vigilante lover

The years of your childhood with Satoru had taught you how to navigate his moods. But three years have passed ; and you are out of practice. The ease you two once had has died and withered out. He sits across from you now, drumming his fingers on the coffee table—and every time your eyes meet, it feels like sticking your hand into the maw of a jaguar.

You want to say there is no ill will. In fact, Satoru had greeted you as if you were long lost friends, separated by distance instead of bitter heartbreak. He had hugged you, maybe too tight. And he had nuzzled against your throat. Not quite scenting, but something else that was still too inappropriate for a public reconciliation.

Your heart pounded in your chest. Your hand shook, and Satoru tracked the motion, as you reached for the teacup.

"So, how're things?" Satoru inquires, as if he doesn't already know.

"Good." You said, stiffly.

You don't mention the strange black cars always parked outside of your house. The Christmas packages. Flowers. Birthday gifts. You don't mention the burner Instagram accounts that pop up faster than you can block them. You don't mention that you've changed your number twice now. And somehow, Satoru had managed to shoot you a text anyway.

"You should come over on Saturday," He says, delicate finger tracing the rim of his own teacup. His blue eyes shift to pin you in place. "We'll cook dinner. It'll be nice"

Even though he says the words casually, you know it isn't a proposal. Satoru has come here with the intent of making sure you know you'll be having dinner with them both on Saturday and that you need to prepare yourself. Annoyance prickles down the line of your shoulders.

Your hands retreat underneath the table, where you discreetly attempt to wipe your sweaty palms off on your jeans. You tried going for a look that said This-Is-Just-An-Average-Thing-For-Me, but Satoru's version of casualness seems to blow you out of the water.

His hair edges the line between carelessness and wanting to impress. An expensive woolen coat tossed over the back of his chair. Black pants. A turtleneck sweater made of a lighter fabric. Like he could have been meeting his fellow house-wives for brunch or stepped out of a business meeting.

"Maybe" You start, trying to keep the distaste off of your face. In truth—you can think of nothing worse than dinner with your ex-best friend and your ex-boyfriend. Your mouth opens, breathing shakily. "I better not, actually"

Don't say sorry, you think, digging your nails into your thigh. Don't over-explain yourself. No means no.

Satoru huffed and exhaled sharply. You hated the way your body stiffened to attention, perking upwards. Even three years later, he has you eating out of the palm of his hand.

Yet another thing he was better than you at.

He had always been prettier. Smarter. His scent turned heads. Alphas glanced longingly at his long legs and were captivated by his pretty blue eyes. Teachers praised his grades. He was always picked first in gym-class. Even though he was an omega, you have never known Satoru to submit to anything.

Satoru would watch you watch other alphas. They never wanted anything to do with you of course, a plain, meek omega. But it would never be long until those same alphas were trailing after him—or him parading them right in front of you. As if to say, why would they want you if they could have me?

You dug your nails into the palm of your hand again and pushed the thought away. Your therapist says that it's most likely not the case. Satoru makes you feel inferior as an omega, so your brain will try to attempt to twist old memories to reaffirm what your insecurities tell you.

You wanted to tell her that she didn't know Satoru like you did. But you had to admit that it made sense. He's never gone out and said it. Maybe he just liked all the same alphas you did. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

"Let's go to how things were" Satoru says, trying for a new angle. When that gets little to no reaction from you, he tries again. "We miss you"

At that, your armor cracked. Your features contorted into an expression of pain. Ashamed, you brushed aside his hand and hung your head. Cheeks heating, you rapidly blinked your eyes to stop yourself from crying.

You missed them, of course you did. Your best friend. Your boyfriend. Even three years later, they consumed much of your time. It was all you thought about. Reconciliation. Making it work. There was no such thing as making it work. Not when they were fated mates and you were the force that had brought them together.

Because of course, the one thing you wanted, the inane fairy tale dizzy little omegas dreamed of—an alpha just for them. Of course Satoru got that and you didn't.

Because, ultimately, Satoru's how things were and your how things were, were two different things.

