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If there was anything that got Harrow’s alpha rankled, it was the sight of Ianthe in one of those fucking stupid buttercup nightgowns. It had frills all over it. Yellowed lace, old with time, and clashing horribly with the golden yellow of the dress itself. Pale pink ribbons sashayed all along the low neckline of the piece, and quite frankly, it made Ianthe look ridiculous. She looked even worse with that characteristic smirk on her face. It made Harrow’s alpha itch to pin Ianthe down and all but rip out her pretty pale throat.
Ianthe laid across the bed (the bed that they had shared for weeks now), a leg hitched up so that the nightgown bunched around her thigh and showed Harrow miles of pretty pale skin. It made Harrow’s alpha fangs ache to bite. One of Ianthe’s scent glands was just visible there along the inside of a slim thigh, glistening with oil and red with arousal.
Curious, Harrow’s eyes flicked to Ianthe’s throat, where another scent gland sat swollen and irritated, full of thick-scented oil. One touch from Harrow and Ianthe would surely be liable to leak oil all down onto that god-awful nightgown. Ianthe’s wrist glands were likely the same.
It couldn’t be a rut. Ianthe had been suppressing her own ruts since she first presented. The rest of the alpha symptoms—the aggression, the fangs, the need for dominance—Ianthe preferred to let free, let them torment Harrow specifically.
More than likely, Harrow had simply stumbled upon an Ianthe Performance Piece meant just for Harrow’s viewing pleasure. Ianthe was, after all, the biggest attention-hungry whore of an alpha. Harrow let herself imagine, for the hundredth time, what it might be like between them if Ianthe had presented as an omega instead—it made Harrow’s teeth ache again and underneath all the black robes and thick layers, Harrow’s cock began to fill, the urge to fuck and claim and violate never far from the surface of Harrow’s conscious mind.
“Harrow, my darling,” Ianthe said, and the daydream Harrow had been lost inside dissipated like smoke. “Come to the bed so I can fuck you like a good alpha does; just how you like.”
Harrow scoffed, throwing off the thick outer robe necessitated by the constant chill of the mithraeum. “You’d love that, wouldn't you, you sorry excuse for an alpha.”
Relationships with two or more alphas, especially of a sexual nature, were typically fraught with tension and aggression. Harrow had a grudging respect for and healthy attraction to Ianthe, but the alpha inside of her craved to see Ianthe present for her, lift those slender hips and beg for Harrow’s knot. Ianthe’s alpha was probably telling her to fight for the same submission from Harrow.
But nothing could be easy, least of all sex with Ianthe. And truth be told, Harrow could separate the thrill of the chase, the fight, the fucking, from the alpha desire to have an easy catch. Ianthe watched with ravenous eyes as Harrow continued taking layers off, unbuttoning a long black dress to reveal the Victorian style underwear she’d found in the drawers of her quarters. It was warmer than anything she’d ever had on the Ninth, and she found she liked the modest suggestivity more than any of the nonsense from those—something? Harrow’s brain shorted for a moment, forcing her to redirect full attention towards Ianthe. Ianthe, who was fiddling with the ribbon at her collar.
The collar was already stained dark with oil from Ianthe’s glands. The smell was overpowering, almost unpleasant, and it made the hair on the back of Harrow’s neck stand up, though whether it was from desire or aggravation, Harrow couldn’t tell. All she knew was that her canines were aching, itching to bite, to claim, to break skin. Harrow wanted to taste Ianthe’s blood, the rich, heady scent of it in her nose and mouth while Harrow fucked into her.
When the horrible boots Harrow wore (for intimidation purposes) were unlaced, she stepped forward in her stockings and underwear, tugging at the waist of it, so it would lay straight. Ianthe eyed her still, in the same spot, with her fingers on that awful ribbon. It might have been easier for Harrow to submit willingly if Ianthe didn’t insist on looking like such a ridiculous mess of frill. But the sight of Ianthe, just laid there, assuming that Harrow was going to climb onto the bed and settle on her knees and present like a good little omega, especially in a nightgown that looked like an expired flower festival. It made Harrow a little mad, in temperament and in sanity.
