average cod enjoyer

Your mind, reputed to be quite empty and flowery, has spent the better part of this year thinking about your knight. Your ʿuqabi. He is, of course, not yours, but your heart feels glad to think of him as such.

Father purchased his services before the cold came, and the man has seemed to fill every wine-red arch of the keep since then. He speaks freely with his fellow knights; to your ear, it is a stiff and rigid language, but you enjoy watching his mouth move.

As the middle daughter of a gerad, you are all too acquainted with the notion that your father and your sisters consume most of the oxygen in any given space. As gerad, your father is a rare figure to glimpse, but no less imposing for his absence. His absences have grown longer once your mother passed several years ago, as you became a woman.

The eldest sister, Yodit, is betrothed, her wedding ceremony scheduled in one month's time. The preparatory festivities have allowed you to roam the keep, largely unattended and unnoticed.

Eleni, your younger sister, is kept busy as she is still a child. Although you enjoy her companionship at times, she would spend a whole evening painting pictures with her words instead of letting a room breathe.

Your knight has a strange name, Ser Garricke. Your tongue practices the sounds in the privacy of your bed after nightfall.

He hails from England, and you heard tale that he travelled with his fellow knights through Egypt. The sights he must have seen! The women and girls he must have dazzled! He's terribly grand in stature, a mountain to your pebble, and your body is overcome with shivers when you are in close proximity to him.

He is forbidden to speak to you. That fact is only a spark to the flame in your heart. If his tea-amber eyes should fall upon your person as you walk the halls, he will quickly evade them. It does not remove the sensation that he is still, somehow, watching you.

One of many nights of festivities takes the keep by storm, and you are filled with gratitude that all attendees are focused on Yodit. When permitted to move freely about the room, you slip through the clusters of brightly layered fabrics and scents of honoured guests, wishing to remain unseen.

Your ʿuqabi, your protector, is standing guard under a distant archway, his large hand on the hilt of his blade. You shiver as you approach, but you approach nonetheless.

He is alone and you are alone, and he is still forbidden to speak to you.

"Ser Garricke," you greet. You do not speak to him, and he has never heard you address him as such, your tongue rounding out the sharp shapes in your mouth.

His eyes widen, then flicker down to your slippered feet.

"It is the eve of my sister's ceremony," you state. He would like you to please walk away, you can read it as if the script is sewn into his uniform. He will never say it.

You are your father's daughter and use this as your advantage.

"I do not feel safe walking back to my quarters unescorted. My maids are flush with drink and honouring our guests. Ser Garricke, I ask that you escort me."

He shifts side to side, the discomfort clear as the night's stars tonight. He should not leave his post, but he is at the mercy of the gerad, which extends to the daughters. You hold your breath, watching these conclusions flourish on his beautiful face, and then he is stepping out of his stance.

"Woizero," he says softly, their title for you and your sisters.

Escorting you back through the private halls, emptied now, to your quarters.

"Will you be able to have a drink in honour of Yodit this eve, Ser Garricke?" You ask softly. There is a playful teasing tone to your voice when you ask.

He must be on his own battlefield presently: he is forbidden to speak to you, but is it ruder to ignore a directly addressed question by a gerad's daughter?

"I will not," he finally says, firmly. That he means to put an end to any line of inquiries.

You offer a sweet hmm sound to this. When you reach the door to your quarters, his body pivots away.

"Ser Garricke?"

His body stills.

"With the volume of drink my father has offered his guests this eve, I should suspect that any manner of wayward guests might wander the halls of our keep. Perhaps someone who holds less chivalrous and virtuous intents in his heart? There would be no way of knowing if such a person could have stolen into my quarters without a servant's eyes catching them."

You point at the door sweetly.

His expression is of determination, soured by something in particular, although you know not what it could be. He opens the door, hand on hilt.

"Clear."

"And of my secondary quarters, just there?" Deeper in.

He hesitates, but moves further inward, and this is the first time that you have witnessed his body be held with such uncertainty. It is remarkable to see.

As he proceeds deeper and inspects your secondary room, largely for prayer and wardrobes, you shut the door silently behind you.

He emerges, and notices his exit has been closed immediately.

"Woizero—"

"Ser Garricke, how long have your eyes found me since you arrived? How long have your watchful eyes noticed mine falling upon yours?"

He looks pained, so you offer him relief by going to him quickly, soft-footed. "Please alleviate our mutual suffering. An honourable man of your title would grant such a reprieve to allow us to move on?"

As if he is quoting scripture, he extends the expected response. "Woizero, please. I ask that I take my leave."

