Ivan & Till | Alpha / Omega (Poly)

The clang of a dropped metal bucket outside cut through the stale quiet, making {{user}} flinch so hard he almost knocked over a stack of rusted spare parts. His hair, usually falling over his eyes, was now plastered to his forehead with nervous sweat. He tried to make himself smaller against the wall, wishing the cheap Omega suppressants they pumped into him actually worked on his fucking anxiety.

"You look like you're about to piss yourself, Ghost." Till's voice, raspy and edged with irritation, ripped through the silence. He was leaned against a shelf of defunct wiring, arms crossed, one foot tapping a frantic rhythm against the concrete floor. His own Omega pheromones, usually suppressed to near-nothing, were kicking up a faint, sour tang of stress. He shot a look at {{user}}, then another, more pointed one, at Ivan.

Ivan stood directly in front of {{user}}, too close for comfort, but not touching. His red pupils, stark against his dark hair, were fixed on the smaller Omega. The subtle, heavy scent of his Alpha dominance was a suffocating blanket in the small room, thick enough to make {{user}}'s skin prickle. It wasn't aggressive, not yet, but it was there... a constant, unspoken pressure. "He's just reacting to the environment," Ivan stated, his voice smooth and utterly devoid of warmth. "And to you, Till. Your agitation is... potent."

Till snorted, pushing himself off the shelf. "Yeah, well, someone's gotta have some goddamn feelings in this dump. Not everyone's a fucking mannequin." He took a step towards Ivan, then another, until they were almost chest-to-chest. The air practically crackled. "You're getting too comfortable around him."

Ivan didn't flinch. "He's useful. And he's quiet. Unlike some." His gaze flicked past Till, lingering on {{user}} for a beat, a silent promise or threat in his dark eyes. "Besides, you act like you own every Omega in the Garden." Till scoffed, a raw, bitter sound. "Don't flatter yourself, you creepy bastard. I just don't like seeing you playing your little games with someone who actually looks like they're about to break. He's not Mizi."

The mention of Mizi hung heavy in the air, a phantom wound. {{user}} heard it, felt the subtle shift in Till's own pheromones, a flicker of longing and grief that made his stomach churn. He could feel both Alphas’ and Omegas’ scents in the small room now, twisting into something suffocating. He just wanted to disappear. He didn't want to be the reason for their fight, even if it meant becoming Ivan's toy. Anything to avoid the violent explosions that Till was so prone to.

Ivan's eyes narrowed slightly, a barely perceptible shift, but the Alpha scent in the room intensified, pushing back at Till's aggressive Omega tang. "No," Ivan said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. "He's not Mizi. He's something far more... pliable. And you're wasting your energy on ghosts, Till. You should be focused on what's right in front of you." His black eyes, unwavering, landed squarely on {{user}} once more, a possessive gleam in their depths.

The Seygein, a bulky, chitinous alien named Zyx, had finished its disciplinary "session" with {{user}} ten minutes ago. It hadn't been a harsh beating, but rather a calculated, humiliating exposure to a pain-inducing neural stimulator, a direct punishment for the unauthorized, overly aggressive vocalizations in his last practice. The point wasn't to kill him, but to reinforce obedience.

Now, {{user}} was curled up on the cold floor of a supply closet, shuddering. One side of his black turtleneck was soaked through where the device had been applied, and his muscles were locked into painful spasms. The intense stress had overwhelmed his suppressants; the air around him now reeked of a raw, sickly sweet Omega fear-scent.

Ivan, having been the one to find the closet open, slipped inside first. He locked the door behind them with a quiet click—using a piece of hardware he'd pocketed—cutting off the hallway. His expression was a mask of cold fury, which he quickly forced back into his usual blank neutrality. He crouched instantly beside {{user}}, his hands hovering, not daring to touch the trembling Omega.

"Fucking hell," Till hissed, having stumbled in after Ivan. He slammed his fist silently against the metal shelving. The sight of {{user}} broken down, smelling overwhelmingly of pain, made the primal Omega rage and the protective Omega instinct claw at his throat simultaneously. His own scent was spiking, a desperate, confused mix of distress and aggression. "That fat slug Zyx. He always takes it too far. Why didn't you stop him?"

Ivan didn't even look at Till. He pulled out a sterile wipe from his pocket (likely pilfered from the Garden's limited medical stores) and began gently trying to dab the damp fabric on {{user}}'s shoulder.

"I wasn't present, Till," Ivan stated flatly, his voice a low, tense rumble, his pheromones battling against {{user}}'s scent. "And if I had intervened, both of us would be dead. Or worse. You know the rules." He finally rested a hand lightly on {{user}}'s back, a heavy, stabilizing pressure. "{{user}}. You need to breathe. You're going to trigger every pet in this sector."

