L*st and Death

Siron swallowed against the sensation of being filled to the very deepest point, his tear-brimmed eyes lifting to Isaac. The thick length forced its way along the narrow curves inside him, grinding in slowly as it pushed back the tight inner walls. His stomach felt as though it were being mercilessly churned, his body shuddering and seizing somewhere between pain and ecstasy.

“Don’t... ahh... don’t go deep. I– I’ll do it.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Siron tilted his head back. Planting his feet against the floor, he rocked his hips himself, brushing the swollen head against the thin membrane covering his inflamed prostate.

“Ah, there—goo... good...!”

Each time the engorged tissue was scraped and rubbed, his half-hard cock trembled, dribbling sticky, translucent fluid. The pleasure was so sharp it bordered on frightening, but even as he faltered, he didn’t stop pressing for more prostate stimulation. Whenever the head brushed his intrarectal ridge, however, he startled—trying to pull away, legs spreading and hips lifting as his muscles clamped down hard.

“Hhk!”

Siron, lost in the slow melt of his brain, was jarred by a sudden ache. Isaac’s hand had closed over his balls and shaft together, pinning him in place so he couldn’t move an inch. In that unguarded moment, Isaac took advantage—sliding into the unfamiliar path and pushing thickly into the part of him that always made him anxious, the intrarectal ridge.

Though Isaac had only pushed in shallowly, Siron felt as if he had reached somewhere far too deep. When the crown of his cock grazed the closed ceiling of flesh inside, a dazed throb blurred Siron’s gaze.

“Mmhh, ahhh, haaah.”

Isaac kept his cock nestled into the narrow space between prostate and bladder, evenly scraping the wrinkled walls with short thrusts. Warm slick welled up from within, oozing out slowly like honey. The moment it pooled, Isaac came—his semen thickly mixing with that slick inside him.

Siron’s mouth fell open, swallowing a silent scream. It felt like a narcotic had been injected straight into his sex. Every touch of Isaac’s cock to the seed inside him sent halos bursting behind his eyes, the visions expanding endlessly until they swallowed him whole. His features slackened, lost to sensation.

Each stroke that scraped him inside left his pupils unfocused, wandering. His body wanted to devour Isaac’s cock, the untrained ridge and even the inner organs he had never been conscious of before contracting with a tingling greed.

Isaac lowered Siron’s legs and shifted them back into missionary, sliding his cock back into the ridge. Bracing his palms beside Siron’s head, he leaned in, looking down at the hazy blur of his face, then snapped his hips upward—driving the swollen head into the ridge with sharp, fast blows.

Breathing raggedly so close above him, Isaac’s shadow loomed. Siron stared up at him in a daze, wondering what his pheromones smelled like. He also wanted to know why Isaac never swelled the base of his cock like Lewis did.

Through the long sex, the abuse, and the relentless pleasure, he wondered if Isaac had ever truly lost himself in it—if he had ever been fully consumed by Siron. More than anything, Isaac seemed to be restraining his own arousal with strict control, collecting every reaction Siron gave him like data.

Who’s the one not actually focused on the sex here?

Stop the cold observation. Just once—lose your mind and come at me until my head’s about to burst.

Siron felt the urge to grab this man by the collar and bite at his lips and tongue.

“More... hhhk... give me more.”

Hooking his legs around Isaac’s waist, he exhaled hotly. A faint smile curled Isaac’s lips.

“Patience. It’d be a shame to break you too soon.”

“Fhh... I... I don’t care... just, please.”

Hoarse, desperate, Siron caught Isaac by the hair and pulled him down. He bit at his sweat-damp jaw and split lips, kissing him fiercely as if to pour the plea into him. But even that urgency didn’t push Isaac to a boiling point. Not even in this most primal moment could he be made to lose all control.

In his pocket was a flask of whiskey strong enough to burn his throat the moment it was swallowed—but there was barely enough for two mouthfuls. It wasn’t nearly enough to get drunk, to his disappointment.

Pressing the flask to his lips, Siron slapped the bottom of the bottle with his palm. Only the hollow clang of empty metal answered him; not a single precious drop.

“Shit. Figures.”

He tossed the stolen flask into the back seat and let out a heavy sigh before opening the car door. The sea wind blew inland, thick with humid heat. To the east, the sea had met nightfall before the land. The water was darkening into deep violet as fishing boats returned toward the far-off harbor.

Watching the gulls wheel low to snatch at offal tossed from the boats, he picked up a chunk of broken concrete and threw it far into the water.

He’d ended up in a coastal town whose name he couldn’t even pronounce—thirty minutes’ drive from the safehouse. While Isaac was on the building’s roof tinkering with the satellite rig, Siron had stolen the car keys, a little cash, and the whiskey, and slipped away.

He felt guilty leaving Baekgyeong while he was half-dead upstairs, but what he needed now was alpha detox. He needed time to remember he was still an ordinary man in his twenties—not an omega panting and spread open for any alpha whose pheromones he caught.

But all it took was a lapse in focus, and his mind was back in that feverish sex with Isaac—

More... give me more.

Put in more what, you idiot?! He raked both hands through his hair, half-crazed at the memory. Thinking of the things he’d begged for made him want to die. If he hadn’t let himself enjoy it in the end, he wouldn’t hate himself so much. But he hadn’t fought Isaac off with all he had—he’d opened his legs.

He’d felt it with Lewis too: once caught in an alpha’s rut, you could lose two or three days in nonstop sex. Like being pulled into a tornado that laid waste to everything, an uncontrollable disaster. At this rate, he’d end up letting some nameless alpha fuck him and still be panting for more.

From a successful actor to a body remade into nothing but lust—it was absurd. Sex made all his worries disappear, made even a life-or-death crisis feel distant and irrelevant. The only good thing about being an omega was the extreme orgasms. Which, of course, was the worst problem of all.

He tried to force a positive thought. Once Baekgyeong woke, they’d go back to New York, and he’d find a way to undo this. If a normal man could be turned into an omega, then an omega could be turned back. He had to believe it.

When Baekgyeong wakes, we’ll go to New York. Slip away from Isaac, get back to the way I was. We will.

But to do that, Isaac had to find him and bring him back to where Baekgyeong was. Siron had no idea how to get back on his own—he’d run on impulse without a plan. But he had one card to play.

“Hiding only thirty minutes away by car—was that overconfidence, or surrender?”

Before darkness had even fully fallen over the eastern sea, the familiar voice came from behind him. Without turning, Siron said:

“Knew you’d find me.”

When Isaac came to sit beside him on the ground, Siron asked,

“You planted a tracker, didn’t you?”

His tone said don’t take me for an idiot.

“You put one on the car.”

Otherwise, Isaac couldn’t have pinpointed his location every time he drove off.

“...Clever.”

The reply came a beat late. It was reasoning a five-year-old could follow, but Isaac still seemed caught off guard.

“When do you think Baekgyeong will recover? ...Does rut actually end?”

“Probably within two or three days. Once it does, he’ll heal faster.”

“What about the catheter? If we don’t replace it, couldn’t his kidneys get damaged—”

“He won’t die without it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. It’s good to have, but not essential.”

Siron shot him a look like he was a con artist. The way Isaac said it, it was as if the catheter had been an excuse to set him up for some pheromone-induced humiliation.

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