Archive of Our Own ^beta

Elizabeth had noticed the change in The Cell before she smelled it.

It was there in the way the air felt heavier when the main gate sealed behind her, in the strange, restless hush that followed the familiar grind of ancient stone and iron.

The Cell was never truly quiet. There was always the distant drip of mineral-rich water, the low thrum of containment wards buried deep in the black rock, the faint grinding of stone wings as a gargoyle repositioned itself along the ceiling. Tonight it felt tense.

Justice walked those halls in shifts. That night, they were hers.

Her boots struck the smoothed stone in steady, measured beats. The cape fixed beneath her epaulettes whispered against the backs of her thighs, its inner lining catching hints of scarlet when she turned. Her uniform was immaculate as always: dark coat cut sharp at the shoulders before tapering in tightly at her waist. On her cap and on the badge at her chest, the insignia of Justice stood out in bright metal.

Beneath the coat, she wore a crisp white shirt, narrow black tie, and the steady blue glow of the flame over her heart. The flame flickered steadily, small and disciplined, like everything else about her. Her trousers sat perfectly straight, tucked into calf-high boots, the faint heel making her steps echo just a little more than necessary. When she sat she tended, almost absentmindedly, to spread her knees, body claiming space by habit. When she stood, every line said: control, order, authority.

The Scarlet Queen. Harbinger of Order. Leader of Justice.

An alpha, carved into silhouette.

Her body hummed with the familiar tension of patrol. There was comfort in routine: walking the ringed corridors carved into the earth’s core, feeling the breath of ancient stone around her, scanning the wards etched into pillars and vaulted ceilings. Checking containment inscriptions whose languages had been dead for millennia. Stopping by Bijou’s cell in case the Jewel of Emotions felt like talking. Listening, carefully, near Nerissa’s door for a change in rhythm.

Nerissa could not sing here.

The gods had seen to that. Protective wards and heavy magic wrapped the Demon of Sound’s cell like layered glass. If she tried to sing, there was no sound, no vibration, nothing. The wards swallowed it and, in cruel exchange, the collar at her throat tightened with sharp, punishing pain. Elizabeth had seen Nerissa’s hand fly to that collar more than once, knuckles white, when the urge had overridden caution.

So Nerissa tapped instead. Fingertips against stone in complex, shifting patterns, the only echoes of the music she carried. Those patterns sometimes changed when she was distressed. Elizabeth had learned to listen for that.

She did not have to care.

She did anyway.

A gargoyle perched above the archway she passed shifted, stone claws scraping faintly on the carved lintel. Its eyes, glowing cinders in a chiseled face, tracked her progress.

She moved deeper into the core.

The Cell’s architecture showed its age in every line. Pillars twisted like roots, disappearing into darkness. The floor under her boots had been worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, mortal and otherwise. Wards crawled across the stone like constellations, glowing faintly with a warning, steady light of red.

Elizabeth replayed the last week’s rounds in her head as she walked.

Bijou’s eyes had gone bright when Elizabeth had described, in carefully vague terms, a festival above: lanterns hung like constellations, colors reflected in water. The gem’s chest had glowed faintly in response, a small flare of joy in the dim.

Nerissa had tapped a complicated rhythm on her wall when Elizabeth had done her check, fingers drumming something that might once have been the skeleton of a song. Her lips had moved as if singing, but no sound had passed them.

Fuwawa and Mococo had bickered cheerfully over who got to hold the gamepad for the next level, their voices muffled by wards but their energy intact, bracelets and straps jingling when they gestured too broadly.

And Shiori.

Shiori with the pale inmate dress that fit her like a threat disguised as modesty, harness straps tracing lines along her torso like a diagram for restraints. The black leather collar sat snug at her throat, a strip of dark fabric ran straight down the center of her chest and disappeared into a wide belt that cinched her waist, as if inviting hands (or chains) to follow it. The straps from that belt forked over her hips and shoulders, studded with D-rings and buckles. Cuffs at her wrists and a band around her thigh, each with its own loop or ring, each a reminder that that place was designed to clip her down, hold her still, even if the smirk at the corner of her mouth often suggested she’d never fully cooperate.

Elizabeth swallowed, throat tight for no good reason, as she reached the corridor that led to Advent’s cells.

The first hint of it reached her a moment later.

Not sound. Scent.

Faint at first, carried on the slow-moving air of that lower level: ink and dry parchment, freshly brewed tea steeping somewhere just out of sight, the dusty warmth of old books in a library that had never seen the sun. Shiori’s scent was always like that, threaded through with something cool and distant. Elizabeth had grown embarrassingly familiar with it over the years.

Tonight, something else lay under it.

Something sweet and strange, like spider lilies blossoming in snow. A chill edge beneath the sweetness, like a cold winter’s morning breathed into the warmth of a study. It wrapped around Elizabeth and slid down her spine, coiling low, making the muscles in her thighs tighten, her breath come shorter.

Instinct reared up, sudden and sharp.

Omega, her mind supplied, unhelpfully, even if Shiori herself would never name it. Omega in need. Omega in pain.

Elizabeth locked her jaw, pulling in a slow breath through her mouth. Her heartbeat picked up, the old animal part of her jolting awake. She forced it behind bars.

Suppressants, she reminded herself. All the inmates with certain secondary sexes were on suppressants. The shipment had been delayed, but they had planned for that. Mococo had gotten the last dose. Nerissa, too. Shiori had insisted–

Let them have it, she had said with a tilt of her head, eyes unreadable. I’ll be fine. I don’t really… A small shrug, lighter than the words. I’m not sure I count as properly anything, these days.

She had said it like a joke, like something she’d written down in the margins of her own file.

Elizabeth had not found it remotely funny.

She quickened her pace, cape flaring behind her as she turned the final corner.

The corridor holding Advent’s cells was one of the more carefully climate-controlled spaces in The Cell. The wards there were layered thickly, archways framed in archaic reliefs; each door was a marriage of divine sealwork and meticulous mechanical locks. A single window of reinforced, spell-laden glass sat close to it.

From the guard side, those windows were clear.

From inside the cells, they showed nothing but their own reflection and the faint glow of wards.

Elizabeth always made sure to announce herself.

“Good evening,” she called softly as she stepped into the corridor, her voice carrying along the stone. “This is Elizabeth Rose Bloodflame, Harbinger of Order, Leader of Justice, commencing routine check.”

Above her, a gargoyle flexed its stone wings once, then stilled.

Someone snorted from further down – Fuwawa, probably, or Mococo. Bijou chirped a small greeting.

The new scent was stronger here.

Yet, she walked with her hands clasped behind her back, her red eyes scanning the cells not with the predatory glare of a warden, but with the weary concern of a shepherd.

She stopped briefly at cell A-4. Nerissa was sleeping, fitfully, but peaceful enough. Elizabeth let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She hated when the inmates suffered. It felt… wrong. A failure of duty. Her mandate was to contain, yes, but also to protect. To ensure their well-being within the confines of their sentence.

She adjusted her collar, feeling the heat of the subterranean levels clinging to her skin. She felt tight today. On edge. Her own rut cycles were usually manageable – she was disciplined, after all. She didn’t allow herself the indulgence of losing control. But lately, the air in The Cell had felt charged.

Elizabeth’s steps slowed involuntarily as she reached Shiori’s door in the isolation wing.

Her fingers had already found the brim of her cap, nudging it a little lower as if that might help shield her from what was reaching through the glass.

From her side, she saw into the cell clearly: the bunk, the table, the floor rings meant for restraints, the ancient stone walls worn smooth from centuries of occupancy. The air shimmered faintly with protective spells.

Shiori lay curled on her bunk.

That, too, was unusual.

The Archiver usually preferred the table. Back straight, bare feet planted, hands moving in tight, precise gestures over the empty surface as if she were turning pages only she could see. Elizabeth had seen her fingers twitch in the air like she was sliding in phantom bookmarks.