"Ser Garricke, you are under my father's roof. In my quarters — where Yodit and my father do not supersede me — I hold authority over you. I do not give you leave."

Desperation in his honeyed eyes. No richer, sweeter wine.

You approach him and he is as rigid as a statue in the courtyard. You ply him with a benevolent smile, and press your hand firmly against the bulge under his layered dress. Your heart is feverent and fast-beating when you touch him; the layers are thick, difficult to make out what you seek to the detail you crave, but it is enough for now.

His expression turns tortured, agonized, under your hand's explorations.

"Woi—"

"You know my name, Ser Garricke. I demand you use it."

You go up on your toes, taking the layers around his chest in hand, and pull him down to your face. He is breathing as heavily as a horse might. He is pretending he did not grow significantly while your hand cupped his length. You bury your face into the exposed slope of his neck to breathe in his smell. He is spiced and warm, smoke and oil for his blade all in one long curling scent.

He is so still.

You turn your face slightly so your mouths are neighbours. "Please, Ser Garricke. Ease us."

You think he will refuse, but then his eyes close, dark and tender, and then his mouth seeks yours. Within moments, the time it takes to inhale, he is exhaling deeply and loudly into your open mouth, and your insides feel as though they are boiling. Encouraged, you draw your hand up and down his length, listening to him heave throatily.

He says your name, and you squeeze him.

Ser Garrick's whole body is wracked in shudders, and he lifts his hands to clasp your shoulders, tighter — almost painful; delicious — than you ever expect him to be. It is as if a bird of prey has landed on the tops of your shoulders, its pincers grasping your flesh.

He stares at you, although his sight seems vacant, as though drawn into another realm altogether.

"Ser Garricke, that was lovely. I grant you leave. Perhaps I shall need an escort tomorrow eve. I expect that it shall be a long night and I will have my share of drink."

He stares as though he has been grievously injured. Nods dumbly, and wanders sloppily outside your doorway. He turns and continues staring until you close your door in his face.

"Goodnight, Ser Garricke," you smile kindly.

In the last week, you’ve managed to carve out some sort of existence in the house. There are bookshelves in what you assume is an office, and you’ve found titles there that help occupy your time. Sometimes you even sit on the couch in the living room, eager to escape the same four familiar walls of the bedroom. You come out for meals too, since no one has brought food to your door again, breathing through your mouth as you try to block out their scents.

It doesn’t work.

They’re everywhere.

Their scents, their bodies, even their clothes. You find shirts shoved in couch cushions, jumpers hanging over the back of kitchen chairs or the stair railings. They’re in the living room in the evenings, in the kitchen in the morning, at the table for dinner. One of them is always at breakfast, talking to you even if you don’t respond, keeping you apprised of the day.

“Johnny’s out until the afternoon, chasin’ down a lead. I’ll be here if you need something.”

“Gonna go out for groceries. D’ye need anything?”

“Simon’s on a perimeter walk. Dinnae want to scare ye, but we thought we heard something in the woods last night.”

It does scare you though. The looming threat, the fact that someone wants to kill you, is always in the back of your minding, haunting you like a bad dream. You’re afraid to step foot outside the front door, and whenever you hear them talking in low voices that abruptly stop once you enter the room, you fear the worst. They swear, again and again, that you’re safe, but the worry never goes away, it just lurks in the back of your mind, reminding you why you’re here, why you’re trapped in this house with your mates, a logical, sensible thing turned insane as you balance rational thought with instinct. Your safety is an ever changing thing, crossing lines in your head, trying to do backflips to figure out who you need protecting from.

The outside threat, or them.

Your pills aren’t working.

It’s the fourth morning in a row where you’ve swallowed your usual dosage, one suppressant, one blocker, one painkiller… and felt nothing.

No relief. No numbness.

Nothing, except for the pounding behind your eyes, the nausea crawling up the back of your throat, the never ending muscle cramps.

It’s taking a toll.

“Dove?” Johnny’s voice cuts through the static between your ears, the impossible tug of war you’re playing with yourself. They should be working. Is it because you’re too close to your alphas? Are they being overpowered? Is your body working against them, making you sicker?

Simon says your name, but you ignore him.

Is it even possible? Could their proximity override the effects of your medication? Did the doctor ever say anything about that?

A hand touches your face. It snaps you back to reality and you jerk away, shocked.

Your reaction doesn’t deter Johnny though, whose fingers are brushing across your brow.

“Ye’re warm, sweetheart. Ye feelin’ alright?” You nod, but don’t say anything, tongue heavy like wet cement in your mouth. Johnny looks down at your breakfast plate and frowns. “Ye barely ate.”