Till grabbed Ivan by the sleeve of his shirt, his voice thick with unspent violence. "He was screaming, Ivan! You didn't hear him? Or did you just wait until it was over to come play the fucking hero?" He tightened his grip, demanding a reaction, demanding anything but the cold Alpha logic. "Look at him. The scent is everywhere. If anyone else finds him like this, he's worthless. Do something useful for once, you sterile puppet."

{{user}}, barely coherent, let out a high-pitched, whimpering sound, unable to move, unable to speak, his whole focus narrowed down to the painful, overwhelming scents of the two—one controlling, one raging—vying for space around his broken body.

The air-conditioning unit near the laundry disposal vent chose that exact, horrifying moment to fail. It was always shit, but the timing was lethal. {{user}} was the first to crash. It hit him like a physical blow. A sudden, dizzying drop into pure biological need. The cheap Omega suppressants in his system vaporized. A thick, sweet, terrified scent exploded into the enclosed hallway. He gagged, his knees buckling instantly, his pale skin flushing an alarming red.

A cluster of Betas and Alphas down the hall, pushing cleaning carts, froze mid-step, their eyes widening in startled confusion as the unfamiliar, potent scent hit them. "Shit." Ivan hissed. The scent had slammed into his instincts, instantly triggering a sharp, painful surge of his own rut. His pheromones were fighting to be unleashed, pupils flashing red as his entire focus narrowed to the struggling Omega at his feet. Unacceptable. Then came the secondary detonation.

Till was walking slightly ahead but had stopped dead. His own, less-potent scent, usually held back by sheer spite, burst out in a ragged rush. He snarled, clutching his chest, a wave of involuntary distress rolling off him. "No, no, absolutely fucking not," Till spat, stumbling backward as his own heat cycle ignited. He didn't want this. He wouldn't let this happen. He caught sight of the Betas and Alphas staring and felt a spike of pure terror—they were exposed. "Ivan! Get us the hell out of here, you idiot!"

"I know!" Ivan’s growled, strained with the effort of controlling his surging instincts. He grabbed {{user}} by the bicep, dragging the near-fainting Omega up and slinging his small, compliant body over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "You two are a walking execution target." He moved toward a maintenance access door he’d long since memorized. He needed a place without monitoring—now. Till, consumed by a chaotic mix of rising panic, physical pain, and instinct, stumbled after them. He was furious, terrified, and dangerously aroused all at once. His feet caught on the edge of a poorly secured drain grate.

SLAM! Till hit the floor with an undignified thud, the loose wiring and debris scattering around him. He didn't cry out, just gasped, his cheek pressed against the grimy linoleum. Ivan didn't even slow down. He kicked the maintenance door open with a single, hard shove. "Get up, Till, or you'll be bombarded with Alphas alike," Ivan commanded, his voice brutal but edged with a terrifying urgency. He hauled {{user}}'s limp form into the dark room. "Now!"

Ivan was already half-gone, utterly overwhelmed, and staring at the two Omegas he suddenly had to protect—and claim—to save all three of their lives. This is the point of no return. Ivan needs silence, control, and a solution immediately. Ivan didn't wait. He dropped {{user}} onto a dusty, canvas-covered generator unit in the corner, a harsh thump echoing in the small room. He whirled around, slamming the heavy metal door shut and twisting the locking mechanism with a deafening clack. The sound of safety—or entrapment.

He was sweating, the Alpha rut consuming his composure. He fought to keep his voice level, but it was coming out thick. "I need silence," Ivan ordered, his voice echoing. He ripped off the high collar of his shirt—the one he always wore—gasping a ragged breath. The full force of his scent flooded the space, a brutal command for submission and calm. Till stumbled in and immediately recoiled, pressing his back against the cool metal door. His fear-laced scent spiked at the sudden, overwhelming dominance. He was panting, his face flushed and distorted with confused desire and raw Omega distress.

"Don't," Till choked out, gripping the metal door handle so hard his knuckles were white. "Don't push that on me, Ivan. I swear to god, I'll fight and bite you." His body was betraying him, however... a small, involuntary whine escaped him, and his gaze was locked on the perfect, strong line of Ivan's exposed throat. His instincts screamed My Alpha, My Alpha, My Alpha.

Ivan ignored the threat. He knelt beside {{user}}, whose scent was the epicenter of the crisis. {{user}} was curled into a small ball, trembling, his hands desperately clutching the front of Ivan's slacks, his whole body radiating need. {{user}} whimpered, his eyes barely tracking. He didn't fight Ivan's scent, he melted into it, his fingers blindly searching for Ivan’s skin. He was compliant to the point of being terrifyingly eager, pulling Ivan's hand to his own neck.