Tonight, the table was empty. The chair sat a little skewed.

Shiori’s body was drawn in on itself in a tight curve along the bunk, knees pulled up, one arm wrapped around her middle. Her other arm dangled, wrist near the edge of the mattress, cuff glinting faintly as she shifted.

For a moment, all Elizabeth could register was tension. Every line of Shiori’s body was taut. Her jaw clenched, eyes pressed shut, a fine sheen of sweat at her hairline where black and white strands clung to her skin.

Her scent hit Elizabeth fully now.

Ink, parchment, tea, old paper warmed by a lamp, wrapped around that new core of spider-lily sweetness and the cold clarity of a winter morning, now overlaid with the undeniable, cloying syrup of slick. It speared down Elizabeth’s spine and pooled low in her belly, thick and demanding.

Her hand flattened against the glass before she realized she’d moved.

“Shiori,” she said softly. “Are you all right?”

It was ridiculous, the question. Obviously she was not.

On the other side, Shiori flinched. Her eyes snapped open.

The glass from her side reflected only herself. And yet, Shiori’s gaze turned unerringly toward where Elizabeth stood, pupils blown, black almost swallowing the gold.

“Harbinger,” she said.

Her voice was rougher than usual, like she’d been inhaling dust for hours, but the sharp edge was still there, thin but intact.

“You’re early. Lost track of your theatrically precise schedule?”

Elizabeth’s chest tightened.

She had never been sure how Shiori did that – how she always knew, within a hand’s breadth, where Elizabeth’s eyes would be. Maybe the Archiver counted steps and echoes and scent, charting them in her head like lines on a page. Maybe she simply knew.

Elizabeth should have turned away.

She should have logged the condition, summoned Cecilia or Raora to witness, called for a medic. Protocols existed for a reason. They had forms and procedures for everything in The Cell.

But there was not a medic in the world trained for Shiori Novella. No shipment on a delayed cart would reach the earth’s core in time to change what was already happening. They had no spares of the suppressants Shiori had insisted Nerissa and Mococo take. Elizabeth had read the latest reports; the refills would not arrive for another day at least.

The instinct inside Elizabeth pressed hard against her ribs. Do something. She’s hurting.

She drew air carefully through her teeth and nodded, even though Shiori could not see it.

“I am precisely on time,” she said, because small, factual things steadied her. “You look unwell.”

Shiori grimaced, then forced her face into something more composed. Her hand tightened on her own waist.

“I’m… fine,” she bit out. “Just… bad tea. You know how it is. Terrible brew down here. Wretched.”

The lie was so sloppy it made Elizabeth’s heart ache. Shiori did not do sloppy without reason.

“You are in pain,” Elizabeth said gently. “May I ask where?”

Shiori snorted, then choked on it, eyes squeezing shut as her back arched. A tremor rippled through her.

“Curious,” she gritted. “Always so… thorough. Lower. Abdomen. Head. Everything. Take your pick.”

The scent pulsed with the spike of discomfort. Elizabeth’s fingers curled against the glass, muscles tightening in sympathy. Heat crawled across her skin, flooding her veins. The part of her that lived in the back of her skull, in bone and instinct and old blood, bared its teeth.

This wasn’t simple sickness. The pattern was too familiar from the dry medical texts she’d forced herself to study: waves building and breaking, body fighting itself, demanding.

“Shiori,” she said quietly, “are you… going into heat?”

The word hung between stone walls and wards, heavy, intimate.

Shiori went still for half a heartbeat. Then her lips twisted, trying for a smirk and almost getting there.

“Congratulations, Harbinger,” she rasped. “You win the obvious observation award.”

Her knuckles went white where her hand pressed to her own belly. Her toes curled against the thin blanket. She tried to move, to sit up, but her body resisted, another tight cramp making her hiss under her breath.

Elizabeth’s stomach dropped.

The ancient part of her – older than law, older than duty – rejoiced: a rare thing in need, and she was the only alpha in reach. Everything in her howled help her. Everything trained on protocol whispered do not cross that line.

She leaned her forehead against the cool glass for a heartbeat, eyes closing, while her other hand curled into a fist tight enough to hurt.

“Thank you for confirming,” she said. She could hear how steady she sounded. It did not match the desperate, pounding rush in her veins. “I will request medical assistance. They may be able to–”

“Do what?” Shiori’s voice cut across hers, sharp and humorless. She opened her eyes; they glittered with something like anger, something like fear. “Another empty vial? A nice pamphlet? You know as well as I do the shipment’s delayed. And your medics hardly specialize in…” She waved a hand vaguely in the air. “…ancient omega anomalies.”

Elizabeth flinched, just a little, because she did know. And Shiori knew she knew, or she wouldn’t have said it that way.

The Cell existed to keep the untouchable away from the world. The people sealed there were, by definition, out of scope. Exceptions. Difficult cases.

The thought of Shiori’s heat being treated as a “difficult case” in a report made Elizabeth’s jaw throb.

“You should not have given up your suppressant dose,” she said quietly. It slipped out before she could stop it, her frustration with the situation turning inward. “You know… you knew this could happen.”

Shiori bared her teeth, then swallowed another sound. Her hips shifted awkwardly; she pressed her thighs together. The movement sent a spike of scent into the air that made Elizabeth’s knees almost buckle.

“I knew Mococo would howl herself sick if hers wore off,” she snapped. “I knew Nerissa’s demonic biology would tear her apart if you let her go into heat in here.” Her breath hitched; she rode out another cramp with her eyes locked on Elizabeth’s face, as if daring her to look away. “I am barely human anymore anyway. I am an Archiver of forbidden knowledge; surely, I’ve transcended the base urges of an omega. I am… contained. I can handle it.”

The word contained rang bitter.

Elizabeth felt something in her chest twist. That was exactly what she expected from Shiori: the pragmatic calculation, the self-sacrifice wrapped in sardonic commentary. The sense that no one else could be trusted to make the correct choice, so she made it herself.

The belief, somewhere under it all, that her own pain was the most sensible option.

But it wasn’t just a heat; it was an avalanche. Hundreds of years of repressed biology, of cycles skipped and hormones neutralized, were crashing down on her all at once.

“You should not have to handle it alone,” Elizabeth said softly.

Shiori breathed out a laugh that was dangerously close to a sob.

“You’re very bad at this,” she muttered. “You know that, right? You walk around like some war goddess in parade uniform, and then you say things like you shouldn’t be alone in that voice.” She tilted her head, teeth catching her lower lip, eyes closing briefly. “It’s cruel.”

Elizabeth’s cheeks heated. She straightened, fingers flexing, only then aware of how hard she was bracing against the glass. Her whole body thrummed with discomfort: not just arousal, but the sense of wrongness in standing there, separated, watching someone ride out wave after wave of pain without lifting a hand.

She had been made to act. To intervene, to protect.

But there were lines she could not cross. A guard stepping into a prisoner’s cell without backup was against protocol. A guard stepping into a prisoner’s cell while that prisoner was in uncontrolled heat was… unthinkable by every regulation she’d ever learned.

To leave Shiori suffering was a dereliction of her moral duty. To help her was a dereliction of her professional duty.

She is an omega, her instincts hissed. You’re an alpha. You can help. You’re meant to.

Her ethics bit back: There is a power imbalance. She is imprisoned. You have the key. You cannot trust that what she asks for is free choice when you control the door.

She had lived her entire life letting the latter voice win.

Another cramp tore through Shiori. That one bent her nearly in half, a low, involuntary sound ripping from her throat, nothing like the carefully measured tone Elizabeth was used to. Her hand scrabbled blindly at the mattress, then pressed between her trembling thighs, as if she could drag the heat back into herself by force.

The wave of pheromones that hit the corridor that time was devastating.

