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Chapter Text

Letter from the Western Family to the Crown.

Subject: Request for expansion of the Western Fortress

To the Grace and Rightousness of the Empire,

The Western Family is seeking permission from the Queen Mother to expand the Western Fortress for the establishment of a Cultivators Guild, as in accordance with the traditions of all other Families. While the Western Family has not had a regiment for developing its local cultivators in many years, the recent census conducted on 14th of June have led us to believe it to be a worthwhile pursuit.

Young cultivators will be provided food, board and training within the Western Fortress, hence the need for expansion. We have been well aware of the recent disappearances that have grown around the outlying villages, in part due to the aggressive species of pine.

Here are a few recent accomplishments:

    An increase of young cultivators in the Western Territories by 89%

    A decrease in mercenary activities in the Southwestern region by 21%

    A decrease of 36% in missing villagers in the last moon cycle.

We have attached the full expansion proposal alongside the request, requiring your seal. 

We have very little doubt that we can complete our expansion initiative as the response received from the public has been positive. The establishment of a Cultivator’s Guild will also allow us to rely on inner forces to cleanse the surrounding area of its accumulated dark energies rather than the external.

I place my fate into the hands of the Queen Mother.

May the sun never set on the Grace and Rightousness of the Empire.

Billiam the Third

There was probably a moment where Technoblade should have said, I’m not the Lord of the West.

The Antarctic Empire covered large swathes of barren land, staggering mountains and tundra. The land had to be built atop stilts and bridges, packed with fertile soil. Meat and poultry were imported into the Empire through its vassal states, and much of its local cuisine relied on the abundance of birds, fish and sea mammals. Borne by the grace of the Primordial Queen Mother, the Antarctic Empire stood as one of the oldest empires to date, governed by several noble families that had once stood by the Queen Mother as her earliest devotees. The title has been passed down to the eldest, and then to their eldest, and further– 

The estranged Western Front can only be referred to as one of the most unpleasant of the Great Families. A family whose motto seeks to, Cultivate wealth in this world and the next, began with relatively weak spiritual prowess. As their efforts turned towards consolidating businesses within their territories, heirs were chosen for their ruthlessness in commerce rather than their cultivation level. They were one of the richest families in the Antarctic Empire, the Blood Manor had pavements that were gilded with precious stones and curtains made of golden spider silk.

It is said that the current blood heir did not even have a spiritual core, and that the sword he strapped to his side was merely his servant’s.

Before awakening in a half-lucid state in the man’s bed, Techno was actually convinced Sir Billiam the Third was a serial killer.

It turned out the man was just an occultist; he kept an ancient evil in his familial quarters, shrouded by pine trees.

And Techno looked just like him.

There were distinct differences in bone structure; Techno had a more angular jaw, and the bridge of his nose was crooked. He had retained his own complexion, that of a sickly Victorian child, courtesy of the numerous night shifts he’d taken to make a dent to his student loans. He had brown eyes, where Billiam’s were a striking red – he also had terrible eyesight, where it seemed Billiam did not require glasses. 

Good thing he wore his mask everywhere. 

Techno wouldn’t say he stole the man’s identity, only that his attendant would not take no for an answer and Techno had been too overwhelmed with the bureaucracy of running a clan to correct him.

Actually– You’re going to the Spring Banquet?– I’ll get right on that, but if I could– you’ve pulled your support for the Celestial alehouses?! — Yeah, about that — Sent an address for the recruitment of young cultivators– well, we needed the help—

It wasn’t like there was much in the old life either way; he’d been… alone there. He had walked through the every day, every day. He thought he'd been doing pretty well– but the clarification should have happened before this.

Before the Spring Banquet.

Technoblade felt wildly out of place in his ceremonial robes. 

They were the colour of yellow ochre and dark accents, made of fine silks and thick fabric usually seen in military apparel, layered over each other carefully. 

“Pristine as always,” his personal attendant said quietly; he was tall, taller than Techno, which said something. He had no name, or rather, he refused to give Techno his name. His mask was made of thin, lacquered wood, made to enhance the one Techno wore, which was a graceful dark wood that wrapped around his eyes and curled down to his jaw on one end. He had it commissioned to incorporate his lenses, so he could see properly. 

The boy didn’t really talk much, and every time he did, he looked like he was horrified at what he was saying. Techno turned to him, and he flinched.

“You think?” he said, pretending not to notice, “I look like a nerd,”

“No–!” the boy barked, appalled, and then looked even more appalled at himself, his hands clutching together, “I mean– master, looks– perfect,”

He tugged at the collar of his clothes, “I’m trustin’ you, puttin’ my reputation on the line.” he paused, “Are you wearin’ anything?”

The boy blinked at him.

Techno had never noticed it before, but the boy had a smell about him. It wasn’t– bad. Low and mild. Almost like the Manor. He leaned in, and the boy squeaked, ears turned pink, “Cologne,” Techno said, “Nice, nice,”

The Spring Banquet was an intermingling of the Great Families.

It was oddly warm for spring. The Banquet opened up so the sky was smiling down at them, great feather fans swaying as more guests arrived. There were several ivory balconies that overlooked the mountain, blooming flowers that weaved between the pillars. Techno had spent days pouring over family trees, memorising every name and every scandal so he wouldn’t seem completely out of his depth.

Turned out, he didn’t need to do any of that, because no one felt the need to come up to him. There were watchers, he felt their eyes follow him when he moved for a drink. No one stared openly as Techno stood there, which would have only prompted him to stare back, but as the minutes ticked by, he became aware of something else.

The smell. 

It seemed to be congested in the thick of the crowd, a lot of it at once.

