Chapter Text
“Oh no! I-I’m so sorry!” stammers the panicked beta that just brushed shoulders with her in one of their school’s many glass corridors, on their way to class at 7:55 am.
Homura spares the barely-noticeable girl a glance, her evenly-cut, dark bangs falling over her eyes, nearly hiding how wide they go when Homura meets her startled look. The blood all but drains from her face.
Homura’s expression remains impassive, but the ghost of her grins unsettlingly wide. Those kinds of reactions are her favorite, when the mere sight of her makes them meek and submissive.
Heads turn at the scent coming from the poor girl, but they turn away just as swiftly when they see Homura there. One look is enough for them to know: here is a threat. Beware.
Most of them fear her, though there is some irony in it.
They fear her not because she is a fundamental force of chaos that rewrote the universe a second time, but because she’s made herself a reputation; one of an unsettling, unstable, unpredictable alpha, so the most deterring entity still within societal conventions. It almost makes her want to laugh. Really, it does. If only they knew.
Still, again: they fear her.
And that means that when yet another too-friendly alpha sets their sights on Madoka, all she needs to do is make her presence known.
She keeps it subtle, usually, and that’s enough most of the time. Body language is an art, and her expertise lies in knowing one hundred ways of telling someone to get lost with a single look.
But sometimes, like on this very evening, she leaves a drooling, ugly-crying fool bloodied behind the school, blabbering choked apologies at her. It’s an obvious act of violence on her part, for what she heard him say when he thought Madoka was out of earshot.
Her heel digs into his hand, and she grinds it into the dirt with more force just to enjoy his miserable sounds of anguish some more.
Hormonal bastards like this one prove to be just as suitable for relieving her frustrations as the incubators—torturing them has become somewhat of a hobby, a pleasant pastime. Switching targets keeps it fresh. One day she maims a few white fluffy aliens, another one of the alphas that hover around Madoka, circle her like an inevitable asteroid belt.
(And yes, she is aware of her hypocrisy. She’s hormonal and violent and dirty too; so what? Four years, and she hasn’t let a single one slip. That has to count for something. She’s keeping Madoka safe.)
And yet they keep trying, those bloody fools. Even though, in their glass house of a school, news travels fast. Everyone knows. No one does a thing to stop her. Typical.
Well—nearly no one. There are some exceptions. Namely:
“You didn’t have to go that far,” says the only other alpha from their once oh-so-bonded group of five.
She steps off the bastard’s hand and he lets out a pathetic whimper. “Oh, really? Do you think that would send a message, Tomoe Mami?”
She gives Homura a look of pure contempt, the very same one she’s been given a thousand times before. It’s nearly endearing. “You don’t need to resort to such violence. There are other ways,” she says, in classic, patronizing Tomoe fashion.
“I’m merely lowering myself to their level,” Homura responds lightly, then adds, feeling suddenly impatient, “they deserve it. They all do.”
Tomoe sags her shoulders in maternal disappointment, and it’s simultaneously terribly annoying, and a reminder for why Homura has let her stay in Madoka’s inner circle at all.
An exceptional individual—in every of their beta teacher’s words—and an unusual alpha in most regards, mature beyond her age. Homura’s first instinct was to scoff, but there is some truth in it.
Normally, adolescent alphas are detested by anyone who isn’t another alpha or happens to be an omega in heat. They are seen as hormonal and repulsive, with a one-track mind focused on nothing but mating or ineptly trying to establish dominance; easily distracted and mostly useless, at least until they grow out of it.
Homura agrees with that assessment, for the most part—but Mami can hardly be put into that box. The only alpha traits she exhibits are those seen as the pinnacle of what alphas are supposed to be: valiant, protective, territorial (Homura would add some more people insist on missing: irascible, fragile, stubborn, insecure).
Tomoe Mami is no saint, and she’s certainly a threat in Homura's book—any advances on Madoka will render the truce null. But for now, when nothing risks Tomoe’s mind breaking and taking all of them out with her, she appears to be stable enough, taking no surface interest in other omegas; she takes her role of chivalrous protector too seriously to act on any of her less-than-honorable alpha desires. So things can stay the way they are.
