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“My cat absolutely eviscerated your mail— I’m so unbelievably sorry,” she eeps, hiding behind a grimace. Standing there, unsure what to do with her hands but ultimately deciding to shove a box of torn paper into his arms when the silence between them grows too much and she’s stalling for more words. “I feel terrible, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even— I opened my mailbox with the key I got when I moved in, but it apparently opens yours too? I opened the wrong mailbox and I didn’t realize…”
“It’s okay,” he blurts out. A quick look down to the shoebox she’s given him, and all he can see is shredded paper, something akin to litter for a hamster. Does her cat have a vengeance against Carrefour coupons? Or was it the brochure for the new pizzeria down the street that got the animal’s attention? “Oh, that’s not a problem.”
“I thought it was all mine!” she squeaks.
She’s such a pretty girl.
He’s seen her around throughout the week, hauling in boxes from downstairs. She’s cute, pretty, even if her hair is frayed in the two bao-buns that sit at the top of her head; coupled with freckles and what looks to be a retainer making her talk with a lisp, she’s a dream. Such cute little fangs. She’s the girl who moved next door, a quiet but nervous omega, shuffling on her feet as she talks animatedly about how horrible she feels. She’s nervous. She looks nervous. She smells nervous, too, because he can smell it— smell her— smell a nervous omega attempting to right a wrong, trying to apologize in a way that won’t get her in trouble, and it just so happens that it works with him. Call it instincts, call it a helpless little crush he has on the new girl who’s moved in, call it the fact that there’s an omega in front of him nearly in tears at a mistake that she didn’t realize until it was too late… but damn it, damn it, how alpha of him, to want to console her and make sure those beading tears at her waterline don’t make it down her flushed cheeks.
So. He puts the shoebox down, and something— something strange, something about his upbringing, about his alphaness, about himself, compels him to touch her shoulder. His hand dwarfs it, dwarfs her, and the way she looks up at him through her lashes while he gives her a smile has his insides turning into jelly. “Please don’t worry. It was an accident, I’m not going to fault you for that. I never knew that our keys were the same.”
“I don’t even bother stopping him from terrorizing the mail,” she continues. “I should probably do that but he’s just— he’s a cat— he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He loves to tear paper! It’s hard to pay the bills! But he’s just a cat!”
“Exactly. And it’s not your fault. Besides,” he adds, giving the shoebox another glance. “All I got were some coupons, nothing else. You don’t need to worry.” When her shoulders start to drop, and her breath starts to even out, he gives her another smile and asks: “What’s your name? I should’ve asked sooner a few days ago. I caught you downstairs before, but I didn’t actually catch your name.”
She’d slipped on the wet floor, because she’s new and doesn’t know that the janitor forgets to put the ‘wet floor’ sign whenever he mops every other Tuesday, and he’d quite literally caught her when she’d walked too fast in order to get to the staircase. She’s light. Small. And fits perfectly in his arms, tucked up against his chest, even though she was stiff as a board in surprise.
He did not, for the life of him, spend the rest of the few days— following up to this moment— thinking about how her black hair is shiny up close and smells like coconuts, combining with the scent of her glands to make a nice, warm and soothing aura. Their bedrooms are separated by a single wall, and he doesn’t want to think about that any more than he has to.
Nerves bleed out of her posture, a small smile starting to form. “Ah… Marinette.”
Marinette? What a pretty name for a pretty girl. “Hi, Marinette.”
“Hi.” The way she bites her tongue is so endearing. “Oh. Uhm, you’re Lucas, right?”
“Luka, actually.”
“Sorry,” she eeps. “I tried reading the name and address on the envelopes after my little demon got ahold of the mail, because I saw there were membership coupons to things that I don’t have an account for… like… the gym…”
He tries not to blush when she quickly diverts her gaze to look at his arms. He drops his hand from her shoulder, feeling a little bit self conscious— it wasn’t his intention, of course, to get her approval, but it burns coals into his skin, knowing that she’s approved. Instead, he finds himself laughing out loud, a bit airy, trying to sound light and approachable. “That’s okay, too. Yeah, I’m Luka.”
“Great.” She’s stepping away, now. Hands behind her back. She makes a show of fixing her jeans, high waisted, hiding what he knows to be strong legs. “Nice to meet you, Luka.”
“Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Thank you!”
Life continues on, with a year passing and bleeding into a fresh new Winter, and they have a routine.
By now, it’s Christmas, she’s settled in as well as she can, and Luka’s learned so much about her. He’s also learned that Plagg— the paper-shredder that started it all— is very fond of him, and takes advantage of his lap when he finds himself in her apartment. Which is often. Which is every day. Anytime that he isn’t in the studio, and she’s not at the bakery, because she’s a baker, and bakes, and treats him with the sweetest brioches whenever he comes by after a workout, or a music session, or any other flimsy excuse he uses to pass by and she’s beaming from behind the counter.
Plagg sits right on top of him, every day, meowing for attention.
He’s a slim black cat, though Marinette is exasperated to know how, because he eats anything he can. Fingers. Toes. It’s hard for Luka to play his guitar without looking at his hands and think about all the claw marks. In this time period, Luka’s also learned that those who know Marinette actually call her Kitty, and that when he does the same, she blushes a pretty pink. She likes it. He can scent it. The smell of coconut and lavender follows him back into his own apartment where he falls face-first into his bedsheets, dreaming of curling around her— the fact that she’s his age, just younger, makes him feel like it’s too good to be true. What are two people in their twenties doing in the same apartment building, side by side?
He can’t read into it like this.
Ah, but the two of them have gotten closer. He thinks that they’re friends—good friends—because not a day goes by that either of them are alone in their own apartment. It’s a smooth transition. There’s space in his heart and in his living room shaped for a girl so small, so tiny, so unbelievably cute; a hole that is so wide and vacant whenever she’s not there, one that she occupies so well. She’s quick-witted. No longer nervous around him, she’s blossomed into her true personality around him; full of quips, full of sarcasm, full of ADHD ramblings that follow a butterfly trail of nonsensical, humorous conversations. They watch movies, they go to dinner, and the moment he’d introduced her to his family, she’d blended in like she’d been there her entire life. They fall asleep on the couch. She laughs when he complains about his back pain. He teases her when she can’t reach the cabinets where he keeps his cups.
Ah…
He’s falling in love harder and harder every time. It’s almost miserable, just how easy the two of them have become friends within a blink of an eye, while he wonders what it’d be like to kiss her. Kiss her, truly kiss her, and keep her in his lap for hours because he likes it when she wears low necklines, and it always gets his attention. When she talks for hours and hours, he can’t help but stare at her little fangs, and wonder what it would feel like to have them nipping all over his skin.
That’s not exactly the current thought, since she’s been sneezing uncontrollably and is attempting to stop sniffling into her sleeve, but it’s definitely one that he has on the regular.
“I’m fine,” she mumbles, eyes unfocused and nose as red as a button. Clutching hot chocolate like a saviour. “This happens.”
“This does not happen,” he snorts back. “Unless last year was an outlier. Do you have allergies?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Maybe you’re newly allergic to cinnamon.”
“I hope not. I love putting that in Christmas food.”
Her sinuses aren’t inflamed, but her glands are. He does his due diligence, pressing the pads of his fingers into her cheeks just underneath the eyes, testing for anything that could be off, checking for sinuses that aren’t doing what they should. She doesn’t look fine— looks miserable, actually— but she stays quiet. Just sniffling. Just… blinking. Plagg in between them both, curled up in a ball, purring up a storm because he has no idea what is going on. No idea that when Luka touches his owner’s skin and cheeks, fingers resting under her delicate, small chin, he feels a surge of comfort, knowing that Marinette willing leans into his hands.
He won’t read into it.
But.
“When was the last time you were sick?”
“I’m not sick.”
“You know better than this, Kitty.”
“I’m just tired,” she moans. Words slide out of her mouth like water. “I’m exhausted, I really feel… like I’m just going to drift… off if you keep petting me. I haven’t been sleeping very well.”
“Are you waking up in a cold sweat?”
“Usually, yeah.”
Hm.
“Searching for something?”
“Usually Plagg.”
“When was the last time you drank water?”
At least she has enough energy to joke around, putting her mug on the coffee table. “About five minutes ago when you gave me water, Doctor Couffaine.”
“Okay, okay. Keep awake for a little while longer,” he chuckles. “You need to shower before bed, at least.”
