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She sits on the edge of the bed, feet planted to the floor.
Her gaze is fixed there—socked feet backlit by the atiquated carpet, all its mysterious stains and patches of wear. Her socks are pale and gossamer-thin, a delicate veil against her brown flesh. The soft webbing trails up her legs and ends just below her knees with a frilly hem. She squeezes them together, anxiety pooling in her belly.
She'd been sent home today.
It was nobody's fault but her own—she should have known better.
She messed up three times today, and has been generally highly-strung since the start of the week. She mixed up patients' names during charting. She was butter-fingered when she tried to administer a PICC line. She was pigeon-toed when she tried bouncing on to the next patient, but crashed into Jesse instead.
She remembers Dana's hand on her shoulder, effectively cutting short the tailspin that was her shift. Her face was leathery with concern but a look of distinct, You know better, that made her want to disappear. Dana let her off easy. Told her to Go home, get yourself…sorted out.
Emma keeps staring at her socks. They're starting to cling to her legs with sweat, with all her anxieties. She bites her bottom lip, worries the floral motif of the cheap bedsheets between two clenched fists.
It's been a long time since Emma had a heat partner, and recently, it's begun to show. Suppressants can only help so much—and if heats go neglected for too long, symptoms begin gleaming through the cracks. Loss of focus. Heat flashes. General discomfort.
She used to read it in her very own nursing books, pages dog-eared and annotated in the margins. She distinctly remembers what needs to be done if heat suppressants fail to work.
Omega therapy, or finding an alpha.
The former is out of the question. Emma is already forced to work with fraying Converse, the outsoles of her shoes separating from the body and splitting at the seams. Her fridge is sparsely decorated, and that's when her roommate isn't stealing her food. She doesn't have the money for omega therapy, nor for a higher dose of suppressants.
It's funny where her desperation has taken her; her own curious terror.
She'd done it on company time, seated on the toilet with her thighs going all tingly and numb. She stared at the forum with its surreptitious logo and sleazy name, discomfort tugging at her stomach. She created an account with the barest amount of personal information and began looking for alpha's in the area—nothing serious, just something to stave off her heat so she can go back on suppressants.
She matched with an alpha relatively quickly. They'd exchanged a few words—moreso out of obligation than anything—and arranged a meeting later that night.
That night is now. In the middle of a run-down motel, buzzing with anxiety as she awaits her alpha of the night.
She may be desperate, but she isn't crazy enough to give them her apartment address.
Her phone pings. She picks it up and brings it up to her face, impossibly close, and opens the notification.
I'm here.
Room 27?
She types back with quick, sweaty fingers. yeah :)
The wait is agonizing. She can hear the neighbours down the corridor, their argument carrying through the walls. She can hear the low buzz of a radiator. A dog barking somewhere in the distance. Then, the air shifts. And it gets a little harder to breathe.
She smells him before she sees him.
Him, heartwood split cleanly beneath the blade of an axe. Oil-based pomade. Aged, brassy rings. A temper fined thinly against sterile scalpels and forceps.
Her, lemony like the ripe, tender flesh hidden beneath the pith of a citrus fruit. A spritz of freshly clipped grass.
Something like recognition stirs towards the hind of her brain. Her spine straightens, and her stomach curdles.
His footsteps reverberate down the hallway. He stops in front of her door, and her nerves sing a painful chorus of anxiety.
No. No, no, no no no—
There's a knock, just one. Like the precursor before something terrible.
It comes not even a second later—a brutish grunt.
"Is that you?"
That voice. A rough burr, hard to miss. Deep and gravelly and grating against her ears. Every time she hears it, her head spins like gravity just gave up on her. Whenever he rushes past her in those brief moments, brief intimacies, and leaves her gasping for breath. She can taste it on her tongue. Sometimes, she wonders if he even bothers with his suppressants. But he must—it's a requirement. But Brendon Park's scent is just too strong. Too demanding of her tribute.
Usually, it'd make her knees buckle and her heart flutter. An alpha's scent is always appealing to an omega—that's biology. But now, it has her heart thrumming behind her rib cage, threatening to break free. She tries parsing over the rules in her head, how to recognize if someone is having a heart attack.
"It is you, isn't it?"
