A/N
It's been a loooong time since I posted anything on this account... But, meh, honestly this site is kinda annoying to work with. Still, I felt like sharing this story that I've had in my head for a while here. Admittedly, it's kinda unpolished, the update schedule will be totally random, and I really don't know how its all going to pan out... But I really like this AU and wanted to get something written for it so here we are.
A few warnings here: This be an Omegaverse story, ie: alpha/beta/omega dynamics. But if you're here looking for porn, you're in the wrong place dude. There are some dark and mature themes, including rape and abuse, all of which are relatively non-graphic and mostly just referenced. The rating is just to be safe.
I think that's everything, so without further ado lets get on with it~ :)
It was the smell; Damian just could not stand it.
That sickly sweet fragrance permeated the air, heavy and sticky, not unlike the alluring perfume emanated by an exotic plant in order to ensnare its prey.
He scrubbed hard at his neck, his chest, his arms, at every inch of skin within his reach; he scrubbed his flesh until it was a raw, angry red. He scrubbed until he bled. Then he paused to watch the red-stained, soapy water gurgle down the drain.
For a moment he let the scalding water rush over him, allowed the pressure and heat to soothe his aching muscles and irritate his wounds. Only when he breathed did the brief moment of reprieve shatter. Gritting his teeth he grabbed the soap, lathered it viciously over himself and began scrubbing once more.
The smell remained. No matter how long or how hard he scrubbed.
Beneath the soap, beneath the water, he could still detect that distinctive, oppressing scent. He could still smell Him.
The scent was everywhere, on his skin, soaked into every pore, in his mouth, his lips, his tongue… He gagged. Spat. Took a mouthful of soapy water. Gargled and spat again.
Bile rose in his throat, and he tried to swallow it back down. Surely there was nothing left in his stomach to throw up anymore. He sucked in several shallow measured breathes, clutching at the tiled wall for support while his knees shook under him.
He was fine.
It was just the smell. If he could just wash away this damned scent then he will be fine again. There was no reason to feel this way; he was stronger than this.
Not strong enough to defend yourself when it matters. A voice whispered jeeringly from the back of his mind.
He shoved the thought away with a growl. There was nothing to fear. He'd done nothing wrong. What happened was only natural, inevitable even. There was no reason to dwell on it. The memory would fade along with everything else, and then everything would go back to normal.
He just needed to wash off this smell… Just had to wash it off…
Once more, Damian snatched up the soap and began scrubbing at his raw, bleeding skin.
...
The sun had long since risen by the time Damian emerged from the bathroom, clad in nothing but a towel around his waist.
The clothes he torn off himself earlier remained were they had fallen on the floor. Pennyworth usually made a point of rousing Damian, and any other member of his Father's pack that happen to be occupying the Manor at the time, for as he termed it a "family breakfast". Perhaps he was still preoccupied with other matters. Perhaps he would not visit Damian's room at all today.
Damian did not know if he was pleased or disturbed by this change in routine.
At present though, he wished to be alone and would not take kindly to being disturbed, even by Pennyworth. Breakfast was not a pleasing notion at the moment either as his stomach had not yet settled; even less so when considering the company he'd likely be forced to endure.
The bottled water and protein bars he had stored in his closet would be a sufficient form of sustenance should his appetite return.
The clothes on the floor reeked of that disgusting scent. Wrinkling his nose, he snatched up the filthy garments and tossed them into the hamper, along with his towel, and then rifled through his draws for fresh clothes.
Up until this point he had not had a problem with Pennyworth's choice of detergent. Each item he gave a cursory sniff only to find that any and all human scent had been cleansed away and replaced with an artificial citrus scent. What he had come to consider a somewhat pleasant scent was now a source of irritation.
Eventually, he settled on set of workout clothes that had apparently been thoroughly and repeatedly soaked in his own sweat that his scent had not washed away.
Once dressed he made a quick circuit of his room, tidying up his art supplies, rearranging his books, touching every surface, reaffirming his territory. The motions were soothing in a way, almost meditative and he let his mind fall blank.
Three times he checked the door was locked before falling gracelessly onto his bed. The sheets were unwashed, but for once he found he didn't care.
His own scent was a comfort and he indulged urge to rub his face into the pillows, to cocoon himself beneath the covers until he was surrounded in it.
He had not had a sufficient amount of sleep in the last seventy two hours. It was only appropriate that he should rest now in order to let his mind return to an optimum level of performance. Surely Father would not mind he spare only a few hours.
He shifted to a more comfortable position, one that didn't aggravate his wounds, and breathed in his own smell, allowing himself to relax and drift off into a light slumber. The strong alpha musk was enough to smother that horrible thick scent of omega he had failed to completely remove in the shower.