Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9240968.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Yuri!!!_on_Ice_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Katsuki_Yuuri/Victor_Nikiforov
  Character:
      Katsuki_Yuuri
  Additional Tags:
      Masturbation, Sexual_Fantasy, Character_Study, 5_Times
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-01-08 Words: 2619
****** The Real Deal ******
by Anweyr
Summary
     Yuuri's fantasies of Victor Nikiforov have evolved over the years.
     Or: Five times Yuuri got off while fantasizing about Victor.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Fifteen.
Yuuri is fifteen when he first thinks of Victor Nikiforov while touching
himself.
 He’s been masturbating for a while -- he’s a teenage boy, after all -- but
he’s tried to steer his thoughts carefully away from anyone real while he does
it.  Sometimes just focusing on how everything feels is enough. When it’s not,
comic-book characters are safe.  Or just vague fantasies of naked bodies, made
out of bits and pieces of those he’s seen in the locker room and the baths,
with a hefty dose of imagination. They’re not real, so there’s no one to find
out about it, who could be upset about it.
His thoughts had wandered once --  once --  to Takeshi, and although he’d
stopped right away, he’d spent the next week hardly able to speak to his
friend, terrified that somehow it showed on his face. Takeshi decided Yuuri was
mad at him, rather than terrified, and only Yuuko’s intervention had saved
their friendship.
He’s lying in bed, feeling tired but vaguely frustrated, not ready to sleep
just yet. His tossing and turning has already driven Vicchan from the foot of
the bed, whuffling indignantly, so it doesn’t take much to persuade the dog to
leave the room. Yuuri will let him back in later, and tries not to feel too
guilty as he settles back into bed.
There’s not enough light to see anything beyond vague blocks of grey and black
on his newest poster, but Yuuri doesn’t need to see them to know what he’s
looking at. Long silver hair, flashing smile, free leg extended and arms and
back arced with impossible grace.
 Yuuri’s hand slips down his pants, and he’s stroking himself before he even
quite registers that he’s hard. And though there’s the little spark of guilt,
he pushes on, his mind full of flashing blue eyes and that perfect arabesque
and the free feeling of flying across the ice.  Of the muscles that must lie
beneath the skin-tight fabric, and how they’d look moving, warm and alive.
The euphoria builds, tightening like pulling into a sit spin, and moments later
he spills out over his hand. He’s panting. It was fast, but good, and he lays
there a long time as the glow fades.
The worry doesn’t start twisting in his gut until he reaches for tissues to
clean up. He shoves it down, firmly, talking to himself in his head. Victor
Nikiforov will never find out. Yuuri’s miles beneath his notice in Juniors,
mostly taking bronze if he even makes the podium at all. They’ll never meet.
Besides, Victor’s famous, with many fans. Yuuri’s hardly the first, and won’t
be the last.
He still feels a jolt of panic later that week, when Yuuko mentions the famous
Russian skater at practice, but he shoves it down, and eventually forgets he
was ever worried.

 
Eighteen.
 By the time he’s eighteen, celebrities are regulars in Yuuri’s fantasies,
actors and athletes and models from magazines, all male. He’s far too
embarrassed to buy the magazines that he’d need to show ID for, but the sports
magazines have photos of swimmers. And once he gets a computer for university
school, there’s the internet. He doesn’t  -- can’t -- imagine himself having
sex with any of them; it’s too presumptuous on one hand, and too intimate on
the other. But thoughts of sex at one remove is fine, more than fine.
With his first competition of the season coming up, his mind often runs in
circles at night -- sometimes for hours -- before he can sleep. It’s his first
season away from Hasetsu and his family and the inn, his first season without
sharing warm-ups with Yuuko, his first summer without Vicchan snoring at the
foot of his bed. Everything’s changed, except for the fit of his skates and the
triumphant jolt of a clean landing. Everything will keep changing, too, and so
much hinges on how he does this year, in the rink and whether he can keep up
with university classwork and skating at the same time.  It’s suffocating, and
sometimes it feels like the only time he can breathe is when he’s on the ice.
The night before the competition, he returns to the familiar comfort of his
fantasies of Victor Nikiforov. Those pink lips, which are parted slightly in a
killer smile on the posters, in his mind open wider, fastening around a cock.
Those hands, elegant but strong, pressing down on muscular shoulders; lithe,
muscular torso hovering above a sculpted back and taut ass.  Yuuri turns his
face against his pillow, eyes screwed shut, his palm moving against the slick
head of his dick, his fingers pulling along its length.
In his fantasy, Victor has flawless skin all over, unmarred by the purple and
yellow of bruises, hands smooth because it’s impossible to imagine  Victor
Nikiforov  falling like a mere mortal skater, or suffering chapped hands and
lips. Yuuri knows westerners are supposed to be hairy, but the swimmers aren’t,
and so Victor isn’t either.
Yuuri imagines, for a moment, the warmth of that skin, smooth beneath his own
hands, and comes in a dizzying rush that leaves him panting for a long while
after.
There’s no guilt, even once his breathing slows. Even though he dreamed -- for
a moment -- that he could touch Victor Nikiforov, could reach the top of the
lofty pillar where the god of skating resided. It’s a little bit like tasting
victory. Sure, he’s daydreamed about having the Russian skater as his teacher,
his coach, but this is different, more arrogant, like he  deserves .
At the competition, he spends most of the afternoon so close to silver he can
taste it, losing out only at the last moment, by less than a point. So he takes
bronze yet again -- but it’s a proper bronze, this time, not just a junior
medal. Stepping up to the lowest tier feels like the next step up a long flight
that leads to the top.
 

Twenty-Two.
Yuuri loses his virginity in America at age twenty-two, one month after
arriving in Detroit.  Brian Grant is so stereotypically American that it’s hard
to believe he’s real -- he’s tall, plays basketball, blond and blue-eyed, and
(Yuuri learns later) has divorced parents. He doesn’t have a gun, thank
goodness -- Phichit had asked, when setting up the blind date. Yuuri never
would have dared.
It’s easier than he had thought it would be. Everyone knows Americans move
fast, expect sex on the first date. It doesn’t mean anything to them. So Yuuri
can just follow along with what’s expected.
They meet at a bar, have dinner and drinks (Yuuri will have to make up for the
second beer later on, it’s more calories than he should have on top of the
hamburger and fries, but he’s still too anxious after just one). Brian leads
the conversation, and they talk mostly about training -- basketball and skating
are very different, but some things are constant.
Yuuri doesn’t have to ask anything, or make decisions, because the script is
already written. So it’s easy to say yes when he’s invited back to Brian’s
apartment afterwards. He doesn’t even have to bring up showering first, even
though he’s heard Americans don’t. He doesn’t know if Brian is doing that for
his sake, or is just cleaner than most Americans.
