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hexonthepeach · 7 months

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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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