“Carry me there?”
“And risk slipping on tile and break both of our heads?”
“We’ll be fine. I’m not that heavy.”
“Yeah, you’re right. You’re not heavy at all.”
“It’s all your muscle that makes you think that.”
“I don’t know how to explain to you that you’re ridiculously tiny.”
“Oh, if that’s the case… I wouldn’t mind you carrying me,” she tries again. “I think… I think your hands on me would be nice.”
It clicks. Like a flash. Like a lightening bolt. Like a neuron being fired so quickly it gives him whiplash. It’s in the way that she chases his fingers, the ones that hide against the black velvet that is her hair, touching the backs of her ears and easing down towards the glands to feel the tender skin of her neck practically swollen. The sensation is almost gummy, with not all that much give, but just enough for him to register that he’s putting pressure on a squishy, sensitive area, and all she’s doing is whining pathetically enough to get his attention.
“When was the last time you went into heat?” he asks quietly.
“A few years ago?” It’s apparent that if she were more awake, she’d made one of her standard thinking faces, a blank stare as a metaphorical buffer circle loads above her head, but instead she lists back onto the couch, tiny fingers scratching Plagg’s soft fur, as Luka does the same under her chin. “They’re not regular… for me.”
“Oh.” Because she— because she’s never been with an alpha before. Oh. There’s no reason at all for him to feel some sort of smugness, knowing that she’s never been touched or maybe never wanted to. That doesn’t mean that she wants him. But… ah, but he still feels happy, still feels excited, feels pleased to know that she’s never stabilized because there isn’t an alpha in her life that has regularly kept her in check. He’d had his suspicions that there used to be a somebody, because Marinette is tight-lipped about a few things, but… “Kitty, I think you might be in heat right now.”
She stiffens. “A terrible joke?”
“An unfortunate truth.”
“A solid prank?”
“A watery reasoning behind your glands being so inflamed.” Then, he adds: “I’m not a doctor. You know how bad I am at putting bandaids on you when you rip open your skin on anything stationary. But you’ve been like this for a few days, and it’s not getting better or worse. I think you might be in heat.”
“Shoot.”
“Yeah.”
“Shoot,” she groans again. Her eyes are completely shut, dozing off as she leans into the couch and his hands and his fingers and him. “Do I smell like I’m in heat?”
She smells… well… she smells like a dream, really. “If I say yes, you’re going to cry.”
“God damn it! I just want to curl up in your lap like a loser!” She’s growling to herself, following it with a sigh. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I must be smelling so off to you right now. Meanwhile, my nose has been like this for a few days now and I found it weird, I did, because I was following your scent around like a lost puppy, but it wasn’t all that big of a deal— I just— I just thought”— a sneeze follows before she can stop it, tucking herself into her elbow so she doesn’t spit— “I just thought I was being normal.”
He has the audacity to blink. “Right. Normal.”
“I think it’s best if you go, right?” Ah, but she looks sad about it. “So that way I don’t… you know. Get stuck dealing with a love-sick Kitty.”
“I can stay, if you want.”
Even her sneezes are cute. “I can’t ask that of you.”
“You’re not asking,” he replies. “I know. But I’m the one offering.”
She’s crestfallen. “You want to help because you’re my friend.”
“I want to help because I like you. A lot.” Then, adding: “Duh. I think I’m really bad at hiding it.”
“Well,” she says, rather carefully for someone who has never been careful in her life. “That makes this easier, then, huh? I think my heat… started because I can’t stand how much I like you in these dumb Christmas sweaters you keep using all week. You look so domestic, and warm, and safe, and the fabric is straining against your biceps and I hate it.”
She’s a cuddler, though he suspected that a long time ago, because she’s Kitty, and she has a habit of nuzzling close on the couch when she thinks he’s asleep and they’ve just recently watched a scary movie that she claims to not even be nervous about.
Liar.
Anyway, who cares about that— her nose entertains the space between his neck and shoulder, purrs coming off of her in indulgent, slow waves. Her skin is as soft as he thought, as he believed, as he wanted, especially the area of her tiny sliver of a waist where he grips her tight. Close. To the skin. She’s melting into him like she’s trying to cover him up, his very own blanket, warm like a furnace. She’s in heat. It’s obvious, by the way she grips his cock, milking him for all he’s worth, a delicate sensation for someone who’s never done this before, that she’s desperate for his attention, murmuring about how she never wanted to bring up how much she craved his coddling and existence, because she felt like she was too much.
