Archive of Our Own

Mingi is a vicar’s son.

An odd way to start an introduction perhaps, but Mingi always thinks that this information lays a good groundwork for what comes next. He’s a vicar’s son, raised on the wondrous stories in his mother’s bible, the pages worn soft by the hands that have used it, the golden letters on its front less noticeable than the indentations of the many fingertips that have traced them.

His father, with his gentle, fragile hands cradling Mingi’s face, used to joke that these stories were what made his head settle so firmly in the clouds, his attention airy and odd, bewitched away from any important task on the back of something so easy as a stray ray of sunlight.

Mingi isn’t sure about that, mostly because he’s not entirely sure what makes him different. He realizes that other people seem to think in straighter lines, in easier ways, their thoughts taking paths already trodden, but he doesn’t know any other way than his, and so he is fine with it.

What he does suspect, however, is that these stories influenced his viewing of the world.

After all, there are no secondary genders in the Good Book.

To Mingi, being an alpha is about as important to him as his black hair. It solidifies him, changes the way the world views him, but it does very little to influence him in any other way. Except that’s probably just his own little roundabout thinking again, because it influences him, but since he is only himself, and can only be himself, he doesn’t find it necessary to think too much about what it would change had he been born differently.

Perhaps, Mingi thinks, raising a hand to trace his fingers over the bowing branches of the burgeoning trees, watching the way the sun dances through the leaves to cast pretty shadows over his skin, that is the privilege of an alpha. After all, had he been an omega, he’d have been married by now, his dowry agreed upon and given to his mother in exchange for his last name and fertility.

But it doesn’t matter. Mingi is an alpha, and he is a vicar’s son, and that’s that. His education is good, but not great, he is not poor, but neither is he rich. He has grown handsome enough, with his black hair, sharp eyes, and strong jaw, over the last year to catch people’s eyes, but he’s also odd enough for it to seldom be more than a passing interest.

“Mingi!”

Mingi hears Yunho before he sees him, the Jeong holdings are full of rolling hills, and it’s Yunho’s voice, and then the sound of his horses’ hooves. Mingi stops, and waits, watching Yunho appear over the line of the hill like a general in the old stories, resplendent in the way the Saints are sometimes portrayed in the stained glass windows, the sun shining through to color the bright glass of their halos.

Yunho’s hair catches the light in the same way, and Mingi, as always, gently pushes down the fluttering, aching feeling that takes hold in his chest. Yunho is grinning and, to Mingi, his friends that come after him could just as well be invisible next to Yunho’s bright smile.

“Yunho,” Mingi answers, turning his face up to catch Yunho’s warm, brown gaze. His mother had always been a stickler for tradition, and Mr. Jeong would perhaps have been more appropriate. After all, Yunho is not only from the type of blood that not only has history, but money too, and he owns the land on which Mingi’s family has their nicely kept cottage and stable. But alas, when you’ve known someone for almost ten years, and when they’re as friendly as Yunho, it’s hard to pay too much attention to propriety.

“Out walking again?” Yunho asks, his cheeks bunching up around his smile. He’s handsome, in a very approachable way, his beauty resting as much in his easy smile and gentle voice as it is in the breadth of his shoulders and the sweet curve of his lips.

“Yes,” Mingi answers, despite the answer being obvious, because when Yunho asks, Mingi wants to answer. Mingi smiles as he bends down on one knee, allowing Yunho’s two lovely dogs, their fur shining brown, to nose at his hands through their muzzles.

There are some looks shared between the alphas behind Yunho, aristocrats and landowners, all of them at about the age where they are expected to pretend at respectability, getting their hands on the lands and deeds their sires have kept for them. Mingi’s skin prickles, but he focuses on Yunho, instead of them.

Yunho leans forward, leaning his forearms over the pommel of his saddle.

“Do you have the time for hunting, friend? There are deer that have taken a farmer's land for their own, eating all the young crops, and that always makes for good sport.”

Mingi doesn’t hunt. Yunho knows that. It’s one of the million things that makes Mingi a disappointing alpha, or at least not a very traditional one. Yunho, however, is the very image of a good one. Except, perhaps, for the way he always makes sure to ask Mingi to join him, especially when there are others present, because it extends his protection to the kind of boy those blooming aristocrats and landowners would push into the mud otherwise. This little dance of theirs is something they have done for almost a decade, sports exchanged for hunting about four years ago.

“No, I’m sorry,” Mingi answers, easily falling into step with Yunho’s question, a smile playing at his lips, “Not today, my father’s hands ache too much to work in the garden today and my mother needs my help with the roof of our church, it didn’t fare too well in the spring storms.”

“Ah, of course,” Yunho nods, easily accepting, effectively removing the others’ chance of commenting, because if Yunho, who is the best of them, accepts it so easily, then who are they to raise objections?

“Next time,” Mingi smiles, catching Yunho’s grin with his own, and this time, he has to push the fluttering away far more firmly.

“I’m sure,” Yunho says warmly, before making a sharp noise against his teeth, making his dogs return to dance around the legs of Yunho’s patient horse. Yunho presses his heels into the side of his horse, moving him and his entourage forward, “I’ll come by tomorrow, to check the roof, and gather some of your father’s marmalade for my mother.”

“Of course,” Mingi inclines his head, stepping to the side as Yunho and the others pass him, soon disappearing over the crest of another hill.

It takes a moment for the sun to start feeling as warm again, when Yunho isn’t there to amplify it.

It’s a few hours later and the sun hangs low and glowing over the treetops of the forest. There is the calm that always comes with darkness, blanketing the green hills in comforting blue and black. Mingi is by the window, watching the clouds and the hints of stars, one hand on the book he’s failing to read.

His head weighs heavy tonight, and he can’t seem to shake it, struggling to find peace, which is why he can’t seem to finish his book.

But perhaps that is a blessing, in some way or another, the way his mother usually tells him that miracles are not big things, but small ones, a helping hand where you didn’t expect it, a quiet reassurance when you thought you didn’t need it, because that means he sees someone approaching earlier than he would’ve otherwise. And later, much later, he will be grateful that he is the one to meet them rather than a servant.

But back in the present, Mingi’s eyes narrow, finding the parts he recognizes. A gray, fine-limbed horse, a man of shorter stature, a lantern held high. Alone, which is uncommon enough.

Wooyoung?

Mingi, skin prickling with an unease he can’t seem to place, puts his bookmark within the pages of his book, and goes to meet him. He shrugs into his well-worn black jacket, one hand hesitating before he grabs his hat from its pin as well.

“Mr Jung!” Mingi says loudly as he steps out onto the gravel of what can only generously be called a courtyard, keeping an ear open to make sure he doesn’t disturb the sheep into panic. Wooyoung doesn’t slow down, and now that he is closer, Mingi can see that the neck of Wooyoung’s fine horse gleams with sweat, and its bridle is kept tight within its teeth. None of those things help the quiet sense of how something is wrong.

Stilling his horse from a trot, Wooyoung stops in front of him, raising his lantern higher to see Mingi more properly. Wooyoung is a man of levity and joy, seldom serious except for when he needs to be. Being the youngest boy of four tends to do that, especially when born a beta. But this time, there is none of Wooyoung’s usual mischievous nature reflected on his face, instead, he is pale and his bottom-lip red, as though he’s been chewing it on the way over.

“Wooyoung?” Mingi prompts, quieter this time.

“It’s Yunho,” Wooyoung answers, after a moment, and Mingi’s blood runs cold. There are few reasons for someone to call for a clergyman when evening turns to night on a weekday, except for — Mingi can barely stomach the thought, thinking about last rites, and placing holy water on Yunho’s pale, cold forehead. But Wooyoung seems to shake himself when he sees the panic dawn on Mingi’s face, “He is alive, that is not —” Wooyoung pauses, another thing that is vastly out of character. Wooyoung usually speaks his mind in as fast a manner as possible, Mingi has never known him to hold his tongue.

