Bingpot

You’ve unpacked the entire duffel, taken stock of everything that Johnny grabbed from your apartment, turned the bag inside out, and you still can’t find it.

You swore, you swore, you had it with you when you left. You thought maybe you shoved it in one of the pockets when you got on the plane, but you honestly can’t remember.

You’ve been traveling for days, and everything is a bit fuzzy.

But you know you had it.

Which means…

You eye the bedroom door. You haven’t surfaced from this room, the one Johnny says is yours, all day. You’re somewhere between hiding and avoiding, unsure which one you’re leaning more towards.

It’s not like it’s a hardship. This is a nice place. The room you’re in is huge, and it has its own bathroom. Cream colored walls and gauzy floor to ceiling curtains, it’s stocked with linens, towels, toiletries, anything you would need. The king sized bed is lined with the softest pillows imaginable, and there’s every kind of blanket, from weighted to wool. It feels… homey.

The entire house does. It’s not rundown with peeling wallpaper and puke green bathroom tile like the first place. It’s not small, or decrepit, or heavily shuttered. It’s modern, bright, and warm. It feels less like a safe house, and more like a home.

“Do ye like it?” Johnny asked as he finished giving you the tour, and you had stared at him in confusion.

“I thought safe houses were supposed to be… sketchy.”

“Aye, they are. But this one is special. Better for a long term stay.”

He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t push, eager to create some distance, get away, try to clear the war zone that is now your mind. Two sides pushing and pulling, rationality and biology, instinct and anger, clashing again and again, trying to drown the other out. The omega inside of you is screaming, crying, desperate to claw her way out and drag you out the door and down the hall, put you right into their laps.

These men are dangerous, your relation to them might get you killed, yet your instinct only knows them as something holy, something safe. Protectors. Alphas. Mates.

It’s torture, being here.

And worse… you think it’s making you sicker.

Your suppressants and blockers are working overtime, overloading your system, trying to compensate for the distance between you and your mates, the one that has been so drastically shortened. There’s a new hollow feeling in your chest, one that aches, it’s emptiness like a wound that won’t heal. A scrape that won’t scab.

A craving that can never be satisfied.

It’s a complication you were hoping to google, with your phone.

That you can’t find.

You take a deep breath. You know you have to face them, see them, you know you can’t hide up here forever. You have to live, or at least try to, during this entire… situation.

And in order to do that-

you need your phone.

Simon is in the living room when you come down the stairs. He’s alone on the couch, looking down at his phone, and you try not to react to the way he’s sitting, thighs spread wide, sweatpants and sweatshirt clinging to his bulk. He looks relaxed, so at odds with the intensity you’re used to, the laser focus that never lets up.

It scrambles your brain for a moment. Basal need wins out and the room turns a little hazy, a little blurred on the edges, too colorful and loud, and you swallow against a rising tide of conflict, trying to keep your head above water, trying to maintain some sense.

You hear your name. He’s standing a pace away from you. So close his scent invades your senses, and you unconsciously breathe it in, trying to soak up the sea salt and leather just like a greedy omega would. “What is it?”

Stop.

What are you doing?

“Um, I…” You start breathing with your mouth to block him out. “I’m looking for my phone?” It’s not supposed to be a question. It’s supposed to be a demand, but it slips weakly from your tongue. You focus on a piece of lint in the middle of his chest, purposefully avoiding his eyes.

“I have it…” he says slowly, stepping back. He motions to the couch. “Sit.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m just…”

“Sit.” It’s not a bark, not quite. Just teetering on the edge, just enough for you to clench your jaw as you do what he says.

You practically sink into the couch. It’s oversized, overstuffed, too soft. It’s the kind of couch you could spend all day in when it’s rainy, reading or watching a movie. The entire living room is the same. There’s a large tv over the fireplace, and a smaller couch perpendicular to the one you’re on the now. It’s a big room, but somehow still cozy. It has that same homey, lived in feeling as the rest of the house.

“I have your phone.” He says, sitting a few cushions away from you, turned entirely in your direction. You feel warm under his attention, like you’re basking in the sun. It’s unbearable.

“Okay.” You wait, expecting more. Expecting him to say, I’ll go get it, or be right back.

He says none of those things.

“You’ll get it back once this is over and dealt with.” Your mouth drops open.

“What? No. I need my phone.” This feels very nonnegotiable to you. Very. But he only shakes his head.

“Your phone is not secure. It doesn’t take much for someone else to have complete access to it, see through the camera, know where you are. It’s a danger to you, to us, right now.” Your pulse pounds between your ears. “You can have it back as soon as we’ve sorted this mess and eliminated the threat.”

“B-but… my… I have to call work. And my friends, I have to tell my friends-”

“I already called the diner, and you can text, call, whatever you need to do from our phones.” You think of Sarah and Alex, the only two people you really have. You went no contact with your family years ago, and outside of a few casual friends from the diner, Sarah and Alex made up your entire social circle. Were they wondering where you were? Were they worried?

“No. No, you can’t just… you can’t just take my phone.” His jaw flexes, and some of that softness you noticed ebbs away.

“I can. I am. It’s for your safety.”

You hate him.

He abandoned you. He rejected you. He humiliated you.

You shoot to your feet. His scent spikes, worn leather turning sun kissed, soothing. You grit your teeth.

“I want it back.” You hiss, a wildfire of anger flooding you like molten lava.

“No.” He stands to face you. Relaxed. Open palmed. At ease while you’re practically vibrating with rage, the feeling so overwhelming that you can feel it in the tips of your fingers.

“Yes.”

“‘m not doin’ this with you.” You expect him to bark. To give you an order, but instead, he does something entirely different.

He moves.

It happens so fast, too fast for your brain to understand, too fast for the rational side of you to step out of the way.

Instead, his palm lands on the nape of your neck and it’s big, warm, secure.

Safe. Your instincts scream. Mate.

You lock up. Once you’re finally caught up, processed, you get caught between trying to take a step back and turning stiff as a board, frozen in his grip.

“Easy,” he rumbles, the tone of his voice turning into something a shade close to gentle, something you didn’t know existed. And just like that, just one simple word, blunts the sharp edge of your anger.

But it doesn’t stop there.

He makes a sound low in his chest, a warm, coaxing thrum that your omega knows before you do.

Subharmonics.

It almost brings you to your knees.

“Enough now,” he murmurs, guiding you in closer, “We’re not your enemy, dove.”

Alpha.

You’re slipping away, losing the fight to your hindbrain, to who you are underneath it all.

He moves backwards, taking you with him, one step at a time, guiding you, urging you to move with him without forcing it.

You put your hands up, hold them out like you mean to push him away.

No, that is what you mean.

You mean to push him away, tell him not to touch you, not to talk to you, not to… alpha you… but his body is warm under your palms and his subharmonic rumble is like a siren’s song, sinking into your bones and turning you to mush.

“Don’t.” You whisper. It’s more for yourself than it is for him.

Don’t do this, don’t be weak, don’t give in.

Your protest doesn’t stop him, doesn’t prevent him from pulling you inward, closer, close enough you’re overwhelmed by him, the blockers and suppressants doing nothing to drown him out, sea salt and tobacco, sun warmed leather invading your senses. Even holding your breath, he’s there,

“No.” You croak, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t acknowledge your protest. His arms are rebar as they come around you, force you into his chest.

“Settle,” the pressure increases, around your body, in your head, the careful construction of your resistance, your anger, starting to disintegrate right before your very eyes.

It’s not fair.

“You don’t need to fight us,” he continues, “we’re jus’ trying to protect you.”

“I don’t want this.” You choke out. “I don’t want to be here, I want to go home.” Home, home, home. You’re stuck on it, stuck on trying to get back to a shit hole apartment in a shit hole town.

“That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is keeping you safe.” Nothing about this is safe. Being trapped in a house with mates who rejected you isn’t safe, it’s hell.

Simon’s stopped trying to soothe you now, pheromones and subharmonics dialed down to a low hum, something still present, but not as strong.

The floorboards creak at your back and you stiffen in response, turning to find Johnny watching you and Simon from the edge of the room.

He doesn’t look upset, or jealous, or anything you’d expect. Only mildly concerned, brows barely creased in the middle.

“Everythin’ alright?” You shake your head, but Simon nods.

“She was gettin’ a bit worked up.” You stare at him, incredulous. Worked up? Like you’re some hysterical omega who can’t control herself.

“Ah. We cannae have that.” Simon’s grip slackens, and you take the opportunity to step away, trying to separate yourself.

“I wanted, I want my phone.” Johnny nods. It’s sympathetic, and understanding, and you hate it. Like you hate him. Like you hate them both.

“Sorry dove. It’s not s-”

“Safe.” You finish for him bitterly. “Yeah I heard.” You pull all your resolve together and turn away, aimed at the stairs, seeking your escape.

Neither of them stop you. There are no protests, not as you climb back up to the second floor and run down the hallway, and not as you slam your door like a petulant child.

It’s only once you’re curled up under a heap of blankets that you finally let go, and bury your face in a pillow with a sob.

It’s late when the knock comes.

“Dove?” It’s Johnny, his voice soft and smooth on the other side of your door, patiently waiting. It wakes you up, something inside you alerting to his presence, even in your sleep.

You don’t answer. He sighs.

“Ye didnae come down for dinner, an’ we dinnae want ye to be hungry.” You drag the covers up over your head, sitting in silence until he breaks it. “I brought ye some food, I’ll just leave it outside yer door. Try to eat somethin’, please.” There’s a pinch in your heart, a chord struck. Alphas are hardwired to care for their omegas. Ensuring you’re eating is not out of the ordinary, and you wonder if they hadn’t rejected you, hadn’t left you, it would be different, you would enjoy Johnny bringing you food.

But you can’t. Even though your hindbrain screams and tries to drag you towards the door to him, you dig in your heels and resist with all you have.

He knocks again.

You meet it with silence.

the hearing aids have been sitting in the dish by the bathroom sink for weeks, untouched. they’re good ones too. tiny things. they sit down in the canal, you’d have to be nose-to-nose with him to spot the little nub of them, and even then you’d have to know to look. nothing hooks over the ear or catches in the light.

he just wont wear them.

“i’m not seventy,” he’d said the once you really pushed it. “m’not puttin’ in hearing aids.”

“you’re wearing them, john. you already had them fitted.”

“i don’t need them,” he’d protested. “not day to day.”

which is how you ended up here, two weeks later, watching the back of his head while he reads and ignores the sound of you existing.

so you change tactics.

you don’t say his name again. you take the book out of his hands gently, dog-ear his page with your thumb, set it on the table next to his feet. and before he can do more than open his mouth you climb into his lap, knees bracketing his thighs, settling yourself down onto him.

his hands land on your hips instinctually, his whole expression changing. the annoyance smooths out and something warm comes up slowly in its place, you can read his thoughts as clearly as if he’d said it out loud — ‘well, this is alright’.

“well, hello,” he says low, hands sliding up your sides.

he thinks he’s won something. he’s already tilting his chin up for you, lips looking for yours.

you reach into the pocket of your cardigan and pull them out, cupped in your palm where he can see, and his face drops.

“oh, you’re joking,” his shoulders sink with disappointment.

“hold still,” you grumble, leaning forward.

“i was comfortable,” he complains.

“john.” you get the first one in before he can turn his head, fingers careful at his ear, and he huffs through his nose like a dog that’s been told no. “other side.”

“this is entrapment.”

“mm-hm.” you fit the second one in, tucking his hair back where it’s gone astray. you sit back against him to look with your hands resting on his chest. “there,” you grin, satisfied.

“i was reading.”

“and you weren’t hearing a single word i said all night.”

“i can hear!”

“so you’re choosing to ignore me then?”

“i wasn’t— i just—,”

“you answered ‘fine’ when i asked if you wanted chicken or fish for dinner.”

his jaw works. he doesn’t have anything to say to that. “they itch,” he tries instead, pressing a finger against the front of his ear, rubbing the cartilage there.

“they don’t itch. you’re being dramatic.” you shift your weight, just slightly, settling in more solidly against him, and watch his breath catch. “tell me they itch now.”

he’s still scowling, but his hands have tightened on your hips. “i don’t see what hearing’s got to do with this…” he looks down at where you’re pressed to him.

you roll your hips down against him, folding forward, letting your mouth go to the side of his face, right up close to his ear, and you breathe out — soft, the smallest sound, half a moan and half a laugh because you can’t help yourself.

you feel him go still beneath you.

you do it again. rocking down against the shape of him through his trousers and let the noise come up out of you naturally, quiet and close and meant only for him, the kind of sound you make without thinking when his hands are on you. his fingers flex and splay and grip harder, his head turns toward you like it’s being pulled.

“there you are,” you murmur.

“…christ.”

“you hear that?”

he doesn’t answer. his eyes have gone heavy lidded and his hand’s come up into your hair and he’s turned fully into you now, chasing it, the small wet sounds of your breath against his ear, the catch in your throat when you press down and he pushes up to meet you.

these little intimate things he stopped hearing a long time ago and never noticed he’d lost because of how gradual it happened. this way you sound when you want him, the quiet things. the things you only ever say just for him, the things you’ve been saying into the dark for a year now with no return.

“say my name,” you breathe.

“…what?”

“in bed. i always say your name and you never—,” you rock against him and his breath stutters, “you never answer anymore.”

his hand comes up to the side of your face. he pulls back just far enough to look at you, and there’s something that’s gone serious under the want, something that’s caught up with what you’re telling him.

“m’so sorry, love,” he nudges his nose under your jaw, kissing the soft of your neck. “say it now. again,” he says, rough. “go on.” he’s gone hard under you, rolling his hips up, hands keeping your hips down. the seam of his zipper pushing through the thin cotton of your joggers

“john,” you breathe.

he hears you and you watch him — watch his eyes close for a second like it’s gone straight through him.

“yeah,” he says, his thumb moving slow against your cheek. “heard that.” then your name unfurls from his tongue and you kiss him before he can pretend he wasn’t affected, and his arms come all the way around you, and he doesn’t say a single word about the hearing aids again.

Low, rough, they seep through the floorboards, down the hall to where you’re curled up in the back corner of a closet, tucked away with your back to the wall, covered in the blankets you stripped from the bed.

You slept here, you think, though the last twenty four hours are pretty hazy. You were in the SUV for a while, speeding down the highway as you desperately tried to keep track of the road signs, which way you were headed, trying to hold onto a sense of direction, only for it to slip through your fingers as night crept into day, and the highway turned into back roads.

“Where are we going? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” You asked, again and again, and only Johnny answered, turned around in the front seat to face you, blue eyes piercing yours.

“We’re takin’ ye to a safe house, an’ we’ll explain everythin’ as soon as we get settled. Ye should try to get some sleep, it’s a long drive.”

They told you nothing after that and as hard as you tried to fight it, sleep took you. Your nervous system was shot, the car was unnecessarily warm, and their proximity, their scents… it was a battle you were never going to win.

Even after they pulled into the driveway of a very normal looking house in an unknown town, they said nothing. Only opened the child locked doors and watched as you uneasily stumbled out of the car, warily walking between them up the stairs to the front door, half asleep. Sick to your stomach.

You slept walked inside, following behind Johnny as he led you to a bedroom.

“We’ll stay here for the night.”

“For the night?” Nothing made sense in your brain. This was a bad dream, you decided. One you just needed to wake up from. He nodded. Some sort of sympathy shone in his eyes, but it was dark around the edges, clear blue waters turned caliginous.

“We’ll move again in the mornin’.”

You should have questioned him, pushed back, argued, but you didn’t have anything left in you. You were drained, and there was an inner desire growing inside you, one that was desperately trying to push you into the arms of your mates.

Mates, who wanted nothing to do with you.

Mates, who you wanted nothing to do with.

So instead, you turned your back. Dragged the blankets and pillows from the bed and curled up in the closet, hidden away from the world, from them, at least for the rest of the night.

Now, their voices are what rouse you. They grow louder, closer, reverberating down the hall until they stop, and a knock sounds in their place.

You instinctively press back against the wall.

It’s quiet, and then… your name.

It’s not the first time you’ve heard it from them, your memory is hazy but you remember Johnny, or Simon, saying it while the three of you were running. Though it sounds different now, in the light of day, less like a command.

More knocks, this time more insistent, and you hold your breath, waiting. Wondering.

It doesn’t take long. The door creaks open, boot steps echoing across the wooden floor, coming to a stop in front of the closet.

Maybe you should run now. Or fight. Launch yourself out of the closet like a wild cat and attack.

Where would you go? You don’t even know where you are.

You’re still holding your breath. You don’t want to smell them, don’t want the leather and tea to sink into your skin, don’t want it to rearrange your soul. You don’t want them.

The closet door swings open, and there he is.

Johnny.

He’s clean, showered looks like, wet hair at his nape, eyes shining and bright. His bond mark, the bite, peeks out over the collar of his jumper, and you can’t help but stare at it.

“Good mornin’.” His lips quirks to the side with an almost smile. “Did ye sleep in here?” You don’t answer. You can’t, everything is jumbled up in your head now, your demands, your confusion, your fear, all of it compounded by the pain that’s starting to ebb back into your bones. All you can manage is,

“I want to go home.” His almost smile turns almost sympathetic.

“There’s breakfast in the kitchen. An’ tea.” He shifts, opening up space between him and the closet. “Will ye come out? We can talk.” Breakfast, tea. Normal things. Like any of this is normal.

When you don’t move, he sighs.

“If ye dinnae come out on yer own, I’ll have to do it myself.” Your eyes go wide.

“What? And drag me out of here?” His mouth tightens.

“If I have to.” Your throat goes dry, panic swooping up your spine, hard and fast, and for a second all you can do is stare at him wordlessly. Map his face, his shoulders, his hands, the body of your alpha, your mate, a piece of fate that was supposed to make you feel safe. Make you feel loved.