Elizabeth’s hand slammed flat against the glass to steady herself. Her breath stuttered, vision narrowing. The blue flame over her heart flared bright enough to cast faint light on the walls, answering a call that was older than language.

Alpha. Omega. Need.

She squeezed her eyes shut, leaned her forehead briefly against the cool barrier, and counted backwards from ten. Her other hand curled into a fist at her side hard enough that her nails bit through the glove.

“Shiori,” she managed, voice rougher now, “may I enter your cell to– to check on you physically? I will not do anything without your explicit consent. I only–” She searched for words that were not I can’t just stand here and watch you shake apart. “You are clearly in distress.”

The corridor was very still. High above, another gargoyle shifted just enough that small flakes of stone drifted down, like dust motes in the cold light.

When Elizabeth opened her eyes again, Shiori was watching her.

There was a new calculation in her gaze, even through the pain. Her nostrils flared as she inhaled, and Elizabeth realized with a fresh jolt that this went both ways. Her own scent was leaking past the tight control she kept on it: firewood catching, the dark loam of earth after rain, a faint metallic tang like the memory of blood, the faint bitter edge of self-denial, all wrapped in something undeniably warm and home-like.

Safe, if such a thing could exist in The Cell.

Shiori’s tongue flicked across her lower lip, quick, almost reflexive.

“Protocol says no,” she said, voice quieter now. “Your manuals are very clear. Do not enter an omega’s cell in heat alone.” The way she quoted it made it obvious she’d read the same documents, likely more thoroughly than the guards themselves.

“Protocols,” Elizabeth said, “are written for average cases. You are not– you are–” She stopped, the technically correct but deeply rude phrasing you are not average sticking in her throat. “This situation is unusual. The suppressant shortage was not planned for. Neither was your choice.”

“And you think you’re an exception.” Shiori’s mouth quirked, even as she drew a shuddering breath. “How very alpha of you.”

“I think,” Elizabeth said, and heard the tremor in her own voice, “that you are hurting. And that I–” She swallowed. Her throat was dry. “– that I can offer some assistance. Under your direction. If you wish. If you don’t, I will stand here the entire night and keep watch and call for aid when the shipment arrives. But I cannot walk away before then.”

Shiori stared at her. Somewhere in the maze of her expression, something cracked.

“You’re serious,” she whispered.

“Of course.”

“No,” Shiori said. “I mean–” Her voice frayed; she sucked a breath between her teeth, lashes fluttering as another wave passed. When she spoke again, the sarcasm was thinner, stripped down. “You’re serious about the– direction. About this being mine to call.”

Elizabeth felt heat crawl all the way up her neck to her ears. She wished, absurdly, that her cap had had a wider brim.

“Yes,” she said, simply. “You are the one in heat. You are the one in confinement. You will decide what is acceptable. I will not take advantage of the situation.”

Shiori huffed something that might have been a laugh. It sounded wet; her eyes shone.

“Taking advantage,” she muttered. “As if I haven’t considered this.”

Elizabeth’s heart stumbled.

She could call for Cecilia or Raora or Gigi, yes. She could stand outside all night and watch the rise and fall of Shiori’s trembling body through the glass. She could do nothing else.

Her hand was still on the wards panel before she had finished thinking it through.

“Shiori,” she said, forcing herself to look at the dark glass where she knew Shiori’s eyes to be. “If I come in, you will decide what happens. You will decide how far it goes, or if it goes anywhere. If you say no, I will close the door and I will not try to enter again. If you say stop, I will stop. Even if every instinct I have is screaming otherwise.”

Silence stretched.

Shiori’s breathing was rough in the background, catching on each cramp. When she spoke, her voice had gone quieter, but not muddier. If anything, something in it had sharpened.

“You’d stand out there all night,” she said. It was not really a question.

“Yes,” Elizabeth said simply.

“And come in only if I said yes, Harbinger, come in and put those ridiculous hands to good use.”

Heat flared across Elizabeth’s face, absurd in the occasional underground chill.

“…yes.”

“And not… for you,” Shiori said. “Not to scratch some itch and tell yourself it’s for my good.”

Elizabeth’s throat worked.

“My… comfort,” she said carefully, “is irrelevant.”

A low hum came from the other side of the glass; it might have been a laugh.

“Of course you’d say that,” Shiori murmured. “All right.” Her fingers flexed on the mattress. “Open the door.”

Elizabeth’s heart stumbled.

“Shiori–”

“Open it,” Shiori repeated, more firmly. “You’re right: I am in pain. I am not… coping as well as I would like.”

“I–”

“Harbinger,” Shiori said, and for the first time there was something almost gentle in how she used the title. “You apologizing for existing is not in the top ten problems I have at this moment.”

Elizabeth went very still.

“Open. The door.” Shiori’s gaze was steady, even as sweat beaded at her temples. “You are an alpha built like a fortress who keeps bending herself into knots to avoid abusing that. So here’s me, giving you… explicit permission.” She lifted her cuffed wrist, the chain clinking softly. “Come in, Elizabeth. Let me decide how far this goes.”

The instinct inside Elizabeth howled in triumph.

The part of her that signed reports and enforced rules was still screaming.

“This is…” She groped for words. “Shiori, this is an extraordinary breach of protocol. If anything happens that even resembles coercion–”

“Then you’ll stop,” Shiori said. “Because that’s who you are. Because you’d rather chew your own arm off than hurt me.” Her eyes flickered, and for a moment the wry front dropped entirely. She looked… young, and very, very tired. “Please.”

Elizabeth straightened, breathing once, twice, drawing the fire in her veins back under her ribs.

“Wards on cell A-01,” she said, her voice settling into command cadence. “Override: Harbinger of Order, Elizabeth Rose Bloodflame. Code E-2-7-B. Requesting temporary suspension for medical intervention, under my responsibility.”

The panel hummed; sigils flared under her gloved fingers. There was a pause, long enough for a reasonably cautious person to reconsider, and then the locks clicked one by one, a mechanical exhale.

The barrier between them faded, the glass taking on a dull, inactive sheen.

With it, the separation in scent dropped like a veil.

Shiori’s heat washed over Elizabeth in a wave, thick and immediate. It dragged a growl up from somewhere low in her chest that she bit back by force.

“May I enter?” she asked, hand on the door but not yet pressing. “You can still say no. I will reengage the wards.”

Shiori let out a thin, frayed breath.

“For someone called Harbinger,” she said, “you ask a lot of permission.”

“Is that an objection?”

It was faint, but she heard it: a softening in Shiori’s tone, like fingertips running over the spine of a well-loved book.

“Not tonight,” Shiori said. “Come in.”

Elizabeth opened the door.

Inside, the cell felt smaller than it looked from the corridor. She had catalogued every detail from outside, of course: the placement of the bunk, the table, the restraint points built discreetly into the walls and floor. But standing in the middle of it, she felt the pressure of the wards differently, like a subtle buzzing under her skin. The air was warmer from Shiori’s body heat and the trapped magic.

She shut the door carefully behind her and removed her cap. It felt wrong to wear it there, in that moment. The wards around the room adjusted with a low, musical shiver.

She set her cap on the small table, red hair spilling down her back in a long, straight curtain, nearly reaching the backs of her knees.

Shiori’s pupils tracked the movement. Her nostrils flared.

“You’re taller up close,” she muttered. “Rude.”

Elizabeth almost smiled.

“I apologize,” she said.

“Of course you do,” Shiori said, but there was no real bite in it this time.

Another wave hit her mid-sentence. Her breath hitched, body curling reflexively. A small, desperate sound escaped before she could clamp down on it.

Elizabeth moved before she thought.

She crossed the short distance to the bunk in three strides, then stopped, forcing herself to halt at arm’s length.

“May I touch you?” she asked, voice shaking just a little. “To help you sit up, at least.”

