He should’ve clued in on Shuichirou’s recent behavior, but the boy has always been… different. Harmless. The insistence on being so close, practically a shadow, scenting, his passionate heart– it wasn’t new, though more frequent, as of late. Surely Shuichirou learned that it was inappropriate in his classes by now. Alphas didn’t bond with other alphas like this. It was wired into their biology, part of why he and Monjirou butted heads so often. Coddling him in ways other alphas wouldn’t dare, but he always had a soft spot for his… enthusiasm, Tomesaburou called it. Admiration was to be expected, after all. Tomesaburou was their committee president, someone Shuichirou could always rely on, and after Shuichirou’s outburst, the “big brother” that left them both flustered, Tomesaburou willingly ignored all the warning signs.
This— though, it crossed the line. What started as simple training turned into Tomesaburou on his back, the two chest to chest, wrists held down by freakish strength, and a scent from Shuichirou so strong that it made his fangs ache, the urge to claw and bite and fight back. But he restrained himself, like he always did with him, because surely this— was another mistake that he could correct.
“Shuichirou,” he growled, a warning, brows furrowed and eyes dilated, struggling against his kouhai’s bruising grip, tight enough to hurt. “Enough. Off of me, now.”
Shuichirou didn’t say anything, idly licking his bottom lip, and he instead disobeyed, nuzzling his nose into the arch of Tomesaburou’s sweaty neck and inhaling, a soft, happy sigh to his flesh as he exhaled. Tomesaburou’s own scent filled the room, morning dew to rain– a storm, heavy and angry, but it didn’t deter the other alpha like he intended, just made Shuichirou gasp, stars in his eyes, diving further into his skin. Shuichirou’s own nauseating scent meshed with his, and it did nothing to soothe the hot rage boiling under his skin.
“Kema-senpaaai…” Shuichirou groaned, grinding into the space between his legs. Initially accidental, an impulsive push forward that just so happened to feel good, and Tomesaburou watched as it clicked in Shuichirou’s brain, a harder shift forward to seek pleasure again, a breathy moan into his ear when he found it. Again and again, determined, as if he could fuck him through his clothes, whimpering like a wounded animal. Wrong, wrong, wrong. His stomach lurched in disgust, swallowing down bile and hatred, because how dare he. Tomesaburou wasn’t made for this. There were plenty of omegas around, one even in their own committee, so why him?! Shuichirou just had to be confused, rut so intoxicating it left him stupid.
His wrists shook under Shuichirou’s wet palms, and now mattered how hard he struggled, Shuichirou simply didn’t budge. “I’m not— an omega, Shuichirou! Get off of me!” More venomous now, the command.
“Senpai, senpai…” It was useless talking to him, and when he felt teeth along his neck, Tomesaburou brought his leg back and landed a heavy blow with his knee to Shuichirou’s flank. A loud thud as the joint collided with tense muscle, and it was enough to disorient Shuichirou. A brief twinge of guilt as pain scrunched Shuichirou’s expression, spit shot from his mouth as he gasped through it, but he didn’t have time to waste. Tomesaburou shoved him off and made a run for it. He managed to turn onto his front, locked onto the closed shoji as he pushed on his hands and knees, mere moments from standing upright, but a sudden weight on his back kept him stationary, lips and teeth returning to his neck with even more fervor, and it was then that Tomesaburou realized he made himself even easier prey, felt his heart sink to his gut.
Caged in by Shuichirou’s straddling, all he had left was his arms, and he tried to elbow whatever he could reach, but Shuichirou must have seen it coming because he slammed Tomesaburou’s arms down, kept them pinned, and Tomesaburou desperately dug his nails into the floorboards, back and forward if he could claw his way out.
Shuichirou sought relief against Tomesaburou’s ass, clumsy humping that dug into his tailbone, and even though it made him nauseous, he could deal with just that— if he had to… compromise. Tolerate, even as his body rejected every notion of it. It should be Shuichirou below him, small and weak as Tomesaburou taught him the hierarchy.