“I don’t understand what’s happening.” Your voice is small, as small as you feel. Pathetic.

“I know.” He shifts, creates room between him and closet door, and jerks his head. “Let’s go down, get somethin’ to eat, and I’ll explain what’s happenin’, alright?” You stay frozen, and he sighs. “C’mon omega, ye must be hungry. An’ ye cannae take yer meds on an empty stomach.” The reminder of your meds sends scorching shame into your cheeks, and you look past him, through him, to the bedroom door, the hallway and kitchen and world waiting beyond, all of it unfamiliar and cold.

Yours instincts are at war. Part of you wants to burrow down into this makeshift nest and never leave, part of you wants to run screaming down the hall and through the front door, and part of you, the most foul, traitorous part, wants to bury your face in Johnny’s neck and breathe him in. Breathe him into your bones.

These aren’t options, and you don’t like Johnny’s either.

So you move.

The table is set for one. A plate of food, a fork and knife, a steaming mug of tea. You say nothing as you slide into a chair, Johnny doing the same across from you with a shadow over his shoulder.

Simon.

He’s not wearing the mask now. He towers over the table with a watchful expression, sweeping you from head to toe like he’s completing an inspection. If you pass, if you fail, you can’t tell. His face gives nothing away.

Your focus drifts past the plate of eggs and toast to the orange bottles in the middle of the table.

Your meds.

Instinct has you reaching for them, standing out of your seat, relief already settling in the pit of your stomach and calming the churning apprehension that’s been building, the dread of the misery you know is coming.

Simon beats you to it, swiping them up into a giant paw. “After you eat.”

“Are ye in pain?” Johnny asks softly, and you stare at a speck on the wall over his shoulder.

“I want to know what’s going on.” You can’t acknowledge the hurt, the suffering that they caused. It’s too much. Johnny’s jaw tics, but he doesn’t push.

“Alright.” He sighs. “Ye’re in danger.” Of course you realize this already, but to hearing it out loud feels so much worse. It hits you like a brick.

“Why?” You croak.

“Because of us.” Simon’s admission is rough and pointed like a serrated blade jammed up under your ribs. “Because of who you are, to us.”

“You mean… nothing?” You look away, look down at where your hands are twisted together in your lap. “That’s what I am to you, right?”  Johnny leans in, scent sharpening.

“We lied.” You knew it down to your bones, you knew fate when you smelled it, but to hear it after seven months of tossing and turning over it, after being sick over it, it makes your head swim. “An’ we’re sorry ye’re hurtin’-”

“You rejected me.” You whisper, gaze snapping up, flicking between their faces. Simon’s expression is a mask of neutrality, Johnny’s more focused. You wouldn’t say either are particularly kind, but maybe you don’t know how to read them, yet. “You humiliated me.”

“We had to. The bond will put you in danger.” Will. The omega in you purrs at the intent, and you push it down.

“Why?” Simon rubs his jaw, folds his arms across his chest.

“Who we are, what we do, it’s dangerous. And there are people out there who will use you to get to us.” Dread churns in your stomach.

“Who you are?” Johnny nods.

“We’re in a task force, a multi-national special operations unit that handles time sensitive… problems.” You blink. Everything slows down as you try to piece it together, make it make sense. “Problems governments contract us to fix.”

“So… that’s like… the military?”

“Kind of. Maybe, outside the military a bit.” Johnny looks like he’s diffusing a bomb, deciding which wire to cut, which to leave intact.

“A lot.” Simon grunts. “We’re not part of any specific country’s military.” Right, multinational.

“Oh.” The food in front of you has never looked more unappetizing, not in the face of the conclusions you’re drawing. “So… you’re dangerous.” Johnny kind of grimaces, but Simon nods.

“And you’ll be collateral damage. The people that are after you, they’ll kill you if they get their hands on you.” You can feel the blood draining from your face.

“Si.” Johnny gives him a look, but the bigger man only shrugs.

“Need to make sure there are no misunderstandings. She needs to understand how serious this is.” Misunderstandings.

“What kind of misunderstandings?” When they don’t answer right away, you crack under the weight of Simon’s heavy gaze, the only thing you want, the only thing you know, slipping free from beneath your tongue. “I want to go home. Can I go home?” You ask weakly. Something dark curls around the edges of Johnny’s irises, a wisp of black smoke and shadow that clears when he shakes his head.

“No.” One word, cut and dry, and your nose stings with the threat of tears.

“You can’t just keep me here.” You protest, trying to control your breathing, your rising emotions.

“We’re not,” Simon deadpans, “we’re movin’ today.” Johnny scoots in, scraps his chair across the floor until his knees are almost touching yours, leaning down into your line of sight.

“The things we said at the diner, they were lies. We were tryin’ to protect ye from all this.” His hand goes flat on the table, inching closer, close enough you could twitch a finger and touch him. The temptation being pushed by your instincts is so strong, it’s almost too hard to fight it. “We know this is frightenin’, but ye have to trust us for now. We’re the only one who can keep ye safe.”

“And if I refuse?” Simon moves, settles into a chair opposite Johnny, the wood and screws groaning under his massive weight. He pushes the plate of breakfast towards you.

“That’s not an option.” You open your mouth to argue, but he shakes his head. “Eat your breakfast, take your meds, get dressed. We’ve got a long drive to the airstrip.”

“An airstrip?!” You squeak, eyes wide. “Like, for planes? We’re getting in a plane? Where are we going?” Your heart rate kicks up, rattling in your ears.

“Somewhere safe.” Johnny soothes, his scent turning sweeter, calming. “Somewhere ye can stay put for a while, where ye willnae be found.”

“But when it’s all over… I can go home?” You can feel the tension in the air, the tightrope you’re walking snapping taut.

“Once we’ve eliminated who identified ye, we’ll take ye home. I swear.” A dark, foul thought threads through your mind. One that immediately makes jealousy turn white hot, an iron begging to be touched.

“What about your omega?” Simon cocks his head.

“You’re our omega.” Syrupy sweetness spreads through your veins, sweeping you up into a haze of contentment. He said it. He said you were theirs. You have to actively choose, intentionally fight to hold onto your sense. It’s wrong, he’s wrong. You’ve seen the bites.

“N-no your… your marks…”

“They’re ours.” Johnny says gently, his eyes softening. “We’re bonded to each another.” He reaches for your hand, and instead of pulling away like you know you should, you let him take it. Let him rub his calloused thumb over your palm, let the closeness of your alpha, your mate, wash over you without protest. “We didnae know about ye, we would have waited if we did.” It’s too easy to fall into the sentiment, and your instinct is to preen, purr for your alphas.

It’s all too much, too confusing, your head is pounding and your muscles are sore, stomach twisting. It’s this exhaustion, this ache that has you breaking down, your shoulders slumping.

“Okay, I... okay.” You’re not sure what it is you’re saying okay to. You don’t have a choice in this matter, Simon has made that explicitly clear, and you’re in danger. Someone wants to kill you. What can you do?

Johnny pulls the mug of tea into his hands, long fingers stretching around the circumference of the chipped porcelain, and then pushes it into yours.

“Let’s get some breakfast into ye, an’ we’ll get ready to leave. That alright?” His palm settles on your knee, warmth bleeding through your leggings, and the touch smoothes some of the jagged edges in your mind. You nod.

Karen introduced you to Frank Castle on a Tuesday, and afterward you blamed her for it constantly. At first, he was just the terrifying guy who showed up at her apartment bleeding half to death and refusing medical help like it was a personality trait. You thought he was rude. He thought you talked too much. Karen thought you were both idiots almost immediately.

But then Frank kept showing up. Always with some excuse. Information for Matt. Coffee for Karen. Food nobody asked for. And somehow he always lingered longer when you were there too. You fell for him slowly.

In stupid little pieces.

The way he remembered your coffee order after hearing it once. The way he automatically walked closest to the street at night. The way his giant terrifying self softened every time you laughed at one of his dry muttered jokes like he couldn’t help it.

And Frank— God.

Frank fell hard.

Karen noticed first.

“You’re staring again,” she told him one night while you sat on the floor stealing fries from the takeout container in your lap.

“I ain’t starin’.”

“You absolutely are." Frank looked at you like you were something dangerous in the best possible way. Like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure he was allowed to. That was the thing about him. He never pushed.

Not once.

You dated other guys before Frank. Plenty. But they always got impatient eventually. Always acted like sex was some finish line they deserved to cross if they waited long enough. So you kept saying no. And after enough bad experiences, the fear just… stayed. Frank never made you feel guilty for it. The two of you became disgustingly affectionate anyway. Constantly touching. Your legs over his lap on the couch. His hand at your back guiding you through crowds. Falling asleep tangled together during movies. Stealing his shirts. Sitting between his knees while he cleaned guns and listening to him grumble about your taste in music. But every time things almost turned sexual, panic crept in. And every single time, Frank stopped immediately. One night he walked you home and looked at your mouth long enough to make your knees weak.

“If I kiss you,” he asked quietly, “you tellin’ me to stop?” You panicked. And Frank stepped back instantly like your comfort mattered more than breathing. That was probably when you realized you loved him. Not because he wanted you. Because he didn’t need anything from you to stay.

----------

You stand in the bedroom, pacing back and forth, chewing on your thumb.

God, you feel so stupid.

Your heart is pounding hard enough to make your ribs ache. You’ve faced armed men before. You’ve patched bullet wounds with shaking hands. You’ve stared down monsters and lived through it. And somehow this is worse. Because this is Frank.

Frank, who kisses your shoulder every morning without fail.

Frank, who drapes himself over you on the couch like a weighted blanket because he knows you secretly love it.

Frank, who always reaches for your hand first in crowded places.

Frank, who has spent months loving you with his entire body while carefully avoiding the one line you kept drawing between you.

Not because you hated touch.

God, no.

You’re practically glued to him half the time. You sit in his lap while he cleans guns. Fall asleep with your face in his neck. Steal his shirts and crawl into his arms every night like it’s instinct. And the need that crawls inside your skin when you see him shirtless, or doing anything with his hands- god. It's insatiable.

But sex— Sex always felt different to you.

Too vulnerable.

Too permanent.

Too much.

And every guy before Frank eventually got tired of waiting. Some were patient at first. Most pretended to be. Then came the guilt trips. The sighs. The passive-aggressive comments. The inevitable: What, you don’t trust me?

And eventually, somehow, time just… kept passing. Until suddenly you were here.

A grown virgin.

In Frank’s apartment.

In Frank’s clothes.

Hopelessly in love with a man who has never once made you feel bad for being scared. Which honestly makes this so much harder. You stop pacing long enough to stare at yourself in the mirror.

“You are a grown woman,” you mutter weakly. The reflection looks unconvinced. From the living room, you hear the low murmur of the TV and the faint clink of a beer bottle against the coffee table. Frank’s home from a job. Showered already. Clean black t-shirt. Gray sweats hanging low on his hips. You know because you’ve spent the last twenty minutes trying not to think about it. You squeeze your eyes shut.

Fuck it.

Before you can lose your nerve, you walk out into the living room. Frank’s sprawled on the couch, one arm stretched across the back cushions, beer balanced against his stomach while some old war documentary drones quietly from the television. The second he sees you hovering there, he frowns slightly.

“You alright, baby?” he asks. You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Frank immediately sits up straighter.

“That bad, huh?” You blurt it before you lose your nerve.

“Frank, I want to have sex with you.” Frank spits beer all over himself. You jump backward as he starts choking violently.

“Jesus Christ—”

“Oh my God.” He’s coughing hard enough his face turns red.

“Sorry-shit-” Frank wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at you like you just confessed to arson. “You—what?” Your face burns.

“Well now I regret bringin’ it up.”

“No, hold on.” He sets the beer down carefully like sudden movements might scare you off. “What?” You groan and cover your face.

“This is humiliating.”

“Sweetheart.” His voice softens immediately. “C’mere.” You shake your head aggressively.

“No, because now you’re gonna look at me weird.”

“I have literally never looked at you weird a day in my life.”

“You absolutely have.”

“Okay, fair. But not for this.” You peek at him through your fingers. Frank still looks stunned. Not upset. Not uncomfortable. Just deeply confused. “You wanna…” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “With me?”

“Frank, there are no other people in this apartment.”

“That ain’t what I mean.” You know that. Your stomach twists violently. Frank studies you carefully now, all teasing gone.

“I thought you didn’t want that stuff,” he says gently. “And I was okay with that.”

“I do want it.”

“Then why’ve you looked ready to bolt every time things got heated?” Your face gets hotter.

“Because I’ve never done it before.” Silence. Frank blinks once.

“…done what before?” You stare at the floor.

“Any of it.” Another beat. Then:

“…Baby.” You want the earth to swallow you whole.

“I’m a virgin, okay? I've never been kissed, never been touched by anyone except myself. ” you blurt out finally. “And before you make a face about it—”

“I ain’t makin’ a face.”

“You are internally.”

“I’m really not.” You risk a glance up. He genuinely isn’t. He just looks… shocked.

“You never—?”

“No.”

“And nobody ever—?”

“No.” Frank leans back slowly against the couch cushions like he just got hit with something.

“Jesus Christ.”

“I know. God, i'm so fucking embarassing.”

“No, sweetheart, I just—” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I thought maybe you just weren’t comfortable with physical intimacy.” You snort nervously.

“I’m literally attached to your spine twenty-four hours a day.”

“That’s true.”

“I love physical stuff.” Your voice gets smaller. “I just… wanted my first time to actually mean something.” Frank goes very still at that. “And all the guys before you kept acting like they deserved it eventually because they waited long enough.” You shrug tightly. “So I kept saying no.” Something ugly flashes across Frank’s face. Not at you. Never at you. At them.

“I’m gonna need names,” he mutters darkly. Despite everything, you laugh.

“No, you absolutely do not.”

“They sound annoyin’.”

“They were.” A silence settles between you. Not awkward. Just… full. Frank looks at you for a long second, something almost painful softening his face.

“You know I’d wait forever, right?” he says quietly. Your chest aches instantly.

“I know.”

“And I mean forever.”

“I know.”

“You don’t gotta prove anythin’ to me.” Your throat tightens.

“That’s kinda the problem,” you admit softly. Frank frowns slightly.

“What d’you mean?”

You stare down at your hands.

“I mean…” God. “I’m not doing this because I feel pressured.” Your voice gets quieter. “I’m doing it because I’m in love with you and I trust you and I think about you constantly.” Frank exhales sharply.

“You gotta stop sayin’ stuff like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m tryin’ real hard to keep actin’ normal.” Your stomach flips. You walk closer to him, just so he can drag you to stand between his legs, his hands on your waist. You force yourself to keep talking before fear catches up again.

“I think about you kissing me,” you admit quietly. “And touching me.” Your face burns hotter. “And I think about your hands a lot, which honestly feels medically concerning at this point.” Frank makes a strangled sound. You look up just in time to see him drag a hand over his face.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps.

“And I know I’m late to all this and weird about it and probably overthinking everything—”

“Hey.” His voice cuts through immediately. Firm. “None of that.” You stop. Frank leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on yours with that terrifying intensity he gets when he means something completely. “There is nothin’ wrong with you.” Emotion punches straight through your chest. He softens instantly seeing your face change.

“C’mere,” he says quietly. This time, you go immediately. Frank catches you the second you lean into him, pulling you straight into his lap like it’s instinct. His arms wrap around your waist automatically, warm and solid and safe, and you bury your face in his neck with a shaky breath.

“There she is,” he murmurs softly against your hair. You cling harder.

“I’m nervous.”

“I know.”

“You still want me?” Frank actually leans back enough to look offended.

“Baby, I have wanted you since the second you yelled at me in Karen’s kitchen for bleeding on her floor.” A startled laugh escapes you.

“You remember that?”

“You threatened me with a mop.”

“You were bleeding everywhere.”

“And I still thought you were cute.” You groan into his shoulder.

“This is awful.”

“No,” he says softly, one hand sliding up your back. “This is you trustin’ me.” His thumb strokes slowly along your spine.

“You sure about this?” he asks quietly. You nod against him.

“Yeah.”

“And if you change your mind at any point?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“And then we stop."

“Yes.” Frank studies your face carefully for another second. Then his hand slides gently into your hair.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. Your heart practically stops. You nod once.

“Yeah.” Frank closes the distance so gently you almost don’t feel it at first—just the soft, rough drag of his thumb along your jaw, then his lips, warm and chapped, brushing yours. It’s not the kind of kiss you expected from Frank. You were bracing for a car wreck, something bruising and violent, the way he is on a job. But it’s nothing like that. He kisses you so slow, so careful, like you might shatter. You don’t shatter. Not exactly. But the sensation is so intense you feel yourself splitting open from the inside out. His hand cups the back of your head, steadying you. He pulls back barely an inch.

“You okay?” Voice low, hoarse. You nod, but it’s not enough, so you push forward, mouth crashing into his, desperate for the centrifugal force he’s been holding back. He lets you, lets you climb messily into his lap, lets you fist your hands in his shirt. And when your tongue nudges against his, Frank gives a little grunt and opens for you, just a hair, just enough. Every nerve in your body catches fire. You’d thought, maybe, that the first time would feel awkward. Like taking a test you never studied for. But Frank makes it easy. He keeps checking in with you, saying your name between kisses, grounding you with his hands, never letting you get lost in the panic of it. At some point, you realize you’re straddling his thighs and he’s got one palm splayed wide over your lower back, the other bracing your jaw, like he’s afraid you’ll tip out of gravity if he ever lets go.

“You still good?” he rasps.