“Is he hurt?” Mingi asks, after a moment, when the silence has grown as thick as the darkening skies.

“Of a sort,” Wooyoung answers, quieting again, before shaking his head, seemingly frustrated with his own trepidation, squaring his jaw and raising his gaze to meet Mingi’s, “He’s gone feral.”

It takes a moment for Mingi to actually hear the words. He knows what feral means, but it takes more than a second to connect it to Yunho. In Mingi’s defense, going feral happens rarely in times of peace, and especially amongst the gentry. A man from a family like Yunho’s is rarely put into situations where ferality would solve anything, after all, especially when it is considered so... base. There are stories, not true ones, because such stories are never true, of the finest gentlemen turning their rifles on themselves when they feel the fever settling into them in unfamiliar quarters, rather dead than dealing with the shame of a rut.

“What happened?” Mingi demands, once the thought has settled, and the words have been listened to rather than just heard, “Wooyoung!” he demands when Wooyoung doesn’t answer, having to struggle to keep his second vocal chords from lacing the words through with the command of an alpha.

“Let us take it on the way,” Wooyoung shakes his head, petting his horse’s neck as Mingi moves to the stable to prepare the one horse they have. They only have the money for two servants, and with his father getting frailer with each winter, they’ve long since decided to focus on ones that can help out in the house. For the other tasks, they hire the help of their neighbor’s sons and daughters, and none of those are around after supper.

A couple of moments later, they are on their way, and Mingi is the one to break the silence, surprisingly.

“A prayer does little to help against ferality, you know,” Mingi offers over the sound of their horses’ hooves.

“Yunho is decently pious,” Wooyoung answers, shaking his head, as though he’s already had this discussion, “And his parents are very much so. They seem to think the word of God would help.”

“I’m not ordained,” Mingi reminds him, voice quiet.

“You know the Book inside and out,” Wooyoung shrugs, “That has to count for something. Besides —” he quiets again, and it is so odd to ride next to this careful, fragile version of Wooyoung. Mingi almost wants to shake him until he starts acting like himself again, even if it would come with Wooyoung teasing him, the way it usually does. Wooyoung doesn’t speak again until Mingi prompts him with a low sound.

“Besides, you didn’t see him,” Wooyoung finishes, his voice tight, and shoulders knotted tight together, “At least you know him, he would never forgive himself if he showed himself like this to your mother.”

If he survives hangs over the end of that sentence like a specter. Or, well, of course Yunho would survive, but would he survive as Yunho, the man that Mingi’s known for so long. The longer a rut fever holds, the harder it is to come out of it. Mingi tries to think of Yunho hidden away in a dark room, the way the gentry usually hides their sons and daughters that came home from war with wild eyes and sharp teeth. It is a thought that deeply rattles him, because Yunho is made to be in the sun, amongst the grass and trees of the land he has been raised to love.

“What happened?” Mingi asks, after a moment, as they continue in a trot on the path to the Jeong mansion.

“One of his friends was thrown off their horse during the hunt,” Wooyoung answers, darkly, his gaze barely perceptible under the brim of his wide hat, “By his own folly, of course, and the fall was not too bad, more harmful for his pride than anything else. But apparently it was not only deer on the ground, but boars,” he has no taste for hunting, like Mingi, but he’s the young lord of a decently sized parcel of land next to Yunho’s, so he’s had to do it often enough, “And boars are aggressive, especially when bloodied.”

Mingi sucks in a breath and this time, he can see the way Wooyoung sends him a glance, shifting his hold on the lantern, making the light wave too and fro, casting the same branches from this morning in dark, foreboding shadows.

“He tried shooting them, first, but it wasn’t enough. He killed three with his bare hands,” Wooyoung grimaces at the note of impression in his voice, but Mingi can understand it.

“That much blood, that much —” he thinks about Yunho, teeth bared, killing three boars for the benefit of a friend that would’ve abandoned him in a second had their roles been reversed, and feels pride and exasperation in equal measure, underneath the roiling fear, “No wonder he went feral,” Mingi finishes, lamely.

Wooyoung only nods in reply, urging his horse into a gallop without speaking. Mingi does the same, and the rest of the ride is done in silence.

Nothing prepares Mingi for the sight of Yunho in the cellar. The thing that hits him first when he opens the door to the basement is the smell. He reflexively fixes his own cuffs when it hits him, over the woven little cotton pads carrying dried herbs that are sewn into them. It’s usually enough to keep any natural scents hidden, except, of course, for when they are in their season, and during that they are hidden away anyway. Mingi has never scented Yunho like this, like warm redwood bark and burning coal, tinged with blood and anger.

He has to force himself to take the first step down the stairs, following a couple of steps behind Wooyoung and San, who is pale-faced and shivering, strained from having kept guard with his alpha-instincts screaming at him to fight or flee every second of it. Mingi himself feels unsettled, the scent of Yunho’s ferality knocking loose a part of him he’d practically been able to forget.

The second thing is the sound.

There is a growl, low and reverberating, carried through both sets of vocal cords and the entire hollow of Yunho’s chest, making the stone walls feel as though they are vibrating, kept at a pitch that makes Mingi’s shoulders rise high around his ears.

The third thing is —

The Jeong’s season chamber is larger and better kept than the sturdy timber hovel Mingi’s family has. It is kept warm with a large stone hearth just outside the thick iron bars, and the chamber is furnished with a heavy wooden bed, the stone walls and floor covered by thick woven mats to dampen sound and carry calming scents during the worst of any season. But the iron bars that separate the hearth from the inner chamber itself are still there, so thick and tightly placed that you can only see the room in striped hints of light. Even with the limited view, Mingi can see the white of Yunho’s eyes as he strains against his bindings, releasing another dangerous growl.

“Yunho,” Mingi breathes, taking a step forward, stopping himself as he almost dares to fall into place next to Yunho’s mother, an omega usually defined by her elegance and poise, now standing with her hair loose and her eyes red as though she has been crying. She reaches for him though, taking his hand, and brings him forward.

“How is he?” Mingi asks, after a moment, when he’s been able to still the way his very bones tremble at Yunho’s dangerous sounds.

“It’s been hours,” she answers with a quiver to her voice, her scent is sour and her second vocal chords reverberate with heartbreaking sadness, “The fever won’t break.”

The words are laced with secondary meaning, because they aren’t really an answer to his questions, and it takes Mingi a second to decipher it. Reading between the lines is a skill he has had to learn rather than know instinctively.

“A prayer won’t —” he starts bluntly before swallowing the words, easing his tone in that way his mother has taught him over the years of dealing with partitioners that more often than not are looking for comfort, rather than the truth, “Lady Jeong, I will pray for him, but — but have you sent for an omega? Surely there is someone nearby that would be willing.”

There is a silence that speaks of something that Mingi can’t place. He looks at San, who glances up at the closed basement door, to where Yunho’s father sits in front of the fireplace in his office, staring into the flames. He’d barely looked up when San had told him Mingi had arrived, only waving a hand to make them leave. Three others had been in the room with him, old friends and trusted confidantes.