He doesn’t feel as vulnerable as he’d thought he would, although maybe that’s
the beer, keeping Brian at a safe distance emotionally even as his mouth and
hands work over Yuuri’s most intimate physical parts. The sensations are
subdued and overwhelming all at once, and his release comes embarrassingly
soon.
Then it’s Yuuri’s turn. A moment of panic, because he knows what he needs to
do, but doesn’t know  how . But Brian’s patient, coaxing him,  coaching  him,
and it’s easier when there’s instructions to follow. The other athlete murmurs
little praises as Yuuri struggles with the feeling that his mouth suddenly has
too many teeth and the rubbery taste of the condom. It’s different from how he
imagined, but even though his jaw soon starts to ache from being so wide open,
it’s exciting to actually have a dick in his mouth. And he’s a little pleased
and definitely hard again when Brian finally comes with a loud cry and a sudden
thrust that makes Yuuri gag.
Yuuri doesn’t think about Victor Nikiforov all week, not even when he’s in the
rink.
There are a few more dates -- more sex --  but it’s not long before Brian
suggests they end things. They’re both so busy with practice, their seasons are
starting soon, Yuuri already seems to be gearing up for his...
It’s disappointing, but it doesn’t hurt very much, and he worries a little that
it doesn’t. But he never let Brian get that close to start with.
It doesn’t seem polite to fantasize about your ex -- Yuuri certainly hopes
Brian isn’t thinking about him anymore --  so the swimmers and models and
Victor Nikiforov come back into his fantasies, comforting and familiar.
Although the Victor of his dreams is older now, hairier and a little more real,
with a faint trail of hair from his navel to crotch like Brian had, and there’s
the memory of latex in Yuuri’s mouth.
 
Twenty-Three.
After his disaster in Sochi, Yuuri’s fantasies stay far away from Victor
Nikiforov. His gut knots whenever he thinks of his idol, or of his own terrible
performance. The shame is more painful than the bruising all along his legs and
hips from his falls. Time helps, and distance, but even after he starts
practicing Victor’s free skate program there’s still the internal flinch.
Then the real Victor Nikiforov turns Yuuri’s life upside-down that April. At
first, between the intensive exercise program and the gymnastics his emotions
have been performing, Yuuri’s too exhausted to jerk off at night.
It takes a week for things to settle -- the external routine, internal
feelings. Maybe it’s time, or maybe it’s seeing Victor play ridiculous foreign
tourist at the false ninja castle that does it. Whatever it is, Yuuri’s glad,
so very glad, to have found this new normal.
He’s sleepy, pillow still cool against his face, when he reaches down to grasp
himself. Slowly, his hand curling around his stiffening shaft, he turns his
thoughts to sex. Strong bodies, warm mouths, tightness around his cock. A body
beneath his, torso arching up and sweat-slick against his own.  It’s good, but
still too vague, so Yuuri lets his mind paint details of his imaginary partner.
Relaxed, in familiar surroundings, his mind summons a familiar fantasy:
muscular legs, flawless skin, pale tufts of hair, washboard abs, well-muscled
shoulders. Blue eyes, bright and piercing.
Yuuri stops breathing.
Shit , he thinks, and his heart’s racing now a very different reason. Victor
isn’t miles away, not anymore, and the onsen and Victor’s flamboyant nature
have left little to the imagination.  It’s one thing to fantasize about the
safely distant, larger-than-life skating god, quite another to beat off to the
man who calls you piggy and coos over his dog in Russian and takes goofy
tourist selfies. Who is sleeping down the hall in the extra banquet room. And
who has somehow become impossibly, terrifyingly, obtainable.
He doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that his fantasy was still so utterly
wrong -- missing the chapped knuckles, the scar just below the knee, the way he
could smile cheerfully at you while being appallingly rude.
Either way, it’s definitely worse that now that he’s thinking about the real
Victor, the grace and the scars, Yuuri’s still hard, and he really,  really
should stop.  But now he’s remembering the warmth of Victor’s hand on his chin.
The way Victor’s voice sometimes goes low and full of promise (Yuuri’s head
knows it’s all a joke, but his dick has other ideas). And the pale nape of
Victor’s neck as he glances backwards, yukata sliding down his shoulder like in
a steamy movie scene.
Yuuri decides he’ll worry about hating himself for it later, and doesn’t stop.
He sleeps badly and rises early the next morning, leaving the house for his
daily run before Victor’s even out of bed. He knows by now that no one can see
into his head and  know , but he’s not ready yet to face the collision of
fantasy and reality.
 
Twenty-Four.
He’s alone in his hotel room in Moscow, staring up at the ceiling and trying to
ignore the accusing yellow-green numerals of the bedside alarm clock. His
flight is early tomorrow, his body is still sore, and he should get whatever
sleep he can.  He should just turn the clock to face the wall. And move his
phone across the room, so he’s not tempted to look at it, although then he has
to worry about sleeping through his alarm. Or any texts.
Victor’s asleep , he reminds himself.  With Maccachin .  No one’s going to be
sending you any more texts tonight.  He pictures them both in their room in
Hasetsu, Victor stretched out on his back, face serene in sleep, the poodle
flopped alongside him. They’d both been through a rough couple of days, and
deserved their rest.
A wave of longing washes over him, and settles in his chest like an ache.
Victor.  He wants Victor, wants to be reminded through warm, silent presence
that here is someone who knows him, knows his mental weakness and the quads he
still can’t land cleanly and his fears about letting people close, and still
believes in him.
Yuuri tries to picture himself, sharing the bed with them both, sleeping. But
he’s never actually been in Victor’s bed in Hasetsu, so he scoots over and
thinks back to sharing the hotel bed with Victor, their first two nights in
Moscow.
He can’t help the smile that creeps across his face; they definitely did more
than just sleep together in this bed. Another kind of longing stirs, and his
first thought is no, no, surely he’s too tired to be turned on, this is not
going to help his insomnia. But it’s not like there’s much else for him to do
right now….
Yuuri sighs, switches on the light, and pads to the bathroom for a few tissues,
to have ready at the bedside table. He feels a little silly about it, but it’s
better than walking, cold and sticky, to the bathroom after.
The bed is still warm when he returns, and in the dark he settles in, fixing
his mind on Victor. Victor’s hands on his shaft, stroking him firmly, twisting
slightly, the way Yuuri’s hand is moving now. The press of Victor’s chest
underneath his, warm and close and solid. The sweet softness of Victor’s mouth
on his, and Victor’s fingers laced with his. Those same fingers, stretching
him, pressing against the spot that makes sparks go off behind Yuuri’s eyes.
