Zen
Zen was touchy.
It was one of the things about him that got his mates teasing. A quirk that had them giggling in the morning with their fingers squeezing his cheeks.
His ass cheeks, because his dick would be inside of them. And they'd be slow fucking through sleep addled thoughts and steaming hot bodies.
Zen would have his lips on their throat, his teeth nibbling on their skin. His face on their nape. His chest tucked tight against their shoulders.
Abdomen to back, knees to inner thighs, cock to another's ass.
His hands were always splayed over bared tummies, fingertips brushing against the bush of wiry hair. Sometimes, they'd be dipping too low in search of greater heat. And occasionally, he'd hold onto the delicious curve of a hot, velvety shaft and stroke because the warmth felt good on his colder fingers.
He'd breathe in deep, swallow down the scent of their musk in the air, for the smell of his mate was like liquid aphrodisiacs to his Omega. And their scent would make blood rush to his cock and turn it so stiff it'd hurt, balls swollen and begging for release.
He'd rut against his mate through sleep. A consistent rhythmic grind that would take him towards an impending morning orgasm. He'd wake horny as fuck and so damn ready to cum.
His fey would drink in the arousal, his wolf begging to taste his mate's cum, and his vampire eager for blood.
Zen with his messy DNA of fey, shifter and vampire, was more attuned to his instincts than most. It made him needy, with difficult Heats and animalistic needs.
So it was normal for him to wake to an ache between his legs; his groin warm and tingly with the need to fuck; and his ass dripping with copious amount of gooey slippery slick ready to take a cock.
And it was habit for Zen to fuck first thing in the morning, to pound his dick deep into a plush ass until he was all nice and awake. Sink his cock into the warmth of a slickening hole, and drool so good from the shivers of it all. Instinct to knot so deep in his Omegas that he'd come with shaking knees and open lips.
Or he could take another cock in his ass. His hole gushing like a fountain until his thighs were tacky with his juices. His body drooling for something thick to suckle on, squeezing to the bouncing sway of his horny cock.
The sleepy fog in his brain would be gone after a mind breaking orgasm that had tears in his eyes, tingling in his feet and spasms shaking all over his body. And then he'd mop up the pearly droplets of cum seeping from his mate's hole with his tongue.
It was all a part of his morning routine.
So one really couldn't blame him for forgetting where he was when he awoke in the delicious Beta's bed.
Not when he'd been so warm, and far too comfortable. There had been the traces of drool sticky on his lips; his body toasty from sleep, the imprints of the sheets, red on his cheeks.
It was the best sleep he'd ever had in a while with the sheets curled between his legs, kicked messy from slumber and steaming from the heat of his unconscious body.
He fumbled with the body in his arms, pulled his mate closer and snuggled like he was used to. The way he was used to– groin to ass with his face pressed to a scent gland and his fingers roaming and squeezing.
He felt the softness of flesh, then toned muscles that ran up a silky creamy abdomen. Soft hair tickled his cheeks, like silk, like feathery down. His humid breath was warm against a blood pumping neck that only thrummed faster.
His body pressed against the back of a tinier being. And he could feel the beat of another's heart, strong and heavy against the surface of his chest. His taut nipples grazing the curve of a shoulder sending a delicious shiver up his belly.
His lips meandered over skin, milky smooth with a scent that was fruity – like nectar, like peach. And it was paired with arousal so juicy it seemed to squirt thick down his throat. His teeth were aching, yearning for a bite because it could remember the phantom velvet of that godly taste.
He'd tasted it once in its artificially warmed and stale state, his mind reminded him lazily. But it'd been the best he'd ever had– rich, buttery, velvet silk. Burnt sugar sweetness in a quenching juice of liquid life that filled his belly and yet made him ache for more.
The blood would be good, and he wanted more.
His sleepy Omega knew it with a whine.
But what Zen needed was good morning sex on a cold day. He needed sweat dripping down his back and his body milked to a boiling hot orgasm. He needed cum.
He opened his mouth, lips on a throat, teeth out. A little nibble before he sank his cock deep inside his mate was customary for a better experience.
The first bite would not have fangs, would not have aching teeth sinking into buttery muscle. The first taste would not tear into sinews, and his teeth would not pump a bared neck full with love drugs.
That he'd reserve for the end, when an orgasm writhed through his mate and they'd need a little extra kick to take it all up a notch.
The first bite was for him.
It would be a bite to allow his venom to spill and his body to grow warm. His fangs would leak with his natural aphrodisiac, spill sticky onto the surface of flesh. And he'd lap it all up, filling his tongue with his own sweet venom without the blood.
This would speed up his orgasm, turn him wild with dazed need. And he'd cum harder and faster with his mate when he finally sank his fangs into their throat. And only then would his fey, wolf and vampire be equally fed in a messy harmony of crashing pleasure.
It would also numb the skin of his mate, turn the surface tingly–a trick Icarus had taught him just to drink blood from a cock. It was the only way to sink fangs into the thick appendage of his lovers and drink from that source without hurting them. The venom closing the wound so quickly it would be as if he hadn't bitten them.
