章 101: Beginning of Chapter 32
Seraphim
Orgasms were now commonplace in his life.
His cock no longer drooled, unable to spill, unable to cum. Seraphim had lived a lifetime of unresolved pleasure, of rising heat burning in his belly, of throbbing pain in his balls. His first Rut had been of ungodly fire, of a burn so awful he'd screamed through it all wailing for death. And death would have been beautiful mercy for the pain he'd been subjected to.
His hands had been around his cocks, each swollen and standing, each begging to knot, begging to cum. He'd pumped and cried, wrung digits over the frills, squeezed and strummed at the head, begging and begging for salvation. His pain had skyrocketed with each passing day until no sound could escape from a bloodied throat, and his body only twitched with each pulsating throb, precum spilling to hurt his flesh. He'd passed out from exhaustion and had been dragged into a coma—his first vision, was a sea of golden threads from his heart, spinning into a single rope towards the light.
He'd pulled.
Seraphim had been too strong; his fathers had proclaimed. And when he'd woken up days later, his survival had been celebrated. He should not have lived, should have passed like the siblings before him, dissolving into bubbles, dissolving into the sea. He should have died.
And yet he lived.
It was a rite of passage for a Poseidon. Not many survived the first Rut, and his had been excruciating from his powers, from the toxins that burned in his semen, from his strength as an SSS class Esper. It had scalded his flesh, had melted his body to bone. And yet he'd mended and healed, had lived with sweat on his brow, and the ends of his nerves raw and tingling.
Eventually, he had gotten used to the pain, to the burn, to the life of a Poseidon. He had been his parents' best fry, had climbed to the top with visions so clear and so true he'd gained that popularity. His people knew him to be the oracle—the one that boosted their economy, their welfare, and their political power. The one that would bring them to salvation. And he'd long slipped into the throne at the early age of 16, the emperor of planet 3 in everything but name.
He was basically their God.
He'd been overjoyed then, drunk on the influence, drunk on the prestige. With a wave of his hand, he could command fleets and armies. And with a spin of his fingers, his people would listen with their heads to the ground. He could command them to die, and they'd do it. He was a dictator with his visions, his authority was all-knowing, and there was nothing he could do that could be wrong for he knew the future. And yet he'd been unsatisfied, lonely despite the six other emperors that shared his burdens, his feelings; in pain despite his mates' insistent attempts to give him the completion his soul yearned for.
And now, he knew what it was like to be released from that hell.
Cum was spilling across his palm as tears leaked from the corner of his eyes. And his thoughts spiralled to the squelch of her cunt, to the give of her cervix kissing the head of his cock, to the dreams of his dicks slipping further, slipping deeper, squeezed in a sticky slick womb. He could do that with his prehensile cocks, all ready to fuck her. All fertile, all fresh, all Omega.
His cum glistened silver, and he creamed all over his knuckles, spilling and dripping, splattering thick heavy ropes which he struggled to keep all cupped in his palms, caging in his hands. His breath escaped him in heavy pants, a wail twisting from his throat. He hadn't thought to prepare for toxic waste disposal, and now Seraphim was panicking, fingers twitching to catch the last leaps of cum.
Rue's scent was now enough to make him spill, she could turn his pain into the most mind-numbing pleasure. He didn't need her slick, didn't need her hands around his cock, didn't even need her cunt. All he needed was her scent. His fangs were digging into cloth, tongue swirling over the neckline, saliva soaking the fabric– Rue's shirt. She'd spent eight hours sleeping in the cloth, and her scent gland had left a lasting sweetness that he sucked on with desperation for the real thing.
The real thing was heavenly, and he stayed away knowing that he'd burn through his clothes if he tasted sweetness from the source. He'd give anything for her panties, for see-through cotton soaked in slippery slick, but that had been in one of her commands.
Not the panties, she'd barked like the most selfish of rulers. He'd wilted at the command, understanding now the desperation others must face when he used his siren's voice. And the seven had been fucking disappointed when she'd set the rules with a fist to the wall. The curses whispering through the bond, expletives thick in their wilting aura—they'd hoped that she'd forget about that. If you take my panties, I'll fucking kill you.