Marinette may be a handful at times, but he loves her. Surely, she knows this by now?
But she’s in heat, and it’s— it’s a lot, really. Not her. But the sensation of being with her, being close to her, staying with her is… wow. It feels right. She fits against him, just like he suspected. When his hands go around her torso, pulling her closer into his chest while he noses at her gland, she purrs in delight, laughing about how it tickles. But she’s feverish, caught shaking with chills, only abiding if he tucks them both in underneath the blanket, with him wrapped around her like a cocoon.
In this sense, he’s just as much of a virgin as she is, though they seem to be doing alright— more than alright— with how their hips meet and she gasps out in relief when his thumb finds her clit. She’s not complaining, certainly not, when he pops a knot right into her and forces her to relax— quite literally— right in his lap like she’s been babbling has been sort of a dream for her since they’d first met.
It’s hard to breathe, knowing that she’s wanted this since as long as he has.
And he’s not complaining, either, because Marinette is a vision: stained cheeks, black hair, feverish skin? He sucks bruises onto her bare skin, marking her with his teeth, wanting it to stay permanently like a tattoo. She needs it. Needs black and blue hickies on her skin because they’ll match her blue eyes and those freckles on her shoulders that are just so lickable and kissable, because she’s always looked good in blue, in these splotches against her skin that she wears so perfectly.
When she whines, he listens. When she curls her back, he watches. When she grips his shoulders, he’s right there, making those tears of frustration go away.
He was made for this.
He was made to climb into her bed— small, for a man as tall as him, made smaller when she pulls him in and tells him that if he makes fun of the giant cat body pillow she has curled up at the headboard, she’ll kick him right out. But that smile she gives him, sporting her omega fangs and little else, is teasing in the way he knows and recognizes, so he’s not afraid of doing something wrong.
After all, he’s liked her too much to let that happen.
So he makes his way into her bed. Pink sheets with cotton stuffed animals. Faux fur of calico cats, soft like Plagg himself, dot her headboard in a way that implies she has sentimental value towards each and every one, which makes sense, because she’s liked cats her whole life. It’s fitting, for a girl named Kitty, but it’s even more fitting for her when he takes off her shirt and helps her out of her ruined, sopping underwear, making her cozy into the plush behind her, that she fits right in with the decor.
She’s such a delicate dream.
He eases her onto his fingers, opening her up slowly because he knows that even during a heat, there’s no need to hurt her while trying to help out. There’s no rush. Unlike her, Luka’s a slow and steady type of guy, and he makes a show of it, taking his time in preparing her and letting her orgasm on his fingers alone, but her heat makes her pliable. More open. Two of his fingers sink into her with little preamble, just taking him in. By the time she makes it to her third orgasm, Luka can feel his rut starting to form in his sweats, and that— that’s just it, isn’t it? The moment of truth?
He asks if she’s okay with it.
She blushes like a flower.
Is it monstrous of him to like her even more?
“Just respect me when it’s over,” she tells him, every time the heat dissipates for a while, satiated with his knot, and they’re quiet. The fever leaves when he’s here, listening to her breath, splitting her open. She’s sleepy. Lethargic. She cat naps every time they finish, dozing off into a light sleep in his arms, and he watches. Sleep doesn’t show up for him. He knew that alphas barely sleep during ruts, just a haze, just wanting to keep an eye on who they’re with… but it’s different. This feels different.
He feels alive.
He can’t move, knotted up inside her, and sometimes she’ll shift and it’ll cause another orgasm. He spills inside of her. Spills more. It’s too much, it’s so much, but it’s not enough, and he hides his face in her hair to stop himself from getting more aroused.
Sometimes she’ll get up, remember that Plagg probably wants lunch or dinner, and goes to feed him, before pawing back with sleep hanging off of her in rivulets. He offers to do it for her, so she won’t be so fatigued, but she gives him a deadly glare back, daring him to get up from her— their— nest. Meanwhile, they’re not hungry. When was the last time they ate? When was the last time they did anything?
At least her nose isn’t so red anymore.
