports, tail whipping behind him. “Check the security footage in the west side service corridors.”
“Did you see her taken?” That gray-haired old doctor makes his way down, AR glasses scrolling with information. Mark’s nose wrinkles at the lavender-like scent of the tobacco on him, something oily and metallic underneath.
“No,” Renjun says. “They knocked me out before I could go after her–”
“Contusions, skull fracture–” he assesses the fox, signaling to Duke Kim to call for additional medical support and security.
“We’ll send a team to the site and investigate,” he says to the Duke. “Quietly. We don’t want anyone panicking.”
“We can’t track her without an agent or a biochip,” Mark says. “We’ll need to check all exits–”
“First and foremost, keep quiet, we don’t need to raise an alarm,” Duke Kim says. “Is the Tenth Prince secure?”
Mark gestures towards the illuminated royal box, frustrated already with the lack of response. “Does it look like he’s missing?”
“Check yourself, Lee.” His uncle-by-law threatens, fixating on Renjun with a measured look of disgust. “You’ll watch your tongue or we'll let this fall on your heads.”
Mark immediately feels the surge of anger that’s been so quick to strike aflame these past few days–the recognition that another is attempting to dominate his Alpha.
“This is on your security, not mine,” he warns, eyes flashing up past the crowded entrance to the booth. “I will speak with our pack lead–”
“He’s occupied,” Elder Park joins them on the stairwell, looking entirely unsurprised by the news. “You’ll report to me.”
Mark takes one look at his smug, modded face and makes the decision to breach the fifteen-foot gap between the outer arena floor and the heavily-decorated exterior of the Syndicate booth, fuck formality.
He’s been itching to use his new claws–wishes he had a tail to make scaling the wall less awkward.
The Syndicate’s security response is immediate in the barrels of several guns aimed at him by the time he peers over the ledge, teeth gritted against the ache deep in his shoulder as his boots skid on carved wood.
“What in nine hells,” Taeyong stands along with a number of Syndicate guests, disrupting an entire table of drinks, credit chips scattering.
Mark is grateful when he reaches out to take his arm, sheathing the claws digging into Taeyong’s red military jacket as he pulls him over. “What are you doing?”
“____ is missing,” Mark hisses, heart pounding in his chest, turning between the multiple barrels pointed at them both, moving to guard his cousin despite knowing they’re treating him as the threat. “They almost killed Liu, too.”
“Stand down.” The Crown Prince is–mostly–himself, though he’s slurring heavily and reeking of liquor. He looks down at Duke Kim, brows lowered, until the elder gestures dismissively for security to lower their weapons.
“We’ve already deployed a team to search for her–”
“And I’ve got our NSMP representative on it. The whole building should be put on lockdown–” Mark begins.
“Are you sure that’s wise?” Choi asks, moving to Taeyong’s side. “We don’t need Ten–the Imperial contingent finding out.”
“Relax,” Elder Bang adds. “That one is still safe in his box with his guards.”
“Right,” Park agrees. “She’s probably still in the building. Best to continue with the event and track her down before that freak can find out she’s given him the slip. We’d never hear the end of it.”
Duke Kim sidles over to their meeting, tablet in hand. “Entrance scans are negative. She’s still in the building. Reinholdt will find her.”
“See?” Taeyong pats Mark on the shoulder, handing him a drink that hasn’t been overturned. “Our Princess will be fine. We were just celebrating the good news, you should join us.”
There’s a familiar drumbeat on his shoulder as his cousin and pack leader embraces him one-armed, as the Syndicate heads and their entourage of cronies and Lottery escorts raise their glasses in a toast Mark refuses to participate in.
Mark doesn’t even realize he’s being signaled, distracted by the sheer number of recognizable enemies in this booth–-cold eyes fixated on him. Faces his mother had made him memorize, when they’d first been taken hostage.
“Such a smart boy,” she’d said, inspecting his homework, the artificial breeze of the Dome ruffling the pages in her manicured hands. “You still have so much trouble with your English spelling. Your father did, too.”
It had struck him that it was a lie, even then at twelve years old, with the books he’d grown up with in multiple languages in his father’s study–the ones his mother never seemed to want to read for herself or him besides Scripture. None of them, here, now in the Palace.
“You don’t have to learn any of that nonsense, precious child. Just learn the codes. Learn how to speak the language of the enemy,” she’d said.
O-K-A-S, is what Taeyong is saying in code. Okay, wait. Over and over again.
"Our clan finally has a 4th gen representative," Taeyong says aloud, proudly. "Reinholdt will do a determination of the hereditary profile once we've wrapped."
Mark pulls away from that repeated tap on his shoulder, letting his real anger out.
“Is that all you care about? Would it kill you to show some concern for her?”
He ignores the familiar bark of Haechan arguing with a guard below to maintain eye contact, watching Taeyong’s ruddy eyes blink at him, a lazy smile sliding across his mouth.
“C’mon Mark. Don’t be like that,” the Vulpine says, leaning in to whisper loudly in his ear. “Even if you didn't get a chance the kit's still your family–”
Mark grabs him by his jacket front, surprised by how easy it is to handle his cousin, realizing too late how drunk he is. Doyoung’s absence is worse than he’d ever imagined.
“She was raped,” he spits out.
Taeyong laughs in his face, quickly joined by the rest of the booth. Choi moves to intervene, waved off by the Crown Prince.
“That’s just omegas, right?” Taeyong drawls. “Always asking for it.”
More laughter. He knows his cousin isn’t like this–doesn’t believe any of the lies about his own designation–but it still makes him sick to acknowledge the words coming out of his mouth. For the first time in his entire life, the brother he’s chosen, the one he’d risked his life and limb for, is unrecognizably ugly.
“Did you take advantage of her, too?” Mark asks, tone deadly.
“She begged me for it.” Taeyong says with a shrug, earning more of a response from the corpos and their escorts. Mark lets him go, disgusted.
Taeyong turns to their audience, lifting his glass. “You’ll forgive my cousin, he’s never had the pleasure–”
“Fuck you,” Mark says, waiting only as long as it takes for Taeyong to turn back to wink at him before punching him across the jaw.
Fresh shoots spring from the ground, stringy tendrils catching at your skin and blossoming into flowers crushed under your weight as you’re dragged away.
Buried deep–a part of you kicks and screams and fights to return to it, to be enveloped within the decomposition of the environment and recreated as something new. Only your fox would remain, flesh melted down to the bones, the human side of you disappearing into the new forest.
But, no. You have to fight back. Those despicable bastards had brought the Wild to Neo Seoul.
Not just the aesthetic sensibility of it but the bioterrorist weapons used in the war, the bombs that melted human flesh into raw organic material, feeding new life. You’d been exposed before–thankfully never close enough to alter you fully.
It wouldn’t kill you–no, but contamination would pull you back to the animal you are. You might not be able to shift, not with your therapy, but you'd be in jimseung.
Even now your fox twists and lashes out with her claws, rending flesh, feeling it in your chest—your neck–as you’re dropped to the earth.
The rage makes you incandescent, fur rippling ruddy and black across your arms as you sneeze and paw at your face, half-expecting to find the fox’s snout where your nose remains as human as ever.
You’re far enough away from the strike zone, you hope. You might be able to fight the influence of the contaminant but an Alpha without anti-shift doesn’t stand a chance.
Indeed, Johnny has reverted past the point of communication, the jaguar’s movements purely animal. You try to drag yourself away as he circles you, chin pulled in with a display of dominance. His mouth is open wide, giant teeth exposed as he tastes your scent.
You bare your own canines and growl a warning. Back off.
The jaguar vocalizes in answer, a chuff almost like a laugh. Then he’s rolling you with his massive head and paws as he greets you with unadulterated excitement. When you mewl out in pain he freezes, tongue mid-swipe over your face, dropping down to sniff at your chest and the bloody wound on your thigh.
You yelp when he rips at the torn skirt with his teeth, having a moment of panic at the thought of him deciding you taste good enough to eat and pushing back on the cat’s heavy brow. His orange eyes flick up at you, gently cleaning away the drying blood and dirt as he blinks slowly at you.
At least he doesn’t seem to think you’re food. You’re being treated like a kit, pushed down by a paw when you try to get back up, all so he can continue grooming you. You roll on your back in submission, breath sucking in at the pain in your chest.
“You still in there?” you ask, weakly.
If the Syndicate is watching it would be dangerous to order him again but you know if you don’t he’s going to lick the top layers of your dermis off trying to treat the bone-deep wound.
He rumbles like an engine in answer.
“Come out,” you whisper your order.
You feel him change back, heat and moisture roiling over you from the release of mass and energy. He lifts up from your legs in a daze, eyes still bright with his cat.
“You’re safe,” he says, lisping a bit with the lingering changes to his teeth.
“Neither of us are safe here, you fool,” you scold him, coughing at the dryness in your throat. “You most of all. You were supposed to run away, not into it.”
You roll to your side to spit out pollen-yellow saliva, trying to ignore the bloom of fungal spores and ground cover from the thick wad.
“Don’t even get a ‘thanks’,” Johnny retches a little, coughing up his own lungful of goo. “What in the hell is this stuff–?”
“Spring gas. Jimseung poison,” you say. Of course he’d never encountered these bombs, as far as you knew he’d never made it that far North. “They must have wanted you to fight feral.”
“How are we–”
“We were lucky,” you say, tiredly, testing your leg and crumpling back to the ground. Somehow he’s managed to catch you by the ankle, the both of you wheezing as you succumb to the effects, unable to fight against him as he pulls himself over you.
“It’s old ammo–probably degraded,” you explain to distract yourself from the press of his body. “High enough heat can burn it off–”
“You’re here.” The way he whispers the words tugs on your heart, all dreamy and wistful.
You don’t acknowledge it. “Yes, I’m here. I can keep you out of jimseung, I think. We’d have to stay together–”
“You’re here,” he repeats, forehead pressing yours as he rubs his nose against yours. “My precious little kit.”
You push on his shoulder where the echo of his rosettes are burnt black into his golden skin, muddying his re-emerging tattoos.
“Don’t you get it, you idiot? You’re in danger, they want to kill you–”
“So I should be thanking you,” he says, drowsily, looking down at you with unfiltered affection. “For saving me.”
Johnny is mostly human–eyes dilated so wide only a thin ring of honey-colored iris remains. His ears and hands have remained changed, tail swatting at the air beyond the clean lines of his naked body, fur still visible where his hair grows naturally.
You know he’s struggling against his cat, a feeling like fire racing over his skin as he finds the only therapy available. You’re lifted up bodily with a cry, going limp as his face buries in your neck and rapid breaths douse your shoulder. Claws prick and unprick through your clothing where he’s wrapped completely around you, nuzzling against your racing pulse.
“God, I missed you,” he says. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”
He folds down with you still at his mercy, heartbeat slowing marginally as your pheromones bring him to a calmer state.
“Stop making that godawful noise,” you protest, wriggling in his grasp.
“You don’t like it?” That only spurs him on more, licking at your neck as you cry out, fists uselessly pressed to his bare chest. Johnny rumbles in contentment as he rubs his cheek over and over again against you protectively. As much as you try to wrest free he holds on to you tighter, unable to get enough. He's warm and tender–all things unwelcome in this place.
“Get off of me, you pig!” you bark. You can’t order him here, can’t reveal anything that might compromise you both, but you can still try to extricate yourself from what feels like a more dangerous situation than the one you’ve just fled. This isn’t the time or place for an intimate moment.
Johnny lets you go. You only make it a few inches, pushed down face-first into the soft leaf litter and further assailed by searching hands over your leg. His touch sparks a new flame through the ache, your fox desperate for him to continue comforting you physically.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“Feel like I was hit by a truck,” you groan, inhaling sharp when his tongue traces your oozing wounds again. “Stop, please.”
“You do taste different,” he murmurs, idiot’s grin in his voice. “Sweeter, like candy.”
“If you don’t stop this nonsense I’ll make it so you can’t speak, again,” you say over your shoulder. You can’t let this continue, not with your body’s reaction to this much-longed-for care.
The unspoken threat carries through–he eases off of you, still straddling you. He leans down to nudge the side of your face with his nose. The intimacy has you more dizzy than the contamination, body surging up unwillingly as your tail swats between you.
“Even with everything I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, lips trailing over the side of your face. Your heart is racing, the world blurring beyond as you avoid kissing him back, eyes clenched shut against his attention.
“My beautiful little kit,” he murmurs. “When we get out of here I'll take care of you so good. Make you a nest just right for you to–”
“How much blood did you lose?” you ask, too aware of the hot drip of it from his side.
“‘M fine,” he says, licking at your ear. “Felt like dying not knowing you were alright.”
You are most certainly not alright. You struggle to turn over beneath him, meeting him with your mouth against his jawline.
“Johnny,” you say. “We’re being watched.”
“They know who you belong to.” He’s high as a kite, you realize–probably more on pheromones than the gas. It’s so incredibly stupid considering the circumstances but then so is everything about this trial. He seems to realize it as well as something passes over him, a moment of consciousness.
“Was this part of your plan?”
“No! What plan?!” you put a hand to his mouth as he smirks down at you.
“Someone dumped me here to complicate this knowing you'd be dosed,” you whisper as quietly as you can, shoving at the blanket of his wide shoulders. “But it's good. If I wasn’t . . .”
You both know he wouldn’t be here at all–just the jaguar. You think the smallest push would send him reeling back into his true form, without even a sliver of the humanity he’d spent years learning how to keep surfaced while in full shift.
“That doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head. “We'll get you to safety, we can’t risk any harm to–”
“We can’t risk them seeing you feral, or fully shifted,” you deflect. “We just need to find Jae–”
Johnny hisses, not as comical as it should be with the rage you can see twisting his expression. You instinctively snarl back, scratching at his shoulder. It snaps him out of it, retreating in an instant, looking as hurt as if you’d yanked his tail.
“Control yourself,” you say, scuttling back, testing your injured leg. “He’s not your enemy. Who knows how many more of those things are out there. We need to work together.”
“He’s not taking you. Over my dead body,” Johnny says. It’s really a wasted effort to try to speak to him with the Alpha in charge, his body movements whiplike as he listens for a threat, nose twitching against the thick smoke from the embers of the explosion drifting in your direction.
“You’re mine, I told him you were mine–”
You try a different tactic, placing your palm in his wild hair to calm him. It works like a charm, his shoulders rounding as he leans into the touch and butts his head against your chest.
“Of course I’m yours,” you soothe.
He looks up at you warily, tail stilling. At least he’s smart enough to know your words don't match your intent.
You push your luck a little more, bringing his head against your breast and massaging his scalp behind his velvety ears. The Alpha quivers with excitement, making a sound deep in his chest as he rubs his human face into your belly instead.
Though you cringe at the gesture there’s a trace inside of pure peace, especially when he reaches around you to hold you again like his life depends on it. That motor-like attempt at purr is back, loud and vibrating you in a way that makes your resolve melt.
Whatever compulsion he’s feeling, the only thing motivating him is ensuring his mate is safe. It makes him brainless but it’s also endearing–and your fox is no wiser. She’s never been more satisfied with herself–you’d be rolling in the dirt in pleasure if you weren’t fighting to stay alert.
“If you want to protect us you’ll do what I say, won’t you, Youngho?” you ask, feeling him nod as a whine-like noise comes out instead of words.
“I can only trust you if you stay in control. You need to stay in control.”
Only enough to be believable, you think. You can’t forget your audience, after all, as sweet as this might appear to an outside observer, his tendency to submit to you can only be considered a weakness. No, there has to be a limit.
“We’re going to find Yuno,” you begin, carefully enunciating the other’s birth name while pulling away. “He can help us get out of here–”
He manages at least two seconds before he stiffens and breaks, rising up over you. Your fox is submitting immediately, unabashedly aroused by this display of dominance.
“Not. Him.” he says between clenched teeth, fangs pushing into his swollen lips. “You can't trust him in jimseung. He doesn’t care about you the same way I–”
“Snap out of it,” you say, struggling away from him. “None of us are making it out of here if we don't work together.”
“You want him more than me?” He looks just as baleful as before, panting. “You want to make me kill him?”
“I want you to protect us,” you yell. “He’s your pack–”
“No one can take you,” he repeats, nostrils flaring as he crouches over you. “You’re mine.”
You can hear something stalking towards you from the darkness–unnoticed by Johnny in his cresting anger.
“Fine. Prove yourself and kill those things. Kill all of them,” you order, reaching mentally inward and snapping the thin thread of control you can feel keeping you from becoming your animal. His eyes blaze yellow, startled as the change begins.
It's just in time for the Panther drone to attack.
Johnny whips around, instantly more beast than himself, claws raking metal as the scent of fresh blood overtakes the perfumed air. You take the chance to run, hunted down by another of the drones bursting from the brush.
Climb, you think, stumbling towards the nearest tree. It’s only pure instinct and adrenaline that gets you up the first branch, hearing the snap of a metal jaw inches from your ankle. You cling to the limb above you with all your hybrid’s strength, unable to pull yourself higher–
Your perch dips down. For a moment you’re afraid that you’re being pulled by the awful thing snapping at your heels before you recognize the tension is in your clothing, snatched up by the back of your underdress.
It’s just in time as something explodes beneath you, heat searing your skin and nearly shaking you both out of the tree you’re being bodily swung up into.
Out of the frying pan, into the fire, you lament–seized around the middle and dragged upward by clawed hands.
This time, at least, the Alpha who has captured you is still human.
Boom.
The projection in the middle of the arena is scattershot with fireworks, sparks flying and shrieking beneath the opaque grid as the returning audience rushes in to see what’s going on. Mark’s blood goes cold seeing the shadows of trees lit bright by another grenade burst, some deep fear response unlocked by the sound of bombs.
Across the box, Taeyong ducks instinctively, ears pulled back as he fights out of the circle of the other Alphas keeping him separated, his drawn face scanning the room for threats.
“They haven’t announced the match start yet, I haven’t finished my calls–” Bang stands up, only one of many whose attention is turned to the screens above the open interior of the stadium as they flash to black from displaying the usual wash of corporate advertisements.
A series of bright green digits and flashes preface the hacked signal, cohesing into one principal symbol: a circle with an unbroken horizontal line beneath it.
He knows it well–too well. The unbroken omega.
[Respected members of the Syndicate,] a modulated voice invades the speakers, stilling the room. [Your attempts to set the terms of this tribunal have revealed your greed, stupidity, and most of all–your hand.]
Footage plays of a fight he never expected to see. You and what looks to be Johnny struggling against a pair of Savannah Panthers, no weapons or resources except your claws and teeth. He’s most surprised by the sight of you rushing head-first into the fray, as if you could do anything against those nightmare creations.
Somehow, you both gain the upper hand–at least until the grenades are fired. The fight ends with a flash of green, dead and broken Zhirafa drones swallowed up by a nightmare explosion of plant-life bursting forth from the radius of the strike point.
“What the fuck is that?” Choi barks. “We didn’t clear using–”
“Kill the feed,” Duke Kim hisses, order ignored as the attache beside him struggles with his agent.
“We don’t have a way–production says they lost communication with the control crew entirely–”
[Let’s make a wager without the house having advantage. Your greatest prize is contained within the field before you, trapped with your entire illegal stockpile of biological weaponry and the Alphas you’ve consigned to die by it.]
Bang’s tablet slips from his fingers, clattering against bottles of imported liquor. Shrieks and shouts follow, as those witnessing the show realize this isn’t just entertainment.
[You have one, simple step to fulfill, to regain your investment. Proceed with the trials and execution of the son and heir of Lee Taeri, one Lee Taeyong, for his father's crimes against our kind and for the millions of innocent souls whose blood stains your Council's hands.]
[Then, and only then, will we release your so-called prize.]
Mark looks up at Taeyong, seeing genuine shock on his elder’s bruised face. The Vulpine turns to him, instinctively, shaking his head with his lips parted.
He didn’t know. It makes Mark even more angry at being left in the dark on whatever Taeyong had planned, all of it blown open with their blindness to this unanticipated weak point.
[Open the field and die with them. Alter the rules of the game and you will be subjected to the same carnage inflicted upon you as handed down in your judgment. May your punishment match the crime.]
The feed goes dark, projection still flashing with burning trees and the reports of gunfire before the hologram disappears. The arena floor is blank but for a simple reminder of the message: a taegeuk rotating on the field, under the watchful eyes of that monstrous xiezhi statue over the royal box.
A royal box, he sees, is now completely vacated.
In the strangled silence that follows the end of the message, chaos erupts. Half of the audience is fleeing, turned back at the door by security guards waiting for an order. Mark forgets himself to move towards his cousin, crowded back by the hulking guards that had been assigned to keep him seated as the clan Elders dealt with the ongoing crisis.
“The entire control suite is offline,” Kim stutters. “No in or out, we’re working on retaking the signal but–”
“Sokolov wants the demonstration canceled or they pull sponsorship,” Park says. “We need to make sure nothing happens to the . . .”
He drifts off as he realizes what’s happening beside him, Taeyong moving across the crowded space to close on Mark with the same aggression they’d been separated from earlier.
“Did you know they’d take her?” he accuses, tail bristling behind him.
“What, no?!” Mark yells.
“It was your recruits who last had her. And this–”
One small gesture at the screen burnt with a symbol of a movement his father hadn’t started but had been responsible for in the end–the very same reason Fourth Prince had faced execution when the Exodus forces were brought to heel.
North and south, all over again, he realizes, far too late. This time he’s tight in the clutches of the enemy, no ally in sight with Haechan and Taeil taking care of the wounded and Yuta investigating the crime.
“This is a set-up,” he argues. “We have to find them first, make sure they can get out without being kill–”
“We finish this,” Taeyong says, rounding on the other members of the Syndicate Council. “Tell Key we can expedite the final match.”
He doesn’t understand this game Taeyong is playing, and doesn't even think he’s in control of it with how shaken the Vulpine looks before he turns his back on him.
“Where did you take our enforcers?” Mark’s words are for Duke Kim, who’s leaving the box as if he doesn’t want to see the outcome, scurrying away from his responsibilities as always. “We need to get down there before they try to get out–”
“No. You come with us,” Choi says, raising a flashy chrome pistol at Mark’s face. Park and the others don’t move to stop him, Taeyong regarding him over his shoulder with a dismissive look.
“We proceed with the trials, cousin,” Taeyong says, expression grim, and resigned. “We’ll let the heavens decide which of us deserves to walk out of here alive.”
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#agtbtb#nct 127 fic#nct fic#nct 127 fanfic#nct fanfic#nct x reader#nct imagines#nct 127 cyberpunk au#nct 127 x reader#nct 127 omegaverse
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a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 0: prologue
pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127
tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content
summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate's clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself
but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out
ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting
now, you must make them choose you
[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3]
It was always your mother's plan to escape the Dome when flood season began.
You think, maybe, the heavens had taken her prayers far too literally.
The rain had begun the moment you'd stepped foot on your commandeered fishing boat–forced to steer into the mist towards the neon skies so far off, away from the slums built up against the Dome’s seawall.
She’d guided your control on the craft rather than steer, barking orders at you over the buffet of waves. Over and over again she's told you the plan–the destination. The standard issue wrist agent with your seasonal background blinks with the coordinates she'd encrypted into it.
It hadn't been the first indication that she knew she might have to abandon you.
You wanted to be home. In two days you were supposed to attend your confirmation–the Imperial robes laid out in ceremony in your quarters, adjustments made up until the end.
They'd taken special care to incorporate your grandmother's engagement gown into the design, hand-embroidering yards of silk and transparent tulle to mimic the tail you had yet to fully grow. Your ears were just beginning to migrate, covered in hair in the awkward transition from the side of your skull to where a fox's should be.
This was supposed to be your moment. You were to be a Queen, finally allowed the freedom and company you’d been promised for so long.
Instead of a debut you're faced with a century’s storm, your hands torn to bleeding from hanging onto the rust-and-barnacle coated bars of an ancient fire escape as gale force winds try to tear you off.
A new gust of wind blasts you weightless as an NSMR autodyne explodes into view. Its searchlight darts from the abandoned boat smashed by the waves below to skitter across the decimated side of a neighboring building, swinging inevitably towards your mother’s feet as they disappear above.
"Hurry!" You hear her shout.
"Wait!" you scream out but it may as well be a whisper. Adrenaline propels you up–up–up–light cutting through the horizontal sheet of rain towards you, just as you're gripped and pulled into the nearest broken window.
"Down," your mother yells, pushing you to the floor. You lay prone against broken glass and debris, clinging to her arm as the bluish eye of the aircraft appears outside.
Mannequins are illuminated a ghostly white, green lasers criss-crossing their eyeless faces. When the searchlight passes, you both flatten against the wall, eyes shut against the dust from the tail rotor.
It feels like an eternity before the thunder of the aerodyne's blades recede, the ancient department store dark once more.
"We can't stop moving," your mother says, checking the sky before dragging your exhausted body up to your feet. "They'll be back soon."
"Where can we go?" you shout, terror making you combative. "We're trapped here. We should just turn ourselves–"
Her hand strikes your cheek hard, ringing your head. "If you go back, you die," she repeats for the thousandth time. "No matter what happens, you run."
And then she's rushing off again, leaving you nodding at her back as she heads deeper into the abandoned floor, a blur even after you've wiped the tears into your soaked windbreaker.
Deeper inside the building the screaming winds are replaced by the echo of water streaming down from points above, into an open space where escalators disappear into the darkness below. The grid is offline, but solar powered striplights outline the floors, shadowed by nature overtaking them. The central atrium is a veritable jungle, waterfalls from the leaking roof splashing on dinner-plate size leaves and hanging vines.
It's strange to consider that this place was once inhabited and purposeful; now it's a neglected cemetery stripped of everything valuable. The signs have been extinguished for half a century. Eerily dark storefronts like caverns encircle a central tunnel leading to the flooded waterline below.
"Do you hear that?" Your mother tilts her head, and your fox ears follow suit, perking forward. You grip the railing to peer into the chasm, seeing nothing but a deep void surrounded by concentric rings of blue fading into purple.
"It sounds like a river," you say.
"It's an old subway station.” She ignores your querying look, bringing up a map on her agent. “We're elevated enough to access a line that's not submerged. It's dangerous, but it's safer than being out there. We just need to find an emergency exit–"
"Wait," you interrupt, tilting your chin up as you look out from under your hood. A pulsing sound, like a heartbeat, grows louder, approaching. For a moment, you fail to understand the change in texture on the ceiling, a lightening of the green-black like the sun has emerged.
Then the thick, translucent layer fractures like ice, caving in.
The flooded rooftop's water appears to freeze in midair, refracting into a million rainbows from the searchlight of the autodyne hovering above it.
The illusion shatters as the break widens, a sinkhole in the sky.
There's no escape this close to the deluge of water and debris collapsing from two floors above. You're thrust against the guardrail as it buckles, plummeting into the darkness below with a scream that's engulfed by the roaring water long before you reach the bottom.
Breaking the surface is surreal. Your eyes remain open as you're plunged deep into the black depths feet-first, twisting your body to land with as little surface area as possible, immediately fighting to find up once the shock recedes.
A horrible cascade of broken sections of rooftop sink around you, trails leading from the silver plane above. You follow, lungs burning, almost losing your entire breath at the whump of impact as something huge and heavy hits, pushing you down.
Every muscle burns as you swim, swim, swim to the edge of the concrete block–climbing up and over until it's beneath you. The vacuum left in its wake sucks you down, but you keep kicking until you're free, finding the remains of an escalator to cling to and pull yourself up, using the thick roots entwined around its broken handrail.
You’re out of the worst here–just the patter of water broken by plantlife filling your mouth and nose as you cry out for your mother.
She's nowhere to be seen, or heard.
Something else answers your call.
A white light appears overhead, shadows scattering. The gusts from the hovering autodyne blow down, blinding you as the water is pulled into heavy chop.
"This is a NSMR rescue, stay where you are–" A robotic voice orders, distorted by the chamber.
You duck down underwater. This time you can see the horrible debris field beneath you, lit stark by the slanting rays of light.
The mossy bottom is closer than you imagined, brought near by a fresh layer of translucent plasticine and concrete. Air bubbles roil up, and you scan any of them for her–
–there, amidst the moon-like rubble, a white hand emerges along with a fall of dark hair.
You don't think, you act–taking a deep breath and diving back down. You’re tugged by an underwater current sucking you into it until you can grab onto a length of rebar from the section of roof keeping your mother trapped in the deep.
What you thought was just her hair is also a ruddy cloud seeping from a laceration across her forehead. Her mouth is ajar, spewing bubbles.
You have hope still, seeing that blood flow and that air.
All you need to do is get her out and force the water out of her lungs. She’s all you have left in this world, and though you’d resented her for ripping you from the comfort of your life you can’t imagine returning to it without her.
And so you work to free her, the seconds ticking down in your mind. There’s no give when you pull her arm. You crawl beside her, using your back and burning legs to push with all your might against the slab pinning her body.
You feel the slightest movement behind you, adrenaline powering your efforts to widen the gap as you readjust and push again, tugging on her clothing to try and loosen her.
It’s such a struggle that you don’t register the shadow of death falling over you both.
Suddenly there's something–someone–in the water, between you and the light.
You turn to see nothing that makes sense, darkness smothering you as an arm wraps around your neck and arm and pulls you up. You have to stifle the urge to scream, instead fighting back–clawing and twisting like a dying fish as your rescuer struggles to hold onto you.
Your immature frame is no match for an adult, male captor–not as you're pulled free and dragged towards the surface, hand splayed towards the blurring image of your mother's dying body.
There's only animal instinct driving you when you let water gush into your mouth, opening it underwater to bite, hard, into the pale flash of wrist encircling your chest.
Your teeth are sharper than most, your hybrid's jaw even stronger. You can feel the bone crunch as you choke.
You have a moment of blissful relief, suspended, before your oxygen-starved brain tries to breathe in one last time. The delicious taste on your tongue is washed away by brick-heavy, icy water.
And then you drown.
Dying feels strangely calm, in the face of everything else. Your vision goes red-to-black as you're swept deeper, that riptide current of an underground river dragging you away.
One last glimpse of your mother is captured in your mind's eye, as if a hallucination: her arm outstretched towards you, eyes open and unreflecting, beckoning you into the dark.
And beside her, something inhuman–monstrous–reaching to embrace you in her stead.
Blue-violet light seeps between your eyelids, your ears muffled.
You're drowning again–this time in air as you vomit up the fluid in your lungs. Your body is wracked again, and again, by its will to survive.
Gloved hands hold your face to the side, tugging wet strands of hair away and pressing against your pulled-back ears. It takes you a long time to realize that you’re being soothed like you were a child, this time by a stranger.
You can't help but cry, disoriented.
"Eomma, eomma," you repeat when you can speak, voice burnt away from choking.
"She's alive," someone says, handheld light arcing over your blinking eyes. “Good, less paperwork.”
“Shut up,” the person holding you says, voice bitter. “I need you on patrol in case he comes back.”
“He was fine before you shot at him–”
“I’m not worried about him.”
Your chest hurts so much, cold and stabbing with each breath. Your mouth tastes like you've sucked mud from a copper coin. Something other than bile burns your nostrils. It's a new scent–not the mildew and construction smell of the mall but frighteningly natural.
You've only recently come into your designation, you have yet to build your canid scent memory, but this is something utterly alien to you–green and citrus and–
"She'll make it,” the other man says.
The man holding you cradles you, rubbing your back as you splutter up what feels like another lungful. "Can you hear me, ____?"
At the sound of your name you twitch against his hold, kicking until he lets you go.
Run, she’d said. She’d told you to run.
You scramble in a layer of loam and dead leaves until you’re at the edge of the light, at the lip of the moss-coated pit. The water has already receded a few feet below, dark and calm.
"She's gone," the man grabs onto your shoulders to keep you from throwing yourself back in. "I'm sorry. We'll bring her home too, I promise."
You sob wordlessly, body folding into a circle as reality crashes down on you again along with the fierce pain flaring in your right shoulder, radiating into your skull and spine.
"I need to treat her. Arm with boosters and stay alert."
"He couldn't have attacked her. He did life support. It had to be an accident–" The man standing over you has a scratchy voice, deeper and more threatening as he protests the accusation.
"I don't care. If the kid doesn't bleed out she's at risk for bacterial infection. I have to treat her. You keep an eye out for Suh and dose him again on sight or I'll–"
"Or what, Moon? Last time I checked, Lee was in charge."
The man holding you trembles with rage. "Or I report this incident."
"You wouldn't dare."
"You know what the penalty is for going feral. And no anti-shift? At all? Just shut up and follow orders for once."
The other man goes silent, dropping the light to the ground and moving away from you both.
Your rescuer gently repositions you in his lap, exposing your neck and face to his scrutiny. At this angle you can see he has a serious but kind face, military haircut and NSMR name badge visible in the floodlight. Moon.
"Am I dying?" you croak out, raising your hand up to grip his vest as he rummages through a field kit.
"Not even close. But I need you to be a good girl and hold still. It's going to hurt."
"No," you say, eyes welling with tears. "Just let me go. I can't go back."
"Be strong for me, alright?" He holds your hand with his left in a textured glove, pouring something on your cheek. Suddenly you're burning alive from the outside in.
Even with your ruined voice, you're able to shriek.
The sound pierces the building, echoes disappearing into the static of flowing water. The fire in your skin rages with each new wash of antiseptic, the bottle emptied over you.
"Good girl," Moon soothes, his hand still in yours as he dabs away what feels like pure flame. He carefully unloosens your vise-like grip, setting you down to pull more supplies out.
"The worst part is over. We're going to bandage you up now. I may have to do stitches but I'll give you something for the pain first, okay? You're very brave–"
Tick-tick-tick.
You barely register his words, ears flicking towards the source of the sound–something rumbling overhead. Your gaze follows a moment too late as the shadow falls down from the thick foliage, shaking the ground when it hits.
"Fuck, Na–" Moon lets out a muffled yell as something huge descends on you both.
"No!" You croak, watching the medic swept bodily into the brush.
Bright flashes illuminate something terrifyingly large, moving at an otherworldly speed as it disappears into the leaves. More shots are fired, from another angle–somewhere overhead. The underbrush explodes with the return of the monster.
If the attacking creature was angry before now it's frenzied, rushing forward to swipe over you at the other man. You can't help but curl into a ball, afraid of the white flash of teeth and claws passing by overhead. Loam peppers your raised arms as you protect your fragile body.
And then, quiet. The breathing of the creature is inches from your nose–ribs expanding under an ocean of dark fur, as it stalks forward.
You brace for your end, knowing you can't stay quiet if he attacks you next.
"Stop. It's me." The other man shouts, voice changing pitch as he moves back. The gun clatters from his hand against a hard floor. "We're helping her."
The monster doesn't follow, crouched over you and snarling. You can see the flattened ears and broad-skulled profile of a large cat–not some jimseung hybrid form like in the war archive footage but fully animal, eyes slitted in rage.
The red tufts of tranquilizer darts emerge from its heaving side and neck. It doesn't appear to be going down anytime soon, roaring a final warning before turning its attention to its true prey.
You.
Instinct has you frozen, whimpering softly as that giant skull bends down to push your shoulder–testing if you're alive. You stay limp, shivering involuntarily. There's a hot chuff of breath on your exposed neck, and then the horrible sandpaper rasp of a tongue dragged across it, revealing wounds you hadn't even known were there.
There’s no way to stop from crying out at the new sting, the sound weak with the lack of energy left in your body.
Miraculously, the predator pulls away, giant form cringing. Through the slits in your closed eyes you watch it favor its right paw, licking at something shining in the LED’s glow.
"Dose him again." Moon's voice is a croak, the brush swaying a few meters away. You can’t help but be grateful he’s still alive.
“It could kill him.”
"I don't care." Moon says, exhausted. You hear a louder rustle as he drags himself back, the clicks of an ammo check and the cocking of a gun making your anxiety spike.
The cat snarls in his direction, collapsing beside you.
"Look. He's not hurting her," Na says. "He's protecting her."
You have no idea what's happening but the cat has settled beside you, choosing to lick your exposed forearm guarding your head. That warmth seeps into your frozen skin, threading deep into your pain-wracked limbs.
For reasons yet unknown to you, your body relaxes, tension easing by degrees as the animal that is your true self realizes there's no danger. Something else is making you act against any rational instinct, a hazily recognized similarity infusing your senses.
Protection. Home. Safety.
That green scent, bright with each rattling inhalation.
It's coming from him.
Agony and grief fade away, just background noise, as you move carefully to look up. The huge cat stills, mouth open. His amber eyes are mostly pupil with the infusion of drugs, unreactive to the bright glow of the lamp.
That alien gaze looks into you, something recognizable trapped within. You raise your hand, nails black with dirt and blood, quivering with the effort to stay calm.
His inky nose twitches forward, sniffing.
It feels like the answer to a question you hadn’t even asked when he pushes forward to rub against your offered touch, whiskers scratching your open palm.
The cat’s face rolls against your hand, dragging a hot lip and the edge of a thumb-sized fang to your wrist. You trace the dense fur over his dry nose up to the ridge of his forehead. Here the hide is softer, lighter and a different shade of black where rosette spots emerge.
You watch his eyes close in a vaguely human expression of pleasure. He makes a deep sound, that same rumble you’d heard before, minus aggression.
"Careful–" Moon warns.
"I'm fine," you say–knowing by the hollowness in your heart that you aren't, will never be.
At least this is within your control. Like a vignette from one of your leather-bound fairy tale books: the maid and the beast who’d decided it was better to serve her than eat her by some enchantment.
What enchantment? Something your mother had instructed in all those obtuse lessons about their methods of control–an easy thing that seems so hard to grasp with the pain and fear thundering within you.
When everything else fails, put them to sleep.
"You can sleep now, okay? Please sleep,” you urge the cat.
His purr seems to be an affirmation; he collapses in slow-motion, swaying a little as if fighting to the end. His head comes to rest beside yours, steam rising in the light with his breath–each more shallow than the last.
"Did you see that?"
The cat wakes at the voice, lip curling to expose yellow-white teeth again. A slow blink meets you eye to eye as you stroke his browline, soothing him into quiescence with the lightest of touches.
"We have a much bigger problem," Moon says, suddenly behind you. "I'm sorry, princess."
Something sharp pierces your neck, but you’re too tired to fight–too focused on staying quiet so the beast doesn’t stir.
There's a snarl but no movement besides the twitch of a paw, claws extending.
"Please . . ."
"What?" You have a glimpse of Moon's bloodied face. By the stinging in your own jaw you're a casualty of this encounter, too.
"Please . . . don't hurt him," you plead.
"No," Moon says, glancing at the body beside you. "We won't hurt anyone."
The other man appears over his shoulder, blurred by the sedative–eyes reflecting green in the dim.
"If you want to protect him, you'll keep quiet." The stranger says.
"Stop–" Moon says.
"You tell anyone and he dies, do you understand?" You know he's speaking to you, something flaring inside your belly. You can’t let anything happen to him–not your beast.
Your beast.
You nod, tears streaming from your cracked eyelids.
"Good girl," he says.
Movement in the corner of your eye surprises you, distantly aware of a rush of heat in the chill of the dank space. Your head lolls to the side, unable to register what you’re seeing–a drastic change in the hulking form before the floodlight is snuffed out.
His profile is burnt into your vision like an old photo negative, human shoulder dipping with each exhale, and a hand that was once a paw curled next to your own, as if reaching to hold it.
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#agtbtb#nct x reader#nct 127 x reader#nct 127 fic#nct 127 fanfic#nct 127 omegaverse#nct 127 cyberpunk au#nct 127 imagines#nct fic#nct imagines
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a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 13: shock
pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127
tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content
summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate’s clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself
but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out
ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting
now, you must make them choose you
[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [0: prologue] [1: escape, again] [2: lost and found] [3: returned] [4: bound] [5: home] [6: gift] [7: reunion] [8: security] [9: secret] [10: prisoner] [11: gambit] [12: haze]
wc: 5.3k
chapter warnings: torture, dubcon explicit sexual content
recommended listening: chrome arts - onlyoneof
Everything inside you is agony. Your heart aches, your body throbbing relentlessly, cramping with the need to be filled by your Alpha. You hadn’t thought it wouldn't feel right–that you'd feel worse rather than relieved. Your fox keens, not accepting the encounter as anything but a brief distraction, starving for the real thing.
Haechan is inside you still, knot barely deflating, occasionally bubbling back to consciousness only to drop back down into the hole you knew so well with a muttered word or a weak sob.
You'd accidentally overdosed him–an easy mistake with your tolerance and his complete lack of it. He'll live, but it’s doubtful you’ll ever get his trust back, not after what you'd subjected him to. It had to be done, you think. It had to.
Haechan's agent blinks on his wrist, pressed against his face where he's shielded his eyes from the overstimulating light from the screen.
A call, of course–Mark checking in. You have to think fast, a little clearer with the warmth inside you and Haechan's taste in your mouth. You seize his wrist and angle it so it captures your weeping face as you answer the call.
"What the hell–are you alright?"
"I made a mistake," you babble. "Please don't be mad at me, please don't hurt him."
"Calm down," Mark says. It's obvious he's in transit, Yuta saying something you can barely hear.
"Where's Taeil?"
"I had to sedate them. Both of them. They couldn't help it. They both tried to . . . They're fine but I'm scared. You said you wouldn't leave me alone . . . "
"Stay where you are," he shouts, the screen flickering as he runs. You hang up,
"Monster." Haechan says, pushing at you weakly. "Get off of me."
"Sleep," you order. It's effortless to push him into unconsciousness, feeling him finally slip out of you. He looks pathetically undone. It makes your chest ache to see his soft lips parted, the memory of them still a warm phantom against your own.
You’ve been awash in his misery since the bite but it didn't change how you felt about him–like he was someone to be cherished and cared for. If anything it’s worse. After all, he’s yours now. Your first, hopefully not your last.
You push his hair back into place and fix his clothing, restoring some of his decency. It's the least you can do.
This would have all been so much easier if you weren't up against Johnny's order. It had to be the reason they'd resisted and would continue to resist instinct–you had to find a workaround.
You clean up quickly, showering to get rid of the disgusting mess of spend and slick and worse drying on your thighs. If you cry again, no one has to know it’s not because of the pain and fire wracking through you.