Victor’s laugh when Yuuri scoots down to return the favor and winds up tangled
in the covers (although this is fantasy, so Yuuri skips the half-minute of
struggle that it took to sort everything out while Victor made jokes about
blanket monsters). And Victor’s blue eyes, going wide and then screwing shut,
that near-agony expression of ecstasy as he shudders and finishes.
Yuuri has to bite back a cry as the memory of Victor’s climax triggers his own.
 
Victor. Victor. Victor.  He whispers it aloud, half-plaint and half-sigh. He
feels looser, now, the longing still there but softened. He still wants Victor,
to hold him and be held, but it’s easier to believe in the memory of home now.
This time, when he imagines laying alongside Victor and Maccachin, his limbs
grow heavy and still, and soon the rising tide of sleep creeps gently over him.
End Notes
     Many thanks to reconditarmonia, for fantastic beta work and sharp eye
     for weak moments in a scene! Thanks also to surskitty, for moral
     support/asskicking and telling me to write the final scene.
     Hat tip to assorted nonnies on FFA, for the title suggestion, and for
     convincing me that Victor absolutely practiced that yukata-off-the-
     shoulder slide in episode 1.
     The character of Brian Grant is lifted almost completely from the
     90's anime series Marmalade Boy. That he shares a name with a retired
     basketball player is a complete coincidence, at least on my end.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
lly getting. Allison's pulled to her father's chest
again, face first into the unbuttoned collar of his night shirt, as Melissa
swiftly twines her hair into something more manageable. She doesn't want to
think of how filthy it will be after two or three days in this room alone with
Stiles, mindless to do anything but sleep and rut.
She catches Melissa's wrist when her head is lowered to the pillow again,
anxiety high enough that the urgency outweighs the floaty feeling of being
cared for in this state. “Is it safe? The room? Will someone keep watch?”
Melissa pats her knee, nudging it gently until her legs are spread beneath the
sheet, sticky thighs peeling away from each other. “I'm sure your father will
want to arrange that for himself. If he weren't so stubborn, we would take care
of it for you, yes. But you have nothing to worry about.”
“I do,” she insists. “I do, I'll be tied, we'll be tied and Stiles couldn't
fight off a pixie, much less a human with magic.”
“Allison. We might've had this to worry about if you'd been an alpha, or if it
were about two hundred years earlier. You're not a political threat or a royal
consort. You don't need to be on lockdown.” It's more reassuring in an alpha's
voice, authority almost palpably cold and clear in the aura of heat around her.
“You'll be safe as houses here. It's Hogwarts. Do you think I'd have brought
you here if you wouldn't be safe?”
She wants to argue, to say he'd thought she was an alpha then and it's
different, but the bed shifts and Melissa is putting her hands on Allison's
bare leg beneath the sheet. Her questioning sound comes out more of a terrified
whimper, and her father's eyes shoot daggers at the nurse. “The spell,” she
explains quickly, before she shifts her focus back to Allison. “Maybe you'd
rather your dad step out for this? It's a little personal.” Allison clings
tighter to his hand, shaking her head, and Melissa sighs at her. “If that's
what you want. I need to ask you a few questions about your sexual activity.”
“I'm a virgin,” Allison blurts. “That should cover everything, shouldn't it?”
Some alphas and omegas have sex before they even know what they'll be, she's
aware of that. But at that age, Allison had expected to be an alpha, and when
Lydia was having adventures on her back, Allison had been taking care of all
the studying Lydia never seemed to do in front of anyone.
“I'm afraid not. It does help a little. You haven't had sex. Have you ever had
anything inside? I'm not here to tell you it's wrong, trust me. A toy, or...?”
Staring straight ahead, Allison nods, biting into her lip. “My fingers,” she
admits quietly, working to ignore the sudden squeeze at her hand. “Not for a
long time, but.”
“Good girl,” Melissa says, almost proud, and that's nearly worse than being
chastised. “Knowing your body is important. And you'll know what to expect.
That's all it will be.” She holds up a pair of fingers like she's swearing an
oath. “Only two, and a hand on your belly. It's quick magic, and I've done it
plenty of times before. I'll be in and out, and you'll be as safe as you can
be, breeding-wise. I'd hate to see a student like you go home before you've
gotten rewarded for all your hard work.”
Anything is better than leaving this room with a future of tending a squalling
child at her breast while her friends sit their NEWTs and move on to new lives
and jobs and excitement. She nods again, more sure this time, spreading her
legs farther and closing her eyes against the shame of Melissa feeling how wet
she is there.
“No.”
“Chris, Allison is-”
“Of age, yes, but not legally allowed to consent to anything right now. I don't
want you doing this.”
“I don't think you can agree to being bred for her, whether you're her father
or not. I'm sure the headmistress will agree with me.”
Allison's hand clenches uselessly at air when it's suddenly left empty,
disturbingly cold compared to the rest of her body. She shrinks into the bed,
cowed by the argumentative tone in the room, and wishes for this to be over.
It's something she's caught whispers of before, omegas who go sex-stupid and
black out for long portions of their heat, conscious but unseeing. At this
point, she'd take anything over the push and pull of her emotions and the
reactions of her body, both at ridiculous heights. “Dad, it's fine, I trust
Melissa.”
“No. Someone else can do this. That kind of thing shouldn't be left to a
stranger, much less a beta.”
“Stiles is too young, and his magic will be unreliable with Allison so near.
He's going to be nothing but hormone flood the second he steps into the room.
Would you rather have him trying?”
“Then I'll do it.”
They argue a while longer, voices raised, but Allison is too busy pinning her
own hips to the bed by force of will. The idea of Melissa touching her had been
a necessary evil, an embarrassing means to an end that will be better for
everyone. Her blood boils at the thought of her father's steady fingers,
gnarled at the joints and rough from constant use, sliding into that secret
place that she's kept so long to herself. She breathes and rationalizes. 'How
do we approach this?' her mother's voice rings clear in her head. Coldly and
unemotionally. Her father is an alpha, one she's spent far more time around
than her own absent mate. His scent, the tone of his voice, the feel of his
hands – they stir her omega senses and nothing more. It would happen with any
alpha close enough.
All the same, her teeth clack hard when he does touch her, high on her thighs
where the slick has reached again by now. Her mind lingering when her body is
so eager is agony, and though she'd feared making a fool of herself when her
father's fingers spread and searched, the moment brings only a brief and
blissful relief. His palm is scorching low on her belly, sealing the magic from
inside and out. It flares like a glowing coal in her womb for no more than a
second and burns out, and then she is empty again, legs splaying further. As if
she can invite him back in, to stay this time.
It takes longer than she'd like for that thought to make her ashamed of
herself, sick with what heat is doing to her. She'd worried about so much of
being an omega – being at the mercy of an alpha she didn't choose, being tied
and vulnerable to attack the way that so many alphas and omegas had been at
their deaths for years. The others may shove off her worries, but she grew up
with the portrait of a sorceress slain by dagger still atop her king's knot in
a lesser-used hall of the east wing, and her careful research over the years
had shown it to be historically accurate down to the last. Abuse, death, those
she had feared for herself and fretted over at night when sleep wouldn't come.