“No one that is —” Yunho’s mother stops before releasing a shivering breath, “— suitable,” she shakes her head, squeezing his hand into both of hers before releasing it and twisting her hands into the front of her dress, “We have been in discussion with the Park’s about their youngest, but he’s been courted by the young Captain Kim as well, and it wouldn’t be appropriate...” she trails off, forcing her hands still and to let go of her dress, “It would ruin the prospects of Yunho’s younger brothers, if we sent for mr Park and it was not accepted, because that would release the tale of not only his fever, but the fact that we had to beg for relief, to make the rounds of every parlor room in the north. We can not control the information, too many saw him become claimed by the fever, but we can...” She pauses, gazing at her son, her face still and her scent sour, “... we can control the narrative, if we do it right.”

“But surely, then, there is someone else,” Mingi continues, searching to catch her gaze which she steadfastly ignores.

“None fitting,” she murmurs, the thrum of her second vocal cords so thick that it almost swallows her words, “Lower gentry at best, looking for a chance to rise above their station.”

For a second, Mingi feels himself grow so angry his entire body hisses with it. It is gone as quickly as it arrived, but it leaves him feeling even more rattled, unused as he is to anger.

“Lady Jeong, please —” he starts, but she looks at him then, and her face is drawn but stern, and he falls quiet.

They don’t speak again, and Mingi says his prayers over Yunho’s reverberating growls. Even Wooyoung closes his eyes and clasps his hands to follow along.

Mingi has his eyes closed in the beginning, to help center himself, to find the gentle flame of his faith and bring it into his words. He opens them after the first stanza, finding Yunho’s shape between the iron.

Yunho is bound to the bed, shirtless except for the bandages covering the wounds he sustained. There is blood leaking through the white cotton, splotches of both rust brown and bright red blooming over his ribs. He is muzzled, his white sharp teeth hidden by the same black leather that usually covers the snout of his prized hunting dogs. His large hands flex, to no doubt tear at the leather and cotton, and the skin stretched over his strong shoulders and thick chest gleam with sweat, his pants barely laced and the waistline soaked through with sweat. His eyes are dark, no longer the warm brown Mingi remembers, but instead his pupils are blown so wide that it reflects the flickering light from the fire, making them glow like finely cut obsidian.

Their eyes meet.

Yunho’s nose flares, and the sounds still.

Mingi exhales in a shiver, and Yunho inhales.

The door to the basement slams open, rattling the heavy iron, and the moment is lost.

Yunho howls, the sound starting in the pit of his chest, vibrating through his strained neck and the snarl that falls from his twisted lips after it is chilling, the muscles of his arms flexing as he suddenly bucks upward, moving the heavy oak bed an inch across the floor.

“Darling?” Yunho’s mother exclaims, her hands still clasped in prayer as she turns to meet the elder Jeong coming down the stairs, “Any word?” Her face falters when she meets the stony, ashen face of her husband. The silence sticks as she glances down to the floor, and even when she speaks again, the heavy quiet seem to be embroidered through her every word, making her sound frail in a way that’s very uncommon, for her, “Maybe the Choi’s, they are city folk, yes, but they are good people, their oldest has been doing well in the military, perhaps—”

“They are too far,” her husband interjects, looking at his son with something indecipherable in their eyes, “We do not have days, love, we have hours.”

The sound she makes is like someone wounded and her husband moves to steady her, grasping her elbows to help her stay upright. Mingi and the others avert their eyes, to allow a bit of privacy.

“A servant,” the lord Jeong says after he’s allowed himself a moment to whisper in two-toned purrs to his wife, an act so private that it has made San flush to the tips of his ears, “We have two unclaimed, one omega and one recently presented alpha, in our employ. With a well-written contract and a sizable sum of money, I’m sure one of them would do it,” his lips tighten, “They have promised themselves to others already, but I am quite certain that they can be convinced. The alpha wouldn’t be ideal, but since it would not end in marriage, it can be allowed. Of course, it would be painful for them to mate and then be separated, but Yunho —” he stops, quiets, “— Yunho would survive, more or less unscathed.”

The hair on the back of Mingi’s neck rises.

Yunho would hate that. Yunho is a man born into gentry, well-versed in the hierarchy of their society, and while he has never questioned the order of things (no matter how much Captain Kim has tried to goad it out of him), he has always been a firm believer in fairness. The only people Mingi has ever witnessed Yunho carry open disdain for are the young lords and ladies who use their power and wealth to trap a servant during a season, leaving them worse for wear after the deed is done.

Yunho would hate it, being brought back into sanity and God’s grace by fucking a servant (merely thinking the word makes Mingi shiver, clenching his fist in his dark robes). He thinks about the way Yunho had stilled, when their eyes had met.

“I’ll do it,” Mingi says, before he can even finish the thought. The people around him fall silent, turning their faces to him. No one confirms his words, so he says it again, because he becomes unsure he was heard the first time, “I’ll do it.”

“Mingi,” Wooyoung breathes, shaking his head. After all, Mingi does not have the protection of his family to lessen the impact of the rumors, and in the choice between him and Yunho, people will choose to lend their forgiving gaze to Yunho. As they should. “Your prospects, your —” he pauses, struggling to find the words, “It will ruin your reputation.”

What reputation? Mingi wants to laugh, even though it feels deeply inappropriate, what prospects? He says neither of these things, because he already knows the answer. The little bit of reputation his family’s work and Yunho’s friendship has brought him, the few appropriate prospects, homely middle-class omegas, willing to marry a vicar’s son that has not even been ordained. Those things would be lost, or at least damaged, when the rumors of him having spent a night in a season chamber with another alpha has made its rounds. It is not proper, after all.

Perhaps it is good, then, that Mingi has never been good at proper.

“I’ll do it,” Mingi says again, and this time, his voice carries true.

When Mingi removes his clothes, his hands doesn’t tremble. The fire has been stoked and fed, carefully arranged by quiet servants to make sure that it will last for the rest of the night, in wait for the dawn that is more than a few hours away. Hopefully, Yunho’s fever will break before then. But even though the room is warm, the thick woven mats doing their part to keep the stone from stealing it, Mingi’s skin knots, as though it's been brushed with cold fingertips.

He hesitates only for a second when reaching the drawstrings of his thick, cotton trousers. Undoing the laces, his ears burn as he steps out of them, pooling them on the floor. He takes a breath, letting it carry through the length of his body. His hands do tremble, however, when he gathers the small pot of wool fat that had been left on the table next to the fire by a stern-looking older beta without a word. It’s been heated by the warmth of the room, making it runnier than it usually is, when Mingi uses it for... for other things, like oiling leather or impregnating wool. He dips his fingers into the fat, and he imagines that it is a poor substitute for the slick an omega naturally provides but, well, it is what they have available. At least it is high quality, which isn’t surprising. The Jeongs might be a pragmatic bunch, but they’ve never shied from demanding quality.

A low, reverberating growl comes from the other side of the room, rising in pitch and Mingi, forgetting himself for a second, standing naked in front of a fire and his fingers dipped into a pot of wool fat, raises his head to snap at the sound.

“Quiet!” Mingi hisses, blanching when he remembers who he’s talking to, and then shivering when he realizes that Yunho is watching him, dark eyes focused on him through the iron bars. Yunho bares his teeth, underneath the muzzle, but at least the sound stops, for a moment.

Hours, not days, Mingi reminds himself, placing one foot on the stool next to the table, gathering a sizable dollop of fat on three fingers. It is smooth, and the scent isn’t too bad. Lanolin is preferred, Mingi has read in the kind of books that you can share amongst friends at school but never at home, when alphas mate each other, because it mimics the natural thickness of an omega's slick the most. Mingi wouldn’t know, he’s never...

He swallows, gathering his cock and balls in one hand to tuck them to the side, bending forward to rub the fat between his legs, over the perineum and against the clenching, tight muscle of his hole. He keeps his eyes open, because he needs to actually do this right, but it is done with some difficulty, shame burning through him at what he’s doing. His stomach tightens as he slathers a generous helping between his legs, and then it drips, in heavy dollops, down from where he’s placed it. When he looks, the paler skin of his thighs are gleaming with it.