Ianthe never wanted a fight with her fuck. She just wanted to fuck and then continue to laze luxuriously in the opulence of her bed, her rooms. When Harrow came at her with teeth and nails and demanded Ianthe earn any of the submission she wanted, Ianthe behaved as if it were the highest inconvenience in the world. Harrow didn’t even think it was an act. The princess truly believed that Harrow should give up and present for her, out of deference to her station and obvious superior talent in all things.
Instead of presenting, Harrow crouched a little, testing the slide of her stockings on the marble of the floor and then leapt at Ianthe on the bed. Ianthe was never fucking expecting it, and this instance was no different. While Harrow might have lacked the strength necessary to fight with the horrible sword she carried, she made up for it in cunning and superior plotting. It was no trouble to knock Ianthe to the bed, flat on her back, drowning in ruffles.
If Harrow wanted to press the advantage, she was going to have to do it quickly, or Ianthe would regain the upper hand. Fingers shaking, a growl rising up from within her ribcage, she rucked up the fluff of Ianthe’s nightgown and ripped at the fabric of the frankly ridiculous panties Ianthe wore underneath. The length of Ianthe’s cock sprang free, already leaking despite the affronted noises Ianthe was making under Harrow.
Determined, Harrow ignored it in favor of shifting Ianthe up by her hips, spreading her ass and then spitting on her hole before working a finger inside. Ianthe, predictably, freaked the fuck out, squirming her hips and trying to buck Harrow off of her. Luckily, though Ianthe was stronger than Harrow, it was difficult for her to dislodge Harrow’s full weight without pushing them both off the bed. Ianthe didn’t mind a scrape, but it was unlike her to seek discomfort, so she simply shifted testily while Harrow cycled through one, two, and three fingers as quickly as she could. After all, if Lyctorhood had no other perks, this had to be one, right? Ianthe could take it. Harrow used the lube from under the pillow to wet the edges around Ianthe’s hole. As a final kindness.
It was a struggle to get herself situated enough to start pushing inside of Ianthe without unseating herself. Harrow used the frilly nightgown as a makeshift restraint and held Ianthe down with it, wrapped it around her hips and kept the ends gripped tight in her fingers. Ianthe made gurgling, panicked noises, shifting her hips and clawing at Harrow’s forearms, but inside she was wet and warm and fluttering around Harrow.
“Shhh,” Harrow said, pressing her lips gently to the back of Ianthe’s twisting spine. “I know you love it, you contrary slut. What was it you said before? Let me fuck you like a good alpha does, just like you like it.” Harrow’s imitation of Ianthe’s voice was crude but effective. It made Ianthe yowl like an angry cat.
“Get off me, you animal!” Ianthe bared her teeth, turning her head to the side to bite at the wisps of Harrow’s hair that were within reach.
“We’re both animals, Ianthe,” Harrow hissed, “Now I don’t care if you hold still or you don’t, I’m going to fuck you. I always preferred playing with my food to eating it.”
Ianthe whimpered and then tightened around Harrow, a movement so strong, forceful, and immediate that Harrow wondered if Ianthe herself even knew how much being submissive delighted her.
“I can feel how much you like that,” Harrow said. “I can feel you clenching around me like a little whore, begging to be bred. You want that? Bet you wish you had a cunt so I could fill it full of babies, don’t you?”
Ianthe growled, bucking her hips despite also tightening around Harrow again, slick length dripping and jerking as Harrow slammed her hips into Ianthe.
“Y-you wish your pups could have a r-royal bloodline instead of some sad group of nuns for an-ancestors,” Ianthe said, but the bite of the words was diminished by the way she stuttered over them.
“Mmmm, and you wish you could have been born an omega so you could have an excuse for how much of a pillow princess you are,” Harrow leaned up to bite at Ianthe’s shoulder, nudging the fluffy lace of her nightgown out of the way. She gnawed on the corded muscle, sputtering when lace shoved its way back into her mouth again. Harrow was not in the mood to handle that shit, so she closed her teeth around the meat of the ruffle and yanked it backwards—
The fabric made a delicious sound as it tore at the seam, and Ianthe gasped, her head jerking back on instinct to ease the strain on the fabric, but Harrow’s teeth flashed as she growled and she pulled again, the rip even louder this time, taking the collar of lace clean off of the ridiculous nightgown Ianthe was wearing. Harrow spat the chunk of lace out onto the ground, leaning up to bite again, like she had originally planned.