She squeaks and slaps a hand over her mouth. She's trembling. Head to toe. She wonders if she can slither out the window. If she runs fast enough, backpack thumping against her bum, she can make it in time for the next bus to whisk her away without being seen.
"I can smell you, Emma," he says. "You're sweet. I wouldn't miss it."
She sniffles loudly and tries reorienting herself. She steps towards the door on uneven footing, like a baby deer. Her head swims—the shock of it all, the intensity of her oncoming heat. She presses her forehead against the door and squints through the peephole.
Brendon Park. His jaw is clenched, lightly feathering as he sharply inhales through his once-broken nose. His hair is slicked back and hidden beneath a New Jersey Devils hat. He has a gym bag slung over his shoulder, a grey sweatshirt tightly stretched across his broad shoulders.
"Doctor Park…?" comes from Emma's mouth. All fledgling and timid, like she's just learned to talk. "What are…you…I don't know–"
"Let me in, Emma," he says. He's on the other side of the door, but Emma can feel him circling her. A blood-thirsty shark in the midst of a freeding frenzy. He twists the doorknob anyway, and Emma realizes she forgot to lock the door. Brendon pushes himself inside, bullies her backwards. He has to duck his head to cross the threshold, twist his body to shut the door behind him and lock it.
He doesn't break eye contact. Dark eyes, thick eyebrows, cut cheekbones. He toes off his shoes and Emma goes dizzy at the sight of her tiny Converse next to his boots—they look fit for a doll compared to him. She wraps her arms around her stomach to keep herself from toppling over.
She looks to the floor. "A-are you mad at me, Doctor Park?"
"Mad?" he snarls, and for a second she thinks she's upset him. Brendon steps closer, his scent embracing her whole world. He takes her by the chin and forces her head up, forces her into an automatic eye contact with him. It only makes her eyes look bigger—so precious, so wet with worry. "Of course I'm not mad, Emma."
Her knees buckle. Her name off his tongue, thick like warm honey and molasses. He never usually gives her much attention, instead surpassing her existence and choosing to get in, do his job, and get out. She didn't know he knew she existed. But now, his rough fingers cradle her jaw. If she wrinkles her nose, she can smell antiseptic and nitrile under all his pomade. Her esthesis is impaired. He was probably elbow deep in a patient's vertebral column no more than forty-five minutes ago. The thought only makes her dizzier.
"You just needed some help, 's that all?" he asks.
Brendan moves his hand up and down, making Emma nod.
"Some good fuckin' cock to set you straight, is that right?"
He reaches low and grabs his groin, gives it a little squeeze. The metal teeth of his jeans zipper folds around something thick, and Emma's eyes flutter—for a second she goes cross-eyed. Brendon grips her jaw tighter and makes her nod again.
"Oh, yeah, baby, I know," he croons. "You need me to fuck you?"
This time, Emma nods all on her own. She grips his wrist—and gasps when she realizes her fingertips don't meet wrapped around the breadth of his arm. Brendon shifts his hand, pops his thumb out. Directs it against Emma's soft lips, forcing himself between the seam of it.
She tastes soap. The clinical type, hitting her tonsils. She tastes the barest hint of sweat too.
"You do this often?" he asks, letting her suck his thick fingers. He wiggles them a bit, drags them against her tonsils. "Look for alpha cock on those dirty websites?"
Emma has the dignity to shake her head, but Brendon chuckles.
"There's a lot of fucked up people on those sites," he murmurs. "At least you matched with me, right? You know me, Emma. You know I'm nice."
He jerks his hand back without warning. Emma gags around them, but doesn't stop licking at those thick, solid fingers of his. A fine dusting of knuckle hair. A pair of roughened, tough finger pads.
He wiggles his fingers at the back of her throat. "Is this where you want my cock, Emma?"
She moans, spit leaking from the corners of her mouth and dripping down her chin. Her eyes are completely glazed over now—wide and bambi-brown. Brendon feels his pants tighten. His hindbrain screams at him, tells him he must fill this sweet omega with all his seed.
He pulls his fingers from her mouth and chuckles at her forlorn whine. He reaches low and cups her pussy through her shorts, feels her heat through her pants. He massages her clothed folds, angling his heel into her clit.
She whines and fists at his shirt. Bucks her hips into his hand, chasing his warmth. Brendon laughs, all raspy and deep.
"That's where you want it, huh?" he breathes. "This sweet little pussy?"