“Yes,” you say, and it comes out as a gasp. You’re trembling. Not with fear—the opposite. You want to crawl out of your skin. Frank’s hands are on your hips now, then under your shirt,dragging slow up your ribs. He keeps it gentle, keeps it steady, like he’s reading your mind. When his thumb sweeps over one nipple, you arch so hard you nearly headbutt him. He huffs a tiny laugh, then grins, wide and wolfish.

“Sensitive?”

“Shut up.” He does, at least for a second. His mouth finds your neck, then your collarbone, then the top of your breast. He peppers all of it with slow, open-mouthed kisses that threaten to melt your brain. He lifts the hoodie up and off in one slow motion, and you almost laugh at yourself for being nervous; it’s just Frank, looking at you like he’s been starving and you’re the only meal he’s ever wanted.

“Christ,” he says, low and reverent, and runs a thumb just under the swell of your breast, gentle, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll spook. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, and the words go straight to your cunt. You whine, grinding down against him on instinct, and he groans, hands darting out to steady you. He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you part for him. You feel his hands everywhere—your back, your hips, your thighs—steadying you, coaxing you closer. His touch is a little rough around the edges, always bordering on too much, but never quite crossing the line. He’s so careful with you it almost breaks your heart. He pulls back long enough to look you up and down, like he’s memorizing you. There’s a heat in his eyes that makes you shiver, but it’s the possessiveness that really undoes you. Like he can’t believe you’re letting him see you like this.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growls, low and rough, and you nearly combust. You can’t stop touching him—his shoulders, his jaw, the back of his neck. He likes it, you can tell, because he keeps pressing you closer, like he wants to crawl inside your skin.

“Can I touch you?” you whisper. You don’t even recognize your own voice, breathy and shaking. Frank’s face goes soft, like you just handed him a live wire and told him to hold it for you.

“Baby, you can do whatever you want to me.” He grins, then kisses you again, slow and deep, while guiding your hands under his shirt. You run your fingers over his chest, all scars and muscle and heat. His skin is hot to the touch, the steady beat of his heart pounding under your palms. You dig your nails in, just a little, and Frank makes a sound that’s half-growl, half-moan, like he’s straining not to just take you apart right there.

“You good?” he asks again, voice ragged. You nod, then remember to say it:

“Yeah. Yes. I’m good—you’re…” You can’t finish the sentence, so you just kiss him again. It feels less scary now, more inevitable, like gravity. He lets you push him back against the couch, your thighs tight around his waist. His hands slip from your ribs to your ass, squeezing gently, like he’s testing how much you can take. You whimper, hips jerking forward, rubbing against the hard line of him through his sweats. Frank curses, low and frantic, and you get drunk on the sound.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he pants. “Gotta slow down or I’m gonna blow it before we even start.”

“Don’t slow down,” you say. “I want—” You don’t know how to finish the sentence. Frank does it for you.

“You want me?” He’s grinning, but his eyes are almost desperate.

“Yes,” you say. “Frank, I want you.” Something in him snaps. He reaches down, clearing his throat as he taps your thighs.

“Sit up, baby.” He hums. You lean forward, sitting up on your knees. His hands are slow and careful as they pull down your shorts, and you bite your bottom lip as he softly coaxes it off your legs. Your wet cunt soaks through your panties, and when you sit back down on his sweatpants, that extra barrier of tissue removed makes the strain in his pants much bigger against you. He’s hard as hell now, and you can feel the heat of him even through his boxers. Your thighs tremble. The air in the apartment seems thinner, more electric. Frank’s hands run reverently up your thighs, slow, no rush, but the tension in his arms says he’s holding himself back. It makes you feel powerful. It makes you feel safe.

“Gonna take these off, sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb sliding under the band of your panties. He’s watching your face, checking for panic. There isn’t any. Not anymore. You nod, and he peels them down, slow, exposing you inch by inch. When the fabric finally drags off your ankles, you’re left straddling his lap, bare except for your tank top, skin goosepimpled and desperate. Frank’s hands splay wide over the soft meat of your ass, kneading you, warm and solid. He guides you forward, grinding you down against the bulge of his cock, and you gasp. The friction’s almost too much. Not enough. You can feel yourself slick up, can see it glistening on his gray sweats when you grind on him again.

“Fuck, look at you,” Frank rasps, voice tight. “So fuckin’ wet, baby.” Your face should be burning, but you just want more. You want him everywhere. You want to come apart all over him. It makes you brave.

“Can I see you?” you whisper, hands curling under the hem of his shirt. Frank doesn’t answer. He just lifts his arms, lets you peel the shirt up and off, revealing the wild scar-mapped planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle , the old bullet wound you once stitched shut with trembling hands. You run your fingertips over every inch, tracing him like you’re memorizing a map you’ll never get to visit again. He shivers under your touch.

“God,” you murmur, awe in your voice. He grins, lopsided and a little shy, and pulls you in for another kiss. This one’s dirtier—the way his tongue drags over yours, the way his hands squeeze your waist, the press of his cock as he grinds up into you. He’s leaking through his boxers now, hot and slick, and you rub yourself shamelessly against it, chasing the friction. Frank groans, deep and desperate.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he breathes. “We got time.” You don’t know how you’ll survive it. He nudges your thighs apart, makes a show of looking down at the space between your bodies. All his focus is on you: on your bare knees bracketing his hips, the hungry, worshipful way your chest rises and falls with each shaky breath. It’s more than he deserves, and he wants to say something gentle to you, but all that comes out is a low,

“Fuck, baby. You’re drivin’ me crazy.” You laugh, but it’s nervous, hands trembling a little as you brace them on his shoulders. Frank has to slow down, to make sure his hands are steady as he slides them up and down your sides. You’re soaking wet—so wet the slick’s already darkened the front of his sweats, and his cock is straining, thick and angry, beneath the fabric. The look on your face terrifies and thrills him, like you’re balancing right on the edge of a rooftop, dizzy from the height and the want. He wants to say something to make it easier.

“Hey. We can stop anytime, you hear me?” He cups your face in one big hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. You nod, but the motion’s a little frantic, like you’re trying to prove you’re not scared. He’s never seen anyone so fucking brave.

“I don’t want to stop,” you whisper, voice shaking, “I just—” You squeeze your eyes shut, like you’re embarrassed. Your hands dig into his shoulders. “Frank, I don’t know what to do.” He nods, softly guiding your hands down to his sweats. He kisses your temple.

“Take these off.” Your hands fumble at the waistband, palms slick, vision swimming with nerves and need. You hook your fingers under the elastic and pull, unsure, but he lifts his hips to help and the gray cotton peels away easy as a wish. His cock springs free, heavy, flushed, the head slicked already, and you stare, breath burning in your throat.

He’s… god, he’s big.

You don’t even have enough data points to compare, but your brain still tries, and it short-circuits. Frank watches you with a patience that’s almost predatory, like he’s holding himself together with staples and baling wire. His hand covers yours, guiding it, and you curl your fingers delicately around the shaft. He hisses, jaw clenched, and the muscles in his thighs jump against your knees. Your thumb drags along the vein, and god, it’s hot, how responsive he is. How it makes him shudder.

“You’re a quick study,” Frank murmurs, voice gone low and rough. “Jesus.” He slides his hand up your thigh, kneading gently, and then reaches between them, thumb brushing over you where you’re soaked and swollen. The touch is electric, makes you jerk forward, grinding against his cock. The head bumps you clit, and you whimper, dizzy with it. He holds you by the hip, steadying, anchoring.

“You want to keep going, baby?” You nod, frantic and eager. He grins, but there’s an edge to it; it looks like he might snap in half from wanting her. You bite your bottom lip, face flushed. Frank’s watching your face hard.

“Hey. You okay?” You nod, eyes never leaving him. He’s so solid. So alive. The kind of body that absorbs bullets and wins bar fights and breaks things for a living. You want it inside you. That realization hits so hard it makes you whimper. Frank bites the inside of his cheek, hand gentle as it cups your jaw, pulling you back to him for a kiss. “Don’t gotta do anything you don’t want,” he rumbles. “Just say the word.” You shake your head.

“I want to. I just…” The words get stuck in your throat, so you scrape them out: “I don’t want to be bad at it.” Frank actually laughs, low, delighted.

“You’re not gonna be bad at anything, baby. Not with me.” He pulls you in and the kiss goes molten, needier, his hands anchoring your hips and rocking you down against his cock, bare now, the heat and velvet of it dizzying between your legs. He groans into your mouth, one hand finding your thigh and urging it higher, opening you more. The stretch is intense but perfect; you want to be wrecked by him, want to feel it for days. He strokes his thumb up and down your thigh and says, almost reverent,

“You’re dripping.” You hide your face in his neck, mortified, but his hand finds your hair and tugs you back, just a little, so you have to look at him. “Nothin’ to be nervous about,” he says softly. “This is supposed to feel good, sweetheart. Let me make it good for you.” You nod, not trusting your voice. Frank sucks in a harsh breath and lines himself up, guiding the head of his cock through your slick folds, rubbing slow circles right at your entrance. You see stars. Every part of you is wound so tight you feel like a strummed string.

“Gonna go slow, okay?” he murmurs. He’s all gentleness, which would piss you off if you weren’t so desperate for it. His cock pushes in, just the tip at first, and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders for something to hold. There’s an ache, deep and unfamiliar, but it’s not bad. Not really. Frank watches your face, waiting for a flinch, for a stop, but you just nod and grind down, needing more. He exhales sharp, lets you take him another inch. Then another.

“There you go,” he says, voice a rumble in your chest, “you’re doing so good—shit, better than good, you’re doing fuckin’ amazing.” The pain is blinding. Stars explode behind your eyes, your eyes clenched shut. You’re clinging to him, shaking, every muscle locked up with that dizzying, too-much pressure. Your nails dig into his shoulders so hard he thinks he’ll feel them for days. The pain-pleasure blend is exquisite. Frank moves slow, gives you time, lets you adjust, but it’s still a stretch—he’s not small, and your body’s never done this before. He cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking over the spot just under your ear.

“Breathe, baby. That’s it. You’re doin’ perfect. All you gotta do is breathe for me.” You nod, jaw clenched, and force yourself to inhale. The ache eases a little, edges softening, and then you’re not so much impaled as full.

So, so full.

Like Frank is the only thing holding you to the world now, insides stretched almost to breaking, but in a way that makes you feel alive and forged. He’s not moving, just letting you get used to it. You try to shift, testing the fit, and holy shit, it’s… you have no words. It’s everything. His patience is infuriating and tender at once.

“Hurts?” he asks, all concern and hands.

“Yeah. But… not bad.” You burrow against him, seeking his pulse with your lips, needing the distraction. “Just—give me a second.” He does. He’d sit here all night if you needed, hold you open and safe, and never ask for more than you could give. But it doesn’t take long.

You’re greedy beneath the nerves, hips rolling forward for more before you’re halfway ready. Frank groans, the sound vibrating through her whole body, and drops his head back against the couch. His hands find your waist, bracing you, guiding every tentative movement. He’s letting you control this, but he’s not shy about what he wants, either; he helps you set a rhythm, each grind down taking him deeper, your slickness making it easier with every slow, careful stroke. Frank’s hands steady your hips, anchoring you to him, and every measured inch you take feels like the world dividing into before and after. Your thighs tremble, every muscle in yout legs a live wire; your knees dig into the worn cushion, and you’tr sure there will be bruises tomorrow, bruises shaped like Frank’s hands and your own hunger. You can’t imagine anything more perfect.

It’s all so much. Too much, and not enough. Every time you rocks your hips down, he lets you take what you want, but the stretch is so heavy it’s almost dizzying. Your breath comes out in little, shaky bursts, and your hands scrabble for purchase—his shoulders, the rough line of his jaw, the knotted muscle of his biceps. He likes that, you can tell by the way his whole body goes taut when she squeezes. You lose yourself in the mess of it, in the heat pressed chest-to-chest, in the pulse of his cock inside you, in the rasp of his voice when he says your name. You’re barely moving, just grinding yourself down, but it’s everything. Every inch you take feels like a little victory. Frank’s patience is a living thing, the tension in his arms shaking by the second, and the only way he lets it show is the bite of his fingers into you skin and the scruff of his jaw brushing you cheek.

“Attagirl,” he rumbles, voice shredded. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good.” You whimper, overwhelmed. The pain’s still there, but smaller now, a bright spot eclipsed by the full, shuddering pleasure carving up your spine. You shift your hips forward again and the angle changes and—oh—your thighs lock up with the shock of it. You gasp, head falling forward onto his shoulder, hair falling between your faces. Frank groans, arms squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe, and the sound is so raw, so animal, you want to cry. You try to move, to find a rhythm, but it’s awkward at first, your body still learning the mechanics. Frank seems to sense it, thumbs stroking slow circles into your hip bones, talking you through it with broken little instructions.

“Just like that,” he says, his hand guiding the small of your back. “Easy, sweetheart. Let me help you.” He moves with you, not against, and suddenly it clicks, your hips rolling forward and up, down, forward and up, and his cock—God, it’s so deep—rubs along something inside you that makes your whole body lock up. You cry out, surprised. Frank’s teeth find your shoulder, biting down just enough to ground you, and then he’s kissing the spot, like an apology.

“Good?” he grits out, barely holding on. You nod, but it’s not enough, so you rock down harder, desperate for more. The friction is brutal, the stretch never-ending, and you want it to last forever and end now, all at once. You grab his face in both hands and kisses him, messy, desperate, Your tears breaking loose and trailing down your nose onto his face. Frank's breath hitches, and for a second, you think you've broken him. His whole body goes rigid under you, and then he's kissing you again, harder this time, like he's trying to crawl inside you through your mouth. One of his hands slides up your back, fisting in your hair, holding you in place while the other grips your hip, guiding you into a rhythm that's less tentative and more purposeful.

"Fuck, baby," he pants against your lips. You try to laugh, but it comes out as a choked sob. You're overwhelmed—by the sensation, by the emotion, by the sheer Frankness of it all. He's everywhere. His scent, his taste, the feel of his scarred skin under your hands, the sound of his ragged breathing in your ear. It's a sensory overload that threatens to short-circuit your brain.

"Frank," you whimper, burying your face in his neck again. "I can't—"

"Yes, you can," he growls, cutting you off. He shifts his hips, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, slow and deliberate. The drag of him against your inner walls is exquisite, a perfect, friction-filled agony that makes your toes curl. "Feel that? That's you takin' me. That's you, sweetheart. All you." You nod, but it's a frantic, desperate motion. You're chasing something, a feeling building deep in your belly, a coil of heat that gets tighter with every thrust. Frank seems to sense it, his movements becoming a little more forceful, a little more confident. He's still letting you set the pace, but he's not just a passive participant anymore. He's an active force, a storm you're willingly riding.

"God, you're tight," he grits out, his voice strained. "So fuckin' tight for me. Squeezin' me so good." His words are filthy, but his tone is reverent, and the combination is heady. It makes you feel powerful, desired, like you're the only thing in the world that matters. You rock your hips faster, matching his rhythm, the awkwardness of before replaced by a desperate, primal need. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a vulgar, beautiful symphony that's all yours. Frank's hands are everywhere now—one gripping your ass, the other sliding up your back to trace the line of your spine. He's mapping you, claiming you, and you've never felt more seen. Your head falls back and Frank lets out a low guttural groan, his hands squeezing your waist to help you grind against you harder.

The new angle is a revelation. It’s like he’s found a secret switch inside you, one you didn’t even know existed. The head of his cock drags against a spot so sensitive, so electric, that a sharp cry tears from your throat. Your back arches, a deep, involuntary curve that presses your breasts against his chest, and your hands fly from his shoulders to tangle in his hair, holding on for dear life.

“Jesus,” Frank grunts, his voice a raw, ragged thing. He’s watching you, his eyes dark and intense, drinking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your face. “Right there, huh? Found it.” He doesn’t sound surprised. He sounds like a hunter who’s finally cornered his prey. He does it again, a deliberate, grinding roll of his hips that sends a shockwave of pure, unadulterated bliss through your entire system.

Your answer is a broken moan, your hips moving on their own now, chasing that feeling, chasing him. The rhythm is frantic, messy, desperate. You’re no longer thinking, no longer worrying about being good at it or doing it right. You’re just feeling. Every nerve ending is on fire, every muscle in your body strung tight as a bowstring. The coil in your belly is winding tighter and tighter, a hot, heavy pressure that promises an explosion.

“Frank, Frank, Frank,” you chant his name like a prayer, a mantra, the only word your brain can still form. It’s a plea and a praise all at once.

“I got you, baby,” he growls, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of letting you lead. His hands are bruising on your hips now, his grip the only thing keeping you grounded as you start to lose yourself to the sensation. Your thighs are trembling, your whole body on fire as your hands slide up to tangle in his hair.

You've only ever come on your own fingers.

This.. This feels different.

The pressure building in your stomach is tighter, more feral.

It’s not a wave you can ride out. It’s a dam breaking. A fault line splitting open. The pressure in your stomach doesn't just crest; it detonates. A sharp, guttural cry is ripped from your throat as your entire body seizes, your back bowing so violently you’re surprised you don’t snap in two. Your inner walls clamp down on him, a rhythmic, pulsing grip that you have no control over, and the world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot static of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Your eyes go wide, at the feeling, thinking something is wrong.

"Oh my god, Frank- I - I might- I don't-"

"No, no, baby, hey, look at me." Frank's voice cuts through your panic, rough with his own impending release but sharp with command. His hands leave your hips, one flying up to cup your jaw, forcing your wide, terrified eyes to meet his. "It's not wrong. You're not wrong. You're just feelin' it. Let it happen. That's it, that's the good part." His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, a frantic, grounding motion.

