♡.⋆˚. ݁𓃹 ݁.˚⋆.♡

patient. he needs to be patient. he has three thousand years of patience.

the patience is wearing thin.

and then you get hurt.

he feels it before he sees it. a spike in the ambient frequency of level 4. your frequency, hot and bright and suddenly wrong. jagged. the clean hum of your power stuttering like a light about to blow.

he moves. fast. faster than he's moved in centuries, tearing through level transitions with a force that peels the walls behind him.

he finds you in a wide room with cracked ceiling tiles and two howlers circling your body. you're on your feet, barely, your human shape shredded and flickering. black blood (yours, not theirs) is pooling beneath you, dripping from a wound in your side where one of them caught you with a claw.

three wanderers are huddled behind you. you're shielding them. of course you're shielding them. injured and outnumbered and still putting your failing body between fragile humans and the things trying to eat them.

one of the howlers lunges. you catch it mid-air, your real teeth tearing through its shoulder, but the second one hits you from behind and you go down. your scream is layered in frequencies that crack the ceiling tiles above you and the sound, the sound of you in pain, reaches him at the doorway, and something inside him snaps so completely the human suit tears apart into ribbons.

the face dissolves. the borrowed skin, the careful muscles, the crooked grin, all of it shedding off him in strips as his true form erupts through the seams. vast and dark and jagged and furious. old fury. the kind that predates the concept of anger. the kind that lives in the marrow of a thing that has never, in three thousand years, felt protective of another living creature. white-hot, all-consuming, murderous rage.

he hits the first howler so hard it separates into two pieces against the far wall.

the second one wheels on him, snarling, and it's bigger than him. not stronger but bigger, all limbs and teeth and frantic desperate violence, and the fight is real. a genuine challenge. the howler catches his flank with a claw that tears through his true form, and the pain is exquisite but he doesn't slow down. he drives the thing into the floor with the weight of his full power, and it screams, thrashing, its jaws snapping at the place where his throat would be if he had one in this shape.

and then you're there. at his side. snarling, clicking that rapid threat-rattle, your human shape barely clinging to your frame. you latch onto the howler's back with your real teeth and rip. a long strip of the thing's hide tearing free in your jaws. the howler screams again, twisting, trying to reach you, and the momentary distraction is enough.

he pins the thing flat and tears through its core and the howler comes apart beneath him in a shower of dark matter and dying sound.

silence. the fight took less than a minute. the room is wrecked, ceiling half-collapsed, the floor slick with black.

the wanderers are gone. fled during the chaos. smart.

you're on the floor.

he turns and finds you curled on the cracked tile, shivering. your human shape is in pieces, flickering in and out, your true form bleeding through at the edges, too weak to hold the mask. the wound in your side is leaking bright, hot frequency into the air, your power guttering like a candle in wind.

you're spent. burned through your reserves fighting two howlers except you're young, your power is still growing, and you burned too bright too fast and now the tank is empty.

he approaches slowly. his true form folding down, condensing, the vast dark edges pulling in until he's manageable. still not human. he doesn't have the energy to rebuild the suit right now and doesn't care to. he moves close. crouches beside you. extends something that could be a hand if hands had too many joints and wraps it around you, careful, gathering your shaking form against his chest.

you flinch. a weak snarl vibrates through your body, but the teeth behind it have no force. you're trembling. the clicking in your throat has gone thin and rapid. not threat now. pain. fear. the sound of something young and hurt that doesn't know how to ask for help.

he lifts you. holds you against his cooling form and stands. you weigh nothing to him. you weigh everything to him.

backrooms bend around him and the corridors shorten, the exits realigning and he carries you home.

the nest is new. he built it after the bite. after the decision. after the word mine settled into his frequency and stayed. soft walls. low warm light. piled blankets and a temperature he's adjusted to run warmer than his default because you run hot.

he built it for two, and he laid the foundations thinking about you, imagining your scent soaking into the fabric, imagining your warmth pressed into the space beside his. a home. for a mate he hadn't claimed yet. presumptuous. he didn't care then. doesn't care now.