Even though Homura hates her with a passion.
She sometimes fantasizes about fighting her again, but undeniably winning this time; winning and biting her head off—
The blonde gravely shakes her head at the crumpled, bleeding body of her victim, romantically framed in the golden rays of the setting sun. Whatever she sees in Homura’s face then makes her pause.
Eventually, without saying anything else, she turns her back and leaves.
***
The curtains to Madoka’s room are drawn.
They always are when her well-meaning parents lock her up, a mild, orange light betraying her presence inside. Homura would have done the same. Locked her in and hid the key from herself, given it to someone else for safekeeping. She thinks of her dolls, but they would undoubtedly give her the key right back just to mess with her, the hateful little things.
On a nearby roof with a perfect view, deep into the chilly, dark blue night, she strains to keep herself collected as she keeps watch—or, in other words, stares into Madoka’s covered window like some obsessed psycho. In truth, she is an obsessed psycho; she shed any doubts about that when she remade the world.
Madoka is—relatively safe, what with the lengths her parents go to spray the perimeter of their house with suppressants each and every time, days before it even starts. But like with all such things, their protection isn’t absolute. It’s faint, but it’s there, that insanity-inducing, sweet scent that’s already beginning to drag Homura’s thoughts in one particular direction.
It isn’t at all guaranteed that a crazed enough alpha won’t try and break into the Kaname household at night, lured by the sheer irresistibility of that pheromone-laden scent. A faint signature would be enough, if someone happened to pass by her house. Homura has caught some suspicious alphas in the area before, though she never was quite sure if they were actually there for Madoka. No matter. She won’t ever let them get the chance to prove or disprove it, if only because she doesn’t have enough mind left by then to listen to what they have to say.
On a nearby roof with a perfect view, deep into her own thoughts, she’s losing the battle to keep herself collected. In the end, as she always does, as she always fucking does, stupid alpha that she is—she gives in.
As Devil, it feels right. She should give into her desires; flaunt them, embrace them, act on them.
As Homura, the girl so painfully in love with Madoka she chased her into divinity, it makes her want to scream.
Her hand slowly wanders lower, she can’t help it. Her fingers slip under the waistband of her skirt and stockings until they brush over her growing member and she shivers, then lets out a shaky exhale. The first cool touch has her twitching into it already, oversensitive and wanting as she is, but how could she keep calm when Madoka is this close? When she can pinpoint where that faint trail of a scent leads, the one that tells her: “she is right there, eager and ready”? Her thoughts descend into a familiar haze, and she swallows thickly, almost tasting it in the very air. Her hand lightly circles her dick, aiding her fantasies with measured movements.
She wants to draw it out. Slowly tease herself, stay at that perfect high for as long as possible. But there are two parts of her that are constantly at war, and her prudent, practical self wouldn’t allow her to waste time, not when she is supposed to be on the lookout. Old habits die hard.
Pushing all thoughts of foreplay to the side, her mind settles on what will get her off the fastest—Madoka panting her name, Madoka pleading for her knot, Madoka desperately asking to be mated and bred and marked as her heels dig into Homura’s back—and she falls to her knees, frantically frees her erection from its confines and furiously strokes herself to completion, uncaring if she’s caught in the act or attracts someone looking for a fight. At that moment, nothing matters.
Then there comes clarity—cruel, sobering clarity—and she tucks herself back in, wipes her hand on the fabric of her skirt and focuses back on that one bright window.
And she looks, and she waits, and it’s quiet. No one around, not even the incubators, and her dolls too have learned by now to avoid her at this time.
So alone she stands, on the roof she’s camped out on a hundred times before, still and focused. She can’t even feel the cold. But time continues to pass like molasses, without anything to capture her attention.
A bored mind tends to wander.
Homura supposes Madoka doesn’t sleep much these nights, not with that light nearly perpetually on. Not for the first time, she tries to picture what it’s like for her—for an omega in heat. It’s apparently similar to going into rut, but Homura hasn’t yet experienced that herself. It’s a call-and-response mechanism, and omegas go to great lengths to conceal when their pheromones begin to spike once they present.