"Don't fight it. Jesus Christ, don't you fuckin' fight it, just let go." Frank’s name is a shattered gasp on your lips as you shatter, your nails digging into his scalp, your body convulsing with the force of it. It’s endless, a series of crippling, ecstatic spasms that wrack you from the inside out, leaving you a trembling, boneless mess in his arms.

“Fuck,” Frank snarls, the sound torn from his own chest as your orgasm drags him over the edge with you. The tight, milking grip of your cunt is too much, a final, perfect torment. He buries himself to the hilt with a hoarse, desperate groan, his hips jerking as he pours himself into you. You feel the hot, pulsing rush of his release, a deep, primal claiming that seems to go on forever, his body shuddering against yours with the force of it. For a long, stretched-out moment, you’re both frozen, locked together in the eye of the storm. The only sounds are the frantic, ragged pulls of your breaths and the frantic hammering of his heart against your ribs. You’re limp, a dead weight in his lap, every muscle liquefied, your brain a blissful, static-filled void. You’ve never felt so completely wrecked. So completely whole.

Your entire body is spasming in his grip.

Frank’s breathing is still ragged against your throat, his arms locked around you like if he loosens his grip for even a second you’ll disappear. Your whole body trembles uncontrollably, tiny aftershocks rippling through your thighs and stomach, and he notices every single one.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice wrecked soft now. “Easy, sweetheart. I got you.” His palm slides up and down your spine slowly, grounding you back into your body piece by piece. You’re still shaking so hard your teeth almost chatter. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this exposed before. Not physically.

Emotionally.

Frank presses a kiss to your damp temple, then another to your cheek, slower this time. Careful. Like he’s trying to soothe the very nerves he just set on fire.

“You okay?” he asks again quietly. You nod weakly against his shoulder.

“I think my soul left my body.” That earns a rough little laugh out of him. The sound vibrates warm against your skin.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Mine too.” Your muscles finally start unlocking enough for you to realize how boneless you’ve gone in his lap. Frank shifts carefully beneath you with a low grunt, one hand rubbing your thigh.

“C’mere,” he says softly. “Lemme clean you up.” You make a tiny noise of protest when he helps lift you off him. The sudden emptiness makes you whine before you can stop yourself, legs trembling violently the second your knees touch the mattress. Frank freezes like the sound nearly killed him.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasps. You bury your burning face in his shoulder immediately.

“Don’t.”

“No, sweetheart, you don’t get it,” he says, sounding half tortured. “You keep makin’ noises like that and I’m gonna need another minute.”

“You are such a pig,” you mumble.

“Correct.” You hear the smile in his voice. Then he reaches for the discarded t-shirt on the floor beside the couch, gentle again as he wipes carefully between your thighs. You hiss softly at the sensitivity, instinctively trying to squirm away.

“I know,” he murmurs immediately. “I know. Sorry, baby.” The nickname settles warm in your chest now instead of frightening you. Frank glances down as he cleans you up. Then pauses. You notice the tiny streak of red a second later. Your stomach drops.

“Oh my God.” Frank looks up instantly.

“What?”

“There’s blood.” Panic climbs your throat so fast it makes your voice pitchy. “Frank, there’s— I—did I start my period? Oh my God, am I bleeding? Did something tear?” Your breathing starts speeding up again immediately. “Jesus Christ, am I dying?” For one single second he just stares at you. Then a startled laugh bursts out of him. Not mocking. Just genuinely caught off guard.

“Baby,” he says gently, trying very hard not to smile now. “You are not dyin’.” You blink at him, horrified.

“There’s blood!”

“Yeah.” He brushes his thumb soothingly against your knee. “That can happen your first time.” You stare.

“…what?” His expression softens instantly at your confusion.

“You were a virgin,” he says carefully. “Little bleeding’s normal sometimes. Especially ‘cause I got carried away.” Guilt flickers briefly across his face at that last part. “You ain’t hurt bad. Promise.” Your entire body floods with relief so intense you nearly flop sideways.

“Oh my God.” Frank finally chuckles properly now, rubbing a hand down his face. You hide your face against his shoulder with a groan of humiliation while Frank keeps quietly laughing above you, warm chest rumbling beneath your cheek.

“Don’t make fun of me,” you mutter.

“I ain’t makin’ fun.” Another tiny laugh immediately betrays him. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“You’re awful.”

“Mm.” His hand slides lazily up and down your thigh. “Still alive though, right?” You smack weakly at his chest. Frank catches your wrist easily, bringing your knuckles to his mouth for one absentminded kiss before helping tug your shirt back down properly over your stomach. The tenderness of it nearly kills you more than the sex did. You let him guide you sideways across his lap once you’re dressed again, your legs draped over the couch cushions while he settles back with a long exhale. His fingers trace idle circles against the soft skin just above your knee, grounding and warm. The apartment feels different now.

Quieter. Softer. Like something huge shifted without either of you knowing how to name it yet. You stare at the wall for a long second before mumbling:

“I really thought I was bleeding internally.” That gets another laugh out of him, fuller this time. He drops his head briefly against yours.

“Baby, you work in medicine.”

“Not vagina medicine. And my parents never really taught me this stuff. They assumed Karen would.” Frank barks out an actual laugh at that, shoulders shaking beneath you. You can’t help smiling a little yourself.

“Fair point,” he admits. Silence settles again after that. Comfortable this time. His fingers never stop moving against your leg. Then quieter:

“You okay?” he asks again. Not physically. Everything. The emotion in his voice catches you off guard. You tilt your head enough to look up at him. Frank’s eyes are already on you, darker now without all the urgency from before. There’s still heat there, sure—but underneath it is something almost nervous. Like he’s waiting for you to regret this.

Regret him.

Your chest aches suddenly.

“I’m okay,” you say softly. His whole body loosens at that. Tiny. Almost invisible. But you feel it. Frank swallows once, gaze dropping briefly to where his hand rests on your thigh.

“I know tonight was a lot,” he says carefully. “And I know I probably shoulda slowed down more—”

“You did slow down.” His eyes flick back to yours.

“You were scared.”

“I was nervous,” you correct quietly. “Not scared of you.” That one lands somewhere deep. You see it happen in real time. Frank goes still. Your fingers slide up over the back of his hand, threading through his.

“I trusted you,” you admit. He stares at you like the words physically hurt him. Then he leans down and presses his forehead against yours, eyes closing.

“Christ,” he whispers roughly. One of his arms tightens around your waist. Not possessive. Protective. Careful with you in a way nobody ever has been before. “You got no idea what that means to me,” he says softly. Your face falls and you reach up, wincing at the pull in your legs. You reach up, wincing slightly as your body reminds you it’s still catching up to everything that just happened. Frank notices immediately—of course he does.

“Hey,” he says softly, catching your wrist before you can push yourself too far. “Easy. Don’t go doin’ that.”

“I’m fine,” you insist automatically. Frank gives you a look that says he does not believe a single word of that.

"Sweetheart, you just impaled yourself on my dick for your first time. I have reason to worry."

You freeze.

Then slowly turn your head to look at him.

“…you’re going to make me die of embarrassment after I survived everything else?”

Frank doesn’t even pretend to feel bad.

A faint, crooked grin tugs at his mouth. “Seems fair.”

You groan and drop your forehead against his chest, fully intending to disappear into him as a person.

He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling under you, and his hand immediately comes up to your hair—slower now, soothing instead of teasing.

“Hey,” he says again, softer. “I’m not makin’ fun of you.”

“Yes you are.”

“A little,” he admits.

You make a small, muffled sound of protest. Frank presses a kiss into the top of your head like he’s apologizing anyway.

"Y'know what this means, right baby ?" He asks, his hand trailing up and down your side.

"No. Enlighten me." He squeezes you into him as he leans over and reaches for his beer. He sits back down, groaning as he takes a sip and presses the cold bottle to the back of your neck.

"You're never fuckin' gettin' rid of me. I was your first time." He says. You roll your eyes.

"Oh, shut up, Frank." He laughs.

"No, no, i'm serious. I should get like.. a certificate. Frame it and put it up on the wall where everyone can see when they walk in-"

"Oh my god, Frank."

"—'Certificate of Deflowering: Awarded to Frank Castle for Services Rendered Above and Beyond the Call of Duty.'" You can't help it, a snort of laughter escapes you muffled against his chest. The cold bottle against your neck is a shock, but a pleasant one, grounding you in the ridiculous, wonderful reality of the moment.

"Oh my God," you groan, lifting your head just enough to glare at him. "You are the worst human being I have ever met."

"Yep," he says, popping the 'p' with absolute relish. He takes another swig of his beer, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "And the man who just took your virginity on a couch that's probably seen at least three separate gunfights. So, you know. We all have our complexities."

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Simon is delivered bodily to your front door on evening, wretchedly drunk, tottering between two men you vaguely recognize from a faded photograph. 

He crashes into you with all the grace of a felled oak tree, and you tip into the wall beside the door, crushed between his body and the plaster. Heat and discomfort lurches in your stomach but you hold onto him anyway, because you and the wall are the only thing keeping him upright. 

The lads, his teammates you can only surmise, disappear back down the garden path, weaving into the night with arms around each other, one of them sing-shouting a song you can’t place.

It feels nice, his weight and warmth against you, but you don’t want him to wake the next morning and feel you’ve slipped beneath his trust, betrayed him in some way. 

“Si,” you murmur, “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.” 

You manage to get him to lean more on the wall than on you, so you can close the door and lock it. 

To your surprise, his hand fists in the back of your shirt, like he’s reluctant to lose contact with you. Your skin burns, itchy and tight and not used to it. Dull panic skitters like sparks beneath your skin.

It’s always been like this, the soft press of anyone’s touch is like being delicately, deliberately bruised. You crave it and fear it in equal measure. You’ve been without it for so long, that any touch is overwhelming, confusing, likely undeserved. 

Simon reaches past you, under your arm, to rattle the door knob, checking your work, physically reassuring himself it’s locked. 

His fingers brush your ribs as he does, like it's the most natural thing in the world, that you are always this close. 

You freeze, feeling overwhelmed, maybe a little ambushed and not sure how to navigate this, if Simon will resent you for letting it happen when he’s decidedly more sober. 

Satisfied the door is locked, he braces his palm against it and pushes himself upright, and you’re reminded very suddenly that he cares for you, that you trust him. 

He still doesn’t release you, staring down at where you’re jammed uncomfortably tight between him and the door. There’s something tender in his dark eyes. 

“You alright?” You ask, trying to gently work yourself out of his grasp to help him to bed. “Let's get you to bed..”

His brows furrow and his fist unclenches, the flat of his palm sliding down your back instead. “Come ‘ere.” 

You blink. “I’m here.” 

Simon nudges you toward the couch, and you have to wedge your arm beneath his shoulder to support him part of the way. You can’t imagine how much he must have imbibed to be this drunk at his size.

His breath leaves him in a huff as he drops down onto the sofa and drags you down with him. 

This is different too, but the initial unfamiliar discomfort of it is fading. When he twists with you in his arms and you find yourself crowded between the back of the sofa and his bulk, you don’t mind. One massive arm threads behind your back. 

Propped up on his elbow he looks down at you, something calculating and unreadable in his eyes before it calcifies into something firm. 

In one swift movement, he reaches up with the opposite hand and tugs the black surgical mask off of his face. 

You are left staring at each other for the first time, bodies crushed together into a heap for the first time. Your chest feels tight, something fragile behind your ribs fluttering softly. “Oh,” you murmur, drinking in his face. “Hey.” 

His expression is guarded, eyes flat dark pools regarding you with a sudden wariness. Scarring treads across his face like footprints left in the snow, across his lips and chin, a jagged, raised line over his cheek. 

You’ve never seen anyone more beautiful. True, but also just because it’s his face. 

You lift your hand tentatively, unsure. Your carefully maintained boundaries have been upset and you aren’t sure where the line is anymore. It hangs in the air between you, suspended animation. 

Simon is still regarding you cautiously, as though waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to add to the collection. 

The vulnerability of it shocks you. Not just that he has trusted you to know his face, but everything underneath. There is no Ghost in the room to protect him. It’s you and Simon and all the fleshy, unarmored parts of him. 

“Regretting it?” Giving him a chance to walk it back, no harm no foul. 

“Yet to be seen,” he answers, sounding distinctly more sober than before. He glances at your still hovering hand. “Go on.” 

“Will you hate me in the morning?” 

“No hatin’ you, love.” 

“Are you sure? You’re drunk.”

“No’ that drunk,” he counters. “I’ve been thinking about it. Wouldn’t have done it if I wasn’t sure.” 

Your mouth twitches, amused, and you nod. “You’re sure about me, huh?”

He makes a grunt that functions as a warning and an agreement. 

“You’re beautiful,” you say, just to say it, just so he knows. 

“I’ve been told,” he says, dry as ever, something cocky and surefooted just beneath. 

“Oh, and humble as well. Have I ever said?” 

You press the tips of your fingers against his scarred cheek before he can retort, thumbing against the raised line of keloid scarring, then the corner of his mouth, the rough edge of his jaw and chin. 

It’s easy, you realize, to touch him. To be touched by him.

He’s lying on you and you don’t feel the usual pulse of anxiety and trepidation. 

The buzz under your skin has faded to a muted hum, soothed by his weight against yours instead of trapped by it. 

Maybe because the foundation of trust has already been laid, maybe because it doesn’t feel as though he’s taking something from you but giving instead. 

His body shudders, relaxes slowly against yours. You feel the hard planes of his body loosen in increments, soften like melted butter. 

It’s mesmerizing. 

You brush his skin, not aiming to touch any particular part of him, but not avoiding anything either. You thumb at his lips, the cracked edge of his mouth, trace the bridge of his nose and the webbed scarring at the edge of his jaw. 

Tentatively, he releases your wrist, lowers his palm to your hip, watching you intently, thumb skating along your side in a little arc. 

“I’m not good at this,” you murmur.  

“Seems like you’re doing okay.”

You shake your head. “I get so scared.” You feel his expression change against your hands before you feel his body lock up again, guarded again. “No, not like—It just feels as though I’m not meant for this,” you hasten to continue. 

“For what?” His voice is hard, the sharp  edge of Ghost looming. Cautious, testing. A spiderweb crack in very thin ice. 

“Something this easy,” you admit in a revealing, reverent whisper. “This. . . safe.” 

He uncoils again, with that admission. “You’re safe,” he says, an agreement. A statement of fact. 

It goes unsaid but you hear it anyway. You’re safe with him. 

Here, squeezes beneath him, you’re safe, in all the ways you can be. 

The scarring trails down his throat, his pretty skin pink there, and though you’d like to explore that part of him too, you keep your hands on his face, tracing the thick shadows beneath his perpetually sleepless eyes. 

You’re both pushing the envelope of comfortable, and you don’t want it to burst, to crumble in your hands. 

“But it feels nice,” you continue, still staring at him, cataloguing his features, just in case the regret did come sweeping in with the light of day and without the burn of alcohol. The slightly crooked list of his nose, the shape of his mouth, the particular way his jaw ticks. “Right?” 

Slowly, haltingly, consideringly, he nods.

His hand strokes your side again, then, as if in confirmation and askance. Is it nice the other way around, too?

The path his hand traces leaves a warm trail in its wake, and you nod. 

Yes. God, yes, it’s fucking wonderful. 

He could ask to stick his hand between your ribs, fold his fingers around your lungs just to feel you breathe and you’d say yes. 

When you touch his cheek again, he leans into it, turns his face into your hand like he intended to leave a roadmap of it there, an imprint as a keepsake. 

He grunts, a sound been in his chest, like a pained purr. 

Simon’s eyes flutter shut, blond eyelashes shutter closed over honey dark eyes. The picture of peace. Or, well, possibly just the closest someone like Simon might ever come to it. 

It’s hard to breathe beneath him, even with him holding some of his weight off of you but you don’t mind. He tips his head forward gently, carefully, against your sternum, and you scratch your nails through his hair instead, feeling very much like he is an overgrown cat in your lap. 

Your heart is somewhere in your throat when his carefully treading hand wanders up your spine, across your waist, over your arm and collarbone and eventually your face. 

You feel as though you’re burning, your skin screaming, but not in the usual way. 

In a way that makes you ache, makes you believe you’ve been living underwater and finally come up for air. 

His skin is hot and calloused against yours, you can feel the divots of worn scar tissue on his palm. 

Simon tilts your face up, large hand splayed over your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. The kiss is clumsy, a clack of teeth that makes you giggle and inhale sharply. You feel his cheek twitch into an approximation of a smile in response. 

He pulls back, tongue darting out pink against his lips. “Don’t stop,” you say. 

He tastes like beer, tobacco, hand sliding down your body again, anchoring on your waist, squeezing, spreading over the width of your thigh and the hinge of your knee that he tugs into place against his hip. 

You open your mouth against his, cup his face in your hands like a precious jewel. His tongue slides against yours, something electric sizzling down your spine in a white arc. 

Maybe it won’t always be this easy. You suspect something like this between you will function on a never ending sliding scale. 

But it’s enough.

It’s everything.

Everything outside the house fades to the background. His job, your job, the noise in between. Outside of checking in on Gaz and Mara and taking care of Duchess, he keeps himself laser focused. On you. 

He gets your words back a few days after the robbery happens. They’re slow. Heavy. Weighed down by the chaos and pain in your mind, gaze bottomless and bleak, every time he stares into your eyes his chest hurts like he’s taken a fist to the sternum. You croak a question just past sunrise after sleeping for twelve hours. 

“How long was I out?” You’re blinking, trying to clear the dried tears from your lashes, brow furrowed, and he smiles for the first time in a week, savoring the sound of your voice before ignoring your question. 

“Hi sweetheart.” 