It should be inside him, he thinks, the thought distant but close enough to make his stomach clench again. He takes another spread of it, and this time, the shame wins out, and he closes his eyes as he feels for the clenching, tight muscle of his hole, rubbing against it more purposefully, and it opening enough to make the pad of one finger slip inside him.

His shoulders tighten, the sensation unlike anything he’s felt before. He’s... He’s touched at his hole before, but it’s different like this, with the fat and the —

Yunho releases another snarl, the sound of it making Mingi’s entire body shiver, the mix of emotions hard to decipher. It’s fear, and tension, and determination and... and anticipation, underneath all the rest.

“Be still,” he says, the words stuttering on the consonants with the nervous trembling of his second vocal note. He wipes his hands off on his own skin, spreading the fat over his stomach, Yunho merely looks at him, eyebrows knotted tight over his dark eyes, the thin skin of his wrists starting to bruise and chafe from where his bindings trap him.

Be on top of him, so he can’t bite you, the stone-faced servant had offered, the first knot should make him easier to deal with. The second will calm him. The third should break the fever.

Three? Mingi had wanted to scream, but hadn’t said anything out loud. He’s never knotted anyone, but the base of his cock swells when he touches himself sometimes, and that’s not... that’s not even a knot, and it’s almost as big as his fist. Three? he thinks again, grabbing a piece of cloth from the table, a common cotton neckerchief that belonged up until ten minutes ago to the young, unclaimed omega that works in the Jeong’s scullery. He ties it around his neck, making sure it covers his scent glands, and feels a bit ridiculous, standing naked except for a small piece of cloth around his neck of all places. It smells like omega though, which is the point. It’ll make it easier for Yunho, Mingi thinks, when his fingers itch with the need to pull it off.

The iron door creaks as he opens it, swinging it shut behind him.

Without the iron bars to obscure the view, Yunho is resplendent. His pale, golden skin lay gleaming over his straining muscles, built for strength rather than show, and even in ferality, Yunho has an elegance to him, in the fine lines of his hands and the curve of his wrists. Mingi takes a step forward, and Yunho’s nose flares, his round, dark eyes widening as he scents the air. He expels an angry growl of a snort, the angry two-toned sound starting up in his chest again.

“I know,” Mingi sighs, allowing himself a steadying breath before he pads forward to the bed, and before he can stop himself, he releases a soft, comforting croon, the sound hoarse and melodic, interlacing into the syllables of his words, “It’s... It’s for you, I... It’s the best we could do.”

Yunho doesn’t answer, because of course he doesn’t, because he’s feral. Mingi kind of wishes he would. He runs a finger underneath the cotton neckerchief, allowing himself a moment. He thinks about Yunho, leaning over the pommel of his saddle, heart shaped lips twitching into a smile, protecting Mingi the way he’d always done, since they were children.

He places a knee on the bed, the mattress dipping underneath him. The scent of sweat and dangerous alpha hangs heavy in the air, but underneath it... underneath it there’s Yunho, the scar over his arm he got saving a kitten from a tree when he was twelve, the sweet little triangle of moles underneath his right eye. Mingi runs his fingers along the waistline of Yunho’s trousers, trembling as he undoes the laces and struggles to pull them down.

He doesn’t look at Yunho again, only listens as the sound of Yunho’s growl falters, and something almost like a whine escapes him. Instead, Mingi looks at Yunho’s hard, heavy cock, almost as thick as a spring-planted birch tree's trunk. It’s too heavy to stand on its own, the base of it cradled in dark, wiry hair and its head gleaming in flushed red, the vein running underneath it almost visibly pulsing with blood.

Mingi tries not to think about how he’d felt merely the pad of his finger as an intrusion. He swallows and when Yunho growls again, this time the sound is desperate and angry at the same time, Yunho’s hips bucking as high as they can, tied as he is to the bedposts, he makes himself demure. He eases the hold of his shoulders, tilts his head, bares his neck. He keeps his touch light, gentle, as he strokes comfort down over Yunho’s trembling thighs.

It comes easy in a way he knows he should be ashamed of, but isn’t.

Not when Yunho’s growl lowers and then stutters quiet as Mingi straddles his hips, planting his ass on Yunho’s straining thighs. He tries to keep himself light, not rest his entire weight on Yunho’s lap, to play further into the illusion of an omega, but it is hard, especially as he has to lean forward to grasp Yunho’s cock in his hand, once again reminded about just how large it is. He looks down at Yunho, leaning over him as he is, one hand clasped on the same bed frame to which Yunho’s wrists are tied, and finds that Yunho is watching him. His pupils have narrowed, and between the leather straps of the muzzle, Mingi can see the way his pink mouth is open, panting soft, small noises with every breath.

Another growl, this time a whining one, and Mingi can only assume that it is because his scent is slipping through the neckerchief, leaning closer as he is.

“Sorry, I - I’ll lean back, as soon as I can,” Mingi starts, swallowing it as his fingers slip on the velvety soft flesh of Yunho’s cock, taking two tries to line it up against his hole, pressing the head against the clenching, fluttering muscle. He’s not even sure Yunho understands him, hours into a rut fever as he is, but Mingi has been known to babble when his nerves get the best of him, and the clench of his stomach as he keeps Yunho’s cock still and starts to try and force himself down over it, certainly feels something like nervousness.

The first time, the head of Yunho’s cock simply slips away from where it’s supposed to go, Mingi’s hole too tight to allow him entrance. The second time goes better, as it catches on the rim of Mingi’s hole, but slips before it can actually enter.

Frowning, Mingi forgets his earlier promise and leans forward further, close enough so that he can feel Yunho’s hot breath against his clavicle. He widens his stance, spreading his knees wider and arches his back in pure instinct. Yunho is silent underneath him, only trembling muscle and deep, heavy pants, nails digging into the thick leather straps around his wrists. Mingi closes his eyes, breathes in, lets his mind brush along the edge of his favorite prayers, the ones that calm him the most. It feels sacrilegious to think of them here, so he keeps from actually thinking the words, only allowing himself to remember the cadence of them.

The head of Yunho’s cock catches on the rim of his hole again, and Mingi’s relaxes, his shoulder sloping underneath the weight of his relaxation. He leans back, keeping his body from clenching, breath catching in his throat as his hole opens wide enough to allow for some leverage. He shuffles backwards, whining low in his throat as he realizes that he’s going to have to let his weight do the work, Yunho’s cock too thick and Mingi’s hole too tight to allow for anything else. Before he can think too much about it, he raises himself up, rolling his hips as he sits back, down onto Yunho’s cock.

It’s —

Oh.

Fuck.

Mingi’s mouth opens as his entire body spasms in objection at the intrusion, his eyelashes fluttering as he leans back, groaning low in his chest when gliding down another inch. It’s so —

“Big,” Mingi stutters, whimpering as Yunho’s hips twitch, making his cock glide even deeper into him, his hole straining and aching against the stretch. The fat probably makes it easier, and so does the precum gleaming over Yunho’s cock, but Mingi barely feels it. If the pain didn’t make his knees weaker, which made it impossible to move, half-speared as he was on Yunho’s cock, Mingi would’ve gotten off. But instead, he is caught, breath burning in his lungs, Yunho’s cock reforging Mingi’s insides, slowly inching himself down over it.

Fuck, Mingi thinks, keening through both sets of vocal cords, his body barely able to clench around Yunho’s girthy cock. Yunho is making sounds too, low and guttural, somewhere between a growl and a purr, and Mingi places a trembling hand against Yunho’s chest to feel the rumbling of it against his hand.