"No" You said, proud of the way your voice didn't waver or shake. "No, Satoru. I don't want to do that."

It took everything you had not to fall apart. You thought nothing of it at first, meeting here in this cafe. The perfect halfway mark between your house and where you thought they might have lived currently. But had that been apart of Satoru's plan too? Get you here to make sure you felt inferior, in front of an audience? A pay-back for daring to up and leave?

Breathe. You obeyed the whispering thought deep within. There you were, being silly again. You weren't the same, secretly insecure riddled thing from three years ago. Sure, the betrayal had stung deeply. But you had moved on. Of course you moved on. You lifted your head.

Satoru tilted his head, as if assessing you for weaknesses anew. "No, you don't want to do that?" You nodded. Satoru hummed, as if to say, too bad. His fingers skirted along your knuckles. "Suguru wants to see you"

A sudden sharp ache. Like the mere mention of him was a wound, and Satoru was a hand that sprinkled salt on top. Or, more befitting of his nature—twisting a blade deeper. You sucked in a sharp breath, pulling back from him.

"I don't think that's a good idea" You murmured, voice sounding scratchy. You shook your head, and aimed for something more assertive. "It's not a good idea. None of this. I shouldn't have com—"

"It was just a suggestion" He said, whipper-snap fast. He too seemed poised for action, mirroring your position. Satoru sucked his teeth. "You're being difficult. I want you to come home"

Everything is always what you want, you think with a twinge of bitterness. Everything has always been what Satoru wants. Satoru wants you to match yukatas for summer festivities. Satoru wants his things in your nest. Satoru wants to don you in pretty things. Satoru wants to kiss you sometimes, when he's lonely, or scared.

"I don't—" Your words tumble out wrong, too sharp. Like you're attempting to challenge him. You try again. "I can't just forget what happened."

"I know" Satoru nodded gravely. "He knows too. We tried to make it work before and it didn't work out the right way. We just need to try again"

His words picked up in speed. His hands moved about in wild increments. You were upset, he assured you he understood that. But. If you just came over on Saturday—for dinner. Then things would be OK again.

One thing stood out to you : Satoru had not apologized.

You came here, because you thought he might apologize. All you wanted was for someone to say they were sorry for you, and what you had endured.

The thought was laughable. Why would you assume that? Satoru never apologized. Regret, shame, guilt...those were not things he felt. He felt only desire, and everything he desired, he would have. If he did not already have it.

He didn't mean to steal Suguru away from you, your mind whispered. The part that still submitted to Satoru and his whiles. The part of yourself that you fought everyday. That wasn't his intention. He was your best friend. He can't help who the Fates tie him to.

And didn't you try to make it work at first? The horrid attempt at making a pack. But how could you make pack with the people who you felt betrayed by? It was as though you and Satoru were constantly at each other's throats—with Suguru left to break them up. If not that, then the opposite, with Satoru and Suguru struggling to figure out the depths of their new bond and constantly fighting over you.

And somehow, in the middle of it all, you became neglected.

Then, came the awful situation of marking. You attempted to mark Satoru, despite the fact that omega's couldn't mark one another. You just wanted—you wanted a sign. Let your mark on him stay, and you would too. The mark faded. But the one tethering Suguru and Satoru together did not.

You packed your bags and left under the cover of night shortly thereafter.

Hopelessly, your gaze lingered on Satoru's throat. His only olive branch was the sweater he wore. You couldn't see all of it. Just a little bit, peeking out over the top. A perfect impression of Suguru's teeth. A healthy, successful bond. An alpha who loved and cherished him.

Everything you've always wanted.

You recoiled from the thought, from Satoru, and the fact that you had attempted to reach out for his hand. Sweat bead along your hairline. The cafè suddenly felt stifling. Eyes. So many eyes. Everyone (or perhaps just Satoru) were watching you.

How did the two of you look, to wandering eyes? A scene from a drama, most likely. Satoru played the part of the romance lead. You, the second-lead. Unwanted. He sat confidently across from you. You looked like you were trying to mend down into your chair.