Emma just about collapses into his arms. She's hot to the touch—burning—and he can see a roiling flush beneath her brown skin. The distinct scent of heat-stricken omega is thick in the air. He catches her and feels his cock throb, buries his nose into her curly hair and catches a wiff of her strawberry-scented shampoo, somewhere beneath all her pheromones.
"Brendon–"
He grits his teeth at the sound of it. His name off her tongue, as soft as carded wool. He takes her hands in a rough, big one. Her hands are tiny, nails perfectly manicured. He imagines them wrapped around his cock—struggling around his fat knot—and Brendon Park nearly explodes with need. He feels it pushing against his gums, itching against the inside of his skull. Like the most intimate tinderbox had been wrestled open, and the casualties tossed out.
"Brendon…" she gasps.
Without another word, he drags her further into the room and onto the bed. The coiled aches of the old, dingy mattress begins to moan beneath her weight. The bedsheets furrow under her thighs as she presses them together.
Brendon isn't having any of that.
He kneels on the mattress, standing over Emma like some ethereal creature carved from the guttering lamplight in the corner of the room. He huffs like a bull, takes Emma by her ankles and forces her legs apart. He takes her shorts off, lets them fall off the lip of the bed like a cascade and into a pile on the floor. Brendon lowers to his stomach, grinding his cock into the bedsheets, and flattens his nose against her clothed pussy.
He inhales deeply, unmoving as Emma's fledging fingers try pushing Brendon's nose from her wet pussy. He clutches her thighs and breathes her in deeper, groaning at her scent. Sweaty skin, split with the smooth tang of the wetness and dew soaking through her panties.
"B-Brendon…" Emma whines, the bedsheets tracing the sinuous curve of her spine as she restlessly squirms in place. "I smell bad. Don't smell me–"
"Shut up," he growls against her cunt, hot breath running across her slit like a brontide. Her fingers are still buried in his hair—knuckle-deep in a thatch thick of gel and pomade. Brendon takes her hands and and pins them to the bed. She fights, but it's futile. The flesh of his hands barely cave with the insistence of her nails, the soft ache of her need.
Her nails do almost break the surface of his skin, though, when he rolls his tongue out and pushes at Emma's cunt. She flinches, and her tummy clenches, frazzled by the intruding warmth of Brendon's mouth. He sucks on her sensitive clit, tracing her cunt with his tongue as her panties start clinging to her. The fabric is soaked with omega slick, revealing the barest outline of her wet folds.
Emma humps against his mouth. Grinds breathlessly against his nose, once-broken, moaning as her clit bumps against his nose bridge. She's completely soaked through her fabric now, making a mess between her thighs.
Emma loudly whines when Brandon pulls away—only scarcely—to remove her panties. He pulls them off leisurely, watching raptly as her slick follows the soaked gusset of her panties the further away he draws it from her pussy. The strings break, and Brendon throws the flimsy cloth over his shoulder, eyes darkening at the sight of Emma's bare pussy. So cute. So tiny. So slick. Clenching around nothing, just begging to be destroyed.
Brendon spits on his fingers and smears the casualties over Emma's sticky cunt. She whimpers, so cute, withering atop the mattress, disturbing the floral bedsheets. Brendon rubs his fingers across her slit, parting her folds, pulling back the hood of her sensitive little clit. Immediately, the saliva in his mouth begins to thicken. The raw scent of her narrows his focus. He feels an itch beneath his gums—the bone-deep urge to take—and feels it eroding his teeth, cutting them all needle-like and serrated, sharp enough to puncture the tender skin of an omega's neck.
He reigns in his hunger before it threatens to consume him (and therein, Emma—this poor, untrained omega). Brendon knows he needs to sweeten her up first. Needs to work her up to get slick, slick enough so her cunt will stretch over his alpha cock without any undue pain.
He takes his time with her—even though there's an infuriating ache in the pit of his stomach—his need growing sentient and grating against the inside of his skull, demanding to be released.
He takes her apart with his tongue, drowning in her slick as it coats his lips and chin. He's never felt so high before. Emma might as well be an opiate, binding to his neuroceptors and inhibiting the firing of his synapses, forcing him to wade through molasses. He's hungry for more, high out of his mind as Emma grinds against his tongue, her orgasm unfurling quick. She thinks she could melt on his tongue—dissolve like spun sugar and mould against the steeple of his sharp cuspids.