Does Madoka struggle to resist touching herself as well? But then, why would she? She probably does all she can to alleviate the symptoms, there’s no need for her to torture herself due to some imaginary barrier of indecency. In the privacy of her own room, she’s free to do whatever will bring her relief.
How does she go about it?
She must have used toys—if left unattended, the itching need to be filled is said to become so acute it’s painful. Is she taking care of that right now? Does she fantasize of having an alpha there to fill her up?
The images behind her eyes become more and more vivid, and pleasure clouds her thoughts out of nowhere. Or so she thinks, before she realizes her hand has gained a will of its own and returned to its previous spot without her noticing, smoothly moving back and forth, back and forth…
And the night passes as it always does, in an exhausting haze of lust and self-hate.
***
“You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
With her back against the railing of the school rooftop, Kyoko offers her an open bag of candies, each individually wrapped. Homura takes one out of habit.
“I don’t think beating all the other alphas in the vicinity half to death is gonna make Madoka want you,” she says with the cluelessness of a beta who’s never gone through a hormonal daze. “And whatever it is you’re doing when she’s in heat, it’s not good for you. You look like someone raised you from the dead but did a shitty job at it.”
And there it is, yet another speech aiming to ‘save Homura from herself.’ She hasn’t even tried to get acquainted with all of them in this new world, but some things clearly carried over. And she did want to keep an eye on Madoka, so—
“What, you’re not gonna say anything to that? No, ‘I don’t want her to want me, I only want to keep her safe?’” Kyoko mocks with…frankly disturbing accuracy.
“You already know what I’m going to say, clearly,” she says drily and pops the candy into her mouth. It has been an exhausting two weeks, but compared to what she’s gone through to save Madoka it’s barely even worth acknowledging. She adds: “Which would mean you know perfectly well that this conversation is pointless.”
“Stubborn as a mule,” Kyoko concludes with a sigh, and leans back further, looking up at the clear sky. The wind picks up. “What are you gonna do when she brings someone home next time? Kill them?”
Her entire body freezes.
Kyoko continues: “You remember, don’t you? It’s almost October, Madoka’s birthday—her eighteenth birthday—so it’d be natural for her to want—”
“I remember,” she nearly growls, and Kyoko meets her eyes.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” she warns.
Homura crushes the candy between her teeth.
***
Ordinary days return for a bit, but with each passing night, Homura’s anxiety grows.
One day, around noon, she has her hand around a shy little alpha’s throat as she slams him into a locker. There’s no one there to witness her abuse this time; they’re all supposed to be in class, and the solid walls of lockers near the entrance obscure them from the glass-walled classrooms.
“I saw,” she says. “You’re interested.”
“I—I don’t—” He chokes, so Homura loosens her grip slightly “—I wanted to borrow her notes—I caught a cold, I’m so sorry,” he whimpers. He smells like fear.
“Liar.”
She cuts off his airflow again. He tries to claw her hands off, but unfortunately for him, she has a Devil’s strength, and so his animal struggle turns out amusingly futile. Her dolls are watching them from outside with unblinking eyes, through the glass walls, laughing, chanting nonsense at her.
Töte ihn, töte ihn!
She ignores them, but does not let go until his face starts turning a funny shade of purple.
“Really, right here at the entrance?” calls out the beta she least wants to receive yet another lecture from.
“What do you want, Miki Sayaka?”
“Oh, nothing much, really.” She leans against a locker next to them, annoyingly casual. “I couldn’t help but notice that you disappeared from class—and I mean that literally, I blinked and you were gone—and Hidaka here vanished right after. Thought I might try and do some damage control.”
Homura scowls.
But after another harsh squeeze, she releases the undeserving fool. At least he has the brains to scatter immediately, so frantic he nearly trips over his feet like a deer freed after getting tangled in a fence.
“You weren’t supposed to notice.”
“Right. And I’m not supposed to remember you’re the Devil either,” Miki Sayaka says, clearly pleased with herself.
Somehow no matter the universe, no matter the timeline, Miki never fails to aggravate her. Now even more so when, after two years of straightforward, simple loathing that Homura could deal with, she did a 180 out of nowhere and began to talk to her with this condescending tone of understanding, like she knew…Homura didn’t even know what. More than she actually did. Maybe it’s that Homura never could make her forget the core truth that she is the Devil, and the useless messenger jumped to her own conclusions from there.