But feeling her heat crest under the touch of her father's hands... Allison
hadn't been dreading that. She hadn't ever imagined she could stoop this low.
“Alright, Allison,” Melissa says, motherly and unaware. “That's straightened
out. I'm going to wipe you up one last time and then we'll go outside and wait
to let Stiles in. Okay?” She's swift and functional with her cool cloth this
time, as if she's afraid to touch Allison's heat-sensitive body for too long.
Allison can be grateful for that much, at least. “The room can supply you with
food and water for when it eases up a little. Juice, if you can't manage eating
just yet.” She dabs gently at Allison's forehead and offers her a hopeful
smile. “Two days. Three days, tops. First heats usually burn themselves out
pretty fast.”
The dirtied rags are tossed into the corner where the sweaty sheets had
disappeared, and Allison wonders deliriously where they disappear to. Lydia had
brought it up once, the morning after slipping in and out of Ravenclaw for
reasons she wouldn't elaborate. Apparently, where Vanished objects go was not a
tough enough riddle to keep out a Slytherin if that Slytherin was Lydia Martin.
Her memory is too foggy to remember the way Lydia had spun out several
theories, seemingly unaware that she was the one causing 'slipping into a coma
bored' this time with her theoretical drone. Allison hopes they're gone for
good, at the bottom of a lake or a volcano somewhere, and not just passed on to
the house elves to wash out whatever stains she's left.
When they both move to leave, Allison's hand stretches for her father's as it
slips away from her. The fear of being left alone here is primal and intense,
and she's not sure if it's a heat instinct or her own bottomless panic and
mixed emotions. He turns back, away from Melissa with her hand on the door.
“Daddy,” she says quietly, so soft that her scratchy throat feels nothing.
Without the feedback loop of his touch, the strength gives out in her arm
before long, hand dropping limply to the bed. Melissa looks apprehensive over
her father's shoulder, but Melissa is a beta, and she doesn't understand. No
matter how many omegas she's wiped down and temporarily sterilized, she can't
know what this feels like.
She surprises Allison, though. “You can stay if you'd like. There's a provision
for it in your contract. They haven't rewritten them in years, at least long
enough that some omegas still had their alpha parent sit in. Passing from one
alpha to another.” She makes a pinched face, like the thought is distasteful.
“I can check the file with Satomi, but you're allowed at least the first day,
maybe the full heat.”
Another history that Allison had read about thoroughly in the family library
after hours. This one wasn't just royal, though; tons of families had overseen
the first breeding of their young omegas. Making sure the heat was resolved,
that the alpha was ready to take on their responsibilities. She doesn't know of
any that have held onto it this long. At least, none that advertise it. She
tries to imagine regal Talie Hale watching her son on his back for a Muggleborn
alpha and fails. It's much easier to picture her in a year or two, sharp eyes
observant as Cora deflowers the sweet Hufflepuff girl she'd been mated with in
the ceremony. Making certain the line of Hale alphas are keeping up their
reputation, making every omega within a year of them tremble with anticipation
before the mating, hoping they might get lucky. Allison had wondered about Cora
for a while. A Hale and an Argent had never been mated together, despite the
strong pureblood lines running deep in both families.
But no, Allison had not been mated to Cora Hale, who is probably sleeping in
her bed, frowning even as she dreams. She'd not been mated to Vernon Boyd,
fourth alpha of his name. Allison had stood with her trembling hands shoved
into the pockets of her robes and felt the tug of her magic escaping her body
in the single mating strand, shimmering omega blue. Watched it twine with the
vivid alpha red of Stiles Stilinski's. Neither of his parents were even on the
books here at Hogwarts – Muggleborn mother and straight up Muggle father. Cheap
robes, cheap broom that got no use since he hadn't actually made the Quidditch
team any of the five times he'd tried out. The only things going for him were
his marks, Os and scattered Es, mostly in Potions. It had been the only thing
her father hadn't found fault with in his endless search for more to complain
about.
Allison, for her part, wasn't so concerned with the money or notoriety. The
only thing that stung there was the deep-down worry that her family might not
want much to do with her once she wasn't really an Argent anymore. When she
became a Stilinski and the reality of being an omega sunk in. Kate would be the
next alpha in line after her father, now, and one of her kids after her. She'd
get an inheritance, certainly, but nothing like what would fall to Kate and her
omega. For now, though, that doesn't seem to matter. Her father nods at Melissa
and retreats back to the seat behind her bed, gripping her hand like a
lifeline, a tether to reality in a foggy world of sensation.
Stiles's voice makes its entrance first, just before his scent and before his
body comes into view, shivering in palm tree-printed boxers and a shirt that
bags down past his waist, swallowing him up. Allison doesn't feel a tug at her
heart or hear a choir of angels singing, but her hips tense and her blood zips
through her veins, fingers and toes tingling. Mate. Her mate is here. As nerve-
wracking and ostentatious as the mating ceremony may be, the magic doesn't lie.
Whatever it is that makes alphas and omegas compatible, she and Stiles have it
in spades. A corner of her mind completely fizzles and drops away, the part of
her that had worried she'd be let down, that after all this hell she'd feel
nothing for him, the way so many omegas without magic struggle through, trial
and error heats until they find someone who fits. Stiles fits.
Of course, he's sixteen years old, only a few months confirmed, and has just
been woken up from what must have been a very eventful sleep. His hair, finally
grown out, is sticking up in every direction, and he's wearing one sock. He's
lucky he had that much; she imagines him flailing through the halls with both
bare feet on the cold stone floors and thinks – no. Not my alpha. He'll catch
cold. It's absurd; it's spring and that isn't her place. He's not her
boyfriend. They barely know one another beyond what other people have said, and
he has just as much right as Allison to back out of this before they mate,
before they form a bond.
“What the fuck,” he says flatly, eyes bulging when he registers Chris in the
chair at Allison's bedside. “Sorry, Mr. Argent,” he mutters, but it's
insincere. The last time he saw her dad outside of his class, he'd been
shouting at the headmistress about pairing him with the year's spare omega and
holding Allison over for a year. Of course, being nearly eighteen and therefore
a full year late for being assigned a mate already, that was always out of the
question. Jackson's provisional alpha papers had been signed by his best
friend; he'd be the one held over to take a younger alpha. There aren't any
strong pureblood line kids in the 5th year, so he's likely to be stuck with a
guy. Allison had thought that might be a problem, with all the chasing Lydia
he'd done, but Lydia had only given her a knowing smile and said, “I'll take
'bisexual' for 200, Alex.” Allison hadn't known who Alex was, and the
conversation was over.