“Why do you think I wouldn’t respect you after this?”
“Because I’m”—she clamps her mouth shut, because apparently even in heat she loses some self confidence—“a lot?”
“You are not.”
Her brows furrow. “You have a job.”
“So do you.”
“We’ve been here for days because of me!”
“And I’ll stay here for years if I have to.”
“You’re saying that because of hormones.”
His face flattens in the way he knows she hates. “Kitty, you’re not this dumb.”
She pouts, bottom lip swollen with kisses and bites, her little fangs peeking out. “Just… don’t leave me forever because I scratched your back too hard, or I cried too much, got it? I’d miss you a lot. Too much. I don’t have enough ice cream in the fridge to get over the heartbreak.”
“I won’t. Ever. I already knew you had claws.” If he’s bleeding, he doesn’t feel it. Just peace. Just serenity. There’s nothing that would make him pay attention to it. “Besides, I can deal with a little pain. It’s not the first time you’ve bit me.”
As an apology, she’ll lick the bruises. He knows her tongue is soft, because she’s given him blowjobs— as thankyous, as apologies, as anything for her own benefit— until he’s swelling up in her mouth, but he still shutters when he feels little lips and a gentle tongue against the lines on his back. Her nails are square, never in points, but her orgasms are strong. She’s got a lot of strength in her legs, too, and doesn’t have any idea that when her legs lock around him, forcing him to knot inside of her and empty into her cunt— which was made for him— she’s squeezing him until it hurts.
God, even in his own rut, she opens up with no effort at all. He feels gross— too much— but she claws at his chest or at the sheets, curling her spine in affection, telling him how much she loves it. How she loves how he grabs her, pulls at her hips and squeezes until she’s bruised, how he circles her clit with the pads of his fingers and has her orgasming right on his dick. He fits inside of her. No idea how, though, because he’ll rut against her belly and the two of them will comment about how big he is.
He fucks her open like a sleeve, plays with her budding clit until she’s relaxed and a puddle, and keeps her still. It’s obscene how he lives inside of her for so long. His, his, his, and it quiets that loud part of his brain that is full of possessive, alpha traits.
His little omega.
“I want to keep you here forever,” he admits, feeling shameful.
“Mmmm. I would love that.” That smile of hers is honest.
But the heat doesn’t end up lasting for that long. It’s true that it’s felt like forever, existing in her world and becoming part of her, but they check their phones and it’s been three days. Three days. She wakes up sore, stiff, but still clawing at him to stay and sleep with her. It’s at this point where he is exhausted, is wishing for bed— the bedsheets are gross, messy, but that’s something they can worry about after sleep. Pockets of fatigue find him until he’s crashing through the night; though she’s the one who’s slept the most, even if so little, she has enough strength to bring them food.
There are yogurt cups in the fridge.
The banana-flavoured ones that she likes. They’re disgusting, a topic of many heated debates between the two of them, but it’s… it’s something, and he swallows what he can before crashing again, right on the cusp of her saying that she’ll find some protein shakes for when he wakes up again. Fruits make it onto the nightstand, because it’s the only thing Plagg can’t stand to eat so he never bothers to try, and Marinette hand feeds him, telling him what a good job he’s done, how well he’s taken care of her. When he’s awake, she’s there, petting his face with a thumb and smiling, giving him kisses on the forehead. She plays with his ears, even though he tells her he’s shy, and doesn’t flinch when he touches the bruises on her neck with a grazing finger.
“It’s Christmas Eve.” She whispers.
Jesus. “Already?”
“At least we won’t miss Christmas?” Her nose scrunches, indicating that she’s about to throw out a joke. “I already got my present.”
“I don’t have the strength to even say how bad that one was.”
“Oh, perfect.” Her little fangs shine so brightly when she smiles. “I’ve got you exactly where I want you, then. You can’t escape my jokes if you’re so tired.”
“Pass.”
“Christmas always makes me santa-mental, so this is the perfect time for me to tell you how much I care about you.”
“This is horrible, actually.” He gives her a kiss before she talks again. “Come sleep. I’m tired and you’re warm. We can… figure out everything else after a nap. You can throw out all the puns you want when I wake up again.”
“Oh, deal,” she says with a giggle. “I’m already asleep as we speak, I’m so excited!”