“Fuck,” Mingi breathes, barely conscience of swearing out loud.

It hurts, fuck, it hurts, but —

Mingi gasps, his body trembling as Yunho bottoms out inside him. Any thought of keeping himself light is fully gone, Mingi’s full weight in Yunho’s lap. Mingi’s cock, which had been swelling thick, has gone soft from the pain, but... Mingi shivers, leaning forward, arching his back, his entire body reacting in nothing but fear and instinct. There is something else there, underneath it, lacing through it. Something greedy, something feral, something —

“Go -” Mingi breathes, almost laughing, biting his bottom lip to keep from taking the Lord’s name in vain.

Yunho’s hips twitch, and then they move properly, the following thrust accompanied by a low grunt falling from Yunho’s lips. Hot pain, burning desire and dangerous want intertwine through Mingi at the way Yunho’s cock seems to split him open, reforge him from the inside out.

“God,” Mingi whimpers, this time not biting down the end of it at all.

Twenty minutes later, Mingi is panting, too tired and worn out to do anything other than just roll his hips, keeping Yunho’s cock inside him. Yunho won’t — he won’t knot, it won’t take, the base of his cock has swollen but not properly formed. These last fifteen minutes might as well have been an hour, in the way it’s made Mingi’s entire body tremble with effort, as though he’s been working the stable for 16 hours straight, but nothing is happening.

Yunho is growling, straining against his bounds, snarling and bucking his hips, head falling back each time Mingi bottoms out.

Mingi feels mindless, fucking himself down on Yunho’s cock, his hole seemingly never growing used to the stretch. It’s so much, and nothing.. nothing is happening. He feels almost sick with it, even though he can’t think too much of it, his hands on Yunho’s chest, fingers brushing over the bandages, hips rolling back to try and tease the knot into growing. He can’t, he can’t imagine how it’d fit, if it’ll ever happen, with the way Yunho’s cock is just on the side of too much, but still, he wants it, if nothing else because it’d break the monotone pain-pleasure of this.

Yunho’s hips buck, and Mingi gasps, delirious, at the feeling of Yunho reaching so deep it might as well be in his stomach. And still... Mingi stops moving for a second, head lolling back as he reaches behind him, tracing trembling fingers over the flesh that’s started to swell around the base of Yunho’s cock. No change.

“Just knot me,” Mingi whimpers, his note turning petulant in a way he usually doesn’t let it, whining as he leans forward, placing his forehead against Yunho’s, his body curving and aching to allow it, “Just knot me, Yunho, please.”

To his mortification, the kind that will settle properly later, when he thinks back on it, when he’s not fully concentrated on Yunho’s cock inside him and Yunho’s labored breathing, his eyes start to water.

“Please,” he breathes, running a hand over the side of Yunho’s face, fingers catching on the leather. What if Mingi isn’t enough? Too big and too ungainly to play at what a feral alpha needs. What if he doesn’t feel right, and Yunho will fall into rut madness just because Mingi can’t even... can’t even do this right.

A small tear, born as much from exhaustion and fear as it is from the beginning flush of self-loathing, falls from Mingi’s fluttering lashes. It falls onto Yunho’s cheek, and Yunho... Yunho coos, low and rumbling, kind and soothing, even though he must be in so much pain too, wrecked as he is by his rut. It’s a fundamentally Yunho-sound, even though Mingi has never heard it before. It’s...

He pauses, breathing shakily. He sniffles, and takes a moment to rest, as much as he can, with Yunho’s cock so firmly inside him. And as Yunho coos again, the sound reverberating from the base of his throat, Mingi finds a new thought, a new idea.

It’s still Yunho, Mingi thinks, closing his eyes for a second before opening them, and this time he actually looks, properly this time. Not at the feral alpha, but at Yunho, who is not just waiting to be brought back, but is there now, underneath him. It’s a deeply unseemly thought, unthinkable for many, to think that a rut is not only a madness that transforms you into a mindless beast once a year, but actually you, actually just as much a part of you as all the rest of what makes a person. Yunho’s ferality is as much a part of Yunho as his brown eyes, as his kindness, as his gentle coos.

Sometimes, perhaps it is a good thing, that your mind flows in unfamiliar ways, trickling down paths that are not quite as straight-forward.

“You’re so stubborn,” Mingi whispers, sniffling again, pressing a kiss to Yunho’s forehead, “Such a stubborn man.”

And Yunho is. Stubborn and competitive, and beyond all that, he’s a romantic. Yunho wouldn’t knot someone he couldn’t mark, because Yunho would believe that the two things walk hand in hand. You don’t knot a man you can’t promise yourself to with a mark, and you don’t mark a man you aren’t willing to knot.

Mingi starts to work at the buckles of the muzzle, his fingers stiff and ungainly as he struggles to remove it. But Yunho stays still, gazing at him, eyes dark and feverish, but still steady. The leather falls away, and Mingi rubs the pads of his thumbs over the indentations left behind, shushing Yunho almost deliriously as Yunho bares his teeth.

“One second,” Mingi whispers, focused only on what he should do next.

Being bitten will make it even worse. You can’t hide a mark that’s been given in a rut, and without the accompanying wedding ring, it’d... it’d be even worse than Mingi agreed to, half an hour ago. But Mingi has found a way forward, and he’s always been brave, and a bit stupid, and the next step is all he’s thinking about. Tomorrow is tomorrow. Dawn will bring regrets, but it will also bring Yunho back, and right now, right now, Mingi has an idea.

It almost hurts, to raise himself enough to make Yunho’s cock slip out of him. He gasps at the sudden feeling of emptiness that seems to lance through his very core. Yunho growls, and Mingi simply shushes him, to work on the rest. The movement makes him fall forward, holding himself up with one hand next to Yunho’s face as he starts to work on the bindings around one of Yunho’s wrists. It takes another moment, and the air around them is sweltering, Mingi single-minded and Yunho just... looking at him, eyes wild, teeth bared, mouth open as he pants.

Once Mingi gets one wrist free, the rest goes quickly. Yunho’s arm falls down on the bed, and Mingi’s fingers can barely brush against the second binding before Yunho wraps his arm around Mingi’s waist, rolling him off before simply grabbing the binding, pushing his fingers underneath it and snapping it clean off.

Mingi loses his breath as the sudden movement reminds him that he’s in pain, that his body is a trembling wreck, and before he catches it, Yunho is there, free, unmuzzled and —

He pushes Mingi down against the bed with a low, reverberating growl, deep enough so that Mingi can practically feel the wood of the bed frame vibrate with it. He tears at the neckerchief around Mingi’s neck, throwing it to the side before burrowing his face against where Mingi’s neck means shoulder, panting as he snarls and nips at the skin, making Mingi’s scent stain the air.

Mingi is pushed chest first against the sheets, making a low whining sound as Yunho grabs his hips, roughly pulling him backwards to rut against his ass. Yunho’s face doesn’t leave his neck, his breath so hot it’s burning, and Mingi can feel Yunho’s low growls physically, where Yunho’s chest is pressed against his back.

It takes a few tries for Yunho’s cock to find its way inside him again, and every time Mingi tries to move, to help or to do anything really, Yunho pushes him down again. The only thing Mingi can do is arch his back and spread his knees, something that seems to go more on instinct than anything else.

And then Yunho finds the right angle, and Mingi’s loosened hole opens up, any resistance left simply robbed by the force of Yunho’s thrust. It steals Mingi’s breath, the new angle bringing back a new kind of pain and equally, a new kind of pleasure. He whines, groaning as Yunho thrusts into him again, bottoming out, hips flush against Mingi’s ass.