You don't feel changed, like they said it would–of course you wouldn't, without a bite mark administered to you. That’s what Taeil must have meant when he said that it wouldn’t be enough: you needed a real mating, not this farce.
All those missives in the Academy’s intimacy training and books about it being a sacred, beautiful union were lies, you knew–methods to get you to accept the Alpha boot on your neck. But maybe if you were more careful you’d get one of them to agree to help you before the fire ate you up inside and burnt away your last shreds of control.
But who?
There are only two options left.
You get dressed quickly, pulling on one of your nicer sets of clothing–something unassuming and modest for your next target.
You make it only as far as the doorway, the doors hissing open to reveal the smiling face of not your first choice.
Jungwoo is dressed casually in dark streetwear, but he's still armed, nightstick prodding you in the chest as he closes in.
"Going somewhere?"
"I thought you were off duty?" You say, raising your hands.
"I was, but you caused such a scene." He shakes his head, tsking. "You really have a knack for getting into trouble."
Your heart sinks, skin flaring hot.
"You saw?"
"This room isn't private, you know. You did a good job getting the cameras. Well, most of them." Jungwoo chuckles at the sight of Haechan sprawled out, sniffing the air in a way that has you clenching your thighs together. "They really didn't stand a chance, did they?"
"Why didn't you stop me?"
"It's more fun this way.” He turns to cock his head, admiring you. “I don't think I've ever seen someone dig their own grave so deeply they kept going all the way to Hell."
"Are you going to tell Mark?"
"Tell me what?"
You'd heard his footsteps down the hallway, never more grateful to see his face and Yuta's as they flank in around the taller man threatening you.
Before you can come up with a well-crafted response, Yuta answers for you.
"Taeil sent me a message about getting you out to clear your head," he admits to Mark, crossing his arms. "Thought the old dog just wanted some privacy with his favorite patient.”
He smiles at you, nose wrinkling. "But it was you, wasn't it?"
"What are you talking about?" Mark asks.
"Princess here has a lot of hidden talents. Hacking agents, shutting down security," Jungwoo says, thoroughly pleased. "Using Moon's credentials to send encrypted messages to the Dome."
Your heart is no longer in your stomach, it's in freefall. You'd known the risks, but you'd had to.
"I think it's safe to say she's not just an ordinary little omega. But none of that is even the most interesting, is it, Princess?"
You don't answer, unconsciously moving between them and the man passed out behind you.
"The brat found out the hard way," Jungwoo says.
"I didn't think he had it in him," Yuta laughs.
"Oh for fuck's sake," Mark flares into anger, rounding on the two. "This is serious. Be serious. What did you do to them?"
The question is directed at you, rage controlled in his features as he approaches you.
"I just wanted to make it stop hurting," you say, meekly, not lying in the slightest. "But I got scared . . ."
Unlike before Mark seems wholly uninterested in your theatrics, eyes darting to the couch. His eyes widen as he seems to put two and two together.
"Did you . . .?"
"You can't smell that?" Jungwoo stifles a laugh.
"Tell me exactly what happened," he says, a little more softly but twice as dangerous as he stands over you. You could lie and pretend to be afraid, you could simper and break down. But the pain makes you angry, quick to let all the bottled rage within pour out as you hold your ground.
"Why don’t we start with you telling Taeil to put me in a coma," you say, glaring up at him.
Mark sputters a little, hand running over his head to tug at his hair. "For your safety!"
"For yours!" You hiss, tail swatting behind you. “I was right, you’re all cowards. A whole pack of useless degenerates and not one of you can do your gods-granted function. I should never have come here."
Mark's confusion quickly transforms into ready-action.
"No. You shouldn’t have. Down."
His order rolls off you with the wild rush of jimseung tearing through you. You adopt a defensive stance, hunched to spring.
Mark grabs you by the shoulders, surprised when you flow into the motion rather than against it, seizing him by the wrists so hard your nails sink into his forearms, teeth snapping inches from his collarbone. He knees you in the gut, the targeted attack making you scream in anguish.
It breaks your hold long enough for him to pin you to his chest, feeling the threat of cold metal against your temple and the click of a safety.
"Little kitten has claws after all." you mock him, twisting so your spittle flecks his face. He’s so close you can see his jaw clench. "Not such a nice guy, are you?"
He shakes you off, baring his teeth.
"Johnny was right about you," he says, tone bitter. The words hit like targeted strikes through the feverish haze of your anger, finding your heart.
"Coward,” you repeat.
He doesn't take his eyes off you, shoving you at Yuta.
"I should have listened to Taeil. She can spend the rest of her stay in Containment."
Mark watches the collar snap around your neck with finality, the muzzle over your nose and mouth already constricting. Yuta checks the fit, pinching your ear when he's done.
You sit in silence, eyes locked on Haechan asleep in the hospital bed across the room, elevated to keep from accidentally choking on his own vomit. As much as it hurts to be reminded of your sins, you feel like it's a necessity to stay fixed on him.
You need to protect your new claim.
It hadn't taken long for Mark to check the security footage, or to find the evidence of your worser crimes. He looks at you with disgust now, clearly uncomfortable even being in the same room but keeping you under careful watch.
"I’m calling Doyoung," Mark says. "We need to get a plan started for sending her back to the Syndicate."
"Good luck,” Yuta responds. “You heard her little story about the guy she marked in the Palace. It explains what happened to Johnny."
"Neither claimed her the way he did. They'll get over it.” Mark doesn’t believe his own words, tasting you more clearly than he had in the last few days. Johnny hadn’t been hyperbolic when he’d said something about feeling like God was in the room with him when you were near. You’re omnipresent, that lotus scent permeating everything.
"They’re not going to want to give her up. Taeyong especially. Even if she wasn’t a liability, you’re going to have a hard time separating them," Jungwoo adds, scrolling through files on Taeil's station.
"Three of us in a few days, four if you count Johnny. She's more pack than most of us," Yuta says.
"Never." Mark can’t imagine you ever being accepted. Not after this.
"Can't fight biology," Jungwoo says, looking over his shoulder at you. "Impressive, isn't it?"
You stare at him blankly, walled off.
"The thing I don't get is why?" Mark says. "What would be the benefit of sacrificing a potential Queen or even that valuable of an agent just to fuck with us?"
"Would you want that thing running the Imperial Palace?" Yuta shrugs. “Seems like a good set-up to get us to execute her and take the fall for it.”
"There's something off about all of this." Mark sighs. "I need Doyoung to advise on it. And we need to bring the whole pack together for a tribunal."
"Good luck. He's probably balls deep in Taeyong right now," Jungwoo says, so casually you wonder if you'd heard him right. "If it isn't Johnny's turn."
“Watch it." Mark snaps.
"It's natural." Jungwoo returns to scrolling, eye flicking to where you're trying to stay composed. "You'll know if you ever catch a rut."
"I said shut up." Mark's hand reaches for his gun unconsciously, checking himself. Perspiration has appeared on his jawline, and he swipes it away with his upper arm as he takes over Jungwoo's place at the monitor bank.
"Feeling hot under the collar, Mark? Need a booster?" Jungwoo winks at you over the other man’s head.
"Just get her out of here," he snaps back. "I'd rather not deal with her if Johnny picks up."
You're desperate to hear the conversation but Yuta lifts you by your elbow, zip tie cuffs digging into your wrists.
"We'll be back in a few. Try not to jerk off to the security footage."
Mark flashes him his middle finger, still focused on the pulsing screen in front of him, call accepting as the doors whoosh shut.
"He's so uptight," Jungwoo comments, falling into step beside you. "It's too bad she hasn't pushed him out of puberty yet."
"You start the feed?" Yuta asks.
"T-minus 5 minutes to account for a slow walk to solitary. I'm not too worried, though. You know Doyoung, he'll keep him on that call for at least half an hour."
"And Jaehyun?"
"He's doing a deep run to intercept the dove she sent past our ice. Very nice work on that, would have slipped past us if we weren't trying to flush you out in the first place." Jungwoo's voice is soft, the sentiment genuine as he ruffles your ears over the muzzle’s straps.
"Should we take her to her cell first, get some better footage with her new accessory?" His gloved fingers trace over your collar and the nape of your neck, making you flinch.
"And wake up the white knight?" Yuta asks, dripping sarcasm. "No. Let's get in as much time as we can with her."
You have no idea what they mean but things quickly become more real the moment you're steered towards the living quarters versus your future prison. You pause, dragged a little as Yuta's hand tightens on your arm to pull you along with Jungwoo's help.
"Just a little trip to your new bedroom, precious. Nothing to be afraid of." Yuta's easy cadence has you actually feeling fear, now.
You shake your head, resisting with your bare heels dug into the cold floor.
"You know what's wonderful about these collars?" Jungwoo taps the thick strip of metal mesh. "A tiny bit of coding and you can get whatever level of control you want over an Alpha. Well, at least they're meant for Alphas who need taming. Never needed to use one on an omega before. Orange."
At the word you hear a beep and feel a tingle in your skin on the back of your neck, right before your eyesight flashes white and your legs give out from under you.
"Now we have to carry her, dumbass."
"Had to be sure it worked," Jungwoo says, catching your slow-motion fall. There's no sedation, you realize, just temporary paralysis from the spinal shock. It's painless but the worst part is that you are completely and utterly helpless.
You can't even scream with the muzzle on, the sounds trapped behind your closed lips as they haul you towards the hollow doorway of Johnny's residence.
"Love what you've done with the place," Yuta comments acerbically as you pass by familiar wreckage, carried up to the second floor between them. "Didn’t Mark give you clean-up duty?"
"Why should I be responsible for his messes?" Jungwoo pouts, kicking a shattered partition down to cascade over the black tile below. "I fed his turtles at least."
"I forgot about his stupid fucking turtles," Yuta says, tossing you on the bed. Johnny's room has been destroyed and put back together in the strangest manner possible, couch cushions fortressing a bed piled high with blankets and pillows and items of clothing.
Of course they’d built you a nest, or at least a mockery of one.
"I took the liberty of making the place more comfortable for you." Jungwoo confirms his hand in it. He props you up to cut your zip tie cuffs off, swaying back when you swipe at him with your freed hand.
"Yellow." Yuta says.
They both laugh as you keel over onto a pile of bedding, breath captured in your lungs until the muscles can work again.
It takes a few seconds to pass, Johnny's deep scent easing you back to earth and washing away the bitterness of Yuta and Jungwoo's evergreen and citrus pheromones. You feel clearer now than before, almost soothed by the invisible presence of your Alpha. If only it didn’t hurt twice as worse to remember that you’ve been abandoned.
Jungwoo sits next to you as Yuta crouches down to eye level, sharp features softened with a deadly smile.
"So, Princess–"
"–we have a few questions." Jungwoo interrupts, picking strands of hair away from your eyes with gentle movements. There’s something sinister about the fact that they’re both gloved–as if they need to conceal the evidence of whatever they’re going to do to you.
You shiver a bit, turning away.
Yuta shoots him a look. "You don't need to talk, just nod or shake your head when you're supposed to. We'll play nice if you do."
You don’t move, neck still twitching from the stimulation.
"First off. Did you plan on infiltrating our organization?"
You shake your head, eyes narrowing as your ears flatten.
Jungwoo pulls you up by your collar, tongue lapping at the moisture collected under your ear.
"Tastes like lying to me."
"Not a good start," Yuta intones. "Orange."
You wince as the command takes, inhaling sharply through your nose before the wind can be knocked out of you again. There's no way to get used to it: your autonomic systems flare into alarm with each minor jolt to your heart, adrenaline making you tremble.
There was no way this was a light treatment even for an alpha–clearly they didn’t care what your physiology could handle. Sweat soaks your skin, mingling with the tears.
"Do you have a handler in the Syndicate? Someone who gives you instructions?"
You shake your head limply, not bothering to sit up.
"I think she might be telling the truth." Jungwoo says, hand back on your cheek. "Interesting."
Yuta’s posture stiffens as he contemplates the next question. "Did you put the bounty on Johnny?"
His head angles as he watches your response, your panting breaths stilling as the words sink in.
Bounty? Johnny? Icy shock numbs you. You blink at the Felid, shaking your head more violently.
"She didn't know?" Jungwoo whistles a bit. "Thought that one was common knowledge."
You sit up, woozily, not breaking eye contact with your captor.
I didn’t know, you channel, eyebrows knitted together. They seem to understand, whether or not they believe you is another matter entirely.
Yuta lifts his shirt and pulls down his belt a bit to show you a scar distorting one of his many tattoos at the crease near his hip, the tissue puckered.
"The first time we got flagged on the dark networks was after your little stunt at the debut. Three different attempts, all highly paid and well chosen. Almost got us."
You know it can’t be an understatement. Any wound that large and healed without shifting should have killed him.
"You owe me a kidney," he says, with that wry, jocular tone you know so well. This time you know he's serious.
Your mind races. Even if you had the resources, even wanting to be free of them, you would never broker their lives for your peace. How could you with Johnny at the other end of so many links in the chain tying you to them? Panic has you desperate, shaking your bowed head with added submission.
You make a garbled sound in your throat: no, no. Not me.
"Fooled me," Yuta says. "What do you think?"
"Aside from the fact she’s turned on by the idea of killing us right now, she seems remarkably not guilty." Jungwoo says. He seems to be proud of your reaction, stroking your head as a wave of cramps begins again, a whimper leaving your throat.
You curl up on the bed, holding yourself against the deep ache accompanying a sudden rush of slick. You're nauseated by the pain and the fact that you have zero control, immersed in your Alpha's scent and losing the sliver of relief Haechan had given you. Worse is the way your heat makes even the proximity of these beasts more arousing than terrifying.
“Well,” Yuta continues. “If you didn’t do it, I’m sure there are plenty of others who could orchestrate a hit like that on your behalf.”
“She’s definitely hiding something,” Jungwoo agrees. “Or someone.”
"Be a good girl and tell us who you are working for, then," Yuta says. "Who would start a war with us for you?"
You glare at him over the knees tucked to your chin, channeling your annoyance at being asked to speak with your mouth clamped shut. It was almost flattering how much credit they were giving you when you were just as much a hostage in the Dome as you were here.
"Take it off," Yuta instructs Jungwoo, rocking back on his heels. "Don't bother screaming, no one can hear you."
With the muzzle removed you rub your face, soothing your cramped jaw.
“I didn’t put a bounty on anyone.” Your voice is a croak. “I don’t have that kind of power.”
“But you know who could, don’t you? Who did you tell?” There’s a second layer to Yuta’s purred question, words of a threat drifting up from years ago.
"If you want to protect him, you'll keep quiet. You tell anyone and he dies, do you understand?"
Those green, slitted eyes are just as cold now.
"You're the ones who lied and told the Syndicate the Alpha who marked me was dead,” you hiss. "Of course they'd want to finish the job."
"If it was the Syndicate there would be a smoking pile of rubble where this building used to be," Yuta says. "Try again."
"One of your Tekhne Princes, maybe?" Jungwoo asks.
"I've never even met them." It was true–you'd been completely isolated from the heirs, lest they be influenced by you. But from what you knew of Tekhne they were harmless: uselessly spoiled heirs to the Choi clancorps.
"Family, then." Yuta remarks.
You don’t have a response for that, glaring at them.
"Oh now there's something," Jungwoo murmurs, nose pressed to your temple. "Do you know you smell like pink pepper when you're distressed? So spicy . . ."
"You idiot," you deflect. "I'm related to half of Old Seoul."
“That’s a lot of options. Feel free to narrow it down.”
“I only have my brother. And Taeyong,” you begin, quickly stopping. “There’s no one else.”
"Little liar, aren’t you? I thought you’d be better at this. Yell-" Jungwoo says. You curse him mentally as your body anticipates the shock, pulse pounding erratically in your ears. The second syllable doesn't land, and you blink up wetly at him.
"You know who it is, don't you?" He licks his lips, searching your eyes. He’s satisfied with what he finds, nodding at Yuta.
"Please. No, I don't." Your voice is tinny in your ears.
"You want to protect them?" The Felid asks. He smirks, watching you hesitate. “A stupid little thing like you? Who’d benefit from your protection?”
You shake your head, almost agreeing. "I don't know."
“They must be special to you,” Jungwoo adds, hoisting you up. “Who else would kill for you?”
“No one,” you say, mouth gaping. “There’s no one–”
"Crimson." Yuta says.
This time it's excruciating–you bite your tongue as your muscles spasm in jerks and twitches, as your heart beats like a bird against your rib cage once it’s started again. The seizure has you wrenching in Jungwoo's hold as he elevates your head. Tears stream down your face, but without a single working muscle you can't even blink.
Hatred and resignation animate you long before the myoclonic shock wears off. You breathe shallowly through your nose, torching Yuta with your gaze.
He smiles at you, lazily.
"The next words out of your mouth better be a name," he says.
You sit up, shakily, relying on Jungwoo’s support as you lean forward, like you're going to tell them both a secret.
You spit, instead. Blood-tinged foam splatters across Yuta’s face.
You challenge him, expecting another punishment. Instead he dabs at the red with his fingers, wholly unfazed, as Jungwoo collapses into laughter.
"Well that's good enough for now," Yuta says. "We don’t need to talk anymore, do we?”
You struggle as you're forced back into the leather and metal cage of the muzzle, swallowing blood.
"Positive reinforcement?" Jungwoo asks.
"Go ahead. Give her a taste."
You squirm as you realize what's happening, pulled into Jungwoo's embrace. He murmurs placations, none of them assuring you the moment he spreads your legs for Yuta to see the damp spot in the soft fabric of your pants, slick oozing from you.
You toss your head, jamming the hard lines of your mask into his chest in terror.
"Relax," Jungwoo finally orders, voice soothing.
"You think we'd take you against your will? Like you did to the kid? Claim you even?" Yuta cleans a spot of blood from the back of his hand with his tongue. "Neither of us are that stupid."
“We just want to take care of you,” Jungwoo says.
His gloved fingers sink under your shirt, drifting over your breasts through the fabric of your simple bra. Immediately you groan and push away, unable to move far enough to escape. He trails circles around your twitching stomach, dipping lower the more you respond.
“Even if you are trying to kill us,” he continues. “It’s not your fault you’re not trained.”
You buck, protesting his words more than the constant touches.
Yuta chuckles, kneading your thighs with his thumbs where he’s knelt beside the low bed. “Did you know that Johnny said he'd kill the fool who fucked you? Too bad for the brat."
Haechan. You come up from the compulsion, kicking against the sheets. Yuta registers your will to fight, holding you down with barely any effort.
"Oh don’t worry. Johnny won't have the heart to cull his favorite. But he'll have to punish him or the whole pack hierarchy breaks. Maybe take a hand for touching you? Or the whole arm?”
He blows a hot breath across your legs, “Would that please you, princess?"
No, no, no. You whine, trying to break loose, subdued by Jungwoo's hand moving into your pants, slipping into your heat.
You can’t help your fox’s response; you bend into the foreign touch without resistance. Your tail crushed between you is wagging, unwilling to admit to yourself that this is what you wanted all along–your physical needs attended to, the lack of control only enabling your animal side to sink into long-awaited stimulation.
"I thought that's what you wanted?" Yuta's voice is raspier, lowered. “Alphas killing each other for your prized little pussy not good enough?"
He makes firm eye contact as he tugs down your ruined leggings by inches, exposing you to the cool air and their view. You blink tears away–more relieved than upset.
"You have to admit it's very nice," Jungwoo purrs. "Prettiest I've ever tasted."
Yuta's nose wrinkles, gloved hand tracing up your thigh through cooling drips. "All I smell right now is that dog's cum."
"Why don't we clean her up a bit? Get her ready for her mate."
Yuta nods, giving the Canid the green light.
A shriek bubbles up in your throat as Jungwoo's fingers broach your entrance, soreness and embarrassment melting away into relief. Your fox forgets fear, tasting pleasure again without the haze of ketamine and human emotion dulling the experience.
"You’re wound so tight. Did that boy leave you wanting more?" Jungwoo asks. His breath is hot on your neck, hand holding your legs open as he pulls you against him with each pump into you.
"All of us and you choose the virgin to sacrifice," Yuta sneers.
Like everything it’s not enough, at all, your body protesting in quakes as his fingers slowly dip in and out, squelching sounds louder than your muffled cries. Jungwoo adds another digit, knuckles pushing into your walls. You can feel yourself twitch and seize, tightening.
"Poor thing, sucking on nothing. Should we give her something more substantial to come on?" Yuta asks.
You shake your head weakly in answer, abdomen fluttering each time the heel of Jungwoo's presses into your mound. It's so good–so right–you're moaning when he pulls out of you, wishing you could find a way to break the tangle of pain and pleasure under your skin.
"You could have had your toy," Jungwoo says. He rubs his fingers on the mesh of your muzzle, letting the thick drops fall onto your closed lips.
"She could have had a real knot. If only you'd kept your teeth to yourself," Yuta says. "Hold her steady."
Your eyes fly open as you realize the thing pressing at your entrance is thick and rubbery but cold, awkwardly shaped in comparison to what you need–too straight and solid. A handle. The familiar nightstick–telescopic side away from you–disappears between your legs and you buck off the bed, trying to avoid the intrusion at all costs.
"Relax, or it will hurt more. You don't need me to make you, do you?" Yuta warns.
The shape is wrong, the artificiality of it making your animal break down in terror. The only comfort is that the size is right–stretching you full, reaching deeper inside you than fingers. It feels strange, the sensation diluting some of the sharpness in your belly.
Yuta twists the handle to coat it in your slick as he pushes it in as deep as it can go. You cling to the man behind you to pull away, only held tighter, tears splashing on his exposed forearms.
"You're gonna be a good little omega and take what we can give you, aren't you?" Jungwoo says.
You nod, letting sobs rack you as Yuta fucks you slowly with the weapon, opening you up. Jungwoo is especially gentle with you now, tactile gloves soaking slick into your clothing as he brushes your nipples into peaks. You stop fighting, carried into bliss in the rhythm of their combined movements.
"That's right, such a good pet for us, so pretty and soft.” He strokes you leisurely, one of his hands slipping to the sensitive bud at the apex of your thighs, drawing circles around it in a way that has you shaking.
“Now you're ready to be bred. But you don't get a knot, yet. You have to earn it."
There's a growing pressure inside of you, rattled each time Yuta's hand thrusts forward. It's unlike anything you've ever felt, sustained and perfect build making even this debauchment something worth enduring.
You let it take up every conscious thought or instinct, finally boneless and willing. Both notice the change, Yuta's movements slowing, Jungwoo's noise of approval as he presses the expanse of skin between your hips. It makes the penetration feel so much deeper and you arch into it, hating yourself for how easily you’ve folded.
"You're close, aren't you precious?"
You make an approximation of an mmhmm, teeth gritting. You have no idea what it means to be close but if this is it, you never want it to end. The little shocks you’re feeling in your lower half are consuming you like the collar’s effects had, erasing everything painful and ugly about this moment.
"You want Yuta to make you come?"
You whine eagerly, grinding against the thing inside of you, trying to make the bubble burst like you had with your toy earlier, before Haechan had interrupted and then refused to play with you. Your fox doesn’t understand why they won’t just reach out and take an offered morsel, why they insist on holding back.
"Do you think she's earned it?" Jungwoo teases.
"No," Yuta says.
Your eyes fly open, pleading at the man between your legs. You see his lips crack open into a toothy smile, fangs exposed.
"She can wait."
You plead in so many garbled sounds, hands reaching for him–for the length slid out of your body and tossed aside. You're shoved back into the softness of the pile with a knee in your back, weeping silently as you're restrained again.
"Such a nasty little thing. You'll fit in perfectly, once you know your place." Yuta finishes restraining you, wrists bound to your ankle cuffs behind you so you can only move awkwardly, buried deeper in ripped-apart pillows.
"Mark’s asking where we are," Jungwoo says, tapping his wrist. "Take her to Containment?"
"No, I think you're right: Johnny can clean up his own mess,” Yuta says, voice monotone. “Kill the fake feed. We'll leave her here.”
He leans down to wipe his slicked glove across your exposed chest, distaste mingling with the arousal illuminating his handsome features.
“It’s where she belongs."
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#agtbtb#nct x reader#nct 127 x reader#nct 127 omegaverse#nct 127 cyberpunk au#nct fic#nct 127 fic#nct imagines#nct 127 imagines#nct smut#nct 127 smut
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a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 20: clinical
pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127
tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content
summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate’s clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself
but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out
ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting
now, you must make them choose you
[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [19: burial]
wc: 6k
chapter warnings: gross misuse of medical terminology (don't correct me, taeil is just tired) and some smut under the pretense of medical care (pelvic massage), mentions of vomiting
recommended listening: love is a beauty - nct 127
Moon Taeil [Nyctereutes procyonoides α] - magna cum lauda Imperial Academy of Medicine Physician, 2nd rank
>>> patient 1 recovering, expected rate for non-developed hybrid form Felid. sustained fx, inj. are as follows:
>>>> gross injury to levator scapulae, supraspinatus, teres major and minor
>>>> humerus luxation treated with closed reduction w/o sx intervention, possible crush injury to humeral head, imaging negative
>>>> clavicle and scapula injuries healing w/o sx fixation, blood flow to right arm inhibited by subclavian artery and thyrocervical branch closure, recommend amputation if unable to restore bloodflow to lower extremities
>>>> wounds to scalp from forcible claw damage, penetrating, inc. possible puncture of sphenoid bone. temporal skull fissures healing without leakage, no artificial grafts available for outer ear, treated with amputation of dead tissue and cauterization
>>>> platelet levels depleted, multiple donations made including from known genetic rejection variants
>>>> sx intervention to insure subclavian artery reformation, rapidity of healing within 2-3 hours. may be grafts, or donated plasma. a full genetic spectrum analysis is rendering, delayed by recombination, captured
>>>> abn variant detected on scan, will need confirm by biopsy if deep tissue or contam. suspect contam, due to multiple sx performed under non-sterile non-quarantine procedures. patient 0 is recovering from sternum, mult. rib fx from chest compressions, deep tissue calcaneal tendon refixture, performed with local anesthetics only, report to follow
To say Taeil is exhausted is an understatement. Spiritually, emotionally, and especially physically–he feels much older than his age.
When he's caught a break to shower he's scrubbed blood off that’s no longer there, still smelling and feeling it's tacky, flaking texture on his skin. The last time he's truly slept was when he’d shoved your dose of ketamine into his cephalic vein, woken up to a nightmare that hopefully, mostly, has come to an end.
Performing surgeries better suited to specialists with one amateur combat medic and a decades-old TraumaTeam surgical bot wasn’t easy, but he's managed it. It was the only solution while in lockdown. Yuta had clapped him on the shoulder with his forearm after they’d performed the first round of Mark's intervention, blood smeared on the Felid's face from wiping sweat and hair from his forehead.
"Just like the old days," he'd said, smiling ruefully. Battlefield humor never ceased in Nyctos, not for the old guard.
It hadn't been as funny when they'd been tasked with treating Jaehyun, or you.
Now that he could feel you, knew you, he understood how much you'd kept locked away. It penetrated past every defense he'd trained into as a war medic, as a physician treating young and old, alike.
For the first time in a decade of being a physician he'd heaved up the non-existent contents of his stomach. If it weren't for an IV after that, and maybe a careful injection of sedation and caffeine, he wouldn't still be standing.
But he had to be, for his most important patient.
Mark's recovery had begun without the accelerated genetics of a fully designated hybrid. From what Taeil knew of Mark’s childhood he’d received twice as much anti-shift therapy as someone like Jaehyun–treatment for an accident on base when he was a teen had almost ended his life. It had delayed his development so long everyone had assumed he’d never present, not as he neared his 25th year without the markers.
But all that had changed overnight. Mark’s ancestral genetics had returned with a vengeance. If human healing was a problem, so was rapid cell reconstruction without a stable network for tissue to form or the biological materials to build it out of.
Johnny, Jungwoo, and Haechan had managed the night mission to obtain grafts, replacement cartilage and bone scaffolding while the other Felids donated plasma. It had taken another 4 hours in surgery to make sure there was no long term damage, this time with surprisingly efficient results–Taeil had watched as muscle tissue and skin reconnected, the only visible sign of injury in the shiny, faint scars on Mark's neck and torso and claw marks on the shaved side of his head.
The little cat would be fine, given enough time.
He's sure nothing can prepare Mark for the burden of healing from what he'd been through, emotionally, but he has hope for that, too. Jaehyun had stayed most of the night under the guise of wanting to donate more blood if needed, but he'd recognized the same impulse in him that had kept you holding Mark's hand the first day: survivor's guilt. All three of you seemed to be connected by it.
From an outside observation, it felt almost intrusive to see the two Felids together. The older Alpha slept folded over Mark's legs as if he could keep him fixed to this plane of existence. Perhaps it was the deep rumble of Jaehyun's breathing, or the way Mark's hands occasionally dug into the sheets with the delicate, white claws he'd begun expressing after the first twelve hours. More than that, their scents had combined in a tell-tale way, a little like meadowgrass warmed under the sun.
He doesn't want to chase down the possibility of a claim caused by injury–he still has never heard of any made that way that didn't involve you–but he's also a scientist. Phenomena observed once are an anomaly, multiple times a basis for a hypothesis.
Whatever occurred, Taeyong and Doyoung had agreed to keep the reports of Mark's condition as quiet as possible. They didn't need Third Princess Lee Eunchae finding out about her son's brush with death by any means, especially second-hand.
Taeil knows he'd be the first to suffer her wrath, Taeyong and Doyoung would follow. The Princesses' late-life vows as an Allfaiths nun did not preclude her from rending him or the former Crown Prince to pieces. He's sure once she sees Mark's scars she'll do it with words, alone.
Thankfully Mark would be able to relay the news, personally, now that he was conscious. The would-be Prince of Goryeo is currently experiencing his first real painkiller and sedative cocktail, his forkful of melon dripping into the sheets as he attempts to referee Yuta and Haechan's card game.
"Is it poker? Man. You can't play poker with two people. Where's the pot?" he laughs, feet kicking beneath the sheets. “Deal me in.”
"Go fish," Haechan says, throwing a Jack of Hearts on the pile that's begun to slide off the overbed table.
"Koi koi," Yuta answers, picking up another card to add to his hand from the stack.
A goofy smile appears on Mark's face as he tries to parse the rules Taeil knows they're making up on the fly just to fuck with him. It's good his friends are here for him. Johnny would join them once he was back from the lower levels–Taeil had messaged the prime the moment his ward came to.
He busies himself checking the supplies in his field kit, unable to escape the scrutiny of the three others in the room.
"Doctor, are you going somewhere special looking that good?" Mark slurs. The other two share a laugh, but not at Mark.
"He's got a date," Yuta says, picking up the discards to shuffle. Haechan snorts, laying down his hand.
"Dinner with the queen," Haechan says, eyes darting up full of spite.
Taeil ignores it, checking himself in the mirror over the handwashing station.
"Just a housecall," he says. He adjusts the slim tie he's knotted over his dress shirt, the tightness on his neck reminding him of a noose. Black on black: for his own funeral, he supposes.
"____ really made it, huh." Mark has already heard a few words to relay the current situation but it's never broached past a general sense of your condition–as if the details would be too much for him.
"She's fine," Haechan says, lightly. "I saw her this morning. Looked good as new. Maybe a little . . . peckish."
"Princess has an appetite," Yuta says. Haechan snickers at it, folding back in his chair, as Mark takes small bites of his fruit salad contemplatively. Taeil watches him for a bit, unable to anticipate the younger man's response to the news or the lewd jokes the twin devils at his bedside are exchanging in a tone they know he can hear.
"She’s doing surprisingly well," Taeil says, voice level. "For being dead for a minute and a half."
The hum of equipment is the only sound in the wake of his statement. He expects Yuta or Haechan to say something glib, but they just look at him expecting him to continue–their faces masked.
"It felt a lot longer." Taeil adds, palm spreading over his shirtfront. His chest still aches with the memory of the broken breastbone and ribs you'd sustained during chest compressions. “I hope you never have to feel what that’s like.”
Taeil feels badly that Mark looks deathly ill, again, but at least so do the others.
He waves his hand over the door control. "I'll be back before midnight. If there's another emergency, I want to be the last to know."
Being off-duty after a double shift has always made him giddy (he's joking with himself, in a way–he hasn't been off-duty in his entire adult life) but it does feel like he’s back in the early days of his training doing days-long shifts, looking forward to the long break.
Even if it's with you, in your . . . state. Your perfume has saturated the entirety of the executive floor, perceivable at the lower levels.
Based on the interesting nature of his dreams when he’d managed a brief nap last night, as well as the scent on Johnny that morning when he’d checked in on Mark, you weren’t adhering to the appropriate schedule for rehab.
He doesn't blame you for breaking your fast with what you need, but he's also riddled with anxiety over how soon you've begun your descent into the next dip in your cycle. You're back on bio-monitoring and the expected hormonal spikes are, just as he imagined, off the charts.
Back when he'd been in the Imperial College a favorite pastime of his dorm mates had involved a contraband bottle of ginseng wine and dramatic readings from the private journals of the old Imperatrix's personal doctor (and rumored lover). Not one to indulge, they'd been burnt into his memory ever since.
Subject appears to be in a constant state of estrus. Diestrus is non-existent in this particular line of vulpes vulpes forma amicus. Breeding her has surpassed the abilities of a mere mortal. She is described as having the stamina of a dozen of her kind wrapped up in one. During the second ceremonial mating ritual a team was quietly dispatched to resuscitate the Imperator and administer numerous fluid IVs, as well as a recommended reprieve from additional intercourse. The Imperial palace was almost burnt down for the first time since it was last sacked in the 16th century. Perhaps we have made a mistake in our calculations of Vulpine appetite.
You're at least burning nothing but candles, and certainly not the meal you'd prepared for him, when he enters the suite. Your shoulders are relaxed as you work in Taeyong's kitchen, listening to what he thinks might be 20th century music, tail keeping time with the fits and starts of a piano recorded a few centuries ago.
You look over your shoulder at him, coquettishly, adding green onions to a clay pot of samgyetang.
"I asked Doyoung your preference of foods, if you don't mind," you say, looking up at him with a hint of slyness on your lips. "Samgyeoupsal?"
It could just be white rice served a grain at a time for all he cares but Taeil nods, smiling a little in return.
"I was surprised when I got your message about dinner. I thought I was just checking your ankle," he says. "How does it feel?"
He doesn't have to ask, distant throbbing in his heel, but he knows your language now better than anyone, sees the way your black-and-orange ears fold back with a touch of shyness and delight. You do love being cared for, but even more, listened to.
"Much better, thanks to you," you reply, half-curtseying so your robe pools on the floor. He thinks it must be one of Taeyong's many embroidered silk luxuries, so long it almost trips you. What’s more notable is the way you've wrapped the sleeves back, tie criss-crossed over your torso in an ancient fashion.
"How about your dreams?" he asks. He feels like a fool the moment the words slip from his mouth, moreso when you look at him with concern.
"I mean, did you sleep well?" He course-corrects.
"Very well," you say. "Most of the day, actually. When I wasn't learning how to make kimchi."
Your eyes do look irritated, but he thinks it might not be from onion or garlic. He drops his bag to help you bring dishes to the table, mouth watering not just for the spread on the ancient wood table.
After he catches himself staring for the hundredth time he realizes now he's never seen you with your hair drawn back from your face. You've always made an effort to hide your scars.
He's never once entertained the thought of running his finger down them without your permission but he can't stop his hand from raising unconscious, wanting to touch them.
"Do I have something on my face?" you ask, rubbing at your cheek with your sleeve.
Damn his rut, and damn his awkwardness as he flounders. You're looking at him with amusement, intuiting his emotions easily.
"Oh, no." he says. "Sorry. It's been a long day." Days.
"Of course," you say, dipping your head. "Please, eat. I have a selection of drinks for you, as well."
He refuses your offering of alcohol with the excuse of being on duty, too sure he'll stumble again. He regrets it immediately, watching the artful way you pour your own glass of soju.
"Don't worry, I won't poison you," you say wryly, expression going sad as you sit down beside him. He understands where your emotions are taking you, stopping it firmly with a hand on your head, stroking your ear absentmindedly until the movements of your tail warn him off.
"Thank you for treating me to such a nice meal. It's a very nice gesture," he says.
It's strange being on the receiving end of a home-cooked dinner, after all the ones he's prepared for the pack. He has to stop himself from over-indulging after days of convenience store fare, picking choice bites of spring chicken from the samgyetang and letting the broth and sweet rice heal his queasy stomach.
You continue to serve him, taking charge of the electric grill like you're in one of the old pop-ups he's used to frequenting, conversing while your eyes dart up to him. You talk about the weather, ask about the news. It feels comfortable in a way he's completely unused to–to the point that he can barely hear what you're saying until you ask about Mark.
"Oh," he says, choking on too much lettuce and ssamjang in his last mouthful of velvety pork belly. "He's doing well. Awake. He might still need a few more transfusions but he’s recovering much more quickly than we expected."
"He needs blood?" you ask, drawing up. "Could I–?"
"No. No," he says a little too forcefully. "He'll survive. The other Felids are more suitable donors, anyway."
Too close of a genetic match, too likely a rejection of the grafts he's received, he thinks, but it's better left unsaid. Your scent has changed, mournful chrysanthemum as present as when you'd lain beside Mark the day before–the same he thinks Jaehyun smells like, now.
“You should go visit him once you’re feeling up to it,” he says. “Although . . . I think we’ll have time tomorrow.”
Another message had been fed through the internal network, pushed to all parties–well, not the recruits, but they'd enjoy the leftovers, if there were any. You'd crafted a beautiful invitation in the style of Old Seoul's etiquette, individual messages written in brush strokes of digital ink.
Dearest Doctor . . .
He'd barely registered the words after that, just that you'd planned a formal dinner, early, to recognize the pack's tribunal. And, he thinks, your likely departure.
“Yes,” you nod, poking at a piece of garlic skittering on the hot plate. “I asked Taeyong if I could prepare another meal. For the whole pack. As a way to give thanks, I suppose. My mother taught me that when one doesn't have much to offer they can at least find a means to ease another's burden."
"That reminds me," he says, "I think this might be the first time we've eaten together. Unless you count cup ramen."
You nod, laughing a little dourly at the memory. "One of the many benefits to having Doyoung and Taeyong back is that the grocery deliveries are more suited for an Imperial palette."
You look up at him, smiling. It's the first time he's realized you're wearing cosmetics–nothing immediately discernible but your lips are shaded rouge, your eyes circled in black making the orange in them that much brighter.
"Could I ask you something personal?"
You wait for him to respond, fingering your untouched glass.
"It depends," he says. "Shoot."
"Are you still . . . ?" Your voice drifts off, husky.
He feels his ears burn at the implied question. He must be addled from lack of sleep if he's letting a simple matter of biology embarrass him, but then you'd put a damper on his professional facade the moment you'd put teeth in his wrist.
"It doesn't matter." Taeil waves you off, stealing your drink to take half of it in one quaff. The liquor is sweet on his tongue, tasting a little like you.
"Why do you ask?"
You play with the ties on your robe, black-tipped claws tugging the satin.
"I need your help," you say, beginning to ramble. "I know that you'll probably say no–not that I don't think you like me enough just that–it's a great deak to ask. I hope I can convince you of the urgency of the situation–"
He's been wondering if this dinner was a gambit again, a way to make him comfortable. But a good physician is always prepared.
"You don't need my permission to have intercourse with Johnny," he says, at a much slower cadence. "While I can advise against it, especially so quickly after your injuries, your body is your own."
You look disturbed for only an instant before gasping out a curse under your breath, your uncomfortable laughter growing into peals as you fold over your knees.
"I was going to ask you if you–" you say, wiping away tears, laughing again when you see his droll expression. "–if you could help me cook. Tomorrow."
You pour yourself another glass of soju, pushing it towards him after a moment.
"I hope you don't think I'm laughing at you," you say, hiccuping a bit. "Just at the absurdity of this situation. Thank you for the approval."
"Of course I'll help you," he says, loosening his tie, reaching to turn off the grill. "What are you planning?"
"You'll find out," you muse. "Let's not focus on plans right now. I think you should relax."
Relax?
Taeil measures the way your hand reaches out to him but doesn't respond as your fingers encircle his tie and tug on it, softly. If his body follows, it's just to save himself from being strangled.
"Now that I have one favor do you think you can grant me another?" you ask, the fall of your lashes dark in the light from the chandelier. He can see you fight the smirk of knowing whatever response he gives he'll be completely at your disposal.
"I value my life enough not to fuck you," he says, words distant. "Anything but that."
"You really are an old dog," you tease, claws pricking through his shirt when you drop the tie to run your hand down the line of buttons.
"The favor isn't related to that. Although we can kill two birds with one stone here if you'd like to give me the blessing to consummate with Taeyong. No one's told me what that will entail and I'm a bit tired of feeling foolish–"
"Oh," Taeil says, backing up quickly. "I would just need to do another exam. I admit, I didn't bring anything for that–"
"We can start with the exam. But like I asked before . . . it would be nice to have some instruction. Just a physical demonstration, of course."
You're having so much fun at his expense, flustering him, but worse is the crackling heat of your arousal, as if having a cold metal instrument shoved inside you would be something to look forward to.
"Why don't I send you a few papers on omega male physiology, and come back tomorrow once you've had a bit more time to recover. And read."
Once I have enough time to remind myself why I played anesthesiologist on my own vein rather than spend another moment alone with you, he thinks.
"Do I scare you?" you ask. Your hands move lazily as you begin to undress in front of him. There's not much to remove, though thankfully you're wearing something under the robe, just a blur as he focuses on your face to keep from running for the door.
"No," he says. Yes, he thinks.
You're not a patient anymore, not off-duty. But you are his prime's mate. Johnny hadn't even bothered to get his agreement in the farce of his pack order, confident as an elder and a healer he'd follow the correct and righteous path in the face of an omega in heat.
"Truth be told," Taeil begins, "Suh hasn't been himself lately. I would like to avoid getting on his bad side."
"Noted," you say. "I'll be honest as well. I'm actively trying to get on it."
There's that Vulpine deviousness and playfulness again–which any sane person would run at the sight of. You do look different when your eyes are narrowed and your fangs are bared. It's enough to make him dizzy, feeling you preen a little at the thought of malice towards your mate.