“Not hungry.” You croak. You lean away from him. He’s too close, and the urge to crawl into his arms and press your nose to his neck is overwhelming. You think it could help you, he could help you, be a balm, soothe your pain, take it away and-

Stop.

You shoot to your feet. The movement is too swift, too sudden and you sway, your lack of balance automatically moving Johnny forward, his hands on your arms, holding you steady. “Whoa, easy. Ye alright? Do ye need to lay down?”

“I don’t know.” You look away, trying to hide from their gazes, Johnny’s bright and concerned, Simon’s dark and focused. Two walls closing in on you, squeezing you from both sides.

“Maybe ye should go back to bed, try to get some sleep. Or do ye want to lay on the couch?” You shake your head.

“No, no… I’ll go back to bed. I’m probably just tired.” An obvious lie, but you can’t admit to them how badly you’re hurting. Your pride won’t allow it.

“Alright…” Johnny says as his hand slowly moves from just above your elbow to your back. “Let’s go get ye comfortable.” You stiffen, try to pull away but his touch stays firm, grounded at the base of your spine like an anchor, steering you towards the stairs.

You look over your shoulder before taking the first one. You’re not sure why, something pulls you, some sort of gravity, your eyes finding Johnny’s, and then Simon’s behind him. A foul yearning ricochets through your soul, your body, a desire unlike anything you’ve ever felt spreading through your blood.

An infection.

They made you sick.

They’re making you sick, still. Somehow.

Buried deep, the want burns, begs you to lean in, to give up, to give yourself over. To fall into their mercy and their attempts to soothe you, to let them have you. It takes considerable effort to fight it. To gnash your teeth together and refuse to let it out.

You hold your breath all the way up the stairs, letting the fire grow in your lungs until you reach your bedroom, head swimming as you collapse into the mattress. You should tell him to leave, but you can’t. The effort would be too much.

“Jus’ rest.” Johnny murmurs, back of his hand pressing to your forehead again as he brings your blankets up to your chin. “I’ll check on ye in a bit.” You scowl.

“I’m fine. Just tired.” You bite out before rolling onto your side, staring straight ahead at the wall. He sighs as he stands, shakes his head.

“If ye say so.”

You’re full of restless energy when you wake up.

It’s after sunset, the only light in your room coming from the small lamp that’s on your bedside table, hazy yellow light spilling out from behind the shade.

You feel a bit better, more clear headed, but there’s this… unsteadiness under your skin, something volatile and turbulent trying to get out. Your chest feels too tight, your hands are trembling.

Anxiety, you think. Has to be. You’re not immune to it, have plenty of experience with stomach twisting worry, though it’s never felt like this. It’s a new manifestation, a new way of your body worrying, fixating.

The blankets you’re hidden under are too heavy now, constricting, and you sit up, glancing around, looking for something that may have triggered your discomfort.

There’s nothing, except for the empty bedroom.

The bedroom that’s too large, too open.

It’s problem needing to be fixed, and you know what to do.

You pull the mountain of pillows apart, stacking them in misshapen rows around the edge of the bed, effectively creating a wall between you and the door. All the blankets come next, the extra ones, the weighted one, folded and then unfolded, arranged so each hem is ready to be pulled up over your face at any time to hide you from the world. You reorganize too many times, unable to stop yourself from pulling them around the center of the bed, bundling them up into cozy little groups, ready to be laid in, or on, however you want. You rifle through your duffel, looking for more clothes, comfy pants and shirts, their cotton lengths or fleece insides bringing you a tiny bit of peace as you shove them between edges. The bed is smaller now, and you’re enclosed like a castle sitting inside formidable walls. Tucked away. Safe.

But it still doesn’t feel right.

That feeling in your body, the one stretching and straining in your bones, twisting you from the inside out, hasn’t gone away.

You eye the lamp.

It’s too high, you decide. Too tall. It needs to be on the ground, and you place on the carpet at the corner of your bed, just next to the table so the warm yellow glow is somewhat muted.

Better, but still not right.

Maybe it’s the scent. Everything smells like clean laundry, all the blankets and pillows bearing the same lavender, freshly washed smell, the one that you get from the expensive detergent.

Nothing smells like you except for your clothes.

You grab at a blanket and work the edge of it over your wrists, your neck, your face, doing the same over and over with the others. You rub your face on all the pillows, breathing them in as deep as you can, trying to figure out if the contact is making a difference, or if it’s a fruitless endeavor.

It should work.

It should.