“What—” Ianthe’s voice was high and shocked, an indignant squeak as Harrow continued to pump into Ianthe. “This nightgown is my favorite!”
“It’s my least—ah! Least favorite, and I think this modification rather improves on it,” Harrow said.
“It’s—fuck, Harrow, get off—it’s vintage,” Ianthe said, enormously affronted.
“It’s fucking disgusting,” Harrow said. “I don’t care what respectable lyctor used to wear it, it’s tacky and it makes you look like a clown.”
Ianthe made another high, shocked nose in her throat, and then she was making the same noise for another reason entirely as Harrow shifted her hips and stuck her cock right into Ianthe’s prostate.
“I com-plete-ly fuck-ing hate you,” Ianthe said, her teeth set against the intensity of Harrow’s thrusts. The sound of it was desperate, breathless, and also tickled something in the background of Harrow’s brain that felt...odd.
“Hate me so much you’re begging me to fuck you, huh?” Harrow leaned down and sunk her teeth into the nightgown, pulling her head back up and ripping it in two right at the chest. It fell apart, revealing the milky skin underneath, dewy with sweat and pheromones. Sweaty milk—like condensation on a jug—shouldn’t have looked so good, but Harrow couldn’t get enough of it. With teeth still bared, Harrow ripped another chunk off the nightgown, and now she could see all of Ianthe, from the flushed pink of those gaunt cheeks to the flushed pink of her delicate pubic mound. The base of Harrow’s cock ached as she licked a stripe up the middle of Ianthe’s chest, right between the two meager points of her breasts. The sweat dripping there was nasty, so smelly, so delicious.
“Beg-begging? You wish,” Ianthe reached out to grab at the nape of Harrow’s neck, fingers tightening in the shaggy hair there, bringing Harrow near so that they could exchange a messy, spit-slick kiss, the humidity of their breath mingling as Ianthe kept whining and squirming and tightening around Harrow’s cock.
“Don’t need to beg with your mouth when your pretty little hole is begging for you,” Harrow said, and she drew a finger down Ianthe’s chest, pinching a bright pink nipple on the way down. Ianthe tried to move away, but on her back with Harrow holding her down, she couldn’t do much.
Harrow’s knot started to bump against the rim of Ianthe’s ass, and both felt it simultaneously. Ianthe’s eyes got wide, startled like they always did; every time they ended up like this, with Harrow inside of Ianthe’s tight warmth, Ianthe was whining, complaining, protesting. Harrow’s eyes lit up with devilish glee and she shoved her cock harder, trying to push it farther inside of Ianthe, to touch the womb that didn’t exist up in there. Every sparse ounce of Harrow wanted so badly to plug Ianthe full of seed, to breed, fuck, claim, dominate.
At this thought Harrow’s teeth ached again and she reached down to bite at one of the sleeves of Ianthe’s nightgown. They extended halfway down Ianthe’s upper arm, more form-fitted than one would expect given the horrendous shapelessness of the rest, but Harrow was determined, so she fit her teeth around a seam and yanked, and now Ianthe was covered only by one sleeve and the shreds of the buttercup nightmare. It was a shame her bone arm couldn’t sweat, because the gold gleaming would have been a lovely sight.
“Really, H-Harrow?” Ianthe arched her back and huffed.
“I’m going to ruin this nightgown, and then I’m going to ruin you,” Harrow said. “You won’t be satisfied without my cock, my knot inside you after I finish with you.”
Ianthe scoffed, but the effect was ruined by the way that she jerked her hips in response to a particularly pointed thrust. “Don’t you dare knot me, Harry,” she breathed.
The venom in Ianthe’s voice made Harrow’s cock grow stiffer. “I’d like to see you stop me,” she said, grinning at the way Ianthe’s eyes visibly dilated.
“You-you’ll break me apart, Harry,” Ianthe said in a very small voice, and oh god, Harrow got even harder at the sound of it.
“That’s what you say every time, Yanthy, and I think it’s an excuse.”
Harrow’s knot bumped up against Ianthe again, and this time instead of pulling back, Harrow ground her hips against Ianthe’s so the swell of it was palpable. Then she pulled back just a little and forced her hips forward harder. Ianthe squealed and Harrow chuckled.