“Hi daddy.” You whisper on an exhale, and press your face to the crux of his neck and shoulder. He bites his tongue. Doesn’t tell you how happy he is you’re talking, doesn’t say anything about being relieved. He gives you time for this moment and nothing else. The warmth of your breath tickles his bare skin. “Thank you.” 

“You don’t have to thank me for anything.” He kisses the top of your head, mindlessly rubbing circles into your body, your shoulders, your back, any place in between. “Taking care of you is like breathing. You’re mine.” You dot your lips onto his jaw and burrow yourself into his body, your home, the place where you’ll always belong. 

Recovery from trauma is climbing a mountain, not running an easy, asphalt paved marathon. There are rocks and scrambles and lost maps. It’s not something laid out perfectly before you, it’s not something you can easily see. It’s hard and grueling and miserable. 

You take it on the chin though, and he’s so proud of you. Proud every time you come out of therapy with a nervous and slightly relieved smile, proud every time he catches you leaning over a mixing bowl at home and humming. All the changes hurtle towards you like a meteor crashing to earth, and while you stumble and fall, he’s always there to pull you back up. 

“I can’t believe we sold out again.” He raises his eyebrows. 

“It’s been happening for weeks baby. People love what you do, what you make.” 

“I know but it’s um.. it’s a little crazy right?” You’ve quit your job. You tried but couldn’t make it through the front doors, and he didn’t push you. It works out in his favor, after all. So you decided to do something else. An out of home bakery where you take orders at your own pace and make special occasion cakes or baskets of pastries, both savory and sweet. You have a consistent stall at the local farmer’s market, where you sell small things and loaves of bread, sweet rolls and whatever else you’ve picked for that day. Mara handles everything, the website, the payments, the deliveries, and you focus on the thing you love. It’s only been up and running for a few weeks, but word of mouth has already spread, and your social media accounts have thousands of followers. The waitlist for your weekly sourdough loaves that you sell at the farmers market is long, and the stand always has a line and sells out. They all wait their turn to fill brown paper bags with whatever you’re selling, each one folded over and stamped proudly with the name of your business. 

Raspberry Girl. 

“No. It’s not crazy.” He lightly traces the slope of your hip, dipping his thumb beneath the waistband of your shorts. “You’re talented. The bakery,” he slips the elastic of your panties to the side, “was so popular because of you.” You suck in a sharp breath when he slides his thumb down your seam. He’s not surprised you’re already wet. He’s been so careful lately, on edge about pushing you too far when your brain, your heart is still trying to process what happened, but it’s been hard. You’ve been asking. 

And tonight, he’s decided you’ll have it. 

He pulls your hand to his groin over his sweatpants, molding your palm to his cock, heat straining beneath the fabric. You whimper. 

“Gonna be daddy’s good girl and take his cock?” Your eyes lock, and you nod. “Words baby.” 

“Y-yes daddy.” He rolls you onto your back, snaking a hand between your knees and gently pulling them apart after he strips you down. You’re swollen and dripping, toes curling when he circles your clit and presses two fingers inside you. He’s done what he can, but you’re still so tight, and he kicks the last of his boxers off without losing his pace, still between your thighs. Your fingers twist the sheets. Nerves. He reads it so easily, every expression, every single blink and twitch guiding him, telling him everything he needs to know. 

“It’s okay.” He nips at your jaw, covering your body with his for a moment, flattening your hand over his heart. “I’m right here.” 

“I kn-know.” He shifts, his elbow rests above your head, wild need screaming inside his bones, his blood, begging him to claim you, pump you full, fill you up. He flicks your clit, and your nails lightly scratch over his chest as you shive with the stimulation. 

“Does that feel good?” 

“Y-yeah.” The rhythm syncs, your hips and his hand moving together, and at the last second, he pulls away. “Wait!” His chuckle rings nearly sinister, and he taps your clit, the contact just barely there, enough to drive you crazy. 

“Keep your legs open baby, nice and wide.” The head of his cock, already leaking, sits at your opening, and he slowly pushes it in, not even an inch, rocking back and forth. You whimper, but stay anchored to the bed, position steady even though you’re trembling with shaky breaths. “Good girl, stay just like that.” He gives you more, taut skin stretching to take him, muscles tensing and relaxing as he rubs your clit, slows his strokes. “I have you,” he murmurs, taking a second to drop his lips to yours, “I’ve got you sweet girl.” When you calm, he sinks deeper. 

“Oh fuck,” you reach for him, gripping his arms with a strength he didn’t know you had. “I- ah-” 

“Halfway there baby girl, you can take it.” He’s never had an issue with control, but watching his cock disappear inside your body has his balls already tightening, stomach clenching. 

He gives you time to adjust. He’s slow and careful, holding you on the edge of an orgasm as he picks up speed, working himself in, your cries and moans filling the room. Your clit throbs under his touch, and knows you’re desperate. 

“It’s too- too much daddy, I c-can’t.” He kisses you slowly, gently murmuring in your ear, holding you tight, soothing you while still working his way inside your body even though you're clawing at his back and he knows he'll wear your marks tomorrow.

“Shh, I know, I know. Almost there baby.” 

“N-no, I…” He steals your words by finally fully seating himself, swallowed all the way to the root, his hips against yours. Your legs go stiff. “Oh my god-” 

“Fuck.” It’s nearly inaudible, grunted garbage hoarse and scraping his throat as he clamps down for control. He moves one of your legs to get a better look, pushing it back to your chest, throbbing inside you as he savors your groan. He’s shoved up against your cervix, walls strangling him, scorching and wet, everything he dreamed of, but better. Perfect. Like you always are. Your lower lip trembles, and he folds over to kiss you again, the movement allowing him to  push farther as he swallows your whimper. This is where he stays as he starts to roll his hips, painstakingly slow, watching your expression twist in half pain, half pleasure, gasping. 

“Too big, it’s… you’re too big.” His mouth is tender on yours, lulling you calm, controlling your breath until it’s normal and you’re relaxed, legs limp and loose. He experiments with a harder thrust, and your back arches, pussy spasming around him. He groans, presses down on your stomach above your mound. 

“You’re stuffed full of me baby. D’you feel it? Is that daddy’s cock in your belly so deep?” He’s fucking you now, earnestly, pushing and pulling while still rubbing your clit. 

“Ah, ah, y-yeah I f-feel it I feel…” Tears wet your cheeks, shining in the low light of the evening, sunset casting a summers glow through the windows. The sight of them is like a lightning bolt down his spine. 

“My sweet girl,” he keeps you close, holds you, soaks it all in like it’s the last moment he’ll ever have. “Sweet baby girl, taking daddy’s cock so well.” You’re dangerously close to coming, cunt clenching and trying to milk him, and while he’d love to edge you until you break apart, he’s too close himself. He puts more pressure on your clit, rubbing the bud in circles as you shake. “Do you want to come?” 

“Yes! Please, plea-sepleaseplease daddy,” the tears continue and he licks them up, salt slicking his tongue. You babble your plea, half coherent, dangling on the cusp while he’s hanging on by a thread. 

“Go ahead,” he chokes, unbridled and raw instinct rising to the top, pushing its way out, and his hips meet yours harshly. “Come for me sweetheart. Come all over your daddy’s fat cock.” You explode, strangle him, bones going from limp to rigid and back again, screams turned to whimpers as he fucks you through it, too rough, too much, his release right behind you. Your eyes go wide when he floods your pussy with cum, brows knitted, and he smiles against your cheek, soaking it all in. This claim, this knowledge that he’s first, he’s last, he’s only. His forever. 

He indulges in the after. You’re swollen and already sore as he anticipated, emotions boiling over, fresh tears lining your lashes. It’s a lot, he knows, so much to take it, to learn, and he holds you through the rollercoaster, the up and down until you’re calm and ready for your bath, which he just barely manages as you’re falling asleep, head in his hand, unable to hold yourself up. 

“Ow,” you hiss at the cloth between your legs with a playful, exhausted glare. He kisses your forehead. 

“I know baby, I’m sorry. Be still for me.” You sigh, trying to fight the battle of sleep and terribly losing. “It’s okay sweet girl, you can close your eyes. I’ve got you.” He thinks you’re already there, stolen away by dreams when a whisper drifts free from your lips.

“I love you.” His heart clenches. 

He’s in the kitchen now, voice low, finishing the chilli he bought earlier for dinner.

You don’t mean to listen, you try not to, but his tone makes your eyes snap open.

“…Mel. Come on,” Bucky sighs, exhausted and frustrated, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Just… give me something.”

Your stomach drops.

You sit up straighter, pulse pounding. The way he says it…the familiarity…the desperation…Your brain fills in blanks that maybe aren’t there.

You hear him pace.

Another sigh. Deeper this time.

The kind of sigh he only uses with you when he’s trying to get you to open up.

Your chest tightens.

You shouldn’t be jealous. You know you shouldn’t. But the way he says her name, Mel. The way he softens just a little. The way he sounds like he needs her-

It hits you like a punch.

You stand up, moving quietly, telling yourself you’re not the type to jump to conclusions. Except…you are. When it comes to him, you always are. Even if she’s working for the public figure he’s helping take down.

He hangs up a moment later with a tired, “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

By then, you’ve gone on to full survival mode. Your relationship history hasn’t been great. And you trusted Bucky all the way until you heard that and now you feel like the same person you were the last time someone you love fucked up. You walk carefully and slowly into the kitchen and he’s there, staring at the counter.

When he notices you, he looks up and smiles.

“Hi, babydoll. Episode done already?” He mumbles and you nod, grabbing your purse.

“Yeah, it’s done. Twist ending, I won’t spoil it. But, um…I think I’m actually gonna go home tonight.” You say quietly.

“Home? It’s midnight.” He says, confused.

You had told him before that you’d spend the night. And now, you stand in front of him. In his shirt, in the tiniest shorts he’s been staring at all night, in just your socks. Until you walk around the corner to where your shoes were and you slip them back on.

“Yeah, I know. I forgot I’m supposed to meet Sam in the morning for something.” You clear your throat and he raises an eyebrow.

“I can drive you. I had a whole plan for tomorrow morning. I was gonna make you some breakfast, some coffee,” He mumbles before he comes up behind you, hands holding onto your stomach before he kisses your neck. “Give you something else, if you want it.”

“I know. I’m sorry, I just…I should go.” You gently push him off before grabbing your water bottle from the counter.

He freezes when you push him away. Not angry, confused. That’s worse.

“Hey,” he says softly. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you answer too fast.

Bucky watches you for a second, eyes narrowing just a touch. He knows you. He always knows you. That’s part of why this feels so dangerous.

“You don’t leave like this for nothing.”

You shrug, turning your back to him as you screw the cap onto your bottle. Your hands are shaking. You hope he doesn’t notice.

“I just don’t feel great.”

“Bullshit.”

It slips out before he can soften it. He sighs immediately after, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Sorry. I just- you were fine ten minutes ago. When we were watching our show.”

You swallow. Ten minutes ago you didn’t know there was a Mel.

“Guess I changed my mind.” You laugh quietly, humorless.

“That doesn’t just happen,” he says. “Not with you.”

There it is. That familiar tone. Gentle, coaxing, like he’s trying to talk you down from a ledge. It makes something in your chest snap.

“Why don’t you just have your other girlfriend come over and keep you company?” You accidentally snap.

He goes quiet for a moment as he looks you over.

“My other girlfriend?”

Realization dawns slowly on his face. Then disbelief.

“…Wait. Is this about Mel?”

You don’t answer. Which is answer enough.

“She’s no one, she’s Valentina’s assistant.” He accidentally laughs.

“And yet, you’re calling her at midnight.” You shrug.

“I called her earlier and she didn’t call me back until now. I’m sorry it got into our time together but-“

“If you heard the way your voice changed when talking to her-“ You start with a scoff.

“My voice changed to what? Undercover business stuff? Then yeah, my voice changed. So what? You’re my girlfriend. You’re the one in my apartment right now. You’re the one in my shirt, the one I was kissing like five minutes ago.” He steps closer to you.

Too close.

Like proximity will fix it.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he continues, softer now but edged. “You’re reading into nothing.”

You take a step back. Instinctive. Protective.

“You don’t get to tell me what I heard.”

“I’m not-” he exhales sharply. “I’m telling you what it was.”

“And I’m telling you how it felt,” you shoot back. “Which you don’t seem very interested in.”

“Because it doesn’t make sense.” His jaw tightens.

“That’s not your call.”

Silence. Heavy. The kind that buzzes in your ears.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying not to explode.

“You think I’d risk this? Us? For some staffer?” He scoffs.

“I don’t know what you’d do,” you say honestly. “That’s kind of the problem.”

He stops pacing. Turns to you slowly.

“I’ve been nothing but honest with you. About my past, about everything.”

You laugh again, quiet, sharp.

“You’ve been selectively honest.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is acting like I’m crazy for being uncomfortable.”

“You’re accusing me of cheating.” His voice drops.

“No,” you snap. “I’m not. And maybe if you listened or cared a little more-”

That lands wrong. You know it as soon as you say it.

Bucky’s expression shutters. Hurt flashes before he can hide it.

“You don’t think I care about you?”

“Right now? No.”

“That’s bullshit.” He stiffens.

“Is it?” you challenge. “Because every time something pulls your attention, I feel like I’m waiting my turn.”

“That’s your insecurity talking.”

The second it leaves his mouth, he knows.

You go still.

“…Wow,” you whisper.

“I didn’t mean-”

“No, you did,” you interrupt. “You just didn’t think about how it’d sound.”

“I can’t be responsible for every bad experience you had before me.” He rubs his face, frustration bleeding into his voice.

“And I can’t pretend they don’t exist just because it makes you uncomfortable,” you fire back.

“I’m not any of your exes. I’m not…I’m yours. I’m all yours. And you…I’ve never been happier with anyone else. If you think I’m bullshitting or lying then I don’t know what to tell you.” He exhales.

“What am I supposed to think? When your voice gets all soft like that? Like you talk to me? And when you have to leave the room I’m in to talk to another girl?” You ask.

“I’m sorry. I was trying not to bother you with boring work stuff while you were watching our show. I know you picked it, it means more to you. But I…Mel is nothing. I’ve only met her in person like once or twice, I don’t even know. But I promise you, I-“ He goes quiet for a moment as he looks at the floor. “I care about you. More than anything. I left work early today, did you know that? I left early to go get us dinner, to buy you flowers, and dessert, to make you feel special. Because I…I love you. I’m in love with you.”

The words hang between you.

I love you. I’m in love with you.

They don’t land the way they should. They never do in moments like this.

Your chest aches. Not because you don’t believe him, but because you do.

“That’s not fair,” you say quietly.

“What?” He looks up.

“You don’t get to say that now,” you whisper. “Not like it erases everything.”

“I’m not trying to erase it,” he says quickly. “I’m trying to explain.”

“It feels like you’re trying to win,” you admit. “Like if you say it out loud, I’m supposed to calm down and feel stupid for ever doubting you.”

His mouth opens. Closes.

“That’s not what I mean.”

He steps toward you again, slower this time. Careful. Like you might shatter if he moves wrong.

“Then tell me what you need,” he says. “Because I’m standing right here.”

“I don’t know. I just…I needed you to hear me. Not correct me.” You shake your head.

“I am hearing you.”

“No,” you say softly. “You’re defending yourself.”

That one lands deep.

Bucky’s shoulders slump just a little. The fight drains out of him, leaving something tired and scared behind.

“What else am I supposed to do? Make you think I don’t love you? I don’t know how to do this perfectly,” he admits. “I spent most of my life being used or alone. When something good happens, I don’t always realize I’m supposed to protect it instead of just… holding onto it as tight as I can.”

“I just…you sounded the way you sound when you talk to me.” You sigh, rubbing your palms over your eyes.

“I meant it. I…mean it. Every single word. I’m gonna be good for you. I promise. Because god, I…I’m so in love with you,” He breathes out. “You have me and if you think you don’t, please just trust me. Because you’re the only person who’s ever seen me like this. So soft and needy for you. Because I am. I’m a beggar for you. I love you. Just…don’t go. Please. Stay the night. I can sleep on the couch, you sleep in my bed. Just please don’t go. I want you. I’m always gonna want you. I’ve known you since way before we were even dating. The love space of my heart is yours. Only yours.”

“Bucky,” You start before sighing, seeing the way he’s looking at you. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch. I can’t kick you out of your own bed.”

“Yes- yeah- you can. You, you’re the only one for me, you could do anything.” He shakes his head.

“I’ll stay but can we talk again in the morning? I just need to go to bed.” You say softly. And he nods. Accepting anything you’ll give him because his heart aches at the thought of you going home. Of you leaving and being away from him.

“Okay,” He nods. “We can talk in the morning. Whenever you want. If you need me, I’ll…be over here. Wake me up if you need anything.” He whispers.

You look up at him. You both look tired. Soft and desperate. You lean in then to kiss his lips. Soft, careful. Sweet. He kisses you back, his eyes fluttering shut as he melts into you. He whispers your name against your lips before you pull away. He didn’t expect you to kiss him so it completely softens him to mush for you and when your eyes fluttered open, his are still closed.

And when his open, they’re so full.

Because how could you not know?

How could you not feel it in everything he does that he loves you and only you? He’s been acting like an idiot since you met because he wants you.

“Goodnight, Bucky.” You try to smile but you look unsure and that kills him.

“Goodnight. I love you. So much. More than anything.” His voice breaks.

The hallway feels longer than it did earlier. Quieter. Like the building itself knows something slipped.

Because tonight was supposed to be such a good night. He had just been holding you on the couch before the call. He was supposed to carry you to bed when you fell asleep. Hold you close, kissed your face, your hands, your head, everywhere. He was supposed to fall asleep holding you, wake up next to you.