He thought it might’ve been the food. Fluctuating, almost nausea-inducing, sweat beaded at the nape of his neck. It was sharp, it intruded every time he turned around to busy himself. Only ever pulling away when the attendant flitted closer, anxiously offering him another drink. Techno’s eyes went to the proffered arm, he wanted to lean in closer, he thought, to drown all the other cacophony with the familiar comfort of the manor. Instead, he braced himself and downed the drink in one go, “It’s just nerves,” he said after a mouthful, under the increasingly alarmed look that was making itself known in the boy’s eyes, “I’m gettin’ some air,”

Somewhere the wind blew in from, he retreated to the mouth of an empty balcony.

Air, just air. Nothing else. Techno patted his front down, fingers pinching at the gape of his collar, to pull at it even further.

“Lord of the West,” Techno whirled around, and there was a man that had approached without his hearing. There were lilies of the valley woven into his dirty blond hair, they made patterns down to shoulders. He had a polite, benign smile, and a warm, rounded face that made him look much more approachable than his smile did. His inner robes suited spring, a warm, soothing green, complemented the subtle dark colours of his outer robe, “You look different.”

There was something about the golden pin pressed to his lapel that nagged at Techno, the silhouette of a crow.

The smell retreated, like the man had pushed it all out with his presence.

“Oh,” Techno said, “My eyesight has been worsenin’, hence,” gestured at his eyes, the glass slid in the eyes of the mask.

There was a bafflement in the man’s face.

His eyes dragged from Techno’s head to his feet, then back up again.

“You never show up to these things,” he said, after a pause, his voice carefully open.

Oof. Billiam really needed to get out more. Techno was under the impression socialising was part of a lord’s duties. All the expenses for dinners and galas he’d seen in the ledger seemed to have given an impression of a much more indulgent lifestyle, “Ah, figured I could use the sunshine,” gestured towards the boy, “Bring the kid out for some socialisin’,” 

The man arched a brow, “Thought you didn’t believe in labour rights,”

Yikes.

“... I’ve decided to give him rights,” he said imperiously, “You know, I got to thinking, and when you’ve known someone this long, it’s… it’s just common courtesy.”

The man’s mouth curled to one side, like wanting to laugh, “What’s his name then,”

“He won’t say. I’m considerin’ just giving him a name,” he said, “How does moon sound,”

The man laughed, a surprised kind of laugh, “Think you’d better ask him,”

“Oh I will,” he said, “I’ll make him take a name, or else.”

The man’s head tilted to the side, that shrewd, considering gleam going out. Techno looked out past the man’s shoulder, to see that his attendant was standing ram-rod straight a few paces back. His face seemed to be stuck in bland politeness, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable. Techno wanted to mouth at him to relax, but then the man would notice. He had a feeling he had somewhat of an important figure with him, one of the Great Families, old enough to approach Billiam when no one else would. Secure in himself, his words were paced evenly, a cautious feeling out. He had a nice smile, it was the kind of smile that made Techno’s shoulders loosen, made him want to tell him anything. 

His surprise guest sat on the fine cushions that surrounded the balcony, and Techno, after a beat, joined him. He could feel his clothes sticking to him, but the wind made it much better, and the man carried with him distinct, calming notes that reminded him of old books, of curling up beside the fireplace. 

“How are things in the West,”

“Oh, it’s fantastic,” he said, “It’s fantastic, you’ll have to come over some time,”

“Really.” the man drawled; he leaned forward, his right arm resting on the railings, palm against his cheek. 

“I’ve… I’ve been doing some thinking,” he said, putting weight on his words in what he hoped to be sufficiently authoritative, “And isolationism is really no way for a clan to go, you know, aren’t we all children of the Queen Mother? A house divided amongst itself and all that,”

The man hummed. He watched Techno, “Looks like you’ve had a change of heart,”

“Oh I really have. Our ah, crop yield, it’s 30% higher, I’ve actually–”

The wind blew north, and Techno was hit with a dizzying wave that made him clutch the edge of his seat. It was a warmth that bloomed in his gut, behind his ears, until he shuddered through it, swallowing around his words. His hand came up to look for a drink, and then thought it must have been the drink that did this. Is he drunk? Already?

He lifted his head, and there was a look on his companion’s face.  

“Sorry,” he breathed, “I was sayin’ I’ve actually started subsidies for small farmers, and the Western family only has small farmers, given our ah, historic support for importin’ goods–”

Techno blinked, and the man had leaned in slightly, his voice low, “You’re…” 

“Oh,” Techno breathed, when the scent crowded around him. It was strong, like a lapping wave. Low and warm, cresting over him as his body arched against it, his arms collapsing underneath him to fall against the cushions. He was blowing this, he thought dimly, as his head tipped to follow where the scent was strongest. He was bringing embarrassment to the family.

“In heat.”

“What,” Techno squeaked; like an animal?! He pulled away, “No, I’m– fine, tis nothing but a flesh wound– I mean, I’ve been feeling sick all mornin’, but– wouldn’t miss, wouldn’t miss…”

The man cocked his head, he searched Techno’s eyes. “I was under the impression that you’d– be on suppressants,”

“‘m sorry, this is… inappropriate, I was talkin’ about the farmers…”

He leaned against the man’s shoulder. The warmth was like a balm, his heartbeat stuttered in his chest.

The man chuckled, and the sound of it, rumbled from his chest sent echoes through Techno. There was a pull from inside him, the heat gathered between his legs. A coo that made Techno’s shoulders loosen entirely, his body going limp and pliant.

“I– I will take him, your– Excellency,” he heard the fading voice of his attendant.

“Wait here,” the man said, and he said it in such a way that there was weight to his words. Techno’s knees nearly buckled, if not for the arms holding him up, and the man’s voice in his ear, murmuring, “Not you,”

Phil had wanted the Western Family gone for a good while.

A clan that only saw his fellow man as coin, which had not earned his title but certainly indulged its excess to the fullest. The Western territories were where money made money, it had the highest yield in profits of all the Empire. A year ago, the Western Clan set checkpoints on every road leading up to their capital. They had bred out their spiritual prowess, and had sought something else in its stead. There were reports of missing livestock, of missing people, as its cities were squeezed dry. 