But one of Shuichirou’s hands left him to grip the waistband of his hakama, and Tomesaburou instinctively swung his elbow back, made contact with— his nose, from what he could tell, warm, iron drippings wetting his sleeve, and he would’ve done it again if Shuichirou hadn’t grabbed his forearm and pulled with enough force to—
Snap.
It happened in an instant, a singular tug and release once the damage was done, and the initial pain was so innocently dull that Tomesaburou thought it was a mere sprain until he tried to move it, and it was agonizing then, so splitting that he nearly retched, dry heaving until his lungs begged for air. He swore he could feel the bones broken underneath his skin, shattered, sharp, sickening. Unable to hold himself up with just one arm, he fell forward, falling flat onto his face and chest, hips held high by Shuichirou’s insistence, and Shuichirou chased the distance, his chest curving along Tomesaburou’s back. Tomesaburou’s arm laid limp by his side, useless as Shuichirou resumed easing down his pants until they bunched up at his ankles. He shivered as cool air traced his bare skin. It wasn’t anything Shuichirou hadn’t seen before. They had bathed together, and Tomesaburou was regretting it all, thinking back on how much he pushed to make Shuichirou feel accepted. His hands combing through Shuichirou’s hair, toned arms around his smaller shoulders, every word of praise, genuine but so far from this.
It wasn’t enough to just see Tomesaburou’s bare half, of course, Shuichirou had to explore, feel along every exposed inch, fingertips brushing over fat, muscle, scars. Slow, diligent, like he’d be quizzed on what patches of skin made Tomesaburou jolt. The tenderness was somehow worse than if Shuichirou took him like a back alley whore. When he had his fill, his fundoshi was next, carefully undone and eased aside.
Humiliating. His cock hung between his legs, the pain and revulsion of being held down keeping him flaccid. Shuichirou hardly cared, curiously curling his hand around it, touches turned to squeezes turned to pumps, his palm working him hard enough until he couldn’t deny his arousal. Gritting his teeth through it, refusing to give Shuichirou the satisfaction of hearing his voice. He’d rather play a dead fish than a prostitute.
Shuichirou’s hand left him, and he leaned off, too, thankfully, though the boy’s breath grew heavier behind him, fabric shuffling next, and he turned his head, heart plummeting as he watched Shuichirou fiddle with his own clothes. It was inevitable, but Tomesaburou had hoped, prayed, pleaded that it wouldn’t come to this. Shuichirou’s pants pushed down, both hands untying his fundoshi, and Tomesaburou knew this was his last chance at escape.
His good arm worked overtime as he attempted to run– crawl, really, muscles tight, cheek burning hot against ground, just like he was taught.
Like rowing a boat, forward and back until he met the shoreline.
Teeth grinding, a lake of blood and spit on his tongue, pooling past his lips and down his chin.
It wasn’t so far now, freedom, as long as he could just push the shoji open.
So close, just a little more, and it’d all be a funny story once he—
“Senpai,” Shuichirou chided, low and disappointed, like he was a child. Pulled right back by his hips, half a meter away, if that. Flush against Shuichiro’s stiff arousal, it dragged between his cheeks, aimless until it caught against his hole.
His veins turned to ice, and he looked over his shoulder, one last desperate plea, knowing the horror was clear on his face. All the boy had to do was look at him to know he didn’t want this. “Shuichiro,” his voice cracked on the second syllable. “Please, st–”
The head forced its way in, apathetic to the dry resistance, and Tomesaburou’s final cry died in his throat, air and voice stolen as each slow, painful, excruciating inch tore his body open until Shuichirou’s hips laid flat against his ass. The blood vessels in his lip swelled, burst, spilled over between his teeth, though it was a poor distraction compared to the ripping, tearing, splintering of his core. White hot agony as Shuichirou pulled back, and he was hardly gentle with the next in, and the next, and the–
Only one of them was enjoying themselves, and he grimaced as drops of drool landed onto his shoulder and soaked through cloth. It couldn’t get worse, he thought, but Shuichirou denied him the rest of his dignity, grabbed the collar of his shirt and tore it apart, then kept his head down, forward, submissive, with a firm palm to the back of his neck, tickling the soft hairs along his nape.