“Don’t provoke me.”
“Oh, how scary you are.” The beta rolls her eyes. “I’m sure Madoka would love to see it.”
Miki is really trying here, isn't she? “I let him go. What do you want?”
She sighs, and drops some of the pretentious attitude. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Madoka’s birthday is next week. We’re meeting at Mami’s place on Saturday, and we know she’d want you there.”
Homura blinks. She is, frankly put, gobsmacked. “What makes you think she’d want me there?”
“She doesn’t hate you, you know.”
“Of course she does.”
“Stop projecting. This is Madoka we’re talking about here, I don’t think she has it in her to outright hate anyone.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “See, I don’t think she approves of your weird ‘alpha purge’ either, but I think she gets it…on a weird, alpha–omega level or whatever.”
“She doesn’t know what I am. What I’m capable of.”
At that, Miki makes an expression like she bit into a lemon. “Do you even hear yourself? Save—”
They both look up reflexively when the bell announces the end of fifth period, and soon, students start pouring out of their classrooms and into the hallways.
“Just—think about it,” Miki says. “And let me know if you’ll come. That’s all.”
Homura scoffs, then mutters, “Fine.”
***
She passes Momoe Nagisa on the way back, playing catch with two of her dolls. When she notices Homura, the second messenger flashes her an innocent smile, then winks badly.
***
Madoka’s birthday comes and goes, and so does the damned get-together that Homura ultimately did join. Anything for Madoka.
It was as awkward as she expected, even though everyone clearly tried to be on their best behavior, for Madoka’s sake. Or maybe it was precisely because of it that it was so painfully awkward. They’d have fallen right into their practiced routine if they showed her some hostility, surely. Of course, Homura tried to be on her best behavior, too, and so the evening passed; otherwise shockingly uneventful, though Madoka herself looked happy to have them all there.
Now, weeks and weeks later, Homura is once again perched at the edge of her chosen rooftop. She’s going to keep watch during Madoka’s first heat since she turned eighteen, and she’s nervous.
Madoka doesn’t have to bring anyone home, Homura reminds herself. It may be socially accepted, it may even be expected of her, but Madoka can simply decide not to. It’s a stupid custom anyway—did she really change that much just because she is ‘deemed’ old enough now, on paper? Maybe Madoka doesn’t think she’s ready yet?
Homura looks up into the dark night sky, and with no hint of irony, prays for nothing to change.
Finally, she sees Madoka making her way back home—Homura has been losing her mind over why she hasn’t been there already—with the unmistakable blond curls of Tomoe Mami coming into view next to her. It seems no Gods were up there to receive her prayer.
It takes Homura a moment to fully comprehend what she’s seeing. Madoka with Tomoe. Madoka with an alpha. Madoka with an alpha that isn’t her.
Homura watches and considers what her next move should be. She expected….she…planned…for something like this…
Her jaw clenches shut. Her head hurts. She can’t think. In the depths of her own mind, the only possible course of action rears its head from the abyss, baring its filthy teeth at her, grinning.
She is going to kill Tomoe Mami.
Just outside of the well-lit entrance to the Kaname household, Homura materializes in front of them to block their way. She does it with no forethought, no plan, and no subtlety, but she stares Tomoe down with the cool disposition of an executioner on the job. She is the Devil, and she is an alpha defending her claim. There is only one way this can possibly go.
And then Madoka smiles and lets go of Tomoe’s hand.
Her rival takes a step back, and she bows. Fully bows to Homura, with dignity only Tomoe would be capable of in such a situation.
Homura, for her part, has no clue how to respond. She’s embarrassingly caught off guard, and her conviction falters.
“Homura”—her eyes dart to that lovely pink—“would you like to come inside?”
She—what? Would she do what?
Madoka steps towards her, and she reaches out to take her hand. She smiles like—like this is what she wants. Like she fully expected to see her there. A sudden panic grips Homura—how much does Madoka know?—but then Madoka pulls her back towards the entrance and she has more urgent things to worry about. Like what she’ll do if Madoka’s parents come out to greet her.
