Chapter Text
The air is thick, burning his nostrils as he rouses. Heavy breaths draw from tired lungs, a steady drip echoing around him.
Blood. A lot of it. Down his front, soaking his gloves, staining his mask. The fabric of his shirt clings to him, crusty and drying, and he wonders how long this has gone on.
He looks through the hole in his mask at the bodies by his feet. Two. Men, it looks like. Bandits. No one else is stupid enough to approach when they smell it. He turns them over one by one with his foot, but even then he can't put names to their faces. It's lost to the fog.
Fuck.
He presses a hand to his mask and notes his hunger. His arms and legs tremble as he moves, tingling, as though waking up alongside him.
Crouching, he searches their pockets. Loose coin, a map, medication. A compass. Nothing useful. But the bag that fell across the field has contraband: synthetic pheromones. He digs it out of the main pouch and pressed the vial to his nose, breathing in deep, his whole body like liquid as the scent spreads throughout him.
Omega.
He pockets the vial.
Standing, he gives the bandits one last cursory glance and briefly considers burying them, but he can't help but feel they're to blame for his outburst. The anger still threading through his skin is the nail in the coffin.
He turns on his heel and steps through Kamui to the quiet of his house. The room smells of him. The bed is neat and orderly, the walls empty. Two steps to the left is the dresser where he intends to place the vial. But as it lingers in his hand, the scent draws him in and he presses it beneath his nose.
It helps. Not much, not for long. But there's a brief moment when his anger settles, and for that, their deaths are worth it.
Across the room is a mirror. He stares at the bloodstained cloak hanging from his shoulders, sees the way his glove drips on the floor, smears of red on the vial he holds. His mask is flecked with the memory of the dead, scarlet against the orange swirl, and he’s tired.
Kisame suggested he get an omega, but caring for and feeding one is time-consuming and wasteful. He doesn’t need some glorified pet to keep him in check.
But he's tired of the blackouts, waking up to another corpse, unsure of why they died. When he kills, it should be with purpose.
Breathing in the vial one last time, he sets it down and drags himself to the bathroom, leaving bloody footprints in his wake. He washes their filth away in the shower, the water cold to clear his head, and watches it circle the drain.
His fist hits hard against the wall and he clenches his jaw.
This can't continue. When rut ends, something needs to change.
He considers the many avenues there are to obtain an omega. The most common route for civilians is to trade or barter with townsfolk. Tobi can’t be bothered. He’s antisocial on the best of days, and fresh from rut, his temper is quick to flare. There’s enough blood on his hands for one cycle. He considers slaves. A slaver won’t ask questions. They’re in abundance and easy to find.
The first tent smells of piss. His lips curl behind his mask as the slave master walks him down the row of cells, and he stares blankly at the bodies inside them . They’re sickly and thin, purple and green bruises on their backs and heavy manacles biting into their wrists. They reek. Even directly following his rut, their scents don’t appeal to him.
He won’t pay a premium for bad stock and looks elsewhere. But most slave houses operate under the same principles, and quickly, he looses patience.
Within the span of an evening, two options are removed. Two more remain.
As a member of Akatsuki, Tobi does not officially belong to any governing body and can’t be assigned an omega by a village council. This was never an option to start. He briefly considers henging into an applicant and procuring that alpha’s omega. Government-assigned omegas are usually raised by their families, so they tend to be healthy and come with less damage. In the end, he decides its not worth the effort; a free-raised omega might kick up a fuss when they realize the alpha they’ve bonded to isn’t the one they’re assigned. Tobi doesn’t need the hassle.
By the third evening of his search, Tobi sits on his porch and stares out at the field across the road, his head in his hand and his mood sour. He’s tired of waking with corpses at his feet, but finding a tolerable omega might not be worth the effort.
One option remains. He’s not all that enthused about it, and really, he shouldn’t bother.
Breeders aren’t cheap. Not ideal, either, since they’ve been touched and used by other alphas. Tobi’s never seen one, though he’s heard stories of alphas bringing them home only to find they’re growing someone else’s pup. He doesn’t know what he might do to them if they stink of another alpha when he enters rut. But they’re well-fed and aren’t battered like the average slave. They aren’t spirited like free-raised omegas, and he doesn’t have to schmooze their families like a civilian would. In every other way, it only makes sense.
It won’t hurt to look. If they don’t catch his fancy, and if the idea of another alpha’s stink grates him too much, he can leave without. It’s worth a shot.
The first breeding facility he tries is in Iwa. It comes at Kakuzu’s recommendation: good quality stock for cheap. It’s a large one, too, housing over a thousand omegas that are put for sale yearly, and it’s independently owned so they won’t ask questions if a mercenary is looking to buy.
They make him book an appointment, which is cute. Tobi nearly laughs when the receptionist gives him a date and time to return. But fine, sure. He’ll play their game. It’s remarkable the beta woman who offers him the appointment card hasn’t trembled or flinched since she learned his name.