“It's not me you need to apologize to, Mr. Stilinski.” If the mister is a
holdover from class or her dad following the silly rules laid down for
acknowledging other alphas, Allison doesn't know. She didn't always think they
were silly, but the second she knew she was an omega, that she had an even
stricter, more ridiculous set of guidelines, she'd decided it was all obsolete.
“That's no way to be speaking in front of an omega in need, especially not your
bond-mate.”
“He's not my-”
“She's not my bond-mate,” Stiles chimes in. “Not until we-”
“Well, you're about to.” Her father's voice is brick and mortar, solidly
unquestionable. The absurdity of it hits Allison all at once, redrawn
cartoonishly in her head – a greying man shaking his finger at a quivering boy
(it works better with Stiles's old hair, that childish barely-there cut that
only the muggleborns really every had), spittle flying as he demands his
daughter be fucked. She giggles, feeling dizzy with the air it takes from her.
Stiles is looking at her like she's several sandwiches short of a picnic. “And
soon. It's getting worse, and nothing's going to fix it except you.”
“Yeah, or any other alpha who smells good to her and can get it up.” He takes a
couple steps closer, though, and Allison can see his eyes taking stock of the
new sheets, already not so fresh. She should've asked Melissa if there would be
new ones every time she tossed a set into the vanishing corner. “This is really
the real deal? It's not even seventh year yet.”
His voice is nothing special, not deep or particularly appealing, but it makes
Allison's toes curl. She squeezes her eyes closed and breathes. “I'm eighteen,”
she admits. Not everyone knows. She was sorted in the same way everyone else
was, didn't get mated a year early. Lydia celebrates her birthday obnoxiously
every year, the same way she does with her own, but nearly everyone else is
left in the dark, and Allison likes it that way. “And Madam McCall says
sometimes omegas go into heat before they're even mated. Fifteen or sixteen.”
“Huh,” he says, tilting his head, and she can see the trail of beauty marks
across his face, a path from mouth to ear, an invitation. Why aren't they
having sex yet? Aren't alphas supposed to be nothing but dumb animals around an
omega in heat? She'd had endless lessons at the empty dinner table, long
lectures about how to discipline yourself and ignore primal urges – not just
the sexual ones. Not always from her father and Kate, either; her mother always
said she had 'a unique perspective' to offer on self-control, and Allison would
have to agree. She'd had an incredible tolerance to pain, an unreadable face, a
skill at lying that Allison was never sure whether to fear or envy. In the end,
she'd been just as vulnerable to death as anyone else, but it hadn't seemed
that way as a child. She'd seemed just as indestructible as Allison's alpha
father, all-knowing and undying. Stiles looks like neither, especially with
that look on his face, like he's trying to remember something important he's
forgotten. “Never read that when I was trying to figure out what was up with
me.”
This is the only thing about Stiles that Allison knows that can't be found on
paper or heard through the rumor mill, so far. In the headmistress's office,
with her father's veins bulging as if they might pop, Stiles had rambled on
about how he'd been sure he was an omega, that he'd been sure Allison would be
an alpha, just as everyone else had been. That he'd thought about her being his
alpha, possibly, she'd been on the list – he could produce the list if need be,
as some kind of proof, as some kind of defense against her father's tirade –
but not at the top. She felt bad, the only one sitting down besides
Headmistress Ito, dwarfed by the chair and silent in the growing noise. Stiles
had considered her. She hadn't even known Stiles was there until she'd been
mated to him.
“Doesn't matter now. It doesn't matter if she's twelve or forty, or what year
of school it is. I don't think you're understanding the gravity of this
situation, Mr. Stilinski.”
“Stiles. Don't, just. Stiles.” He flops onto the corner of the mattress and one
of his hands ends up palm down against Allison's calf. She's hyper-aware of it,
even with the fabric separating him. He's cooler than her, still, that's
supposed to change. His fingers are long and thin, but not delicate. Not rough
like her father's, either, gnarled and work-worn. Stiles has boyish hands grown
to fit a man's body, getting him into too much trouble to be soft and careful
but not yet asked to do so much that they ache or crack or peel. She wants them
all over and inside, and he's just sitting there casually, like he has no idea
that he's touching, and she starts to doubt the magic after all. What if she's
responding to him and he doesn't want her?
Her father is focusing on Stiles's hand as well, brow creased. “Stiles, then.
My daughter is in heat. Protection has been taken care of. I would think a boy
such as yourself would be eager for this chance, heat or no.”
“I mean, excuse me for not popping a boner with another alpha hanging around.
Especially my teacher who likes to give me Es instead of Os since he found out
I'm going to be breeding his daughter.”
That feeling is surging in Allison's belly again, like being seasick. The
arguing makes her want to hide somewhere, but her jelly legs probably wouldn't
even carry her as far as the door. It's worse than it was with Melissa, alpha
against alpha making her feel far more threatened than a beta refusing to back
down. There's no question of who would come out on top here, and the parts of
her still relying on logic and common sense know it, but something more
instinctual thinks she should get the hell out of dodge before she gets caught
in the crossfire.
“The quality of your work declined, maybe because you've been thinking too much
about breeding my daughter.”
Allison shivers. She's tucked her head under the sheet despite feeling as
though she might suffocate on the thick air beneath it. Losing patience, her
fingers trace the creases of her thighs, slippery and sensitive. Even that much
feels daring after a year of tucking her hands under pillows or into her
sleeves at night, deterring herself. She'd always been unashamed of taking care
of her needs, throwing up a charm or two to keep her privacy and rubbing at her
clit until her breath came sharp and quick. It was the only way she touched
herself from the time she discovered it, but her sixteenth birthday came and
went, and she noticed that her panties got soaked as well as her hand. And then
it had been the sheets. She'd felt a gnawing hunger in her belly and a
delicious ache that an orgasm or two didn't cure, and that's when she'd known.
She'd known what she was and she stopped touching. She slides her fingers
through her slick, and, needing the distraction and desperate for something
more than this deprivation, pushes them inside where her father had been
before.
They're still arguing outside the safety or her little blanket tent. Her
fingers, two and then three, aren't enough, but they feel better than clenching
on nothing. She only holds them there at first, squeezing, but when she squirms
and they slip a bit, she shudders and can't stop herself. She's not sure how to
move – how fast, what direction – and she's too anxious to spend time figuring
it out, tilting her wrist and rocking her hand as fast and deep as she can
manage. It's so loud, louder than her breathing, the wet sounds of her fingers
reaching, trying to fill where she's already so open, nature's gift to omegas.