There was a rot that had taken place there, where the forests grew larger, towering pines spread between the cities year by year. Phil felt it, the other families saw it for what it was– wanderers went astray, whispers of it– demonic faces in the mist, spirits in the water. The Western Clan was searching for a new sort of cultivation which borrowed energy from the unholy.

Something had to be done about that, sure, but for Phil… well.

It was the arrogance. 

It was the disrespect.

Phil had watched the downward curl of his lip in every prior ceremony, the lilt of his words, the way it went up and down in a mocking, turning tune. The Western Family had no respect for the Queen Mother, they had no respect for Death. 

And then something happened.

Something… shifted.

Phil kept his eye on the families. He would receive reports and papers from his own sources, that differed from what they sent through official channels. He had his own eyes, which nipped fondly at his fingers as he worked. The malaise which affected the entire Western territories, which had been creeping outward the way roots and vines do, its thick, twisting energy seeping into the ground and turning it barren– it began to wane.

“Come back to bed,” the Queen Mother had whispered, and he adored her, he adored her, but he needed to understand why.

Alehouses which had controlled nearly all of the accommodations for travellers and visitors into the Western territories, notorious conmen, had become rattled. Billiam would no longer put his weight behind their ludicrous price-gauging, he had dismantled the checkpoints across the roads and for the first time in what must have been centuries, he had opened the Blood Manor for young cultivators.

Why?

Why?

The Western Family had nearly no military might of its own. It relied heavily on kept units of mercenaries, rogue cultivators which had no clan to return to. All castles within the Empire were considered property of the Queen Mother, and any changes made required her seal. It was only courtesy, Phil had given the seal for a lot less. 

When Billiam the Third stepped into the Spring Banquet, it was his first public appearance outside the Western territories in nearly a decade. 

Little Lord Thomas Innit had immediately scurried over to tell him.

“He’s a scammer,” Tommy said around a mouthful of bread, “Beat him up, don’t let him lie to you, old man,”

Rather than the thick, bundled smell of nothing, of neither Alpha or Omega, he had a scent that curled around him, that made itself known. Inviting, he stood at the periphery as if uncertain, and only spoke with his attendant. His clothes were different, they were softer, where Billiam had always preferred robes which accentuated his shoulders, broadened his chest, a presence that would not be ignored. He would sweep into the Banquet with clothes that were lined with so much gold it was a wonder he could walk at all. 

He only wore them in his hair now.

It became quite clear within five minutes into the conversation that this was a completely different man. 

Something was wrong. 

Techno was burning.

He breathed too quickly, his chest rose and fell against the sheets. It was a deep, yawning want, to take in more of that scent. Of heat, of the summer and old wood, there was the man here. It came off him in waves, Techno pinched his own fingers in his hands to stop himself from touching, but all he could look at was the patch of skin at the man’s throat. He wanted to burrow his face there, he wanted to press them together. Sweat carved rivulets down the dips and curves of his stomach, he felt it soak into his robes. He teethed at his bottom lip, watching the man’s throat move, as if speaking.

Speaking.

 “... had no other relatives…”

Techno wiped his face with the back of his hands, habit curved his fingers to take heed of his glasses, but it knocked up against the wood of his mask. “Sorry,” he croaked, his heart seemed to be doing its utmost best to beat out of his chest, “I think I… I need a doctor, I can’t–”

He pulled the mask off.

His vision blurred and the world became a smear of colour and shapes. 

He moved closer, to see, just to see the man. But when he got closer, the weight of his presence sunk into him, until Techno curled fingers into the man’s clothes and pushed his nose to his front, breathing out soft and shaky. 

“... now who is this?” 

Fingers cradled his cheek. The man’s face came into focus. His eyes were the colour of the ocean, the stubble on his jaw, his scent soothed all the frazzled parts of him. Techno’s mouth fell open, taking in air, taking in him.  

“Calm down,” the man said, and his voice was warm, friendly, “You’re alright, you’re okay.”

He led Techno down, to the bed. 

Techno couldn’t look away from his eyes, there was a hand on his chest, right over his heart. “You smell good,” he breathed, and saw that mouth twitch upward. He felt the warmth of the man’s palm thrum through him, and then–

Pressure at the nape of his neck. 

His entire body went down. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and he blacked out.

Only seconds had passed. The heat returned as if it had never left, and between his legs… he… there was a stickiness in between his thighs when he clenched them together, he’d…

No.

Techno ripped himself away, his back hit a downy pillow which had been set around him.

He stared down at himself in horror– He’d come in his robes, he’d come just from–

“Hey, hey, look at me,” the voice came in and out, “That was my fault, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have touched you like that,” the man peered at him, lifted his face; all he could see where those eyes, the blue of the sky, of the shallow waters, “I thought it would calm you down, didn’t think you were quite so sensitive,”

Techno sunk back into the sheets, gasping through his next breaths, because even now, even after everything, he wanted the man to touch him. He pushed his face against his fingers, rubbing up between them and where the nails scraped at him, sent little tingles down his spine. The warm, woodsy scent followed, escaping from the hollow opening of the man’s sleeves. It was… impossible to ignore.

“Calm down,” 

And Techno felt his breathing go slow.

His limbs twitched, he shuddered against himself. 

“I’m Phil,” the man said quietly, and seemed to be waiting. Techno just looked at him, eyes hazy. Phil. Phil? Techno knew that name, he was so careful. Of course he knew that name. 

The only man the Queen Mother had ever taken, which had elevated the Northern Family to the most prominent of the Empire’s. A general. He had cultivated to immortality young, auburn hair turned pale under the light of the sun. 

“Royal consort,” he choked out.

“There you go,” the Royal Consort said, friendly, “What’s your name?”