And now, he’s asleep on his own couch. With a tiny blanket. Wishing he were holding you. Wishing he were whispering in your ear how much you mean to him. He doesn’t get soft often for people but for you, it comes easily. It’s natural.

Because god, you do it for him. You’re funny and strong but also so beautiful, it messes with his head. And you’re so silly with him, you’re never afraid of him. Never unsure.

He’s never been so happy in a relationship. And he’s never been in a real relationship since the last century. He’s had hookups before you, meaningless flings. But he never thought real love was for him because of his past.

But you shook him. Brought his heart back to life and in doing so, his heart practically resigned itself to you.

His eyes burn after a few hours of staring at the dark.

He stares at the ceiling from the couch, one arm tucked under the thin blanket, the other flung out like he might reach for you in his sleep. He doesn’t move. Barely breathes.

He keeps thinking about how easily you fit against him. How natural it felt, like his body had been waiting decades just to learn that shape. To learn you. You and your pretty eyes. Your smiles. The way you laugh when you’re truly happy. How terrifying it is to love someone this much when he still doesn’t trust himself to keep good things.

“I’ll be better,” he whispers to the empty room.

The words don’t feel big enough.

The apartment creaks softly around him. Pipes. The city. Time passing whether he’s ready or not.

He turns his head toward the hallway, toward his bedroom, and closes his eyes.

That’s when he hears it.

Soft footsteps.

Careful. Unsure.

His eyes snap open just as you appear at the end of the hallway, wrapped in one of his hoodies now, arms crossed loosely over your middle like you’re holding yourself together.

You hover there for a second.

Like you might turn back.

“Buck?” you whisper.

He sits up immediately. Too fast. The blanket slides down his lap.

“Yeah,” he answers, just as soft. “Hey.”

“I…um. I can’t sleep.” You chew on your lip, eyes tired and glassy.

Something in his chest loosens and tightens all at once.

“Okay,” he says. “That’s okay.”

You take a few steps closer. Not all the way. Still cautious.

“I keep thinking,” you admit quietly. “And I know that’s not helping, but…I don’t want to be alone with it.”

He nods, swallowing.

“Me neither.”

You glance down at the couch, then back at him. Hesitate.

“…Will you come to bed with me?” you ask. “You don’t have to-I just…I think I need you there.”

The words hit him like a wave.

He stands slowly, like he’s afraid sudden movement might break the moment.

“Yeah,” he says immediately. “Yeah, of course.”

He follows you down the hallway, keeping his pace matched to yours, hands fisted at his sides so he doesn’t crowd you. When you reach the bed, you sit first, pulling the covers back.

You look up at him again. Softer now.

“Just… hold me?” you ask. “Nothing else.”

“Always.” His throat works.

He climbs in beside you, careful, giving you space until you close it yourself, rolling into his chest, tucking your face beneath his chin like it’s muscle memory.

His arm comes around you instinctively. Firm. Protective. Real.

“There,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You sigh, the sound long and shaky, like your body finally gives up the fight. Your fingers curl into his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He presses his lips to your hair.

“I know.”

You breathe together for a while. The quiet kind. The kind that feels earned.

“I love you,” you say eventually. No edge. No fear.

His answer is immediate, steady, sure.

“I love you too. And I’m sorry too. For making you feel like-“

“Don’t be sorry. I should…be more trusting. More open. It’s just hard because…I love you so much. And I don’t want to lose this.” You admit.

“You aren’t gonna lose me. Are you kidding? I’m stupidly in love with you.” He says softly before whispering your name. “You make me act like this lovesick idiot. I never did relationships before. Never thought I was worthy. But you made me want to try. Because god, I love you. I love going to bed with you in my arms. I love waking up next to you and seeing you at your most delicate. With your soft smiles and pretty laughs. You kill me. Every single time. No one else could ever have me the way you do.”

He takes a breath.

“And tonight I went to sleep without you and all I’ve been thinking about is you. Holding you, kissing you, loving you. I need it.” He says so honestly you feel like you might break.

He holds you tighter, fingers rubbing your back.

“I don’t need Mel,” he says quietly, almost frustrated with himself for ever thinking he did. “She’s nothing. She’s noise. You’re-”

He exhales.

“You’re home.”

You wrap your arms tighter around Bucky when he say that and he holds you. With every bit of his heart on his sleeve.

“You have me so in love and needy for you. That’s why I asked you to sleep over. That’s why I always want to see you, take you on dates. I want to be good for you.” He admits.

You don’t answer right away. You just shift closer, your leg sliding between his, your hand flattening over his chest like you’re checking that he’s real.

“You already are,” you whisper. “Good for me.”

His breath stutters. His arms tighten.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want…I just want you. I want to be the guy who loves you, who takes care of you. Who never makes you feel so…” He takes another breath. “I know you’ve had some bad experiences with love. I have too. But I don’t want to do that with you. Never with you. This means something to me.”

He goes quiet after that. Not because he’s done but because he’s choosing his next words carefully, like they matter enough to handle with both hands.

His thumb keeps moving on your back. Slow. Steady. A promise in motion.

“You don’t scare me,” he says finally. “Your feelings don’t. Your fear doesn’t. None of it makes me want to run.”

You tilt your head up just enough to look at him, and his eyes are already on you. Soft, open, unguarded in a way that still feels new on him.

“I’m here,” he continues. “Not just tonight. Not just when it’s easy. I’m here when it’s messy and quiet and scary and you don’t know how to ask for reassurance without feeling stupid.” His jaw tightens. “Because I know what that feels like.”

He shifts, just slightly, until you’re more fully tucked against him, like he’s arranging the world into something safer.

“I can’t promise I’ll never mess up,” he says. Honest. Always honest. “But I can promise I’ll show up. I’ll talk to you. I’ll choose you. Every time.”

His forehead rests against yours.

“I don’t want options,” he murmurs. “I want us. I want to build something slow and real and boring in the best way. Grocery runs. Late nights. Knowing exactly how you take your coffee. Knowing when you’re quiet because you’re tired and when you’re quiet because you’re hurting.”

Your chest aches in the good way. The way that feels like relief.

He presses a kiss to your temple. Then another. Nothing rushed. Nothing asking for more than you’ve already given.

“I love you,” he says again, not loud, not desperate. Certain. “And I’m gonna keep proving it. Tomorrow. And the day after that. As long as you’ll let me.”

You swallow, fingers curling into his shirt, grounding yourself in the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“Okay,” you whisper. It’s small but it’s everything.

His arms tighten like he’s been waiting for that word.

“Okay,” he echoes, softer. “I’ve got you.”

And this time, when you settle against him, there’s no tension left in his body. No watching the door. No bracing for loss.

Fun.

The kind of homework he was into.

Find some little piece of ass: do not accidentally kill them or maim them.

Can I bite them?

Of course but no turning anyone yet, don’t drain them dry.

It had been an early lesson: if you aren’t leaving them alive you had to kill them some other way-- snap their neck, crush their ribs. If you drained them and left them there was a solid chance you turned them by mistake. You could take a lot. But if you did, you had to kill them some other way-- the whatever the fuck weird Dracula shit Sorina had said-- or else they turned accidentally and those ones were practically zombies and, he gathered, there was some Sharks and Jets shit with vampires and zombies. A class difference. Vampires clearly dominating so like he couldn’t be the one fucking that up, it was going to cost him unnecessary credit.

Anyway.

Homework: Fuck without killing or maiming. Biting optional. No turning. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Had he done it before?

I mean, done it yes, often, with great relish, but like since the whole vampire thing? No. The blood lust covered your basic orgasm demands.

Max adjusted his tie and walked into the office party.

“Great party!” He said to the host, faux enthusiasm dripping off of him.

The host, dressed like a giant baby, indicated Max’s suit, “Did you not dress up?”

“I’m a homicidal maniac. They look like everyone else.”

The host tried to laugh but just avoided Max which, to be fair, was the goal.

Max surveyed the landscape….

Trash.

Trash. I mean. Cute butt. But Bride of Chucky? Give me a fucking break.

Elvira? Gag.

Then he saw one.

Ok.

It was bad.

But like adorable that this might have been the only person who didn’t spend a grand on their costume at a boutique and used the phrase “slutty but almost business appropriate” to describe the length.

She was dressed as a vampire.

Not well.

She had a cheap cape and fake blood on the corners of her mouth as though it even drips that way and she was in the corner, looking around, pulling at the skirt that was twice the length of everything around her and still seemed to bother her as a little too short.

She was sipping aggressively on a drink.

Winner winner. He smoothed his sleeves, went over to her, and she jumped a whole foot in the air when he said hi.

Oh baby, this is going to be too easy…..

_______________________________________________________________________

Not that he usually struggled to pick up chicks at ...anything really. He had picked up a bride to be at a wedding dress shop once when he had been on the way out from fucking the manager of the floor---he had considered this a career high for a long time.

But this had seemed far too easy.

He had said hi. The poor little mouse looked prepared to shit a brick. Chugged the rest of her drink and said, hopefully, “Kiss me?”

And that had been about twenty minutes ago and the Uber was dropping them off at an apartment complex he didn’t know so he could only assume this was hers.

She was fidgeting with her keys.

Then like...bracing? And pulling him closer and…

He liked her mouth. He liked a soft mouth that was a little shy-- he was bombastic, and he did not require competition for the dominant slot. He was happy to be the assertive one. And she just melted whenever he put a hand on her-- he didn’t even get a full handful of anything and she was moaning.

He didn’t pay for the Uber (he figured if he didn’t order it it wasn’t his thing, sue him) but he did notice just how….nervous she seemed.

Nervous was one of his favorite bouquets these days.

Nervous smelled like butterscotch.

Human emotions had a weird smell and taste. He was getting the hang of a lot of them. Anger had shades ranging from cinnamon to chiles. Sadness was herbal, grief was menthol or euca-fucking-lyptus. It gagged him. Sex was like rock candy, it burst in your mouth, burned a little, but like fuck yeah got the job done. Had he always had a sweet tooth? He couldn’t recall.

Virgins tasted like Shirley Temples and it never stopped amusing him.

Nerves were rolling off of her and she took a steadying breath-- determination. Focus. Boring. Tasted like table sugar, not the good kind. She grabbed his lapel, “Want to come in?”

“Came all this way, didn’t I?”

She turned a little fierce, a little...flippant? But it was earnest.

Everything she was doing was honest as fuck, and honest tasted like honey.

She had a very strange flavor-- almost saccharine.

Butterscotch that was a little burned, honey that was added to smooth it out….a detachment. Like...when you add the baking soda and it becomes honeycomb? That was it. Like she was full of hot air.

He was a booty call then.

This was perfect.

Smelled clean, tasted sweet, had no interest in keeping him around, and the apartment was utterly devoid of companionship-- she didn’t even have a cat.

She kept her mouth on his, as though if she moved it she might lose her nerve, and she was doing a good job of it until she got to her bedrooms and awkwardly stammered, “I uh, have--do you…. Condoms?”

She buried her face in her hands and mumbled, “I’m sorry, I never do this.”

“Sex?”

“No. I mean yes, yes. Have done that. Not a virgin just...not….I don’t ever do this.”

She held her hands up lamely to indicate the very un-sexy apartment.

He didn’t look around, just turned on that hundred-watt smile that had bought him immortality “So why did you?”

She looked confused, “Pardon?”

“Why did you? Tonight. If it’s not your scene.”

She looked at her shoes, “I….I have always wanted to go to bed with someone so...handsome and...I mean.”

She gulped, “You only live once, right?”

His smile doubled and he shrugged off his coat, “You are right my little Lady of the Night….so let’s get to bed.”

“Condom?”

“I’m fixed, no concerns.”

She smiled, seemed...less hesitant, less embarrassed, and nodded, “You do this sort of thing, don’t you?”

“Only when it’s fun.”

“Is this fun?”

He pulled on the ties to her cape, “I can think of a couple ways to make it fun.”

She put one staying hand on his chest and just whispered, “Why...um….why me?”

“That’s easy-- I have a thing for vampires.”

She managed a comfortable laugh and let him start undressing her.

__________________________________________________________________

He would wonder what sort of job she did at that company because she took directions well and she sucked a cock like she moonlighted as the janitor’s fucking vaccuum.

It was actually fun.

And he didn’t kill her!

Extra fun!

But there was that little...thing.

She was asleep-- and not dead! Score!-- and he was sneaking out of the window because who needed to wait for a smelly elevator at this hour?-- but he was still thinking about what eating her had tasted like.

She had old-school untended bush-- now it wasn’t his daily ride but he appreciated the fact that she really didn’t do this often and hadn’t really seemed to prepare.The whole sweet and innocent act wasn’t an act-- and while he was eating her-- like eating her out he was getting a little crazed, couldn’t help it, and snuck a little bite. Just a tiny one. Inside of her thigh. She yelped a little but it was small, barely anything, and then when he was eating that it was….

A taste he hadn’t had yet.

Very licorice.

He hated licorice, but that wasn’t the point. The point was what the fuck was it?

He had been so distracted by it that he had to take a break and fuck her mouth again just to get himself back in the game.

He thought he had done an admirable job: she seemed satisfied, she hadn’t broken bones, and really, didn’t that mean everyone won?

But the licorice.

The fuck.

He pulled out his phone and let it ring. This bitch never answered on the first ring. He half thought she was going to force him to go to voicemail. Fucking vampires. Dicks to a man. Or like...cunts to a woman, whatever.

Finally on the fifth fucking ring.

“Hey Sorina, how’s kicks?”

“Do you have some pressing matter to discuss Maxwell?”

“Just Max.” He reminded her and cleared his throat, “Minor question. What does it mean when the blood tastes like licorice? I was doing your homework thing-- you’ll be happy, nailed this chick and didn’t kill her, bit, yes, but we agreed that was well within the terms-- anyway had a whole licorice thing going on. There’s not like...vampire-blood-STDs or something, right?”

“No, she’s dying. That’s cancer. Don’t drink too much, it’ll make you nauseated. Good evening.”

That was it. Just hung up.

Cunts to a woman.

Or whatever.

_______________________________________________________________________

It was the fucking boring ass period between Christmas and New Years. Bars were fairly full in the tourist areas but he was getting tired of the same shit over and over. Thank fuck he couldn’t put on weight, all these people were fat as hell right now and everything tasted like goddamn peppermint or gingerbread-- no inbetweens. Cloying gross mint or dry terrible cookies. He was in hell. He couldn’t wait for the fucking summer again.

But he had longer hours in the winter and that wasn’t so bad.

It was just he couldn’t handle another fucking bloated stewardess bitching about her hours at the Fake Irish Pub just because it was close to the airport.

He couldn’t.

But he was bored and hungry or horny or both, maybe both.

Probably both.

But somewhere different.

He went to Mack’s. Mack’s was a shithole, but the kind that the locals knew so it was guaranteed to have some steady traffic and not fucking tourists.

Probably still plenty of fucking peppermint.

He got a couple things about that evening right, but a few wrong.

It had a ton of fucking tourists because some asshole regular brought every cousin he fucking had in with him.

It all stank of fucking peppermint.

But he hadn’t expected to see his Lucky Licorice Lady again and there she was.

She had cut all her hair into a daring new style and given it a fabulously bold color that sat in stark contrast to the mousy way she was drinking her drink and looking around the room.

She’s….she’s at it again. He realized.

He had almost thought she was lying with the whole good-girl act because, really, when was it not an act? He thought she might try to pick his pocket. But the dying bit that Sorina explained had given him the piece to the puzzle that he hadn’t found on his own.

She could only live once, she was going to go out swinging.

He admired that.

Good for you Mighty Mouse, fuck whoever you want to fuck and drink plenty and do weird shit to your hair. We can’t all be devastatingly handsome immortals who will always have the ass of their twenty two year old self.

And like…

There were “rules” with the whole vampire schtick.

You weren’t, technically, supposed to like….go back on well-traveled roads. Like if you bit someone and got away with it move on.

But he couldn’t help himself.

Rules were polite suggestions for weak dicked people, he did not fit any of those descriptors.

He slid into her booth, “Hey good-looking. No Santa Claus outfit? I was all ready to tell you how naughty I’d been.”

Her mouth opened and shut like a fish out of water.

Then she licked her lips, “I...didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“I can go.” He offered-- he meant it too, no harm, no foul.

“No! No...it was….a lot of fun, last time. I mean. You were.” She shook her head as if that would make the fluster go away, “I, it was. Really nice.”

Max preened, “I give a good fuck, so I’ve heard. Though I note you didn’t fill out your feedback card so if you want we can review the whole thing again, top to bottom.”

She bit her lip, “Let me close my tab and maybe we can….review? Top to bottom?”

“Thought you don’t do this much?”

She shrugged, “I...don’t.”

He nodded, “Dig the new hair.”

She cocked her head at him, “No you don’t.”

“I mean the old one is less...slutty one night stand at a bar. But like, to each his own.”

It was chilly but he didn’t have temperature concerns anymore and they weren’t far from her apartment so they walked--- no Uber-- but when he noticed her shivering a little he took off his scarf and wrapped it around her.

He hated iced beverages in the winter.

And if she tasted like peppermint he was going to be fucking livid.

She didn’t.

Taste like peppermint.

She tasted like stale cheap beer and raspberry rock candy and … a little nervous. Butterscotch clashed.

“You ok? Seem...cagey?”

He needed the palette to right itself. He needed that.

She had shrugged off her coat, folded his scarf neatly on the couch closest to the front door, and was half-undressed when she was foundering all over her words again.

“I...um…”

“Spit it out, sweetheart, I’ve been inside you, we don’t need to mince words.”

That made her laugh.

She had a nice laugh.

Whatever the fuck her name was.

“I….in the spirit of New Years, I’m...trying new things?”

He made an impatient hand gesture, “You got a request? I’m not a genie but I’ll see what I can do.”