“My parents aren’t home,” Madoka says as if prompted. “They took Takkun and went on vacation.”
Homura thinks: Oh, thank God, first, and immediately after that: Why would they leave her alone when her heat is about to start?! Irresponsible!
Then she realizes it's likely because of Tomoe. They expected the alpha to take on the guardian role, to keep Madoka safe—she can see how someone could trust Tomoe with that, regrettably—and she’s gripped by such an abrupt bout of anger that it leaves her with a sense of vertigo, though she recovers from it in the time it takes for Madoka to pull her through the house and upstairs. She comes face to face with the door to Madoka’s room, and there’s the nervousness, back like a familiar embrace. Homura has stood at the foot of this door before, but not in this timeline, not in this reality, and never under these circumstances.
She can barely rationalize what’s happening. Even though what’s happening is, in some ways, laughably simple.
The door opens and they step into the room, and what greets her is that orange light, the one she’s conditioned herself to associate with those long, hazy nights spent alone on a roof, with only her fantasies to accompany her.
Here she is, in a bizarre turn of events. She didn’t think it’d be like this; for one, her head is oddly clear.
Madoka just closed the door behind her, and while Homura can’t imagine ever not being absurdly attracted to Madoka, she stays on the strange fact that her thoughts aren’t muddled with out-of-control lust, and that her head is clear. She belatedly realizes what that means.
Madoka takes a step toward her, and Homura, stupidly, takes a step back.
“You’re—not in heat yet.”
“You're right,” Madoka says. “I mean”—she giggles—“I wouldn’t have been outside earlier otherwise.”
Of course. Homura knew that. Why did she not think of that?
When Madoka takes another step into her personal space, Homura makes a conscious effort not to move.
She has so many questions. Like what that was, earlier, with Tomoe—why did she back off? Why did it feel rehearsed? Why does Madoka act like she expected this to happen, and why does she so easily accept Homura to—
She still can’t believe this is happening, but it is, and second-guessing it will do her no favors. Even if something about this pings her alarm bells, she’s wanted this for too long.
So she lets it play out.
Homura isn’t sure what she expects, but it’s probably something more along the lines of awkwardly waiting until the hormones kick in and shut their brains off, and take them the rest of the way. She’s ready to wait for her awareness to fade, for instinct to take over.
Reality is worse, because Madoka starts undoing the buttons in her blouse and Homura is keenly aware of every deft movement of her fingers.
In pure, honest disbelief, Homura asks, “You want to have non-heat sex with me?”
“I think it’d be nice to take it slow at first,” Madoka says plainly, completely oblivious to Homura’s brain melting out through her ears. “I don’t think there’ll be a chance for that later,” she adds, and she winks. She actually winks. Homura feels lightheaded. Possibly because her blood rushed somewhere else by now.
Madoka is being so casual about it. Is that allowed? No, what does she care for if it’s allowed, she’s the Devil. Shouldn’t it be her who’s completely comfortable in this scenario? But titles be damned—she’s never done this before. At fourteen they barely even started presenting, so all the loops amounted to nothing in that department.
The girl she loves is slowly undressing her, and all Homura can do is blush a dark red and let it happen. Some Devil she is. It takes her getting almost completely stripped to get over herself somewhat. She did this a million times in her head, why can’t she just—
Madoka’s arms loop around the back of her neck, and she rests her forehead against Homura’s for a bit. “You think too much,” she says.
Homura gapes, for several reasons. One of those is the sensation of Madoka’s fingers digging into her hair, lightly scraping at her scalp. It's very distracting.
“How do you—” she manages to squeeze out before Madoka draws even nearer, her lips so close now.
“I can see it in your face,” Madoka says, and Homura can feel her words in warm puffs of air against her mouth. She’s going to lose her mind. “It’s in your eyes—you’re trying to understand, to piece everything together and have it make sense. It’s okay. I'll always want this,” she says softly, and before Homura can even begin to comprehend what that means, Madoka leans in.
The kiss that follows is soft and careful, the barest brush of lips against hers. It’s the best thing Homura has ever experienced. Then Madoka does it again, this time just that bit more forceful, daring to prod her lips open with an inquisitive tongue, and then that is the best thing Homura has ever experienced.