“See? You can take it like a good little princess,” Harrow said, and then her voice broke on a low moan as the tender skin of Ianthe’s rim gave way to more of her knot. Ianthe was panting, sweat pooling in the hollow of her throat and the dip in her collarbones. Harrow pressed forward again and leaned in to lick it up, flicking her tongue against the scent gland at Ianthe’s throat as well.
“F-fuck,” Ianthe said, but it was still in that small, forced tone, and Harrow knew she was going to succeed this time. One way or another, she was going to get that knot inside of Ianthe. “Harry, please,” Ianthe whimpered.
“Please?” Harrow licked at Ianthe’s nipple, bending to scrape her teeth at the side of Ianthe’s breast. The remaining lace tickled Harrow’s nose. She growled and tore the last of the nightgown off of Ianthe’s body, leaving her naked and shivering under the pressure of Harrow’s knot. “Please, more? Have you finally decided to beg for my knot?”
“N-no—” Ianthe’s eyes fluttered closed and she went limp and quiet on the bed as Harrow finally succeeded in forcing the full thickness of her knot inside. It was instantly overwhelming for Harrow, and she doubled over tighter, trying to breathe steadily as Ianthe’s ass squeezed like a vice around her. This is bliss, Harrow thought, and then she came—
It was no longer practical for Harrow to pull out and thrust back in, so she settled for grinding her hips into Ianthe, mouth open as she pulsed and throbbed with her climax. “Feels better than a cunt,” Harrow huffed. “Never want to fuck anything else, princess.”
Ianthe seemed to be struggling, twisting her hips under Harrow. The breath from Ianthe’s nostrils came heavy, fluffing the stray hairs lying across her face. She stared into Harrow’s eyes, those unnaturally colored irises sending a chill of unrecognizable anxiety through Harrow.
Harrow thought, in this ill-timed moment, about her own cavalier. The thick paint over—over acne, no. Over wrinkled skin. Ortus was old. He was an omega, and Harrow had often thought—no, that wasn’t right. Harrow had never even considered Ortus. Not as a mate, a rut partner, or anything else. But the wiring in her brain hummed still, a thrum of want and longing for something, something warm and golden and wet, not like Ianthe, who had to be wetted down for Harrow—
Harrow bucked her hips and Ianthe keened, and Harrow heard it in harmony with another voice and the shock of it, the liquid warmth of the phantom voice made her spill again inside of Ianthe, Harrow’s cock jerking and aching and with release. It hurt, it felt dragged out of her by the hair and the alpha inside of her crooned for pups, for breeding.
The alpha inside of Harrow wanted to mark Ianthe, but no—not Ianthe, the omega on the edges of her focus. Harrow’s knot pulsed in time with Ianthe’s whimpers, or perhaps it was the other way around, Harrow felt too hot to know for sure.
She clamped her teeth into the lace as her cock at last ran dry, and her knot began to recede. It left Harrow drained and shivery, cock red. Hesitantly, she released the nightgown bits she’d been holding Ianthe down with.
Ianthe made a strangled noise and then pounced, pushing Harrow down to the bed and pushing the cotton of her clothing well out of the way—and then.
There was a breath of a moment where Harrow felt the phantom sensitivity and discomfort of what was to come, and then Ianthe was swallowing down the whole of Harrow’s cock, throat working at the tip to coax another climax out of Harrow, against her will.
This time, it was impossible for Harrow to pull free. Ianthe was built stronger than Harrow, with wiry muscle instead of just skin and bone. She held Harrow’s hips down with the palms of her hands and ignored Harrow’s pleas for mercy.
It was brutal, how fast Harrow came again, the pressure at her groin bursting under the wet heat of Ianthe’s throat. For a dark moment, she wondered if she could knot Ianthe here, too, but before Harrow could thrust her hips to try, Ianthe was pulling away. Harrow’s cock bounced pathetically, cum leaking out of the tip as the base swelled and the satisfaction of the orgasm dissipated like smoke.
“Fuck you, Ianthe,” Harrow breathed when Ianthe released her, doubling over to protect herself.
“You just did,” Ianthe said, coolly, but her hair was mussed and her cheeks were red. “Next time I’m going to fuck you. Your technique could use some improvement.”
Harrow scoffed and shoved at Ianthe’s shoulder.
“We’ll see, princess.”