Threesome? Maybe a threesome, this could go worse for me.

“I …” She produced a bottle of lubricant, “I don’t know if you are into it but I’ve never--”

He smiled widely, “Oh I do….you want to like, ease in or have me rip off the Band-Aid?”

That smile.

Fuck.

Like she didn’t think he would hurt her or some stupid shit.

“Just….earn your five star rating.”

He took a moment to look surprised at her candor, “She makes jokes now?”

“I was told there was a review card.” She smiled and he spun her, pushed her gently stomach down on the bed, pulled her jeans off of her and gave a playful nip to her ass cheeks before spreading them, giving a polite amount of lubricant, and earning some extra credit.

When she fell asleep he pulled the old-school-Dracula bit: a little sip on the back of the neck. She wouldn’t even see it in the mirror if she wasn’t careful.

Licorice-y as all fuck.

Fuck.

He patted her hip: have a nice rest of your mortality Mighty Mouse.

He snuck out again.

And he had legitimately thought that would be the end of it.

___________________________________________________________________________

He was in a shitty fucking mood because his new division had been bought out and he was due to get relocated and he didn’t want to go to fucking Canada.

He was looking to kill, to fuck, to fuck something he killed. Something. He needed to take the edge off.

And he saw the car, heard it moving, heard the noises from inside, and like, figured, let’s Zodiac this shit, I will eat that entire car.

But he froze because the foggy window was pawed at by the woman inside and he recognized her...his Lucky Licorice Lady.

Now.

Did he watch?

He did.

For more than one reason: he did like to believe he was a good fuck, the last time he had fucked her she had-- by his count-- cum twice and nearly cried and called him Jesus. Like the God kind, not some random guy, he was getting the holy treatment, and that’s about how he liked it. Right now? She was bored.

Even a little uncomfortable. He heard her tell the guy to get off her hair but, in the spirit of being diplomatic, if you fuck in the backseat of a Lincoln you get what you get. C’est la guerre.

But he wanted to really live in the moment of knowing he was a better fuck than whatever John she had picked up tonight.

Also.

Selfishly.

Now he was kind of turned on and he was hoping to eat that guy post-orgasm and see if he couldn’t turn ol’ Licorice Lips’ frown upside down. Post-orgasm blood-- up there with the virgins. Hard to time out. Plus this was some real alpha dog bullshit of a guy and he was going to be riding a testosterone and serotonin high and it was going to be fantastic.

So the ‘date’ ended. The guy literally opened his door, pushed her out, and made to drive off.

Luckily he had to turn down an alleyway and Max had super-reflexes and despite being one greasy motherfucker the hormone hit was superb.

When he sauntered back over to find her, already half hard, she was sitting on a bench, crying.

He came back and sat next to her, “You ok?”

She looked up, surprised, looked over her shoulder, “How did--- where?”

“I was walking home, you’re crying, I take it that’s not generally a sign of rapture?”

She made a dismissive hand-gesture, “Deeply….shitty date. Just a shitty date.”

He didn’t say anything.

She looked over at him and wiped her eyes on her sleeve, “I don’t normally do this.”

“Says the girl who has fucked me twice and just got slut shamed out of a...was that a Continental?”

“I’m….” She threw her hands up, “I’m dying. And I always wished I was more...outgoing. Fucked around. Went after the handsome guys that I always assumed would stand me up or laugh in my face. So like..I figured, what the fuck? But it...it just doesn’t always….make me feel….”

She struggled for a minute and then shrugged, “Good. I don’t always feel good after.”

Max was happy he killed that prick.

She looked over at him, “You didn’t say anything.”

“Should I have?”

“When I said I was dying.”

“Oh. I knew that.” He offered a nonchalant head tilt, “Should I pretend to be sorry?”

She smiled a little, not quite laughing, “You aren’t that mean.”

“I’m a shithead.”

“Yeah...but you aren’t mean.” She relaxed on the bench, “How did you know?”

She was rubbing her neck as she asked.

He noticed but pretended not to and said, “I’d rather not say but it wasn’t because I snooped through your fucking medicine cabinets or anything.”

She rubbed her neck again, crossed her legs.

They were quiet and then she said, “Do you want to come home with me?”

“Sloppy seconds aren’t normally my scene.”

“I didn’t exactly have your number to put you first in line but I’m...I would shower or--”

“I’m teasing, little mousey. Lead the way.”

She walked with her arms over her chest, darting her eyes over to Max. He ignored it-- no use getting suspicious about shit or thinking he understood what was going on in her head. He was thinking about whether or not the Madrid game’s time would sync up with the sports bar on 8th when he was done here.

He was still in a shitty mood but it had sort of leveled off to general annoyance and when they got into her apartment he noticed her look towards her bathroom, “Do you mind if I shower first?”

“Your castle.” He shrugged and she nodded towards the television, then the kitchen, “Help yourself to whatever.”

He decided to check on the game. Which involved ordering a channel on her cable plan but she was going to die and couldn’t take the money with her, he was really interested in seeing if those Madrid fucks got blown.

When she came out of the bathroom he was lounging on her couch, stripped to his boxers, idly stroking himself as he studied the figures on the screen and muttered at them.

She cleared her throat and he turned his head, a smirk forming, and he said, “Drop the towel and come over here to keep me company.”

She crawled onto his lap, mewling with excitement as he stroked the head of his cock over her entrance and he nipped just under her ear, “So that guy was a terrible fuck.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Say what I want you to say.”

“You were better.”

He pushed himself a little deeper but not all the way and teased, “Oh come on, baby, you can do better than that.”

It was the rub, the stroke, she was starting to rock just to gain a little momentum and take him in but he kept her back until she was practically crying, “Fuck, nobody ever fucked me like you did, like you do, please, just please do it again.”

“That’ll do.” He snapped his hips up against hers.

They nearly broke her couch with all the movement, he picked her up and kept fucking her right into the bedroom thank you superhuman strength and she was a little more assertive than before-- she would roll and arch and grab and ask for things. They fucked three times.

And each time...fuck if he had trouble tearing himself away from her pulse points.

She was exploding in his mouth.

He was salivating.

He wanted to taste it and finally on the third fuck her legs were locked around his hips and he had both her hands pinned over her head and he couldn’t help it, he really couldn’t, he was rolling into her and she was delirious at that point and he let himself scrap a small bite.

It started small anyway.

It did.

But holy Jesus fuck she tasted good. Licorice exploding into his mouth like a firework, candy that burned a hole in your tongue.

He actively had to convince himself to stop. Then not to stop fucking her.

It was like a weird final exam-- he almost lost his fucking hard on when he pulled his mouth off of her neck especially because it was sending him wild, she was arching her neck into him, Please please please please.

But she had no idea what she was asking for, right?

She passed out not so long after.

He had bought the game.

He had.

He stood in the doorway of her bedroom watching a few minutes of it, debating what to do.

Order a pizza?

Out through the window?

He looked down at her and licked his thumb, running it over the bite mark under her ear, his saliva helping heal it up. It would look more like a hickey than a bite in the morning.

He craned his neck.

Fucking Madrid was winning anyway.

He left.

____________________________________________________________________________

It was the end of August when he saw her again.

She was wearing a sweater.

It was nearly eighty degrees.

She was drinking a hot chocolate at nearly 8pm when he fucking emerged-- fuck August-- and she was wearing a sweater.

She looked rough.

Thin.

Thin and … brittle.

He should press on to the next coffee shop and ignore her. This was no time for a mercy fuck she looked like he’d accidentally break her in two.

But he felt his hand opening the door and she laughed to herself, “Well well...look what the cat dragged in. Haven’t seen you around. Fought with my cable company about that channel for two months.”

He shrugged, “What can I say? I like pussy and soccer and I won’t apologize.”

She laughed a little and patted her seat, “I was going to leave...you heading into work?”

It was a ridiculous question-- it was nighttime, most people were just leaving.

He wondered.

And he sat down, “I got a minute. Quickie in the bathroom?”

She licked a lip that had lost its plumpness and its color and shook her head, “Not tonight.”

She extended her hand and said a name and he looked down at it and she prompted, “And you are?”

“Max.”

She shook his hand and then looked at the clock and the tired baristas frustratedly eyeing people trying to will them to leave.

“Well Max...it’s been fun.”

“Leaving so soon?”

“I’ve been here a while.”

“Moved on from shitty bars?”

“Yeah my scene is more hipster coffee bar now.”

“No pick ups?”

“Eh,” She shrugged, “Not really my scene...but the night wasn’t a total loss. Good to see you.”

“Yeah you too….see you around.”

He had said it casually but she pressed a hand to his shoulder and squeezed it, saying softly, “No, Max...I don’t think you will.”

And she left.

She fucking left.

He let it sink in for one minute, growled, and walked out without his fucking latte.

“Hey wait a minute!”

He jogged lightly to catch up to her and pulled her into a dark alley, she looked around as if wondering if muggers really put that much effort into choosing their targets.

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

You’re a fucking idiot.

“Do you wanna die?”

She cocked a disbelieving eyebrow at him, “I mean….who does?”

“Right! Right, that’s sort of what I’m getting at and like, could this be handled better? Sure. But like you seem to be in the Express Lane so I’m just trying to get up to the correct speed and like,” He sighed, promised himself he was going to have a long talk with himself about this, and popped his fangs out.

Her eyes widened.

But she didn’t say anything.

She didn’t scream nor did she say anything.

He grew impatient with the lack of a response and said, “Well? You wanna live forever Mighty Mouse?”

She blinked twice, took a breath and just gave him a small smile, “Thanks but no.”

Then she got up on her toes, kissed his cheek and made to leave.

He grabbed her arm, “Sweetheart this isn’t Halloween, I--”

“I get it.”

“I’m a vampire.”

“I see.”

“You could be too.”

“I’m….good thanks.”

“You’re dying.”

She looked at her shoes, “Yeah I am but...that’s ok. Really. I’m...I’m not so...scared of it...anymore.”

He was confused.

She shook her head and pecked his lips lightly, “Really. It’s ok. And...thanks.”

___________________________________________________________________________

It was Halloween and he was in a graveyard which was really a little too nail on the head but like whatever. At least he was drinking.

But like...his stomach hurt.

Just one big knot.

He stared at the headstone for a while. For so long a pile of leaves collected by his feet.

_______________________________________________________

A/N: And just like that Vampire Douche joins the family! Welcome!

We do not Beta, I wrote this in one go. POSITIVE there are mistakes and I will edit twenty times. But ONWARD!

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You turned your head, catching his mouth in a sleepy kiss. Jake hummed against your lips, sliding his hand from your back to reach beneath your hip, gently turning you over. His body covered yours, chests brushing together as his tongue dipped between your lips, hands wandering your bare skin. 

You raised your hands to curl around his shoulders, fingers teasing into his hair. You whimpered as his fingers tease between your thighs, sweeping across your sensitive clit. 

“Ooo, sweetheart,” He sighed, turning his head to nuzzle against your jaw. “Sore?”

“A little.” 

“Was I too rough?” 

“No,” You insisted, tipping your hips up into his touch. 

“No?” Jake repeated, a beautiful smile curling his lips. “You’re a slutty little thing when you wake up, aren’t you?” 

You nodded, leaning up for another kiss as your hand dipped between Jake’s thighs. He groaned as you took his hardening cock in hand, resting his forehead against yours and hissing softly as you stroked him. 

“Jake?” 

“Yes, angel?” 

“I didn’t get my mouth on you last night.” 

“Mm,” Jake hummed, and you grinned as you felt his cock twitch against your palm. “Did you want to?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“You want it now?” 

“Yes, please.” 

“Oh, so polite.” He grinned, nudging his nose against yours before he pushed the covers back. “Come here.” 

You climbed up, straddling his hips as you lowered yourself over him. You could feel his cock against your thigh as you leaned down for another kiss. Jake’s hands smoothed over your hips, drawing you down to grind against him as you teased one another. You began to kiss down his body when you couldn’t wait any longer, lips and tongue tracing across his muscled chest. You were inches away from his cock when you felt him tense. 

You glanced up, brow furrowing as you saw his head lift. 

“What is it?” You asked, teasing your nails over his thighs. He held his finger to his lips, his head tipping toward the door. Then,

“Hello! Anybody home?” 

You bolted up at the sound of Becca’s voice. Jake was moving as you were, his hand slapping over your mouth to keep you from answering, or making any kind of panicked sound. He held his finger over his lips. 

“Get dressed, keep quiet. I’ll go out first, just—Walk softly.” 

You nodded hurriedly as he got out of bed, grabbing his sweatpants and t-shirt and pulling them on as he headed toward the door. You ducked behind his bed, watching him turn to look back at you before he shut the door. His call of, “Hey, sweetie!” made you press your face into your hands and groan. Holy. Shit. 

You hurried to dress, tip-toeing across the room, opening and closing the door silently before hurrying down the hall to the guest room. You ruffled the bed sheets, mussing them and rolling around a little in them before pushing the pillows askew, too. You needed to shower, and get dressed, and pretend that you didn’t spend last night in bed with your best friend’s dad. 

-- 

Despite your nerves, a real smile bloomed on your lips when you saw Becca. 

“Ah!” She squealed, rounding the kitchen counter to hug you. “Did I wake you up when I yelled? Dad said you might still be asleep.” 

“No, no,” You shook your head. “I was already up.” 

“Sweet. Dad went to grab bagels. He said he’d just get your usual, but if you want something else, you can just text him.” 

“Oh, cool! Cool, cool cool,” You turned away, heading for the coffee pot. “How was your trip down?” 

“Eh, fine, nothing to report. Hey, you were okay here last night, right?”

“What?” You twisted around to look at Becca, only to find her eyeing her phone boredly. 

“Just, with my dad, he wasn’t, like, awkward or whatever, was he?” 

Definitely not awkward.

“Nn-nn, no,” You turned back, grabbing a mug from the dish rack. “He was really chill about the whole thing, especially considering my fuck-up.” 

“Well, that’s good. I mean I figured it would be fine. I think he kinda considers you a second kid.” 

Your grip tightened around the handle of the coffee pot, a nervous laugh shaking out of you as you muttered, “I’m not sure about that.” 

“Oh, by the way, you’ll never guess who I ran into on the train!”

-- 

Becca had been right—you never could’ve guessed that she’d run into your college ex. You hadn’t heard from or thought about Ryan in years, and the fact that Becca had invited him over to hang out with your other friends had thrown you for a loop.  It was a little worse when he’d drawn you into a hug and taken quite a while to let go. 

“Oh, wow! When Becca said she ran into you, I really, really thought,” Hoped, “That she was kidding.” 

“Why would I be kidding?” Becca frowned beside you, and you forced yourself to keep a smile on your face. 

“Because you’re so silly! Anyway,” You patted his arm, “Wow, so good to see you.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s great to see you, too,” He murmured, hand skimming over your hip. Your mouth worked wordlessly, too stunned to move—And then you jolted at the sound of a clang behind you. You all turned to see Jake at the sink, holding a hand up in apology as he picked up the spatula that he appeared to have dropped. 

“Sorry,” He chuckled, “Butterfingers.” 

You narrowed your eyes slightly as the others fell back into conversation, holding his eye for a moment before Ryan was drawing your attention back to him. 

-- 

It didn’t stop at the spatula. Over the course of the afternoon, in moments when Ryan got close, something would fall or be knocked over. The most egregious incident seemed to be a genuine mistake, with a domino effect beginning with Jake, knocking into Becca, and ending with Ryan’s beer tipping onto your shirt. 

“Oh, shit,” You hissed, standing from your shirt and drawing the fabric away from your body. 

“Fuck,” Ryan stood, fumbling for napkins on the table. “Here—Sorry.” 

“No, all good. I’ll just, um,” You took the napkins from him before he could dab the stain for you, “I’m gonna go grab a new shirt.” 

You left the kitchen, taking the stairs up two at a time, drawing your top off as you rounded into the hall to the guest bedroom. You heard footsteps advancing behind you, turned with the expectation of telling Ryan that you were fine, that you could change your clothes yourself—But Jake was there, pressing his hand to your hip and guiding you back into the guest room. 

“Are you crazy!” You breathed as he shut and locked the door behind the two of you, “There are so many people downstairs!” 

“I know. Including that little creep of your ex-boyfriend.” Jake steered you back toward the un-slept in bed, glancing around and smiling. “You roll around in that earlier? Nice touch.” 

“Jake, seriously, if anyone comes up—If they hear us—” 

“Then we’ll have to find a way to keep you quiet.” He grasped your wrist, guiding your hand to the growing bulge in his jeans. “You didn’t get to put your mouth on me this morning, angel.” 

And you should’ve quipped, reminded him that it was because his daughter had come home. But you were lowering yourself to your knees before you could overthink it, your fingers working at the button and zip. You yanked his jeans down to his knees before you were leaning in, nuzzling against his length through his underwear. Jake sighs, bracing one hand on the bed post, the other on your head.

You peered up at him from beneath your lashes, batting your eyes as you draw his underwear down. You saw his cock bob up in your periphery and you turned your head, keeping eye contact as you slide your lips along it. You finally lowered your eyes as you took the head of him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the dome.

“Mmm, fuck,” He sighed, “You look even prettier sucking my cock than I’ve imagined.”

You grinned, leaning back and tapping his head against your tongue. “Lot of time thinking about that, hm?”

“Oh, angel,” He chuckled, “You’ve got no fucking idea.” 

You leaned in, taking him back into your mouth and closing your eyes. Jake used his grasp on your head to guide your pace, keeping your mouth moving along his length for a few more strokes before he urged, “Up, get up.” He met you in the middle, pressing his lips to yours as he tugged you back toward the bed. 