It felt absurd, given how her own body was thrumming, how every part of her wanted to close the gap and lay hands on Shiori like she was meant to. But absurdity was better than assumption.

Shiori’s fingers twitched against the blanket. For a moment, Elizabeth thought she might make some cutting retort.

“Permission granted, Harbinger,” she said dryly. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Elizabeth knelt beside the bunk, the cape pooling on the floor behind her. Up close, she could see the fine tremors in Shiori’s muscles, the way lashes were clumped with faint moisture, her mouth drawn tight against pain. Her skin looked flushed, a faint pink rising to her cheeks. The spider-lily sweetness of her heat was nearly dizzying.

Elizabeth offered her arm, palm up.

Shiori snorted, but her hand came up to grip Elizabeth’s forearm anyway, fingers closing around the firm muscle. Even in pain, her grip was sure.

“There,” Elizabeth said quietly. “On three. One, two–”

She drew Shiori slowly upright, easing her back against the wall at the head of the bunk. Shiori hissed through her teeth but rode the movement, breathing hard. When they were done, she didn’t let go of Elizabeth’s arm. Her thumb stroked once, slowly, almost absently, over the skin where Elizabeth’s glove ended and her sleeve rode back.

“You’re very warm,” Shiori murmured.

“So are you,” Elizabeth replied, before she could stop herself.

That earned her a crooked sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

“Situational hazard,” Shiori said. “Heat. You might have heard of it.”

Elizabeth swallowed.

“I have read the files,” she said, and Shiori actually laughed, a small bright sound buried under strain.

“Of course you have,” she said again, softer.

For a moment, they just stayed there: Shiori braced against the wall, Elizabeth kneeling beside the bunk, their arms linked. The hum of the wards was a low, constant backdrop, oddly soothing.

Then another wave hit.

Elizabeth could feel it before Shiori made a sound: a subtle tightening of her grip, a quiver in her thighs, the way her scent thickened, turning molten. Shiori’s breath stuttered, her head tipping back against the wall, eyes squeezing shut.

This time, the noise that escaped her was more than pain. There was a helplessness in it that Elizabeth had never heard from her before.

Elizabeth’s own body responded instantly. Heat coiled hard and hot between her legs. She was suddenly, acutely aware of the way her trousers pulled across her lap, of the insistent weight and throb there. Her cock had been half-hard since she’d hit the corridor; now it surged fully, pressing against the restraints of fabric and discipline both.

Every alpha instinct she had screamed at her to push Shiori down, cover her, fill the aching empty place those pheromones were drawing a glowing halo around.

It felt almost animal.

She did none of that.

Instead, she breathed carefully, counted the beats of her heart, and spoke.

“Tell me,” she said, voice rough. “What… helps? In your experience.” The fact that Shiori hadn’t had a heat like that in centuries pressed at the edge of the question, but she didn’t voice it. “Pressure? Cold? Distraction?”

Shiori’s laugh was more like a gasp.

“Harbinger,” she murmured, lashes fluttering. “You know very well what helps an omega in heat.”

Elizabeth’s mind flashed, unbidden, to that night months ago: her door locked, the lamps dimmed, her hand wrapped around herself, pumping hard enough to hurt while images of the curve of Nerissa’s soft mouth, her singing setting off a storm in her, and Shiori’s hands, her sharp tongue saying good girl in that precise, infuriating tone, those golden eyes looking up at her with need flickering behind her eyes. She had told herself it was to get it out of her system, to bleed her rut-drenched thoughts away so they wouldn’t spill into her work.

Her body had not cared. She had rutted into her own fist with her teeth bared and little sounds she hadn’t recognized spilling from her throat. The release had been sharp and blinding, leaving streaks of heat over her stomach.

The shame that had followed had been worse than any punishment collar, the guilt had been so intense she’d almost vomited.

She had scrubbed herself clean with shaking hands, bile burning her throat, convinced that somehow the inmates would smell it on her, see it in her posture. That the gargoyles would whisper it along the stone.

She had felt so wretched, so predatory, that she had feigned illness and swapped shifts with Gigi for a week just to avoid looking at either of them, skin burning with the certainty that somehow, somehow, all of Advent would know.

“Being vague when you are in pain feels cruel to me,” Elizabeth said, swallowing the memory. Her hand tightened around Shiori’s forearm, but she didn’t move it elsewhere.

Shiori cracked an eye open. There was heat there, yes, but also something close to approval. It landed in Elizabeth’s chest like a carefully placed weight.

“You really do need instructions, don’t you?” Shiori said, sounding almost fond. “Here are the rules, Harbinger. Since you like those.”

Elizabeth’s spine straightened instinctively at the word.

“Rule one,” Shiori said, each word carefully spaced, like text on a page. “Do not pretend this is anything other than what it is. I am in heat. You are reacting. That’s not shameful; it’s just biology.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth, then closed it. Her hand at Shiori’s waist tightened slightly.

“Rule two,” Shiori went on, “you do not decide what is too much for me. You ask. I answer. You stop if I say stop. Not if you get scared of yourself. I know where my lines are.”

“That is…” Elizabeth’s throat worked. “A great deal of trust.”

“Don’t make me regret it,” Shiori said. Her hand slid down Elizabeth’s forearm, fingers finding and brushing the inside of her wrist, right over the jump of her pulse. “Rule three. You do not drown this in guilt. Not afterwards, not during. I am choosing this. I could have taken the suppressant. I didn’t. That matters. Don’t you dare ruin it by self-flagellating for the next decade.”

Elizabeth’s chest ached.

“I can’t promise I won’t feel anything about it,” she said, the words pulled out of her. “But I will try not to… burden you with it.”

Shiori’s lips twitched like she wanted to smile and didn’t quite have the energy.

“Good enough,” she said. “Rule four.” Her fingers brushed higher, over the back of Elizabeth’s hand. “You’re allowed to enjoy this.”

Allowed.

Elizabeth’s eyes stung for no reason she liked.

She nodded once.

“All right.”

“Good,” Shiori murmured. “Now take off your gloves. They squeak. It’s distracting.”

Elizabeth blinked.

“Is that–”

“A rule,” Shiori said.

Elizabeth obeyed.

She stripped off one glove, then the other, setting them neatly on the table beside her cap. Her bare hands looked foreign in the witch-light, scars and calluses thrown into relief.

When she knelt again, Shiori’s hand found her with unnerving certainty, fingers sliding over the back of Elizabeth’s knuckles.

“Better,” Shiori whispered. “You have very careful hands for a Harbinger.”

Elizabeth swallowed hard, then carefully, slowly, lifted her free hand. She paused halfway, looking down at Shiori.

“May I…?”

Shiori didn’t even let her finish. She took Elizabeth’s hand in both of hers and guided it to her waist, over the tight harness strap and the slight rise and fall of her breathing.

“Here,” she murmured. “You can hold on.”

Elizabeth curled her fingers there, broad palm spanning Shiori’s side. The curve fit so perfectly it took her breath away.

Another wave broke through Shiori, dragging a raw sound from her throat. She leaned forward without thinking, forehead pressing into Elizabeth’s shoulder, her collar cool against the Harbinger’s coat.

Elizabeth’s mouth filled with the urge to bite down, to mark, to claim.

Instead, she brought her free hand up, fingers sliding into the two-toned strands at the back of Shiori’s head, cradling her skull gently.

“Breathe,” she said, voice low. “In for four. Out for six. You are not alone.”

Shiori laughed weakly against her shoulder.

“You really were built wrong,” she muttered. “You should be the one growling.”

“I can growl if you’d like,” Elizabeth said, and was absurdly rewarded with a proper huff of amusement.

“Later,” Shiori said. “When I can enjoy it.”