He wouldn’t cry. He was better than that, but he wasn’t able to quiet the pitiful huffs of air forced out of his lungs with each careless thrust, over and over, faster and faster until the pain subsided into something duller, manageable. Still there, more of an annoyance than a relentless hurt, but it wasn’t for long as something swelled behind him, and he was all too aware of what was next. Animalistic, raw, hungry, fucking him so his body was forced to give way, and it did, blood, sweat, and pre doing its job to make his hole less a vice and more pliant, soft, enjoyable, loose enough for Shuichirou to press all the way into his guts. His hole throbbed around the width of Shuichirou’s knot, and it did its job to keep Tomesaburou still as his cum filled him to the brink, until his stomach ached with it.
He felt disgusting, dirty and used, but at least it was–
Hand departed, replaced by teeth sinking into his nape with such force that he thought it was over, that Shuichirou would rip apart his arteries, suckle his blood vessels, stuff himself with the meat of a lousy fuck. Fangs dug into flesh until it felt as if they were meeting bone, blood pouring down his skin like ink, shaking his head to make sure his teeth were deep enough. Was it seconds? Minutes? Hours? Before Shuichirou pulled off, and it was only by the resulting sting that Tomesaburou knew that he was still alive. He’d scar, horrifically, too, regardless of the loving licks Shuichirou dressed to the wound.
Once wasn’t enough, of course, not when Shuichirou was in the height of his rut, and the pain and exhaustion was enough for Tomesaburou to drift into comforting darkness as Shuichirou ravaged him.
“Oh, Tomesaburou!” Isaku greeted, smile as kind and bright as ever. It made him sick. “I was wondering where you were—“ It fell as soon as Isaku laid eyes on the unnatural way his arm hung at his side, like an autumn branch, weak and wilted. Torso bare, indents of teeth and nails strewn along his body. It was a miracle that his pants made it unscathed.
He grunted as he stumbled into their room, ignoring the wetness dripping down his thighs, though he’s certain Isaku could smell it, sex and blood and misery. He forced himself forward until his feet met the edge of his futon, and he crashed there, legs giving out and landing hard on his knees.
Isaku gasped. Making a mess of his herbs as he rushed for his nearest kit, and thankfully he didn’t have to go far. The pain was keeping him conscious, though his vision faded in and out, Isaku-like colors and shapes melting as his arm was carefully wrapped in a sling. A gentle thumb to his bottom lip, pushing down on his chin to pass herbs into his mouth, and if Tomesaburou’s cruelty wasn’t fucked out of him, he would’ve bitten down on his fingers, severed them from the root.
Medicine quickly took the edge off, dulled the evidence of— it. It— because he couldn’t give a name, it’d make him feel weaker.
Senses returning, one at a time. He heard his own wheezing, smelled Isaku’s worry, though worst of all was Isaku’s look of concern, confusion, pity. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots, even as stupid as Isaku could be sometimes, but Tomesaburou refused to be a victim. It wasn’t rape– that was for omegas. This was just an accident.
“…What happened to you?” Isaku sounded so hurt, as if he could even begin to understand. His body would’ve bore it better, and Tomesaburou bitterly wished that they had switched places, that he could’ve suffered under the weight of shame, have his body bruised and broken.
“Nothing,” bitter, cold, biting— venom for the undeserving. “Don’t ask again.”
And the conversation died there.
He was close to forgetting about it, too. He brushed off any of Shuichirou’s attempts to apologize; he didn’t want to hear it, and even Shuichirou wasn’t dense enough to push it. Days passed, so did weeks, an entire month flew by without incident. Back to normal. It had to.
It was supposed to start like any other, but heat brewed under his veins the moment his eyes parted. Muscles sore, body weighed down by unexplainable exhaustion, noticeable enough that Isaku insisted that he stayed bedridden, but he was fine. He pushed himself up and out, ignoring the strange, prying looks of his classmates as he made his way through the academy. And of course Monjirou couldn’t stay out of it, leering and nagging, all over a cold. His classes were a bust, dozing in and out of lecture, but committee work would sweat out a fever.