“Fuck,” Mingi slurs, keening at the third thrust, desperation taking shape in the high, two-toned sound, “Fuck —”

In hindsight, it’s obvious. Yunho is nuzzling his neck, licking and nipping at the sensitive skin covering Mingi’s scent glands, Yunho’s thrusts seemingly secondary to the attention he pays to Mingi’s neck. So, the bite comes first. Yunho, on the number of thrusts where Mingi can no longer count them, when Mingi’s thighs are trembling and it’s more Yunho holding him up than his own strength, starts to purr, the sound thick as honey, making Mingi’s body jolt and clench in response, making the whimpers that escape him with each rolling thrust take on a deeper note, shifting into Mingi’s chest, close to purring but not quite. Yunho noses at his neck, opening his mouth, measuring his teeth right over the scent gland on the right side of Mingi’s neck.

Mingi feels a flutter of something in the pit of his stomach. Fear, perhaps. Determination, definitely. He tilts his head slightly, baring his neck further, and Yunho makes a pleased, rumbling sound, before sinking his teeth into it.

Fuck, it hurts. Mingi sobs straight out, tearing at the sheets, unable to stop a growl escaping his lips. But Yunho keeps his hold on Mingi’s neck, teeth sinking so deep that Mingi can feel blood start to trickle down his neck and back. The only thing keeping it from becoming a proper flow of blood is Yunho’s teeth. Yunho’s next thrust makes Mingi’s body jostle, allowing Yunho’s teeth to sink deeper and Mingi goes almost delirious, at the pain, and at the... at the ecstasy of it, at the way Mingi is nothing but pain and pleasure, kept together by Yunho’s cock up his ass and his teeth burrowed in his neck. Mingi can’t help but giggle, the sound slurred and odd, pressed against the sheets as he is, and he thinks about the Saints, about the trials they faced, and if this was the way they felt the moment the pain became secondary to their purpose.

And then there’s the knot. Yunho starts to growl again, the sound muzzled against Mingi’s neck, hips working as suddenly there is something more, something thicker, kissing at Mingi’s already stretched hole. Mingi is shivering, his thighs trembling, and his cock is so heavy between his legs, dripping precum down on the sheets. Yunho is simply mounting him, snarling and purring as his bite keeps Mingi firmly in place.

“Inside me,” Mingi whimpers, arching himself down further, wondering if this is how omegas feel during their seasons, desperate and needy and begging for it, “Inside me, Yunho, God, get it —” a hard thrust that almost gets the knot inside him makes Mingi’s eyes roll back, ending the word in a rattling pant, but he slurs out the next, “— get it inside me, I want it, please, oh God —”

The next thrust is so hard it makes Mingi’s leg kick in pure reflex, and for a moment, Mingi’s world pinpoints and becomes the stretch of his hole, the pain-pleasure of being forced open even further, as though there is no limit to it. It feels so big, it feels like — it feels like nothing else, there are no likenesses Mingi can give, nothing, except that it makes him feel so fucking full.

The knot pops inside, quickly swelling into its full size once it’s actually in, locking them together. Yunho gives a snarl, finally releasing Mingi’s neck, licking and nuzzling at the blood that starts to spill from it.

Mingi’s whimpering, his eyes closed, his body pushed beyond what he thought was his limit. And beyond it, in the pit of his stomach, he’s relieved. He could do it, he could take it, he could help, he —

Yunho purrs, making soft, inquisitive sounds, nuzzling at Mingi’s cheek, nipping at his hair. Mingi closes his eyes, letting his own purr rumble from his chest, even though it feels so weird, to be so full. Yunho nips at the bloodied bite-mark, making Mingi clench down around his knot, and then, almost anticlimactic, Yunho comes. Mingi can feel it, the way Yunho’s cum gushes into him, kept from spilling out of him by the knot. Mingi’s own arousal is secondary, even though his cock hangs so heavy between his legs, and his thighs start to quiver when Yunho’s cock twitches, releasing a second wave of cum.

“So much,” Mingi whimpers, through the purring, allowing himself to lean into the feral care that Yunho shows, licking at his bleeding neck, stroking his hands down Mingi’s sides, over his thighs, gripping at the fat of his thighs, “So much,” he whimpers again, but then he giggles, groaning as Yunho’s cock releases for the third time.

There is silence, finally. A moment of stillness, of labored breathing and quiet purring. Mingi thinks he almost falls asleep, exhaustion grazing the edges of his thoughts. Which is why he barely feels it, the soft, gentle kiss pressed between his shoulder blades, the soft touch of reverent fingers over his waist.

And then, after an amount of time that Mingi can’t measure, Yunho’s breath turns heavy, his grip turns harsh, and his knot goes down enough to allow him another, shallow thrust. The sound of Yunho’s cock pushing inside when Mingi is already so full is obscene, the thrust making cum spill out from around Yunho's cock and then push it back inside.

Mingi groans, breath stuck in his throat, waiting for the fever to start again.

The second knot is about as rushed as the first, Yunho’s first knot barely goes down before it’s starting to swell again, Yunho’s purr so loud and deep Mingi thinks he can feel it in his bones from where Yunho’s teeth are in his neck.

Mingi’s eyelashes flutter as Yunho rolls his hips while locked inside, as though he is trying something, the knot pulling from the inside of where Mingi’s hole is stretched around the base of it, making Mingi’s entire body curl, from his toes all the way up to his lips, wet with spit.

“Stop that,” Mingi groans, still pushed down chest-first onto the bed, hands smearing the blood from his neck over the cotton, long since passed caring about it. He doesn’t envy the maid put on cleaning duty, once it’s all over. The thought makes him giggle again, and Yunho nips at the base of his skull, pulling on the strands of his sweat-matted black hair with his teeth, “Stop that too, you —” he stops, the word lost in a keen as Yunho moves again, pushing his cock and knot deeper into him, filling him up with another wave of cum.

Mingi kind of loses his words after that, unable to speak around the twinge of pain throughout his body, the throbbing of the wound on his neck, the heat of Yunho pushing himself deeper and the heartrending relief of how Yunho, his Yunho, is well enough to tease. His own arousal is distant, brought into highs and lows, measured between pain and pleasure. He’s not sure he’s had a release, even though his body strains as though he’s had several, but that’s not — it’s not important.

Which is why when Yunho flips him over, it takes him by surprise. Yunho grabs him by the waist again, large hands enveloping most of it, turning Mingi onto his back. Mingi groans, and hisses, a soft keen of pain escaping him as the movement jostles his body into feeling the parts that had gone numb and then an even needier keen of loss as Yunho’s cock slips out of him.

His hole clenches around nothing, and Mingi can feel how much it gapes, struggling to close after having been ruined and filled so many times over. He pushes at Yunho’s chest, because Yunho is already leaning over him again, caging Mingi underneath him.

“A moment,” Mingi breathes, even as his toes curl at the thought of having Yunho fill him up again and push his knot past Mingi’s abused rim once more. He feels almost drunk with it, with the light-headedness of pain and blood loss, and the — the sin of it all, the sin of having been held down and used, of liking it, of thinking about it and having his stomach clench in anticipation for it happening again, “Just a moment.”

Yunho’s eyes are brown, the flickering light of the oil-lamps, even turned low, makes them gleam like dark honey. His mouth is stained with Mingi’s blood, his face flushed, but —

With a low, gentle sound, Yunho leans down to nuzzle at Mingi’s cheek. His breath smells like blood, but his lips are soft, pressed over and over against the softer parts of Mingi’s face. One of Yunho’s large hands wraps against Mingi’s thigh, gripping tightly into the plushness of it, making the fat dip underneath his fingers before he pushes Mingi’s legs apart. And Mingi lets him, of course he does, won over by Yunho’s warm breath and kind, brown eyes years ago, long before they’d found themselves in this basement, curled together on top of bloodstained sheets.