"Have you considered another target than the one person who can treat mortal injuries in this pack," he says.
"Of course," you demur, leaving your robe open as you climb on to the table from your chair. "But what excuse would he have for mistreating you if you were simply performing your duty as a physician?"
Taeil's breath hitches in his throat, paralyzed at the sight of you pulling your underwear off, kicking it from your foot into his lap. You don't remove your robe but you lean back against the table, legs opening so the dim light catches on the shimmer of your slick.
"Where are you going?" you ask, when he immediately gets up and turns away.
"I need–"
"Instruments? Gloves?" you ask.
"To wash my hands."
He feels himself crumbling like a sun-crisped leaf, maintaining a facade that neither of you are fooled by as he puts his glasses back on, rolls up his sleeves, and spends more time than necessary scrubbing under his fingernails with the soap at the sink. Knowing Doyoung, it's antibacterial.
"Before I do this I'd like you to swear you won't play around. I would like you to take this seriously," he says from a safe distance.
You smooth the crimp in your mouth, eyes dancing. "Of course, doctor. No orders, no games. No biting."
All your rules seem to be a joke, your tail swishing. "Well, I won't. You're welcome to. It's only fair."
He gives you an exasperated sigh as he attempts to clear the table with his forearms, preoccupied with the thought of you ending up sloshed in cold broth. "Hands and teeth to yourself, this time."
"Shh," you say, pulling on his tie again until his hips cage yours. "I'll be a good patient."
"Then why don't you be a good patient and get into position," he says, leveling your attempt at dominance with as much seriousness as he can muster.
You scoot to a clear part of the table, feet placed flat once you've kicked them free of the silk beneath you. You know the drill, have probably been forced into this position from the time you came into breedable age, expected to continue to live permanently in it when you bore pups.
He's performed and watched thousands of exams, but it's remarkably different when it's with you. You're spread before him, physically unremarkable, nothing he hasn't seen before. It's only the first time again for the way you look at him now, hair pooled against the rings of dark wood as your head rolls against the table, your ears folded back with curiosity.
He digs in his bag for sanitizer, gloves. He hadn't even thought to bring a speculum, but he thinks it's not right to involve a device, considering the last time he'd subjected you to it. He finds gloves, at least. He doesn't need that scent under his fingernails.
"All the doctors I knew from the Palace treated me like just another test subject. But you never have, have you?"
"No," Taeil says, pulling you by the legs, helping you slide to the edge of the table with your knees relaxed, fabric falling beneath. "I've never seen you that way."
"How do you see me?" you ask, tail moving more inquisitively now that it's between your legs.
"You're going to feel a little pressure. Just relax."
His left hand rests on your twitching belly as his right hand gently pushes in. He's never done this without the safety of a clinic setting. He doesn't have to tell you to breathe after that initial inhale, your next breaths transmitted through your belly as you focus on relaxing for him.
The rough patches of scab tissue are no longer present, but you gasp all the same when he palpates your walls to check for any remaining soreness, slick oozing warm around his fingers the longer he stays embedded inside of you.
"Everything check out?" you ask, breath hitching when he presses firmly on the dip below your navel, fingers curling up inside. He is trying to perform the examination with as much efficacy as possible and you seem to be trying to hold it together as well, muffling each spontaneous cry out into your shoulder.
This angle affords him a view of your ecstasy, smelling it so deeply that he knows it will linger regardless of his efforts to wash it away.
"Any pain?" he asks, voice a croak.
Your answer is inaudible as well, face towards the ceiling as you swallow whatever else you have to say.
There's no way that Johnny mated you; the only lubrication is the copious amounts of slick you're producing. You'll need another IV, he thinks. He gently curls his fingers into the rough patch of your silky insides, well below his other hand and feels a wisp of delight in the back of his mind as your hips rise up from the table.
"You know–you know where it hurts," you shoot back between caged breaths. "Is there anything else wrong with me?"
"Nothing, unless you count being an incorrigible little vixen," he mutters.
He sees your indignation disappear the moment you realize he's horrified at his own words.
"I'm sorry, that–it really has been a long day." He breathes shallowly through his nose at the first squeeze of your laughter around his fingers. In another strike against his professionalism he's as hard as a rock, trying to keep from crushing himself against the table.
"Doctor, I didn't know you had it in you," you say.
You're so accepting that he forgets the context of his penetrating you, his collar much too tight, exhales sharp as he stays buried. You sit up a little, elbows bent back and just as out-of-breath.
"Are you alright?" you ask. Your mouth is agape, expression lit from within with unchecked arousal. From the look on your face you're about to dare him to continue.
He's not going to be able to maintain that distance. Not when you can read him like a book, making micromovements to bring him deeper inside.
You're a furnace radiating warmth on a winter's night, opening up for him, as he finds himself pushing into you in soft strokes that have absolutely nothing to do with medical care and everything to do with observing you come undone.
"This–" you gasp, moaning a bit. "This isn't standard protoc–fuck."
"What was that about being a good patient?" He keeps his voice steady, his own erection throbbing in sync with the little spasms inside you as you're stimulated exactly right. "Want me to stop?"
You throw your head back, shaking it.
"Consider this a part of your treatment," he says.
It's not unprecedented–some of the best passages in those old notes had to do with the various ways to cure omega hysteria, although he knows there's no cure for yours. Not one he can provide, at least.
He digs in a little more, hand spreading over your core, thumb lowering to the dip of your folds. Clinically, of course.
"Thank you, thank you," you mumble, biting your lip. "Please don't stop, please keep going."
"Open up your legs for me, relax," he says, decisively. When you've stopped fighting him he adds a third finger to better stretch you, the impact of it felt palpably in his hand pressed over your pubic bone. Your cervix is right there against his fingertips, body adjusting to take him.
Wouldn't that be nice? He knows it would be easy. If he let himself he'd be knotted in you until this expensive dinner table would need to be burnt from how much slick you spilled on it.
"Don't stop, please, please don't stop," you beg, taking his hand so well. "Please."
He leans forward to curl his hand around your nape, holding you by the scruff like they'd been trained to keep your kind from squirming. You're arms brace behind you to hold yourself up, unsure of your position until he pulls you forward to rest your head against his shoulder, making you watch his fingers disappear inside of you.
You're a whimpering, desperate mess, robe hanging off your shoulder, hair coming loose. It's even more lovely inside of you, walls tensing around him with each spasm of your pelvic floor muscles, a light brush of his thumb against your clit with each thrust propelling you forward into your climax.
He's not much better, rocking against your limp leg and the sharp table's edge. He can hold it together even as you lose yourself. You come on his hand with a sharp little sound, music to his Alpha's ears as he closes his eyes to ride the same tremor ghosting through his groin.
"Good girl," he murmurs, movements easing in time with the lengthening period between each contraction.
His hand is cramping by the time he releases you, webs of slick between his flexed fingers wiped on your robe, as saturated as it already is. He removes his gloves, discarding them without much concern for where they land, not when you're still pressed into his chest.
"You'll probably want to get one of those every few hours, until you decide to break your heat," he says, back to himself. "You have options."
You lean against him, breathing hard.
"Please don't leave me," you say in a tiny voice, legs wrapping around his hips. He lets you hold him for a little while longer–there's no reason not to enjoy being immersed in the satisfaction he's given you, or to provide you with the comfort you both crave.
"You can just say it's treating me. It doesn't have to be anything else if you don't like me that way."
Anger trickles down his neck, sullying the glow he's feeling having you against him. He's never thought of himself as a jealous or dominating person, content to be the one others came to for help or guidance even if he wasn't prime, but the thought of you underestimating his feelings and your own worth, again, has him livid.
You feel it, eyes widening as you peer up at him.
"Did I say something wrong?"
"What ever gave you the impression that I would use you?" he asks. "Or that you're not important to me?"
"I marked you against your will–"
"You have a bad habit of giving into your animal urges. But you're also fully capable of defending yourself when you need to," he says, brushing a sweat-pinned strand of hair from your forehead. "I was . . . angry. I still should be. I just don't blame you for it."
Something Doyoung had said a few days ago had stuck with him, unneeded advice offered as he drank bitterly strong coffee and indulged in a vaporizer pen for the first time since residency.
"It's not any consolation, I know, but if she chose you, it means she trusts you."
"I knew you were a good choice." You look up at him, eyes glazed over with something impenetrable. He catches himself before he can lean in to kiss you.
"I think that's as far as we go before we cross a threshold I'm not sure you can come back from," he says.
It's too early to feel anything real with you but there's a tiny corner of his mind that can't help but be occupied by the hope you'd look at him as fondly as the others. That you wouldn't take for granted his feelings when you were overwhelmed by your own or of the more vocal members of the pack.
You nuzzle into his chest, scent-marking him even more with the side of your mouth, nipping slightly at the pocket of his shirt.
"I know you think I'm compromised because of the heat but I don't feel that way with you. I want to take care of you, like you take care of me."
You look up at him, blinking wetly. "You deserve to be treated well. It's the least I can do."
Physician, heal thyself.
"As sweet as your offer is–" he begins to laugh, changing tack when he sees that you're serious. "I would prefer it not be under the obligation of us both needing physical relief."
You don't seem to understand what he means in his rambling, a twinge of embarrassment passing through him. He lets his guard down for a bit, petting the back of your neck and shoulders to make himself more comfortable, closing his eyes and imagining what he wants in a way more easily communicated than with words. If his dog growls a little, at least you don't laugh at him for it.
"You're worried I don't like you for who are," you state, voice breaking. "That you're not someone I would have chosen."
"I . . . I think we have a long time and different circumstances before you reasonably could care about any of us."
"Because I might have to leave?" you sigh.
"Because you're not just a convenient remedy for an Alpha's needs. And some of us . . . well, I don't want to have a purely physical relationship with you," he says. "I could have that with anyone."
"Anyone?" you ask. You look intrigued, lips curling in an amused smile.
"Poor choice of words. I've had my share of beta companions. Not every relationship we have is communal here, you know."
"Is that a backhanded way of calling me shared property?" you flirt, not helped by your core dripping against his pants. "Or are you calling me a whore?"
You drop into bliss again when he adjusts so you can press into his thigh. Johnny is going to kill him if he doesn't find a way to extract himself from your clutches.
"You're neither of those things," he corrects. "I just mean I don't think your biology would allow you to be satisfied with one of us."
"No," you admit. "But I have a choice in who I want to mate. I chose you."
Somehow that admission feels more genuine than he can allow himself to accept. "I'm flattered. But you're far too important for me to take advantage of."
"And you're much too polite for your own good." You lean up to nose his jaw, lips pressing to his throat. "You should accept that this is a perfectly reasonable way to start to get to know each other."
"You don't know what my rut is like." He swallows, keeping still as your tongue darts out to taste him. Everything about being held by you feels indecent, overstepping. Which is ridiculous considering he'd just finger-fucked you.
"Who better to teach me how to take care of Taeyong than someone I trust?" you ask. "Someone I already know can treat me well . . . with experience . . ."
You angle his head with a tug on his hair, kissing his neck with a little more tongue and teeth than he expects. This close to the gland has him reeling–the Alpha inside of him waking up from its slumber as starved as he knows he's felt for the past few days.
"A favor for a favor, then," he says, pulse thundering in his ears. If he's damned either way, he may as well enjoy it.
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#agtbtb#nct 127 fic#nct fic#nct x reader#nct 127 fanfic#nct 127 x reader#nct 127 smut#nct smut#nct 127 cyberpunk au#nct imagines#taeil smut#moon taeil smut#taeil x reader#nct omegaverse au
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a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 1: escape, again
pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127
tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content
summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate's clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself
but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out
ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting
now, you must make them choose you
[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [0: prologue]
wc: 3.5k
chapter warnings: multi idol au incoming
recommended listening: take me home - ateez
The searchlight penetrates the dark water, illuminating the reefs growing over long-submerged buildings, the occasional eel or octopus darting into a broken window. Beneath the small fishing boat lies the horror of the flooded city, a place you were more familiar with in your nightmares.
You have to turn away, sickness twisting your gut with each lungful of the sea air. Focused meditation is the only thing keeping you from the panic attack threatening to bubble up and break the surface of your manufactured calm.
You know you won't be traveling anywhere near where you'd watched your mother drown, but here on the water all ghosts feel close enough to touch.
"You alright?" The navigator beside you on the bow is a tall man with a quiet demeanor, a bulky older model bionic hand and arm hidden under his trench jacket. He lets the spotlight rest in order to move closer to you, earning your flinch.
You nod, afraid to speak.
You'd expected your escorts to have little to say to you. Instead you'd been welcomed by familiar faces–a pack you knew from the lower clans, some of their faces more familiar than the others.
The big Alpha is just as nervous as you–scent spiking every time he makes eye contact, even when he sneaks looks at you from the corner of his vision.
He smells like clean sage and grapefruit . . . and canine. Mostly wolf, a rarity with the diversification initiative of your parent's generation. He must be soldier stock, you think.
"It's not too far," he assures you. "Just have to get out of the city."
"Mingi," says a deep voice over his crackling radio. "Keep up the sweep past the container ship graveyard, they've got rigs installed for salvage I'd like to avoid."
"Sorry," he says, shyly.
He returns to his work, angling the blue-white beam to reveal new scaffolding rising up from the water and the old wrecks.
The boat changes course to avoid it, putting you closer to the first of the many towers that had survived the seawall break, foundations reinforced and reclaimed as small islands in the bay. They're slums but well-maintained, with connecting bridges and sprawling docks at their bases, bright signs advertising ports for a quick drink or trade.
Further on, the color and light grow in intensity, where the megacity of Neo Seoul emerges from the water, rising up past the mountain peaks to pierce the iridescent cloud cover.
If the crowded depths beneath you are a horror then so are the skies, threat carried by long-distance drones buzzing overhead along with the occasional aerodyne. The airspace over the city is much more trafficked than over the water, white illuminated lanes marking routes in three-dimensional space.
You're waiting for your nightmare to come true, you think–a second waking experience to make your paranoia permanent.
But no one is coming for you, yet.
They won't know you're missing for a few days, assuming you were in your personal cryochamber undergoing the latest resurfacing procedure on your scar tissue. Garam had been kind enough to take your place; just one of many arrangements for your long-planned flight.
You weren't running towards Neo Seoul, of course. There was nowhere to hide from the clancorps there, no matter how good your new identity was crafted.
No, your path leads East towards the darkness of the Wild, past the industrial parks and factory ships to where the old rivers meet in mudflats and estuaries few have settled in.
And beyond that, to the decimated Old Zones, where the War's aftereffects remain in radiation hotspots and unexploded ordnance. The contamination fromcarpet bombing is the worst risk your kind can face there, unable to stop hybrid DNA from manifesting, sometimes irreversibly.
To most it's a hell better left avoided. But to you, it's your real home.
Boom.
Another AV breaks through the low hanging marine layer so close you can feel the heat from its fission engines as you flatten on the deck. You duck to hide behind one of the many cargo boxes, heart racing, but the aircraft idles on at a lower altitude in the direction of Old Seoul, matte black against the green-tinged Dome.
"Watch it, asshole," you hear someone shout from the aft deck.
You're gently pulled up from the slippery wood by another of the crew. Your breath catches in your throat, face going hot under the scarf wrapped around it.
Ever since the rendezvous point you'd kept a polite distance from this Alpha, quiet in his company. Now his hand is wrapped under your elbow and all you can think of is how much bigger he is than when you'd last seen him in the Dome.
Jeong Yunho, the target of your childhood affection, now your human trafficker.
Fate always had a funny sense of humor with you.
"Careful," he says. You quiver under his gaze, trying not to react too obviously. He has a polite kindness to his mannerisms that seems antithetical to your memory of him laying out two adult guards of a Choi heir during a sanctioned duel.
Still the same gentle face and eyes.
You're not sure if he's this pack's prime, but surely Yunho is in charge of this mission. He'd introduced himself at your rendezvous with no attempt to hide his celebrity. There'd even seemed to be the subtle implication that you should recognize him as a Lost Prince.
It had taken all of your skill in presence and manners to deny him that.
There was no way he could recognize you in turn. You'd been hidden behind veils and screens your entire life, kept a safe distance away from your cohort. Few had scented you and even if the suppression of the Dome did not apply here you had medical means, aided by the neutralizing odor of the sea.
It's too bad that isn't all you hide. You feel the breeze in your fur and panic.
Yunho clears his throat as you lift your hood back up, quickly but not quickly enough to hide the red-and-black ears tufting from your hair.
"Are those . . .?"
"Biomods. A debut gift." Your carefully practiced explanation sounds false, said so rushedly. You glance up to see him nod, cheek indented as he chews a pink lip.
"Fox," he affirms. "Unusual color."
"Calico." You explain, face kept smooth by years of practice. "All the rage right now with the lesser branches."
To your relief he quickly changes the subject, watching you discard your gloves in your pocket–now smelling vaguely of fish guts. You weren't typically boatsick, but the higher doses of suppressants had a nauseating effect.
"You'll have to tell me what it's like on the inside. Haven't been back since . . . well, you know."
"Are you an Abdicated?" you ask, feigning surprise.
"Yes," he says with an edge of humor.
"I didn't know you were a Lee."
"Mother's side," he shrugs, lying in turn.
You know better. Like many of the other Lost Princes he'd publicly expressed his distaste with the outdated system, choosing exile from Old Seoul rather than compete in the political theater and power plays required for succession.
A choice you'd never been offered, but were making all the same.
You'd been present at Inner Court for his formal renunciation, had even cried silently under your veil with the patheticness of a child losing their favorite toy. In this case, your favorite potential mate. It didn't matter that he'd never spoken to you.
"You're lucky then. You could leave," you say.
He smiles. It doesn't extend to his eyes, giving his soft face a hardness.
"Why don't we go inside the cabin. Get you out of this wind."
You let him lead you, his large hand remaining on your jacketed arm as he cages you from behind. It takes concentration to bring the alarm singing in your head down to background noise. Strategy is your fallback; you remind yourself that there's no incentive for him to return you even if he finds you out.
You pass the wheelhouse, Yunho nodding to the smaller man at the helm. He's barely visible in the low light of the digital console and sonar screen but you quickly recognize Kang Yeosang. Another of Yunho's cohort from the Royal Academy, along with Jeong Wooyoung.
You can't help but wonder what other strays he's collected. They were always bound to be a pack, and you'd secretly fantasized about being chosen by them. How silly to think of, now.
You’re shepherded into the cluttered but cozy interior of the fishing boat. Spare tech is piled up between floats and crustacean traps, a single table and bunks filling most of the space.
By the looks of it the craft is probably used for illegal salvage more than honest work, but at least it seems safe. There's a space heater and an electric appliance station which spits out lukewarm, powdery tea when Yunho jams his finger against the display enough times.
"Sorry we can't afford better hospitality," Yunho says.
You sip at your insulated mug, cringing at the bitter taste but not the warmth that spreads through you.
"I'm–my family is paying for discretion, not luxury," you answer politely. "As long as you can get me to District Nine, I have no complaints."
"Right," Yunho props up his legs on one of the fixed chairs, still bundled tight in his peacoat. "Care to enlighten me why we're headed out there?"
You sink under the Prince's gaze, deliberating on what to tell him. You settle for the truth. "I'm looking for my brother."
He sits up, booted feet thudding to the floor as he leans forward in curiosity.
"In District Nine?" Yunho's head is cocked to the side, a sight that would make you smile under any other circumstances. His underlying scent is subtle, clean–pleasing in the way Canids always are to you.
"He left the Dome a long time ago," you say. "That's the last place we heard he'd been spotted."
Yunho was always such a calm and reserved Alpha when you were younger–a rarity, attributable to the use of domesticated canine genetics by his clan. He's uneasy and fidgety now, slender fingers drumming on the plastic tabletop.
"Is he designated?"
The question is inevitable. You'd lied about your own status, buried in a massive dosage of suppressants that made you weak and tired and sick but at least kept your true nature locked away.
"Yes," you say. "Never in line for succession, of course. But he left to join a free pack. Like you, I suppose?"
"I see," he says. "Do you know which one? We might be able to help–"
You shake your head, politely. "No. I'm not worried. Once I'm there, I will find him."
You quickly pretend to be interested in the news, with the tiniest flicker of dread that you'll see your face revealed to the world along with your escape.
Of course that's impossible–they'd kept you hidden since you were thirteen. If not for the scars than for your comms-team-constructed persona of chastity, purity, piety and of course, mourning.
No, the only imagery of you that exists are the traditional portrait commissions circulated amongst the Syndicate for approval of your future marriage contract. As soon as the bells rung to indicate the three years allotted to mourn the Imperatrix were over, the official succession vote would take place, the harem arranged well in advance.
102 days from now, you think.
There's no audio coming from the Betafax feed on the wall monitors but captions in five languages are displayed over footage of a firefight on one of the main air lanes, already suppressed by NSMR forces. Other scrolls and alerts notify of dangers in various districts, spot-hired security and armed triage teams responding while media hounds vie for live, up close coverage.
"Is it always like that out here?" you ask. Your exposure has been entirely through Betafax news feeds, typically scrubbed by Imperial censors. Occasionally a flash of the violence would make it through.
"The war didn't end out here," he remarks, laughing when he sees your expression twist a bit. "Well, not in there, either, but at least there's no lethal weapons allowed."
"They'll just kill you with words," you agree.
Yunho nods sympathetically.
"Are you hungry?" he asks. "We don't have much but–"
"I could hear her stomach growling over the engine." Someone says behind you. You turn with composure only to gag, hand flying to your face.
You smell the catch before you see it, a plastic bucket of crabs and a still limply flopping fish dropped on the table beside you. For a moment you think you can fight the involuntary nausea but in a second you've rushed past them and out the plastic sheeting over the door, retching up the meager contents of your stomach into the water below.
"You couldn't clean those outside?" Yunho asks. "Conversation was too interesting," the other man responds acerbically. "Are you alright, sweetheart?"
You're surprised more by the hand on your back than the intimate term, acid-burned nostrils overwhelmed with the telltale musk of another fox.
It would be a relief, but you know better than to trust the creature patting at you like your kin.
Wooyoung, just as notorious. Discriminated against like you, for similar but separate reasons. He's only a little taller than you, sharp eyes narrowed in the blue glow of a nearby port.
"Seasick, huh?" He cackles, somehow not unkindly.
"Yeah." You nod, wiping your mouth with your sleeve. "Ever since I was a kid."
He swipes a hand over his black ears, looking bashful. "You alright with a seafood dinner?"
Your continued retching is enough of an answer.
Wooyoung cooks a different kind of stew–rehydrating strips of artificial meat in a broth that tastes nothing like you've had before, mixed with root vegetables. With the added flavor of freedom, you feel like it might be the best meal you've ever had.
Thankfully the boat ride is swift, adrenaline pumping through your system well after the shoreline begins to darken. Lights dwindle where the old river-running highways appear, whole sections obliterated by a century of disaster. You know autocars and AVs can still come out here but they don't—not with the fears of automated turrets.
According to what your mother had told you growing up in the Wild, most of the stories about what lay beyond was myth. The bigger threat was being tracked going out without clearance, strictly penalized by the Syndicate.
It adds a feeling of finality to your journey as you reach a lone dock in the neverending swamp.
The antique light post at its head contrasts with the cool headlights of an old ground vehicle, military grade and scarred by shrapnel.
Four other men wait on the shore, signaling with a hend-held LED in a code you don't understand. What you can read when you disembark is that one of the men is pointing a heavily tricked gun at you, its carbon shell glowing red when it lifts to your face.
"Welcome," the stranger says, voice a rasp.
You freeze, rucksack dropping to the planks with a thud.
"That's unnecessary, Captain." Yunho says behind you. "We checked her back at the Old Wall."
"I'll decide what's necessary." The leader says. He gestures to the shadow beside him. "Let's have a look."
The light is lifted over you, blinding you between glimpses of a cold face and cat-like eyes. This one is a Felid, claws scraping over your scalp as they rip the hood from your head.
You figure this half of the crew must have been in the Wild longer–affected by jimseung on a noticeable level.
"The color profile matches." The Felid's voice is deeper than you expected. Your scarf is removed next, and you see the silhouette of an angled head as he inspects the faint mesh of scars leading down your jaw to your neck.
"Interesting," the Captain remarks.
The Felid is gentler when he reaches for your coat, black-tipped fingers splaying in front of your face to show his claws are retracted before he reaches down to lift the long trench.
"Check her a little more thoroughly," The Captain says. Behind him, someone laughs.
You whip around to look at Yunho, suddenly desperate. "What is the meaning of this treatment? Didn't you tell them I was clear?"
He shakes his head, breeze ruffling the dark hair across his forehead, and that's when you understand which emotion is coloring his expression: pity.
"You knew?"
You understood it would only be a matter of time before they found out but you'd hoped it would be after you were well on your way.
Not from the start.
"They sell cheap knock-offs of your scent profile in department stores," Wooyoung says lightly, approaching with a slinking posture. "Popular among the omega proxies, of course."
He snatches your bag away, earning your snarl. The Captain chuckles behind you as the fox proceeds to rummage through your clothing for valuables.
"Your blockers are good," Yunho says. "But not that good."
You'd once collected his pictures and planned in detail the words you'd say during ritual courtship. You regret it. The illusion is shattered with his next words.
"Show us, please," he says, in the tell-tale rumble of an order.
The Alpha's compulsion is immediate, your only form of control or choice in how you do what you're bidden. You hold him with your glare as you reach down to unstrap the appendage from the back of your leg, pulling it out of your coat where they can all see it, black and silver-tipped and half your body length.
Unlike a biomod your tail has a mind of its own, signaling your very real aggression by twitching out of your grasp. Your breath steams in the light as your energy spikes, the tickle of fur threatening to grow out of you as you round on the men behind you.
"Like what you see?" you growl.
The gun-wielding Captain lowers his aim, laughing with a manic energy.
"Oh that's rich. A few dozen prized omega females in all of Old Seoul and we're hitched with the only one the Syndicate would trade them all for."
"Your final payment won't be transferred until I'm–" you begin.
"You have more money than the Syndicate? Doubtful," the Captain says. He has a devilish expression. "Luckily for you we have a strict policy on taking jobs from those bastards."
"We're not going to send you back," Yunho echoes.
You relax a bit, pulse still thudding in your ears.
"I don't understand." Mingi steps forward, crouching down to scent the top of your head. You think he's probably been fighting the instinct since the boat. "Who is she?"
"A Queen." Wooyoung answers, zipping the bag up. He returns it to your feet, tentatively, moving to touch your tail when you don't snap at him. You're not surprised when he buries his face in it, shoulders relaxing in pleasure.
"Nothing like it in the world."
You see Yunho reach out to place a hand on Yeosang's shoulder, stopping him from moving any closer.
It was convenient that your pheromones had a soporific effect, less so that they tended to draw other designated like an invisible string tugging at their animal brains.
"She's just a Princess Consort." Yunho says. "For now. You’re standing in front of the future Imperatrix of New Goryeo, Daughter of Heaven and the East Sea, the Lotus Princess Lee ____."
You shudder at the sound of the official title. Every word of it was anathema to you.
"A royal pain in the ass," the Captain jokes. "But a valuable one."
"So what?" you ask, ignoring the effect you're having on his hounds. "Ransom me to the Syndicate? You might as well kill me."
"Halatus has a reputation to maintain." The Felid answers before anyone else, tugging Wooyoung off of you with a distinct look of disgust on his handsome features.
"That's right," the Captain continues, stepping forward to snatch the necklace from your neck before you can respond. Yunho has to grab you from behind, ordering you to stop before you can rip at any skin you can reach with your bared, partially-transformed teeth.
"There's still some honor amongst thieves and liars, after all," he says, inspecting the thick metal chain and the tiny gems inlaid in the links, your mother's last gift to you.
"We'll take you to the end of the line. And you’ll pay extra, with insurance. Princess."
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a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | chapter 25: tribunal
pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127
tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content
summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate’s clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself
but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out
ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting
now, you must make them choose you
[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [24: escort]
wc: 6.7k
warnings: in-world bigotry, graphic depictions of violence inc. cardiac arrest
recommended listening: ten's solo album is a masterpiece but we've got nightwalker and on ten on repeat for this one
When you’d failed to meet the expectations of your name and station your elder’s favorite punishment had been to send you to the Imperial Tombs to kneel.
For hours or even days–you never knew how long–the statues of the Amitahba Buddha and his companion bodhisattvas were your only company beside the dead as those surveilling you determined whether or not you’d shown the appropriate level of filial piety.
Those long gone points of meditation were more welcome than the terrifying visage of a xiezhi rising up behind your judges now, cloud-like flame swirling from its lion-like snout and single horn.
If myth were to be believed, at any indication of guilt the chimera would simply impale or devour a criminal. You can register a similar threat in the machinery beneath the holographic projection, the cold light of sensors and turrets in its frame. Tapestry-like screens hang on either side, reflecting you and the equally frightening sight of your vital readouts.
Now you kneel in the center of the arena, a slowly rotating sam-taegeuk beneath you casting the scene in ominous primary colors. Before you the table is set up for the legal arm of the tribunal, the three judges flanked by a small army of advisors and projected screens.
Your neck is bent, not just from the heavy jewelry adorning your head but the weight of thousands of Syndicate eyes resting on you, countless more if your suspicions that this was being streamed were correct. Outside the Dome, you aren’t spared visibility.
Thankfully, neither are they.
“Lee ____, third of her name. Lotus Princess, Daughter of Heaven and the East Sea. Only child of Lee Eunji, second of the Samshin, beloved in memory. The one born by the will of All Saints and the stars aligned to be Princess Consort of the last Imperial Dynasty of New Goryeo.”
“You come before us bearing a number of complaints brought against your kin, your mates, and the pack who took you into their protection.”
Protection. You flinch at the word. Your judge clears his throat, eyeing you over his glasses.
“We will hear your case before that of the accused, and decide on the terms for reconciliation,” the central figure finishes.
Elder Jeong Yunho is only a distant relation to the hound in Halatus, you know, your parent’s generation and the most notable prosecutor in Old Seoul. He's joined by one of the Park elders, a sly looking man you know as Leeteuk, along with that strange Vulpine spokesperson with a flashy suit–the Kim.
“Rise, Lee ____, and swear your vows.”
“Esteemed members of the Imperial houses and Syndicate, thank you for honoring my formal request for a tribunal.” You curtsy deeply in the spite of the burn in your knees, tail sweeping the illuminated floor. “I welcome your objective review of my case.”
You can feel the approval of your uncle at having remembered your etiquette, though you can’t see him in the booth beyond the table with the blazing lights. You approach the table to lay your hand on the Imperial seal, the touch activating an internal glow.
“Under the eyes of heaven and by its laws, I swear to tell the truth,” you recite.
“Please proceed with your testimony,” Leeteuk allows, nodding at you. Your cardiac output scrolls on his screen, an appropriate orange for the fear driving your vision white. You swallow, hands folding before you as you look down again.
“As you know, I entered into a contract with Nyctos as their property, at the initiation of my first heat cycle.”
You glance to your right, finding Taeyong by his profile burnt black by the red pa on the floor, Doyoung illuminated more clearly by the glow of his A/R glasses.
“I thought he was my fated one,” you say, turning back. “We seemed to have made a bond-match immediately.”
“Seemed to?” The Kim finally speaks.
“Please refrain from speculative language,” Elder Jeong adds. “Did you or did you not bond-match with the Crown Prince? Answer truthfully.”
The pull of the order is more powerful than you expected; you nod in affirmation.
“Yes. We did. But I believed a trial period was necessary to determine if our pairing would be favorable,” you stammer.
“A trial which we understand has resulted in a successful mating, hence cementing your bond,” Elder Park replies. “Is that not correct?”
You shake your head, ears appropriately submissive. “We bond-matched. We . . . mated. But I requested contraceptive treatment prior to our formal marriage ceremony.”
“Contraceptive treatment when your contract is based upon providing heirs?” The fox Kim speaks again, asking questions on behalf of the audience it seems. “How curious.”
You don’t dare to look up past the curve of his lips and fangs, seeing the comments scroll down his screen, mirrored but legible.
“–Claimed by five Alphas. At least one of them should have stuck–”
“Can you illuminate the Syndicate as to why you did not proceed with a definite mating to assure your bond?” Park’s voice breaks the spell of reading through the written condemnations.
“I suspected I would be abandoned as unsuitable,” you say.
That surprises all of them, the three sitting forward. You can hear the murmur of the crowd, now, muffled by the containment field.
“On what grounds would you be found unsuitable?” Elder Jeong asks.
You turn slightly, the head of the haetae above you mirroring the gesture. Taeyong glares at you from the shadows, shaking his head slightly.
“When the Crown Prince refused to mate me and allowed his pack to claim me first,” you say.
“Objection.” Doyoung raises his hand as he steps forward into your purview. “Did you not agree, willingly, to a pack claim?”
“This is not your cross-examination, cousin.” Elder Kim warns, stylus tapping on the table. “But we will allow this clarification.”
You refuse to acknowledge Doyoung, turning away as you let real anger sweep through you.
He approaches the table, pausing to give you a wide berth before bowing stiffly. “My apologies for interrupting. But I feel I must specify there is no legal requirement in the Princess Consort’s contract for exclusivity nor is there a precedent for which order claims may be taken.”
“Did you agree to this pack claim?” Elder Kim’s voice is mildly aghast, if a little amused.
“Answer truthfully.” Jeong repeats.
You pause, mouth opening to close again as you simply nod. You feel an instant sense of relief once the command is fulfilled.
“Your written testimony implies but does not state directly that these claims were forced upon you.” Park says, highlighting the text displayed. “Is it not your duty within a pack contract to submit to the will of your superiors?”
You feel yourself bristle, eyes still lowered. “Is it not the responsibility of a pack leader to protect its weakest members from abuse?”
“The Princess Consort will refrain from directing questions at the tribunal,” Jeong rebuts you, sighing heavily. “Let the tribunal recognize that only a contract owner may submit a charge of abuse towards the persons covered by it.”
The meaning is clear–you are just property, after all.
“It seems this is merely a matter of internal insubordination, then,” Kim laughs. “How delightful.”
“Does the Crown Prince’s counsel wish to submit such a complaint?”
Doyoung stands more stiffly.
“Formally, no,” he explains. “We are here to address internal insubordination, as you said. The tribunal is necessary due to the Crown Prince’s status, not because we recognize the Princess Consort’s complaint.”
“Hypothetically speaking, if the Princess Consort’s claims were legally recognizable,” Elder Kim asks, “how would you respond to this accusation of so-called abuse?”
Your eyes swim with tears as you brace yourself for whatever silver-tongued answer Doyoung will give them, fists clenching.
“The Princess Consort refused to accept her mate's orders to stay confined and made certain solicitations,” he says, clearly uncomfortable with being forced to describe the details. “She tried to turn lesser ranks against the Crown Prince. Eventually she submitted when she found that pack loyalty would not grant her desire to overthrow natural authority.”
“What–?” you begin, forgetting yourself.
“Silence.”
You crouch, mouth clamped shut. So much for maintaining your composure, you think, face burning.
“I think it’s clear enough this contract is in dispute because this omega does not know their place.” Elder Kim says, arms crossing. “Dozens of generations of breeding have fallen thus far.”
“Is it the wish of the Crown Prince and Nyctos to forfeit their contract with the Kims on the basis of this insubordination?” Elder Park asks.
“While we have been disappointed in the Princess Consort’s behavior it hardly warrants contract termination,” Doyoung says. “We believe with adequate training these flaws in character and behavior can be addressed by reasserting pack authority.”
You shake your head, still silenced.
“Do you wish to say something, little Princess?”
You’re surprised enough to look up at the other Vulpine, finding his eyes narrowed in a smug but cold smile.
“The Princess Consort may respond this once,” Jeong says tiredly, waving his hand. “Make your final statement before we dismiss this matter.”
You drop to your knees, desperate.
“Please masters,” you plead, voice shaking. “I cannot bear to spend another moment in these brute's company. His pack abused me and forced claims upon me. I have suffered indignity at almost all of their hands, with few exceptions.”
You expect them to ignore your request but you are mortified when the Elder Jeong brushes off your earnest request with one word and a waved hand.
“Noted. Will Second Prince Lee Minhyung please approach the tribunal.”
You turn to look at Mark stride towards the table, hiding his bewilderment under a soldier’s reserve. It was only fair that he'd be confused.
“Second Prince. Your cousin has requested a transfer of the contract to you, as her closest male relative and preferred mate, with the expectation that you will emancipate her upon transfer,” Elder Jeong says. “Should the trials proceed favorably for you, do you accept this responsibility?”
“You’re the only one,” you explain, quietly, relieved when you aren’t stopped from addressing him. “You can end this.”
A thousand words are spoken in the look shared between you, but most of all you can see something like sympathy there–a welcome sight after this useless political theatre. You see realization dawn on him, eyes wide. He looks up at Doyoung, some subtlety in the exchange spurring him to the obvious answer.
“I accept,” Mark says, looking back down at you.
You close your eyes in relief, exhaling shakily. When you open your eyes again his hand is extended towards you, helping you rise once more from the painful position.
“And will the Crown Prince fight to retain your claim upon your mate?”
The question is directed at Taeyong, who’s already quietly joined Doyoung, tail swishing lazily.
“I have a major investment in her as property, including futures,” he says, turning to look at you with disgust darkening his usually soft features. “While she’s been more than unfavorable in her lack of compliance, no, I will not hand her over without an appropriate response.”
“Then since this is a matter of personal honor, the tribunal recognizes this dispute to fall under traditional methods of arbitration,” Elder Jeong says, slamming the seal down on the table three times.
“The heirs may choose their principals and seconds. As the challenged, the Crown Prince will state his preferences, first.”
Taeyong bows to the tribunal.
“I elect my enforcer, Suh Youngho, until the time in which I may settle my grievance against him for claiming my mate without my permission.”
You’re shocked by this addition and clearly so is Johnny–you don’t dare look up at him but you don’t miss the hesitation on his part to accept his position beside his leader and Doyoung.
“Kim Doyoung will act as second and negotiate the terms on our behalf.”
Elder Jeong nods. “Second Prince. The Princess Consort has elected you as her new owner should your claim be recognized. Who do you request represent you?”
Mark looks at you, eyes twitching with uncertainty as your gaze flicks towards the only reasonable candidate. You don't dare speak, knowing full well that it would undermine Taeyong's plan to present your cousin as a capable leader. Thankfully Jaehyun moves to Mark's side unprompted.
“I elect Jeong Yuno as principal,” he says, relaxing.
“I, Nakamoto Yuta will perform the role of second,” Yuta says, more formal in his speech than you've ever heard.
“That leaves three pack members unaccounted for, with Moon Taeil excused on the basis of his oath of service. Do the heirs wish to elect the two lower ranks to participate on their behalf?”
Mark shakes his head, but you interrupt him, placing a hand on his jacketed arm. “Please, allow me to address a personal grievance.”
Mark’s disappointment is palpable but he nods, following your lead.
“On behalf of the Second Prince,” you say, eyes moving past Jungwoo to your target hanging on the edge of the arena. “I elect Lee Donghyuck to fight on behalf of our honor.”
Haechan glowers at you, but says nothing, joining Mark. Jungwoo winks at you as he passes towards Taeyong's contingent, full lips curled in delight.
“Seconds approach the table for the negotiation and arrangement of terms. The Princess Consort will be retained outside the arena for her safety.”
You bow deeply to the table before turning to Mark’s pack members to present them with the same respect. Before you leave you approach your cousin, placing your hand on his chest, where the five-petaled Clan crest pinned to the navy fabric has already been altered to the same bright blue of the flag beneath your feet.
“Thank you,” you say, embracing him with the same conviction you had hours ago, under extremely different circumstances. At first he stiffens, surrendering when he realizes he’s still on stage.
“You'll do well, for me,” you tell him, hands reaching around him to hold his chest tightly. He relaxes after a few seconds.
“What's even happening right now?” he whispers into the hair between your ears. “Why did you make me–”
“Please, trust me,” you say into his jacket, adding an extra tightness to your hold. “This is for them more than us.”
You stand on your toes to press a kiss to his startled face through the drape of your veil, hands on his shoulders briefly. You don't mistake the way in which he leans forward when you break free, marching away without so much as a glance in the Red direction.
Outside the arena you are directed to the private box behind the judges table already occupied by your uncle and your guards, helped to your seat by the Elder Kim. The fox has shrugged off the formality of the tribunal to return to his natural role as Master of Ceremonies, and you allow him to take your hand even as your skin prickles at the light touch.
Your box is illuminated softly by neon lights, prisms and starbursts of light dancing around you where they catch in the crystals meticulously sewn into your gold dress and Key's suit. The table is strewn with various drinks and rich bite-sized foods, your stomach wrenching at the sight and smell.
“There. Now you look like a proper prize,” Key says, almost a little mocking for the calculated way he adjusts your veil once you’re both seated, his tail curling against your own as he sits beside you. “Excellent work proving yourself the opposite.”
“Are you suggesting I don’t wish to be prized?” you ask, demurely hiding your lips in case anyone can read them through the covering. “Perhaps you can advise on how to be more submissive?”
“Me?” he says, pretending to be wounded. “Though you might make an effort to show some concern for your favorites. The drama here will have no small part in determining the outcome. Perhaps you already know who will win?”
You toss your head. “Not a single one of them has proven worthy to earn my favor.”
“Careful pet,” Tenth Prince interrupts, moving closer on the long booth’s plush seating. “Your negligence towards your mates is not, under any circumstances, a point of pride.”
“Yes, uncle,” you say with a bow of your head.
You sit back as you listen to the conversations around you. Some of the voices are distinctly familiar, court attendees and Syndicate relations alike, all discussing odds of the mis-matched group inside the arena. Screens on the tables display the individual roster as well as points averages.
They may as well be written in a foreign language for all you understand.
“Can you make any sense of the betting?” you lean over to ask Yangyang, watching his ears turn naturally towards yours near the box entrance. He’s more than excited to crouch down next to you to explain, Renjun joining him with an attitude of annoyance.
“See here? Anything involving Suh is getting swept into a parlay. They assume he'll win every match.”
Renjun huffs across from him. “If he has to fight the Crown Prince, there’s no way.”