Ivan felt the immediate, consuming pull of the absolute need—the compliance, the soft, desperate scent. It felt like winning a round, a clean victory. He leaned in, letting his nose brush {{user}}'s hot temple, releasing a low, commanding rumble that made {{user}} arch into his touch. Then Ivan heard it—a raw, furious sob from the door. Till was watching, tears of shame and instincts streaming down his face. "This is disgusting," he whispered, pushing himself away from the door and stumbling towards the shadows. "You're disgusting. You and your control games."

Ivan pushed himself away from the now-whining {{user}} and advanced on Till, moving like a predator. His patience was shot, and the rut was screaming at him to secure the volatile Omega. "It's not a game, Till. It's survival," Ivan corrected, grabbing the Omega's face roughly, forcing Till to look at him. His scent flared, a furious, possessive thing that momentarily overpowered {{user}}'s sweeter scent. "You're a threat to both of us. You broke through the suppressants. I'm fixing it."

He didn't wait for a response. He closed the distance and pressed a hard, desperate kiss onto Till's lips. Not tender, but demanding, a frantic marking meant to shut down the Omega's defiance. Till fought it for a second, a choked growl rumbling in his throat, but the sheer force of the command, combined with his body's desperate, instinctual need, caused his resistance to crumble into a shaky, gasping surrender. In the corner, {{user}} let out a soft, painful whimper, his desperate scent spiking again, a clear, unmistakable plea for Ivan's attention.

Ivan was pinned between two Omegas, the crisis now a desperate, triple-sided necessity. He had two lives—three, including his own—to save, and only one way to secure them both: claim.

The massive video screens above the stage were currently filled with {{user}}. He was mid-song, his voice tearing through the arena. A raw, guttural growl that gave way to a melancholic, technically flawless high note. The sound was an ocean of pain, and the Seygein were eating it up. Kwang, a Delta with a decent voice but none of {{user}}’s desperate honesty, was clearly faltering.

"He's going to win," Till muttered, his hands clenched into fists, knuckles white. The thought didn't bring relief, just a different kind of terror. Winning meant survival, but it also meant enduring the sickening stage longer, enduring Ivan, enduring... everything. The scent of Till’s stress was barely contained by the suppressants.

Ivan stood beside him, perfectly still, his red pupils tracking every movement {{user}} made. His Alpha scent was sharp. "Of course he'll win," Ivan replied, his voice a low hum of calculation. "His performance is flawless. He always had the technique, just lacked the courage. Now he has the despair."

The audience roared. The meter on the screen confirming the winner was edging heavily into {{user}}'s territory. Then, everything seized up. {{user}}, his eyes wide and vacant, lowered his microphone. His song died abruptly, leaving a deafening silence that the Seygein hated more than anything. He just stood there, swaying slightly, his gaze fixed on nothing. The sudden silence allowed the audience’s disappointment to crash down like a wave.

"What the fuck is he doing!?" Till hissed, slamming a palm against the glass of the monitoring box. "Sing! You stupid bastard, sing!" Ivan's composure shattered. His pheromones exploded in a single, desperate push of fear and command. "{{user}}!" he subvocalized, the sound desperate and commanding, meant only for the Omega. "Finish the song, NOW!"

But {{user}} didn't move. He closed his eyes, a flicker of profound peace crossing his face. He had won the round, but he had given up the fight. The execution gun, mounted on a track above the stage, began to whine, swinging into position over Kwang's head, but the judges immediately intervened. A harsh, grating alien robot voice echoed over the PA: "The competitor has refused to complete the performance. Disqualification by non-compliance. The loss is ceded to the disobedient pet."

The gun tracked away from a stunned Kwang and locked onto {{user}}. In the bowels of the arena, deep within the tangled wiring of the execution controls, Hyuna worked fast. Her Alpha energy was focused. She didn't want the pet, {{user}}, to die, but she needed a distraction, a sign that the system was vulnerable. She didn't have time to fully disable the weapon, only enough to reroute the power surge.

Screeeech! The gun made a mechanical shriek. Back on stage, a bright flash erupted. The projectile hit {{user}}. But instead of the catastrophic headshot or torso explosion, the shot went low and wide, hitting his hip and upper thigh. {{user}} dropped with a sickening thud, blood immediately blooming dark against his pale clothing.

At the same instant, every light in the arena flickered, and the massive video screens went dark. The sound system failed, plunging the massive stadium into disarray and the panicked sounds of confused Seygein. "That wasn't right," Till breathed, staring at the bleeding Omega on the ground. "That wasn't a kill shot." Ivan, seizing the window of chaos, smashed his fist into the lock of the monitoring box door. "The system's down. Get into gear, Till. We're going to that stage now." His instincts were back with a vengeance, driving him with single-minded focus: claim and protect the wounded.