“I’m… I’m…” his legs widened, involuntary, as Philza Craft, Angel of Death, Royal Consort, came closer; He liked how Philza touched him, he thought dizzily, “... so… dead,”

Philza barked out a laugh.

“You even talk differently,” he said, “You’ll go into shock if you wait a little longer, mate,”

He felt as if he was drowning in it, the heat. They made him sink into the mattress as if he had no strength left, his robes were drenched in sweat. They had to go, but his fingers weren’t enough to make them go. There were knots and ties around his waist, the boy had done it up tight, and he couldn’t get them to go away. His fingers slipped and fumbled, his nails dug into the knots to pull them apart, letting out a rasping groan of frustration when it wouldn’t. It was his gloves, it made everything too slippery.

“Something’s happenin’ to me,” he said, but it came out wrong. His mouth wouldn’t move the way he wanted.

Philza’s palm on his hair, threading through. Even that dragged through his body, set him alight. 

He pushed up against it, letting out a low, shaky breath. 

“I’m gonna need you to say you want this,” Philza said, “Or I call another alpha to help you. I was going to shake some answers out of you,” his voice went low, right to Techno’s ear, “But that would be cruel,”

He whined, pressing up against that broad chest, “Help…” he rasped, “Help me?” he could barely hear himself speak, outside the wanting, throbbing thing inside him. It spread everywhere, his body on a livewire, all of it pointed to the man above him. That underlying masculine scent. Alpha, he thought, the man had said. Alpha, just the thought of the word made his cock twitch. 

Philza hummed, the sound of it came from his throat. “Ask for what you want,”

“Want…”

A firm thumb rested underneath his chin, made his eyes go half-lidded, “Help me,” he breathed, and that thumb pressed into his mouth, tugged at his bottom lip, “Alpha,” he slurred, and knew it was the right thing to say, “Help me.”

“What a good omega,” Philza murmured.

Instinctive, inside him. He wanted to bend over for him. He wanted to spread his legs. When Philza spoke like that, he wanted to listen forever. A sound came out of him, high-pitched and whining. Omega, that was him. Omega wanted.

Techno pushed his face into the sheets, his hips lifting. Stretching his limbs out into the right position, it alleviated the ache in his hips, when he pressed his front down and presented.

Phil could hardly turn down a gift from a neighbouring family, especially one so lovely.

Billiam’s designation had not been public knowledge, and Phil had been sure the man had no living relatives. It was difficult to say for certain exactly when the omega began taking over clan duties, but he could make an educated guess. Billiam commanded a room, he made his displeasure known with booming voices, he would talk for hours on end about the state of the Empire. 

The omega stood with a refined stillness, and when he turned, he turned first his head and looked down at you as if studying you, before he deemed you worthy to turn his entire body. He had long, cow-like lashes, his eyes were the colour of oak. There was a sharpness to his scent that complemented the sharpness of his tongue, sweet, like citrus.

Phil was charmed.

Returning from providing instructions to the attendants, to return with meal and drink every four hours, he stepped out of his robes. The omega had largely kicked his clothes from his sweaty, writhing body, it spread him out, his shoulder half-uncovered by his thin innerwear. Sweat gathered at the dip of his spine, his pretty cock hung heavy between his spread thighs.

It had pressed dark stains into the sheets.

“Spread,” he murmured, and delight wormed its way through his stomach when the omega went lower. His scent spiked, became thicker, and before Phil could stop himself, he’d tightened his grip around the omega’s waist to tug him closer.

Gotta prep before he lost himself to it, to the throes of an omega in heat, an omega that begged for Phil with its dark, glassy eyes.

He pushed oiled fingers into the tight opening, watched the way it unfurled for him. Untouched, his cock throbbed. He spread his fingers and drew out a whine, “Hurry,” the omega breathed, mouth to the sheets, “Hurry, alpha,” clenched round his fingers, hips rolling back against him, in slow little thrusts, as if he were uncertain, and when Phil only cocked his brow, the omega only sunk down deeper against his fingers. A thin, thready whine pushed out of him, “H’rry–”

He curled his hand around that leaking, weeping cock. It was nearly dwarfed in his palms.

Kristin might like an omega.

Leaning his weight down its back, he spread his fingers, rubbing up against the pulsing, trembling inner walls, “You can be patient,” he said quietly, sinking them fully to his knuckles, “Can’t you?”

“So patient,” the omega mumbled.

He added another finger, thrusted once, firm enough that his palms slapped up against the omega’s ass. It drew a staggered moan, and again– the omega bit down on the sheets, gasping as if even that had been too much. Enough then; he slammed his fingers in again, until there was only the sound of his fingers, punching into that clenching, shuddering hole. The omega cried out, pushing his face deeper into the mattress. 

Phil squeezed around his cock, an approving rumble rolling from his throat. He pressed his nail into the slit, just so, and the omega’s body jerked.

He came in Phil’s hand, watery. A healthy omega. 

Phil nosed at the base of the omega’s spine, allowing the haze of the heat to settle into him. Omega was pleased, omega was prepared.

He mounted the trembling body, and pushed in.

She would like him, he thought. She would like how he went loose-limbed and utterly soft on the inside, as if he had been waiting all his life for Phil’s cock to push in, inch by inch. The moment the head of his cock popped inside, the omega moaned, breathy and hiccuping, large mouthfuls of air. Ah, hangh, ah, his clumsy fingers reaching back to curl around Phil, to guide him fully inside, until Phil slid home.

Until omega took him to the root.

Phil teethed at the delicate cartilage of pointed ears, and thrusted in.

Omega cried out in uncomplicated, euphoric pleasure. Phil put his entire weight on it to keep it still, and fucked it like an alpha should. His cock pounded into that pretty hole, gauged into it, it didn’t want to let him go. Pulled out, and pushed back inside to the symphony of the omega’s low, gasping breaths. Alpha, it moaned, and its tongue seemed to curl around the vowels, its voice was lower than an omega’s, it was darling.

It would be happy here.