Yunho pushes their foreheads together, their breath mixing as he lines himself up, watching Mingi’s face curiously the entire time. Mingi can barely keep his eyes open, fluttering shut with each little movement, whimpering softly as the fat head of Yunho’s cock noses at his hole again. Mingi wraps an arm around Yunho’s shoulder, digging his nails into the strong muscle of it, having to think about moving his leg twice before it actually obeys him, curling it around Yunho’s hip.

“Mingi,” Yunho says, his voice so low and rumbling, still carried mostly through his second set of vocal cords, that it’s almost a growl, “Mingi,” he breathes, each syllable of Mingi’s name rolling of his tongue, vibrating through his chest.

Mingi tightens his grip on Yunho’s shoulder, joy and tears getting stuck in his throat as his breath shivers out of him, not quite able to say anything back. Yunho, he thinks instead, lips twisting as he struggles to speak, Yunho, he calls, in everything but words. And then Yunho’s lips descend onto his, slotting them together, letting Mingi taste his own blood on Yunho’s tongue. The sound he makes when Yunho pushes his cock inside him again is swallowed between them, licked out of Mingi’s mouth by Yunho’s tongue.

It’s different, this time.

Mingi’s head falls back as Yunho thrusts into him, controlling the pace and the angle by virtue of his grip on Mingi’s thigh. Mingi is used, flayed open, but with Yunho’s rolling thrusts, the sharp snaps of his hips, Mingi feels his own arousal, forgotten and irregular over the last two hours, start to respond. The pain is present, laced through each twinge of pleasure, but to Mingi, it’s secondary, far less embarrassing and mortifying than the sounds. Mingi’s so full of cum he’s certain his stomach has swollen, and the sound of Yunho’s cock pushing it further inside is so loud, so lewd, that it makes Mingi’s entire body flush in equal parts lust and shame. And Yunho won’t stop looking at him, gazing intently at Mingi’s face between the sloppy, teething kisses, making it even worse.

At one particular thrust, Mingi’s entire body lights up, like fire taking hold in dry tinder, and he gasps, straight out, squealing as Yunho does it again, lighting fiery heat throughout his blood through the pain.

“Fuck,” Mingi whimpers, pushing at Yunho’s chest with one hand while gripping his shoulder tighter with the other, his legs trembling as he almost instinctively tries to get away, the feeling of pleasure so sharp it feels like a surgeons knife digging into his flesh, “Yunho,” he whimpers when Yunho just holds him down and thrusts into him again, the squelch of cum accompanying Mingi’s high-pitched whine.

And Yunho doesn’t even kiss him again, just presses nipping little bites to the corner of Mingi’s lips, over his jaw and chin, each sound Mingi makes finding air unobstructed. The hand Yunho has on Mingi’s thigh strokes up Mingi’s side, before resting over the side of Mingi’s chest, thumb stroking over the gentle flatness of Mingi’s nipple, making Mingi hiss as Yunho teases the nub of it forward.

It’s too much, it’s —

Yunho thrusts inside him, and Mingi’s head falls back, his back arching as he moans, clenching around Yunho’s cock. His own cock is heavy, leaking precum onto the curve of his swollen stomach, the base of it swelling uselessly. Mingi tries to move again, one hand flailing against the bed frame to find purchase, but Yunho growls, pressing a biting kiss to Mingi’s lips, before grabbing Mingi by his thighs again, pulling Mingi down onto his cock on his next thrust. Mingi keens and with a shiver, he goes pliant, mouth falling open as Yunho moves, each thrust sending sparks of numbing pleasure up Mingi’s spine.

“Mingi,” Yunho breathes hoarsely against Mingi’s skin, pressing his teeth against the still-bleeding mark on Mingi’s neck, aggravating it, making Mingi’s body bow underneath the exquisite, dangerous mix of pain and pleasure, “Mingi,” Yunho groans, and it sounds a bit like when Mingi has whimpered God, tongue burning with the sin of using the Lord’s name like this, but unable to stop it anyway.

Mingi is quivering, his thighs trembling as his cock jumps where it lies on his stomach, dribbling precum. He is lost in this, in all of it, in Yunho above him, in Yunho’s groaning sounds, in the begging cadence of his voice, in his own pain and pleasure, tied so exquisitely together that Mingi’s not sure he’ll ever feel either without the echo of the other ever again.

Another kiss, hot and bruising, making Mingi’s mouth taste like blood again, and when Yunho pulls back there is.. there is something there, in the hold of Yunho’s head, in the tilt of his neck. Yunho stills, his hips stuttering as he stops, and Mingi is such a mess of raw lust and sinful shame that he whines, gutturally, instinctively, petulantly.

Yunho nuzzles his cheek and Mingi can feel the muscles of his back shifting as he rolls his hips, the movement slow and deliberate, making Mingi see nothing but darkness and stars for a second before brightness becomes a friend again. This time, his skin buzzing with the gathering tightness in his cock and thighs, in the tingling pain of his back, in the pounding, bleeding bruise on his neck, Mingi realizes what Yunho wants him to do. He’s baring his neck, the strong line of it exposed. Something deep and feral inside Mingi snarls, possessive and deeply, darkly, satisfied.

For a second, glorious and feral, Mingi thinks about sinking his teeth into Yunho’s neck, and claim him the way he’s been claimed. But it is only a second, because beyond that second, beyond this room, there is reality.

Mingi bared his neck willingly, knowingly, but Yunho.. Yunho’s eyes are clearer but still feverish, his voice still cracked and unused. And past that, Yunho deserves better. Yunho is the first son of aristocrats, raised to be the finest that the gentry can offer and somehow surpassing that, becoming even better. Even now, even after having seen Yunho at his worst, Mingi can see nothing but the golden core of him, the strong, tender heart.

Yunho simply deserves better.

But Yunho is stubborn, and Mingi knows he won’t let the knot take until Mingi acquiesces. This time, Mingi lets the prayer form fully, because if God created him, then he must’ve created the sin in him too, so what use is it to hide anymore. It is a prayer for peace of mind, for bearing pain, for Yunho, for a piece of trickery that will be dishonest, but for the better, in the end.

Mingi places a hand over Yunho’s scent gland, and Yunho shivers, instinctively, stilling, his head falling to the side, allowing Mingi access. Mingi lets his teeth graze the pulsepoint on Yunho’s neck, thinking in what-ifs and maybes. But in the end, when he locks his jaw, sinking his teeth into flesh, he sinks it into his own hand, so deep his teeth grace the bone. He whimpers out his own misery, his fingers trembling as they spasm underneath the bone-breaking pain. Blood gathers and then spills, flowing freely when Mingi pulls back, running down Yunho’s chest.

Their kiss tastes like copper and sin, like deceit and lust, like love and bone-deep devotion. With a snarl, Yunho’s knot forms for the third time that night, meeting barely any resistance in Mingi’s exhausted body, slipping inside and locking tight.

And Mingi, sobbing in pain, his mouth full of his own blood and his eyes catching Yunho’s lovely brown eyes, finally comes, cock jumping as he spills into the mix of wool fat, blood and sweat that’s gathered on his skin.

Yunho collapses, his breath wheezing out him, and Mingi whimpers, body still rolling with the aftershock of his orgasm, body clenching unwillingly around Yunho’s knot, taking another thick gush of cum.

“Mingi,” Yunho breathes, his voice hoarse as though he has been screaming, but clear nonetheless.