He sighed, cheeks flushed pink, ears hot. He would risk it if he could break out of her domination. He'd do it if it meant her fingers around his throat, and his cock manhandled into submission—His dick spluttered, and the poison was overflowing, dripping. He'd flinch back, cursing at a splatter on the fabric. A single drop and the seams were tearing, fading away with the burn of his poison, slowly disappearing into gas.
Idiot.
He pouted, nibbling lips, prehensile dicks wilting at the loss of perfectly good cloth. He would have to steal another and sneak out in the night to swap the pieces from her closet. But it was fine because he'd made copies of it, and five replacements laid waiting in his trunk. This was the third he'd destroyed.
All seven had made it a habit to steal her dirty laundry, to ruin it with cum and filthy dreams. The thought had once resulted in upturned noses and crossed arms. Seraphim himself had put on that show, had sneered and declared it a filthy suggestion in their nest. Only the younger boys were open with their stealing and would nuzzle the fabric against their noses like an item of comfort.
And watching them bury their faces in her scent, watching their hips jerk and their breaths taper into whispery moans, he'd been filled with a fit of jealousy that swelled bitter in his throat. The truth was all seven had pieces of her clothes hidden in their vaults, buried with their sex toys, shoved someplace secret. Even Dante must have stolen her shirts, as hateful and as spiteful as he was of the Omega.
The truth was they needed her more than she needed them.
Rue must not have noticed, for their crimes continued till all her clothes were new, replaced thanks to their filthy demands. Although she had given them a side glance when she'd found a tag at the neck of what should be a year-old shirt, resulting in an angry confrontation over breakfast.
They had their servants work on the new clothes—faking age, creating wear and tear. It should have fooled her; should be the same. Kieran had immediately dismissed that team for leaving a fucking tag. He'd muttered the order through his device and had leaned back to spit a curse into the receiver.
Mistakes were not tolerated when it came to their Omega.
"You've got to be kidding me," she'd snapped, waved it at them—turtleneck, he loved that one. They fought over the piece, for the fabric had clung to her scent gland long enough to be drenched honey sweet. And there were even traces of slick from a good scenting session. Kieran had won that shirt because he'd smashed through the lights, dick colliding with the fabric, smearing it thick with his claim.
Valentino had spluttered, moving forward at her rage – laundry theft was his idea, and he'd worked hard to get her to agree to it. "What's wrong? You know we're using your shirts—"
"So you'd leave me in peace when I want to study and sleep!" Her eyes had narrowed. "How many have you all ruined?" Her gaze had meandered to the laundry basket, nose wrinkling, hands tracing each flaw, each exposed thread. Seraphim gulped. Suspicion burned in her eyes, there was no use lying to their Omega. "How many did you destroy—"
Levi coughed and let out a slow yawn to shake her off. "Does it matter, darling?" A plate of toast was raised in her direction and a shrug. Food was a good distraction. "It's just clothes."
"Well, yeah," she pointed out. "But if you have to spend the time to recreate the rips and tears—"
Altair stepped in then, a charming smile, an easy-going beam. "You fucking hate new things." He pouted. "I give you new clothes every day and you tell me throw them out."
"That's because you're wasting your money—"
It was easier to best her then, Seraphim stepping in swiftly with a plate of eggs, soothing her with a cool purr of his siren's call, gently nudging her away from the topic. "We just wanted you to be comfortable, we didn't want you alarmed when we ruined a fabric or two. You know how hard it is for us to control our strength."
Rue had sat and chewed, their Omega was adorable in the morning—bed head and puffy cheeks. He spooned an extra serving of vegetables on her plate and his Alpha purred when she ate it all up. A good mate. Crisis adverted. "If you've ruined my clothes, just get me something new. You don't have to hide it."
But oh, they did. They ruined her clothes daily; none could survive their touch, stained with their lust, drenched in their pheromones. It seemed their little Omega would forget sometimes, the strength that surged in their veins. That she was only stronger than they were because of her command.
週次パワーステータス
-- 推薦
ランキング 
-- 推薦
チケット