Fucked full, settled in the Empire’s heart, the royal palace where Phil worked. His teeth broke skin, slamming the omega into the mattress. His thrusts knocked into the bony, smooth expanse of its hips; he’d have to feed it better, get him a little meatier so it could better carry children. Kristen had wanted children before, ah, but they’d never truly searched for an omega between the both of them. There had always been things to do, people to see, and now, one had practically fallen into their laps.

Fallen on Phil’s cock.

His teeth traced the line of the omega’s shoulder blades, and it squeezed around him as he bit down. It liked the pain too, its cock was already pulsing in his hand, was already coming again.

That was around the time he let the triggered rut take him.

No longer Phil.

Only the alpha, which took his pretty omega until it was satisfied. Plugged it properly with cum so the seed would take, lifted it up so it was collapsed on his lap, thrusting upwards until it came all over itself in guttural, animal noises. Grasping hands that pulled their hips together, that wouldn’t let him leave even in sleep, mouthing at the dip of his throat, barely daring to press tiny omegan canines to it. Lapping at the mark in contrition when the alpha grunted.

He rolled it down and fucked it again.

In between the lows of the heat, Phil would push a toy into the omega’s raw, twitching hole and feed him. “What’s your name,” he asked, their faces inches apart. Their faces were always inches apart, for the omega could not see if they were too far, and would drag Phil closer, his dark, brown eyes mapping every mark and sunspot on Phil’s weathered face.

“Techno,” the omega murmured, hips rolling down onto the toy leisurely, “But don’t tell,” he added, nipping at Phil’s throat, “I’m s’pposed to be Billiam right now,”

He drew him back by the hair, to press fruit into the thin, stubborn lilt of the man’s mouth, “Why’re you s’pposed to be Billiam?”

The omega bit into it, and juice spilled down his chin. His hands came up to wipe at it, without grace, “He’s gone,” he said, but there was no sadness in his voice, no inflection. His eyes were on Phil’s cock, he brought his messy fingers to his mouth and dragged his tongue over his fingers, licking clean, “There’s only me,”

He leaned down.

Wrapped his sweet, ripe mouth around Phil and sucked.

“The Queen Mother is goin’ to kill me,”

He felt the smile pressed against his lips. They had been kissing for hours, for what Techno thought were days, “Back with us?” the Royal Consort murmured, cradling his jaw to fold another one into his mouth. There was the barest hint of teeth, to pluck his bottom lip, tongue slipping in before retreating to swipe once over it, to draw back.

Techno made a soft, muffled sound into it. His hips ached when he pulled himself off, and a wetness slid down the inside of his thigh, “This is unforgivable,” he breathed, and his head was tilted to be kissed again.

And he let it happen! Again!

“Of course, I’ll take full responsibility,” the Royal Consort agreed; his tongue dipped in to slide against Techno’s, and when he pulled away there was a slick sound. “You… mmgh, don’t need to worry. The practice… mmh, of offering omegas to the Queen Mother’s is largely outdated,” he pulled away, and Techno stared at his mouth, barely having heard a word, “Partially because She has no interest in taking anyone else,”

“Yes, I’ve heard the stories,” he said blankly, there was a mark over his nipples, as if it had been bitten until it swelled, “True love. Omegas?”

The consort looked at him.

“Which is… is me,” Techno said, “I’m an omega,”

“Still got a little heat brain,” the consort said, smiling. He slid his fingers down between Techno’s thighs, to push fingers into the wet, clenching hole there. Techno moaned, and to his utter mortification, began rocking his hips down onto those searching, rubbing fingers. His thighs ached from days of exertion, and yet he would ache a little more just to chase it again, “We’ll work it out of you– god, you’re fucking cute,”

Techno fucked himself back on his fingers, he felt like there wasn’t enough air in his lungs. His nose pressed to the consort’s skin, salt and sweat. That thick, musky scent underneath, that made every word in his head flicker out. 

“Anyway,” the consort said, “We’ll have to introduce you. I guarantee She’ll like you much better than your predecessor, you’re–” his fingers crooked, shoved right up against his prostate like a battering ram, “- much, much more amenable.”

Whined when the consort pulled out, and moaned, low and long, when he stuffed him full of cock.

“Cum now,” alpha said.

Techno came.

The Spring Banquet ended without Techno having attended a single parallel conference, or met a single other person. It had concluded days before he came up from his heat. 

The ride back was silent. The boy – henceforth named Moon – did not say a word, although he did look at the consort with flashing, accusatory eyes before they departed. Techno had been wrapped in the same clothes he had arrived in, and Moon had smoothed down every frayed thread which had come loose, tightened every knot.

“You fed him, right?” Techno asked the consort.

“What’dyou mean we fed him,” laughter, burst genuine from a cocksure mouth, “We didn’t let him starve–!”

Techno grinned, and flattened his mouth properly when the guards stared.

“I’ll be in touch,” the consort said, he lifted Techno’s hand to his mouth, and pressed his mouth to the knuckles. Techno brushed his fingers over them the entire time they returned home. 

There was a larger crowd than Techno expected awaiting them; the orphans of the nearby villagers, men whose families had been claimed by the pine trees. There were more people, than there were in the first few months of his arrival here. Techno didn’t know what to really do with his body when they bowed, or kneeled, he just waved at them, and they dispersed to their duties, as if satisfied with his safe return. The Blood Manor was oddly cold upon their arrival. The fires had to be pumped higher, burnt brighter as heating was pumped through the piping underneath the floors. The portraits on the walls seemed to watch as the great doors opened and closed behind them, their eyes illuminated by the hanging lights, pinpricks of white in the din. 

Then the gifts began to arrive.

They were from the Crown. Fragrant hair oils, expensive jade combs. Several huskies that required proper cooling systems within the Fortress.

Moon did not like them.

What about feeding, he would ask, nonsensically. Always four paces behind. When Techno asked what he meant, his mouth would twist.