“Jake, we really don’t have much ti—ime.” Your breath hitched midway through your warning as he guided you to lay back. He yanked your pants down, tugging them all the way off and dropping them aside before his followed. He climbed over you then, propping one of your legs up and bowing down, spitting across your pussy. You jolted slightly, mouth falling open with a stunned moan as he grasped himself at the base, tapping the head against your clit. 

“Sssh, baby,” He murmured, “If you can’t keep quiet, I’m gonna need to find something to gag you with…And my cock…Ah,” he sighed, easing in gently, “Is otherwise occupied.” 

You bit down on your lips, tipping your head back against the comforter as Jake pressed in deeper, inch by tantalizing inch. 

“There you go, beautiful,” He murmured, “Just relax…Let me in.” 

You shuddered, raising your hands and grasping Jake’s forearms, nails digging into the skin. 

“Ah-ah-ah,” He curled closer, urging your hands higher up his arms. “Don’t want to leave any marks they can see, do we?” 

You shook your head, biting down on your lips harder as Jake’s hips began to saw against yours. You curled your legs around his hips, holding on as he began to pound into you with harsher thrusts. You could see his face twisting with focus, his lips puffing harsh breaths out with each roll of his hips. He raised a hand to his lips, wetting two fingers with his tongue before he snuck them between your bodies, swiping at your tender clit. 

You reached down, grasping his wrist and holding it in place as you bucked up against him. 

“Such a sweet little cunt,” Jake murmured, “Clenching down on my cock like this.” 

You turned your face from Jake’s, pressing it into the pillow to dampen your moans. He bowed closer, his lips brushing against your ear and groaning low in his chest. Your toes curled in your socks, nails sinking into his shoulders as you felt your orgasm beginning to well in your lower belly. 

“You’re gonna go back down there with my cum pumped deep into this cunt, dripping into your panties while that shithead tries to get you back.” 

Your jaw dropped, hips bucking up against Jake’s as he spilled into you, grinding achingly slowly. 

“Ssssh, sssh,” He breathed against your jaw. “That’s it—Fucking milk that cock, pretty girl…Oh, that’s it, angel. Mm, god.” He lowered his head as he stilled, butting his head against your jaw. “I’m gonna go back down there, but…Promise me you won’t clean up. I don’t want you washing me off, not yet.”

You nodded, combing your fingers through his hair as he lowered his head, pressing a kiss over your pounding heart. 

“I won’t. I promise.” 

“I mean, the beer you can wash off, just,” He lifted his head, giving you a bright smile. “Not me.” 

“I know what you mean,” You chuckled, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his lips. “Now go before someone comes looking.” 

Jake pulled out, pressing your thighs back and ducking in for a sucking kiss against the sensitive lips of your cunt before drawing away. You shivered, lowering your legs and swallowing thickly as you watched him dress. He turned back, doing up his pants as he added, “I’ll find a way to see you tonight, alright? I’ll text you.” 

He was unlocking the door and peering around speculatively before he stepped out, blowing you a cheeky kiss around the door before he closed it. You sagged back into the mattress, squeezing your legs together and feeling the slip of his cum between your thighs. 

You’d keep your promise, you wouldn’t wash him off. And whenever he texted, wherever he asked you to go—you knew you’d be there without hesitation. 

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Seeing your face bruised and cut above your eye, and your lip busted and split, had every instinct in Steve–both man and alpha–surging to the surface as he rushed to where you were huddled on the sofa, glowering. 

“Sweetheart,” Steve murmured as he crouched before you, his hands gently touching your legs as his eyes flickered all over your face, his brows furrowed. “What happened?”

Your gaze was fixed down, because you couldn’t even look at Steve. In addition to feeling like shit physically, now you felt terrible for causing him distress.

For being such a burden.

This–your current state–was just a much deserved consequence of getting too comfortable here with Steve, of being happy.

Because if there was one thing you didn’t deserve, it was a happy, homey life with the most perfect alpha to ever exist.

You could try to stuff down all the memories–and who you really were–but you couldn’t outrun your past, and the nightmares coming back just proved that. 

So instead of sitting in Steve’s apartment all day, teetering between cozy lazing and overthinking–feeling restless and guilty when your mind started spiraling–you had felt the need to get outside. To roam some of your previous haunts that you hadn’t been to in weeks.

You knew it hadn’t been a good idea, that it wasn’t safe. That’s probably why you did it.

Because this–being hurt, suffering in some way–not happy and safe here with Steve, it was what you actually deserved.

“Talk to me, omega, please,” Steve prompted, his touch gentle as he caressed along your legs, not in a sexual way–not now–just a tender touch to comfort, to soothe.

You wondered if it was more to soothe himself than you as you peeked up at him to find Steve watching you so softly, his handsome face full of concern.

And there it was again–that new sparkle of something more in his warm gaze. His gaze that made your belly somersault and your chest flutter each and every time it was aimed your way. His gaze that was filled with so much more than just affection, with something that you had always yearned for so deeply but never truly thought you’d experience. 

“If you knew the truth about me and what I’ve done, you’d never look at me like that again.” You tried to be flippant in your tone, but it fell flat, and you just sounded devastated at the mere thought of your words being true. 

Steve murmured your name, dipping his head so he could catch your gaze. “I could never look at you any other way than this.”

A lump of emotion swelled in your throat in an instant, your eyes burning and your vision blurring as you tried to like hell to avoid Steve’s searching gaze. “I’m not a good person, Steve, not like you. Nothing like you.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“And I don’t deserve you,” you quavered.

“Whether or not you think you deserve me, you have me, all of me.” Steve’s lips curled into a soft smile, his next words chosen to try to break the tension, to try to make you smile, to express just how all in he was when it came to you. “And I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but at this point, you’re kind of stuck with me, for good.”

You looked so startled yet hopeful at Steve’s words. Your eyes finally met his, unblinking, searching, and glimmering with the kind of yearning that had him reaching for your hands and giving them a squeeze.

For a long, quiet moment, you just stared down at the way Steve’s much larger hands so carefully cradled your own. Your breath shuddered out of you on a broken exhale as you finally shook your head, your eyes lifting to his. 

“Don’t say that until you know the truth,” you muttered. “Everything about me, especially the bad stuff.”

“Then tell me.”

It wasn’t a request, but an encouragement, because Steve would never force or urge you to do something you didn’t want, but you could see it shining in his gaze clear as day–that he really wanted you to trust him with whatever was eating you up inside. 

That he wanted you to let it go, too, so you didn’t need to shoulder the weight anymore.

So you could finally, really, be happy. 

You took another shaky breath, licking your dry lips and flinching as your split lip smarted. You started to talk, aware of Steve moving to sit next to you, close and still gently holding your hands as you turned toward him, kept your gaze down, and confessed all the things you hated about yourself.

The things you were sure would drive him away before you were even able to enjoy having him at all.

It was nothing new, being locked up in the cramped, dirty cage.

A few weeks ago, you had made the mistake of being out in the middle of the city, all by yourself, because you had no one.

And that’s when they had scooped you up. 

A few alphas who were much bigger and stronger than you, who seemed more delighted than anything when you had tried to fight back and gotten in some good hits, too.

It wasn’t long before you realized why they liked your instinct to fight–to survive.

Because the reason they had snatched you up in the first place was to force you into an underground omega fighting ring. 

If you won your match, you got to live, you usually got some food and water too, so for the weeks that you had been here, you had fought hard and always won. It seemed as if you had garnered a bit of a reputation, a fanbase, too, which is why you were waiting now for what they were calling the ultimate omega fight. 

You had heard some of the men talking earlier, saying it would be the biggest match they had ever hosted, and that there was a lot of money on the line. 

There was even a prize on the line for you and your opponent, too, being set free from the fighting ring and “rewarded” with an alpha all your own.

So you wouldn't be free at all, really, you’d just be moving from one kind of cage to another. 

As you sat in your cage now, still battered and bruised from your last fight a couple of nights ago, you wondered why you even wanted to survive so bad in the first place. What was the point, really? Life as an omega wasn’t much of a life at all, but still–something deep down inside of you just wasn’t ready to give up yet.

“There she is,” a gritty, unfamiliar voice broke you from your thoughts. “My future omega. I’m Brock, and by the end of the night, you’re gonna belong to me.”

You sneered at the stranger who was standing outside of your cage, eyeing you up like a piece of meat and a trophy all rolled into one.

He was tall, lean, and muscular, his tattooed arms bulging and put on display by his fitted black t-shirt. His matching black cargo pants made him look like some kind of soldier, his dark hair swooping away from his forehead, and the look in his dark, mean eyes making your skin crawl and your stomach churn.

The thought of actually being his omega had bile burning at the back of your throat.

Before you could spit out a sassy response, you were dragged from your cage by a couple of the ring men and led out toward the arena, feeling the stranger’s gaze on your ass as he followed at a confident saunter. 

“I have a lotta money riding on you and your undefeated status, omega, so you better win this fucking match,” he told you, licking his lips and flashing a leering smile. “And then I’ll get to take you home and reward you in a way you’ll never forget.”

Feeling disgusted as you were shoved past the ropes sectioning off a square of the concrete floor of the warehouse where a massive crowd was gathered, you considered losing just out of spite and so you would never belong to him.

But any thoughts of what came next–or of Brock–instantly fled your mind as your opponent was hauled toward the ring, hissing and screaming, spitting and wildly struggling between her two captors. 

“Fucking psycho,” one of them grunted as they roughly shoved her into the ring across from you. 

And when her beady gaze met yours, you saw nothing but an unhinged kind of violence burning in her eyes.

When the bell rang a moment later, signaling the start of the match, she launched herself at you, and you were barely able to stop her from clawing your face off as she screeched and attacked. 

Despite having won all of your former bouts–none of those were a fight to the death, or against an omega so feral and vicious.  It felt like you earned each breath you got to take tonight, the match an unending cycle of the two of you locked together, punching and kicking, clawing and yanking.

Eventually, you both began to flag. Half your face was clawed to hell and already starting to bruise, your ribs felt like a few at least were broken, and you could barely catch your breath. 

Your opponent didn’t look much better, cradling her side, blood streaming from her nose and a few of her fingers gruesomely twisted and hanging from their sockets.

The crowd began to get impatient, especially as the two of you took a moment to catch your breaths, circling each other in the small ring.

Suddenly, a quiet clink and skittering sound was heard, and both you and the other omega watched as a serrated knife with a curved blade was thrown into the ring at your feet.

Both your gazes lifted to each other’s, and then the two of you both dove for the knife at the same time. She got it first, and nearly slit your throat as a result before you straddled her torso and pinned her to the cold, concrete floor. 

Giving ragged, desperate cries, you wrestled the knife from her grip, tossing it aside before your hands were suddenly around her throat, squeezing as hard as you could, running now on pure adrenaline and the primal instinct to survive. 

It was the look of terror in your opponent’s bulging eyes that finally overrode that instinct, and you felt sick as you ripped your hands from her throat–horrified at yourself–as you scrambled away, crying and shaking as you sprawled on the floor. 

You started as a big figure suddenly loomed over you–Brock. He held out the knife to you, his eyes flashing as he snarled, “Do it. Kill her. Give all of us what we paid to see.”

You shook your head, struggling to catch your breath as you begged, "Please, no! Don't make me do it! Please! I can’t, I can’t!”

Brock bent and grabbed you by your throat, yanking you up, spittle flying as he seethed, “Useless bitch!” before violently throwing you to the floor.

You grunted as you landed on your side, your ribs screaming in protest–in agony–as your vision began to swim as you watched Brock stalk toward the other omega.

He raised his foot, his dark combat boot hovering over her head for a brief second before he stomped down hard, and you cried out in horror, rolling away and cradling your head with your arms to try to block it all out.

The crowd roared at the gruesome show, cheering and jeering as you curled in on yourself, tears streaming as you heaved and swallowed back the bile trying to work its way up your throat.

The bell rang twice, the match over now, and you couldn’t even process it, your head spinning, your thoughts all jumbled, and your body quaking with fear as you were suddenly grabbed and yanked to your feet. 

“Just like I told you, you belong to me now,” Brock said, and then he dragged you from the ring, and you didn’t put up a fight at all. 

You had no fight left.

Hours later found you in Brock’s shitty apartment, still shaking as you curled into a ball on the floor in the corner of the living room, praying that he’d remained passed out after drinking himself stupid in celebration once you were back at his place.

Now he lay sprawled on the sofa, one leg hanging off as he snored like a buzzsaw. 

The whole drive back here, he had threatened to fuck you, and worse than that–to bond you–but thankfully you had been spared both, for tonight at least. 

The thought of being bonded to him, to such a monster, it had your stomach finally revolting as you shoved yourself to your feet and bolted into the tiny kitchen, spewing in the dirty sink.

You sank against the edge of the counter, a cold sweat dotting your forehead as your stomach continued to churn. Breathing in slowly, you turned on the faucet, rinsing the mess down the drain before cleaning out your mouth next then slowly sipping a couple handfuls of water. 

You cranked the faucet off, turning and sagging back against the counter, unseeing. The only thing you could see–over and over again in your mind’s eye–was the memory of the way Brock had so uncaringly stomped the other omega to death. 

He would do that to you someday too, you were sure of it, especially because you weren’t some obedient, docile omega who desperately wanted an alpha to control her.

One misstep with this unhinged brute could literally be the end for you.

You shuddered, feeling beyond hopeless, but you blinked back the tears threatening to fall, your blurry gaze landing on the small table in the corner, the half-eaten plate of food atop it, then to the sharp steak knife balanced on the plate’s edge.

For a long moment, you just stared at the knife, and then your eyes fell to your wrist, to where your new omega tracking chip–courtesy of Brock–now laid just beneath the surface of your skin.

If the tracker was gone, he’d never be able to find you if you ran.

No one would be able to find you if you ran.

You straightened, a determined look hardening your features as you stalked over to the table and swiped up the knife.

“So I cut it out of me, and I ran,” you finished the recounting of your past, your voice much quieter than when you had first started. “And I never looked back.”

Steve was quiet for a long moment, and you watched as he turned over your arm, his thumb incredibly gentle as it caressed over the scar that you had tried to hide from him all those months ago. 

“You could have killed yourself, removing your chip that way,” he murmured, and then he raised your arm and dipped his head, pressing the softest kiss to your marred skin. 

To the ugliest part of you. 

Not ugly because it was a scar, but because it was a reminder of who you really were, what you had been through, what you had done to survive. 

But Steve accepted it–and you–anyway, completely, and without hesitation. 

And that realization made your voice quaver as you whispered, “I know,” unable to look away as Steve continued to gently stroke your skin, like you were something delicate, something precious. You. “But it would have been better than being his.”

“I’m so sorry for what you went through, omega, for what you were forced to do and witness,” Steve’s voice shook as he spoke, devastation shining in his bright blue gaze, like he couldn’t stand the thought of everything you had been through. “I’m so sorry you had to endure all of that.”

“Tons of other omegas have endured worse,” you muttered, pulling your wrist away from Steve and hugging yourself tight. “But they didn’t run away. They stayed. They listened. They obeyed. Like omegas should. You treat me like I’m brave, but the truth is, I’m the coward. And maybe…maybe this,” you gestured to your battered face. “Is what I really deserve.”

“Hey, you listen to me,” Steve’s voice was so firm that it had you straightening and looking over at him with wide, startled eyes. “You are, hands down, the bravest person I have ever met. No one, omega or otherwise, and least of all you, deserve what you experienced.”

That lump was back in your throat as you just stared at him for a beat before replying, “It’s just the reality of our world, Steve.”

“It is, but here? With me? It never will be.” Steve reached for your hands again, raising them to kiss each set of your knuckles. “I know it will be hard, and it will take time, considering everything you’ve been through, but I need you to try to forgive yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were a victim, sweetheart, and you survived. You don’t deserve to hurt anymore. So please, promise me that you’ll stop seeking out fights? For me? It’s the only greedy thing I’ll ever ask of you, because the thought of you being hurt anymore–or god forbid something worse–I can’t handle it. I need you, I need you here with me, okay?”

At the desperation and the shine of tears in Steve’s eyes, a few of your own finally broke free. You were quick to wipe them away, sniffing back more, battling with all of the emotions bubbling up inside of you at his plea, at his care for you–which a part of you still couldn’t believe you were lucky enough to experience.

“Okay,” you finally replied.

“Promise me,” Steve begged softly, giving your hands another gentle squeeze. “Please.”

There it was again, for the millionth time, one of the things you most appreciated about Steve–the fact that he could so easily alpha command you, but he didn’t. He never would. He just asked you, begged you, vulnerable in his need for you and how much you meant to him. 

And–above all else–allowing your response to him to be your choice.

“I promise,” you said without hesitation.

“Thank you,” Steve breathed, and you realized just now, as his shoulders visibly relaxed, how wound up he had been. How tense. How quietly distressed, because of you.

Well, over you.

It made your belly swoop and your heart skip a beat–how much this man cared about you.

So when he reached for you, gathering you into his lap for a tight hug, you didn’t resist. You didn’t even sass him. You just gave Steve what he wanted–what he needed–in this moment.

And as you sank against his broad, warm chest–and felt the way he tucked his face against the crook of your neck, breathing you in–a quiet voice whispered in the back of your mind that this is exactly what you needed, and wanted, too.

You couldn’t believe that even after knowing the truth, Steve still wanted you. It was genuinely difficult for you to comprehend, but you were so fucking thankful.

You were so very, very grateful for Steve, and you hoped that he could feel it–your gratitude for him, the something more that you felt for him–as you hugged him back just as tightly as he was clinging to you.

I’M NOT CRYING, YOU’RE CRYING 😭 Pleeeeease take a moment to hoe with me! I’d love to know your thoughts and feels! Thank you for reading ❤️

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