“You seem so sure,” you say.
“Clearly you've never seen your cousin in battle,” Tenth Prince says. “My dear, have you no sense of decorum? Omegas should be seen, not heard.”
“Apologies,” you say with a dip of your head. “I'm merely nervous.”
You receive another look of warning before he returns to speaking to the blond man that's slipped into the booth beside him–one of a handful of guards dressed impeccably with the Lee Imperial plum blossom on their lapel.
There's no indication that your uncle is agitated but you can sense something is off, fighting to keep your ears from swiveling back and forth as you listen for snippets of that particular conversation, pretending to watch the judges retreat from the floor to their own seats past the barrier.
“That's my cue,” Key says, flicking your ear with his claw upon standing. “Enjoy the bloodshed, my dear.”
There's a muffled wave of applause as the lights adjust once more, the Master spot-lit as he descends to receive the tablet of rankings and details.
“Fascinating,” you hear him say before he looks up to address the crowd, voice amplified for the entire room.
“Welcome honored members of the Imperial Houses and esteemed guests and patrons of our Syndicate. Tonight we present a once in a lifetime event, a demonstration of Alpha justice not seen since the Exodus trials of ‘02. Tonight a pack divides over a mutual claim, their prize the contract ownership of Heavenly Lotus Princess Lee ____, Daughter of the Eastern Sea."
He gestures to the far side of the arena, one of the lower boxes crowded with familiar Syndicate heads.
“On the one side, our accused and challenged–Crown Prince Lee Taeyong, son of the last would-be Imperator, first of his name. He petitioned the Kim clan for ownership of his cousin in the name of preserving their clan line, and yet within a few weeks has been sued for breach of contract by the Princess herself in a submission of formal complaint to the Syndicate’s board, witnessed by our ranks.”
“How do you plead, your highness?”
“By Heaven's design, my honor will be preserved,” Taeyong announces, tail curling as he salutes and then bows, in your direction. “I will win my claim.”
You're surprised to hear applause, a few cheers erupting from the wings across the room.
“Our most popular choice of course, as pack leader and the Lee clan’s worthy Elder. But we have a challenger and champion of our Princess's virtue to fight in her stead tonight, son of our beloved Reverend Mother and the People's Princess, Third of the Samshin, Lee Eunchae and her consort the Fourth Tiger Prince–name not to be spoken.”
“Second Prince Lee Minhyung–your mothers shared a womb–is that what motivates you to defend your closest relation, or do you seek to take what is rightfully your Elder's and claim your Alpha's mate for yourself?”
The provocation is felt within the room, murmurs accompanying a close-in on Mark's face on the screens.
“I'm here to defend the Princess. That's it,” he says, not bothering to bow. “She asked to be freed and I'll do my best to honor her request.”
There's less of a positive response to this announcement, disapproval like a dark cloud settling over the arena. Beside you Renjun makes a sound of affirmation, hiding his grin immediately beneath grim seriousness.
“Befitting the son of a so-called liberator and champion of omega rights. Well then, shall we proceed to the order of duels?”
The Master of Ceremonies continues to break down the code duello, all of which were bitterly familiar to you from the Academy. In the absence of anything resembling a body of justice to address the constant infighting amongst the Alpha progeny of the clancorps the honorable method for resolving conflicts was through combat.
“Any insult to an omega under an Alpha’s care or protection to be considered as, by one degree, a greater offense than if given to the Alpha personally, and to be regulated accordingly.”
“Offenses originating or accruing from the support of omegas' reputations, to be considered as less unjustifiable than any others of the same class, and as admitting of slighter apologies by the aggressor: this to be determined by the circumstances of the case, but always favorable to the omega.”
You watch the screen manifest the series of trials, heart sinking at the sight of the names and portraits listed against one another in opposing blue and red, the choice of weaponry and terms bookended by positive and negative numbers you can only imagine are related to the odds.
Seo Youngho, with a negative score of at least a 100 beyond the other ranks, is pitted against the pack in multiple confrontations. But the one that twists your stomach the most to see is his latestage match against Mark's principal.
Jeong Yuno barely affords a ranking.
“Parlays will close within the next five minutes but action bets will be accepted throughout the event. Please continue to submit those wagers and participate in the voting for our environmental controls and hazards as so generously provided by our board and sponsors. May the punishment match the crime!”
“Environmental hazards?” You hear Yangyang ask, drawing your attention.
“Don’t they have those at the Zoo?” Renjun sighs, giving you a sidelong glance. “He and Zhong live in District Four when they’re off-duty.”
The home of unofficial, underground Alpha matches for Beta entertainment, you know from media rather than experience.
“It's all fake. For show,” Yangyang assures you. “Not like here. Real death matches are outlawed.”
“It’s not always death matches, here,” Renjun adds. “Just . . . most of the time.”
“If the Syndicate sentences you to death, this is the most honorable way to die,” you say quietly.
A fate you wouldn't wish on anyone.
“Is that why you claimed a fatal offense?” Tenth Prince's voice is bitter, but you can hear his veiled smile beneath his fan. “An honorable death?”
“I did,” you nod, feeling Renjun and Yangyang’s actual shock at the news. “Against my first claim and true bonded. The man who scarred me and took my innocence.”
“Who?” Renjun asks, quietly.
You don't answer.
“Child, you certainly never took any of my advice not to play with fire lest you be burned.” Your uncle sighs. “What a waste of a perfectly fine specimen.”
You're not sure which of the two Alphas slated for a death match he means, but you suspect the words are more for the Felid blinking against the lights to try and find your face in the crowd, his own expression unreadable.
Your heart clenches in your chest as you turn away, unable to meet Johnny's eyes even at this distance.
“Prepare yourself to give him a proper send-off when the time comes. We wouldn't want anyone to doubt your conviction in accusing bonded mates of such grave offenses.” Tenth says, placing a clawed hand over your own.
You hear the warning spoken plainly: you had to present as innocent or earn the enmity of the other Syndicate Alphas. Omegas executing their claims was unheard of, a precedent much more dangerous than one of your kind seeking emancipation.
No, their sympathies would never lie with you. But tonight had never really been about what you wanted.
“I do suppose eliminating Suh will resolve the rumors of whether or not Nyctos is led by a foreign-born mongrel rather than your own blood.” Tenth's head of security hasn't spoken until now, voice calm and quiet, but he sounds as bored as your uncle at the spectacle. You fight to keep from reacting, narrowing your eyes at his handsome face.
He smiles at you widely, almost shyly.
“That will be quite enough, Sicheng.” The Prince admonishes him. “Do not imply that our clan can not maintain dominance over its own servants.”
Renjun bristles visibly, eyes darting between the three of you, as if seeing you in a new light.
You can sense the new discomfort of your guards, themselves under the command of said mongrel, now fully aware he's been gravely accused. But this isn't the time or place to explain, not with the beginning of the trials.
“We will now commence the first duel,” Master Key announces, spot-lit from below, along with two others. “May the strongest beast survive.”
“I'm trusting that you three actually have a plan besides my execution,” Johnny says with typical gallows humor, hanging over the wall separating the weapons racks and waiting area to try and make out the stats on-screen.
It’s hard to read if only because there’s a montage just as eye-catchingly bombastic as the Lottery ads played street side, for the first time in history introducing their pack. Whatever media production crew they had operating this event was well-read on Nyctos history, accomplishments and training, as well as family backgrounds by several generations.
Of course they’d still gotten his background wrong–just like Yuta’s–his origin somehow now the Western Free States instead of a Midwest Combined Operational Group enclave south of the Occupied Great Lakes. He’s not surprised considering NUSA didn’t register as much more than a lawless wasteland after the Fifth Corporate war.
“We’re playing it by ear just as much as you suspect,” Doyoung says. “I tried to match rank and ability as closely as possible.”
“By fighting Yuta?” Jungwoo asks, smirking as he leans against the wall. “Good luck.”
“I'll ignore the implication that I might lose,” Doyoung snaps back.
“You must think I would have if you put me against Haechan.” Jungwoo huffs.
“Yes,” Johnny says, turning to meet him levelly, as equally matched as they are in height. “You are going to minimize harm in your fight and accept your punishment. The next time you hesitate to deal directly with a threat against a lower rank you won't be facing them. You'll be fighting me.”
Jungwoo swallows, mouth twisted in a wry smile as he turns away to join Taeyong on the side of the field, where a small crowd of Syndicate-approved media spokespeople are interviewing the pack leader.
“Was this her idea?” he asks, looking up again through the haze of the containment field at that bright spot, your profile visible behind delicately embroidered organza as you nod at something Tenth Prince says.
Doyoung squints, looking around with the implication that nothing is private here. Even so Johnny senses a shift in his aura, less anxious and more approving, as if the Lepid is experiencing a sudden surge of pride.
“Her testimony is entirely her own. She understood what the stakes were more clearly than even I had anticipated.”
“What is her goal, exactly?”
“She truly just wants her freedom,” Doyoung answers with a soft exhale. “By any means necessary.”
Any means. It nags at him deeply, after everything, that your aim would be so simple: mated and bonded Alphas forced to eliminate one another over an accusation of pack disunity. There was a certain poetry in it, in the sense that you'd accounted for every wrong, not-withstanding your own.
I want us to live.
He has a choice. Believe what you'd said in private, in the dark, in the moments when the stakes were truly never higher. Or believe you now, with your doublespeak and carefully-constructed artifice.
No, he thinks. He's lived with Taeyong too long to ever believe royal lies. This had to be the natural conclusion of whatever Imperial scheme had started before you even fell back into their hands. A long, circumnavigating path back to zero.
He watches Yuta lean into Haechan's ear, instructions given to him. Here in the open stage he looks younger than ever, shoulders hunched with hidden tension, sharp eyes scanning the crowds past the lights.
“The first of many of tonight's little squabbles, between our lowest-ranked. According to the Princess Consort there is a private grievance to be settled here, would our combatants wish to make a statement?”
Key's nod is to Jungwoo, deferring to him as first-ranked and the challenged faction. The young Alpha stands tall, clearly in his element, his preferred weapon of a nightstick now tapping against his shoulder in a familiar beat.
“I submit my performance as testament to the honor of my clan and pack, and hope our Princess Consort accepts my apology in advance for my victory,” the younger Kim states. “Would my lady bestow me with a token of her affection? For luck?”
The theatrics are generously received, an attempt made to focus on you in the stands finds you shaking your head, ears back.
“Clearly you have yet to earn your Princess's regard. Oh well, not unexpected for a mutt,” Key laments, earning the laughter of the crowd. “Does her Highness bestow a favor upon her preferred champion?”
Johnny can't help but tense, seeing you turn your focus on the other Alpha. Haechan's posture is abnormally stiff as you produce something from your sleeve. You flash the illustration on the fan's paper before snapping it closed in an elegant fashion, tossing it through the containment field.
It passes through without any register of the security, landing on the stage. Key retrieves the small offering when Haechan makes no effort to take it, flourishing it with a gesture upon standing up, long white-and-silver tail balancing the line of his body.
“Such a sweet token–do I detect a lover's quarrel between you by the sincerity of this gesture met so cruelly?” He gently waves the fan towards his target, letting the Valentine's day colors of the dianthus illustration be seen by all.
Rather than answer Haechan snatches it closed, awkwardly tucking it into his pocket.
“Let's get this over with,” he says, brandishing the yellow-marked electric baton he's chosen.
“Not too hasty, not too hasty,” Key says but the traditional drum beats cascade over the room, lights dimming as the softly illuminated forms of the two men move quietly and slowly around each other, sparks snapping from the active rods of their nightsticks.
It's clear within moments who will have the advantage as the two Alphas circle one another on the glowing field, the floor shifting as applause and cheers take over, almost masking the sound of rushing water that erupts from a moat falling around the central ring.
“We've of course added our own hazards here, but let's explain the rules. No fatalities are allowed with the exception of incidental and accidental. Stun levels have been set to disable only. Leaving the fight area past the moat will be considered an automatic forfeit. May the Heavens provide justice, and may the punishment match the crime.”
A tense quiet settles over the combat zone. It's more than a little surreal for him to witness the two like this–after countless trainings and similar play fights. The two Canids may be unequal in size but Haechan is faster, more aggressive when cornered.
Jungwoo makes no attempt to break his defense, lazily feinting when the other comes too close. Even dimly lit he can see the smile breaking on the Canid’s face, a fear response. The scent suppression here can’t hide the flare of Alpha pheromones, just as sharp as the burnt air smell of electricity.
“Get him in the water,” Doyoung mutters beside him.
Johnny growls instinctively, startling his partner.
“I mean disable the weapon,” he adds.
“I got that.” Johnny moves closer, sniffing at the moat's pure water. No surprise chemicals in that mix, at least.
“They’ll want blood,” he says.
Jungwoo lashes out, finally, quick arcs that miss Haechan's duck and weave away. Jungwoo has to step back quickly when Haechan counterattacks, almost tipping a foot past the breach and stumbling forward away from the edge.
Haechan pounces on the opening, thrusting out with the yellow nightstick.
The crackle of electricity is echoed in a collective gasp as Jungwoo takes a knee, immediately set on from behind with the thin metal rod against his long neck, Haechan dodging careless swipes backwards to pull tighter against his throat.
“Yield,” Haechan growls. Johnny realizes how close to jimseung the youngest already is. That sentiment is matched by the swipe of Jungwoo’s claws across the back of Haechan’s wrist, forearm torn to the sinew as Jungwoo takes advantage of the opening to smash his head backwards into the younger’s face.
Haechan yelps, dropping his weapon as blood gushes from his broken nose. His bloodied fingers slip on the handle of his stun baton as Jungwoo kicks it away lightly, the spin of the handle catching on the moat’s edge a few yards away.
“Oh, did you need that?” Jungwoo taunts, shaking himself loose on the rise up. “Don’t you have fur under that skin? C’mon, show me your teeth.”
“Bastard,” Haechan spits out a gob of congealing blood from beneath the steady flow, favoring his right arm.
“All's fair in love and war,” Jungwoo taunts. He switches his baton between hands as he circles the younger, taking his time. Haechan sweeps a kick to upend him but it’s easily avoided. He tries to seize the grounded end of Jungwoo’s baton next, earning a low-level stun that has the jackal seizing and twitching on the floor.
“Would you really do anything to protect her? Or are you losing so you can keep her all to yourself?” Jungwoo asks, watching patiently for his victim to recover.
“Shut up!” Haechan roars, rising up from the floor to roll the taller man down, defending against a stun with his claws embedded in Jungwoo’s shoulders and neck. The fight on the floor lasts only as long as it takes for Jungwoo to smash his forehead against the other’s face, again, Haechan letting out a gurgling snarl as he lets go–twisting away before the baton can smash down on his shoulder.
Sparks skitter across the floor, arcing across the flickering portion of the broken screen.
Jungwoo laughs even as blood oozes between fingers clamped to his neck, snapping the telescopic end of the baton open again with a spray of red. There’s a sinister quality to the way he’s taunting the younger, more like a cat with its prey.
Na’s influence, Johnny thinks, holding back the order he wants to shout at his subordinate. Even if he had a right to under the circumstances, Jungwoo was taking the act too far.
“Always pretending to be a little puppy nipping at our heels. Did it feel good to get to rut her first?” Jungwoo's sing-song voice is the only sound in the room besides Haechan's wet coughs and frustrated grunts as he tries to pick himself up.
Jungwoo's claws embed in the younger man's scruff, pulling him up, fielding off the weak blows from his left hand and the attempts to kick his legs out from under him. It's clear from the boy's pallor he's lost more blood than expected.
“Fight back,” Doyoung whispers. Johnny breathes, finally, realizing the air has left his lungs minutes ago.
“Fight back, kid,” he murmurs.
“Did you tell her you loved her? Or did you take what you could get and run away with your tail tucked between your legs?”
“I’ll kill you,” Haechan whines pitifully, pummeling Jungwoo’s wiry arm as he’s dragged towards the edge.
“Do you think you have it in you?”
Jungwoo doesn’t go for the final blow immediately, waiting until Haechan has been released and made it to his knee to push forward with a direct attack to the chest, just a tap but reinforced by the full unload of the stun.
Haechan tips back, paralyzed, crashing into the waters as the crowd erupts violently with a mix of cheers and boos.
“Did you plan that?” Johnny asks, icy rage in his tone.
Doyoung shakes his head, swiping a hand over his face. “No.”
You haven’t even realized you were standing, horror and pain blotting out any thought in your head–to the point you don’t even realize you’re being addressed.
“What's the verdict?” Jungwoo looks up at you, drenched in gore, his clawed thumb held horizontally from his closed fist. The crowd erupts, chants alternating between the desire to drown or electrocute the loser while messages and emotes flash across the privacy screens of the upper booths.
You watch the Canid move at his leisure around the field, even taking the time to dip his bloodied arm in the water to cleanse it.
“Such a young life, and a fellow Lee,” Key says with faux concern. “Would you really see this child consigned to death?”
There's a weighted pause as you regard the scene, as you lift your head and wipe your tears away. You lift your own hand in answer, thumb held upright in a mirrored gesture to the one before, shaking in the spotlight.
“I would have mer–” your words are cut clean by a horrible sound, Haechan's yell more howl as he finally pitches forward from the water, a yellow rod between his teeth. Jungwoo can only brace himself so much with the impact to his gut, pitched into the void beside him.
He has a moment to surface, scrabbling for the edge–
“NO!” you shout.
“No mercy,” Haechan repeats the crowd's line, activating the device and pitching it into the water below his feet.
Screams erupt in the sudden darkness and the spider-webbed fingers of lightning reaching halfway around the dark pool, the central light extinguished with a horrible snap and a flicker.
By the ringing in your ears you’re sure the scream was from you, hands grasping at you as you take advantage of the darkness and chaos to run.
Anguished murmurs follow, medics rushing in to the arena as the overhead lights illuminate the stage, water bleeding away from the rising floor.
What little of the screen still working is darkened by the arterial blood pooling around the figure who’s collapsed in the middle of it. Haechan holds his dripping head in his hands, healing slowly.
You make it to the edge of the arena, held back by Imperial guards as you reach for the body being pulled from the receding water by uniformed medics, shirt torn open to place electrodes on his unmoving chest.
“No,” you weep. “Please. Why?”
The defibrillation is heard throughout the room, beeps and shocks repeating until Jungwoo arcs upwards with the kick, twitching back to life with a matching signal from the monitors strapped to him.
You're finally able to wrest out of your captor's hold, falling ungracefully at the Alpha's side as his mouth is cleared of blood-tinged phlegm, unconsciously reaching to clear the damp hair from his forehead.
“Why?!” you repeat, louder.
It was supposed to be me, you think.
“You did this,” Haechan says, bitterly. The damage to his face is severe, both eyes blackened, claw marks leaking rivulets of red.
“You didn't have to–you didn't have to kill him!” Your sobs are amplified over the same frequency, keening along with the breaths rasping out of Jungwoo as he slips back into unconsciousness.
“YOU MADE ME!” Haechan shouts at you, making the whole room go still.
The Canid weakly pulls your token from its place in his saturated clothing, tossing it back on the ground to smear in the blood-dyed water. His eyes find you, finally, hollowed of everything human.
“I challenge you, next,” he says.
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#agtbtb#nct 127 fic#nct x reader#nct fic#nct 127 fanfic#nct imagines#nct 127 cyberpunk au#nct omegaverse au#nct fanfic
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a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 15: release
pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127
tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content
summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate’s clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself
but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out
ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting
now, you must make them choose you
[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [0: prologue] [1: escape, again] [2: lost and found] [3: returned] [4: bound] [5: home] [6: gift] [7: reunion] [8: security] [9: secret] [10: prisoner] [11: gambit] [12: haze] [13: shock] [14: feral]
wc: 4.3k
chapter warnings: horror scenario, graphic violence, explicit non-con/extremely dubious consent involving a feral hybrid [dead dove do not eat], attempted suicide, angst
109 . . . 108 . . . 107 . . .
Numbers flash on the screen in the shuddering crawl down to the magical, distant 88. You keep looking through the spiderweb of the broken door each level for a sign of your pursuer, even though you know such speed would be superhuman, beyond anyone's ability.
101 . . . 100 . . . 99 . . .
There's a mechanical click-click-click and a screech of emergency brakes at the exact same moment that everything goes dark. For a moment you're struck by the glow coming from the city beyond the smoked glass, eerily similar to the auroras you'd seen far north.
Then the silence swallows you whole.
It feels a little like you imagine the bottom of the sea might be–worse for the things lurking in the cold dark, silently approaching.
You're trapped in a tiny box in a huge building with the main power cut, with the utter certainty that if you do not escape, you will die.
You could keep sobbing, could keep huddling on the floor and wait for it. Maybe it would be easier than what's ahead. A part of you more human than animal doesn't want to fight it anymore. It wants to crawl back and meet your fate head on, neck and belly exposed.
Is there a way out that doesn't involve fleeing?
You're high enough here that if you could make it off the floor, you'd most likely black out before the collision a hundred stories down. Your next life might be easier, as your mother had once said to you.
It wasn't so much of a comfort, now.
Trapped between floors, the steel edge of a ceiling bisects the glass just beyond. It's the only thing you can use to leverage as you kick through the broken glass, wounds reopening and new ones torn from your slowly healing skin as you stifle your own scream.
Your fox knows you have to, by any means, be quiet.
The only sound you can hear is the clatter as chunks of the door fall yards below, leaving you peering into the open dark, unable to see a thing. You wait for what feels like forever to move again, once the quiet is a roaring in your ears.
The fight between the instinct to flee the elevator and the fear that if the power suddenly returns and you'll be bisected lasts only a moment. You squeeze through the painful jaws of the hole, clutching at the edge with bleeding hands before dropping to the floor.
Whatever attempts you made to calculate distance it's still not enough–you fall from the ceiling hard, the ground immediately jarring your bones, concentrated on your wrists and ankle. You fold into yourself in pain, skull clacking with your teeth.
You have some vision in the dark–enough to make out the soft blips of emergency lighting deeper in the floor, the faint outlines of an office interior more familiar to you from old melos. Dust coats the trickle of blood from your legs as you move, trying to avoid the shuffling disturbance as you step on paper strewn across black tile, frayed cords erupting from the carpet.
There’s something even more strange about this place, you realize–the smell of sulfur reeks throughout the room and there’s no sign of windows, as if the entire place has been barricaded and closed hermetically. Old screens are fractured with bullet holes, shell casings rolling beneath your feet.
An echo of some lower ancestor guides you through the dark.
Move. Freeze. Assess. Move again.
It's a special kind of rhythm made erratic as you listen. Your ears are a guide, instinct driving their direction.
There are sounds that are clearly building related–murmurs of distant elevators, droning from the city or lower floors. But without the constant hum and hiss of the air circulation there's an unsettling quiet here. You're in a cemetery for last century's corporations, tech abandoned and lifeless, useless to you now.
You look for anything in reach that might be able to help your escape, making your way slowly towards the familiar green man denoting an exit stairwell. The door is closed as far as you can see, slinking below the low dividers on the desks in case you're already being watched.
You know you'll know when you’re found–the prickle on the back of your neck steadily increases as you make it to the exit door, finding it retrofitted with a series of internal locks and a dead console.
You lift your wrist to it, realizing again that your agent, or rather Taeil’s, is back in Containment. You’re not even sure it would do anything, if you had it, but panic blazes through you at the knowledge that there’s not an easy way out.
That prickle is now a sting, driving you mad at being unable to place its origin.
All you know is that something is near.
You duck below a desk, avoiding tangling in spare cords and cable. The sound that should be coming from the stairwell is somewhere else–faint clicks and taps that echo through the entire space.
It's far enough away that you feel confident in slinking through the maze of stations towards another apparent exit. You wish you could transform–wish you could be the animal in this moment instead of a frightened human.
You can't fight back–can't even subdue the other Alpha by collar command with your own digging into your sweat-damp throat. At least, you think, he won't be able to mark you–
Something makes a noise, only a few meters away. Overhead, loud for how unexpected it is.
It's a soft chuff of breath, a rattling, gravely drone, and then–strangest of all–a soft rrowr.
If you weren't paralyzed with terror it would sound almost endearing.
The vocalization repeats, plaintive. It reminds you of something you'd read about, in relation to the mating habits of large Felids.
You're not being hunted, you realize.
You're being courted.
The call repeats a few seconds later, further away. Your lungs burn from your held scream, inching away, eyes on the ceiling.
Panels have been removed or hang haphazardly, revealing the space beyond for vents and wiring, surely too crowded to move in as quietly as your pursuer seems to be.
You don't dare stand up, but you do find more speed in your crawl on all fours. The stained carpet muffles the sound but in your haste you accidentally tug something off a desk above–the equipment clattering to the floor.
The silence that follows is deadly.
You make a decision in the split second between realizing your mistake and knowing the outcome.
Now, you run.
Something thuds to the ground behind you–no,not the ground–on top of one of the low desks. You can't turn, you can't even glance over your shoulder as you sprint for the stairwell door.
You expect the sound of footfalls, unable to accept when there are none.
You turn to look one last time–seeing only an empty room–right before the heavy body slams into you from above.
You don't hold in your scream now, shrieking as you fight back, rolled across an explosion of paper and plastic remnants of some exploded machine, clawing at the man holding you down. Through the old burn of gunpowder you’re drowning in that Alpha scent that once seemed familiar, cedar bark warmth mixed with the rust of dried blood.
"Jaehyun," you wheeze out from under him, trying to reach him. "Please don't hurt me, please don't–"
Your babbling is cut short by the tongue on your neck, canines clinking against your collar.
That rumble-tick–not a purr but something more sinister–fills your ears as he continues to lick at you, much more gently than you expected. You will yourself limp, face pressed painfully into the carpet, crying silently.
"Please don't hurt me," you repeat in a whisper.
Hands knead into your pinned shoulders, claws tugging at your shirt but not penetrating. After a few moments he eases off, adjusting to straddle your thighs, scraping rough fingertips over your arms and the hair raised across them.
"Please come back," you say. "Please stop."
You're surprised when he speaks, still giving off that throaty noise–more feline than human.
"Mine," he says, softly.
You're able to see him from the corner of your eye, face and wide body shadowed in the dark.
"Yours," you agree, surrendering. "But you have to let me go."
It doesn't appear to affect him, his eyes shining discs in the dim. He leans in to clean a swipe of blood from your cheek, making you moan uselessly.
"Let me go, please. I won't run," you plead.
He only holds you more tightly, lifting you against his chest to better reach the skin not rubbed raw by his rough tongue. You hold your breath as your mouths meet–fangs too big to breach your lips, the smell of blood overwhelming.
He kisses you–no, cleans you, dragging sweat and grime from your chin to your cheekbone. It's an intimate, loving gesture, leaving you shaking as your body responds outside of the fear and adrenaline, scent blooming at the Alpha care it's receiving.
No, no, no, you think, horrified. She can’t want this.
In the haze of heat you can still remember the way Mark’s breath had bubbled red on his lips as his throat was torn into. You know your fate will be the same if you resist, not even a collar will save you. But you have to try.
You fumble for something–anything–gripping a length of cord and tugging it to yank it free. His clawed hand encircles yours, crushing your fist until you yelp.
Jaehyun hesitates in alarm–long enough for you to swirl out of his hold, on your back, rabbit kick activated–slamming your foot into his injured side.
The noise that comes out of him is unbearable, more strangled cry than a roar. You don't wait, scrabbling along the floor with the cord in your grip, pulling yourself free.
You stumble out of range, overturning a metal cabinet with a sudden burst of strength behind you, slipping through tight spaces between desks to the dark door.
Another lock, but this one is blessedly de-activated, opening with a shove against the metal push lever that has you into the stairwell and rolling down the nearest incline, jarred as the door groans to close behind you.
You don’t have the time or sense to listen for his pursuit, throwing yourself down flight after flight without counting, past strange barricades of furniture and the charred smell of long-extinguished explosives, metal doors beckoning at each level.
Then you finally see illumination through the reinforced glass of a floor’s window–something glowing on the other side. The hybrid scents pervading here are more recent, as if frequented.
A sign of life, perhaps. You pull the door, blasted by cold air just as something drops beside you from the open space past the railing, heavy and large.
You slip through but so does he, just behind you, door slamming shut. You realize he's not even bothering to give chase as you run down a corridor into a labyrinth of ceiling-high server banks, humming in all directions.
It’s impossible to know which direction to take, where to go, but one thing is clear as you feel the presence approach behind you, moving slowly and deliberately.
You are not going to escape.
There’s only one way out, now. If you have a choice it will be how you meet it.
You just need to find an opening.
You turn, and drop to your knees.
“Please don’t do this,” you plead, seeing your breath in the air with your eyes lowered. “Please, Alpha.”
He circles you inquisitively, trailing blood from his bare feet, silent as the grave.
“Jaehyun,” you say, willing him again to comply, desperately. “I know you’re there.”
You feel more than see him come down to meet you, shivering as his breath blows on your skin.
"Please come back to me. Please protect me, Alpha."
Your conviction works, or at least appears to as he returns to doting upon you in the manner of his true form.
Arms encircle you, back pressed to yours as he licks at the marked side of your face, beneath the sweat-soaked fall of your hair. Your tail swishes on its own whim, your body folding as he seems to relax along with you, carrying you down with his weight.
“Mine,” he says again, more rumble than word.
That sound vibrates through you, treacherous in the way your body craves it to continue, to be soothed.
You hadn’t imagined any specific outcome when you’d run to him earlier, human mind calculating steps to earn his protection in much less violent fashion, but now you understand that the outcome would have always been the same.
With or without conscious control, you’d both be driven to mate.
It was only natural that you wanted him to take you, to find some way to rewrite the thing screaming inside you for the male who had abandoned you and left you here with nothing but self-loathing for company.
Perhaps you should feel guilt about this, too. But no–you only know survival.
“Yours,” you answer, nuzzling experimentally into his nearby, bare arm.
His skin is radiating heat but you can feel the weakness of his pulse from blood loss, the tempting vanilla orchid of his scent growing stronger as you kiss down his arm towards his wrist in the illusion of seduction, tongue trailing until you feel the roughness of his gland beneath it.
You're careful not to make a sudden movement, gently indenting your teeth in to make sure you can–
Teeth close on your ear, not clamping down but firm enough to make your vision flash white, head yanked back as your arms give out and you're crushed beneath the full weight of the Felid, growling in between panting whines.
"No, no, no," you beg, angling to try and finish the claim, stilling when you realize his teeth are tearing your delicate ear. “Let go.”
He releases you to speak.
“Won’t run,” he whispers your own words back to you. “Mine.”
That single instant of relief dies when you feel the bite on your spine, above your collar. Jaehyun's teeth are poised to crush your neck where it connects to your skull, purr deep in his chest as he fumbles between you, between your legs–
"Crimson," you say, vision darkening even before the shock hits you.
Your muscles spasm, uncontrolled twitches. The cement floor rises to meet you, snatched back by the hold on your neck as your body goes limp.
Why didn’t it work? you think.
He’s still gently biting you as the seconds tick down, releasing you when you don’t move to lick at your neck and snarl when you twitch through the last of the seizures.
In the dark and without any other recourse you feign death, all the fight leaching out of you along with the heat from your face against the frigid floor. Your nails scrape against it as your body is moved for you, the sounds of his whining desperation muffled in the aftermath.
He paws at you to make sure you are still alive, licking at your ear until it moves, his delight apparent in the way he picks you up like a ragdoll to hold you tight to him. You’re so tired you can’t struggle away. All that energy expended only to end up here, submitting involuntarily.
This is what you’d wanted, after all.
He can at least give you what you need.
The omega at your core doesn’t mind so much now that his taste is in her mouth, isn’t unwilling even as frighteningly human hands lift your hips, angling them up, trapping your limp tail between your bodies as he grinds into your thighs.
Instead, she shudders into it, eyes closing against the soft green light the moment you're touched and freed from the constriction of your clothing, blooming into warm arousal in this worst of possible environments. You can only experience what happens next as if still paralyzed, distant and pulled back in a thousand-foot view.
There's no escape.
Humiliated, you weep slow tears, bracing yourself. Something thick and hot prods at your opening, forced so quickly into your ready heat you can't even scream.
Just a moment’s relief courses through you, the need wound tight inside your belly cut loose as radiating waves of pleasure accompany being penetrated, being filled by your Alpha.
No, not your Alpha. Not yet.
That glow recedes, quickly, as savage claws rake you inside when he pulls out. And then he’s rocking into you again, deeper, your tears sliding across the cement as you’re pushed forward, immobilized by the pain.
A croak escapes your chest, the aftereffects of the collar making speech impossible. Again, and again, until there’s no new sharpness, just an excruciating throbbing inseparable from the sweetness of reaching another peak.
You feel the gush of slick, the slipperiness tainted with something stickier, fresh blood lingering in the air. Your thighs quake as you try to find the control to break free, pull away, force him out. The animal in you resists it, but now at least she’s gnawing with the need to sink her teeth in, to make him stop hurting her in any way possible.
The Alpha’s panting snarls turn plaintive, a heavy head against yours as he makes one–final–rut into you.
This one tears you open, just as you finally have enough breath to cry out, the scream muffled when your teeth snap shut, finally, on something other than air.
The body over you stills as he surges deep and hot inside you, agony disintegrating your last will to fight as a familiar swelling follows–digging those claws in so deeply you feel like they'll never be released.
You sob in the dark, defeated, pulled into a gray unconscious where the horror can't follow.
Distantly, somewhere, someone calls your name.
Tense silence accompanies the journey back in the autocar, more-so when the elevator doors open to a pitch-black hangar, red emergency lighting making the everyday setting eerie.
Johnny can scent it immediately–gunpowder and blood.
"Stay here. Guard him." Doyoung doesn't protest as Yuta thrusts the gun in his direction, Taeyong's bleary eyes blinking into full consciousness as he realizes the danger.
"Are we being attacked–?"
"Quiet," Johnny orders, ears flicking up from his skull as soon as the space is silent again.
Then he's off–too fast for Yuta to follow, though he knows his partner will catch up in time.
There's a siren ringing in his head even if the alarms are quiet, an instinct in his marrow that has him stalking the peaceful interior corridors.
All he has to do is follow the thick and cloying smell of drying blood, finding Jungwoo crouched over what looks to be a mangled body, next to the equally destroyed NeoTech elevator bay.
The instant he enters the commons the younger man lifts a shotgun at him, eyes wild and grip shaking as the laser sight bounces across Johnny’s bare chest. Johnny doesn’t flinch, crouching down over the casualty.
Mark. He’s breathing, barely, gurgling in his ravaged throat with each breath under a makeshift tourniquet.
Jungwoo lowers the barrel after a few, tense moments, hands slick with blood.
"I thought you were . . ." he says, voice a wisp.
"Who did this?" Johnny asks.
Jungwoo shakes his head, wiping tears or sweat from his face with his sleeve. "He's still alive."
"WHO?!" Johnny repeats, voice booming through the empty space.
The Canid tosses something at his feet, metal mesh sliding across the floor. The collar is ravaged, torn apart with inhuman strength, shredded wires still sparking.
"No," he says, more to himself than the other Alpha.
"I didn't know," Jungwoo repeats quietly, sniffling. "I didn't–"
"Shut up, SHUT UP!" Johnny doesn't spare another moment to check his second-in-command, turning to find Yuta poised behind him, face haunted with more than alarm.
"Get Moon up any way possible." He says, glancing back at Jungwoo. "If Lee dies you're dead, too."
He's already headed where his nose is leading him–to the emergency stairwell.
"Don't kill him," Jungwoo says–soft but not softly enough. "Please."
Johnny doesn't answer.
It's a tortuous journey down, past the barricades and stopgaps they'd put in place long ago lest they ever face invasion from lower floors. Not once had they ever had to deal with a threat from outside–no one was stupid enough to go up against their security.
The threat had always been living in their midst.
Jaehyun's scent is just as thick here as it was above, the trail solidified by the massive amount of blood he appears to have lost before healing began. His friend had never had an easy time with physical injury–too modified by anti-shift therapies to recover as easily as he or Yuta did.
Something like a lead weight is pressed into Johnny's chest as he nears the brightest blooms of that familiar, woodsy scent–vanilla and tannins in his throat with each breath now tainted with something even more known.
You.
He doesn't know what floor he's on, just that he can taste you in the air, nauseatingly fresh. It leads him deep into the old research floors and the Nyctos kill house, strip lighting illuminating the blasted out office interiors they used for CQB training, every corridor and bank of ancient monitors a known checkpoint.
He finds Jaehyun not by scent trail but by the soft sounds leading to his hiding place in a corner of one of the old server rooms, still used for environmental building controls.
Hunched over his knees, the younger Alpha doesn’t even look up at him. The stack of data drives beside Jaehyun is smeared with gore, his hands flexing and clenching in the way he knows all too well as a self-soothing gesture once the claws are gone.
Johnny's fury diffuses.
Regardless of circumstances, the defeated creature in this room is still his closest friend. The Alpha urge to protect his packmate remains even if he knows it won't last for long–can't when he's hit with the intensity of your pheromones and the acid taste of fear.
Something worse lingers in the air, something he can't confront.
"What did she do?" He asks, not daring to come closer.
The Alpha's head bobs, unable to lift to meet his eyes.
"I can’t remember," he says, voice far away. "I can feel it."
Jaehyun's fingers sink in his greasy hair, threatening to tear it out at the root. His left wrist is a mangled wreck–blood pulsing dark down his forearm in an awful mirror of Johnny's matching scars. "I can feel everything."
"Where is she?" Johnny changes tack, panic making him desperate. "Where did she go?"
Jaehyun shakes his head, devolving into horrible, choked sobs that shake his entire frame. There's no point in torturing him, no reason to stay when the beast in his blood is ready to kill the pathetic thing in front of him.
Johnny flees instead.
Coward, you'd called him.
Maybe you were right.
He'd kept himself and his brothers alive until now, helped build this entire enterprise on a foundation of control and order that had slipped and collapsed the moment you'd come back into his life.
If he's being honest with himself, you were always on a collision course: two dark objects in space in erratic orbit–never able to escape the gravity of the bond he's tried so hard to ignore until now.
It's inescapable.
He knows you're alive even if there's a hollow place inside his ribcage he can't explain, a grave stillness that only gets worse as he traces your exit.
A smeared handprint on the banister leading to a lower floor. A spot of blood on a stairwell. A drip of saliva, or worse, on the tile leading into the old rec center they still maintained for the recruits on the 95th floor.
He doesn't know what he's looking at in the flicker of the decentralized lighting–an uncannily still, black and red haze in the murky pool.
No.
The word resonates through his entire being, throwing him into action, chemical-rich water burning his eyes as he plunges in. He's not capable of being gentle, tearing you to the surface to drag you out limp and unbreathing.
Your face is bloodless and bruised, scratches weeping fresh pink rivulets from your arms and legs.
There's no stiffness yet, you're still warm as he blows air into your lungs and presses on your breastbone to try and revive you–a horrible echo of a decade ago, when he'd managed to break free from the beast long enough to see you breathe once more.
This time, you don't choke up the water in your lungs.
You don't respond at all.
Johnny lifts you up, head lolling against his arm, tears splashing hot from his face and onto yours. His fingers feel useless, clearing tangled webs of hair from your cheeks and forehead.
You can't be gone, you can't be.
He can still feel you.
Even if you don't have a heartbeat, he can still feel you.
Something breaks in him, holding you tight to his chest. It's like a thin rod of glass in a safe designed to never be cracked, the cable from which his entire world hangs snapping under the weight of every decision he's made.
There is no existence that he can survive without you in it.
He braces your neck, clinging to you as he rocks back and forth involuntarily. A cold artificial texture under his fingertips brings him up long enough, the choice made before the word even leaves his mouth.
"Crimson," he whispers.
The collar's light blinks red, your body jerking with the electrical stimulation to your autonomic system. It's torture waiting for it to be over, only to find you're stilled again.
"Crimson," he repeats.
Again, when the refractory period ends.
"Crimson."
Over and over, until you finally heave and cough and hot fluid gushes down his back, until you're coming back to him in fits and starts, to his eternal relief.
He eases you down, cradled in his arms as your eyes flutter open, as you blink up at him.
There's an emptiness in your gaze he's never seen before–something reflected of what he's felt for so long, now dead.
And in his heart, where the bond sings, a tiny tug of connection. The only thing on the other side destroys him more than those cruel few seconds of your absence–something worse in its finality.
Boneless with exhaustion, features drawn and hollowed with pain, you repeat the sentiment thrumming through his burning chest.
"You should have let me go," you whisper, turning your head so you don't have to look at him anymore.
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#agtbtb#nct x reader#nct 127 x reader#nct 127 omegaverse#nct 127 cyberpunk au#nct fic#nct 127 fic#nct imagines#nct 127 fanfic#nct 127 imagines#nct smut#nct 127 smut
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a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 16: acceptance
pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127
tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content
summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate’s clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself
but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out
ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting
now, you must make them choose you
[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [0: prologue] [1: escape, again] [2: lost and found] [3: returned] [4: bound] [5: home] [6: gift] [7: reunion] [8: security] [9: secret] [10: prisoner] [11: gambit] [12: haze] [13: shock] [14: feral] [15: release]
wc: 4.4k
chapter warnings: defcon 5 critical levels of angst, mentions of self-harm, recovery from trauma, suicidal ideation
recommended listening: this next arc in the story brought to you by sneaker pimp's squaring the circle (2021) but especially tranquility trap
They don't speak over you or for you, anymore. They speak at you now.
When you are in a room they treat you as if you are its center, a point around which everything revolves. Perhaps they had always considered you this way, but this is a different kind of recognition.
Meanwhile, you refuse to speak, or favor them with your recognition. You no longer have to.
You don't meet Jungwoo's eyes when his shaking hands disable the collar around your throat. You hold your lips tight against any sound when Taeil tentatively lifts your face to pluck a splinter of plastic or glass from your cheek.
You're no longer registering the pain, despite your refusal of medication. There's a roiling hot chamber inside of you that has no pressure relief, but it's nothing compared to the sewage of other people's emotions. You curl in on yourself, unseeing instead, letting your own will disappear.
This is the pack bond. Before it had just nagged at you: agitation and disgust and disinterest were always at the corner of your mind. You couldn't have expected anything better with Johnny's rejection. In a way it would have been easier if it just stayed that way, forever.