Chapter Text

To the Western Family, 

I have heard that there are no animals in the Western territories. Something about what Billiam has done has kept them from straying any further than the border. I understand you’re looking into a solution, I’ve noticed the energy there has begun to abate. I wonder when the animals will come back, or if it will take a long time. It would be a shame, because you’re quite the talker when you’re pleased with me, and my services. 

You told me you like dogs. You didn’t specify what kind of dog you liked, only that it had a lot, a lot of fur, so as to be very fluffy. I offer as a token of courtship; three Imperial huskies of the third generation. Although I doubt you care much about their pedigree, you don’t strike me as the type. If you think three isn’t enough, I will be happy to send more, or you may breed them if you like. 

Will you pay me a visit in the North?

I place my fate into the hands of the Queen Mother.

May the sun never set on the Grace and Rightousness of the Empire.

Royal Consort Philza Craft

The new moon brought with it a breaking point. 

Techno had watched the portraits turn to follow him, and he had allowed it because he figured– creepy, but tolerable. It wasn’t even his house, moving anything felt like a curse in itself. He had received Phil’s letter, carefully tucked alongside his latest courtship gift. 

Moon had grabbed Techno by the arm and pulled. It was impossible to shake. He had a grip. It was iron-clad, his mouth thin and bitten through. The skin peeled, his eyes bright through the holes of the wooden mask. The dogs began to bark, they growled and nipped at Moon's heels. Techno waved them away, calling out for them to stay, before Moon kicked them in the side for getting in his way.

“Something’s wrong,” he said, “Something’s not right,”

“Er,”

“Something’s wrong,” he said again, his eyes slid to Techno, “Something’s not right,”

They trudged through the Western Fortress, to the courtyard Techno had sealed off, even the heavy doors had pulsating veins, crept up from the roots. Trees grew through the wet stone floors, they crowded out the sky as if they were suffocating, thick, heavy branches that pierced wood, uprooted the foundation of the manor. The smell of wet, damp earth. It was rot and mildew, bulbous white mushrooms creating cracks in the doorway. A vacuum that had created its own little domain, even in an open courtyard. 

Techno turned, and Moon looked right at him.

“You’re wrong, you’re not right,” Moon said, “You don’t care about the feeding, since when didn’t you care about the feeding? Since that day, when you became– not– right,”

There was a knife in his hand.

It had a jagged edge, clutched so tightly the knuckles were bone-white.

Omegas can calm someone down, the books had said, with their scent. The effect is compounded with pups. 

“Calm down,” he said.

“No!” Moon shouted, which really spoke to Techno’s mastery over his new abilities, “The master always, always cared about the feeding!” he slid the blade underneath Techno’s throat, but it did not touch him. He could feel the shadow of its weight, but it would not press down, as if not daring to, “Who are you?”

“Uh, Technoblade,” he said blankly.

Moon’s eyes seemed to bulge out of his mask, “ Who ?!”

His palms curled inward, against the bark of the pine tree he stood beneath. The fruits cast odd shadows on the attendant’s face, they seemed to reflect back towards him, the red shard slid home inside his irises. Techno had never noticed it before, never quite so clearly, quite so closely. “I’m the guy that ah, took Billiam’s place,” Moon’s mouth opened, like wanting to speak; Techno paused to allow him, but he seemed to have become weaker at the admission, “He left, and I guess, you could say I’m his cousin, or even… eerily similar twins… or…”

Moon keened. 

His body curved inwards, the flat side of the dagger pressed to his chest. It seemed to beat alongside him, the light of it reflecting the pulsating forest, the eyes of the fruits like stars. He went to his hands and knees, face pushed into his arms. He was speaking, soft, went in fevered pitch and low again– “... didn’t even notice, silence, silence–! No, noticing, no… h–he was so… so nice to me…”

“Moon, it’s okay,”

“Don’t fucking call me that!” Moon cried; the boy, who clawed at his face to get the mask away, and Techno saw that he really was only a boy, long, downturned face, “You– he–?”

Techno crouched down.

He took the dagger away, and the boy’s fingers just went slack. He was crying; it leaked from his eyes, down onto the dirt. His palms were blotchy red, clenching and unclenching, as he took shuddering breaths. It shook his entire body, it made him smaller and smaller. Techno waited until the cries became quieter, the sour scent of distress intermingled with everything else, it sunk into the dirt. It wasn’t good to stay, the land was restless. There were ghosts here, which reminded him that he needed to bring proper cultivators into the Western Fortress for a cleansing.

“What’s your name,” he asked.

“... There was nothing before the master,” he looked up, his eyes were wet, “I don’t understand, why didn’t he take me with him? Why did he leave me here?”

The scent of rot thickened, a hot, heavy gust of wind that made the crown of the trees shake and whisper. 

“I’m sorry,” Techno said.

“You’re nicer than he is,” he muttered, “Shut up, servant, shut up, slave. Isn’t that worse? Traitor,” he said, but Techno had a feeling that last one was directed at himself.

Techno was not a touchy person. 

He reached out to take the boy’s hands, to tug him up to his feet. The forest spoke again, but it was in a language he didn’t understand, so he ignored it. A wet face pushed into his shoulder. It looked ridiculous, because the boy was a head taller than he was, but the limp noodle body made it much easier to move. Tightened his grip on Techno’s forearm when the forest screamed, and Techno crossed the threshold onto solid ground.

He closed the door.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said.

The boy put long fingers into the gap between his outer robes and the inner ones, “Where would I go?” he mumbled; his eyes were swollen, they were two different colours.

“Anywhere,” Techno said.

The boy breathed out.

“If I go, you’ll let me come back?” he croaked.

“Hey, it’s your home, longer than it was mine,”

Techno sat there with him at the door until he fell asleep. When he curled up against Techno, he was all thin, long limbs. They made him look even younger than he was. His hands were cold, he buried them in Techno’s clothes. He watched the firelight cast shadows onto the Fortress walls, he watched them until he fell asleep too, and when he woke, the boy was gone.