he lays you down in the centre of it. you curl into the warmth and a small sound leaves your throat, involuntary and exhausted, the hum of a creature recognising comfort even through pain. he starts rebuilding the human suit. pulling the face back together piece by piece. sandy hair. blue eyes. lean frame. it takes longer than usual. the fight drained him too. but he wants the human shape for this. wants hands that can hold you gently. a mouth that can press against your skin without tearing it.

the suit settles. he lies down beside you in the nest. presses close. his borrowed chest against your shaking back, his arm curving around your waist, and he clicks.

not the want-click. not the mating trill. a different frequency. older, softer. the sound an entity makes for injured young. he didn't know he knew it. didn't know it was in his repertoire. but it pours out of him, this low rhythmic clicking interspersed with soft chirring coos, pressed against the back of your neck. safe. here. rest. safe. i'm here. nothing will touch you.

you're not sleeping. entities don't sleep. but your body enters a stasis. a deep restorative stillness that draws the remaining power inward, concentrating it around the wound, beginning the slow work of rebuilding. your frequency dims to a whisper. your human shape stabilises into a thin, translucent hold.

so young. burning so bright and now so dim. he watches the light of you flicker and gutter and something in his chest (a feeling he didn't know he had, a feeling that has no business existing in the oldest predator alive) aches.

he clicks. coos. his borrowed nose nudging against your jaw. his mouth pressing against the skin behind your ear, making soothing sounds that vibrate through your skull and into the stasis.

he pulls the blankets tighter around you. adjusts the temperature of the nest warmer. checks the wound. it's knitting, slowly, the torn edges drawing together. good. you're healing. you're going to be fine. you're going to be fine because he will personally tear apart anything in this place that tries to hurt you again, starting with himself if necessary.

he's fussing. he's aware he's fussing. he doesn't stop. his hand smoothing your hair back from your face. his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. running his thumb over your brow the way he's seen wanderers do for each other.

tender, clumsy gestures copied from the creatures you love, repurposed for you.

and then, slowly, gradually, in a way that makes him itch, you curl into him.

your body turning toward his. your face pressing into the hollow of his throat. your arms winding around his torso and holding on. soft, needy sounds leaving your throat. the low keening hum of a creature in pain recognising warmth, recognising safety, letting itself be held for the first time.

your clicking has changed register. gone slow and rhythmic. a comfort-frequency. a sound you've never made for him. a sound you've never made for anyone.

he wraps both arms around you and pulls you flush against his chest and tucks his chin over your head and closes his eyes. the purr starts. low and deep and steady, rolling through both your bodies. your clicking syncs to it. two frequencies finding each other in the dark and locking in. harmonising.

he holds you while you heal. doesn't move. doesn't shift. barely breathes. his nose pressed into your hair, filling his lungs with your scent, and you're clutching him in your half-aware state, your fingers curled in the fabric of his borrowed shirt, your face buried in his throat where the scar from your teeth sits raised and permanent. you nuzzle the scar in your stasis. rub your cheek against the ridge of it. scent-marking the wound you made.

his eyes sting. he didn't know the suit could do that.

hours pass. your frequency brightens. the wound knits. your human shape solidifies and the translucence fades and your grip on his shirt tightens and he feels the moment consciousness returns because your whole body goes rigid.

one second you're soft and clinging and making comfort sounds against his throat. the next you're a coiled spring. you tense. process. assess. and before he can speak you've flipped your weight, thrown a leg over his hips, and straddled him.

your hands close around his throat. tight. your eyes blazing. your teeth, the real ones, bared behind lips that have forgotten how to be human.

he looks up at you. your hair wild. your eyes burning. your fingers digging into the false skin of his neck with a pressure that would crush a human windpipe. pinned beneath you, his hands open at his sides, his expression calm and warm and infuriatingly amused.

he chuckles. a low, fond, rolling sound. "unruly."

"where am I?" your voice is hard, layered in threat-harmonics that make the nest blankets vibrate.

"our nest."

the word our hits you like a slap. your snarl peels back further, inhuman teeth fully extended, clicking rapid and sharp. "your nest. where are the wanderers? what did you—"

"they ran. they're fine. and it's our nest." his hands come up, slowly, carefully, and settle on your hips. his thumbs tracing circles through the fabric. "I built it for two."

you snarl down at him. every line of your body screaming threat, your hands clenching his throat, your true form pressing against the edges of the human shape.

he chuckles again. his head tilting back against the blankets. his eyes tracing your face with open, greedy admiration. "you're so pretty when you're angry. you know that? all teeth and clicking. you almost died tonight and the first thing you do is try to strangle me." his thumbs press into the curve of your hips. "I like you so much."