Her heat rises, more than a nuisance and less than a climax, and she hears
herself whine as if from a distance. She knows better than this, getting
frustrated when she can’t make herself come. She knows how heat works. Even
Stiles’s hand on her calf isn’t enough contact with an alpha to give her any
release. If she could come, it wouldn’t do much. Brief relief in the constant
tide of heat seems so small in her mind. She doesn’t really want to come,
doesn’t even want to be touching herself. She wants a knot, and both alphas in
the room are more interested in arguing with one another than with getting her
seen to.
It takes Stiles pulling his hand away for her to realize the sheet’s been
tugged down. Not just enough that she can see them both standing over the edge
of the bed when she opens her eyes, which she notices as the cool wind
(inside?) tightens her nipples in the open air. Whatever shame she might have
felt before today or even ten minutes ago is gone. Her hand against her cunt is
still just barely hidden from view, and after a brief moment of shock, it’s
moving again. She’s the only one who’s doing something here, and she isn’t
planning on stopping.
“Do you see what you’ve done?” her father asks, but the fire has gone out of
his voice. When she glances, he isn’t even looking at Stiles anymore. His eyes
are fixed to a point near her navel, as if he doesn’t dare look any further up
or down for fear of what he might see. It strikes her as familiar, and then it
registers: Lydia leaning too far forward in class, top unbuttoned beneath the
loose front of her robes. Her father’s one quick look and and pointed
avoidance. He knows as well as Allison that Lydia isn’t actually trying to
seduce him, just playing the part, but he’s human. He wants to look. Maybe he
wants to look at Allison. Suddenly, three fingers is not enough even for a
temporary fix.
“Please?” she asks, and she turns to Stiles, to the one who’s not looking away.
He follows every move of her hand as her fingers slip free with a slick pop and
trail up her stomach. He unapologetically ogles her breasts, slightly swollen
and tender, when she palms at them. “Please stop fighting and help me.”
Stiles is surprisingly lean beneath the two sizes too big clothes. When she’d
thought of him at all, she’d thought of him as skinny - not quite waifish, but
someone who might have trouble carrying all of his books at once. His arms are
sturdy, though, and she thinks she might want that body against hers even if
she weren’t suffering right now. He has more hair just above the waist of his
boxer than he does on his chest, and she’s honestly shocked he has either.
There’s a lump in her throat that reminds her - alpha. Sixteen or not, his body
is set on a system that has probably been dumping chemicals in his bloodstream
faster than it can handle. More research - older omegas can cause their younger
mates to mature more quickly to catch up to them. She’s been so caught up in
the sickly practice heats, drowning in her own misery, that she hadn’t even
considered what might be happening to Stiles as they sat on opposite sides of
the room in shared classes, passed just close enough to touch in the Great Hall
or a corridor. She is literally making a man of him.
He’s already promisingly hard beneath the cover of his underwear, but he pauses
with his hands under the stretchy waistband. “Look,” he says, and it’s the same
voice she hears when her father is buying in bulk in Diagon Alley. He’s trying
to strike a bargain. “I’m going to do this. You can see that I’m going to do
this.” He gestures at the door expectantly, snapping the elastic against his
skin impatiently. “You can go. I’ll mate her. We’ll...yeah. Mates.”
For a man who was somewhat talked into staying, Allison’s father doesn’t seem
ready to walk away. He’s still standing within reach at the head of the bed.
His arms are folded across his chest, so Allison reaches for his thigh instead.
Maybe her touch can reassure him as much as his had reassured her. “Either
way,” she offers quietly, because she knows that’s what he’s considering.
Whether she would want him to leave or stay. She’d been expecting for so long
to be alone and in a new home somewhere, turned over and bred before she could
even come fully awake, that this all feels bizarre and unsteady. She feels
safer with her father, former Auror and the man who’s been in charge of
protecting her for her entire life. He’ll feel better, too, knowing for sure
she’s taken care of.
He moves away from her touch and something threatens to rip inside her chest,
to tear and spill out, but then he trains his eyes on Stiles and takes his seat
again. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m perfectly within my rights. I’m her alpha
until you’ve sated the heat.”
Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times, silent and disbelieving, head
turning this way and that as if he were watching a tennis match. Neither of the
players budges, though, frozen in a moment as they wait for his decision. He
takes a long, whistling breath in and plucks at his waistband one last time.
“Fuck it,” he says, guiding it gently out and over his cock. “Here goes
nothing.”
He doesn’t pile into the bed like she’d been expecting, balancing a knee at the
edge of mattress and taking her by the wrist. She’s worried he’s about to try
and romance her with pretty words or a kiss on the hand, but his thumb against
her pulse is the best thing yet, more satisfying than trying to fuck herself
with her fingers, deft with a bow but clumsy at this new pleasure. When he
pulls her fingers into the wet heat of his mouth, her back arches clean off the
bed. She can’t manage more than a thick-sounding, “Oh,” as he licks them clean.
She can’t remember him touching her with intent before this - a friendly pat on
the shoulder, a handshake, a high five - and now he is dragging his tongue
between her fingers as if she had dipped them in his favorite dessert.
She catches him looking off to the side for something, approval, a reaction,
she doesn’t know. He must find whatever he wants. He carefully lowers her hand
back to the bed and leans in, easy, none of his awkward bobbling. “Can I?” He
asks, touching her just at the corner of her open mouth. It could be any of a
dozen questions, or all of them in one. She nods anyway, and he kisses her.
This is more what she expected of him, clumsier, and she can tell he hasn’t
done it before. It takes a few tries to slot their lips together in a way that
fits, and another few before it feels anything approaching right. He doesn’t
stop trying, is the thing; when he bumps her nose, he tilts and tries again.
When he pauses to catch his breath, he doesn’t pull away, and he isn’t afraid
to look her in the eye this close up. She notices for the first time that
they’re paler than she’d thought, caramel-colored. The tiny voice that whispers
about their future children’s brown eyes is squashed before it can finish its
sentence. She leans into him and lets him try again, and again, and before she
can think to take note of the shift, they are no longer trying. His mouth is
plush and wet and swollen against hers like they’ve been kissing for hours
rather than minutes, and she wants to feel it everywhere, but not now. This
alone is more than she’d expected for a heat, especially her first. The fact
that she’s not face down with an iron grip at her hips is both startling and
soothing. She thinks, I got one of the good ones. She thinks, maybe they should
make all the alphas believe they’ll be omegas.
His hands find her breasts, too big for the small curve of them, and splays the
dip between thumb and finger against her ribs instead, thumbs reaching for her
nipples. There must be some instinct to this, some internal guidebook leading
him through the motions. He doesn’t even look to see where he’s going. One
moment he’s kneeling over her and the next there’s nothing but the thin sheet
separating them from the waist down. She never feels a pause in the kissing, or
if she does, it’s overshadowed by his weight pressing down against her.