But Zen found it to be the best method for drinking blood from his mate, for it made the blood flow smoother and taste warmer. It'd send his mates whining with need, toes clenched and feet kicking.
There was a little moan from the mate in his arms, which only had him painting more circles on the skin with his tongue. His lips suckled tight on flesh. The candy tang of it seemed to grow warmer on his tongue, tasting richer, better.
It made his head drowsy. A cotton like fluff that had him oozing deeper into the embrace. The goo of hot, needy pleasure was all was sticky in his heart. And his cock throbbed so hard it hurt between his legs.
He exhaled, long and heavy. He was gentle when he fumbled, slotted the curve of his hot covered dick between his mate's, and felt for another thicker bulge. But instead he had the apple pie gummy warmth of something else, folds that parted with heat.
It was something forbidden, something distinctly female and off-limits for Omegas.
A pussy.
Quinn.
His eyes flew open, hands to the mask on his face. He pulled back a sharp squeak, and then he was up and looking. She didn't move, breath slow and steady, maybe asleep. His breathing was hard as he held himself.
And he stared at her, at the curve of a sweeter cheek. The flush of heat in soft cheeks. The smaller figure, the dark hair soft around her face. The lashes that fluttered. The gentleness in her curled figure, huddled on the bed covered in bandages.
Quinn.
He tried to fuck Quinn.
He tried to fuck a Beta.
And his Omega had wanted it.
How fucking disgusting.
He gaped, eyes blinking, mouth open. And then she exhaled and his heart was leaping, praying. But her eyes slowly opened. It was the colour of warmth, of darkness, of eternity. And so lucid that she must have felt him touch her–
His cheeks burned as he went to her bandages, moved as if he only stayed to check her injuries. The skin was smooth, red and healing, but it was better, so much better that the relief was a rush down his spine.
And she continued watching him as his fingers grazed her naked abdomen. He grew flustered, closed the fabric, fingers snatched back as if burnt.
But concern left him as he noted the recovery. His Omega purred. It was concern that shouldn't exist horrible and achy in his belly. He should never be concerned for a woman.
But he was.
And perhaps it was only because of her great resemblance to Euodia. Others wouldn't see it, not with the bruises littering her face and the split of her lip. The shorn off hair– a classic Alpha style for those in the city.
But Zen knew the dips of features, the shapes, the curves.
His eyes snapped upwards, at the sleepy gaze of the Beta who stared back at him with half-lidded eyes. Thighs bare, fingers scratching at the collar, feeling at the mark he'd left in his sleep.
She squinted, yawned, her eyes were warm. And that was nothing like Euodia, Euodia who would grunt and fix him with a look so cold it had him shivering–
"Ah," her voice was rough with sleep, lowered and chocolatey smooth. And his body thrummed, finding it awfully sexy. "You're a vampire?"
He flushed then, fixed his mask, grunted with a shrug. There was confusion in her eyes as her hand ghosted over her neck. His venom, his aphrodisiac was sticky on her skin. And it pulled stringy from her fingers like semen, like cum.
"What is this–"
"If you feel better then get off the damn bed," he snapped.
She moved automatically, ready to go on her knees. Her body creaking, her broken leg bending. And he fumbled, hands clasping her shoulders, lifting her to the bed before she could bow.
"Don't!" He hissed at her, fangs barred and she stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
His fingers tightened on her arm. The concern was back, the worrying ache. The roar of his Omega. No, no, no. It repeated. The Alpha must heal. Our Alpha needs us.
"I only meant that you should get up and wash yourself." He told her, pinching the bridge of his nose. She stared at him. He winced, trying to remind himself that he was here to fool, to play nice, to lure her into his arms.
He'd take her back to his pack, brainwashed and in love. He'd suck her dry there when giving blood wasn't quite as traumatic to her. She'd let him drain her dry.
That had been the plan.
But there was something about the Beta that made him strange. The act to play nice, for her to fall in love with him felt too real, too hot in his chest. And it was easier to be mean to a woman.
"Fuck it. Stay there," he stood, looking for the jug of water and the pan which he placed roughly before her with a heavy clatter. A toothbrush, a rag and a bar of soap tossed her way. "Clean yourself, you smell."
He lied, she smelled amazing. But she nodded, moving away from him, cloth dipped into the pan wiping herself down. The drowsy rich scent of her peach was gone as the soap was rubbed into her glands.
The musk of her was gone, and so was his venom and the way his scent had mixed with hers in a delicious combination. His Omega whimpered as the scent was replaced by the bland synthetic tang of soap.
She stopped, cloth in the pan, face red and rubbed clean, teeth brushed. "Better?"
He sniffed the air. "Look, you don't smell that bad." It would be better drowned in his scent and messy with his slick. "I just meant with my venom on your throat you smell a lot like pack, and knowing that you're not–" His stomach growled. He grew red, stopped speaking, horrified.
She looked up then. "Hungry?"