Now, you're a conduit for something else.
Remorse.
It suffocates you.
Taeil had been the first to pry in, more patiently and carefully than you expected. You'd been forced to hold still as his steady hands faltered, as he left the room to regroup–the bitter chemical scent of nicotine clinging to his coat when he'd returned, finding you curled into Haechan's vacant bed, white sheet draped over you.
He'd made everyone leave the room so he could attend to the new scratches you'd made in your forearm, automatic movements recreating something you could feel in your left wrist.
Not your wrist, you think.
Then your ankle, which at this point has healed–wrongly. He can’t treat it until you give consent for sedation, too compromised by your shared pain to make the incisions necessary to reconnect the tendons snapped too far apart to rejoin naturally.
You expect him to continue the examination, surely the reason you’d caught the redness of his eyes from crying was because of that other, deep pain inside. But he makes no move to broach your physical space outside of gently resting his hand on your shoulder, letting the pressure increase when you don’t jerk away.
You realize after a few minutes of silence between you that it was just an excuse to finally get the shadow out from beside your hospital bed.
“I want you to take all the time you need,” he says. “Wherever you want to go, whatever you need, we'll support you.”
If it’s tiring just to feel, listening to their false supplications wears you to dust.
"I told Taeyong everything," Jungwoo says, quietly, working at the broken mechanism of your collar when he releases it from your sore neck. "We'll have a tribunal. You can decide what you want to do, then. I accept it. He accepts it. Just please . . . Have mercy for him."
His large eyes lift to you, watery in their sympathy. You meet them for an instant, and he flees like a frightened child.
Doyoung and Yuta had followed–both formal in their own way.
"You can lodge a complaint with the Syndicate, of course," Doyoung says. "But the contract is annulled. We'll find a place for you to live outside of the Dome comfortably and make up an airtight story about your resignation. You'll be safe, and free. If you choose."
Safe, and free. If you chose. You could laugh. You knew better than to dabble in delusion.
Yuta is the only one you feel truth from when he approaches you–artifice nonexistent as he stands beside you, choosing the best words. He seems to understand reconciliation is impossible.
"You didn't deserve this," he says. "I'm sorry."
You offer him nothing.
"I already put in my resignation with Taeyong. Back to NSMP, if Johnny doesn't tear my throat out. Good luck, princess."
And then Taeyong. He'd only been able to manage a few words before he'd collapsed into quiet crying, taken away by Taeil and Doyoung before he could upset you even more.
Haechan hasn’t entered the room at all, his ghost present in the pillow beneath you and the fleeting bright flickers of anger that race over you when you can catch fresher traces of his ozone-like scent through the opening and closing doors.
You're grateful for the fact that he's not treating you like the others. If there's any comfort in all of this it's that he doesn't pity you at all. You can't stand the hypocrisy of it.
Mark–so deeply comatose you can hardly see him breathe–sleeps in the bed beside you. You spend a long time watching him breathe, eyes focusing and unfocusing on the new sharpness of his face in the dimmed fluorescent lighting. He's never looked less of a child than he does now, pulled back from death’s doorstep.
You think he's the best company you could ask for.
Especially since the worst offender of this newfound curse hasn't wanted to leave your side, no matter what you throw at him, objects and cold fury alike. Even the doctor’s order to leave the room was half-accomplished; he'd settled on going into Taeil’s quarters where he could keep you in sight.
His pacing would make you go mad alone, but then there are his feelings. Naked and raw and so wholly exposed it’s as if they’re yours, if they weren’t so nauseatingly not.
He's quaking in his skin, anger flitting between any target but you. No, when Johnny looks at you now you feel the sickly crawl of his concern, the hopeless self-loathing and the warm bloom of affection he can no longer hide.
It's disgusting to you, worse even than the lust that he and the others so guiltily try to ignore.
You're still in heat after all–it's just a biological imperative. Nothing real.
"We need both of you to help us take care of this," Yuta says, more serious and quiet than you've ever heard him when he returns to the room. "He's threatening to do it himself."
Your head snaps up, disrupting Taeil's work checking the burn marks on the back of your neck.
"Where is he?" You finally speak, voice hollow.
Yuta's mouth forms a thin line, eyes flicking to Johnny's back where he sits besides Taeil's bed. If Johnny has registered what he said, head in his hands, he doesn't show it.
"Leave it." Taeil says, softly. "You don't have to–"
"Don't tell me what to do." You slip down from the hospital bed, yanking the IV from your arm. Taeil reaches for you but you duck away from him, letting your rage blaze across the new connection.
Everyone in the room feels it.
"It's pack business," Yuta explains. "We'll take care of it."
You hobble towards him, enjoying the way he backs up, eyes widening.
"Take me to him," you say.
"After–"
"Now," you order. "Don't look at him."
You maintain eye contact, swaying a little when you try to pull yourself to full height. It hurts to stand up, to breathe–ribs reknitting slowly inside your bruised chest.
"Let her go," Taeil says. "We owe her that."
"No," Johnny interrupts, finally. You feel him unwind from where he's been hiding, hesitating when you snarl under your breath at him.
You won't look at him, you can’t.
"You will not speak to me or for me. You will not say one word to me until I tell you to," you say to the room. From the corner of your eye you see Johnny shrink, almost, back curled like he's been punched in the stomach. It feels like it, too.
You don't wait for them to change their mind–you make your way out, slowly and with fresh jolts of pain, pushing past Taeil.
You don't need them to tell you where he is--you can feel your newest bondmark like a black hole in your mind, his misery so thick it burns the edges of your vision.
They hadn't taken him back to his cell–no he was in the hangar. The room most fitting to clean up an execution, or something worse.
The two cats trail you at a distance, Yuta's hand snaking out to grab you when your bad leg gives out beneath you. Despite your impulse to pull away you let him support your side, heartbeat slowing a little with the tenderness. As distant as it is, you know he's just as emotionally attuned to you as the others–you feel his care when he finally decides to carry you with his arm around your neck.
You make him put you down before the doors slide open. You want to face this on your own two feet.
The rest of the pack is here, and not one of them is prepared for the sight of you.
"You shouldn't–" Doyoung begins, words cut short by some gesture from Johnny. Taeyong lifts his head from where he's being supported by Haechan as he stands over Jaehyun, the younger Canid offering you nothing but contempt when he looks at you.
There, huddled on the floor, bound and collared and muzzled, is the creature that raped you.
No longer in jimseung, he's so much smaller and less threatening. Even beneath the synthetic mask you can see his face twist, eyes red and swollen from crying, fresh grief shaking his body as he stares at the floor.
"Take that off of him," you say, flatly. Taeyong's eyes go wide, head shaking. He looks terrible–face drawn and sweaty, eyelids drooping from exhaustion as he puts himself between you.
"It's not safe," Doyoung says, hands raised as he approaches. You glare at him, stopping him in his tracks.
"Do whatever she says." Johnny's voice is barely audible.
Jungwoo moves quickly to remove the muzzle from Jaehyun, his own eyes red-rimmed as they dart to you, watching you move forward–slowly–towards the captive feral. He’s a livewire of fear for his friend, you know. Why wouldn’t any of them be afraid of your wrath now after being on the receiving end of it for the past 12 hours?
"Wait."
Taeyong drops to his knees in front of you, gestures submissive as he holds himself on the floor in a deep prostration, tail and ears drooped.
"Please, ____," he begins, as you step around him, ignoring his rushed lead-in to a formal apology.
You don't stop until your bandaged feet are in Jaehyun's view, until you're standing over him. He's just as unkempt as when you’d left him, smelling of blood and fried electronics, the knife wound in his side no longer bleeding but crusted brown with layers of healed and reopened scabs.
Only the mark you'd given him seems to be fresh, bleeding through a hasty attempt to bandage it. It will scar, eventually. If he lives that long.
He whispers something inaudible now that his muzzle has been removed.
You place a hand on his scalp, gently, and lean down to hear it. It’s just a high-pitched whine, crackling with each breath, repeated like a mantra.
"I'msorryi'msorryi'msorry.”
"I know," you soothe. “I am, too.”
You drop down and wrap your arms around him, holding him tight as he tries to escape–bound too well at his hands and ankles to avoid you. You knew they hadn’t tied him up for fear of him, but rather for his own safety. After a few seconds in your embrace he gives up, head heavy against your shoulder. He tastes like an old book left open in the sun, cypress trees waving in the wind.
"Shhh," you say, hand soothing his back. You rest your head against the side of his, pressed into his human ear as you feel him weep into your clothing, trembling in waves.
"Do you remember what I told you?" you ask.
He nods, reluctantly, chin tucked in.
The fragile link between you sings with the feelings you share with him. There's fear and mistrust there–of course. But they're not the primary color. Even when you'd first bitten him, the animal taking over to stop the pain, you'd given him this promise.
Peace. Like light on the surface of a deep, calm sea.
"Forget this," you said. "Forget what happened."
Even then you’d known it was the cruelest order you could give another person. It had seemed to work at the time, long enough at least for him to pass out from blood loss beside you, holding onto you in the dark and cold until you could finally free yourself.
The confusion and regret is still there, but now you know the true depth of years of self-loathing, and fear.
"You didn't do anything wrong," you say, loud enough the others can still hear you, muffled in his hair. "I forgive you."
And then–as before, cruelty in your kindness–you ask him for one, last favor.
Your command should have been inaudible to the other men in the room, as whispered as it was under the cage of your arms.
"No–NO!" You don't know who speaks, hearing the commotion as everyone moves at once–just not quickly enough.
Jaehyun resists it but only for a fraction of a second–teeth breaking the skin of your neck in the most gentle bite possible, a final attempt to fight against the inevitable. Heat floods your chest and throat as you feel it in his, every last fiber of connection snapping into place as you've willed it, even as he chokes out an anguished cry at the forced claim.
You're torn from him in a heartbeat, gun cocked and held to your head rather than aimed at the Alpha collapsing to the floor. Jaehyun gags and spits at that tiny bit of your flesh, retching horribly.
You look up at Haechan, offering no resistance. Venom is in his gaze as he holds you by the scruff, sunk deeper by his certainty.
"She ordered him to do it," he says. "She ordered him to claim her."
"I did," you say. "It was my choice, alone. I forced him to."
"Did you mark him before he–" Haechan’s bitter words break as you grab his gun to press against the muzzle, daring him to make good on his threat. He tries to pull away but you stay locked on it, shuffling forward to meet it.
"He’s mine now,” you goad him. “Under my protection. A life for life.”
You wonder for a moment if he'll be the one to do what the rest of the pack should have done a long time ago, his finger tensing over the trigger.
You wouldn't mind this end–you can’t lie to yourself in accepting that it was the same one you'd chased when you’d found yourself alone in that room. It had seemed like the only relief for you, for the others.
How can you live with what you'd done? had been your first thought, a repeated stanza going back so far, when you’d first realized what it meant to take a life by your teeth and words alone. Not that stupid man who’d tried to take your innocence, but the one who’d saved you from drowning only to be hunted for it.
It was a contradiction too deeply at war with the omega inside you, the one who wanted to quietly and selflessly bow to the desires of your Alpha in return for protection, and pleasure. All that instinct and denial could only translate to the simplest solution: remove yourself from the equation.
Instead like a parasite inside of you, you’d passed that desire from host to host, until you were surrounded by minds and hearts just as broken as yours.
Yes, you'd been abused. Treated unfairly. But those things were woven into the fabric of your existence in the same way the curse had hung over your head since returning to Neo Seoul. A lotus flowering in the muck, they'd called you. Queen of one thousand kingdoms. A treasure in the dirt, a diamond retrieved from war-blasted earth.
Queen of nothing, you think. Just a void and a receptacle for everyone else’s pain, over and over again in endless cycles until you could finally free yourself from this cycle of karmic rehabilitation.
Live, you'd told the man beside you as he dreamed. Forget about this, and live. You're free now.
The irony being that you'd never be able to.
You can only mourn the fact that . . . for a minute made endless when you’d slipped beneath the surface into unconsciousness . . . you'd known true peace.
They're the ones who brought you back into this nightmare. Who taught you that there is nothing there, that you'll never truly be free.
Surely the younger feels that memory pass through you, knows that horror intimately as you look up in his unyielding eyes.
Haechan's nostrils flare, gun lowering.
"It's your fault," he repeats, wiping his face on his shoulder as he collects himself. "I know none of you give a shit about justice but you need to try her first. She isn't pack. She won’t be."
"She saved him," Jungwoo answers. "He's not in jimseung anymore–"
"If that's saving I'd rather die," Haechan yells back, bristling. "You don't know what it feels like–"
"Stop this. It's done," Doyoung breaks the standoff. "We need everyone present and in full comportment to make a decision."
"No."
It's Jaehyun who finally answers, surprising you all by how calm he sounds. "You know what to do."
You don't realize who it's directed at until Johnny moves fluidly to lift the other man, hands wrapped around his throat.
"No!" you scream, fighting Haechan. Johnny ignores you, the exposed muscles of his bare back rippling as his claws broach the other man's bruised skin over the glint of his collar, thumbs pressed into his trachea. Jaehyun offers no resistance, eyes closed tight.
"Kill him and you kill me," you cry out, hands jerking the gun beneath Haechan's grip to your breast. The Canid realizes your intention before you can speak, ripping his grasp away, throwing the weapon to slide across the floor.
For a moment you see the malicious satisfaction of having bested you, can feel the sympathetic sneer tugging on your own lips.
"Let go," you order, and Haechan drops you just as quickly.
You scrabble over the grating to Johnny, mind racing to think of some solution–anything to stop the horrible, slow choke of your mate, the air captured in your lungs–
"Let him–"
Your scream is cut short by a hand snaking over your face, a body wrapped around yours.
"Stop," Taeyong says. "Both of you. Now."
It's not an order but Johnny freezes, the silence that follows horrendous in the pinging of blood steadily dripping to the floor. It courses down Jaehyun's limp feet, his breaths rattling.
"____" Your name whispered in your ear rouses you from the haze of terror and agony and adrenaline. "Are you with me?"
You nod, lips twisting under the other omega's knobby grasp. His scent burns through you, tempered by the heat and your own claim, alcohol-sharp and spiced.
"No orders," he says, exhaustedly. "Accept him."
You toss your head. You could break free but there's an overwhelming comfort in Taeyong's hold that slows you down, making you ease out of the panic attack. Your claws dig into the metal flooring, shriek loud in the unnatural silence.
"Accept," he repeats. His fingers slip free of your mouth, lingering on your shirt as he licks gently at your weeping neck wound.
It should make you fight back more but your tension dissolves, legs sprawled beneath you as you sink to the floor. The unspoken promise in that gesture is clear to you–he'll accept you, too. Perhaps he has already, when he'd reached out for you on that rooftop.
Taeyong's mind is yours, his emotions overwhelming in their honesty. You see the field of battle as clearly as if you were standing on it, the white flag of surrender limp at your side.
Only one person can end this madness. Only one person can make all of this misery disappear. It's no longer as simple as disappearing. No, you don't have that exit anymore.
"Alpha," you say, addressing him, finally.
Johnny doesn't move except to lower his arms, mirroring your slow surrender.
"Alpha, please," you repeat.
You hear Jaehyun's body thud as he hits the floor when he finally let's him go.
Johnny is cringing again, folding inward with realization. You're struck by how far he's gone, irrationally fixated on the sight of another marking you in front of him. He's on the edge of a full shift, dark waves rippling over his skin and disappearing into the cant of his ears.
"You let him claim you," he says quietly.
That nonsensical animal, Alpha urge to dominate. To remind the other male that he's intruded on his possession.
He would kill everyone in this room if it meant having you solely for himself–no matter what they've shared. He wants to punish everyone responsible, beginning with himself. It's eating him from the inside and dissolving everything good.
But the worst crime, you know, is how quickly you'd whispered those words.
I forgive you.
He'd felt what you'd denied him–always–given so freely to a person you barely knew, who'd taken what he'd believed was his. Maybe he would have taken his time in pursuing you, when he felt it was right, but he'd let you be the one to decide if he was worth waiting for. Secretly, selfishly, he'd hoped you'd choose him.
Forgive him.
That is the dagger in his heart only you can pull out.
You let the wall come down between you, a brick at a time.
You send him an impression, first. The simplest one you have–the one you'd kept of him the first night you'd seen him human, unobserved, not knowing you were in the room yet.
His easy smile, his deep laugh at something a stranger said. The way he'd carefully observed the room between attention–how his eyes had widened when he'd first caught your scent, hiding the exposure under a thick layer of fear at your discovery or bringing any danger to you.
But you had felt it then–had chased what it had meant to you–that golden flame of recognition in your chest flaring to life as it had in his.
Even if it was a stupid dream he'd been the prince you sought, your knight in shining armor who could take you away from the solitude of your tower.
No–not just your hero. Your Alpha.
"I don't know who you are at all," you say. "You're more a stranger to me than anyone else in the world."
You feel something wet and warm on your face. "The only thing I understood after we bonded was you could never willingly accept me even if you wanted to. Even if I wanted you to."
"You were a child," he says, staring at his bloodied, barely human hand.
"You were too," you say. Taeil's words had embedded in you, writ deep with how those words affected him. Nineteen years old was nothing, it still feels like yesterday the way thirteen does to you.
"I waited a decade for you. I know it was stupid of me to hold on to but you were my safety. I would have just been nobody, a prize for someone else to take if I hadn't held onto the hope that one day, someday, you'd come back for me."
Your voice cracks as the things you've held in spill out. You're addressing your prime, now, but the words are for them all.
"I didn't know that I'd end up here when I ran away. I just made a decision, when I saw you again. That I wanted to be with you. Whatever the cost."
You let that penetrate, looking up to the Canid beside you. Haechan doesn't meet your eyes, hand unconsciously pressed to the bandage around his neck. You turn to take on the stares of the others in the room–Doyoung, Yuta, Jungwoo.
"I'm not sorry for wanting to be with you. I can only apologize for hurting the people you love."
And you.
You suck in a breath, wincing at the push of your lungs against your tortured breastbone. "It will take me a long time to forget the way you've treated me. I didn't deserve it."
It wasn't his fault he was a monster. They all were. But so are you, under scrutiny.
You choke on a sob, pain pushed outward. "You don't deserve me. I'm not nothing. And even if I was . . . You should have been more kind."
You steady yourself, Taeyong pulling back to allow you the space needed to stay centered. In this moment, surrounded and overwhelmed as you are by the intricacies of their responses, you are alone. For the first time in a very long time, you are yourself–nothing hidden or influenced.
"But I want you to try." You say. "I want us to live, any way we can. I want to try."
You mimic Taeyong's obeisance, bowed so deep that your head touches the floor. Your tail curls at your side, neck offered in place of the man beside you.
"I accept you. The will of the pack is mine, including whatever punishment you decide. I am yours . . . If you will have me."
No one answers, not even Taeyong–his breath held in his chest as he looks up at the prime standing over you both, radiating a complex anger in his posture and scent.
It takes a long time for him to answer.
"A life for a life," Johnny echoes, softly.
"A life for a life," you affirm, finally sobbing. The sound is muffled as you choke on it, hysterics making you frantically fight for air.
Johnny hunches down and you can't keep from flinching away. It rings through you both as if a deep wound has been torn open once more. This time it's a bone broken with the intention of resetting it.
"I need time," you say between stuttering breaths. "Please, Alpha."
Any relief you feel in the room is swept up in the deluge of fury radiating from Johnny, unable to hold it any longer. It swirls through you, as sudden as he becomes the beast again, crates and equipment swept aside as he storms away, wrecking everything in his wake.
You don't watch him leave, reaching instead for an unconscious Jaehyun to pull him into your lap. You press a torn sleeve to his ravaged neck, his head lolling against your thigh.
"Take care of us," you plead, even if the man you're speaking to can no longer hear you–only the phantom of his presence in the room. "Be strong for us. All of us."
You feel the weight of the others' regard, knowing they won't approach you unless asked to, or speak to you unasked.
"I need you," you whisper.
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#agtbtb#nct x reader#nct 127 x reader#nct 127 omegaverse#nct 127 cyberpunk au#nct fic#nct 127 fic#nct imagines#nct 127 fanfic#nct smut#nct 127 smut#nct 127 imagines
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a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 21: confrontation
pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127
tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content
summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate’s clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself
but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out
ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting
now, you must make them choose you
[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [20: clinical]
wc: 7k
warnings: brief mentions of smut inc. anal fingering, oral, handjob
recommended listening: she loves me, she loves me not - taemin
For the first time in a very long time, Johnny might actually be drunk. It hadn't been difficult to overindulge past the limit of his accelerated metabolism. His equally miserable company had kept pace with him, spurring him on.
Yuta had checked in on them in the executive lounge, after Mark had gone back to sleep, almost breaking down with laughter. Then he'd poured his own beer from one of the maintained taps behind the old bar, joining them in one of the rickety antique seats.
Their little drinking party is lined up like targets in a shooting gallery, not a word passing between them as each of them stare ahead. Their new company respects the unspoken agreement for as long as it takes him to finish half his draft, finally getting bored.
"You could at least play some music in here," Yuta says.
"Shh. We're having a very important conversation," Haechan says, lifting his head from his arms. By the redness on his exposed neck he's almost at his limit, too.
Jaehyun nods in agreement, emptying his can of an import, cracking another one ready beside it.
"At least tell me who's wake it is?" Yuta says.
"Mass funeral," Johnny says, raising his glass. The whiskey burns his tongue, but he savors the fact that it wipes out your scent lingering in the air. Blockers weren't going to do much for the two on either side of him, or even himself. "For our collective dignity."
"I'll cheers to that," Doyoung says, lifting a cocktail glass. Unlike the others he's stretched out in one of the low chairs, feet on the table next to a fake lantern, the artificial flame inside flickering convincingly.
The decor in this place is peak 22nd century kitsch, some Lee elder's poor taste rendered in a godawful colonial outpost hunting lodge motif, the centerpiece a heavy stone and black iron fireplace that takes up the center of the room. Old hunting trophy mounts collecting dust are packed over the walls, and crouched in corners, dozens of glass eyes gleaming in the dim light.
Johnny had always wanted Taeyong to dip into the pack resources to remodel the place, but he supposes its fitting being stared down by the stuffed wolf occupying the center of the bar's massive mirror, flanked by an impressive but dwindling collection of bottles.
"Fuck!" Haechan shouts so loudly and suddenly that Doyoung almost falls out of his chair. The younger kicks the wood in front of him, claws rending the scarred bartop. "I told you we should have gone out."
"No one is going out," Doyoung says, blandly. “Lockdown, remember?”
Johnny doesn't have to ask what has him riled, Jaehyun staring into space with the same shell-shocked impression. Johnny feels it, muscling past the overwhelming sensation with another swig of bourbon.
"Is there a gas leak in here?" Yuta asks, sitting back against the bar to engage with Doyoung.
Doyoung turns on the fire, and thankfully, some soft music–probably in an attempt to soothe the savage beasts.
"Just a matter of a particularly strong entanglement," he says, amused.
Neither of the three Alphas currently experiencing said bond react to the explanation, the effects apparent in the transformed scent profiles competing under the overwhelming burn of methane. Biology is a bitch, Johnny thinks.
"We're all in agreement Taeil's earned this one," Doyoung says. "Mark wouldn't be alive without him."
"Just need to perform life-saving surgery to get all-inclusive omega access, got it," Haechan says. "Clearly we picked the wrong career path–"
Johnny turns to him, slowly, not needing to change his expression to shut him down.
"What's the count?" Yuta asks.
Jaehyun lifts his hand, two fingers raised.
"Three, actually." Johnny slurs.
"Didn't know the tanuki had it in him." Yuta cheers, eyes raising to the floors above. "Set a record, old dog."
"Don't." Johnny is still bristling, that shiver running through his entire body making him feel even more compromised than the liquor. His dick is half-hard, twitching as he leans over to pour Jaehyun another shot.
He watches the other man's lips twist, dimple appearing in the part of his cheek exposed under the pulled-up hood of his sweatshirt. He'd been the first here for Johnny to find, drinking alone. The younger Alpha rarely showed signs of intoxication outside of bloodshot eyes and even less reactivity than usual–not until it was too late.
The Canid on his left is not as lucky.
"You want something stronger?" he asks Haechan, nudging the bottle towards him. The youngest is already clearing a glass of soju, about to drink another when Doyoung intervenes to take it from him and drink it, himself.
"Don't encourage him," Doyoung warns. The Lepid is watching over them, he knows–but he shouldn't be concerned. Whatever internal war is going on between animal brain and human rationality is on pause, along with any external conflict. A temporary truce to acknowledge their shared affliction.
"You all going to make it until date night is over?" Yuta asks.
Jaehyun stands up, stool chair tumbling in his wake. He ignores it, spilling some of the whiskey as he toasts a taxidermied fox at the end of the bar someone had added a jaunty little hat to years ago.
"To ____. For putting me through Hell. And taking me out of it." He throws the empty glass down when he's done, stumbling away from the bar so quickly they don't have time to intervene.
"I'll take care of him," Doyoung says, looking meaningfully at Johnny before he races after him. "Try not to destroy any furniture."
"What's got into him?" Yuta asks, as if there weren't more reasons than he could count on his fingers was wrong with the other Felid.
"Deeprun almost fried him," Haechan says. "Jungwoo said she helped pull him out."
Johnny had heard the story but his mind still can't wrap around it, doesn't want to think about you knowing how to fuck with their security even more than you have. Doyoung had little to add on that matter, speaking in that formal, cagey way that suggests Taeyong was investigating through Syndicate contacts, or some other protected party.
He didn't have to be included on any of it, but he still feels the odd man out. Just the hired muscle, the dope holding the dumb end of the tape, shouting down orders.
"Where do you think he's headed?" Yuta asks.
"To jerk off," Haechan says, hiccupping. "Maybe Doyoung'll let him back in the nest now . . ."
He doesn't finish the sentence, a little bit of bile in the air as he swallows whatever's come back up again.
"Fascinating," Yuta says. He grabs Jaehyun's unfinished beer, heading off with both hands full now that the company has been severely reduced in both numbers and goodwill. "See you all tomorrow at the real send-off. Gotta find a suit to wear for my own funeral."
Johnny doesn't bother acknowledging his exit, finding himself surprisingly comfortable left alone with the youngest and most emotionally compromised of his pack-mates. Whatever storm was going on in the kid's head it's mostly snuffed out right now. His tan fingers twist the cap of the empty soju bottle into a jagged shape.
"You want to talk about it?" Johnny asks, leaning back in his chair.
"Not particularly," Haechan says.
Johnny nods a bit, inspecting the labels on the dusty bottles on the top shelves.
"You think I'm mad at you–" he begins.
"Aish. This is where you say you're just disappointed. Feel like I'm back with my appa." Haechan shakes his head, but he doesn't flee like the others. Clearly he needs this time just as much as Johnny feels he needs it, too.
Johnny shakes his head. "The only person I'm disappointed in is myself."
"Wish I could relate." Haechan finally takes the whiskey, cringing at the intense scent of it before pushing it back.
"I don't like making rules," Johnny says. He reaches across the bar to pluck another bottle of soju from the haphazard collection on the other side.
"You just enforce 'em, I know." The younger is back sprawled on the wood, the white of his eye visible as he glances over. "You're a little mad, though. I know I am. Can feel it every time you're in a room."
"Can't hide it," Johnny says. It's just as true for anything related to his Alpha: there's control and then there isn't. Jimseung not being a problem when you were within range didn't mean he didn't feel those demonic urges pass through him, possessed as he is by the animal he'd been integrated with before he was born.
"It doesn't mean I'm mad at you. Love makes you do stupid, crazy shit, kid." He feels ridiculous saying it aloud, but he's also probably going to forget this by the morning. He hopes the Canid forgets it, too.
"I don't–" Haechan stops mid-sentence, realizing after a few beats that Johnny is speaking for himself. "I didn't even know you liked her."
"Against my better judgment." Johnny pours him a shot. "I think you did, too, though–didn't you?"
The younger flicks the cap, glass pinging as it connects with a bottle. He's fuming, Johnny knows, but there's something familiar in that profile, his eyes downcast and distant.
"I thought I did," Haechan admits.
"Puppy love," Johnny blurts out, mouth crooking into a wry grin.
"Whatever."
Johnny feels a bit like a bull in a china shop for how quickly his attempts to lighten the conversation are making Haechan's hackles raise more–typical cat-on-dog violence he thinks, trying to adopt a more serious tone.
"I know it doesn't mean much considering tomorrow, but I just want to–fuck." Johnny is relaxed enough he doesn't hide his reaction like he did before when the ghost of warm pleasure occupies his body, his usually slow and steady heartbeat kicking into third gear.
"Yeah, fuck." Haechan turns away, curled into his lap. It takes a bit longer this time for them to overcome the effects, sharing another shot as tradition entailed. It's not a remedy for the painful ache in his belly, or his pride as he's edged beyond the point of being able to think about much besides your fur stroking his forehead as he buried his face in your slick.
No amount of whiskey is going to chase that taste from his mouth.
"To one more night," Haechan says, still hiccupping.
"One more night," Johnny agrees, though he's distantly not sure why. "You could always go down to the barracks."
It was common for the younger Alpha to spend time with his friends in the recruit corps, a safe reprieve from the constant drain of pack dynamics. He realizes it's a dumb idea by the disgust and horror that screws up the younger's face.
"Sure, right. Subject myself to everyone's jokes about smelling like the pack's new live-in fucktoy." He affects a voice Johnny is sure is Na's by the fry in it. "'Congratulations Haechan, you finally experience the touch of a woman–?'"
Johnny stops him before he can toss his bottle down the bar at the offending stuffed fox, other hand coming to rest on his neck. The Canid doesn't fight it, hunched down, vibrating a bit. It's not just rage, Johnny thinks, the tangled layers of Haechan's response apparent in the way he leans into Johnny's thumb stroking behind his ear.
"You sure you don't want to talk about it?" Johnny says. He feels like he's charting dangerous territory but if he knows the effects of your claim there's a relief he can provide beyond just being prime or a mentor.
"It was the worst experience of my life, let's leave it at that." Haechan says, face hidden in his crossed arms.
"I don't know, but I think I know," he finds himself stumbling.
"No, you don't."
"A decade of living with the psychotic urge to kidnap the most famous omega in Korea doesn't count?"
Haechan barks a laugh into the tabletop, further movements of his body too much like sobs.
Johnny awkwardly moves to give him space, immediately freezing when he hears a pleading whine. His hand moves up to Haechan's head, scratching the place where his ears might be if he had them. He can't even blame the alcohol for his willingness to provide physical comfort, it's as natural as breathing where the more submissive pack members are concerned.
"Are you really gonna choose her over us?" Haechan's voice is muffled, a little thick with unshed tears.
"I know it seems that way," he says. "But no. That was never the plan, either."
What had been the plan, really? Even with his thoughts blurring together he'd never forgotten his duty–to the pack, you–striking that careful balance of planning for their future while being dependent on Taeyong's own designs for Nyctos and the leader's obligation to his clan. It's enough to make him dizzy, but at the center of it all is his conviction that if he's failed to keep you or the others safe he won't let it happen again.
"We’ll make it work,” he says. “It’s not a choice now. I can’t not be with her.”
“I get it," Haechan says, sighing. "She's gonna need someone to protect her where she's going."
The whiskey makes the blow a little softer, but he still pulls his hand back to keep the newly-formed claws from raking through Haechan's mussed hair.
"What do you mean, 'where she's going'?" he asks. It takes all his remaining sobriety to keep the question neutral; internally he's roaring.
Haechan looks up at him, reddened eyes blinking. "She didn't tell you?"
Johnny stares down the younger, Alpha surfacing as he pushes away from the bar, standing tall against the spinning of the room.
"No."
Instruction from Master Moon is not something you take for granted. Not, at least, until you're stuck beneath him, figuratively and literally.
You'd deferred to him the moment you'd seen him cave to your ask, helping him clean and preparing for tomorrow together as if you were two parts of an efficient machine, only snagged by the occasional brush against each other's bodies, the tension equally unresolved.
Throughout it he spoke on what he knew of your other mate's physiology–tone as dry as ever until you'd dropped to your knees and offered to relieve him of the erection he'd been pawing at since you'd come on his fingers.
You hoped he might accept your offer, but gentleman as ever, he'd declined, helping you onto the kitchen counter so he could give you a different kind of lesson.
"Male omegas are more sensitive to penetration, here," Taeil says, your legs wrapped over his shoulders as he traces the slick dripping down between your buttocks. "You might enjoy it, too."
"They said an Alpha might want to breed us–" You lose your train of thought, feeling him trace the ring of muscle. It feels different, obscene, but just as good as being touched where you need to be filled, your insides fluttering the same when his gloved fingers press into you.
"You'll have to relax, and remember to breathe," he repeats. "It's a tighter fit. It can be painful if you're not prepared for it."
You pant, nodding, as he penetrates you with a slick-saturated digit, not too far.
"Good girl," Taeil murmurs, other hand rubbing externally between your holes in a way that feels nicer than expected, making you relax back, propped against a sack of rice. You watch as he curls his finger a bit inside you. "Here. You'll want to feel for something a little rougher, like inside yourself. You can press there, and the outside, like this."
His demonstration involves a second finger, hooked into you, pressure translated to your aching sex through layers of muscle. You clench tight around nothing, squeezing his fingers.
"Do you like that?"
"Yes, please, yes," you say. "Do you think you could keep going?"
"As if I could stop," you hear him mutter, face lowering.
The penetrating massage is a foreign feeling but not the sensation of his mouth enveloping your sex, sucking lightly. You hear your own voice reflected off the empty apartment in repetitive moans, gaining volume as he loses a little control, bouncing you along the granite as your heels hit his back.
"I'm . . . so good, more, please, please more."
Taeil buries his face between your legs until you've melted over his head, climaxing a second time when he pulls you down to the floor to let you grind back against his length trapped in his pants as he stretches you wider, until you feel warmth bloom against you when he comes pressed into your fur.
He's right. You're insatiable. And also both a mess.
You cannot resist doing a little dance outside the closed master suite bathroom, ecstatic to be needed in this regard. You hear the water stop, the soft drip from the tap, but then nothing.
"Taeil?" you ask, opening the door when he doesn't answer.
Taeyong's bathing chambers aren't as impressive as yours back home with their artificial hot spring, but they're analogous in the enormous, pool-like stone tub. It looks like it could fit most of Nyctos, making the single occupant that much more ridiculous.
Pink peony petals float on the water, candles lit and bubbles speckling the surface, but the man you're waiting to invite you in is already drifting off, slipping beneath the surface as you watch, horrified, from the door.
You rush to pull him out, forearms wrapped beneath his armpits to ensure he doesn't slide down the side of the smooth stone again. Taeil wakes, drowsily, smiling at you when you pinch his bare chest.
"You really have had a long day, haven't you?"
“Days.” His answer is a mumble. You let him go to reach for the nearby basin of various bath oils and cleansers, deciding what to use on scent alone. Much of the offered fare are blockers, a reminder that Taeyong's toilette is another part of a carefully-constructed artifice.
It's probably best you didn't subject this poor man to ridicule, either.
You take your time fulfilling your half of the favor. As much as you want to slide in to relieve him of his own problem you know it's better to make sure he's able to finally be comfortable with you. You keep your robe on despite it getting more and more saturated, massaging rosemary-laced lemon oil into his shoulders.
"That's nice," he says, waking up a bit when your hands grasp his head, lathering spearmint-scented shampoo into his dark hair. This close you can see the gray in it, wiry follicles at his temples. You’re a little more careful with your claws, rubbing circles into his scalp and temples until he's just as boneless as before.
"I don't deserve you," he says, hand reaching back to grip your arm.
"Don’t you, though?" you ask.
Whatever you had to say is cut short as he pulls you down, not into the bath but into his open mouth as he kisses you, finally. Awkward as it is from this angle you make it your own, brushing his parted lips with yours, softly giving him the affection you know he needs the most.
“All right if I get in?”
You stand up before your descent, making him watch as you lower yourself, clothed, to encircle him again with your arms, your cheek pressed to his. In this position you can help him dunk his head beneath the water with the safety of your legs encircling him.
When he comes up for air you're ready, pulling on his abdomen to further draw him against you.
"I'm pretty sure I’m dreaming," he says.
"Hopefully this is more memorable." You punctuate your words by kissing his shoulder, your hand lowering to wrap around his length. The bathwater is hot but so is he, cock revealed in your hand better than you can imagine wrapping your lips around it.
"You were going to teach me," you whisper, gripping him tighter until he responds, audibly. His hand surrounds your own, holding your fingers to guide you.
"Ah," he releases a breath. "Yes. Please."
With the water the strokes seem more weightless, that silk-on-rigidity feeling of his skin more realized as his grip closes on yours, guiding you in the right way to flex your fingers at key points. It feels like it would be too much, too strong, but when he lets you go to rest his head against your shoulder you know he trusts you with it. You follow the sounds he makes, the shared tingling in your belly, to work him like putty between your fingers.
"Don't you want to be inside of me?" you ask into the shell of his ear. "Breed me?"
"Yes." He flounders in the water, reaching for your head to pull you closer. You press your lips into the firm connection of his trapezius to his neck, licking softly at the taste of the soap that's dripped down from his hairline.
Underneath that is his true scent: lychee and roasted chestnut flavored, like burnt sugar. You may have marked him but you haven't really claimed him, you know. Not yet. The next time will be when he's buried deep inside you the way you can feel he wants to be. Tonight, at least, coming undone with your hand on his cock is enough.
"It would be a waste if you came like this," you purr. "But I'll be ready for you when you can fill me like you want to. Imagine that for me."
You tighten your grip, other hand wrapping around his middle so you can sheathe his base where his knot is already thickened, the other on the end of his shaft. He sits up the closer he gets to coming, pushing you back without much thought.
"Kiss me." It feels like compulsion in the best way, fighting for his lips as he bucks into your hands. The claim has you feeling the build in his belly, the softness of his surrender into release. You know exactly how long to handle him past the point of his orgasm, his sensitivity transmitted to your core while your lips press into his.
"I think . . ." he mumbles. "I can understand choosing to die for this."
You kiss his cheeks and forehead, wrapping him tight in your slippery hold.
"You don't have to," you say, right before he passes out so deeply you have to check he's still on this plane.
The smell of an extinguished candle rouses you from your meditative state, water bubbling with your breaths as you sit up, arms aching.
Johnny stares down at you from the far edge of the tub, eyes almost yellow for how bloodshot the whites are. You're not sure how long he's been there but it doesn't matter to you how much or how little he’s seen.
"I guess I could use a little help here," you mutter. “Water's gone a little cold.”
"Did you make him sedate himself again?" he asks, tone matching the dark look in his hooded eyes. You reach back behind you to fumble for a bar of soap, throwing it. He ducks away a little too late–obviously impaired.
Even across the room you can smell he's been drinking, your nose wrinkling at the sharp smell.
"Checking in on me already?" you ask. "Worried I couldn't handle being alone with an Alpha in his rut?"
He grabs robes from the wall, and then a whole armful of towels when he thinks it through long enough to realize there's two people in need of them.
"I knew you weren't fucking him," Johnny says.
"Would it be any of your business if I was?" you ask.
He's silent after that, mouth set in a grim line.
Extracting an unconscious man out of a tub is no simple feat but Johnny manages it with ease, releasing you from Taeil’s dead weight. You stand up in the pool as it drains to remove your wet clothing, not bothering to hide yourself as he gets the unconscious doctor into a robe.
"You're not here to offer me any other form of assistance, are you?" you ask.
"What, four times not enough for you?"
"The best treatment I've had since I arrived here," you taunt him as you wring water out of your tail fur. "Granted there's not much for me to compare it to."
You yelp as you're lifted bodily out of the tub, squirming desperately but held fast as he pulls you against him, soaking his dark clothing.
"What are you doing?" you hiss. You know you won't disturb Taeil sleeping on the floor but you also find yourself pitching your voice low.
"Helping," Johnny slurs the word a bit, reaching around you to dry your batting tail, dragging the soft fabric up and over your head to your shoulders and the damp parts of your pinned-up hair. You lean against him, unable to do anything but relax into it, feeling every plane of his body against your bare chest and stomach through the thin layer of his wet shirt.
You break away before he can reach your legs, snatching away the towel to finish without the careful movements of his hands sweeping gently over your skin. Now you turn around, not wanting to feed him any satisfaction in reading your expression. It's unfortunate that the mirrors in the large room leave nothing unseen, including his eyes trailing down your nakedness.
"You can put Taeil in the bed and then you can leave," you say, willing yourself back to the zen state you'd felt drifting off in the bath.
“Wouldn’t that be nice for us both,” he says, dropping the other robe over your head. You peer out from beneath the plush fabric to watch him lift Taeil like he weighs nothing, carrying him to the other room. He doesn’t stop at Doyoung’s bed, instead moving out into the open living space and heading to the door.
"What are you doing?"
“He wants to talk to you first.” Johnny says before leaving, presumably to take Taeil back to his quarters.
You brace yourself for the possibility of a confrontation, unsure of who else is in the apartment until you see the outline of ears and a shock of faded red hair, breathing a little easier when Taeyong turns around on the couch, peering at you with dilated eyes and a pale complexion.
He seems just as nervous as you feel.
“I hoped you wouldn’t mind if I stayed here tonight,” he says. Your cousin's voice is fried from lack of sleep, or maybe too much of it.
“It would be ridiculous for me to bar you from your own residence," you say, keeping your tone light. "Truth be told I was a little worried you were avoiding me."
He smiles a bit, rocking forward over his bent knees and the tail wrapped around them as you join him. You choose to sit on the low, wide table beside the couch, giving him space if he really is as anxious as you smell him to be. Whatever state he's in he's exuding that chai spice undertone you'd picked up earlier, a nice contrast to the woodsy smell of him that reminds you so very much of your first home.
"I was, but not for the reasons you're probably thinking of," he demures, cocking his head. "I know it's been hard for you, too. I wish I were in a better state to handle this. Most days I can barely get out of bed."
You nod, understanding now too well how the lethargy comes and goes but that fever is always present, burning your eyes and winding your belly into pain. Not something one could just ignore, even under less tolerable circumstances.