It turns out that open-mouthed kisses make her dizzy too, dizzy in a familiar way; like how the distant, suppressant-dimmed hints of Madoka’s scent on that cursed roof made her dizzy. Why is Madoka so good with her tongue? Is it talent? Research? She certainly appears to have prepared for this more than Homura did… But Madoka has never done this either. She hasn’t…right? No, she couldn’t have, Homura would know—
Madoka sucks her tongue into her mouth and Homura has to stop herself from reaching down with her own hand and finishing herself off immediately. It feels so good. Her growing arousal is beginning to become unbearable.
Then Madoka’s hand starts trailing down Homura’s stomach, and the promise of it makes her shiver. It takes all her self control not to come right then, from nothing more than the sensation of Madoka’s fingers brushing against her dick over the fabric of her panties. Then Madoka pulls them down just enough, and Homura lets out a small embarrassed noise against her mouth. Madoka draws back and meets her eyes, amused.
“I think this will help you relax,” Madoka murmurs, placing her lips at the corner of her mouth, then dipping her head to her neck, and further down.
Next thing she knows, Madoka is getting down on her knees, and Homura’s blood runs cold.
“No—no, get up,” Homura says vehemently, and Madoka pauses; looks up at her.
She continues: “Don’t,” and she takes Madoka’s hands to pull her back up. “I don’t want you to. Please—let me do it.”
It’s a surprise to Madoka, she sees, but then she smiles gently, with so much warmth and understanding and Homura is again struck by how beautiful she is. She could never get used to it.
“Alright,” Madoka says. “What would you like, Homura?”
Finding her footing—because now she has a goal to work towards—she kisses Madoka again, trying to take more initiative, tongue coming out to taste and a hand daring to dip under her shirt, tracing paths up her stomach until she reaches and cups a soft, lovely breast, then rolls a thumb over the lace-covered stiff peak. A pleased sigh spurs her on, and she reaches around and undoes Madoka’s bra, and with some help, her shirt ends up discarded soon after. So does her skirt and everything else, until they’re both left completely naked.
It’s Homura who sinks to her knees now, and this feels right, this is how it’s supposed to be. Madoka should never lower herself in the face of the Devil—merely seeing her try to kneel made Homura want to scream blasphemy.
She lets her hands roam Madoka’s soft thighs while she places feather light kisses here and there, all over the tender skin, until Madoka digs both hands into her hair and harshly tugs for Homura to stop teasing.
She complies.
The first thing that overcomes her is the musky scent. She breathes it in, revels in it; realizes she can see herself get addicted. She gives Madoka’s lower lips a slow, measured lick with the broad of her tongue and Madoka lets out a high-pitched noise of pleasure that leaves Homura dazed. She runs her tongue along the entire length of Madoka’s entrance, and as she gets to the top and feels the nub under it, Madoka actually mewls and pulls at her hair hard enough to hurt.
She’s so wet. It’s almost enough to drive Homura completely wild. Her heat is close, she can tell. She brings two fingers up to her entrance and they slide in with no resistance at all, and Homura gets gut-punched with the need to push Madoka down right now and do things properly. This is supposed to get Madoka ready, but having her take three fingers already and still plead for more makes Homura think that there’s no need for her to draw it out.
She licks at Madoka’s clit in time with her fingers pumping in and out, and she curls them, pressing up repeatedly against what she recalls should bring Madoka the most pleasure, and it works; she painfully pulls Homura into herself by the hair, legs shaking, and she comes with a breathy moan. Homura helps her stay upright with one arm around her waist, letting her ride it all out.
She rises to stand and pulls Madoka flush against herself, skin against skin, and dips her head for another deep kiss. She doesn’t want to wait a moment longer, but she doesn’t think she has to.
Maneuvering backward to where she knows Madoka’s bed is, she meets the side of it with the back of her legs, then blindly falls to sit on it, dragging Madoka into her lap. This also causes Madoka to press perfectly against her hard length, and Homura’s hips buck up on instinct, prompting a gasp.