Brendon doesn't let her reorient before raising to his knees again and removing his shirt with one, swift motion. Emma's tongue feels two sizes too big for her mouth as she looks up at Brendon with steam-blurred, dream-like eyes. Her mind stutters like a low frame rate pornography, her cheeks warm to the touch and her cunt pulsing with need. Brendon is huge. Beneath a layer of fat, she catches the outline of abs. It's all dense and tightly packed around his torso and those big arms of his. His shoulders are broad (this, she already knows; her thighs still ache from being forced open by their sheer breadth), and his neck is as thick as a tree trunk. Greenish veins bulge from it like paracord and descend towards his hands, which are big and warm and rough, snugging around the inward curve of her waist.
He squeezes her, and she squirms at the pain. It's like he's testing her ripeness; seeing how fit she is to be devoured and destroyed. Not that Brendon will have much mercy on her, anyway.
He pulls away to remove his sweatpants and boxer-briefs. His cock springs out, thick, angrily slapping against his navel with how hard he is. It's already dripping, its tip bright red and needy for some friction. The base of his cock pulsates; the barest beginnings of his knot.
Brendon crawls back onto the bed, looming over her. He takes his fat cock—because even though he's impossibly hard, it still droops and hangs with how heavy he is—and slaps it against Emma's wet little slit. He collects saliva from the pocket of his cheek and spits it at her cunt, spreading it around with the tip of his cock.
Emma keeps clenching. Keeps trying to catch and swallow Brendon's cock as he rubs it between her sticky folds. She whines out all honeyed and sonorous like she's high off the scent of him. She reaches down with both hands and spreads her cunt open, perhaps hoping that Brendon would slip into her with how frustratingly wet she is.
When Brendon does finally slip in (some approximation of his need rearing its ugly head, and a malignant pity for Emma's desperation), he finds that Emma is too slick for any friction. The stretch isn't particularly burning—at least, not until his cock is half-buried in her, and she begins to squirm. She don't think she can stretch any more, and she can't yet feel the bristly thatch of his pubic bone pressing against her. Brendon keeps sinking deeper, keeps splitting her open.
Emma is the tightest opening he's ever fucked. He's had his fair share of omegas and the occasional audacious beta, but most of them would be tapping out at this point, too bitchy to take his thick girth without asking for mercy, or for him to slow down, or to please be a bit nicer—
Emma, though…this perfect girl. The most perfect omega. She's fussing and kicking her legs, and tears are gathering on her waterline, but she's still taking it. Her cunt's still sucking him in with a disgusting slurp, and her scent is so potent he's sure the neighbours can smell it now. It'll be hard to wash out of his clothes.
Brendon traces teasing circles onto her clit, his breath hitching in his throat when she clamps down in pleasure. "So fuckin' tight and wet," he grits against gnashed teeth. He presses his forehead against hers, his hips faltering as he struggles to stuff the last stretch of his cock inside her.
Emma doesn't heed it for what it should be—a forewarning, a presentiment. When Brendon slowly drags himself out, she whines with the loss. Flutters around his tip. Drips slick onto the mattress. When Brendon slams himself back inside her—to the hilt, and with one big thrust—a scream rips out of her throat. Her blunt nails dig into his scalp and her cunt clenches down on him, unprepared for but not unwelcoming to the whole weight of his cock.
Brendon fucks her at a bruising pace. Hips snapping against her ass, cock head kissing the tight opening of her cervix. The only aberration in his thrusts is when he grips the sweaty underside of her thighs and folds her in half, pressing her knees against each of her ears and laying most of his body weight on her.
His cock slips even deeper like this. Emma immediately cries out, the pleasure attacking her like livewire as Brendon's pubic hair starts grinding down on her clit. She trembles, quivers. So fucking small beneath him; he's sure he could pick her up by the flank and pound into her like a toy. But she's an omega. She needs to be doted on, needs to be taken care of, especially when she's taking cock from an alpha as big as Brendon.
With his free hand, he laces his fingers with Emma's. Runs his thumb over her knuckles like tracing braille.
"Doin' so fuckin' good for me," he rasps. "My sweet omega."
Emma clamps down, and he expels a breathy chuckle.