"That's my responsibility, as well, isn't it?" You squeeze your hands in front of you, working out the wrinkles from soaking too long. "All of this could have been resolved a while ago, if I hadn't made things worse."
He shakes his head a bit, jaw tight. "There's no use in blaming each other. We'll settle the debts between us. I'm not here to talk about the tribunal, though."
"About the . . . treatment, then?" you venture. You wanted to make him feel at ease about it, he's been tortured enough from your bite.
Taeyong stutters a little, looking shy as he shakes his head. "No. That–that can wait, too. I'm here to talk about your confession."
His words evoke your memory of the awkward conversation with his mate the other night, a touch of ice forming in your center once again. You wait for him to speak, unable to anticipate where this is going.
"I haven't involved Johnny or any of the other pack members. Doyoung knows some, of course. He's the one person I can trust with my life–he shares the burden of my responsibilities in full. Sometimes I think he believes the Kim retainership contract is still in effect."
You laugh a little at that. They'd set up Garam as your second in that design only as a nod to tradition. Nowadays the roles of the two clans were very much reversed in power. Any remnants of that master-servant binding only propped up the Kim's standing in the Syndicate as the Lee clan's hostage keepers.
"I hope you can trust him, in time. He's a good person. A little long-winded but–"
"He's well-intentioned, and kind," you say. "I can tell you chose your packmates well. Even if we may have crossed each other."
Taeyong scowls a little, sitting up straighter. "I would say they're not usually like that but I think you would know it's a lie. Yuta has no interest in adhering to hierarchy, Jungwoo resents it. Despite being our closest relation, Mark doesn't want anything to do with the clan, he's just here for his own protection. Jaehyun, too–he was abandoned before he was even born."
Your ears twitch a bit at the admission.
"And Haechan feels abandoned by ours," you add. It's a bit of an investigatory statement but he nods all the same.
"That's not even the lower ranks. You're lucky if you never meet those mongrels." Taeyong shudders a bit. "Anyway, you can see why Nyctos requires a firmer hand than mine."
You reach out to place your fingers over his, loosely.
"If there's one silver lining in having spent time here," you say, "It's that I was offered a glimpse of how fragile this is. If you'll allow me to apologize for anything, it's threatening that order."
Taeyong stares at you, rosy lips thinning. You can sense he has something to say on it, but he saves it.
"Nothing can undo the original crime we committed, though," he says, fingers tightening around yours and squeezing.
His palm is damp but you don't pull away, fighting the urge to avert your gaze as submission warrants. You sense he doesn't mind being met as an equal. That first talk in the warm embrace of the conservatory is a distant memory but just as important in the sense that you've always felt drawn to him, comforted by his familiar presence.
Now he's crying again, large eyes glassy with tears. It's making your fox panic, seeing him emotionally compromised.
"If we hadn't intervened that first time, you'd still have your mother," he says. "I wasn't on the ground that night, but I was in the AV."
You swallow a knot in your throat that will never be undone.
"It was an accident," you hear yourself speak, distantly.
"No," he says, ducking his head and wiping his face. "I would have found a way to save you. Both of you. If I'd known we were pursuing you, why you were running, I would have found a way to cover your escape. I can't help but think that's why the Syndicate sent us after you again, under similar circumstances."
It feels like a blow to your chest, the quiet of the empty room loud with your own heartbeats. Taeyong's is rapid, as well, grief apparent in the steady slide of tears down his cheeks, past that scar.
Something that had been nagging at you for so long sinks its teeth in now, the pain inside you a ready defense. A bounty placed in your name by proxy, the decision to release you only for the Syndicate to pull you back. Sending Nyctos, knowing Johnny had claimed you.
"Someone wanted us to be enemies."
"Exactly," Taeyong says, pulling himself together. "I'm afraid it worked."
"It's only a failure if we're no longer allies," you say. "We are family, first. We have each other in that regard, right?"
When you are with him you can't ignore the ghosts of your fathers and mothers, your aunts and uncles, and most of all your grandfather. Both tyrants and martyrs. All those ancestors, preserved, in an intimate moment between two children lost in the dark.
At least if you were a much smaller clan and usurped of all power, you would be stronger together.
"Absolutely," he nods, tiredly. "I don't regret taking on your protection. But there's a lot more at stake for both of us than I realized. I asked you to join us without knowing what the consequences were for you, what you were running from."
You sigh a little, hands gripping your knees.
"Running towards," he corrects, wiping his nose on his shoulder until you press the sleeve wrapped over your free hand to his face to dry it.
"I'm sorry I couldn't trust you with that information," you say. You can feel Taeyong's tears as if they were your own on your cheeks, far from crying yourself. "If I don't survive this at least you know where to send my body."
"Not free even in death," Taeyong repeats your own words.
"No," you smile a bit, morbidly amused.
Taeyong's arms encircle your shoulders, pulling you to him. It's most likely more for his comfort than yours but you don't mind, curling into his chest. You stroke his tail, absentmindedly, surprised at how coarse his fur is compared to yours, though not unpleasantly so.
"I came to tell you I'll respect your decision to leave. Where you've asked to be sent," he adds, emphasizing your request. "But when we do, we will find a way to get you there alive.”
You peer up at his face, hope burning inside you. "You'd do that for me?"
"It may take time, but it's only right. Truth is, Doyoung has already been investigating how to get you out of the country, if it came down to it."
“I didn’t know you wanted to get rid of me that badly,” you jest. Taeyong has a moment to look a little sad before his head whips up, both of you registering the other presence in the room by the next words spoken.
“It was my idea.”
Johnny is in the darkness of the hallway, watching you as intently as before. You’re unable to read him, but Taeyong’s reaction is enough–ears flattened, adjusting his posture so he’s facing the Felid head on.
"Don't," Taeyong warns.
You place a hand on the other Vulpine’s shoulder, standing up rather than shrinking. Johnny is still enraged, you think, but unlike his other episodes it’s directionless, more dangerous for the lack of a target.
You'll give him one.
“You were going to send me away? Was I going to have a say in the matter?”
“No,” he admits.
You may as well be mirroring him for the intensity of the anger that flows through you at the thought of being shipped off to some other destination, removed like an inconvenience.
“We were thinking of your safety,” Taeyong intercedes. "I'm sorry for–"
“You were also thinking of your own,” you say, not looking back. “Which is only fair. You have other people under your protection."
You continue to stare down Johnny, approaching him with the stalking movement of something much bigger, more dangerous, gauging his reaction.
"You were right, I am a threat," you say. "It's only a matter of time before whoever in the Syndicate has been trying to kill you on my behalf tries again. It's the only option, isn't it?"
"You're not leaving," he declares.
Another decision made for you.
"That's what you wanted before. What's the difference now?" Your voice cracks a bit, keeping your eyes locked with his to continue the fight for dominance. He has to hunch over to look down at you, now, not ceding his position. You're bathed in smoky bourbon with the orange peel spike of an upset cat.
"You are not leaving. Not now. Not ever. And absolutely not to the Winter Palace."
Your eyes widen, clenching your fists.
"Over my dead body," he adds, practically spitting.
"Did you tell him?" You finally look back at Taeyong but he's just as surprised, shaking his head slightly.
"How did you find out?"
Johnny's anxiety worms its way through the bond, again. You realize he's swaying, not able to stand upright with his usual grace. He should have a tail to balance him but he's holding back. Even tipping over internally into jimseung he doesn't want to scare you.
"I didn't," he says. "Haechan did."
"What?" you ask.
You realize it even as he gestures loosely at his agent. You'd written those words for him and him alone but you're not surprised Haechan had shared them. Anything to dig in the knife a little deeper, you supposed.
"'A thousand clicks away by spring', isn't that what you said? Even if you were exaggerating, that's a lot further than any District. And you were headed north past Strictland. It wasn't hard to guess."
You relax, no longer ready to fight but still livid.
"I've already made my choice," you say. "And so has your pack. If a single person rejects me or has to be cut out because of me then the natural solution is for my self-exile. It's no different than before."
Johnny's nostrils flare as he leans in, eyes darting to your lips and scanning across your face. He looks up over your head at Taeyong, who has approached to back you up. Johnny stops him in his tracks with a flash of teeth.
You don't balk at the display of aggression, letting that emotion wash over you. It was good to let him show his true nature, to see him without the mask of civility.
"You marked half of my pack and now you think you can just fuck off to somewhere no one has ever come back alive from!?" His voice grows louder as he speaks, blasting you both. "You're going to abandon us?"
You feel strangely flushed, hearing the implication there.
"You don't need me," you say. "You didn't even want me."
He angles his head, leaning in over you until he's close enough for his body heat to meld with yours.
"You don't sound very sure about that," he says.
His hands raise to ghost your shoulders, up to your face. It's without contact but you're immediately overwhelmed by the desire to fold into his touch again, to clutch him tight and never let him go.
Of course you didn't want to leave them. But it was only right if it came at that high of a cost.
You feel yourself begin to shake, all the fight in you willed back to the surface, trying to remember those defenses he'd subjected you to: claws in your skin, self-loathing in your craw. It's enough to pull you back, perhaps a little too far, as you hold yourself against the chill in the room.
"It's the right thing to do," you say, closing your eyes.
"You said you'd accept me."
Johnny's tone is pleading now. It makes you feel wretched.
"I did. But I never said I'd stay," you correct.
You feel when he grabs at you, stopping his clawed fingers before they can wrap around your arm. Taeyong lets out a low growl of warning, seizing you and bringing you away from him.
"Leave her alone, Youngho. This can wait."
Johnny laughs, harshly. "I thought we were in this together. You chose her, agreed to protect her. For what, a one-way ticket to a tomb?"
"It's not as simple as that," Taeyong says. "Go. Sleep it off, at least."
"I'm not going anywhere. Not if you're claiming my mate just so you can help her leave," Johnny says, standing to his full height. "And you know I'm fine."
"If I lit a match your breath would be on fire," Taeyong says, disgusted.
You turn away from the man at your back, unable to face him any longer.
"He can stay, if he stays shifted," you say. "I'm tired of hearing his voice."
You feel Johnny flinch at the harshness of your words, moving past you before he begins removing his clothes, right there.
"Do you have any sense?" Taeyong groans.
"You think she hasn't seen this before?" He pulls his shirt over his head and you have to turn away, again, having caught a glimpse of the same expanse of flexing muscle you'd touched the night before. Out of the corner of your eye you can see the vibrant ink in his skin, the shapes clearer in the light. Floral greens and yellows grace his chest and arms, a garden just for you, forbidden from touch.
"Afraid you won't be able to resist?" He asks, undoing his belt.
"Be the beast you are," you say, adding the bite of a command. By the sound of fabric ripping and an angry snarl you know it's worked. He thuds to the floor, the all-too human hair on your body and fur raising at the sensation of being watched by a predator's eyes.
You don't bother looking back, arm encircling Taeyong as you head for the bedroom, feeling wretched at guiding him from a more comfortable destination when you feel his shuffling steps pulled towards his nest.
"Sleep it off," you tell the jaguar pacing behind you, dragging the remnants of his clothing. "I don't want to hear another word from you until tomorrow."
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#nct 127 fic#nct fic#nct 127 fanfic#nct fanfic#nct x reader#nct imagines#nct 127 cyberpunk au#nct smut#nct 127 smut#nct omegaverse au#agtbtb
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a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 19: burial
pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127
tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content
summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate’s clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself
but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out
ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting
now, you must make them choose you
[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [18: care]
wc: 6.3k
chapter warnings: a dab of canon cruelty inc. slut-shaming/victim-blaming, cyberpunk-heavy lore dump
recommended listening: limbo - jun
You dream a different kind of dream tonight. Not the depths of the seabed or mires of a swamp but rocks high above. Somewhere near the sky, where bodies were once placed gently in the snow to be picked clean by vultures, before the earth grew hot enough to turn those high peaks green.
These mountains resemble the Himalayas only in their height; the ranges on Mars or the Moon a better analogue for how desolate they are. Sharp peaks breach glowing clouds, appearing in flashes of unexpected, swirling color. The atmosphere is just an illusion for something much larger than the human mind can encompass.
The writers and illustrators had attempted it so many times throughout history, but this is its truest form to you in experiencing it personally: the river of death.
It's only above now because you have passed through, to the prison below. You must have done something wrong. You must deserve to be punished.
There is no bridge at this depth, nor a guardian to ask if you choose to cross it for a payment of coin. No witch to offer you a bowl of its contents before you tumble in, or even a hand to pull you back. You're in the place of the wandering dead, the forgotten souls. Lethe, where all memory is forgotten. A peaceful place, if you didn't believe that you had somewhere else to be.
In this actualization it's a barrier that resembles the encompassing hemisphere of the Dome, the waters that flow around and beneath it imagined as churning with the same flows of information that pass through electromagnetic space.
From the aurora above to the depths below this is all just something you've only seen illustrated in tapestries throughout the Blue Palace, an artist's rendering of an abstract concept.
Hell. Afterlife and Underworld combined.
Here there's no sustenance, no shelter, no exit. The knives of freezing wind whip at you, urging you to fall and break yourself on the glacial topography.
Taking that leap would do nothing but bring you eternal torture. The deeper one went, the more likely they would be trapped in increasingly slower processes, seconds stretched to eternity at the event horizon of a sync-hole.
And so you wait, in your small shelter, a cave with no fire to warm you, watching the sky for the dark ghosts of AI hunters.
Like those vultures, the daemons will come to pick through the bones of your engram, to trace the tethers keeping you fixed to the realm of mortals. You'd still be alive when they picked apart your mind for whatever traces of identity they could find. They'd take it back to the Kings of Hell and offer it for judgment.
Here is a piece of the damned, resurrected only in bits and memory. He was judged and no longer found worthy.
The thunder breaks over you, bringing your eyes to the sky. In that darkness, you trace something on the floor of your prison, over and over again. A passcode written in blood, on glass, a magic symbol.
A cry for help unheard, as the cold consumes you.
The nightmare doesn't end upon waking to the ghostly blue dim of the pre-dawn hour, signs of snow in the brightness of the clouds outside the windows. It persists like the constriction in your chest with each aching breath, your fingers numbed as if your own circulation was suffering.
But it's not you.
You should be too warm, an electric blanket on your feet you have to kick off along with the goose down comforter you've buried yourself in, carried in your wake as you run–run, run run.
Not away from that feeling, this time, but towards it.
Doyoung makes a startled noise when you streak past him to the apartment door, shuffling into your slippers to keep from re-injuring your feet.
"____?" You hear him call your name from the kitchen.
"I need to check on someone," you yell back. "I have a bad feeling."
You can't lose him again, you can't.
You follow scent more than sight to the one floor you haven't spent much time on at all, past the Felid's quarters but before the guest suites you'd been trapped in the past week. There's nothing special about it: just concrete brutalism and exposed spaces, empty conference rooms and dark glass doorways.
A small army of drones comes to life the moment you find the correct hallway, the faintly glowing door surrounded by security mechanisms more curiously-shaped than horrifying.
Some climb on spiders legs, others hover in the air. If you're a threat they don't seem to recognize it, remaining at a carefully calculated distance upon your approach, the airborne robot's blades whirling silently in the empty space of the atrium.
"Let me in." You stare down the blinking green lens of one of many cameras, granted a reflection of yourself on the video screen. There's a reluctant scrabble on the other side before a blinking, ruddy eye appears in the crack in the doorway, widened with surprise.
"What are you doing here?" Jungwoo's fear is a complex smell–almost bitter and evergreen. Or maybe that isn't his, you think, pushing your face into the small opening to try and peer past him.
"He's in a deeprun, right?" you ask.
"Is Johnny here–"
"No," you say, pushing against the reinforced metal. You coward, you think. "We don't have time. I need to check his feed."
Jungwoo gives in, opening the door to sniff incredulously at the hallway. You squeeze past him, giving him a bit of a shove in the ribs to relay your urgency and to avoid tangling in his long legs.
Inside are quarters you've never been in before–wholly different then the other apartments in the relative minimalism of the interior but also surprisingly clean considering the amount of equipment. The concrete floors are tiled over, multiple workstations and science benches neatly laid out in rows against the walls and the middle of the office space.
It's an old war room, since converted into shared living quarters. What you suspect is Jungwoo's lab is an entire wall of organized drawers and tool repositories, cheerful lights revealing a project so deconstructed you can barely recognize its original purpose.
In contrast Jaehyun's corner netrunner station is dark, illuminated in soft yellows and blues, his zero-suited body reclined in a rig chair tentacled with cabling for data transfer and micro-environmental controls.
You go straight to the screens showing the data run and stable biological outputs, parsing through the complex topography of data architecture–immediately readable as past the Dome firewalls by the size and structure of the fortress within.
"What's going on? Did you get some kind of signal?" he asks, taking over the console.
You shake your head, finger tracing code on a monitor.
"Just a hunch," you say. "There, see that? He's hit the Nai-ho ICE. The signal is ghosting his last transmission to make it look like he's still moving, but he's trapped in a containment well between the second and third levels."
"There hasn't been a single alarm–" Jungwoo protests, opening up history and messaging screens. You don't bother examining them, running to check Jaehyun's unconscious body.
As expected his lips are almost blue from deoxygenation, pulse weak but steady. A nice little present from the Afterworld–a creeping virus that went for the rig to lower the netrunner's temperature even more than what was required to counter the overheat from operation. If he were alone it would freeze him by degrees, keeping him alive long enough for the physical extraction teams to come and take his body.
"We need to get him out, now!" you yell, jamming uselessly at the rig controls. "Does he have any quick disconnects, a system crash? Anything that can't be traced?"
Jungwoo leans over the console, fingers stumbling to load the last configuration of Jaehyun's cyberdeck.
"Here. A killer, maybe–and this harmonic destroyer."
"You have to be joking, you can't derez the Nai-ho," you say, eyelids twitching as you read through the list of his hacks. "It's the most successful firewall in the Eastern hemisphere."
"No," Jungwoo says, "but it will make it look like a random fragmentation when we break free. The only other program that can run simultaneously with the RAM load is his Nfr."
You're surprised by his ingenuity, analyzing the statistics and the outcome. "It's a huge risk. But I can mask the subroutine as internal code with a few source adjustments."
You understand Jungwoo's hesitation, his face screwing up slightly as he looks between the screen and Jaehyun. He's prepared to pull the plug himself, but he knows it wouldn't be clean. You're his only hope at this moment, if you're capable of what you’re offering.
"You know I wouldn't let anything happen to him."
You hear the urgency in your voice more than you feel it–instead strangely calm. Every instinct in you is ready for this challenge, to make sure Jaehyun doesn't experience the repercussions of jacking out without a successful disengagement.
Jungwoo nods, making room for you at the station. You can sense the barrage of questions he's holding in, smart enough to leave you to your work and try his hand at the manual controls for Jaehyun's suit to counter the ticking temperature drop.
There's nothing else to focus on but the console and the river of code, immersed in the complex language of registry files and subroutines. The tether he'd run in on is like a deep-sea fishing line, an old archive query service maintained for the public that was for all intents, a backdoor. Jaeyhun had known his avenues in by his careful branching into connecting lines associated with decades-old simulations, his inputs of keys, even his consideration of the guardians at each checkpoint.
If he'd let his guard down, he wasn't expecting that at the end, the choice of paths all lead to the same destination rather than a node on the 4th level. An easy mistake, if you were operating on old information, from when the code was written almost a century ago.
You find his engram in a control loop, awaiting security, injecting lines of backdoor passkey coding for a clean exit. There's a risk you'll crash without appropriate debugs and testing but you don't have time. You look up at Jungwoo before you hit the override–not for permission but to at least have his acknowledgement that you're just as afraid of what will happen when you depress the key.
"Now or never," you say, over the quiet buzz of electricity and the faint music playing from Jaehyun's headphones.
"Do it," he says. You see the conviction in his eyes, feel it in your soul. "I trust you."
You activate the derez and the killer in tandem, watching the node melt into yellow and orange fragmentation. The bright signal of Jaehyun's engram splits before blinking out from the frame. Within seconds the river of ICE reforms, data transfers re-initiated between the first and third layers of Hell.
You have a moment of panic that you've failed. You know the consequences of an uninitiated pull-out, the brain damage that could be caused from the backlash of an engram returning to its home cyberdeck. Your breath is caught in your chest until Jaehyun’s finally releases, as explosive as his sudden rise from the table.
The rig chair reorients with a pneumatic hiss, alarms finally going off as his internal temperature spikes without external cooling. You help him free, hand on his shoulder, struggling for the cables to pull him from his suit.
"How long–" Jaehyun blinks up at you. "What . . .?"
"I thought you were lost," you say. You can see his face fall as he takes in his surroundings, understanding just what he came out of, but also who's taken him out of it.
"You were down less than an hour," Jungwoo explains, looking up at you, lip cherry red from where he's almost bitten through it in his anxiety. "She knew how to extract you."
You step back to give him space as he tosses away his headphones and fights his way out of the malfunctioning suit. You both help pull him free after a bit, glossy lines of sweat rolling down his lean musculature once exposed.
Jungwoo tosses him a towel from a nearby station–retrieving water and clothing while you stand idly by, tail and ears lowered.
"How long did it feel like you were inside?" you ask.
You've only ever heard of the Nai-ho's various traps, but the memory of your nightmare is too visceral to have been anything but real. The original architects of New Goryeo's firewalls had been creative in their punishments for rogue AIs from the DataKrash and netrunners alike, trapping them in the perceived time and emptiness of sync-holes. An eternity could last an instant at the deepest levels of the Afterworld.
"Days, but there wasn't anything to track it besides the music–I think that's what the sound was, in there." He shakes his head, flinging drops of perspiration. "I'm just glad to be out."
"I'm glad you're out, too, but–" you say, emotions catching up to you, voice changing pitch and tone so suddenly you see Jungwoo duck in your peripheral vision. "–are you insane!? What compelled you to deep run the Nai-ho from the outside? That hasn’t worked in decades!"
Jaehyun flinches. You're sure he's completely immersed in the intensity of your anger, confusion, but especially your fear that he's still bent on self-sacrifice. It irritates him that you’re lecturing him from the point of over-familiarity. He’s embarrassed as well, ears and cheeks a deep shade of pink.
“Wrong, it has worked,” he argues back. “Many times, including recently. And it would have worked again. I was just unlucky.”
"Luck has nothing to do with this,” you counter. “There’s measures for additional security that are activated periodically–including after an encrypted transfer. Something I could have told you, all of you."
Your suspicion that he went in because of you only makes you more fierce. "If those idiots put you up to this, to investigate me, I will personally–"
"It was a voluntary assignment," he interrupts, voice dropping with authority. There's a little resentment too, of course, from his Alpha. "Thank you for saving my life."
"I don't–"
"What is it, twice now? Three times? Excuse me for not keeping track."
His words are laced with enough tired sarcasm you're immediately yanked back to shyness. You turn away to avoid watching him strip down to don more comfortable athletic clothing, the back turned to you just as stiff as his words.
It's a reminder you haven't spoken since his recovery–neither of you seeking the other out for reasons evident in the miasma of emotions circulating between you both.
You've been breathing deeper each time you catch a noseful of his scent, body burning like an ember with the traces of magnolia and cyclamen. His profile has changed since your mutual claims; you're sure there's even more of a lean towards neroli in your own perfume now that you're expressing his signature the way you had Johnny.
The difference is in that while your body is still adjusting to his genotype, still recombining, he already smells like you. Like your mate, like home.
"I'll go," you say, surrendering against the wall of his silence. It's noticeably quieter in the room–Jungwoo had disappeared at the first sign of confrontation. At least the Canid's intelligence is better served in running away.
"I’m the reason you ended up in trouble in the first place. I'm not sorry for intervening, but I shouldn't be here."
You find yourself speaking in riddles again, too caught up in recent events not to find yourself back in the depths with him. He's still dazed from the experience of digital purgatory but the static of recent memory is always on his mind when you're nearby.
You'd told him to forget, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be able to feel.
"No," Jaehyun says, defeated. "Stay."
"I really can't." You clutch your robe around you tighter, face feeling hot. "I'm supposed to be on bed-rest."
It's not like you wouldn't take an opportunity to spend time with the quiet Alpha in his quarters. You sense once you were able to get over the awkwardness, it would be a comfort to you both just to have time in each other’s company.
But you also have a suspicion Johnny will come find you. His presence has been haunting you since you’d come downstairs, afraid in the back of your mind he would chase you in some idiot attempt at help. He's probably just outside, perched in an alcove of the floor, waiting to make sure you're not acting on impulse again.
"At least tell me how you were able to do that . . . How did you even know?" he asks.
You clutch your arms, shifting your weight off your throbbing ankle as you stare at the white tile beneath your slippers.
"I dreamt about it," you admit. “It felt like I was you. With you.”
If he's surprised, it doesn't register through the bond. There's not much there at all, guards up even more than the ones you'd instituted with Johnny. Being on the receiving end of that, again, makes you feel nauseated.
Jaehyun collapses into his station's chair.
"Huh," he says. You hear him type in a maddeningly slow peck as he brings up the history, tabbing through your changes.
You hadn’t coded anything you wouldn’t want him to see but the language is revealing in its own way. You knew more than you’d ever let on. It was safer to pretend like you didn't.
"How did you learn to do this without an interface?" Jaehyun asks carefully, turning so you can see the glint of analog spectacles, profiled against his hooded features.
"It's my security system. Or rather ours," you correct. "The Lee Clan's. You know we had to make our own version of the Blackwall after the DataKrash. NetWatch certainly wasn't going to help us.”
He nods, waiting for you to continue.
“When the Syndicate claimed ownership of the Afterworld we found ways to continue to use it under their oversight, their censors. Hacking out was the only way we could communicate with the outside world.”
You sense his question before he asks it.
"Who is we?"
It's almost like he doesn't expect you to answer. Considering his recent attempt to breach Dome security–a fool's errand without access to an internal connection site–you feel like you owe him something.
“I have . . . people.” There's a pregnant pause as you consider what you can tell him. "They're not with the Syndicate. They're on my side."
And I think, yours, if you're as good as I believe you are. They still had to prove it.
He mulls over your admission, swiveling around to watch you drift closer to the door.
"I don't want to make things difficult for you," you say, turning the heavy, manual lock. "I can explain more, after the tribunal."
Whatever happened, you wouldn't be able to trust them until your demands were met and your safety was guaranteed.
Not just yours, you think. You held the responsibility of millions in your small hand, a burden you'd refused to share for so long you'd already broken under its weight. You hadn’t allowed yourself to hope you could, certainly not now when you can feel that null point on the other side of a forced bond with him.
"Just promise me you won't do a deep run there again. Not without my help, at least."
You hear the soft huff of a laugh.
"If I'd known you were that good, I wouldn't have gone in without you in the first place."
His praise rings through you, and you have to remind yourself not to take it too much to heart.
"Don't blame Jungwoo for not catching it sooner," you say. "It's very old, malicious code, full of traps and monsters. But every corner of it has rules. Maybe . . . maybe someday I can help you navigate it."
"I think . . . I'd like that," he says, pausing in a way you know means he's thinking through what to say. He seems at a loss, a faint sense of sadness as he watches you open the door. "I hope you have better dreams."
"You, too." You leave with a gust of green, humid air to counter the coldness inside.
Johnny isn't the one you should have been worried about encountering, it turns out. You feel like you're being stalked the entire time you're hobbling your way back up, finally pausing at the top of the endless stairs to speak to the lingering presence following you. The red-hot brand of his anger pokes painfully into your head with each step.
"If you're going to insult me mentally with that much effort," you sigh. "You can at least say it to my face."
Your shadow appears, dark eyes burning into you from below.
"I didn't think you had a heart left to feel that." Haechan finishes his climb after you, passing by towards the same destination with a crate of what looks like groceries and packaged deliveries.
"I'm sorry," you say, bowing slightly.
You don't add the numerous other things you want to say, well aware that they will be taken poorly in his agitated state. At least you can remind him that the guilt you feel when you see him is genuine.
"Save it," he says. "Is Johnny here?"
The bitterness in his tone suggests something dirty, making you feel exposed. Just like Jungwoo, of course. They were all avoiding their Prime before a formal meeting.
"I . . . I haven't seen him."
He drops the box outside, not bothering to chime the door. Doyoung must be out, you think. Or maybe he just doesn't feel like talking to him right now.
You wait for him to leave, pressed against the wall with your eyes averted submissively.
"It's a nice change," he says, startling you by stopping right in front of you.
"What is?"
This close you can tell the difference in his scent, that just-after-the-first-rain-of-summer smell more lush with green. It makes you feel nostalgic, like an embrace from an old friend. You miss his company. Even more you miss his kindness.
Haechan's hand slams against the wall next to your head, making you flinch. You don't move otherwise, genuine fear locking you in place, your eyes dropping back to his boots as they move closer.
"It's nice you can't lie to me anymore," he says, leaning in to scent your hair.
If you've felt a little like he was incinerating you with his anger now there's just the chill of complacency, the fire entirely yours as you react to being intimidated.
"Let me give you a little advice, aegiya," he says, nasal voice rougher and lower as he raises your chin with just a slight press of his fingertips. You meet his gaze, finally, finding the usual amber hue of his eyes is diminished.
"Just because you fuck behind a closed door doesn't mean we can't see it, or smell it," he says. "Or feel it."
"Oh," you whisper, recognizing his implication by the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip. His breathing is as rapid and shallow as yours, something more painful than a headache streaking your vision.
If living with the bond was as intimate as you felt even with mental barriers you can't imagine what it feels like for those who hadn't had the opportunity or desire to break its oppressive presence through a mutual claim. Taeyong and Taeil must have felt something, too. You're warm and uncomfortable, crossing your legs and wrapping your tail around yourself defensively.
"I'm really sorry, I didn’t mean–"
"No, you're not," he laughs, disgusted. "You'd let all five of us–oh wait, isn't it all nine of us?–fuck you if it meant you could get what you want."
His nose brushes your ear as he hovers over you, taking advantage of your crouched position to cage you in. "You're thinking about spreading your legs even now, aren't you?"
Suddenly the wall against your back is a support, your knees weak. You whimper at the feeling of his thigh against where yours are pressed together, ready to fall open at the tiniest push.
Haechan smiles in that twisted way you know doesn't extend to his eyes. "You don't care who you get it from, do you? Even if it's from someone who hates you?"
His mouth brushes your hairline, scent-marking you as he pushes into you, barely. There’s no resistance on your part, tail falling between you to hide his knee disappearing between the drape of your robe.
You expect him to spread you, but he doesn’t make any move to press further. He's enjoying humbling you.
"You're lucky. Just because I'm at the bottom of the pecking order doesn't mean I'll accept a hand-me-down. I despise used goods."
You were my first, you think, but you keep your mouth shut, shuddering a bit as you turn your head away. You brace yourself for something worse to follow but he only plucks at the collar of your silk wrap, tugging it to cover you up.
"You getting slick from being talked down to? Don’t you feel any shame?" he muses. "Typical omega, I guess."
At least his mocking of you appears to bring him little joy, or any satisfaction. If it makes him feel better in some way you can’t perceive, so be it. Whatever personal betrayal he feels, you can also taste that jealousy like poison in your craw. You have a little hope now that you haven't completely broken him, or the fragile trust that used to exist between you.
"You yourself said I couldn't hide it," you say, angling your head back to peer at him through your lashes. "Would that help you hate me more? If I wanted you to take me right here, again, for everyone to know?"
It's an effective counter. His smile fades, throat bobbing a little as he swallows. Your eyes fix on the shiny half-moon of your bite amidst the stars of his freckles, stomach twisting. You do want to please him, so much that being unable to is causing you physical pain, but you also know how much self-loathing that would engender for you both.
He's the one person here you wish most would not reject you, the one who you'll willingly defer to even if it means humiliating yourself.
"You don’t have to believe me when I say that I regret hurting you. You can call me whatever you want, I’ll take it. Not because I deserve it, but because I care about you," you continue, softly, reminded of Johnny's words from last night. "As long as it takes, or never, if that’s what you choose."
He ignores your sentiment, moving back without hesitation. You know he’s reeling inside, unsure if his blows have landed by your willingness to step into them.
"If there is a God we only have to put up with you another day," he says. "Just let us know so we can evacuate the building the next time you decide to be a whore. It's gross, being on the receiving end of . . ."
He waves his hands rather than finish, fingers closing into shaken fists. You watch him go, your vision wobbling with unshed tears.
"As long as it takes," you repeat. You don't apologize again, dragging the delivery box inside and waiting until you can no longer sense his presence to allow yourself to cry.
As expected Doyoung has run off on some errand, but he's left a beautiful little spread of still-warm tea and pastries, and delightfully, fresh fruit. There's also a hand-written note and pink peonies in the empty makgeolli bottle from yesterday night.
Taeil will check in on you later but the apartment is yours today for R&R, please enjoy yourself. Call me if you need anything. Thank you, gongjunim.
You snort a little at the affectation, as well as the implied meaning of your gift from the conservatory. Innocent romance, bashfulness. He must have recognized that you'd needed space after the events of the morning–including the early, early morning.
The memory has you almost asphyxiating on a delicate bite of cream croissant, chasing it down with lavender tea as you catch up on your messages on the wallscreen, the Neocity News Network feed playing at a low volume in the background.
Between local crime dispatches there are segments on some international news–celebrity galas in the EEC, the upcoming Julian New Year's festival celebrations, demonstrations from the Martian colonies.
Every glimpse outside the country is a necessary reminder that the one you live in, all 217 square kilometers, is very small. It had never been a viable empire in the sense that it could inflict destruction on its neighbors, too consumed with internal war after war–outside aid only arriving to move interests in their favor while reaping the benefits of forced militarization of the populace.
Re-unification had happened twice now, both times undone by the interests of outside corporations and countries. The Lee Dynasty had been a bold attempt to match the refeudalization of neighboring Japan, but the failed alliance with Arasaka only led to Millitech nad NUSA interests returning.
As much as you fear the Syndicate you fear the rewind of history much more–another slide back into conflict and suffering. You'd been chasing a dream of an end to that when you headed north. If you succeeded tomorrow, you'd make that trek again in the future.
But you can allow yourself to rest, a little reprieve–
You're slipping back into feverish slumber when a knock on the door has you jumping up, startled.
Even more surprising is the face on the vidscreen, the intruder's eyes darting from side-to-side in a testament to skittishness. You're surprised Jungwoo has even left his den.
"What are you doing here?" you ask, keeping your tone neutral.
"Would it be alright to talk? I have something for you," Jungwoo says.
"You can speak to me from where you are." He could have called, but you both knew the likelihood of you picking up.
"Just for a little while," he says, pulling down the high collar of his shirt to expose something altogether unexpected. "I promise you can trust me."
You don't have any faith in him, but you are intrigued by the fact that he's wearing that device. You cave within a few moments of worry, letting him in after checking you've wiped your face clean in the mirror by the door. It's a strange reversal of earlier as Jungwoo scoots in. If he had a tail it would be tucked in submission, visibly so when he drops to his knees once you've locked the door.
"What in heaven's mercy are you doing?" you ask, crossing your arms and staring down at his bent, rust-colored head. He rests his hands on his thighs, long back curving as he bows down.
"Apologizing," he says, sniffling. You're mortified to see that he's almost crying when he swings back up, his chin pulled inwards as he fights back tears.
"I don't have any influence on Johnny's decisions," you sigh. "Take it up with him, he's your prime."
He looks confused, head cocked to the side.
"No, I came here to say sorry to you. And thank you. For everything. I should have this morning . . . I mean I've wanted to for a long time but then I didn't have a chance so I followed you here. I heard what Haechan said to you," he sniffs, again. "You didn't deserve that."
"I didn't take it personally, either," you deflect. Of course those words had hurt you in their delivery and source, but it wasn't as if you felt guilty for indulging your base desires, or for seeking out multiple partners. Not when you were literally made to be that way, raised to service these idiots in whatever fashion their ancestors had dreamt up was your purpose.
"You can get off the floor," you say for the second time in less than 24 hours, to another Alpha too big for it to not look ridiculous.
And you can take off that collar, you think, but you don't know how to mention it aloud without spiraling. You supposed at least it was nice to have the security of a quick way out if Jungwoo decided to play with you, again.
He stays on his knees long enough to hand you a small box, gift-wrapped and tied with an elegant bow. You give him a bemused look, his eyes widening as he rushes to explain.
"It's just a new agent. A custom piece, to match your style, I think? I did an analysis of your usual fashion, from the Dome footage–not like that, I promise I haven't been weird. Not like Johnny, at least."
You laugh aloud at his dumb joke. The sleek, metallic cuff is actually in line with your preferences. You note the trembling in his hands beginning to recede as he helps you put it on, the design ergonomically pleasing in how it remains flush to your skin without irritating the still-healing scratches beneath it.
"This isn't anything at all. Certainly not worth what you did for Jaehyun," he says, quietly.
"You would have figured it out even if I wasn't here."
"No," he says, looking down at you with seriousness and what you feel might be real gratitude. "You cured him."
"Oh," you say. You pull back, feeling the fortress walls come up again. Your claim. "I wouldn't have had to if I hadn't . . . compromised him. It was the least I could do."
It feels like such a stupid thing to say in light of all that's happened.
Jungwoo shakes his head, still holding your wrist to tweak at the settings of the device. "It was something he's dealt with his whole life. Jimseung isn't just what we experience during a rut or a heat or when we're aggressed. It can also be a disease. They cull hybrids like him, who can't control it, you know."
He looks up at you, amber eyes still a little glossy. "You didn't just save my best friend's life. You gave him the chance to have one."
It should make you feel pride to hear that, to know that you're curse is someone else's boon. But it's difficult to feel, after everything that had lead you to it.
"If you'd known that I could do that before," you say, locking him down with your stare. "Would you have been nicer to me?"
He smiles awkwardly, shaking his head. You can scent that cut grass smell again from him that you're beginning to understand is his scent when he's subordinating. He's always been a curious Alpha to you, a bit of the type to bite an ankle rather than face a challenge head on.
A little too much like you, perhaps.
"I don't know. I can't really tell you that things would have been different, but I could have handled them better. Acted better. There's one thing that's the same, though."
He's still hunched over a bit, as if speaking on these things is excruciating. "I didn't lie to you. I think you belong to this pack. And even if you decide to go your own way, I'd be willing to help you with whatever means I can."
You could purr at how rich that acknowledgment is to you. Your own pet hound, tethered to you by his sins and guilt but also the sincere emotion you feel from him. You don't need to gnaw at his flesh to have his loyalty. You've earned it, fair and square.
"The same help you offered before?" you ask.
It's a little pleasing watching the gears turn as he remembers what he's lain on the table previously. His gift, his offer to please you. He flushes rapidly, red blotches appearing on his golden skin.
"Is this another little token of your sincerity? I thought you could control yourself around me," you say, voice husky, hooking a nail in the dark fabric of his shirt to pull down his collar and expose the device around his slim neck. "Are you not harmless?"
"I can. I am," he affirms. "I just thought it would make you feel safer."
You lean in to smell the bitter hops of anxiety and anticipation roil off him, his jaw tightening when you bump your nose against it. Rubbing your face against his soft skin feels quite nice, even nicer when he leans into it, unconsciously.
"Do you want me to yell . . . at you?" you ask. "List all the colors of red?"
"You can, if you want." He nods, a little too vigorously, once he's figured out you're toying with him in turn. There's that involuntary smile again on his face again, half fear response and half genuine delight.
"No wonder you got on your knees," you say, tsking with your tongue against your teeth. "How does it feel, waiting for a command?"
"Would I upset you if I said . . . not bad?" He closes his eyes, braced for your next words, or possibly the punishment he expects to be doled out.
You let a few seconds pass, nails digging through the soft fabric of his shirt. Then you give him the tiniest peck of your lips on his cheek, beneath the mole under his left eye.
"Don't be such an easy mark," you say, returning to your breakfast as he recovers. "When I punish you–"
Not if, of course. It was a pleasure to have something to look forward to.
"–it will be on my terms. And you'll see it coming," you add.
You throw him a ripe, round satsuma, scored a bit with your claw-marks.
"Say hello to Johnny for me. I think he's just outside."
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#agtbtb#nct 127 fic#nct fic#nct 127 fanfic#nct fanfic#nct smut#nct 127 smut#nct 127 cyberpunk au#nct 127 omegaverse#nct x reader#nct 127 x reader#nct 127 imagines#nct imagines
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a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 24: escort
pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127
tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content
summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate’s clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself
but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out
ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting
now, you must make them choose you
[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [23: regrets]
wc: 6.2k
warnings: none except mild misogyny/bigotry directed towards main characters, endless character introductions (but they're important, bear with me), the author's obvious disdain for one transphobic/homophobic idol in particular
recommended listening: ateez - silver light
You’d arrived at NeoTech HQ a shivering, frightened child–a domesticated creature stolen into a wilderness haunted by starved predators.
You’ll leave in all appearances the same, but inside you’re something wilder and wiser, teeth sharpened on the bones of creatures much less threatening than you’d expected. Whatever you are to face together–or alone–in the upcoming night you hope you’ve left them just as hardened to survive.
Jungwoo escorts you down in the quiet elevator, uncharacteristically stiff and silent. It’s a welcome breather as the doors slide open to the 89th floor and the old corporation lobby–the massive landing port better able to handle the army that’s descended on the skyscraper.
This castle is under siege, but the only prisoner is you.
Your royal procession begins in a black tiled hallway lined with unfamiliar figures dressed in familiar Nyctos body armor, the green glow of their ID numbers separating them from the helmeted NSMR and NSMP forces.
You inspect them out of the corner of your eye, chin held up beneath the head-to-toe-veils secured under a headdress fixed in front of your exposed ears–borrowed artifacts from Taeyong to obscure your damp and unstyled hair, your ill-fitting Imperial robes.
Outside on the landing are at least six AVs, not to mention the hulking cylinder of the Imperial aerostat, modeled after an ancient zeppelin from almost two centuries ago. This is a much less fragile ship than its ancestor but still it feels vulnerable and exposed perched on the long landing designed for it when the Lees had ruled.
The air buzzes with drones, occasionally shot down if they fail the security scans blinking from green to red--Jungwoo's skill written in their quiet capture by a more stealthy watchdog in the air hunting them down like a falcon released among a flock of pigeons.