Madoka holds her face in both hands and kisses her, again and again. She grinds her hips down, starting a slow rhythm, and Homura groans, so unbearably close already.
Then Madoka stops and pulls away to search her eyes. “Is this what you want, Homura?” she whispers, as if it wasn’t an obvious truth of the universe that she’d always want Madoka. As if the question shouldn’t be flipped. Homura simply leans forward and seals their lips back together, and Madoka takes that as confirmation. She rises slightly, grabs Homura’s dick with a hand and finally guides them together, and when she sinks down, Homura briefly experiences Nirvana. It’s all been worth it. Her love for Madoka, her sinfully dragging the Goddess down from heaven—it was worth it, and it all culminates here.
She isn’t sure if it’s Madoka’s initiative or hers, but she falls back against the mattress, holding Madoka close on top of her, and she starts driving up in earnest, the sensations simultaneously too much and not enough. Being enveloped in warm flesh is exhilarating, and every repeated thrust sends fresh jolts of pleasure up her spine, but she craves more, she needs more; to hear Madoka sigh and moan and feel her clutch at her shoulders, nails pricking against her skin and drawing blood. She’s vocal too, she realizes. Sliding in and out is so easy. She can bury herself to the very hilt each and every time, and she thought she wouldn’t be able to—she expected to have to work her way to squeezing in the entire length of her, fitting half, maybe three-quarters in at first. But this is so much better. Madoka is taking her so well.
And Madoka doesn’t remain passive either, meeting her thrusts with equal fervor and kissing her when she has any breath to spare, and when Homura lets her hands slide down her back and grabs onto Madoka’s ass to pick the pace up even further and slam into her with more force, she takes it all and responds in kind. All Homura thinks of is going harder, deeper, for the pleasure to melt it all away and reduce her to nothing. Madoka moans against her mouth as she comes again, walls contracting around her cock in rhythmic spasms and Homura gives in completely as it sets her off into white hot release. She pushes herself up one last time and stays there, holds Madoka in place against her, then resumes pumping in and out, getting them through the aftershocks and pulling some cum to ooze out in the process. Messy as it was, it felt too good for her to care.
Madoka hums against her lips after she pulls out and nuzzles her face into the crook of her neck. She cuddles into Homura, still on top of her.
Homura holds her close and thinks: this is bliss. There couldn’t possibly exist anything better.
Several hours later, when they’re both asleep, Madoka’s heat starts in earnest, and Homura takes back every word.
***
She understands, now, why Madoka’s family left for the week.
It’s around 4 am when Homura wakes up, and she can immediately tell that something is wrong. She’s hot, sweating bullets, and thoroughly uncomfortable, and she can feel fidgeting under the covers next to her. Then she hears quiet sighs and whimpers, and she doesn’t need anything else to piece together what’s happening. All at once, she becomes aware of the scent, thick and heady and so much more overwhelming than she thought it would be. If she could see it, it’d have been white smoke so thick it threatened to choke her with every inhale.
She rolls over and on top of Madoka without thinking, props herself up with her palms coming to rest on either side of her head, and she looks down at her dilated pupils, the dark blush on her face, and her beautiful pink, messy hair. Her pulse thunders in her ears.
“Homura,” she whispers, and it’s filled with such need that Homura can feel herself get harder than she’s ever been. There’s tension coiling in her body, and it’s so severe it hurts. She needs release. She needs—
Her hand darts down to Madoka’s entrance and her fingers are coated in slick; Madoka is wet, dripping, and she’s making noises that bolt down to the root of her, and she nuzzles up against Homura’s cheek and her neck and she says please.
Homura takes her in that instant, pushes deep into her folds and gives up whatever Madoka wants. She asks Homura to kiss her, so she does. She asks for Homura to pick up the pace, and again, she does; feverishly pleads for her to go deeper, to come inside and knot her, keep her in place, and she does, she does, she does.
It’s a wild blur of pleasure, but through it all, she knows: she will obey Madoka’s every word, keep her safe, and never let her go. That is her role. Her purpose. She wants what Madoka wants; she wants to serve. And right now, Madoka wants to be forcefully rut into the mattress, so Homura wants that, too. She thrusts harder, and time melts together. She no longer knows how long they’ve been at it.