They rode that wave together. Shiori’s body shook; Elizabeth’s fingers flexed against her waist. Her own arousal was a constant, throbbing ache then, an insistent drumbeat under her disciplined exterior. But the center of the moment was Shiori: the way she breathed, the way she pressed closer, as if Elizabeth’s broad frame was the only anchor in a room gone molten.

“Is there anything else I can do?” Elizabeth asked quietly when Shiori’s breathing evened out slightly.

Shiori pulled back just enough to look up at her. Her pupils were huge, swallowing gold.

“Yes,” she said. “But I need you to… admit something first.”

Elizabeth blinked.

“What?”

Shiori’s smile was small and sharp.

“You’ve thought about this,” she said. “About me. About other omegas in Advent. Nerissa.” Her eyes flicked up and down Elizabeth’s face, cataloguing every flinch. “Haven’t you?”

Shame slammed back into Elizabeth’s chest.

“I–” Her mouth was dry. “I am… not proud of–”

“Stop.” Shiori’s tone was sudden steel. “Do not turn this into a confessional about how terrible you are. Just answer the question.”

Elizabeth’s eyes dropped to the floor. Her hand was still on Shiori’s waist; her fingers twitched.

“Yes,” she said, very quietly. “I– the thought occurred to me. I did not–”

“You touched yourself thinking about us,” Shiori said bluntly. “About me. About Nerissa.”

Elizabeth flinched as if slapped.

“That is… inappropriate language for–”

Shiori clicked her tongue.

“You’re so easy to fluster,” she muttered. “Listen to me. You had a fantasy. That’s all. You didn’t cross any lines in reality. You stayed away from us for a week because your guilt was so loud I could practically hear it through two doors and a suppression field.”

Elizabeth stared at her, startled.

“You knew?”

“I know everything,” Shiori said airily, then winced as another cramp caught her. “Or at least, I know the interesting parts.” Her hand slid up, fingers tracing the edge of Elizabeth’s epaulette. “Tonight, I… am giving you a different story to file in that head of yours. One where you are not some villain for wanting things. Where an omega looks you in the eye and says: I want you too.”

The words were like a key in a locked door inside Elizabeth. She felt it turn, felt something give.

Shiori inhaled again, scenting carefully, as if she were tracing inked words in the margins of Elizabeth’s composure.

“You’re already half gone,” she said softly. “You know that, right? You’re trying so hard to be respectful it’s almost sweet. But your biology is not listening. You’re hard as a rock under that uniform, I’d bet anything.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught.

“That is not– that’s–” She spluttered, mortified. “That is not an appropriate–”

“It’s not an accusation,” Shiori said. Her eyes narrowed, thoughtful. “Just a fact. And I’m not going to pretend I don’t like it.” Her fingers flexed against Elizabeht’s thigh, clutching at the fabric as if to anchor herself.

Elizabeth froze at Shiori’s touch, at the frankness of the observation. It was one thing to know her body had betrayed her in a dozen small ways she could no longer fully police: the tightness in her thighs, the way her hips had inched closer without permission, the undeniable pressure straining against her trousers. But to hear Shiori name it aloud, so casually, so boldly, as if they weren’t prisoner and guard, as if this was normal – something about that shattered the last barrier of denial Elizabeth had been clinging to.

She swallowed loudly.

“I–” Elizabeth began, voice strangled. Her hand jerked away from Shiori’s thigh as if burned, but it didn’t get far. Shiori caught her wrist before she could withdraw it completely, fingers wrapping tight around the cuff of her sleeve.

“No,” Shiori said quietly, firmly. “Stay right there. You don’t get to run just because I said the truth out loud.”

Elizabeth froze. Her whole body felt like it was vibrating, barely holding itself together. Her cock pulsed against the tight seam of her uniform trousers. Her shoulders twitched with tension. She wanted to disappear into the stone beneath them.

But Shiori wasn’t letting her.

“You are hard,” Shiori repeated, her voice low and even, as though they were discussing a book title or a legal statute. “And it’s not a crime. I’m in heat. You’re responding. That’s exactly what every inch of your body is supposed to do, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth swallowed hard, mouth dry.

“I don’t want to use that as an excuse,” she said hoarsely. “I don’t want to become someone who… uses biology to justify hurting someone.”

Shiori’s grip on her sleeve softened.

“And that’s why I trust you,” she said simply.

The quiet reverberated between them.

Shiori’s hand moved, fingers ghosting along the inside of Elizabeth’s wrist, along the lines of her palm.

The contact sent a jolt straight through Elizabeth’s spine, sharp enough that she had to draw in a careful breath through her nose and lock her knees where she knelt.

Shiori noticed. Of course she did.

“There,” she murmured, satisfaction threading through the strain in her voice. “That little hitch. That’s what I mean when I say you’re already half gone.”

Elizabeth swallowed. Her mouth felt dry, her tongue too large for it.

“Tell me what you need,” she said, because that mattered.

For a moment, Shiori just looked at her. Really looked. Not the way she usually did, with that distant, archival focus, like she was slotting Elizabeth into a category she could cross-reference later. This was closer, warmer, sharpened by heat and something like curiosity stripped of its usual irony.

Then Shiori shifted.

It was slow, deliberate, but there was nothing graceful about it. She dragged herself upright with a small hiss, palms braced behind her on the bunk. Her shoulders trembled with the effort. The inmate dress rode up her thighs, exposing flushed skin, the leather straps and metal rings glinting dully in the ward-light. Her cuffs chimed, the leather creaked softly as she moved.

Elizabeth’s hands twitched, instinct screaming at her to help, to steady, to lift–

Shiori shot her a look.

“I’ve got it,” she said, breathless but stubborn. “Sit still.”

Elizabeth froze, chastened, and watched as Shiori managed to sit up fully, then scooted herself to the edge of the bed inch by inch. Each movement pulled another quiet sound from her throat. When she finally reached the edge her feet touched the stone floor, toes curling reflexively at the chill, bracing one hand against Elizabeth’s shoulder.

Elizabeth found herself kneeling fully on the floor, between Shiori’s legs without quite remembering deciding to move that way. The stone was cold through the fabric of her trousers. Her cape pooled around her knees like spilled ink. For once she was the one looking up.

Shiori noticed that too.

Her mouth curved, slow and sharp, even as sweat beaded at her temple.

“Well,” she said. “Isn’t this a novelty perspective.”

Elizabeth’s pulse thudded in her ears.

“Are you okay?” she asked, because that was still her job, still her anchor. “Do you need support?”

Shiori’s mouth curved, slow and sharp and fond all at once.

“Oh, I need a great many things,” she said. Her gaze dragged over Elizabeth, unhurried now, cataloguing the way her uniform pulled tight over broad shoulders, the way her tie sat just slightly askew from kneeling, the faint glow of the flame over her heart. Then her eyes dipped lower, lingering, where the uniform strained in ways it never did on patrol.

Shiori whistled softly.

“No kidding,” she murmured. “You’re really big.”

Elizabeth’s hands twitched at her sides. She was painfully aware of how she must look: flushed, hair messy, eyes dark with restraint and want. Kneeling in full Justice uniform at the feet of a prisoner in heat.

Her face burned.

“Shiori–”

“Rock hard,” Shiori continued, voice dropping, appreciative in a way that made Elizabeth’s stomach clench. “Even with all that self-control, you’re straining like a loyal mutt told to sit.”

The word mutt landed with a thud low in Elizabeth’s gut, heat flaring hot and fast. She had to grip her thighs to keep from rocking forward, dropping her gaze instantly.

“I’m sorry,” she said reflexively.

Shiori rolled her eyes, exaggerated even through the haze of heat.

“Gods above and below, you really are hopeless,” she said. Then, more gently, “Look at me.”

Elizabeth hesitated for half a heartbeat. Then, she obeyed.

Shiori was flushed now, color high on her cheekbones, lips parted as she breathed. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, gold nearly lost to black. There was want there, naked and unashamed, threaded through with pain and relief and something dangerously close to trust.