“Yunho,” Mingi answers, trying to keep the pain and sorrow from his voice, but letting the relief and love shine through, both sides of the coin equally strong inside him, “Yunho, rest,” he swallows around the tightness in his throat, flinching as he moves his hand to stroke a gentle touch over the curve of Yunho’s cheek, “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

It takes a while for Yunho’s breath to even out, his cock still inside Mingi as he falls asleep, his last knot deflating slowly. It takes even longer for Mingi to find his rest. Sleep does not come easy, and as he skirts along the edges of it, he thinks of the morning, and the explanations he’ll give.

Yunho will understand, Mingi knows he will, he knows Yunho will look past the deception and see the logic. Maybe — maybe he’ll even be grateful, and allow Mingi to stay, in his family’s cottage, a recluse amongst his trees and books.

He’ll explain, Mingi thinks as his exhaustion overrules everything else, pulling him into a sleep that feels like some kind of death, and Yunho will understand.

It could be two minutes or two hours later when Mingi is shaken awake, a hand on his bare shoulder. The room is still, the oil lamps’ flames are burning low, the blue of the dead of night creeping into the warm, orange light. The fire that had kept them warm during the fever is barely more than coal, and if Mingi squints, he can see that there is a servant there, gently stoking it into life again around a fresh piece of wood.

Mingi shivers once, in the feeling of air over his skin, made sensitive by the blood, sweat and cum that has dried over it. With the involuntary little spasm of his body, pain lances through him, spreading from his spine to his shoulder, and once he starts shivering, he can’t seem to stop.

“Mr Song,” the servant that Mingi has barely even seen, only felt by virtue of their touch against his shoulder. She’s a beta, her scent carefully neutral, and she’s holding a handkerchief in front of her face, no doubt to try and stifle the smell of sex, blood and rut that permeates the chamber, “You have to go.”

Mingi’s entire body is trembling, his muscles starting to spasm around the pain that is consuming him in waves. He can barely hear what she’s saying, instead his face twists as he tries to find a way to vocalize his pain, but finds himself unable to as his throat seizes up against the bile that’s roiling in his stomach.

“Mr Song,” she repeats, and her voice is not without sympathy, but it carries the neutrality of someone that serves someone else than the person in front of them, “Please.”

Mingi nods jerkily, whimpering as the pain in his shoulder becomes excruciatingly present, the mark an open wound that has barely stopped bleeding, the edges of it red and bruised. He almost sways off the bed as he tries raising himself up, cradling his broken hand against his chest, only able to use one to steady himself.

He does not fall, but it is not because of the woman next to him. Instead, it’s because there’s an arm around his waist, tightening as Mingi starts to move.

There is little light, but Mingi can see Yunho clearly nonetheless, as though he is freshly attuned to him. The bite on his shoulder pulsates with something in tandem with the pain, something that will settle deeper than a scar. Yunho is sleeping, his features relaxed and soft, the curve of his cheek bunching up slightly from where he’s resting it against his forearm. Mingi’s breath stutter, the beat of his heart suddenly knocked into an uneven rhythm. He holds his breath as he reaches out, his bloodied hand starting to swell blue and purple, the imprint of his own teeth stark against the blood-starved skin, tracing his numb fingers along soft strands of Yunho’s hair, over the curve of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw.

Yunho’s eyelashes flutter.

“Mr Song,” the servant says again, and this time, there is less sympathy in her tone.

“Yes,” Mingi says, the sound squeaky and hoarse in equal measure. He untangles himself from underneath Yunho’s arm, another lance of pain keeping him from noticing the way Yunho murmurs underneath his sleep, eyebrows knotting into a frown, only stopping when the servant tucks a pillow into his arms while Mingi tries to get up on his feet.

Placing his feet against the ground makes his entire world shift, tilting underneath him as the servant takes hold of his arm, pulling him up. He stumbles forward, gasping in pain, and the only way he is kept upright is by the strong, steady hold of the servant. She takes hold of his waist, placing his arm around her shoulders, urging him forward one trembling step towards the door. Mingi feels like a colt learning to walk, the way he can barely seem to stand. He tries to look over his shoulder, back at Yunho, but finds the motion impossible to make.

“I have to explain,” Mingi says, instead. His word feels slurred, and his eyesight is blurred, making everything look like wax, as though everything would melt if he touched it, “Yunho —”

“Later,” the servant murmurs, holding him up as they leave through the iron door, “Young master can hear you out later.”

It sounds wrong, but Mingi doesn’t know why, and so he keeps silent, mostly because he has to focus in order to place one foot in front of the other. In order to get up the stairs, the servant who had stayed with the fire has to help him as well. Mingi burns with shame underneath the pain, especially when a cotton sheet is tied around his waist, to preserve some kind of modesty, and he realizes that he has been naked the entire time.

Yunho’s mother is waiting for them beyond the cellar door and when she sees them, the only hint Mingi has to the state of his appearance is the slight widening of her eyes that slips through her impeccable manners.

“Young Mingi,” she says, her tone carrying so much warmth that Mingi almost feels sick underneath it. He doesn’t know why she looks so sad, nor why her shoulders are held so straight, and everything hurts, the bite on his shoulder is burning, thrumming through his blood like the two-toned growls from Yunho, even carrying the same cadence. She takes a step forward, raising her hands, and even though one of the servant gasps my lady, don’t she simply sends them a look, and then takes Mingi’s face in her hands. She wipes some dried blood off his chin with her thumb, her round eyes in the same shade of brown as Yunho’s are warm. She glances down, towards the hand he is cradling to his chest, before looking back.

“Thank you,” she says, swallowing around it, releasing a shaky breath full of relief, “Thank you, Mingi. We will not forget this.”

“I -” he pauses, swallowing, his voice cracking, “I have to explain, please, I -”

“I’ll tell him everything he needs to know,” she says, her voice so gentle, and somehow that makes it worse, “We’ll call a doctor to visit you, and pay him from our own coffers.”

It is a kind offer. It is an offer that speaks of how little they know of what happened in the cellar, of the blood and sin having seeped into the stone. Or perhaps she does know, and she knows how little choice they had, faced with a ferality no amount of piety or manners can tame. Either option doesn’t help. Either option means Mingi is going to have to leave.

“Ma’am,” Mingi swallows, his voice hoarse around the unfamiliar honorific. He has never been one to play to such things unnecessarily, but right now, trying to push himself forward, but held back by the servant who tightens her hold on him, he tries, “Please.”

“We can not let the mark take hold,” she says, stepping back and shaking her head, “Even one-sided, it is a force to be reckoned with. This way, Yunho will be unbound, and you will —” She stops, glancing down, and when she looks up, her eyes are once again warm with empathy, “— you will do well. I know it.”

Mingi wants to protest, but his hand twinges as he shifts it, trying to shuffle his fingers around the broken bone of it. He already made his choice. He made it long before this night, the first moment he had looked upon Yunho and seen the light of him, unabashed and bright and felt that damned flutter.

Yunho was too good for him then. Yunho is too good for him now.

Mingi closes his eyes, and Yunho’s mother’s touch is gentle against his cheek as she catches the first tear with her fingers.

“Help him home, give him clothes,” she says to the servants propping him up, “And make sure to scrub his scent out of the room before Yunho wakes up.”

Mingi, breath tight in his throat, says nothing more.

CODA

My friend,

Even for you, this was an odd request, but I finally found that boy you were asking about. You were right about the city. He’s in the east part, in the brick houses by the river. He’s fairly well-known, he teaches the neighborhood children to read but keeps mostly to himself outside of that.

And before you comment: I know it has been months, but in my defense, had you told me he only had one hand, I could’ve saved quite a bit of time. So that’s on both of us.

I hope this settles the debt between us.

Seonghwa sends his regards.

Sincerely,

Captain Kim