Every eye in NeoCity has turned to you tonight with the arrival of the aerostat, and so you must assume every unofficial and official channel has as well.
This is the first time the world will see you since your debut. You are no longer wearing the white of traditional mourning but deep scarlet and black, embroidered in a flame-like bioluminescent thread in the shape of a tiger curled around you, hidden in the grass.
"My mother’s," Taeyong had said, placing your hand on the expensive digital weave where it was displayed on the wooden rack in his closet. It was always meant to be yours. You’d spared a moment to grasp his sharp cheeks in your grasp and pull him down–not for a kiss but to press your foreheads and noses together in a gesture of assurance.
"For kin," you’d said.
"For country," he’d answered, sadly.
He's at your side in lockstep now, Doyoung on the other–Jungwoo following holding your train. They'd both been dressed within minutes of a needed scrubdown, though Taeyong's hair color change to solid black had taken longer. Jungwoo had been the one brought up from the chaos below to help you into your clothing, his gloved fingers careful as he tied your ribbons and braided your hair.
“Even if you are a queen I hope you remember us,” he said. “You belong here.”
“You trying to get on my good side?” you asked as he arranged your veil. You watched in the mirror as he selected your accessories–copper-toned to match the orange dusting of your black fur, rubies like blood set in the eyes of bowing foxes in the head dress flanking your ears.
“Never,” he said. “And neither should you. Show them hell.”
More easily said than done when you meet the crowd of arrivals on the tarmac, snowdrifts burnt to a mist by the rows of environmental controls disguised as flaming braziers. There’s the usual Syndicate corpos–suited men in thick fur coats and flashy AR glasses, their attache’s and staff orbiting around them at a safe distance.
And then there is the Imperial entourage.
The most important of them all is waiting for you, flanked by eunuchs in their dressage of Imperial plum, his suited personal guard looking far less anachronistic.
The last surviving Lee male heir of your parent's generation, if he'd been born for the crown. But no, your grandfather had never even bothered to name him after his first year, already disappointed in his progeny but this one most of all. Even if your grandmother had a name to call her precious son in private he was known by only one title to the rest of the palace, even the eunuchs he had assumed control of, and the few who knew of him in the world outside the Dome.
Tenth Prince.
He's veiled in black from his ancient-styled mongsu hat to his slippered toes, the thin rectangles of organza gusting in the wind around his willowy form, making him look more death god than man. It’s an intended effect that has you kneeling well before the distance taught to you by etiquette.
The cold seeps into your knees as you wait, hearing the snap of his fan in your mind even though you’re sure he’s not holding one in this weather. That sound still makes you quiver any time you hear it, anticipating the pain of it thwacked across your palms or worse–the verbal lashing you were about to receive from its wielder.
“Uncle,” you say, bowing to full supplication. “Thank you for making this journey.”
“We are honored, Uncle.” Taeyong does not kneel but you know he bows, deeply, offering his hand to you once he’s upright again. You ignore it, waiting.
“Rise,” Tenth Prince says, in that airy tone you recognize so well. “You make a mockery of piety by presenting yourself in such a sorry state.”
The laughter that follows from the others is a bit forced, but just as cruel as expected.
Snap. There it is, you think, letting Taeyong help you to your feet and catching a glimpse of the careful movement of your uncle’s always-present fan as he gestures away from himself dismissively, circling you with dangerous ease.
“No surprise you would be handed over a wreck after a week in this slum without the necessary servants. But I did not expect that you to appear like you’d been torn apart by wild dogs, in last decade’s fashion no less.”
The other eunuchs in his retinue laugh behind their sleeves.
“My apologies, Uncle,” Taeyong says. “We had little notice that this would be a state affair.”
You wince, knowing what he’s walking into.
“The Princess Consort demands a tribunal and you do not have the wherewithal to recognize this is a matter of state?” Your uncle doesn’t have to raise his voice, just adding that knife’s edge of bored disdain.
“Perhaps that rut of yours has you cock-blind but do you not have advisees to steer your decisions? Or were they too busy taking advantage of a pack claim to think of formality.”
You know his words are targeted at Doyoung by the way the Lepid clears his throat, the start of something said cut off by an abrasive voice from the Syndicate contingent stepping in.
“Oh give your nephew and his little pets a break, Tenth.” Elder Choi steps in unceremoniously to clap Taeyong on the shoulder, dwarfing him in height. “Wouldn’t expect you to understand rut-brain.”
He leans down to the stiff ears of the Vulpine, pretending that no one else can hear. “Finally dipped your wick in something soft and pretty? Good boy.”
Taeyong has managed to look healthy but you watch illness pass over his soft features, shaken off with a twist of his rosy lips and a stiffer posture.
“We were thinking of the Princess’s safety. She’s still recovering from her first bloom.”
“Bloom? Right. The bitch is bred, hopefully.”
The Elder looks down at you as you curtsy, chiseled face leering at you with perfectly sculpted teeth. You had long grown to hate Choi Siwon and his buffoonish disregard for taste but especially in this moment you wish you could sink your teeth in his hand, watching him throw his arm around your mate.
“We had an opportunity tonight to finally meet as requested. Humor us, lad.” You watch, nauseated, as Taeyong is steered towards an oversized AV marked with the Park crest: a five-spoked wheel with a star at the center. The familiar face of the Park’s head greets you from a distance, mirrored, wrapped shades hiding the squinted eyes of another villain.
But it’s not Elder Park who catches your attention or causes you to finally shiver against the cold. There, beside him is an entirely different cadre of devils, headed by a silver-haired doctor in a white peacoat with a friendly, foreigner’s face. He leans into the ear of another man you recognize in the high-necked, red uniform of the Imperial College of Medicine, both seeming to pierce through your veil to find your gaze across the roof.
“We’ve arranged for you to receive medical care prior to the tribunal, child. Try not to make a fuss like you do.” Tenth says.
You’re barely listening, chill set in completely as you and you alone are approached by the triage team. The Imperial doctor at their head strides towards you, tablet in his leather-gloved hands, silver round-rimmed frames perched on his delicate nose.
Here is the architect of your current misery, the man who has seen inside every cell of your body and every drop of blood. A hundred times on that table and he’d always been the one to greet you upon awakening, playing the role of kindly physician while only you knew the extent of his influence and crimes. Your panic is real at being approached, you don’t want your body to be invaded and dissected for the thousandth time.
A high-pitched whine escapes you, blocked from sliding backwards by Doyoung and Jungwoo both.
“No,” you whisper, falling down to your knees only to be bolstered by Jungwoo slipping his hand under your elbow. You make a show of flinching away. ”Please, no.”
“Courage.” Doyoung says, hand tensing around yours.
The young doctor looks at you sympathetically, but you know better than to trust his soft face and mournful eyes. You hiss at him before he can come nearer. He pauses, hands folded in front of him, smiling shyly.
“Who is he to her?” Jungwoo mutters, pulling you up.
“Her personal physician.” Taeyong answers.
“Doctor Qian,” Doyoung says, louder. “To what do we owe the honor?”
The physician bows respectfully to both you and your uncle.
“As the Jeong clan representative Doctor Reinholdt has conveyed the executive council's wishes to have a thorough examination conducted on the way to the designated meeting grounds,” the physician announces, soft voice lilted with his smile.
Tenth Prince ‘s hat dips in your direction. “We allow it, as well as any necessary procedures to take place after the ceremony, when the matter of ownership has been conferred.”
Real panic sets in as you twist out of Jungwoo’s grasp, rounding on Doyoung.
“Wait,” you say. “Let me have a personal guard, please.”
Elder Choi laughs. Doyoung is startled by the request, looking to Taeyong.
“This pack is forfeit,” Tenth says, harshly. “Who exactly would you choose that would guarantee you where our forces could not?”
You bow your head. “I am still a part of Nyctos until the judgment is made. I would choose from the younger members.”
“What?” Mark stutters behind you, having arrived late. Unlike yourself and Taeyong he does not bow except to give a cursory nod to your shared uncle, looking regal in his military dress. He doesn’t have the sling now, hands tensing against the cold.
“Please, cousin.” You bow to him. “I request an escort from the recruits. Whoever you can spare.”
“You’re invalidated from choosing for her,” Tenth says, gesturing with his red-painted fan towards Mark. “Let her decide who she would prefer.”
“She hasn’t even met them–”
“No, I have not,” you say in a hushed tone, hand placed on his fleetingly. You turn to Taeyong, instead.
“Husband-to-be,” you state, coldly. You watch him look up, eyes lifelessly distant. “May I have two of your recruits as an escort?”
Gone is the mate who’d buried himself in your breast, earlier–who’d kissed you so tenderly afterwards you’d thought you were his world. Here in the snow, uniformed in the red of his father’s army and draped in the medals of battles fought to undo your legacy, he’s again a stranger and potential enemy.
“For what? Hostages?” Taeyong asks, squinting. “Are you saying you don’t trust our clan's security?”
“Please. You have enough bodies to spare,” you state. “None of them will provide testimony for or against my charges but they can act as witnesses, if there is a question of my innocence. It’s only fair–”
“Fair?” he laughs. “Didn’t get your claws into enough of my pack?”
You wave him off dismissively, earning a surprised sound from a few of your audience. You were not showing the appropriate deference at all for an omega, a preview of what they could expect in the tribunal.
“Not Alphas, unless that’s all you have? In which case I'll just have to rely on my elders to protect me from that threat,” you state, submitting amidst laughter on all sides, Elder Choi’s the loudest. “Please. You owe me this courtesy.”
He hesitates before dipping his newly-darkened head, burning you through with his glare. “No Alphas.”
“You may have an escort,” Doyoung repeats his agreement, sighing at you. “Choose wisely.”
In a different world you’d have them both with you, and Taeil. You hadn’t seen the doctor yet, but you knew he'd be brought forth–unable to accompany you for the medical examination due to the nature of the claims brought against him.
You turn to see Mark’s wary but professional regard, his eyes darting over the shoulder of his dark blue double-breasted coat–unlike Taeyong, no badge or medal to adorn him.
“You sure about this,” he asks, softly. He’s innocent in this, you think–truly more fixated on the security of his pack than he is the regal procession and Syndicate army surrounding him. You bow to him, deeply.
“Please, cousin,” you say, quietly. “For my safety, and yours.”
He nods, saying something into his agent. It buys you time, you think, as the space behind you adjusts to fill with bodies, the red-lit NSMR and NSMP giving way to other strangers marked with Nyctos’ green glowing badges.
You slowly walk across the rank and file, letting them see you in your regalia, the fiery cast of your robe illuminating half-masked faces. You scent each as you make your way down the disordered line, counting their rank.
15. Lee. A short Alpha with a shock of white hair, eyes curling into a non-threatening smile. He smells of wolf and something more domestic, kin in-between.
“Hello Princess,” he says beneath his lower-face mask, painted in glowing white ink with the image of bared teeth.
Pass.
17, Na. Taller, another Alpha. His designated scent has the industrial taint of a Prince genetically-engineered line, Felid crossed with sweet Lepid and even musty reptile. An anomaly.
“Gongjunim,” he bows, unable to stoop low enough.
Pass.
12, Xiao. You meet eager eyes under thick brows; a Canid Alpha with the kindest look you’ve seen yet, better served for his short height and thick, gold-streaked black hair.
“Nice to meet you, Princess,” he says. You offer your hand to his upheld one, which he bows to before snatching his hand away, shyly.
Pass.
16, Hwang. Finally, a Beta, you think, looking into large dark eyes as they move from 12 to you.
“Good to see you again,” he says, just as shy as the last soldier. “Did you like the ramen?”
“Hendery,” you say, a laugh and a sigh on your breath as you catch the bite of his familiar gunpowder cologne.
“Need a guard?” he asks. “I’m not an Alpha, right?”
“It’s a shame we've already met before,” you say, demurely. “Pass.”
You move on, aware he’s watching you more closely as you meet the eyes of the man beside him.
19. A Felid Alpha, through and through–but not one you can place. He smells a little like Haechan, you think–ozone and sand, shrinking down even more when you mark his narrowed eyes. Anxious, but not because he considers you a predator. You think if he considered you prey you’d already have been eaten.
“Do I upset you, little cat?” you ask.
“Don’t go with her,” he hisses to 20 at his side, who looks at you with wide eyes. A prey Alpha, you think, but hidden beneath layers of artifice–his size belying his gentle nature as he carefully sniffs over your ears through the covering over his nose and mouth.
“Are you the youngest here?” you ask, innocently.
He smiles, bowing, eyes folding into slim lines. “Yeah.”
Pass.
“Fourteen . . . and eighteen,” you state, pointing at the last two.
All heads turn to your quarry, innumerable sets of ears quirked to your voice but the last four ears fully visible in their placement atop the subjects’ heads–visibly hybrids, a fox and a cat.
“Hwang, Liu,” Mark orders behind you. “Attention.”
The last two recruits fold in front of you, bowing differently. There’s the Vulpine omega muttering at your feet, and an overeager bio-modded Beta, you think, based on how well his pale buff cat-ear sculpts flick and chase sound in his peach-colored hair.
“Your given names?” you offer.
“He’s Renjun,” the cat says, fluffy ginger tail flicking behind him as he pats the shorter Vulpine on the head. “Don’t mind him, he’s shy.”
“And you’re a fool,” Renjun says, morose.
“Well, yes, but the most beautiful omega in the world chose me for a bodyguard.” The Felid cocks his head, artificially slitted eyes flashing green in the dark. “Thank you, your majesty.”
You look at him quizzically. “Name.”
“Liu Yangyang. At your service.” He pulls down his mask, canines visible with the wide grin on his face under his arched nose. “You can trust me.”
You sigh, turning away.
“Fool indeed,” you repeat, picking up the train of your robe and holding it out to them. “Attend me in silence or I’ll kick you off the flight myself.”
You feel the tug and draw on your robes as they find their places, Renjun more careful with his mission than Yangyang in following you with one hand on your train while the other deals with the newfound attention.
“Is this suitable?” You ask Taeyong. He glares at you, nodding before turning away. Doyoung answers for him, giving you a smidge of sympathy in his look.
“We’ll meet you at the site once we've secured the area, gongjunim. Don't hesitate to contact us through these two if there is an issue.”
“That won't be necessary,” your uncle snaps his fan again, turning to the aerostat. “She'll have the entire Imperial College to bear witness to whatever evidence we recover from her. Best prepare your arguments well.”
You follow him, head bowed, ears burning less from the nipping wind and more from the eyes that chase you, most of all the stares you can feel boring into you as you hide the trembling in your body, as you hold in a sob from wrenching the knot in your throat free.
This is no time to show vulnerability.
Kim Jungwoo [Chrysocyon brachyurus α, 219th in line for the Imperial throne]
Whatever happens, Taeyong had said, improvise. The pack leader and Doyoung are already hostages of the Choi-Park-Jeong contingent headed straight for the unnamed destination. Each AV had been pushed the coordinates mid-flight, anticipating a leak of the location as soon as the NeoTech building was taken without a single shot fired.
He sensed the NSMP and NSMR squadrons were a bit disappointed in not having a more violent response, that need for a fight shared by the more aggressive recruits once they’d figured out what was going on.
How convenient he and Jaehyun had rounded them all up for training beforehand, Johnny joining them well after the first breach of the old corporate welcome center to keep the more skittish recruits in line. It had given him a little pride to be one of the few informed of the visit beforehand, in order to mitigate a deadly response from security. No need for a Friday night firefight if they could avoid it–the Syndicate would relish any opportunity to make an example of them as unwilling subjects.
Of course, this was already happening even now. His job, since the beginning of his conscription into Neo Seoul's most ragtag team of rejects and misfits, was to set a mood unseen. Domination through subversion, control by submission.
A hard task with the level of spectacle currently on display, at least 20 NSPD and NSMR AVs flying escort while in the distance spectator media craft ascend above the highest sky lanes to observe the unanticipated event.
Nothing stayed quiet in Neo Seoul for long. Best to use that fact towards their advantage, he thinks. Based on the direction of the flight path Haechan dips into with their own craft he's beginning to understand Taeyong's strategy, still feigning surprise for his small audience.
“You knew we were going there, huh,” Haechan mutters over the in-flight communications channel, checking his controls.
“Who? Me?” Jungwoo looks back from the co-pilot seat at the trio of Nyctos agents on board besides them: Mark and his own personal guard.
“I want radio silence until we're on the ground,” Mark orders. He's been unusually tense since boarding, his new scent powerfully sharp in the enclosed space. His recruit commander Lee laughs, the sound low and dark above the hum of the ring blades.
“She's Kim property, is she not.” Na Jaemin looks up at Jungwoo with a hint of threat in his not-quite-right eyes, slitted like a venomous snake but so dilated they may as well be pits. He's an uncanny one, but not threatening whatsoever in Jungwoo's experience as much as patently bored.
There's a snap as the other Alpha besides Mark checks his automatic weapon. “Smelled like she was someone's property, alright.”
“Silence,” Mark orders. For the first time in perhaps his entire career Lee Jeno ducks his head in submission at him, looking up guiltily from beneath his respirator mask. Good boy, Jungwoo thinks–not for the other Canid but his packmate flexing his claws. Mark had been taking to his newfound Alpha authority like he was born to it–of course he would, with that bloodline.
“That will take some getting used to,” Na laughs, folding his arms behind his headgear. “She make a man out of you, too?”
Jungwoo swears he hears Mark begin to growl over the comm before the AV pitches hard to the next level, sending gear sliding and throwing everyone out of their seat a bit.
“We have clearance to land first,” Haechan says dryly. “Would have told you to hang on if the channel was clear.”
They dart down through the busy sky lanes of Zone 1, way clear and cordoned off by the advance efforts of Yuta and Jaehyun running the NSMP escort. As much as he wished he'd had either of them to help him for this next mission it was best that they were separated. Jaehyun's encrypted updates had been running background on his in-eye left lens since before they even launched.
“Requesting permission for landing,” Haechan says, spewing out instructions over the rocky descent in a short span. They're not heading towards the lit arrival zone on the Lottery's roof but rather the executive hangar perched far below it. The shared space sits on an elevated platform stories above the walled and waterbound complex of the Magic pleasure houses and theme park, resplendent at night in deep red.
It’s also the place he hates the most in all the world–his prison for as long as he could walk–laid out in its cheap pastiche of Old Goryeo while just across the bay the giant looming Dome obscures the true ancient city and its sheltered, spoiled residents. The Lottery is a damning indictment of the Kim family’s heritage–servants of the Imperial dynasty offering bodies and blood or both to the elite at a safe but accessible distance from their sanctuary.
He remembers endless rooms and illusory stages. A new star every week, most of which were quickly extinguished. Tokens paid for in the billions slipped on to a table or into his own shaking hand for entry to a night's fantasy–a nightmare for him. He'd watched his mother and sister fall prey to whichever aspiring Alpha packlord or foreign corpo exec wanted to believe they were worthy of their company, sold to the highest bidder under the guise of proxy service when they were anything but.
Never again, he thinks, keeping his face masked beneath his usual droll expression as they land the AV amidst a sparkling and multi-colored sea of custom and classic autodynes, that greedy and thankless audience always present at the Lottery.
Never again.
“This is ridiculous,” Renjun sighs, flopping into one of the antique chairs in your personal chambers as a small horde of silent artists attends to your appearance. “What are we waiting for?”
“I must be presentable,” you say.
You’d landed a half an hour ago but you’d been pampered since before takeoff, after begging for a proper grooming before your examination as you were shepherded into the sleek, elegant interior of the dirigible. Outside the windows the city skyline buzzes with activity, the Lottery’s roof providing a premium vantage to the inner Districts closest to the Dome.
Yangyang is enjoying the show from a seat beside yours at the vanity, flirting with the braver maids and going so far as to dare to purr when one of them concedes to styling his hair. Imperial wardrobes had been provided your new guard, looking a bit silly under their body armor until you'd requested they be replaced by Imperial projection shields.
“This shield works without a port?” the cat asks, poking at himself with the sharper end of a comb without much response outside of a flicker of blue-green inches from his chest.
Your response is to snatch a pair of scissors from the table in front of you and stab Liu in the shoulder.
“What the–!”
His reflexes are better than yours, you note, as the deadly point sinks into the emergent shield, inches from his raised, clawed hand, his other wrapped tight around your wrist. Once he’s realized it wasn’t a real attack you watch his silver-coated nails retract seamlessly into his skin, no blood whatsoever.
“It can stop a bullet,” you say. “Well, most. Supersonic projectiles, no. Speedware designed to account for the hardware reaction time renders it ineffective as well.”
“So not useful against a Sandevistan, then,” he winks at you with a green-touched eye.
“Try to minimize unnecessary use. It's incredibly wasteful on the battery life without a cyberdeck biosource,” Renjun explains before smacking his partner on the back of the head easily with the flat of his palm.
“Ow!”
“Also not programmed for hand-to-hand combat,” you laugh, apologizing to the startled woman working on your veil placement. You'd kept the head-dress Jungwoo had chosen for you, those guardian foxes a comforting reminder that not everything on your body was by the Syndicate’s design.
“Why don’t you have a cyberdeck?” you ask the boy, once he’s finished refluffing his rosy hair around his tufted ears. “Your tech is Arasaka, isn't it?”
He shows those upper and lower fangs again in his broad, pink-gummed smile. “You recognize it? Well, not Arasaka, but a derivative. EEC subsidiary. It works on micro-muscle movements instead of implanted cyberware. Took me a long time to train my ears not to point in two different directions.”
He makes his point by demonstrating it.
You share a look with the Vulpine behind you in the mirror, his own orange-and gray ears pulling back from his ash-colored hair in hidden annoyance. You'd marked Renjun for vulpes at first until you'd seen his tail in better light, much sleeker and salt-and-pepper over the orange with a dark line down to its curled tip.
Urocyon cinereoargenteus, another genus altogether, you think, if still fox. He must have some forma amicus breeding to maintain a hybrid form. He smells of sage and soft lemon, a comforting musk that's already done wonders to calm the pounding of your heart in your chest in anticipation of what you'll experience tonight.
“Impressive,” you say, still looking at the other omega until he blushes and turns away.
“Are you ready to be as alert when we land as you are now?”
“Born ready,” Yangyang says, sitting back in his chair nonchalantly.
“You're worried about an attack on the Imperial family with this level of security?” Renjun asks.
“Yes,” you say, firmly. “There's not many of us left.”
“You could have picked more experienced guards, then,” he sniffs, but you register the tiny quirk at the end of the grim set of his lips. Despite his disaffected demeanor he seems to like you. They both liked you. That would be very useful tonight.
“Style will always trump substance in these little plays,” you say. “I say we make a fairly picturesque matched set.”
“How do I look?” you ask, standing up finally with the tinkling sound of metal beading and chains. Your high-necked, long-sleeved gold dress coat hides you along with the customary sheer silk veiling around your mouth and styled hair. Still, you feel exposed under the gaze of the two men assigned to you, the maids leaving quickly as a staff of eunuchs take their place.
“Much better.” The musical voice of Tenth Prince only carries a fraction of approval. Your uncle inspects you, the red of his fan replaced with a deep black and gold field crossed by a manjusaka spider lily and a blue chrysanthemum.
“Are you ready, now?” he asks. There's no time left to beg for, your eyes falling on the inscrutable round lenses of Doctor Qian behind him.
“Born ready,” you say, bowing deeply.
“You may proceed with the interview and examination.” Those slitted eyes beneath his veil blink slowly at you, colder than any Felid or family should ever be. “Make sure it's thorough.”
“You’re upset, your highness?” Duke Kim looks especially smug upon their arrival–not to a conference room but a chamber in the top third of the building, escorted through a labyrinth of private clubs and card tables. The upper floor casino levels are lavish but just as overwhelming as the public access floors, bright colored clouds of nicotine and the dredge of high-end champagne and whiskey unsuppressed by scent blockers.
There were more discreet entrances but Taeyong knows that the Kim clan is making an effort to expose them all to an audience of foreign and local elite–many of them outside the Syndicate.
Tonight was about more than holding up the last of the Lee pack to the examination and judgment of their elders and peers. The Syndicate would receive its opportunity to assess them all, from nose-tip to tail, as his father used to say.
Nothing cements this more than their entrance into the meeting room–a richly furnished amphitheater adorned in Imperial palace-styled ornaments. One side, above the highest ranked booths, features an enormous gold guardian statue animated to appear as if alive.
“This was supposed to be a privately witnessed negotiation. Not a full Syndicate tribunal,” Taeyong says, though it’s only for the Duke’s own amusement.
“Well didn't you say it yourself? Your bride's contract is a matter of state interest,” Duke Kim gloats, bowing slightly to welcome them into the wide chamber. The LED floor is currently dark, an ominous table placed in the center of a vast stage.
This arena is the most expensive and secret of the bloodsport venues, fully stocked with matte black weaponry and caged in by a faint grid of green to block any projectiles, fittingly reminiscent of the Dome’s own shielding. Beyond in the plush seats of luxury booths their audience is barely visible outside of the occasional eye shine. Privacy screens block a few of the tables but neon signs mark their guarded entrances, clan seals and hanja glowing with the mixed colors of heritage.
Every clan is in attendance besides the necessary representation from Kim and Lee, with a neutral body for judgment marked by Park, Jeong, and Choi. Those Elders had conveniently disappeared as soon as they landed ahead of the Imperial aerostat, Nyctos pack members shepherded into individual green rooms to be prepared for the show.
Taeyong waits as the others drift in behind him. Doyoung seems particularly grateful to see him, his usual suit replaced with the more appropriate uniform of loose-fitting pants and jacket, strips of low-light LED fabric coded already to match the red of Taeyong's royal dress uniform.
He pauses before he can reach him, face falling at a sight that has Taeyong turning to meet the newcomer before he even speaks.
“Glad to see your mongrels took advantage of our wardrobe department. NSMR gear isn't a popular look nowadays,” a projected voice announces as a shimmering white-suited Vulpine descends from the royal box.
“Gods, anyone but him,” Doyoung mutters, drowned out by light applause as their officiator enters the open ring.
The fox is dressed in blinding, crystal-flecked white–a perfect match to his marbled blue-silver ears, iridescent color-shifting hair styled like flame on his head. It would be impossible to miss the public face of the Lottery and the Kim clan, not with his presence as overwhelming as Neo Seoul itself.
“Master of Ceremonies Kim-sshi,” Jungwoo bows awkwardly before being shaken like a tree by the smaller man.
“Not uncle? Ungrateful brat.” The elder swats him on the back for good measure. “Shouldn’t be surprised it took extraordinary circumstances for you to introduce me to your pack. Shame you never took me up on a private show.”
“Master Key,” Taeyong acknowledges, nodding his head. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Never thought I'd see the day this pup would be in the ring. Go easy on him for my sister’s sake, may she rest in peace,” Key says to Taeyong, looking past him and up, up, up at Johnny. “This your famous enforcer?”
“Indeed,” Taeyong says.
“Pleasure,” Johnny says, adopting an easy posture after inspecting the room. Taeyong notes he's rejected the provided jacket, physique on display under his sleeveless, body-conforming shirt. “Quite the set-up here. Will this be broadcast?”
Doyoung clears his throat, flicking his head at Johnny. “Of course not. This is a private Syndicate affair.”
Jungwoo laughs involuntarily.
“I guess that's our answer,” Yuta says, joining them. "Who knew contract disputes could be so entertaining."
Key nods, hands spreading wide as he continues to assess Johnny. “You look the part. Try to keep your mouth shut. Don't want to ruin the illusion that you aren't just a brute.”
“Am I missing something?” Johnny asks, eyebrows raising.
“That's more like it.” Key sighs. “Did you leave these strays in the dark deliberately or should I give you the run-down in lieu of a rehearsal?”
“By all means,” Taeyong sighs, gesturing to his ears.
Key disables his mic, producing a small device easily recognizable as a short-range scrambler before it disappears just as quickly into his decadent jacket.
“Someone with a clear agenda leaked the details of your contract dispute and now not only does your little domestic affair have a vested interest as entertainment, our beloved dimwit of an Elder convinced the board to make it a staged event." Key rolls his eyes, pretending to smile at the man past Taeyong's shoulder, thankfully well outside of the scrambler's range.
"In exchange for hosting our clan was granted rights to the bookmaking contract for live betting, I imagine,” Doyoung adds.
“I’m guessing we won’t see a cent of that, ourselves.” Yuta remarks.
Key shrugs. “If you make it out alive there might be a reward in it for you. Sponsorship, most likely. You don’t strike me as the type to sell yourself, though.” If Yuta registers the MC’s meaning, he doesn’t show it.
“What are the odds currently?” Doyoung asks.
“Your faction is the clear draw, with a few notable exceptions. Park and Choi specifically are backing your cousin as an underdog, with the potential for a massive payout.” The last is addressed to Taeyong.
“Good,” Taeyong says, feeling a little relief at the news. It directly counteracts the conversation he and Doyoung had been forced into in Park’s AV–where the junta had made all assurances he would not lose this battle either legally or through force.
“Wish I could bet against myself, too,” Jungwoo jests.
“Then make sure your friends on the outside vote for the blue team,” Key says, nodding at Mark inspecting the weaponry nearby while Haechan and Jaehyun observe quietly.
“Blue team?” Johnny scoffs a bit. “You make it sound like we're participating in a sport.”
Key’s grin is dangerous, if still approving. “Well we expect one death match, at least. Of course I would never advise you and you can decide how far you want to take it but it would be quite lucrative for you depending on how much blood is spilled.”
“We're not interested in bloodshed,” Mark says, joining them. “Or money.”
“Speak for yourself,” Yuta mutters with a laugh.
“Was this circus your idea?” Johnny rounds on Doyoung.
“It was mine,” Taeyong drawls, crossing his arms. It catches Johnny off-guard, his fists opening immediately as he takes a step back.
“This was never going to be kept in-house with ____ involved. It was in Nyctos’ favor to get ahead of it.”
“I'm not participating in this ridiculous farce,” Johnny says, hunching down to glare in the Vulpine's unreadable face.
“You think you have a choice?” Taeyong's ears flatten, stance maintained.
“Great work, keep that energy going for green light,” Key says, waving and backing out. “May I suggest that if any of you wish to side with the Princess Consort in this event you code yourself gold.”
He taps his finger against the clan crest on Jungwoo's lapel to cycle through the color strips on his uniform, landing on a rich yellow. “A suitable shade for jealous cowards uncommitted to their pack leaders.”
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#agtbtb#nct 127 fic#nct 127 fanfic#nct fic#nct fanfic#nct x reader#nct imagines#nct 127 omegaverse#nct 127 x reader#nct 127 imagines#nct 127 cyberpunk au
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a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 17: chivalry
pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127
tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content
summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate’s clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself
but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out
ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting
now, you must make them choose you
[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [0: prologue] [1: escape, again] [2: lost and found] [3: returned] [4: bound] [5: home] [6: gift] [7: reunion] [8: security] [9: secret] [10: prisoner] [11: gambit] [12: haze] [13: shock] [14: feral] [15: release] [16: acceptance]
wc: 5k
chapter warnings: none except mild xenophobia, racism (one use of an anti-japanese slur)
recommended listening: STREAM FACT CHECK BY 127 (in all seriousness, though, Misty is my favorite of the new b-sides and works well for this)
Doyoung's insistence that you move into his shared executive suite with Taeyong proves to be a challenge. For one, Taeyong’s nest horrifies you–a sentiment seemed to be shared by his mate.
"He spent most of his childhood in a bunker," Doyoung explains. "You don't have to stay in the foxhole."
Taeyong had created the darkest, strangest abode possible: a closed space built into his half of the apartment that you have to almost crawl into. Deep inside it’s lit by a variety of warm lights set off by graffitied walls and a maximalist approach to bedding and adornments. You peer only for a few seconds into the abyss through the smaller entrance, sniffing at the faded musk scents before ducking back up and shaking your head.
"It feels . . . Wrong to intrude," you state quietly. "Doesn't he need it right now?"
Doyoung's sigh is palpable. "He’ll survive. Until you're ready he'll stay with the person who most closely matches your profile."
Of course, you think. Johnny.
"I can be ready," you say. It's not a statement that extends to your heart, not after everything, but you'd been raised to duty.
Doyoung drops your luggage to place his hands against your upper arms, touch featherlight to keep you from feeling caged.
"Absolutely not. Not until Taeil clears you. Until then you are still in recovery. From here on you are not doing anything that isn't your heart's design and by your own will."
You blink up at him, eyes blurring with tears. "I didn't know you were so nice."
"Don't tell my enemies." He laughs softly, gaze a little sad. "It does seem you've been shown a woeful lack of hospitality, in addition to . . . everything else."
You shake your head. "Let's not."
"Right, you need to eat first. And then we'll talk about what comes next."
You expect to be able to help him–almost want to serve him to see how he would respond–but Doyoung forbids you from the huge, open kitchen. He has a bit of an addled and untrained approach to his work that has you feeling a little lighter as you gently offer suggestions with suppressed laughter in your voice.
"Taeyong usually does this," he says, unfazed by your amusement or the way you gently correct him before he can add sugar in place of salt.
"It means a lot to me to have a home-cooked meal," you counter. "No matter what, I'm sure it will taste delicious."
You watch him grow a few inches, long back straightening as he preens under your attention. For a moment you are transported to a different life entirely–one in which you feel like the vagaries of your kind can be ignored.
"Here," he says, pouring you something milky white into a bowl from a bottle. "Just something to dull the day."
"Rice wine?" You ask after taking a sniff.
"We have a building resident who brews with a traditional process. It's not too heady, but take it slow."
"Thank you," you murmur, sipping. The taste is slightly chalky but sparkling with ferment, light and sweet on your tongue. "For everything."
Doyoung relaxes a little, as if already dancing on the same wavelength of your emotion.
"I wanted to spend time with you tonight, if you don't mind."
"I don't mind." You shake your head, drinking deeper.
Doyoung's dark eyes dart away, cheek pulled between his teeth as he thinks.
"I will, of course, let you sleep here on your own–"
"Oh no. Please," you look up at him, frantically. "Please don't leave me alone."
You quell your anxiety attack, rambling a bit. "Even just to sleep, I need someone. You smell . . . You smell very nice to me."
Doyoung's eyes grow wide, frozen in the act of capping the bottle. Remembering your first conversation at the dinner table has you second-guessing your words.
"Not that way. I mean, I won't bite you, I promise. I just appreciate having you here."
He's just as startled by your response as you are to having it, diffusing the awkwardness by pouring you more makgeolli, a smile tugging at the corner of his prim mouth.
"You're very kind to worry," he says. "But I can manage myself. I'm honored by your trust and your willingness to keep me company."
You flush, face heating. "I'm not causing you any problems with Taeyong?"
Although your litany of failures was impressive, coming between a pairbond match was not something you could forgive yourself for. He smells deeply of your new mate, more fox than anyone here for the clinging of musk on his skin.
"Our arrangement is less than conventional," he says, clearing his throat. "In some ways we're lucky to have each other, in others . . . well. Like most partnerships outside the Dome's ours is driven by necessity. And . . ."
You glance up, catching the bob in his throat as he finishes swallowing whatever he was about to say. "Let's eat, shall we? Hopefully this is edible."
Thankfully, the tofu stew is perfect, otherwise the drink would easily go to your head. He keeps an eye on your indulgence but your cup is filled consistently. Doyoung sits beside you at the table rather than across, an arrangement that makes you feel safer eating without reservation, nose in your bowl.
The conversation melts away the tension and the occasional splinter of pain in your body, muscles easing with the wine and his company. He seems to have a boundless knowledge of court gossip, even details the years should have swept away, and you find yourself more you–more the person you remembered even if that had been its own kind of artifice.
You avoid talking about anything personal until it can no longer wait, once he's finished with the dishes and brings your things to his beautifully clean and open bedroom. It's clear his aesthetic sensibilities are more aligned with your own–white and gray surfaces broken up only by the occasional houseplant or art piece.
Much more comfortingly, you are saturated in Alpha scent–a marine quality to it that shines through the wafting sweetness of his prey genome.
"I have a favor to ask," you say, sitting on the edge of the oversized bed, holding yourself to keep the tremors fixed inside you.
"Anything," he says, remaining at a distance.
"I would like . . . " you begin, faltering. "If I'm chosen, I need your help. Integrating into this life. As this pack's omega."
The heaviness returns. You're tired, of course, satisfyingly full. But you feel better than you have in days. His response is a counterweight to that feeling.
"Can I ask you something that may be too personal for you to answer?" Doyoung asks.
Your heart sinks, recognizing the beginning of a difficult conversation. You had known there wasn't enough time to protest your inclusion–your acceptance of them did not mean they accepted you. No, that would be up for vote at the tribunal, if the pack even remained.
"As it pleases you," you nod.
Doyoung kneels down in front of you, the wide cant of his shoulders dipping as he takes your hand. Your heartbeat is racing, but not from fear. You fixate on the veins leading to the back of his wrists, and the tenderness of his thumb over your trembling fingers.
"I feel like I know everything about you, but we really haven't had time to talk without pretense," he says softly. "I want you to know that you're safe with me."
"I know," you say, not sure of it even as you speak it.
"Please be honest with yourself, if not for me," he says.
Fear paces up and down your spine but you will your fox to relax, held still.
"___," he says. "If, in another world, another life, we'd been allowed to be the pack you chose instead of the one forced upon you. Do you believe we could have ever been worthy of you?"
Worthy? Your ears flatten back, chin ducking autonomically in half-hearted submission. "I don't know what you mean."
"Imagine there wasn't a disparity between our numbers. You were free to choose any mate you desired. No designation even. Have you ever considered what you would look for in a potential partner? Or partners?"
You remember being a child, told you were something special. One worthy of being selected, and courted long before the ceremonies that preceded mating. Not a person or an equal, perhaps, but a prize to be treasured.
The word worthy continues to prick at you, making you feel cold and more hollow.
"I hadn't considered it." You admit, peering up just far enough to take in his serious expression. "I think even if I had I would accept that whoever chose me would never know if it was . . ."
Just biology. Compulsion. Determined fate.
"What would be the point?" you say, airily. "It's not like any of us have a real choice in this world who we're drawn to."
Or what would tear you apart.
"Right," he says with a sigh. "But what about being loved?"
Love.
That word breaks you in its own way, hearing it spoken aloud. It almost makes you sick.
You'd never imagined being loved. Desired, yes–for what you represented or could offer. A conditional transaction, upheld through mutual courtesy if not mutual respect.
No, being loved–loving someone–is an ugly and messy thing, you think.
"Why imagine something impossible," you say, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes are so dark you'd never noticed the lovely amber quality to them on the edges, the hare bleeding through.
"May I explain?" he asks.
You nod to indicate you're fine with whatever persuasion he's been mulling over, but inside you feel bolstered to defend your position.
"Wouldn't you look for someone who treats you with loving-kindness? Someone who prioritizes your needs over their own?" he asks, tentatively.
You shake your head, lip trembling. "It sounds like a child's fantasy."
"It goes back to the ancient code of chivalry. Even Alphas are taught to protect those perceived as weaker–to give them aid without questioning it, to protect those who cannot protect themselves."
Of course, you think, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. He's a Romantic. Chivalric dury was something you'd been immersed in since your first education in the Academy, but you'd yet to see it in action outside of protecting kin and country. No Alpha was capable of true sacrifice, to you it's just a mask to better humanize the ugly truth of a dominating and self-serving nature.
"You find this droll," he says, understanding your disinterest. "I admit it's just a code of honor that no one really believes in, anymore."
"No," you say, shaking off your prejudices. "I think it has value. But I would rather have honesty."
Doyoung is surprisingly quiet, waiting for you to continue.
"If someone considers me less powerful or something to be helped," you shudder at your own choice of terminology, "I would rather them be honest with their intent than to deign to show me mercy."
"Easier to judge the motivations of those who would do you harm, right?" Doyoung's smile takes on a wry edge. "I was raised in the Palace, too, you know."
"Oh, I know," you say. "I think I was a few years behind yours on instruction but Master Park Jinyoung did a number on us both, didn't he?"
You don't call upon your teaching in ancient history but rather etiquette, no class before yours or after insusceptible to a lesson delivered by a handsome Alpha who looked each of his subjects in the eye when delivering instructions. He’d drilled a great deal into you, much of it related to proper behavior. But especially that of courtship.
He squeezes your fingers, rolling his head to hide his embarrassment.
"Pardon me for preaching to the choir, I think it's easy to lose my point when you . . . well, you smell very nice to me, too."
Honesty, again. You feel a tingling sense of delight, seeing him with his guard down. For some reason you’d assumed he wouldn’t be interested in you, but this is an admission of sorts–an invitation. It’s a shame he immediately reverts to logician.
"But you're operating on a false assumption. The feeling is genuine. Whether it's biological or conditional is a metaphysical argument no one should entertain. What matters is here."
He brings your hand to his chest, but doesn't make you touch him, hands enclosing your own.
"You don't have to accept a match you are forced into by a scarcity of options. You deserve to be loved."
You’re not sure whether to laugh, or cry. For how similar your worlds should be he appears to not even be on the same planet as you are.
"So Alphas think about these kinds of things, too?"
"Human or animal makes no difference. We both die little-by-little, day-by-day, when we're forced into a life we haven't chosen for ourselves."
"I was making a choice when I left for Strictland," you say, voice wry.
"Yes," he exhales. You feel those walls coming back up, watching the gears turn behind those narrow features as he decides how to dispute you.
"If it wasn't Nyctos retrieving you, it would have been another. You don't know the level of attrition the Syndicate would be willing to subject you, or anyone who protected you to, to insure you weren't in the hands of one of the Free packs."
Suspicion makes you wary; this is much too close to an understanding yet unspoken between you. Had they made the contract with you, knowing this?
“Including Nyctos?" you ask, hoping he reads the double meaning in your words.
“We may be exiles, but we’re not Free,” he says, letting it sink in before he continues. “The Syndicate has allowed us to exist because Taeyong has never openly disagreed with the ideology his father enforced, and died for.”
“He’s not like him,” you agree, shuddering.
Such a horrible lineage, millions dying just for one man to prove he could be king over the ruins. Even if the Second Prince had died uncrowned, he'd been the major force behind the worst of the burgeoning efforts of the Syndicate, to make sure the war was won in their favor.