She straightened a little, then lifted one foot and nudged Elizabeth’s knee with her toes.

“Undo your belt,” she said.

Elizabeth’s breath caught.

“I–”

Shiori’s brows lifted, a clear challenge.

“Did you miss the part where I said I would be giving instructions?” she asked lightly and leaned back again, giving Elizabeth space even as her words tightened the invisible leash between them. “Because if so, I can repeat myself more slowly.”

Elizabeth hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, then moved.

Her hands were steady despite the tremor in her veins. She reached down, fingers working the polished buckle of her belt free. The leather slid loose with a soft sound that seemed impossibly loud in the small cell.

“Good,” Shiori said. “Now unbutton your trousers.”

Elizabeth hesitated for half a heartbeat, then obeyed. One button. Two. The fabric loosened, releasing pressure that made her groan despite herself.

Heat rushed in, immediate and undeniable.

“Take it out,” Shiori said, voice low. “Leave the rest on.”

Elizabeth’s heart hammered. She glanced up at Shiori, searching her face for any sign of doubt, any flicker of hesitation she could seize on to stop, to retreat.

There was none. Only heat, intent, and something like careful curiosity.

She reached down and freed herself from her trousers. Her cock sprang foward immediately, thick and heavy, flushed with blood, the head already slick with precum that glistened in the ward-light. A drop slid free, dripping against the fabric still covering her legs.

Shiori inhaled sharply.

For just a moment something faltered in her expression, the sharp commentary falling away. Her eyes widened a fraction, her mouth parting. Her scent spiked, not with pain this time, but with something hungry and hot. She stilled, fingers curling against the edge of the bunk.

Elizabeth saw it and panicked.

“I can–” she blurted, scrambling even as shame curled hot in her gut. “I can use my fingers. Or my mouth. I don’t have to–”

“Shut up.”

The words were sharp, not cruel, and it stopped her cold.

Elizabeth froze.

Shiori leaned forward, reached out and wrapped her hand around Elizabeth’s cock.

Elizabeth hissed, a sharp, helpless sound tearing out of her as her hips bucked forward on instinct. Her thighs trembled. The heat of Shiori’s palm, the way her fingers fit around her girth – it nearly shattered her composure on the spot.

Her hands flew out, bracing against the bunk to keep herself from thrusting.

“You are going to use this,” Shiori said, squeezing just enough to make the point, her grip sure despite the tremor in her own body. “But not yet.” Her thumb brushed over the slick head, gathering precum, and Elizabeth nearly came undone right there. “First… prepare me.”

The shame ebbed, replaced by something steadier. Purpose. Direction.

Elizabeth bowed her head.

“Yes,” she said, voice hoarse.

She leaned forward, guided as much by instinct as by Shiori’s hand still loosely holding her cock, and spread Shiori’s legs further apart with gentle pressure so she could settle between them.

The heat hit her like a wall. Her thighs were flushed and warm under Elizabeth’s palms, muscles tense and trembling. The scent was overwhelming now, thick and intoxicating, making Elizabeth’s mouth water and her instincts sing.

She paused, looking up through her lashes like a dog waiting for a command, heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.

“May I?” she asked.

Shiori caught the look and snorted softly, fond despite herself. Her fingers slid from Elizabeth’s cock into her hair, tangling gently.

“Yes, you big idiot,” she said. “Eat.”

Elizabeth buried her face between Shiori’s legs.

The inmate dress bunched up around Shiori’s waist, fabric whispering as Elizabeth pushed it aside. Heat and slick met her mouth, overwhelming in the best way. She inhaled shakily, then set to work.

Shiori had expected shyness. Hesitation. Maybe something clumsy and overenthusiastic.

Instead, Elizabeth was attentive.

She pressed a broad, flat lick from bottom to top, slow and deliberate, tasting everything. Shiori gasped, a sharp sound that turned into a broken moan as Elizabeth hummed softly against her, the vibration sending a jolt straight through her spine.

Elizabeth worked with care and attention, not diving in like a starving animal but mapping Shiori’s reactions with meticulous focus. She alternated wide, thorough licks with smaller, precise ones, learning the rhythm of Shiori’s breathing, the way her thighs tensed when Elizabeth lingered at just the right spot.

She used her hands too, spreading gently, holding Shiori open without force. Her thumbs pressed into the soft skin of Shiori’s thighs, grounding herself in the act of service.

It felt… thoughtful. Almost loving.

Shiori gasped, fingers tightening in Elizabeth’s hair.

“That’s…” she gasped. “That’s good. Good girl.”

The praise hit Elizabeth harder than the scent ever could.

Her body responded instantly, cock throbbing painfully where it hung between her legs, untouched, dripping steadily onto the stone. A low, involuntary sound vibrated in her chest as her hands dug more firmly into Shiori’s thighs.

She redoubled her efforts, driven now not just by instinct but by that single, devastating affirmation.

She nosed against Shiori’s folds, parting them gently, humming as she sucked at her clit. The vibration made Shiori’s hips jolt.

“Shit– fuck, that’s–” Shiori arched, fingers tightening in red hair. “You’re– fuck. You’re good at this.”

The world narrowed to sensation. Heat. Wetness. The quiet jingle of restraints. Elizabeth’s steady, relentless attention.

Shiori’s breathing grew ragged, hips rocking helplessly against Elizabeth’s mouth. Her free hand clawed at the edge of the bunk, knuckles white.

When she was getting close, Elizabeth could feel it in the way Shiori’s body tightened, the way her scent spiked again, Shiori tugged sharply on her hair, pulling her away, both of them panting.

Elizabeth looked wrecked.

Face flushed, mouth wet, chin slick and shining. Her cock was hard and straining, dripping steadily, standing out from her open trousers, obscene and needy against the stark order of her uniform. She knelt there between Shiori’s legs. Her eyes, when they lifted, were pure devotion, almost like she was waiting for a verdict.

Shiori panted, chest heaving.

“Gods,” she muttered. “You really do look good like that.” She reached out, thumb brushing Elizabeth’s cheek almost absently. “All right. Enough of that for now.”

Elizabeth swallowed, nodding immediately.

“Yes,” she said. “What next?”

Shiori smiled, slow and wicked.

“Up,” she said. “On the bed. Sit.”

Elizabeth obeyed without question, scrambling to her feet and sitting back on the bunk. She barely registered the cold stone at her back or the awkwardness of her half-open uniform.

The next thing she knew, Shiori was straddling her.

The sudden weight, the heat of Shiori’s body pressing down on her lap, nearly knocked the breath from her lungs. Shiori settled herself deliberately, knees braced on either side of Elizabeth’s thighs, hands resting on her shoulders.

Elizabeth groaned, hands hovering uselessly at Shiori’s waist, afraid to touch without permission.

“Words,” Shiori panted. “Hands. Use them.”

They rocked together instinctively, friction through the fabric of Shiori’s dress enough to make Elizabeth see stars. Shiori guided her with subtle movements, grinding down in slow, needy circles.

Elizabeth checked in constantly, murmuring questions between gasps.

“Is this all right?”

“Too much?”

“Tell me if–”

At one point, Shiori laughed, breathless and shaky.

“Elizabeth,” she said, pressing her forehead briefly to Elizabeth’s. “If you don’t hear the word stop, you can assume I’m enjoying myself.”

Elizabeth let out a helpless sound, half laugh, half groan.

“I just want to be sure,” she murmured.

They found a rhythm together, awkward at times, bodies knocking in ways that made them both hiss or laugh softly. Elizabeth kept her hands on Shiori’s waist, grounding herself there, resisting the urge to grip too tightly.

Shiori’s hands wandered, exploring the broad planes of Elizabeth’s shoulders, the curve of her neck. Eventually, inevitably, they drifted lower.

Her fingers brushed Elizabeth’s cock.