"Yeah. You like that, huh?" he grunts. "Calling you my omega?"
The thought of it sends blood rushing to the base of his cock. He feels his knot forming—a thick bulb of pleasure steadily collecting and impeding him from sinking all the way into her. It only makes him more irratible—makes his hackles raise, his shark teeth bare—makes him pound into her with an increasingly frenetic pace. Brendon feels himself quickly swelling, and soon enough, his thickening knot is what's slamming against Emma's pussy, demanding to be inside her velvety warmth.
Her legs quiver around him, her eyes roll to the back of her head. Her curls hang loose down her delicate neck, baby hairs clinging to her cheeks and forehead with sweat. It makes her shirt paste itself to her chest, too, outlining the barest hint of her hard nipples. Brendon pulls one into his mouth, sucking and tonguing around it with an orbital motion. Emma claws at his back when he switches to her other nipple, sucking her pebbled bud into his mouth, grazing it with those razor-sharp teeth of his.
He continues pounding into Emma, managing to stretch her pussy over half his knot. Brendon's rhythm never stops. He's emblazoned by the brutish, intrinsic urge to take, knot, and breed. He keeps slamming into her, keeps forcing more and more of his knot inside her. Brendon collapses, burying his face in her neck, her thick scents practically blinding him.
He drags his hips out, poised for another hard thrust, and puts all his weight into it as he rams into her. The whole of his knot pops inside, and she greedily sucks him in with a lewd sound that echoes across the small room. Emma screams in pleasure, squiring around his cock, her whole body locking up tight as she fights with the bulk of her orgasm. Brendon grinds himself against her, burying his knot deeper, feeling it burn and throb, embraced by Emma's wet omega pussy.
Even though she's still in the throes of her heat, a bit of clarity comes back to her. Brendon Park's knot is splitting her open. She isn't on birth control. He's going to breed her.
"Brendon–" she fusses, trying to crawl away and up the mattress, but his knot keeps her. "Brendon, y-you can't mate me."
He gives her a chaste kiss to shut her up. It's vastly different from how he's fucking her, so unforgiving, she almost gets whiplash. "I can't pull out, baby," he murmurs. "My, fuck, my knot's too fuckin' big."
She whines, trembles in panic. She feels a mix of emotions curdle in her belly—the risidual embers of her orgasm, the remaining discomfort of her heat, the fear of being split open by Brendon fucking Park.
"I have to knot you," he grunts, shushing Emma when she wildly shakes her head. "I have to, okay? And you're gonna take it. You're gonna take it so well cause you're such a big girl–"
But she isn't. Emma is a tiny, tiny girl beneath him. It's a miracle that she managed to stretch herself out on his cock, let alone his brutish knot. She's so petite, so small. So wonderfully, fearfully beautiful. She's sniffling beneath him, tears threaded among her eyelashes like an assortment of tiny jewels. She's trying to shuffle away, but the fat knot plugged inside her keeps her in place.
Brendon takes her by the waist, holds her steady. He breathlessly grinds into her; an attempt to get every last inch of himself inside. He throws his head back and deeply inhales—the scent of her shoots up the crooked path of his once-broken nose, pervades across his brain. He thrusts deep and hard and mean, and finally drains his balls inside her (hopefully, against the opening of her womb; he can picture her plump and leaking milk, all round with his pups—).
Emma's panicked cries ripen into short hiccups of pleasure. She tries pulling him closer, and having just gotten filled with alpha seed, her scent intensifies tenfold. He waits for his cock to soften, for Emma to reorient (he caresses her cheek, softly kisses her forehead) before popping himself out and watching as cum pours out of her tiny, abused hole. She whines with the feeling of emptiness, barely registering his movements as he reaches for her phone on the bedside table. He softly chuckles at the little keychain dangling off the side.
He hands it to her. "Unlock it."
Emma's already typing in her passcode with bleary eyes and butter fingers. "W-why?"
"I'm blocking off your availability for the next four days," he says like it's obvious. "Until your heat's over, neither of us are leaving this room."
Emma can't help herself. She clenches down on nothing, squeezing out a substantial amount of Brendon's hot seed.
"Let's start by cleaning you up, huh?" he muses. Brendon trails his fingers up Emma's puffy slit, pushing it back in with a squelch. "We have to make sure it takes."
Written by a human in Ellipsus.