“No. Not at all,” Doyoung agrees, affection transparent in his voice. “Much like you, we are held hostage to our family’s sins.”
“So even if I weren’t bonded to any of you, you think this is the safest place I could be?” you ask. “Didn’t they try to kill you, too?”
Doyoung sits up, waiting for your permission to sit down beside you. Your hand is still captured in his, but you nod, sinking into his warm presence, his thigh pressed to your own.
“There’s something we wanted to talk to you about–there’s a lot really–but something I think you might not know, yet,” he begins, warily. “The reason why there was never any question that you’d enter the Imperial harem. Even with . . . your genetics.”
You swallow, mouth dry.
“Please,” you urge him to continue.
"Whether you like it or not, your existence is a potential spark for change. Your genetics aren't an anomaly, I believe they were deliberately developed and implanted within the Imperial bloodline to change the outcome of designated rule."
The words are a shock to you, the room suddenly frigid as your mind races to understand the implications beneath the rush of panic. "What?"
"If you followed in the footsteps of your grandmother and produced the next generation of heirs, you would be doing so with the ability to introduce the Nostradomina strain as a baseline for any future offspring,” he explains. “Your mother understood that if the elders found this out, you would be summarily executed.”
"If you go back, you die. No matter what happens, you run."
You nod rather than speak, afraid your voice will betray you.
“It seems that where many are trying to kill you or use you, there are also forces still protecting you."
"My brother?" Your voice is tiny, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
"More likely someone within the palace itself," Doyoung says. He holds, but only long enough to clock that you’re not refuting it. "Do you have any idea who that could be?"
You clench your jaw, remembering the feeling of being shocked over and over again through the last line of interrogation. It keeps you from breaking, so tired of hiding but emboldened to shut this down before you can reveal anything outside the bonds of complete security.
“No,” you say.
Doyoung recognizes your discomfort, if not your lie, stroking your hand.
"It's not important, right now. I'm sorry to overwhelm you."
"So that's what you really care about." You pull your hand back. "If you think I have anything to share that I haven't under torture than no, you are right. I do not think this pack is capable of being worthy of me."
Whatever tears you've shed run dry, again. Best not to spend another moment being seduced into complacency by a man with a pretty voice and careful words.
"I think we need each other for survival," you say. "I am grateful that we can align on mutual interests. But please don't mistake me for someone who believes you would ever put my needs over those of this pack's or Taeyong’s. As long as we understand that, we don't need to pretend.”
It takes him a long time to respond, standing silently by the bed as you crawl into it, tucking your tail around you.
"I'm truly sorry, ___."
You clutch the pillow beneath your head, smelling the melange of the other two who've shared it, a distant third scent making your heart stone. You know you're on your own tonight–you won't beg him to stay beside you. His hesitation is only as good as his retreat, watching you from the doorway.
"I'm ready," you say. "For the tribunal . . . and everything else. Are my terms acceptable?”
You’d had to write it out, unable to make your demands heard if they were in any voice but the one written in your own hand, words preserved with intent and simplicity.
“As you wish,” he says. “I’ll make the preparations.”
Yuta Nakamoto [puma concolor α] - assistant inspector second rank, Neo Seoul Police Response, formerly warrant officer rank junwi, Neo Seoul Military Response
There was a time back in the 2110's when Suh Youngho was just a reserve in the NG Foreign Legion, on the same misfit detail he'd been assigned to. A skinny NUSA kid with a tendency to smile and talk more than anyone was used to.
A tall poppy just waiting to get domed, they'd said. No one who'd been in this shitass war more than five days would have cracked a joke about it–not after watching the newly-formed Syndicate's tendency to put fresh bodies into beachfront graves.
Graves in this conflict were euphemistic: when you died there was no one to write home for you or carry your dogtags back, you were just a number on a screen for some scum who paid enough for the Millitech commission and maybe gave you a meal if they shot enough promotional footage to pay for it.
No, the war was already over and the remnants of it had taken them both as far as they could before armistice. Yuta remembers leaving the mess hall as the screens flashed white and the surrender was played, pretending he hadn't seen or understood the message as he carried two rations back to shared quarters.
It would be the first and last blissful journey he made back without having a tray upended, without hearing the spitting invective of another upjumped commissioned officer.
Or so he thought.
"Hey, jjokbari." Lieutenant Choi calls from behind him, a laugh and a whistle accompanying the slur. "That for your Yankee boyfriend? He think he can sleep in today of all days?"
Yuta resists the urge to flip him off, nodding politely in their direction as if he hadn't heard a word. It's not enough–has never been enough–but he continues on with ears pricked towards the sound of movement, hoping they choose the day's flavor of nationalism in the anthem blaring down the hallway instead of tormenting the foreigners risking their lives for them.
"Not gonna celebrate with us, Na?" His second-in-command, Ji taunts. "Enough omega girls to fuck waiting back home?"
Yuta can count the doors back to safety on one hand. Maybe it's a mistake he keeps going.
Maybe.
There's the pounding of footsteps–someone much heavier and less graceful than the commissioned officer. He waits until they try to swing–too wide, too flailing–to duck under it and move back. Whatever response Private Bootlicker was hoping for it's not the subtle step-away that leaves him lurching into the metal deck.
"Did he even touch him?" Another grunt asks, forever denied a response by the voice that speaks next.
"Attention."
Instinct has Yuta turning, saluting, tray balanced in his rest hand.
"At ease, gentlemen."
The man stepping into the corridor is dressed in bright red military regalia fitting only the finest, upjumped officer. At least with this one he can count on some of the medals being earned rather than on account of being Daddy General Lee II's favorite.
Despite the contradictory image of a bioengineered ears and tail and a teenager’s lanky frame, Crown Prince and Captain Lee Taeyong is well-respected within the ranks and twice as deadly as any of the assholes on the carrier. The stories that had come out of his Academy days painted him as unforgiving in hand-to-hand combat, enacting punishments on Alphas who tested him based on his smaller size.
Something is different today; Yuta has never seen him without a full retinue, has barely seen him at all outside of mission briefs. But here he is below deck–accompanied by an Imperial attache in an officer’s field uniform.
"Lieutenant Choi, you're needed for requisition of materiel in Zone 3. Report to Chief Petty Officer Ahn immediately."
"Aye, aye, Captain." The gang recedes, laughter booming off the ceiling even this far away.
"Private, you can either apologize for attempting to hit a superior officer or be gang-planked well before we reach port." The Captain addresses the man currently skulking away, before he can leave sight.
Yuta watches his would-be bully grovel, unable to respond for fear he'll be reported back on to Choi and his like. Even with the war over there would always be the clancorps to rely on for another boot upon his neck.
"Private Kim," Taeyong's attendant says, coughing.
"You're officially free to go back to–" the small man reads through a specific address and name. "Busan. Placed your name on the first transport flight out as crew."
"I will throw you off this ship personally if I see your face or those of your compatriots, do you understand me?"
Taeyong doesn't have to bare his teeth for the threat to be made and understood. Soon they're alone, again, just two breakfasts and the most Yuta has seen of command since joining as a warrant officer.
"Fuck." The Captain says, bending over to the floor. He's shivering all over, scent blockers doing little to hide the cloying cinnamon and musk roiling off of him. Yuta thinks he’s lucky the majority of the remaining crew are Beta recruits or young enough not to know the difference in scents, true designated like themselves having been run through within the first years of the war.
"You didn't see this." The other officer on deck says, bent over a touchpad. Yuta finally notices the universal red cross of a medic along with the hangeul name badge: Moon. "Which way is 119?”
"That's my bunk, sir."
Both of them look up, the Captain’s squinting eyes opened wide.
"Nakamoto Yuta, is your roommate Suh Youngho?"
"Correct, sir."
"Take me to your quarters and you'll never have to call me sir again," the Crown Prince says, on the floor, tail batting to and fro.
"Discreetly, please," Moon adds.
Yuta hadn't given a second thought to the command, still wouldn't years later. If anything they'd saved him the sole duty of escorting Suh in his first rut, 100 leagues from the nearest proxy hotel. No one else had their back until then. A stroke of luck, or fate–it didn't matter.
He’d chosen Nyctos, and the others, for life.
Now he's in another foreign prison under the guise of conscription, resident of cell block C in what should have been his own home, receiving updates in morse code from Jungwoo tapping impatiently on the other side of the wall.
Taeyong is the first to visit, posture bent by almost a week in recovery from whatever you have put him through, sweating through his suit. He waits for the others before speaking his piece over the door comms. Yuta has seen his commander in this state many times since that first encounter, but he can’t help but find it funny–the solution to his problem had been there from the start.
"I take responsibility for everything that happened," Taeyong announces, after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence and no sign of being joined by the others.
Jungwoo's laugh can't be heard through the thick walls but Yuta echoes it, slumping into his cot. They’d made a bet that Taeyong would issue a formal apology on behalf of his mate, a fact that Yuta relied on enough he’d just won. He expects admonishment from Taeyong but instead the pack's omega reads something scrawled on ancient copy paper.
". . . Including my own death."
It's carbon-scored and dotted black with what looks like blood or water-staining, script tight and messy.
"I am a political refugee who sought asylum. I end my journey here. If this message reaches any of those who care for me, I am leaving as a final act of mercy. Please do not punish anyone involved, they did not know who or what I was when they took me in."
Taeyong's voice chokes on that line in his reading. Yuta watches him sit cross-legged on the floor between cells, gripped by bodily torment or emotion–he cannot say.
"Signed Lee ____, last child of Lee Eunji."
The silence hangs over them through the static of the comm, until Yuta laughs again, much more darkly.
"Mercy?" Yuta says. "That suicide note is a writ of execution to be carried out by whoever sent her here."
“She wrote this before we even brought her back,” Taeyong growls, low, standing up to stare him down. "She's not operating against us. Or at least she wasn't until you two began terrorizing her."
The gravity of that statement is wasted on him.
“Pretty clear she was expecting someone to find it, then,” Yuta says. “Smart girl.”
The window slams with Taeyong’s fist, just a streak of red tail visible through the haze of dust. Yuta stands up to join him at the window, stretching against the day spent in solitary and yawning as if he’s more comfortable than stiff.
"Do you have any compassion?" Taeyong asks once he’s done, brows lowered as he looks at him through the barrier. "You took initiative to torture her without a directive or a lead. Left her unsupervised and unsearched. We could have had a dead omega on our hands."
An expensive mistake, Yuta thinks, but he knows better than to provoke the captain by saying it aloud. He shrugs.
"Johnny gave the order to investigate her," Yuta says, too defensively for his own comfort. "It's not my fault he didn't specify a methodology."
"Just how they do things in NSMP, right?" Taeyong asks, crumpling the paper in his anger. "Any means necessary, is it?"
He doesn't speak, denying him an emotional response.
"You haven't asked us what we found," Jungwoo says, his lilting voice distorted by the speaker.
Taeyong's firm expression falters. Got him. As much as he enjoys seeing Taeyong’s attempts to interrogate them via emotional manipulation, it's better to use this opportunity to pluck out whatever card is hidden up the Vulpine’s sleeve. There’s been a woeful lack of transparency within the pack of late, compartmentalization of intelligence constantly invoked where the four in charge were concerned.
If he’s going to be exiled over something as banal as a feral omega with a deathwish, it would be nice to understand why you’re considered more important than the pack itself.
"You already know who’s behind this, don't you?" Yuta says.
He doesn’t mean the events, those were already reported. Taeyong knows exactly what he’s implied, his own slit-eyes breaking away to look at the floor. He’s quiet, smoothing the letter–which Yuta notes is much longer than what was read, text impossible to work out from this vantage.
“It’s need to know,” Taeyong says, “until we have more information.”
Yuta smirks at him. “And why would that be? Someone worth protecting? Family perhaps?”
“The pack,” Taeyong snaps immediately. There’s an ancestral quality to his posture, head stooped and ears flattened, sharp little canines bared. Yuta registers the promised threat in that he finds it intriguing, but his cat ignores it entirely.
Thankfully Doyoung interrupts before the Captain can embarrass himself further with the jimseung-like lack of control, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"We have a suspicion of who it might be after performing the decrypt. Yet another reminder that your little routine was completely unnecessary." Doyoung glances down at his agent with a bored expression. "You can't possibly think we'd share that information with you when you're threatening to leave."
Yuta nods in agreement, keeping his mouth shut.
"The tribunal will be held the day after tomorrow. I hope you reflect on your actions and get your affairs in order before then."
He unlocks the doors to their cells, not waiting for them to join as he leads Taeyong away.
The strategist looks over his shoulder as he escorts the Captain out. “Oh, and if I were you, I’d avoid Suh tonight. No telling what he’ll do in his state.”
Yuta waits until they’re gone to tap a message back to Jungwoo, who he can’t help but notice hasn’t left his cell, either. Knowing the Canid he’s probably already locked the door again, from the inside.
Tap tap tap. Thunk thunk thunk. Tap tap tap.
This time, he can hear the other Alpha laugh quietly at the joke.
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#agtbtb#nct x reader#nct 127 x reader#nct 127 fic#nct fic#nct 127 fanfic#nct 127 smut#nct 127 cyberpunk au#nct imagines#nct smut#nct 127 omegaverse#nct fanfic
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a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 2: lost and found
pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127
tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content
summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate's clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself
but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out
ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting
now, you must make them choose you
[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3] [0: prologue] [1: escape, again]
wc: 6k
chapter warnings: multi idol au overload, minor violence
recommended listening: farewell, neverland - txt
Shadows jump and dart on the corner of your vision, phantoms created by the crackling fire in the abandoned schoolyard. You hadn’t relaxed since leaving Neo Seoul but tonight that uneasiness has you taut like a tripwire, checking the gaps between the abandoned buildings and the overcast sky for unfamiliar drone lights.
One of your entourage places a hand on your shoulder, stilling the trembling in your body and the nervous swish of your tail. You jerk away, offense only increasing when the reek of a domesticated dog assails your senses.
"We have six on patrol including eyes on the sky," Yunho says, voice soothing. "You really should relax. And eat."
He hasn't used an order on you since that first night, but you haven't forgiven him for it. You ignore him, staring into the watery mug of stew in your hands, feeling another set of eyes burning into you across the flame.
It's been a whole week since you'd had anything besides packaged field rations but your appetite is gone under Hongjoong's scrutiny.
"Not good enough for your refined palette?" he asks lightly, polishing off his own mug.
The leader of the mercenary crew has kept you on a short leash since you’d been rescued, age-old enmity written into his slender features and piercing eyes. You'd never met a prey-type Alpha before but it was just your luck that the first one would be one atop your species' food chain.
"This isn't the time to be picky about your protein choices, Princess," he chides. You bristle at his tone, but most especially the affectation. You’d asked time and time again to be called by your name, only to be laughed over.
”Don’t remind me who you are, Princess. I would rather be caught dead than knowing your real name.”
"Told you she'd have a hard time with the silver spoon plucked from her mouth. Can't even handle a little bug meat."
"Captain–" Yunho begins, cut off when the smaller man stands up and glares down at you.
"Finish it," he orders.
You bare your teeth in his direction, ears folding back, but you obey, choking down your flavorless meal and trying not to think about what's in it.
At least you're not alone in your humiliation. You'd watched Mingi, the enormous wolf enforcer of Hongjoong's crew, practically hit the ground in white-eyed terror while being dressed down for falling asleep on a shift the day before.
Yunho, too, had submitted at every turn, only a little more fire in him. Like the other Canids he'd hung at your side the past few days, eager to please in a way that had you mollified.
It was the gifts, of course.
You’d started receiving them as soon as they'd abandoned the old military vehicle to hike North, the terrain too difficult and dangerous to traverse except on foot. First your own bedroll, then your own tent when the rains inevitably fell in the morning. Fresh clothes, fire-warmed water to bathe in.
Breakfast was always made before dawn and left a safe distance from your shelter's door. Then came the oddities. A rare winter flower, a not-too-broken handmirror.
Humankindness, possibly, but they'd all carried the same scent. Hound.
You had to admit there was something intriguing about the Halatus pack, mismatched in species and designation as expected for those outside of Old Seoul's social order. It was a shame you hadn’t had the mental clarity to focus on how their dynamic operated, after a week of hiking on a nauseated stomach.
By tomorrow you would never see them again.
"Not even a thank you for the food?" Hongjoong sneers, pacing.
"I'm paying you." you mutter, knowing his sharp ears will catch it.
He laughs, a sharp bark breaking the eerie silence. "Not nearly enough."
"Three pheasants, four rabbits, countless pigeons," you say, staring at the ground. "A giant rat."
"Is this a nursery rhyme they teach you in the Palace?" Hongjoong asks, stilling long enough to seem genuinely curious. He sits down, gun slung over his thigh, tapping his fingers along it's barrel.
"Just listing the game I could have caught if you'd allowed me a weapon," you answer. "There was much more. Who do you think helped Jongho find that rabbit warren?"
"One giant rat." He repeats, amused, whistling.
"You are expending unnecessary resources guarding me," you say, ears flat against your head, your voice kept neutral. "Please at least give me a way to defend myself."
Hongjoong pretends not to hear you, scraping the pot free of the last dregs of stew.
"I belong out here as much as you do," you say, holding your spine straight.
The captain' looks up at you, glare burning with the flames.
"Not with this crew."
"Stop antagonizing her, Joong," a deep voice says behind you, startling you. Juniper and salt are in your nose as a slender, gloved hand plucks your mug away.
You’re slowly becoming more accustomed to Park Seonghwa’s presence but more often then not you avoided the Felid's company. He's another Royal Academy exile, more recognizable now that you’ve had time to discern his features beneath the darkening across his sharp cheekbones, his neck burnt black by whatever he’d encountered out here.
You knew better than to ask what had happened to him.
"Are you still hungry?" Seonghwa asks, dipping over the wash bowl, ignoring you outside of these brief interactions. Like the others he's dressed in tactical gear, stun rifle at his side and blade strapped to his back.
"No. Thank you," you demure. It had only taken a few days for you to recognize him as the eldest, the hidden prime.
That earns you another chuckle from the Captain. Seonghwa tidies up with the air of someone too tired to ask for help even as Yunho rushes to assist. You’d long stopped asking if you could help.
"Who do you want for the next sleep shift?" The quiet second-in-command asks.
Hongjoong cocks his head, checking his agent. "I'll take Wooyoung's patrol. If there are sniffers it's best to pair them in the same building to draw them in."
"I want someone else with us," you blurt out, standing up. Anxiety rolls off of your body in waves, unhelped by the suggestion.
"You trying to seduce my whole pack?" Hongjoong seems genuinely humored.
You shake your head slightly, crouching down with your ears pulled back.
"Please," you say, after some hesitation. "It doesn't have to be a Canid."
The only response is the snap of the fire, but outside of the clean smoke and cooling remnants of dinner you register the bitter scent of disapproval. You look up at Yunho's kind face, too trained to make eye contact with the Alpha. Yunho's mouth opens and shuts, but he holds his words.
You know your place, you think.
"She can stay in the old boiler room," Yunho says. He runs fingers through his black hair in discomfort. Seonghwa nods, gaze moving to the Captain.
"Fine," Hongjoong says. "Drug her so she'll get some sleep. If she struggles, feel free to tie her up."
"I'll take what I'm given," you say, ducking your head. You look up at him, finding your verve. "Captain."
A sharp-toothed smile breaks over the Alpha's face, but you’re answered by the Felid beside him.
"Sleep well, ____," Seonghwa says. "One last District and you'll be home."
For the first time since your extraction you dip towards the dirt in a practiced bow, hands crossed over your too-large military trenchcoat.
"I thank you for your service."
Hongjoong's laughter follows your exit, navigating the dark with Yunho's hand on your arm, past piles of junk and the carcasses of long-unused desks.
"I could get used to that," the Captain's voice echoes through the concrete hallways behind you. "Maybe we should keep her."
You only have to wait a few hours, feigning sleep, until Yunho leaves first shift to sneak out, ignoring Wooyoung's grumblings at being disturbed. It's still early enough you can hear the quiet sound of conversation at the fire. You hang in the stairwell, considering your exit—
"____." The voice makes you jump
You look up to see a dark figure peering down from the next landing, your heart thundering in your chest.
"I was just going to rel—" The excuse flies out of your mouth, practiced.
Seonghwa waves off the lie, unconcerned. “Come with me, I have something to talk to you about.”
“Have I done anything to displease you?” you ask, voice reedy.
You hear a soft laugh. “You wouldn't have to ask."
Against instinct you follow him up, fingers cramping on the cold metal banister, thighs burning and booted feet heavy from the day's hike. The rooftop of the school is four stories up and dark but for a makeshift station—Yeosang's.
In your first days of captivity you'd taken to testing them, seeing how far you could get before they pulled you back.
Your excuse of relieving yourself to find a vector of escape had quickly been stymied by Yeosang's drone hovering silently a respectful distance away in the dark.
After that they'd set proximity alarms, and tighter shifts.
Yeosang's acknowledgement is silent, face lit by his viewscreen as his pale eyes flick back to his work, leaving you to join Seonghwa a fair distance away, igniting an LED torch lamp as a beacon.
Your breath steams in the air, obscuring the field of stars. You knew this nightscape well–were grateful to see it's known patterns, the Temasik Line obscured by radiant light of the cities southwest.
"I wanted to speak with you privately. Before we reached Strictland."
"Strictland?" you ask, heart thumping erratically in your chest.
"It's what the Free packs call District 8. A military base and a capital of sorts, once a border. Most of it was wiped out in the war but an international rebuilding initiative was started there. Before the Syndicate outlawed foreign occupation."
You nod, unfamiliar with any of this. It wasn't uncommon for Imperial censors to have blanked out entire portions of your maps.
"Our deal was to take you there, no further. It's peaceful enough, there's aid and safe zones for designated refugees. But I am under the impression you are looking for a specific individual."
You hesitate, remembering your disclosure to Yunho.
"I didn't lie about wanting to find my brother," you say, quietly.
"What's his name?"
You shake your head. You can't disclose that–your mother had sworn you to it.
"He goes by something else, now," you say. "He's a fox, like me. An Alpha. I know that, at least."
Seonghwa's response is barely audible, like the ghost of thunder on the horizon.
"Are you familiar with a Free pack called Schisma?"
Something pricks at you with the name, but it's your first time hearing it.
"No. Why?"
"They’re . . . infamous," Seonghwa says. "We've dealt with them before. Some of them are Abdicated but most were born outside the Dome."
He pulls something from his pocket, toying with it in the blue light, as he considers what to say next.
"And I know for a fact that three of their members are Vulpin," he says. "All Alphas."
A small flare of hope makes your head spin—you quickly tamp it down, for fear of how easy it would be to let it consume you. You knew better than to drive forward on prayer alone.
"Do you know when they were born?" you ask, voice trembling.
"No. But our generation." Seonghwa's pale eyes meet yours, slit pupils fully round without light. "Would you like to meet them?"
"Yes." You exhale sharply, almost explosively. "Would that be a problem?"
Strands of dark hair fall over his forehead as he stares at the thing in his hand–a coin, by the looks of it.
"It would be for our Captain. Bad blood between him and their leader–too alike, perhaps." He smiles at that, white teeth shining. "But they owe me a favor. If you're patient, and can keep your head down, I could arrange a meeting."
That surprises you. You look up to see if Yeosang is responding to your conversation but only see his silhouette on the far side of the roof, another drone rising up to flit over the dead treetops.
"How soon?" You try to hide the desperation in your voice. You have an ample enough reserve of suppressants but you know you won't be safe for long. Not without a pack and blood to align with.
"Communication with them is always one-way," he says, cautiously. "It could be quick, it could be months from now. That's why patience is key."
"I don't have months," you blurt out.
Seonghwa stares at you, cold and unreadable. You think he'll speak but you realize he's waiting for you to continue.
"I know it was stupid of me to leave the Dome on a rumor. But I had to," you say. "My mother died for it. In a way . . . I almost did. My life was never my own, but after we tried to escape the first time . . . it was forfeit."
You wait, bracing, for more questions. This is the first time you'd spoken of it with a stranger, no words could articulate the experience fully.
Seonghwa's hand raises, tracing the air near your cheek from a few feet away.
"You were marked, weren't you?" he asks. There's no accusation there but you feel panic surface, unable to hide your reaction as you skulk back.
"What?" you protest.
He raises an eyebrow.
"Even most betas know we don't scar unless it's by another of our kind," he says softly.
"Wooyoung always jokes that foxes are Felid software running on Canid hardware. Your hardware is . . . more Felid than expected."
"Well, I do have the blood of Tigers," you say, holding your face to hide your embarrassment. It's a pathetic attempt at a joke but he rumbles a bit at it.
"Your secret is safe with me, but best to cover your face in the company of strangers."
Over a few silent moments he takes on a more serious air.
"So you understand, fully, what will happen to you if you are alone out here?" he asks.
You nod. Your eyes are stinging with more than the cold.
"There is an alternative," he says. You remain still as he moves towards you, as the bright tones of eucalyptus from his scent make your nose twitch. Your tail curls behind you, ears twitching.
"We do business in Neo, but we have our own sanctuary, should you choose to go there instead."
You understand what he's offering, have known it since your first night. Sanctuary with Halatus would have it's own price--would mean blending your lives with them, letting nature take its course in Yunho's unspoken claim over you. Perhaps you'd find your place. You had the skills to help them, if they allowed it.
"I can't give up," you say, finally. "I have to find him."
"I understand." You're shaking by the time he comes closer, unconsciously stepping back when he removes his thick peacoat to offer it to you. "But consider it."
"No gifts," you say automatically.
His laugh is melodic, now, less deep than his usual voice.
"You'll have to pardon the others. It's in their nature to take care of you."
Something in his tone makes it clear that doesn't apply to him. Even if you can't see his face in shadow you look up at him, seeing the familiar glisten of hybrid eyes.
"Not yours?"
He cocks his head. "You've never met a sigma, before, have you?"
Your chest feels tight, recognition setting in. "I just assumed–"
"Good." He cuts you short, amused. "Suffice it to say, you're safe in my company. In our company."
He pulls the jacket around you, the lingering heat from his body instantly warming–matched by the blood quickened through your system at his signature. It had been easy to ignore the part of your brain that recognized him as kin–that jimseung exoticness and Felid a strong cloak.
There was something pacifying, knowing you weren't alone. It was hard not to want to linger in it—your fox wanted more.
"We'll see you to your destination and I will arrange for you to meet with a representative of Schisma. But if all else fails, I want you to know that Halatus will see that you are safe. We abide by only one principle: no masters."
He lifts your chin with sharp claws, a padded thumb brushing your lip.
"We must look out for each other, after all."
When you dream it's of your home. Not the one you'd been imprisoned in within New Seoul but a quiet estate in the Wild, far past the edges of the flooded metropolis.
You don't remember which District but you do remember the hills rolling into the mountains on either side–a part of the Wild somehow untouched by disaster.
Your peace there, playing with your brother as cicadas thrummed in the tall trees and crickets chirped in the garden, lasted for only a few years.
After that came the silence as contamination spread, changing the biome and making it toxic for anyone but non-designated. The out-of-control Wild had choked dwindling supply lines, resources stuck in Neo Seoul.
Your father went missing before you were old enough to remember his face, leaving your genteel mother to teach you how to subsist and fend for yourselves. She'd made mistakes of her own, but she'd kept all of you alive for far longer than you'd expected.
You'd starved, as both the roads and the forests went quiet. When the droughts came you'd survived on collected rainwater flavored with local flora and the occasional fish or reptile caught in brackish pools. You grew what you could, trekking miles to dig up roots and harvesting fungi.
You had a sharp nose and keen ears, even if you had not yet found your form.
Your brother began to present first, of course–wolf and tiger in his marrow untempered by your mother's generations of cultured Vulpine breeding. Though you had yet to have a name for what he was you knew he was something special.
"Min-ie," you used to call, seeing his back turned to you, shoulders hunched as he watched the horizon for something that would never come. You'd join him to catch the fireflies' glow just off the edge of the compound, leading down to the flood plains and the ancient wire skeletons of transmission towers.
"Do you see the lights, ____?" He would ask. He would never turn—not even in your dreams. You'd have to crawl beside him until you saw the side of his too-serious face, eyes following the paths of falling stars.
"It's too early for or-or-ah," you said, thinking of winter. "The planet isn't tilted that way, yet."
"Aurora." He'd corrected your pronunciation.
"There." He traced the arc of a bright satellite with his finger, it's trajectory leading to a death far out of view, over mountaintops. "North. They're always shooting north."
He ran from lessons, but somehow knew so much more than you.
The only books he wanted your mother to read aloud were adventure tales. Salvage dives into the burnt out library 5 clicks from home had proved useful for texts no one could sell, and there were no other children here to read them to.
You'd consoled yourselves with stories of knights on horses and queens locked in compounds surrounded by thorns, unaware or perhaps just ignorant to your birthright . . . but somehow you'd both, always known.
How it had pricked at him to be the Alpha in a dead household, fatherless and hungry and unable to feed his own. At ten he’d fallen prey to the dream of surviving through military indoctrination–running away with only you as a witness, promising to return and take you both to safety.
Somewhere, somehow.
He'd never returned.
A few years later, in his place, had arrived the rarest sight of all in the abandoned countryside: a full squadron of thrumming aerodynes, and a land-based fleet of vehicles packed with camouflage-suited military escorts.
And for you, a silent dirigible airship–the behemoth black against the hazy, red sky.
The war was long over and there was no threat in this forest, no response from the neighboring ruins of the city, but you and your mother were brought to Neo Seoul and the Dome as if you had been plucked from the hands of an unseen enemy.
They'd had a parade for you through the streets of the old Financial Sector, luxury yachts joining the flotilla as the Imperiatrix's barge moved along street-canals towards the island of the central throne.
Your new residence, and cage.
You remember your first time being fitted and dressed in layers of silk and gossamer, tied until you could barely move. After running free and barefoot on thick grass and mud paths your mother had taught you how to supplicate yourself.
You'd taken your cues from her under the watchful gaze of tens of thousands of eyes, millions outside the Dome if the Betafax broadcast statistics could be believed.
Together you'd made the long journey of kneeling to Heaven a hundred times across ancient stone, finally allowed into the austere gates of the Blue Palace to pay respects to your grandmother.
At that time, the Imperatrix had not yet been lost to senility though her physical form had dwindled. She couldn't have stood even if she'd chosen to, her body depleted by over three dozen children, themselves the parents of six dozen more–of whom you were just one more potential heir, like your mother before you.
Royalty, returned from exile.
Years passed in peace, until the first of the great typhoons presented your mother with the chance to escape. It was an ill-fated attempt, and at the end of it you'd been returned broken and alone.
In your worser dreams of concrete spillways and abandoned buildings, water sluicing from earthquake-cracked roofs, you go willingly to your shared fate.
You cry but you don't know why–sure that if she is sad you should be too. Each day and year after had led you to your understanding of it, as you matured into the future ruler she had never wanted you to be.
Even if you couldn’t have escaped, you should have died, then.
It would have been easier than being devoured every night, chased under the surface of water star-scattered with city lights.
Sometimes you make it, sometimes you can keep holding onto her still, white hand in the deep.
But more often than not you feel the writhing shadow just at the edge of your perception close around you. It puts claws in your skin, and teeth in your neck. It tears skin and blood from your body as it drags you to higher ground.
And in your darkest dreams it licks your wounds free of water and muck, until only bones remain.
You wake with a gasp, sedation fuzzing your animal perception. The fire in the old metal tank has dwindled to embers but you're hot, encircled in a familiar, wiry embrace with a broad back against your shoulders.
"Woo," you whisper. The man behind you is the one to wake first, and your nose crinkles at the smell of cat–sharp and ammonia-laced with an automatic fear response.
"Quiet." The word is hissed.
San, you think. You hadn’t spoken with him much during your journey but he had a protective instinct for Wooyoung that had led him to partner in watching over you both when he wasn't on patrol. You recognize his conifer-like scent and his shape as he prowls through the darkness towards the door.
Your eyes adjust in the dim light, over detritus-strewn tile flooring to the hallway. The creak of empty pipes and the moisture remaining within them obscure any sounds from the floors above–the whimper of the other Vulpine pressed to your breast almost comical in contrast.
"Sleep. Little more," Wooyoung grouses into your jacket, nuzzling into you.
"Wake up," you whisper, "Something is out–"
There's a distant metal ping and then the bell-like tinkle of something rolling down the hallway. For a moment it sounds cheery, until you see San retreat from the door.
Instinct has you covering the fox in your arms to protect him but not your eyes as the flashbang goes off.
Pop, pop, hiss–BANG.
You–usually so quiet, so reserved, so polite–scream.
It's the kind of sound chilling enough it's written into legend, bloodcurdling.
Your companion wakes in a flurry, pulling you up from the floor and behind the hot metal furnace, hands over your mouth and sharp nose in your cheek.
Your blinded vision returns to smoke and light, blinking at the liquid black moving against the far wall towards the only entry and exit, met by a laser green line cutting through the haze.
"Stand down," a male voice says. The order may as well as be transmitted underwater to your ringing ears.
Through the haze a lithe figure clears the door, the faint glow of a nasty gun between you.
You growl, watching the light dip away from San for a moment in your direction.
It's long enough for him to attack, razor-sharp claws embedding in the stranger's tactical vest, bowling the much-taller aggressor to the floor.
For a brief moment you feel a sense of having the upper hand, Wooyoung releasing you to snake through the hissing pipes towards the far side of the room.
Then the first gunshot fires–a blast with a streak of orange fire from the barrel. Your heart chases your pulse to your feet, crouched, watching San collapse on his side with a spatter of blood across torn books.
Wooyoung acts without thinking and is met with a similar response, knife spiraling out of his hand. He drags a now-useless arm beside him, planning another attack--
"Yield," a new voice orders. It's an Alpha command, and you can only obey.
Wooyoung immediately sits down beside the body of his friend, checking him with the other arm raised and no fight in his posture.
"That's what I said," the man on the floor groans, picking himself up with a dog-like shake of his body.
Two others appear from the smoke, flanking their companion in sync, laser sights jumping in staccato patterns over graffitied walls aged dark with mildew. You pull back, navigating the old basement on memory to hide amidst the collapsed rubble of the adjacent room.
"Come out, little princess." This voice is higher, rasped with smoke.
With the receding chemical smell of the grenade you immediately recognize Canid, over the hot metal of Wooyoung and San's blood.
You growl again, unable to speak with how panic has shifted you deeper into jimseung.
They recognize where you are but check the room with military efficiency, two of them taking over securing the enemy while the shorter one who had spoken steps lightly past, hunched down to seek you out, ears pulled back the same shape as yours.
For a moment you glimpse your brother in the dwindling firelight. Then you recognize the smell of hard earth baked under the sun, something wilder. Not your kind, just a close relative.
The Canid sniffs inquisitively, following your trail as he perks forward, swaying a bit. He crouches to make you more comfortable, half-gloved hands raised in a mockery of surrender with the pistol hanging from his fingers.
"You're safe now," he says, in a sing-song voice. "We're here to rescue you."
You keep quiet, clutching your tail between your knees as you recede out of view.
"We won't hurt them if you come quietly." He swoops forward, blunt claws scraping the floor.
"Watch out, Haechan," the older Alpha says. Your senses have returned enough you witness the indignation in his body, neck bent.
Like the others he's incapable of fully adopting his true form, jimseung setting in by small degrees. In the throes of adrenaline that make you shift his large, amber eyes are animal. They track through the receding wisps of smoke, locking on you right before you move.
You scrabble for Wooyoung's knife near your black-furred fingers, gripping it despite the sweat on your palms. You watch the young Alpha in front of you carefully, heart thumping in your ribs.
"Put the knife down," Haechan says, features softening back to more human as he gestures. You can feel the command like a warm hand ghosting through your mind, snagging for only a moment before your muscles relax.
Immediately you raise the knife to your own neck.
"Try that again and we'll see who's faster," you snarl, a little delighted when he flinches.
He's untrained, and his scent spikes with fear the moment he understands he has no power over you. You pull back, keeping your gaze locked.
"Let them go," you say.
"So brave." Haechan laughs, genuinely delighted.
A sharp yelp distracts you; Wooyoung protests his injured arm being clamped behind him with a zip tie by the second, taller Canid.
The other intruder on the floor has already gotten up and moved toward San and your eyes snap back to the boy inching towards you, blade digging into your neck through the thick ruff that's grown unconsciously.
"Come quietly and we'll have no problem," Haechan says.
"Stop," you growl, arm jerking. "I'll cut myself."
"Haven't seen this one before." The Canid whistles, low, before laughing. "They claim you already?"
"I hired them, they're under my protection," you say, swaying onto your heels, finding balance with your tail.
"Should have paid us instead," he smiles at you, chin lifting in a nod.
You have a moment to question it, to chew on the breath coming quick through your nose over the all-encompassing bite of woodsmoke and blood and saltpeter.
Then there's a soft thud behind you, your ears flicking back just as a hand tipped in razor sharp claws wraps over your own, holding you in place.
"Be still."
You're completely paralyzed, body recognizing the danger of a more substantial carnivore well before the Alpha's order numbs your mind.
"Be quiet." Someone–something–purrs in your ear. "Don't fight."
Your thoughts race to understand how you'd been subdued so quickly. There's no exit or entry behind you, but you remember the ceiling had been broken–wind whistling from the ground level as woodsmoke cleared out.
Now that same cold rush of air is rich with pine and spring flowers as the knife is wrested from your grasp and dropped to the floor. A human hand grips your muzzle, encircling your throat once he finds it shut.
Haechan dips closer, scenting you in the embrace of the stranger, checking you for other weapons or surprises in the flarelight.
Across the room you meet Wooyoung's eyes, finding him just as tight-lipped under the Alpha's command, daring to look up at him. Whatever he meets in the gaze of the creature behind you he's just as frozen, tension in his body singing at the need to attack or escape.
Fight or flight. You'd done enough of both, you suppose.
You ready yourself to move the moment you can break free but something raspy and hot meets your neck, dampening your hair on your marked side. Sharp teeth graze against your skin.
You whimper, knees buckling, held fast by the stranger holding you.
"Why does she taste like–?" The Felid's voice is multi-tonal, one layer a cat's rumble.
"Shut up and use a booster. Now, Jaehyun." The Alpha giving medical care to San looks up in alarm, eyes reflecting yellow. "You two, subdue her."
Haechan carefully pulls you away, avoiding eye contact with your captor as he folds you into a comforting embrace. The other Canid joins you, sinking his nose into the side of your neck.
"That's a unique profile," the tall one whispers, soft eyes darting over your head. You feel the presence behind you drift away, hanging on the edges. "No wonder you couldn't resist."
"Relax," Haechan says.
You want to scream again but you can't, soothed from stiffness by the Alpha's unique scent and his hand caressing your back.
"Such a good omega," he purrs. "We won't hurt you. Will we, Jungwoo? We're here to rescue you."
"Funny. Doesn't look like she needed rescuing," the other says. He's just as interesting to your animal–not dog or wolf or anything you're familiar with but something close enough to touch. It must be mutual for the way he buries his nose in your hair.
"Stop scent-marking her you idiots." The doctor approaches with a syringe gun, making you back up out of fear–pinned instead by your captors.
"Is she someone we should know, Taeil?" Jungwoo asks.
"No." He shakes his head, brown eyes cold. "Are you hurt?"
You don't register the question is for you until Taeil lifts your limb free from the encircling bodies, the two Alphas on each side closing in protectively on instinct alone.
You'd taken your scent suppressants, your elephant's dose worth of hormonal blockers, but that didn’t stop anyone from wanting to be close to you. You were used to it–in the palace and outside but it was more unnerving now with your friend seeping blood into the dirt not ten feet away, your fellow fox omega seething beside him.
"No," you finally are able to speak. "Will you please let them go?"
Taeil runs human fingers across your furred arm, noting the black streak that runs down the back of it.
"Look how worried she is for them. Did she bond with them?"
"Doubtful," Jungwoo answers instead. "But there's something–"
He stops speaking when Taeil buries the needle in your arm, making you seize between the two men holding you down.
"She's just tired. Aren't you, princess?" The doctor says, smiling at you. You smell scorched earth in whatever he is, again too foreign of a Canid DNA profile for you to place as the drugs hasten through your bloodstream.
"Let's bring them up. Carefully. Jaehyun can carry her."
Some instinct tells you he's speaking to the cat, so silent behind you you'd almost forgotten he was there, if not for the hair standing up on the back of your neck.
You can hear San rattling breath and Wooyoung's muttered insults as they're carried away in front of you, now hostages. Complacency takes the place of fear as your fur recedes, anti-shift boosters working quickly. You grasp the air with stubby human fingers, missing your claws.
"You're safe." Black flickers at the corners of your vision as you finally see your fourth captor, his dark, human eyes searching your face.
He's beautiful in a way most Alphas are, no matter what resentments you have for his specific genus. You don't have ears or a tail to mark but you know the subtleties of his scent to be an older genus, can see the fangs denting his lower lip.
"Please don't resist," Jaehyun says. "We're taking you home."
Your heart leaps into your throat, tears seeping down your cheek when you can't move your head–not because of an order but because your consciousness is fading away. In the distance you hear reports echoing through empty rooms, shouting, and the telltale hum of an AV's blades.
"Please . . . Please don't take me back," you whisper.
He smiles wryly, adjusting a gun strap over his shoulder before lifting you up. Beneath the body armor and black clothing he's warm–not unwelcome with the heat receding from the room.
"I can't go back," you whisper into his chest, sobbing.
"I'm sorry," he says, bumping your forehead with his cheek. "We'll make sure you’re returned home safely."
You let darkness sweep you away, too defeated and drugged to see who else will fight for you. There's the barest trace of something on the material pressed to your nose that has the beast wide awake inside you, clawing to come out again.
The Syndicate had found you, and to do so they'd paid the best–of course. Neo Seoul's finest mercenary group.
The one pack you didn't want to ever meet, the home of the one Alpha you hate even more than your grandfather rotting in his Imperial tomb.
Nyctos.
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#agtbtb#nct x reader#nct 127 x reader#nct 127 fic#nct 127 fanfic#nct 127 omegaverse#nct 127 cyberpunk au#nct 127 imagines#nct fic#nct imagines
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