It wasn’t a burden to be alone again. 

It was only that Techno had gotten used to having someone behind him, and he would turn around to nobody, only the watching portraits. They were definitely angry with him; their faces curled downward, lines threaded through their foreheads. They were speaking, they were saying something, but Techno didn’t understand them. There was a portrait in the guest bedroom; Billiam was a man that seemed to tower over everyone else. His elaborate braids made spirals on either side of his head, and Techno had definitely seen the same portrait in hallways, he had seen it follow him from room to room.

Technoblade settled into the role of Family Head without much fuss. He woke among the dogs, plucked through the ornate robes he had been gifted, meandered to his offices to complete his letters and run through staff changes. There had been an increase in available hires, as more work was done to clear the malignant energy along the roads. 

He spent most of his time at the new cultivators guild, which had begun to thrive as an educational institute on its own. There was a school of foreign scholars, Phil had supplied him with several Northern teachers, all of whom arrived in thick, fur clothes and were forced to strip them off entirely due to the change in climate. A diplomatic mission from the neighbouring Dreaming Empire arrived at the Fortress, diamond encrusted headcoverings, tracking desert sand into the Fortress, and very emphatically told Techno, “I never knew you were funny,”

Progress.

It is a relief when Phil extended his invitations to visit. 

The Northern Palace was made of opaque glass, half-misted to blend into the mountains it sat nestled in. There were swarms of people in the markets, the administrative heart of the Empire had been moved to its first district, and much of the work done for the Empire consolidated around the North.  “You’re the new squeeze, then,” Thomas Innit, granted his lordship under Philza Craft, leaned over him at the gates. He stood balanced on the edge of his sword, head cocked. Scenting was difficult in the cold, his nose was blotchy red. 

“Phil’s a real casanova,” the other one said, dark, brown hair, “Brings hundreds of omegas back home, thousands even, you’d think the Queen would say something,”

“It’s disgusting,” Thomas said. 

“Get outta here, fucking rats!” Phil wheezed; in his arms, he held a wrapped cloth. Another gift, Techno thought, and found it in himself to be a little annoyed that he hadn’t anything to give back.

They had an arrangement. Every rut and every heat, it would all be shared with Phil in the North. Techno got to keep whatever Phil left behind, elaborate, ceremonial robes, thick winter clothes where the furs lined the collar, silk and scarves. His favourites were the ones Phil had stained. 

He would burrow it all in the closet, where there were no watchers, and no eyes. The dogs kept guard outside, little huffs and snarls in the night, settled into quiet.

There, he slept.

Much nicer than being in the rooms.

Autumn arrived quietly.

The seasons of this new world move slowly. He had been asked to accompany Phil for a meeting outside his usual territories. He bid his terrible portraits goodbye. They only watched, and promised silently that they would still be there when he returned. Phil waited at the doorstep; he looked devastatingly handsome on his sword, dressed in the royal arctic blues. His robes were thin, layers upon layers of half-transparent cloth, like wading through clouds. They complemented his eyes. 

Techno stepped onto his sword, careful of his clothes. 

He hadn’t been told they were heading to the Celestial Palace until they had already arrived. 

“I… am not dressed for this confrontation,” he said, “Phil, why did you do this to me?”

“It’s not a confrontation,” Phil said, “She just wants to talk, just be your usual charming self,”

The Celestial Palace had been carved from black crystal. Its floors reflected its visitors in its entirety, Techno saw in it himself. Phil had given him the robes he wore today; the edges of his robes were rounded, the shape of flowering petals, the fabric was a cascade of pale pink colours that flattered the shade of his hair. He did not like seeing Techno in Billiam’s colours, and Techno was far too uncertain to seek his own clothes. It made him look– softer. His robes melded into the iridescent tiles, every stride made them pull between his legs, flow outward. He pulled his eyes away. He’d worn sturdy boots for the journey, they stuck out from underneath like a sore thumb.

The Queen Mother was embedded into the Empire’s founding.

The Imperial throne room stretched the size of two banquet hall, gilded blackstone and a ceiling tiled with the same deep, dark colours of the night sky. They gleamed and fractured in the light; they were diamonds, cut into smooth, square tiles. His boots made sure, steady strides, he reached the wide, crescent steps with his gaze lowered.

He kneeled, and lifted his arms in a bow, pressing his forehead to the floors.

“Omega Technoblade, Head of the Western Family, greets the Grace and Righteousness of the Empire,”

“My consort is enamoured with you,” She said, on the cusp of teasing, the drawl drawn resonant and hypnotic. It rooted him to the floors, there were eyes on the top of his head, tracked down his spine. It could be Phil’s, his amusement oozed out of him, where he stood beside Her. He was so pleased– Techno was going to strangle him.

His ears flushed hot.

“Two hundred years, he’s wanted for nothing,” She murmured, “Do I look like someone who would leave her consort wanting?”

The silence stretched.

There was a light clearing of the throat behind him, and Techno realised he was supposed to respond. “No?” he said, plaintive.

“No.”

Through the glass of the tiles, Her arm lifted.

He lifted his head. A dark veil, silver threadings at the edge, engulfed her face, so that it was impossible to make out from the bottom of the steps, luxuriant robes that seemed to twist and warp into the floors. 

Very much out of his depth, Techno made his way to the steps. 

Closer, the veil gave way to shadow, to a face. It was a face that Technoblade felt he should not have seen, and quickly averted his eyes. It was made for smiling, round and warm, there were laugh lines at the edges of Her eyes, framed by dark waves. There was a smile playing on the black mark that made Her mouth.

“Phil said I would like your mouth,” She murmured, “Will I?”

His eyes flitted to the side.

Phil only looked.

Techno sunk to his knees. 