You look around. Up. Down. Eyes dragging from each corner to the next, looking for an offender. A reason.

The closet catches your eye.

Maybe it’s too big, you wonder. Maybe the room is too large, too much. Overwhelming.

You crawl off the mattress on hands and knees, shaking hands reaching for the closet door.

It’s dark in here. Nearly empty, but you can fix that. Easily.

You drag everything you’ve assembled on the bed to the floor, pulling it inside the closet piece by piece, lining the walls with pillows, arranging the blankets so they’re perfect for burrowing, snuggling.

Still not completely right, but better. Something is still off, but this is safer, darker. Everything you need.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been buried in the mountain of your own creation when the bedroom door opens.

Could be hours. Could be minutes. Time is a little blurry.

Everything is a little blurry, if you’re honest.

The pounding in your head has returned, a small headache that grew between your temples until it was beating like a drum, forcing your eyes closed, pushing you deeper into your pile of softness. It soothes you somehow, makes things feel not as terrible.

You stay there, curled up, when the door creaks. When there’s a silent pause, and then footsteps, and you don’t move when the closet is opened, the small amount of light at the back of the alpha causing you to wince.

Simon.

Sea salt and leather floods the space, and you realize with dread it’s a part of what you’ve been missing, that itchy, anxious feeling under your skin partially calming as steps closer.

His knees crack as he crouches, lowers himself in front of you, without a word. The silence settles like a tightrope, too dangerous for you to walk, to speak. You watch him inspect you, the closet, the blankets and pillows, watch the calculation unfold in real time.

“This is nice,” he murmurs, running a hand over some of the blankets, “bit small for your nest though.” The horror is immediate. Is that what this is? Is that what you’ve done? It has all the markings of nesting, all the telltale signs, but for some reason, you can't see it. You've nested before, but it's never felt like this. 

No. You’re not nesting. You just needed to get comfortable. The room was too big, too open to them.

“It’s not a nest.” You growl, instinctively pulling a blanket up to your neck. “I was just… I needed to get out of bed.” He cocks his head.

“It’s not? Sure looks like one to me.” Dismay burns in your blood, and your scent turns sour. Distressed. “It’s okay,” he soothes immediately, “you did good, dove. It’s a good nest.” He’s speaking to your biology, your hindbrain, and your omega preens, the instinct inside of you lighting up at the praise. It’s like a knife in your heart, this betrayal of your sense, and the horror only grows as you start to purr, the light vibration coming from beneath your ribs earning you a small smile from your alpha.

Stop.

Stopstopstopstop please stop-

The purring gets louder. Your stomach tosses, bile burning in the back of your throat, but you can’t stop it. You’re paralyzed, immobile, two factions fighting for control, and you can’t do anything but lay there as his hand comes to rest on your ankle, thumb pressing in, down, working against you in a slow circle. “Such a good omega.”

That snaps you out of it.

The praising of your designation is always something that has disgusted you. It’s dehumanizing, reduces you to a role, a biological factor and nothing more. An omega is the same as any omega, when it comes down to it. All driven by need, by instinct, preening and purring and desperate for knots and bites. Animals done to their bones. 

You won't let that become who you are. You can't. 

You kick his hand away and scoot back, deeper into the corner. The purring and pride has vanished, and in its place is a black rooted, snarled mess of fear and anger and pain. There’s a moment where you think he’s going to tighten his grip and hold on, but it doesn’t last. He stands instead, looks down as he towers over you.

“Dinner’s ready.” You shake your head.

“I’m not hungry.” It’s not true. You woke up with an appetite, and even with this situation, this confusion, the anxiety, the pain, everything, it’s still there.

“You need to eat.” You’re about to refuse again, but his eyes narrow. “Do you need me to bring you downstairs myself?” He will, you know it. You don’t doubt he will drag you out of this closet and down the stairs.

“N-no.” You hate the stammer, the proof in it. How it exposes you, shows how scared you are, how unsure. How this entire situation has changed you, took your life and dumped it upside down.

“C’mon then.” He extends his hand, and the part of you that’s growing out of control tries to take it. Your arm twitches, moves like it’s being played by a puppeteer. It’s only once your fingertips almost brush his that you yank back with a scowl. He chuckles. “Suit yourself.” He’s not leaving, not until you’re out of the closet, and you know that. He could force you, bark at you, drag you out. He’s got you pinned to the ropes, no choice but to do as he says, so you reluctantly crawl forward on your hands and knees, unsteady as you start to stand from being curled up all day.

You give the closet one last look before you close the bedroom door, its dark mouth beckoning you, waiting patiently.