Elizabeth froze.

Her breath hitched; fear spiked sharp and sudden. She caught Shiori’s wrist gently but firmly.

“No,” she said sharply, panic bleeding into her voice. “Wait.”

Shiori stopped immediately, hands hovering.

Elizabeth was panting. Her pupils were blown wide. Her mouth trembled.

“I don’t know if I can stop if we go further,” she said. “I don’t know if I can control it. I’m–Shiori, I’m terrified of what I’ll do.”

Shiori was still.

Then, gently, she reached up and cupped Elizabeth’s cheek.

“If you flinch away from me one more time when I am climbing you like a tree,” she said calmly, heat simmering under the words, “I will bite you.” Her grip tightened, not threatening, but certain. “If something hurts, I will say so. If I want more, I will also say so. Do you trust me to know my own body?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, without any hesitation at all.

“Then trust yourself to listen,” Shiori replied. “That’s all I’m asking.”

The words settled something in Elizabeth’s chest. She nodded once and released Shiori’s wrist.

“Alright.”

Shiori’s hand slid back down, closing around Elizabeth’s cock properly this time. Elizabeth gasped, hips lifting instinctively. Shiori guided her, lining her up with unerring precision.

The head brushed between soaked lips, slick and hot.

Shiori’s heat enveloped her like nothing Elizabeth had ever known.

Hot, wet, blinding.

The moment Shiori sank fully down, Elizabeth felt everything go silent.

Her thoughts.

Her instincts.

Even her shame.

Shiori hissed, breath stuttering, hands gripping Elizabeth’s shoulders hard as she adjusted to the size.

Elizabeth stayed completely still, muscles shaking with restraint, letting Shiori set the pace.

“Shiori–” she managed. “Gods, Shiori, you–”

“I know,” Shiori whispered, barely audible. Her forehead rested on Elizabeth’s shoulder, and her whole body quivered. “You’re… so big. It’s… it’s good.”

Elizabeth swallowed a moan. She could feel it all: every subtle twitch of Shiori’s body, every flutter of inner muscles wrapped around her. Her own hips twitched once, betraying her restraint.

When Shiori finally sank down fully, balls deep, she paused, forehead resting against Elizabeth’s, breath shuddering as she got used to the stretch, to being filled so completely.

Elizabeth went rigid, hands gripping the mattress.

“Are you okay?”

Shiori leaned down, lips brushing Elizabeth’s ear.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Majesty,” she whispered, breath hot. “I can take whatever you have.” She rolled her hips experimentally, making Elizabeth see stars. “Now. Less talking. More… service.”

The word shattered the last of Elizabeth’s resistance.

Service. Not taking. Not conquering. Giving. Obeying.

Her grip tightened around Shiori’s waist, not hard enough to bruise, but strong enough that she could feel the pulse of blood beneath skin. She lifted her hips, dragging herself out slow, half an inch, an inch, more–

Shiori whimpered.

Then sank back down.

Their bodies clapped together, skin to skin, slick to slick.

“Again,” Shiori breathed.

She thrust up into Shiori, controlled but firm, letting the rhythm build. Letting her instincts take root in motion, but never giving them full control. Please, fill, hold. She lifted, rocked, let gravity and pressure bring Shiori back down. Again. Again.

The wet sound of their bodies meeting filled the cell. Shiori clung to her shoulders, panting now, hips rocking to meet each thrust with a kind of reckless hunger. Her collar jangled faintly every time Elizabeth bottomed out, hands braced on Elizabeth’s strong shoulders.

And Elizabeth– Elizabeth couldn’t look away.

Not from Shiori’s face: flushed, open, eyes shining with heat and want. Not from the way her lips parted when she gasped her name. Not from the little tremors that rolled through her thighs every time Elizabeth dragged her cock along a spot deep inside that made her shudder.

“You’re so deep,” Shiori gasped. “I can feel you everywhere– fuck, Liz, I–”

Elizabeth hummed, almost like a soothing purr, trembling. Let her grip tighten on Shiori’s hips. Let herself rut up into her, again and again, slick fabric catching and dragging between them. Shiori’s body was hot and pliant in her lap, and every roll of her hips made her whimper, then moan, then laugh softly through gritted teeth.

Elizabeth caught her under the thighs and lifted, letting Shiori fall onto her again.

That earned her an open moan. Shiori’s head tipped back, lips parted in something between prayer and filth. She tightened, pulsing around Elizabeth’s cock, and for a moment Elizabeth had to grit her teeth and lock her jaw to keep from coming right then and there.

There were stretches of silence between them, broken only by breath and the rustle of fabric and the faint jingle of Shiori’s restraints.

At one point, voice raw and vulnerable, Elizabeth whispered, “Can I… can I kiss you?”

Shiori’s eyes softened instantly.

“Please,” she said.

It was clumsy at first. Elizabeth’s nose bumped hers. Their teeth clicked. Shiori tasted like tea and heat and want. Elizabeth kissed her again, lips gentle despite the urgency in her body, slower, finding the rhythm by following her lead. Their mouths moved together, soft and open and then hungry, lips wet and insistent.

The kiss deepened when Shiori hooked her fingers into the front of Elizabeth’s coat and dragged her closer, threading her other hand into the loose hair at Elizabeth’s nape.

They kissed like that for a long time, messy and breathless, moving together, finding a rhythm that worked, that carried them both toward release.

Elizabeth tried to hold off. She really did.

Her cock ached. Her knot had started to swell; she could feel the pressure building at the base, the deep, primal instinct urging her to bury and lock, to stay, to claim. It terrified her.

“I’m–” she gasped. “Shiori, I think I’m– frig, I’m close–”

“Let go,” Shiori said.

Elizabeth whimpered.

“I’ll knot you–”

“I know.”

“You don’t understand–” She was losing rhythm. Her thrusts faltered, her grip slipped, she tried to hold herself back and failed. “I’m not sure I can stop after– I’m scared–”

“Elizabeth.” Shiori caught her face between her hands again. Her voice dropped into command. “Knot me.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

“I want it,” Shiori said. “I want you to come inside me. I want you to knot me, fill me, everything. You’re not taking anything I’m not giving. You’re not stealing. You’re not forcing. I’m choosing this.”

She leaned in, and their foreheads pressed together.

“I’m choosing you.”

Elizabeth broke.

Her hips snapped up one final time. Her knot caught, swelling past the tight ring of muscle and locking them together.

Shiori gasped, cried out, fingers tightening on her shoulders.

And Elizabeth came.

She came like her body had been waiting for years. A tidal wave ripped through her, shuddering from spine to cock. She jerked against Shiori, driving her deeper, cock pumping thick ropes of cum into her with every pulse. She was vaguely aware of gasping her name – Shiori, Shiori, Shiori – like a benediction, like a plea, like salvation.

“Don’t stop,” Shiori said, one hand flying down between her thighs to press against her clit through the bunched fabric of her dress. “Gods, don’t stop.”

So Elizabeth didn’t.

She thrust harder.

Shiori ground down with a gasp and, finally, allowed herself to come too.

Her hand on her clit, cunt clenching wildly around Elizabeth’s cock, her back arched and her voice broke into a desperate cry. Her orgasm shook through her like an earthquake, hips bucking, chain on her collar rattling. She trembled in Elizabeth’s lap, then stilled, slumping forward.

And when Elizabeth finally collapsed back against the wall, still locked inside her, still twitching, still dazed–

“Just– stay with me.”

Elizabeth caught her.

Held her.

Breathed with her.

Let the world stop for just a little while.

Shiori’s breath ghosted against her neck, uneven and warm. Her thighs trembled where they clung to Elizabeth’s hips. Their bodies stayed locked, joined, knotted, inseparable for the moment.

Elizabeth felt her chest ache.

She tilted her head until her lips brushed Shiori’s temple. A kiss. A thank you.