His hands went up to carefully tug his glasses off, She clicked her tongue, and his eyes flickered up. “No,” She said, Her thumb cupped his face, slid it back onto the bridge of his nose. Techno pushed it up afterward, a little redundantly, only because he could already taste the smell of Her at the back of his throat, and the very thought felt like blasphemy. His hole clenched around nothing, the thick, wavering weight of Her desire. 

There was a gap in Her robes. His throat bobbed in a useless swallow, parched. Settled his hands behind his back properly, to lean forward, nestled between the silken fabrics, roughened tulle and cotton. To peel past everything, he pressed his tongue flat to Her folds, his head lulling against Her soft thigh.

She tasted like moonlight.

He rocked on his heels, pressing tugging, slow kisses to Her flesh. He buried his face to Her pelvis, so he could take Her fully, so She could fuck his face properly. He tongued at Her clit until it emerged fully, became swollen, until She had Her hands in his hair.

Techno came around nothing, gasping against Her folds, mouthfuls of Her slick. His glasses were smeared, he trembled against the cool tiles, riding out his orgasm without pressure against his cock.

His hands went down– “No,” alpha said, and he settled, pushing his mouth to Her clit again, his hands falling limp at his sides. His hips twitched, but he sucked. He wouldn’t get to stop until She was satisfied, panting, and gasping, and moaning into Her. He laved his tongue around the nub, let Her fingers thread and tighten, to set the pace. Until alpha came on his tongue, and he lapped that up too, keening.

“Obedient.” She sighed. 

Phil’s scent curled around him, the thick winter cloak he wore so often, draped around his shoulders, “I told you,” he murmured happily.

Techno scraped bits of egg off his pan with the spatula. The kitchen light had broken, and he’d woken up before his shift. There was a lot to be done before he could leave, he had get the quickest dinner before work. The sunset peered through the shutters of his one-bedroom apartment, and he turned to set the pan back onto the stove. He’d deal with the cleanup later, or– tomorrow, whenever he got to the next homecooked meal.

“This is the worst sandwich I’ve ever had the displeasure of eating,”

The man in his kitchen could only be Billiam. 

He was wearing Techno’s old debate club vest, and a cream-coloured button-up underneath that Techno was sure he did not own. There was an unfamiliar polo shirt tied loosely around his neck– it was a Ralph Lauren. His hair was neatly plaited on each side. There were several thick rings that decorated his fingers, curled around Techno’s wallet. 

“Where did you get the money for that,” he said, “My bank account says no Ralph Lauren,”

Billiam tugged his sunglasses down with one finger, to drag his eyes distastefully up and down Techno’s very normal-looking outfit. “There’s a boy who comes by the building to see you every Saturday,”

“You said yes to Dream?”

Billiam looked at him like he was a very stupid bug.

“I understand now why you have remained tragically poor,” Billiam said, enunciating the p of poor. “You do not have the mind of a business man, you probably don’t even know what an investment is. The very sight of my manor must have sent you into shock, old sport, did you know what to do with the servants?”

His brow arched, “I gotta say, for someone who’s gone from a… ah, literal Lord to a cashier, I ’m surprised you’re even still alive.”

“Ca– cah–sure?” Billiam said, as if he had never heard of the word. “That isn’t my area of expertise,” he gathered his keys, flicking Techno’s phone on to check the notifications. “You didn’t think it was an accident, did you? I found it,” he tilted his head, his irises weren’t red like the paintings in the manor. They were the same brown he saw in the mirror, "I chose to come here, your being there was just a… happy accident, seein’ as you look perfectly content, positively glowin’, ”

He turned on nice heel boots that Techno had not noticed before.

“The kid missed you,” he said, because he could not watch Billiam walk out without saying it, “He wasn’t happy left behind,”

Billiam let out a sound, almost a laugh. But it went flat, and he had stopped moving towards the door. “I’m surprised he hasn’t thrown himself off the parapets! Worst… worst attendant I’ve ever had… absolutely hideous to look at… you can tell him to hide his face, and he’ll listen, it’s the best way to have him around,”

Techno watched him, the slope of his shoulders. “He left,” he said, “When he found out,”

Billiam said nothing.

Techno thought he smelled it then, what Billiam must have smelled like. Pine, sharp as peppermint. It stung his nose, and then damp, wet earth. The world around them warped, underneath his feet was the dark oak floorboards of the manor, and Billiam was in proper attire. Sombre black, fingers glittering with golden rings. It went away as soon as he saw it, until they were back in his apartment. Except clearer, there were no shadows, as if it had been put under a spotlight. “Ungrateful,” Billiam said, at last. “It’s so hard to find good help these days, good riddance, I say.”

Techno settled against the kitchen counter, his eyes traced the details of the place. Some of it he had forgotten, but Billiam had clearly committed it to memory. There were new books he had never seen before, they had replaced the various bottles Techno left lying around. There was a fruit basket beside him, there was a card that smelled like vanilla extract, with a soppy message written on it. The entire apartment smelled like vanilla.

“You like it here,”

Billiam gave a big, gusting sigh. It broke out of him as if beleaguered by the very question. He turned around, to gesture at the walls. “It’s pathetically, criminally small, it isn’t even half of a mansion, or even a quarter of a mansion, and my father… Sir Billiam the Second, he had always believed that the good health of a man is always measured by the size of his mansion, but…”

He put his hands on the countertop. His palms spread out, as if he was marvelling at the stretch of his fingers.

“There is no rot here,” he said, after a moment. His cartoony, balloon-air voice gone soft. 

Light lit every inch of the place. Techno noticed then, there were no plants. The creeping ivy that he had let grow over his windows, even the paltry little succulent he had bought to liven the place up was no longer at the bookshelf.

He looked at Techno.

– And Techno woke.

Phil made a little mmrgh sound, and he settled a palm over his shoulder, to put him back to sleep. No rot, he thought. 

Redecorating was in order.