At some point, in the heat of it all, Madoka asks Homura to mark her.
She does. She latches onto her neck and sinks her teeth in, and Madoka claws at her back in pleasure. At the time, she sees it as the only right answer, the only possible course of action. Madoka asks, Homura gives. Simple as that.
In the afterglow, after Homura throws the covers off of them to at least cool off a little bit while they’re stuck together, Madoka murmurs, “You’re mine now, Homura…all mine,” and Homura takes no issue with that.
Madoka rubs her cheek against hers and falls back asleep.
In the morning they have to get up and actually get something to eat, but that’s easier said than done. They can’t keep their hands away from each other, always touching in some way. In the end, Homura takes her again in the kitchen, from behind, while Madoka has her hands against a counter for support.
Out of the corner of her eye, Homura catches a glimpse of a doll, watching from outside a window. She shoots her a death glare, and she scatters.
Preparing something to eat takes them twice as long as it should have. They decide to order take-out in the afternoon, then nearly can’t pick it up because the delivery guy rings the doorbell 20 minutes earlier than he should have, and Homura emerges from having her face between Madoka’s legs with a hateful snarl and unprecedented levels of self-control. She wipes her face and goes to get the door, and hopes the man can smell it when she pays him. Or maybe he doesn’t, they hire betas for delivery jobs… Pity.
They do it again in the shower, because it’s warm and pleasant, and they’re close enough that there’s nothing else either can really think about. Then, when they try to change their covers because they absolutely should, Madoka bends in a certain way that gets Homura going again. She pushes Madoka against the wall and takes her with a frantic urgency, and so it repeats, cycles of all-consuming pleasure broken up by glimmers of clarity that they use to hurriedly take care of their other basic needs.
Days pass and Homura wakes up on their living-room couch with Madoka in her arms. She’s forgotten that this isn’t actually her house by this point, forgotten that she will have to wake up from this heat-induced dream soon. She looks outside through the big, square windows, and there’s nothing there but white, endless emptiness. Must be a foggy morning, Homura thinks. It doesn’t bother her.
Madoka stirs, and Homura kisses her on the forehead.
There’s something else she’s forgetting, but it doesn’t seem too important.
She falls back asleep.
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Draft: 4865
Homura,
there is something I want to do.
I’m sorry for keeping you in the dark, I truly am. But you’re so careful, and so quick to run from your own happiness, and if you knew that I remembered it all already I don’t think you’d be willing to hear me out. And I don’t blame you. I’ve hurt you so badly with my decisions before.
You needed time. So I came up with a plan. Well: we all did, though we kept some details from Nagisa. I kept telling Sayaka to try and be a bit more subtle, but from a certain point, even when you knew something wasn’t right, you didn’t intervene. It was as if you were willing to let it happen. I’ve always wondered why.
Did you hope we would fight you? Knowing you, that might have been it. You keep thinking of us as enemies, and of yourself as the Devil, and I find that to be such a sad thing. Falling in love is wonderful, so please don’t call yourself that. You don’t need to punish yourself for anything. I understand why you did what you did.
I wish I had realized how much you suffered sooner. I wish I could have done more. But I’ve already made my wish, and my power has never been absolute, you know that better than anyone. I’ve made as many mistakes as anyone else.
Once, not too long ago, I could see all the timelines, all that was and could be, from beginning to end. Homura, I can now see all timelines but one. I could not see the future in your world, and I treasured each new day that you’ve given me. I want you to know that.
You’re so wonderfully strong, Homura, stronger than anyone else. So I do not see how this will turn out for us.
I hope you’ll forgive me when you learn of what I’ve done. I hope that I’ve shown you how things could go for us, how much I care about you. I hope we can work through this, and I hope that I can stay by your side, that you will let me. You deserve it. You deserve it more than anyone.
I’ll tell you, I promise, but not just yet. Not when you’re sleeping so soundly next to me, tired but content, and so at peace. It’s rare that I get to see you like this. You haven’t been resting well for a long time, and it breaks my heart.
This is our last night in your universe; I hope the next one can be ours.
We’ll talk about it tomorrow.
I love you.