Shiori let out a long sigh.

Elizabeth focused on everything: the way Shiori felt around her, the sounds she made, the look on her face. She archived the moment the way Shiori would, detail by detail, imprinting it into memory.

And, for once, she let herself feel proud.

This was what that strength was for.

Not to take.

But to service.

Not to dominate.

But to satisfy, under someone else’s careful direction.

And Shiori, beneath all the defiance and the bristling edges, had trusted her.

When Shiori’s body finally eased, the worst of the fire burned through and the terrible tightness in her abdomen releasing, she slumped against Elizabeth’s chest with a sigh that sounded like surrender and victory both.

“Stay,” she murmured after a long, quiet stretch, words slurred with exhaustion. “I want… I want you to stay. After. Just for a bit.”

Elizabeth looked down at the top of her head, at the black-and-white strands tangled against her coat, at the collar resting against the line of her flame.

“Of course,” she said immediately. Then, softer, “I mean– if you still want me here. I can’t– this doesn’t erase the fact that you are… held here. I don’t want you to feel trapped with me.”

“I’m already trapped,” Shiori said dryly. Then her expression softened, her fingers brushing Elizabeth’s jaw. “I’m asking you to share the cell for a while. That’s different.”

Elizabeth stayed.

She settled against the wall, and Shiori folded into her side like she’d done it a hundred times before. The omega’s head fit just under her chin; her fingers traced idle patterns over the buttons of Elizabeth’s coat. The worst of the heat had ebbed, leaving Shiori exhausted, body still humming but no longer wracked with knife-edged cramps.

Silence stretched between them, comfortable in a way Elizabeth wouldn’t have believed possible an hour earlier.

“I’m going to owe you forever for this,” Shiori said at last, voice muffled against Elizabeth’s shoulder.

Elizabeth frowned.

“No,” she said. “You’re not.”

Shiori huffed.

“That’s not how debts work,” she said.

“This isn’t a debt,” Elizabeth insisted. She lifted one hand and, after a tiny hesitation, let her fingers stroke gently through Shiori’s hair. It was softer than she’d imagined. “I offered because you were in pain. You accepted because you trusted me not to harm you. That’s not a ledger. That’s… two people navigating a difficult situation with care.”

Shiori shifted, chin tipping up so she could meet Elizabeth’s eyes.

“You make it sound so… noble,” she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I just really wanted you.”

They fell quiet again. Elizabeth listened to Shiori’s breathing even out, the subtle changes in her scent as it shifted from urgent heat to something calmer, contented but still threaded with want.

She nestled back against Elizabeth’s chest, closing her eyes. Her hand slipped under the edge of the coat, resting over the steady beat of Elizabeth’s heart.

“Sleep, Harbinger,” she said, already half fading. “You did well tonight.”

Elizabeth’s eyes stung.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

She didn’t sleep, not really. She dozed in shifts, alert to every twitch in Shiori’s body, every small change in breathing.

By the time the artificial lights of The Cell cycled to the next “morning,” they were both wrung out.

Shiori’s scent had shifted again: the edge of the heat dulled, leaving something softer but still unmistakably omega, threaded with Elizabeth’s own smoke-and-flame. It made something deep in Elizabeth’s chest vibrate with dangerous satisfaction.

She did not mark Shiori.

She wanted to, brutally. Her teeth ached with it. Every instinct in her clamored to press her mouth to the curve of Shiori’s neck, bite down, leave something undeniable there.

But Shiori wore a collar with gods’ magic in it. And more importantly, Shiori’s body and choices were not hers to brand.

Instead, before she left the bunk, she leaned in and pressed a single, careful kiss to the top of Shiori’s head.

“Thank you for trusting me,” she said quietly.

The wards hummed as they came back online, glass regaining its subtle sheen. Shiori’s scent dulled slightly with the barrier in place, but it was still there, ghosting the air like the afterimage of a bright light.

The days that followed folded into one another, as they often did in the earth’s core.

The suppressant shipment finally arrived in The Cell with a parade of sigils and groaning chains. Crates were hauled down through tunnels by stone automatons, vials checked and logged by medics whose hands shook from the pressure.

Suppressants for everyone: label after label marked for omega, alpha, gods-know-what-else.

When a medic and Raora brought a tray of neatly labeled vials to Advent’s corridor, Elizabeth was there as well. Harbinger’s presence lent the kind of gravitas that made regulations behave.

The medic paused outside Shiori’s cell, lifting a vial between two fingers.

“Novella,” they said. “Standard dose. After the recent incident, we might want to adjust the frequency–”

“No,” Shiori said.

The word was quiet but clear. It cut across the stone.

The medic blinked, thrown.

“Excuse me?”

Shiori, seated at her table, turned her head toward the glass. She still saw only her own faint reflection and the light-etched wards, but her gaze found the shape of the tray, the medic’s posture, Elizabeth’s presence.

“I said, no thank you,” Shiori repeated. “I’m declining.”

The medic sputtered.

“That’s not– these are mandatory for omegas in close quarters, for those with–” They caught themselves, glanced at Elizabeth, and fumbled for a more neutral phrase. “For certain… physiological profiles. The last few days show exactly why–”

“I am not in a dormitory,” Shiori said calmly. “I am in a sealed stone box at the bottom of the world. No bunkmates. No unsuspecting passersby. The only person at risk when my body throws a centuries-overdue tantrum is me.” Her fingers tapped once on the table.

The medic looked helplessly to Elizabeth.

“Harbinger?” they asked. “Regulations–”

Elizabeth studied Shiori through the glass.

She saw no flippancy there. No reckless edge. Just calculation, memory, and a steady, stubborn line of desire: to feel what the suppressants had muffled, to keep this strange, painful, precious new story unfolding rather than bury it in chemicals.

She saw her own reflection in the glass: tall, rigid, badge gleaming.

“Record that Shiori Novella is declining suppressants at this time,” Elizabeth said. “Note that she has been informed of potential risks and that The Cell has proven capable of safely containing her during her heat. Her choice stands unless and until she requests otherwise.”

The medic gaped.

“But–”

“If the Gods have objections, they can be addressed in a formal review,” Elizabeth said, still perfectly polite. “Until then, we will honor her decision. This prison exists to contain what they fear, not to erase what they dislike.”

Raora’s lips twitched, just a little. The medic, thoroughly out-ranked, jotted notes and moved on.

When the corridor quieted again, Shiori rose and walked toward the glass. Her steps were soundless on bare stone; the faint jingle of metal was the only sign of movement.

“So,” she said, tone deceptively light, “you sided with me against received wisdom. How very reckless of you, Harbinger.”

“It is not reckless,” Elizabeth said. “You are not a danger to others in your current conditions. And I do not believe in drugging someone against their will purely so the person tasked with guarding them can feel more comfortable.”

Shiori stood very close to the glass now. She lifted her hand and pressed her palm against it on her side.

Elizabeth, after a brief hesitation, mirrored the gesture.

The warmth of Shiori’s skin did not reach through, but the intent did.

“Shiori,” she said, “I–”

She stopped.

There were so many things she wanted to say: I care about you more than I should. I am terrified of how much I enjoyed last night. I don’t know how to carry this and still be the person Justice expects me to be. I want–

She swallowed them all.

“I am… glad you’re feeling better,” she said instead, and it was true, even if it was a fraction of what she wanted to say.

Shiori’s eyes softened.

“I know,” she said quietly.

She let her hand fall from the glass, stepping back.

“Go on, Harbinger,” she said, the teasing note returning to her voice as a shield. “Justice waits for no lovestruck alpha.”

Elizabeth almost choked.

“I am not–”

“Sure,” Shiori said, smirking. “And I’m a model prisoner.”

Elizabeth huffed.

“Have a good evening, Shiori,” she said, deliberately formal again, because it was the only way she knew how to leave without looking back too many times.