“Yes.” It’s what she’s thinking, and for a moment she’s unsure why it’s come
out all wrong, her voice distorted. Stiles jerks and turns his head - her mouth
catches a mole as she eagerly leans up to give chase - to the chair a few feet
from where they lay. “But we don’t have all day, son. You’ll have time to get a
feel after. Neither of you will be going anywhere.” Beneath her hands - when
had she started touching him? - she feels Stiles’s skin heat until it no longer
feels cool against her overheated body. It’s taking him, too, now, winding him
up before it lets him go and makes sure she gets what she needs. “Get her ready
and go.”
Allison wants to protest. She is ready. She’s been ready since she came to in
the hospital wing and felt the ache that threatened to consume her, and more
than ready since she felt her father’s fingers sink deep, searching, wide and
long enough to make her body shudder and expect to be bred right that second.
She couldn’t get any more wet between her legs or anywhere else if she tried.
Stiles follows his cue anyway, pupils blown as he watches her face for a sign
that this is okay, his hand slipping beneath the sheet. His thumb glances off
her clit, sliding where she’s gone too wet, and it’s a shocky pleasure-pain.
Her body knows that feels good, that he’s touching just where she would want if
this were another night alone behind the safety of her bedcurtains. It also
knows she won’t be satisfied this way.
“Hmmmmm,” she tries, shaking her head and pressing her hips up, but he must
take it as encouragement. He finds his mark again, traces a gentle circle,
feeling out the new territory. Her legs twitch and a grin curls his bitten-red
lips. She tries to bring her legs up around him, pull him back in and feel his
body pinning her into the mattress again, but he seems eager to take on this
new task, switching from a thumb to two fingers that make him steadier, more
precise. Her jaw clenches against the intensity of it, too much and nothing at
all, nothing of what she needs. “Stiles,” she tries again, hoping for his
attention, for a search for her approval as well.
Her father clears his throat and Stiles snaps to attention, and something not
unlike jealousy squirms in her belly. “Move the sheet.” The hesitation is a
matter of moments this time, and then Stiles’s cock is bobbing mere inches from
where she wants it to be. She can’t take her eyes from it, but a snorting sound
comes from the direction of the chair. “Not like that. Later. Smart, but.
Later.”
“But-”
“I know. She’ll appreciate it another time. Look at her. Always look at her,
look for what she wants.”
Allison feels small under Stiles’s gaze despite the way he flushes when he
follows her line of sight down his own body, her hips lifting, seeking him out.
The color comes low on his cheeks, uneven and bright pink, the same blood-rich
color as the head of his cock. They’d feel hot under her tongue, she knows, hot
and vital and she can feel the way that she’ll want it when she has room to.
Gently, the two fingers framing her clit brush downward, tracing her lips, slow
despite so much easing the way. He tests her with a single fingertip and gapes
at her when he slips in to the knuckle with not even a little resistance. He
tries again with two and she hums at him again, encouraging this time. He
doesn’t fuck her with them. His fingers spread and rub, and she gets the strong
suspicion that he’s feeling her up all over again, on the inside this time. He
curls them and she feels her whole body go liquid, like the few bits that were
resisting have given up and melted with the rest. Her mouth is open but she
doesn’t know what’s coming out; her ears are filled with white noise. She
thinks, finally.
She doesn’t know how much time passes before she loses that sweet feeling and
opens her eyes to find Stiles almost too close for comfort. He rears back a
bit, startled, and then grins. “Making sure you’re okay. Your dad says-”
“Yes,” she agrees, because her father has been pushing all along for what she
needs. He got sidetracked along the way, but he wants to take care of her, to
tell Stiles how he can do that. She squirms, convinces her arms to move again
after a long moment, and rests her hands on his back, slipping a bit in the
sweat that’s beading there. He’s here with her, not just near her but with her,
diving into it, and she wants him. “Yes, come on, please.” It’s overdue. She
needs him inside an hour ago, but a few seconds from now will have to do.
He casts one last wary look to her father - is his chair closer? - and fumbles
to balance himself on one hand, taking the time to look this time as he guides
himself. She thinks he misses, at first, before she realizes he’s rubbing
himself against her, getting himself wet with her, and she’s shuddering through
the pleasure of that thought when the head of his cock catches and then goes,
one steady slide. Nothing else exists for a few beats, nothing beyond how solid
and real he is where she's soft and open for him. Something is off, though, and
she belatedly realizes he's holding his breath.
"Stiles," she whispers, scraping her nails against his back gently. “Hey. This
is the easy part. Just move.” He shakes his head, and she can see how tight his
throat is, adam’s apple bobbing. She can’t get any leverage to move with the
way he’s lying on her and she panics a little before she remembers she has
help. Her dad seems almost amused until he catches her looking. “Did I do
something wrong?” she asks seriously, because she’s been asking him that for
years. When he taught her to string her bow, when he taught her to fletch her
own arrows, when he sat with her and practiced the ways she should speak to the
alphas of the other old families like the Calaveras. Trial and error, watching
his hands or peeking around corners as he discussed business, they all helped,
but nothing so much as having him sit beside her and guide her hands, her
words.
It seems he remembers that’s how she learns best, at least. He rests his hands
on his knees for a moment and then eases up from the chair. “No,” he answers
her, gruff, and then he is touching Stiles, one of his hands bumping Allison’s
near a shoulder and the other just peeking around a hip. The effect is
immediate, Stiles gasping in air and shifting, pressing deeper inside Allison
as he tries to escape the touch. “Now back,” her dad says, and she sees his
grip tighten, tugging him along until he slips out just enough to push back in
when he struggles again. “You’re thinking too much, kid. You’re an alpha. Your
body knows what it’s doing.”
He stays, pushing and pulling a while longer, jerky stop-start that isn’t quite
a rhythm, before he lets go. Allison feels like she’s boiling over, spilling
outside of her own edges. Stiles presses his face into her neck and rocks into
her, never pulling out enough to make her feel disconnected, adrift. His breath
is hot and constant against her throat, apart from the way he smears his mouth
against her skin from time to time - a taste or a kiss. It’s nothing like she’d
imagined mating to be, doesn’t feel animal or uncontrolled. The want in her is
still there, dialed down and content to wait for a little while, knowing it’ll
be sated soon. She can imagine betas fucking this way, sweaty and close and
driven by nothing but everyday desire. She can imagine fucking Stiles this way
when she isn’t burning for a knot and she’ll keen for him instead of jolting
when he plays with her clit.
After a while, she realizes he’s making noises, muffling them into her body
like they’re something to hide from her. From her father, actually, who’s
waiting and watching, one palm flat against Stiles’s back, gliding against his
wet skin. She tugs at the hair at the back of his neck, hears his mouth leave
her skin with a sound almost as obscene as the rest that their bodies are
making. She kisses him, draws her free hand along his side and tries to enjoy
him, to savor this clear head that may disappear as the heat spirals further
because the breed won’t take, can’t leave her pregnant at the end of all of
this. He chokes on a moan, and she echoes him, encouraging. For a little while
she can pretend they’re doing this for fun.