"let me go—"

but you're not leaving. your hands are on his throat and your thighs are clenched around his waist and you're growling but the growl has a tremor in it, something shaky and unsteady underneath the fury, because you remember.

you remember the stasis. you remember his clicking, his cooing, the soothing sounds pressed into the back of your neck. you remember curling into him. nuzzling his scar. making that sound, that soft keening comfort-sound, that you've never made for anyone.

"you held me," you say accusingly. horrified.

his mouth twitches. "you held me back."

and the truth of it silences you for a beat. your grip on his throat loosens. your eyes flicker.

he moves. fast. his hands leave your hips and fold around your wrists and he draws them away from his throat and rolls you, tucking you into the blankets, curling his body around yours with a strength that isn't aggressive but is older, absolute.

you snarl and snap your teeth at his jaw and he lets you, lets the bite graze his chin, and wraps you tighter.

"you're not at full power." murmured into your hair. his arm banded across your waist, holding you flush against his chest. "you burned through your reserves fighting two howlers by yourself, which, by the way, was incredibly stupid and incredibly brave, and we'll discuss it later. right now you're running at half capacity. you're spent. and if you keep struggling you're going to put yourself under again, and to avoid that, i'll have to pin you properly and neither of us will enjoy that."

you snarl.

"okay, i'd enjoy it."

you bite his collarbone. through the shirt. he hisses a breath and his arm tightens and a clicking trill rolls through his chest. the want-sound, involuntary, because your teeth are on him and his body doesn't distinguish between violence and foreplay where you're concerned.

but the bite is gentle. that's the thing that makes his breathing stutter.

you bit down and held but you're not tearing. you're pressing your teeth into the meat of his shoulder and holding. your jaw locked, your eyes closed. growling. the growl vibrating through his collarbone and into his chest. and then your body softens, fractionally, grudgingly, and you're leaning into him. your face buried in his throat. your legs tangling with his. the growl thinning into a low, continuous rumble that's closer to purring than either of you would admit.

he sighs, long and slow and aching. pulls you closer. his hand cradling the back of your skull. his nose in your hair, breathing you in.

"there you go," he whispers. "easy."

you growl louder in protest. your hips grind against his. friction and warmth and the unmistakable heat of arousal bleeding through both borrowed skins. his jaw clenches, his arm tightening around your waist.

you're doing it again. the fighting-while-pressing-closer thing. snarling at him while rubbing against him. biting his shoulder while tangling your legs through his. every sound you make says enemy and every movement you make says closer.

two predators wrapped around each other in a nest built for mating, grinding together in borrowed bodies, clicking and purring and scenting each other's throats while pretending this is still a fight. his borrowed cock is hard against your hip and your body is hot and damp where you press against his thigh and neither of you is acknowledging it.

he runs his nose along your jaw. you tilt your head. involuntary. giving him access to your throat and then catching yourself and jerking back. he clicks softly, soothingly, nuzzling into the space you offered for half a second.

"you're healing faster like this," he murmurs against your jaw. "nesting and contact speeds the recovery. your frequency syncs to mine and the resonance compounds and you rebuild faster." a pause. the grin pressed against your skin. "that's why you should stay. it's purely medical."

"you're full of shit." muffled against his collarbone where your face is buried.

"i'm full of concern for your wellbeing," he says lightly.

"you're full of shit and I can feel your cock against my hip."

he hums, grinning. "that's also concern."

you bite his shoulder again. harder this time. he groans. the clicking in his throat becomes ragged and he rolls his hips against yours before he can stop himself, and the friction pulls a sound from you. a high, sharp, hungry sound that you swallow immediately but too late because he heard it. he always hears it.

"stubborn thing," he breathes fondly. "so stubborn. snarling at the one who carried you home and built you a nest and held you for six hours while you healed."

you chew on his jaw. "I didn't ask for any of that."