But it didn’t. Only made it worse, though he worked through it regardless, overworking his boiling over body until his own weight was too much on his trembling legs. Onto his knees, wood slipping out of his hands, adding splinters to his palms, a cloud of dirt surrounding his fall.
“Ah, Kema-senpai!” The muted shout of– Sakubei, grassy uniform, gentle hands, sweet citrus. Nothing that soothed the fever, though Sakubei still tried. Kneeling in front of him, palms on his shoulders to keep him upright, even as Tomesaburou tried to lean away from his touch. He watched his mouth move, but he couldn’t make out the words, just blinking through his bleary vision. I don’t need help, on his tongue, but his throat was too dry for his voice to pass through it, parched for– something he couldn’t put his finger on.
He felt disgusting. Sweat glued his clothes to his skin, and he nearly thought he pissed himself with how wet he was between the legs. Sticky, it practically glued his thighs together, and– his nose twitched, a rush of slick gushing down at the smell of something familiar.
“Kema-senpai!” Louder, rougher, and his voice made Tomesaburou’s body pulse, a pitiful whimper passing his lips as his alpha rushed to his side, he and Sakubei exchanging places–
His. His what?
The world seemed clearer with Shuichirou. All his senses back in an instant, for better or worse. Crisp vision– he could make out every strand of his dark hair, differ the ones that someone else took a brush to and the ones left at the mercy of his pillow. A deep breath– salty skin after a hard day’s work, an undertone of fallen leaves and smoke. Ears honed– on the gentle reassurances, the sound of his lungs shifting with the rise and fall of his chest.
“...will be okay,” Shuichirou spoke, past Tomesaburou, and once it was clear that Tomesaburou was back in the present, Shuichirou looked his way, smile warm and kind, betraying everything that he put Tomesaburou through.
The scabs on the back of Tomesaburou’s neck itched, and he reached behind his head to claw the weak skin open, have it tingle and ooze and linger on his fingertips, but he wasn’t allowed more than a few feeble scratches.
“Kema-senpai,” Shuichirou captured his wrists, rubbed the underbelly of them with his thumbs, disgustingly sweet. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”
Unwarranted relief, the start of a purr at his lips, and it was then that Tomesaburou let go of comforting denial, sunk into dread, hoped he drowned in it. Something was clearly wrong. Broken. And he had a horrifying suspicion that his body had been rewired to be something he was not. Tomesaburou knew of omegas, of heats, of mates, but he hadn’t– never wanted to be on this side of it.
It was no surprise when Tomesaburou presented the same as his older brothers. Alphas were strong. It was because he was one that he was sent here, was given his purpose. They were protectors, providers, fathers, and– what was he if that was stripped away from him?
It wasn’t fair. His world crashing around him, but he wasn’t alone in it.
“You,” a dry laugh, crinkling his wet eyes. “You did this,” Tomesaburou spat, attempting to force his way onto his feet, but he couldn’t muster the strength for it, instead craned his neck, their noses touching, breaths ghosting mouths, scents melting into one. “So now you’re stuck fixing it.”
And the boy had the gall to look giddy, like Tomesaburou couldn’t have said anything better. Furiously nodding, leaning forward for a kiss that Tomesaburou denied him, shoving at his shoulder, a hurried, “not in front of them.” Hardly deterring, knowing the treatment Tomesaburou needed from him. Then, Shuichirou’s mouths parted into a small ‘o’, only now remembering they were still in company. He gave Tomesaburou a determined look before pushing himself up to go– explain, most likely, and Tomesaburou didn’t dare turn around, knowing the concerned gazes of his kouhai would make him vomit.
It didn’t take long, and he felt a strong hand on his back, the other shifting under his knees, lifted up with ease. His head limply rested on Shuichirou’s chest, and when he looked upward, he was met with wide, toothy grin and an unmistakable gleam in Shuichirou’s bright, young, stupid eyes. “Kema-senpai!” he shouted, because the whole world had to hear it, apparently. “I promise that I’ll take care of you!”
And Tomesaburou couldn’t find the point of a promise that wasn’t worth keeping.