On the day he’s scheduled to peruse the facility’s available stock, he arrives five minutes late. An excuse hangs on his tongue—his mission ran longer than anticipated—and he swallows it. The attendant doesn’t require an explanation nor is she entitled to one. But all his life, this urge has persisted.
She signs him in at the front desk, calm just as the last woman he met there was. Being privately-owned, the facility must cater to an unsavory clientele; government-owned breeding facilities thoroughly vet the alphas that apply.
As she slips out from behind the front desk, a clipboard with Tobi’s files in hand, she smiles at him. “I’ll show you to the first set of omegas we have up for sale.”
Tobi follows her through a door behind the lobby that leads to a long, well-lit corridor. There are doors on either side, metal and reinforced. Most of them require pass-codes.
“Our breeders are regularly tested, as are their studs,” the woman says, glancing up at him with a plastic smile. “They’re trained from a young age, well-behaved, and in perfect health. I guarantee you won’t find better stock across the Elemental Nations.”
Obito makes no comment. The slavers said something of a kind, too, and presented him with emaciated omegas who might not have survived a strong breeze.
They go through the room at the far end of the hall, and on the other side is a large, open corridor filled with breeders lounging, sleeping, or eating. They’re all young, barely adults, and Tobi gives only a cursory glance. This room is nothing like the slaver tents, large and open, filled with soft things and clean air. Though they’re collared, the omegas have free mobility of their arms and legs. They notice him but don’t move. Not until she calls for them. Then, at once, every omega in the room forms a line and disrobes, their clothes hanging in piles at their feet.
They’re unblemished. No bruises, no scars. He can’t count their ribs or see the outlines of their bones. Some have soft bodies, others fit, but none are the walking skeletons of the typical slave. Quality stock.
Obito walks down the row, but despite their condition, feels nothing as he looks at each of their faces. They’re too young. He has no interest in taking from this batch.
The attendant notices. She dismisses the omegas and they gather their clothes, the line dispersing. With a smile, she gestures to the back of the room where another door awaits. “Right this way.”
They come out in another hall, again lined with heavy doors, windowless and sterile. At the far end is another room, wide and long, filled with omegas. This set is a little older, not by much. Some have abdominal scarring, stretch marks, or swollen chests. They show signs of having been bred but are otherwise unblemished. He considers them. As he walks in front of each, they duck their heads and avoid eye contact. Submissive or scared?
Nothing in their scents beyond the markers of ‘omega’ catch his attention. One is almost pleasant, but not in a way that calms him, and he doesn’t particularly care about the sex or appeal of the omega so long as they get the job done.
Though they’re healthy and behave well, by the third room he’s shown, he sees that they flinch like the slaves had. They’re meek, broken-in and well-used, and Tobi is a large presence in a small space. If he so much as raises a hand, they cower.
He considers leaving. How annoying would it be to share his space with some flighty, well-fed pet? His temper is short, flaring even outside rut, and he doubts these omegas can handle that.
They reach the final group of for-sale omegas and Tobi’s resigned. It’s a waste. He knows how to get blood stains out of clothes, so why bother keeping clean? Tobi will just have to accept that sometimes blood will be spilled, whether he intends it or not.
The beta attendant’s plastic smile hasn’t strained, even an hour into this endeavour. She’s still as pleasant and professional as she was at the front desk when she asks, “Would you like to tour the facility before you go?”
Breeding facilities are large, and the section he was shown only contains stock that’s ready and able to be re-homed. The level below this one houses the rest, and as they descend the steps, Obito’s eye wanders to the other staff members milling about. The omegas have their own rooms with thin mattresses and metal bed frames, different only in name from the cells of the average slaves. There’s a kitchen where the omegas prepare their own meals under supervision, a nursery for weaning pups, and a well-guarded lounge.
She shows him the heat barracks on the bottom floor where the omegas are bred by approved studs. The scent of heat curls in his stomach, coiling tightly like a wound-up spring, and Tobi covers his nose vainly through his mask as they pass the whimpering bodies behind the glass. The hall is vented but the smell persists.
It makes him want to taste. It makes him want to touch.
He clenches his fists and keeps his eye forward. The attendant’s monologue about the features of the facility persists, unbothered by the stench. Tobi doesn’t much care. He’s seen all there is, all they’ll let him see, and has lost interest.
Another facility might have something. This one is a waste. He should know better than to trust Kakuzu’s taste.
They turn back. Tobi’s calm is held together by a thread, and he won’t linger here where the smell of omega heat is all-consuming.
A wasted trip. No one to blame but himself.
As they walk back, an omega catches his eye. The stock in the heat barracks is kept nude, but this one is clothed in the standard robes of the ones upstairs. His stomach his prominent, chest swollen, round beneath the plastic-y gown covering him. He sits on the bed in his room, a pillow propped up behind his back, and stares aimlessly at the wall ahead. He doesn’t writhe or cry like the rest, heavy with pup. Far along, too, by the size of him.