She’s just beginning to think she might actually come, complete the illusion of
this being less than what it is, when something feels wrong. Stiles’s gently
rolling hips go sharp, punching little sounds out of her, making her breath
catch. It doesn’t hurt, probably couldn’t with all of the signals in her brain
lit up for ‘all systems go’, but it’s not right. His voice goes high and
broken, and before she can ask what’s the matter, he’s blurting out apologies.
“I’m sorry,” he says, whisper ruined by the whine that follows on its heels.
“I’m sorry, I can’t, I have to - I can’t.” He sounds genuinely pained, like
he’s done something horrible that will need making up for. “I’ll get it next
time, or…I don’t know, I’ll-” He jerks to a stop and Allison, for one
horrifying moment, thinks he’s finished. He’s struggling again, though, and
when she looks her dad’s hands are on his waist, grip so tight it may leave a
mark if he keeps it up for long. “What are you doing?”
“Not yet.” Allison’s whole body is wracked with a chill at that voice, pure
alpha authority, serious but not so distant as it had been. “If you come before
you’re ready to knot, like a little boy, then we’ve accomplished nothing, have
we?” Stiles wriggles anyway, trying to bury himself fully again, to get what
must have been those last few seconds he needed. “Hold still and wait or this
means nothing. The knot is what you’re good for, and without it, she’ll be sick
with heat. So you’re going to sit tight.” He doesn’t let go, and eventually
Stiles stills, realizes it’s not a joke. Allison tries to tighten up around him
in consolation. It doesn’t work as well as it might have before tonight, but he
pants and twitches like he’s touched a live wire. Her father gives her a stern
look over his shoulder, and she frowns at him, hoping she looks chastised. She
isn’t.
The wait lets the heat stoke itself up again, burning stronger though there’s
nothing to fuel it. By the time Stiles can move again, Allison needs it, and
for a few minutes everything is dizzying pleasure. Stiles’s chest heaves again,
though, and she nearly cries this time, frustrated beyond words. Her hands slip
into the sheets again, curling into fists.
“Touch her,” her father says, and Allison is shaking her head before Stiles can
even lift a finger. She’ll combust if he tries to get her off right now, when
she can feel him thick and promising inside but can’t enjoy it. Her dad’s hand
finds her knee and he strokes her skin so, so gently, shushing her. “Not there.
Her stomach, her breasts, her throat. It’ll hold it off a little longer.”
Stiles obeys with trembling hands, clumsy again with need. He kneads at her
breasts and tongues at the soft inside of her arm, her collarbones.
They fall into a pattern this way, waiting and working, and Allison’s
incoherent after the third or fourth time through. It’s too much to bear,
having it given and taken away, but her father keeps rumbling into Stiles’s
ear, telling him to wait, that he isn’t ready. She wants to ask how he knows,
but her tongue is heavy in her mouth, and she’s scared to look at him too long,
when he’s no longer avoiding looking at her. It gives her an uneasy feeling in
her stomach but another entirely between her legs where Stiles pins her open.
When her dad lets go of Stiles for the last time, she knows it’s the last.
Neither of them can take it anymore, weak from the effort of holding back. The
animalistic rutting she’d been waiting for finally makes its appearance, and
she clings for all she’s worth, praying, begging. And still Stiles smears the
sweat from his brow against her shoulder as he shakes his head and tells her he
can’t, it’s just not there, and he can’t wait for it anymore. She digs her
nails into his back and hopes it feels like punishment. It can’t be even a
shadow of the way she feels. Deprived. Let down. His apologies grow louder,
meant to carry to her father, and his eyes squeeze tight and Allison knows it’s
going to be over.
A sharp crack echoes around the room and Allison jumps, frightened that
someone’s apparated in despite Melissa’s reassurance. She can’t find anyone at
first glance, though, and then she feels it. She tries to draw in air and
can’t, her entire body centered on how fast it happens - the swell so sudden
it’s almost painful, rubbing just where Stiles’s fingers had tapped before
until he groans and collapses. There’s a tingle in her veins, washes of hot and
cold that she’s too aware of, like she can feel the chemicals in her blood
making their way around her body. Her cunt is pulsing, not like an orgasm, but
like an echo of Stiles’s heartbeat in the fat knot she’s stuck on. Bred.
She does cry this time. It’s silent, and the tears are probably
indistinguishable from the rest of the sticky, glistening body fluids all over
her. The relief is so immense. She can breath again, head pleasantly warm and
floaty instead of that peaked heat feeling of being about to explode. She lets
herself weep for a while, clinging and feeling Stiles’s weight on top of her,
just as pleasant as it had been before. His breathing steadies over time and
before long she feels him kissing up the side of her neck to her ear, across to
her mouth. They kiss just once, sharing their gratitude.
When she can finally register the world outside the two of them again, she
notices her father back in his chair, hands gripped tight around its armrest,
as if they were tied there. She smiles at the memory of learning knots with
him, watching him escape from them without his wand like a Muggle magician.
He’s not smiling, though, and she notices he’s dressed. Not in his night
clothes, like he had been before, but in his robes. Melissa had meant what she
said about the room providing.
“You’re alright,” he says when their eyes meet, and she can’t tell if it’s a
question or a statement. She nods at him. “You’ll both be fine from here on.
You won’t...it doesn’t have to be the knot, every time. So if he gets tired and
can’t, you’ll be okay. You hear that?” Stiles licks his lips and nods but
doesn’t look to see her father’s face. “It’ll come easy now, whenever you’re
ready for it. Won’t need me to kickstart you.”
Stiles’s blush is furious, and he slumps again, excusing himself from making
eye contact. Allison doesn’t quite understand, but she pets at his matted hair
and wonders how long it will be before the pleasant warmth in her belly spreads
and heightens again. She’s hoping it will be awhile. Her father kisses her on
the forehead before he goes, and the light in the hall lets her know that the
night is over. A nap might be in order while they’re both calm enough for it.
She doesn’t find the handprint until much later, just barely pink and blending
at the edges into Stiles’s always rosy skin. He flinches a bit at her touch,
not pained but embarrassed, and she feels herself go liquid again, a need
triggered by more than the heat. There will be a lot to work out after the next
three days, Allison knows. For now, she shoves at Stiles’s hip until he’s flat
on his back and straddles him, smiling. She wants to be able to tell her father
how well he took care of her.
End Notes
     There is a super isolated incidence of spanking (as in, one smack)
     that isn't meant to be punishment or humiliation in any way.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!