"you nuzzled my scar in your sleep."

silence. your clicking goes rapid and embarrassed.

"I was unconscious."

"you were in stasis. entities don't lose awareness in stasis. you knew exactly where you were and you chose to stay."

more silence. your face presses harder into his throat. hiding. your fingers curl into his shirt, holding on.

he runs his hand down your spine slowly, tracing each vertebra through the borrowed skin. you arch into the touch despite yourself, your body chasing his hand, and a low whimper escapes before you can choke it.

"stay," he says quietly now, the cockiness thinning into something bare. "stay and heal. let me take care of you."

"I don't need—"

"I know you don't need it. i'm not asking if you need it." his hand cups the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the knob of your spine. "i'm asking if you'll let me."

you're quiet. your breathing is unsteady, hips still pressed against his thigh and the heat between you hasn't cooled. you're trembling from the effort of wanting and fighting the wanting for some reason he doesn't yet know at the same time.

"you can't keep me here," you say, smaller now.

"i'm not keeping you. the exits are open. you can leave whenever you want."

and you both know you're not leaving. not yet. not with his scent in your lungs and his warmth around you and your wound still knitting. your body syncing to his frequency with every breath.

you squirm, testing his hold. his arm tightens. you squirm harder, growling, and he sighs, rolling you onto your stomach in one smooth motion. his weight settles over your back, hips pressing you flat into the blankets, pinning you with his body. his chest against your shoulder blades. his mouth at your ear.

"stay." firm. warm. the cocky edge creeping back in. "stay and heal. or—" his hips press down and the hard length of him grinds against the curve of your ass through the borrowed clothes and your breath catches. your fingers claw the blankets. "or I mount you right now, and I should warn you..." his lips brush the shell of your ear, his purr rolling through your spine. "the mating cycle, once it starts, is not going to be gentle. and it's not going to be short. you'll be under me for days. so if you'd prefer to heal first—" a kiss behind your ear, soft and tender. "i'd recommend staying still."

you go still, flat on your stomach, his weight on your back. his mouth brushes your ear. his hard cock presses against you through layers of borrowed fabric. and the sound you make, low and grinding and frustrated, is the sound of a creature that wants very badly to call his bluff and is just wise enough not to.

"fine." gritted out, your face pressed into the blankets. "fine. i'll stay."

"good girl."

you snarl. he grins against your neck. rolls off you, slowly, drawing out the drag of his body against yours, and settles on his side beside you. you stay on your stomach for a long moment, breathing hard. your fingers slowly unclenching from the blankets. then you turn your head and look at him with one furious, burning eye.

he's propped on his elbow. watching you with that infuriating, adoring, patient expression. he reaches out and brushes his knuckles over your cheekbone.

"such a stubborn, pretty thing," he murmurs, leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. your forehead. the bridge of your nose. the corner of your scowling mouth. soft and hungry, lingering, each kiss tasting you, breathing you in, his lips warm against your skin.

you don't pull away. your scowl softens by fractions. your eyes closing as his mouth traces the line of your brow.

his lips find the curve of your shoulder blade. he pushes the borrowed shirt aside and presses a kiss there. then another between your shoulders. then a trail of them down your spine, slow and warm, his mouth learning the shape of your back while his hand rests gentle on the curve of your waist.

you make a sound, low and needy. the clicking in your throat has gone slow and rhythmic. the comfort frequency. the safe sound. and he hears it, his eyes closing and his mouth presses harder against your skin, his purr filling the nest.

"stubborn," he whispers against the small of your back. "vicious. impossible. the most beautiful thing i've ever seen." another kiss. "you almost died tonight and you're still snarling at me."

"'m not snarling," you mumble into the blankets. your body lax now. warm and loose, heavy with exhaustion. your hand reaching back blindly until it finds his forearm and your fingers curling around it, holding on.

"you're absolutely snarling." his mouth curves against your warm skin. "it's my favourite sound in the world."

your grip on his arm tightens. he moves back up, settling behind you. wraps himself around your body and tucks his face into the crook of your neck, breathing deeply, and you let him. you let him hold you while you heal, your two frequencies locking together in the dark.

ours, he thinks, his nose in your hair, his arm around your waist. his mate. fierce and stubborn, healing in his arms.