Tobi stops. The omega does not see him through the glass.
The attendant looks back, following Tobi’s gaze. “Ah, that one,” she remarks. “Most of our omegas are moved to the barracks when their heat approaches, but some are permanent residents.”
Tobi looks over at her briefly. “You keep him here?”
“Yes,” she affirms, walking back to him. “He’s leftover stock from the war. When an enemy shinobi was found to be an omega, Iwa would sometimes keep them for breeding. Shinobi are harder to be kept than civilians and the security in the heat barracks is heavy, so he stays here, where it’s secure.”
A shinobi? That one? All plush, and round, and soft?
It explains the eye-patch the omega wears and the scar peeking out from under it. The other scars on his body that make him weathered. In all his years, Tobi hasn’t met an omega shinobi. It sounds ludicrous.
“He used to be part of a government-owned breeding facility, but,” she sighs, “he’s older now and the council likes to cycle their stock, so we acquired him some years ago.”
Tobi tilts his head. The omega hasn’t blinked, much less moved, like a statue sitting among thin blankets. He has pale colouring and isn’t as young as the stock for sale on the main floor. Thirties, maybe. And if he’s been here since the war, he must’ve carried many pups.
“His health?” Obito asks, tucking his gloves into his sleeves.
“It’s good, all things considered. He’s been in use for a long time, so he’s not appealing as a personal omega, but he’s still more than capable of carrying out his duty.”
“Open the door.”
The attendant blinks. “Sorry?”
“I want to have a look,” Tobi says. “Open it.”
She goes to protest and he looks at her from behind his mask. She swallows it. “Of course.”
There are recesses in the walls at the end of each cell. The attendant steps into one and inserts the master key kept around her neck. The door opens. She steps aside and gestures him forward.
Tobi stands in the doorway of the cell, the omega’s scent settled strongly in the room, and when he breathes it in, his hands and feet tingle. His head goes light, his thoughts settle, and rather than look at the omega, he continues to stand there, parsing the pheromones underlying that scent. Fear, stress, anxiety, sorrow. Something dull and murky, a numbness he noticed from the broken bodies kept by the slavers. This one might be too far gone.
But Tobi still stands there, transfixed.
The omega’s sole eye falls on Tobi like he’s moving at half speed, then widens. His shoulders lock up, his jaw clenches, and he draws his knees to his chest as best as he can despite his stomach. Tobi watches as this broken thing curls in on itself in the corner of the room, pressing like it might melt into the wall.
That’s no shinobi. Tobi isn’t even sure that’s a slave.
But despite the foulness to the scent, Tobi finds that he enjoys it. It smells old and weathered, like a piece of history carried into the present.
Tobi steps inside. The omega flinches. He crosses the cramped space until he’s hovering over the breeder, watching pale hands shake as too-fast breaths break the silence.
Tobi grabs his jaw and tilts it up. The omega bites his lip to not make a sound, but there are tears in his eye.
He’s a pretty thing in spite of his scars, wearing them far better than Tobi wears his. Tobi pulls forward the collar of the omega’s shirt, catching sight of more white and red lines down his skin. He releases the breeder’s chin to instead grab his arm, feeling the muscle definition under his fingertips. When he pulls up the omega’s sleeve, he finds more of those pale lines. They look like backlash from a lightning jutsu. The rest easily pass for shinobi wounds—kuna, shuriken, fire. Despite this, the omega is more or less a healthy weight, a little too thin, no fresh bruises, no open cuts.
But he shakes like a leaf.
Still, he hasn’t tried to wrench his hand free, hasn’t pulled away or voiced complaints. That scent is pleasant even at its worst, even though the strong pheromones would normally make Tobi sick.
Tobi lets go. The omega curls in on himself, covering his body, and doesn’t move. He’s so much worse than the ones on higher floors.
And yet.
Tobi looks over his shoulder at the attendant. “This one.”
The beta’s eyes widen briefly before she finds her plastic smile. “This one is unsuitable for personal service,” she says. “I’m very sorry. But if its his colouring you like, then—”
“No,” Tobi says, tone flat. “This one. How much?”
Her lips twitch. “He’s not for sale, Sir. He hasn’t been properly trained and is hardly representative of our company’s quality standards—”
“I don’t care,” he interrupts. “Sell him to me.”
The attendant is losing her patience. “Sir, with all respect, he’s due soon. One of our clients is waiting for his pup. We can’t sell an omega we’re currently breeding.”
Tobi clicks his tongue. It’s true. The omega looks ready to pop, and he has no interest in raising some alpha’s spawn. He looks back to find the omega still, watching him with a wide eye.
But Tobi has made a decision, and he isn’t one to compromise. This will be his omega.
“When is he due?”
The beta frowns. “In three weeks.”
Tobi’s breath echos behind his mask and he turns sharply toward the door, his sandals heavy on the tiles as he passes the attendant.
“I’ll come for him in four.”