Could everyone see you the way you always seemed to see yourself?

"I can't. I'm so—" Don't say sorry. "I need to go. This was a mistake"

"Please?" Satoru never begged. Of course not. And he wasn't starting now. This was just another ploy. To get you to give in.

You nearly fell on top of the table in your haste to stand. The chair screaming as it slid along the floor. Eyes. People watching you. Sending you dark, annoyed looks.

"I have to go" You said fervently, gathering your things. "I. Please delete my number. I don't want to see either of you. Please respect t-that"

You escaped for the door before Satoru could follow. As the chilly early-March air brushed against your cheeks, you thought you caught a glimpse of him still sitting there. You kept your eyes trained to the ground, getting to the car parked half a block away out of sheer luck.

It felt as though you couldn't breathe until you were home again. Until you were safe. You ignored the flowers and your favorite chocolates lying innocently against the dining room table. Zapped totally of all energy, you collapsed into bed and did not rise again until the next morning.

When you were in your third year of high school, you had a crush on an alpha. Suzuki, or something. He was tall, and his skin was always slightly tan from all the time he spent outside on his family's ranch. He had a woodsy, grassy scent that you liked—you had no idea if it was his real scent or just what clung to his clothes after all of that work outside.

He had hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck. It had seemed, over the course of the summer the year before, Suzuki had grown handsome. Once, he had been willowy. And then, built. You liked to sit behind him in class. Once, he had turned to ask for a pencil. That had been the highlight of your year.

Satoru had come over for the summer. He usually does. You weren't known as yourself. You were known as hot Satoru's clumsy best friend—and he didn't even live there. He had barreled into your home the same way he always had, and immediately set to reconstructing your nest so that it was big enough to fit two.

He had you in there, lying on top of you, stealing every snatch of air from your lungs.

You stroked the back of his head where you knew he liked it best. His purr rumbled into your own chest, relaxing your tense muscles. He was ranting about his favorite topic lately : how much he hated alphas.

"And, to add insult to injury, she asked to scent me twenty minutes into our date!" Satoru whined, and then began to gnaw puppy-like on your finger, which made you giggle. "Alphas are so annoying. You're so lucky you don't have to deal with them"

The words stung. You gave him a wan little smile, lips stretched thin. He didn't mean it, you told yourself. It's not like you would ever say anything to him about it. You didn't want to come off as insecure or pathetic.

But didn't he realize that it wasn't normal to be practically invisible to alphas? With the way they treated you, you might as well be a beta. Not that there was an issue with being a beta. But was it so wrong to want an alpha to look at you and see potential for a relationship?

His finger trailed down the side of your throat. He was peering at you strangely. "It would be so much easier if we dated instead"

Your face flushed immediately. You wanted to brush it off as a joke, but you knew there was some degree of truth to the admission. Not because of his tone, or the look in his eyes. But because you knew him as though he were an extension of your own hand.

"I-I...uhm" You stammered, glancing away. "But we're both omegas..."

"So?" Satoru scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You don't seriously believe in all of that traditional bullshit, do you?"

"No of course not!" You weren't a bigot. "I. Well...I guess I just always saw myself with an alpha?"

"But how would you know?" He asked, pressing the pads of his fingers more firmly against the scent gland on your throat, where an alpha's mating mark would someday be. "You've never been with an alpha before"

The reminder of your virginity stung. Satoru had been with alphas. He had even gone all the way. He had no issue finding an alpha to spend his heats with.

If things continued at this snails pace; you would end up losing your virginity on your wedding night to whatever alpha your parents managed to find for you. And how embarrassing would that be?

"You've never been with an omega before" You pointed out. When Satoru said nothing, looking away, you faltered. "...have you?"

"No." He said, flippant "I'm not interested in omegas"

"But you just said—"

"I said we" Satoru stressed, as if that was somehow different. "It's not the same if it's you. Duh. You're...you're special. Different. And at this rate, my attraction to alphas fades every day"

A beat of silence passed. Satoru leaned back and straddled your waist. For some reason, your heart pounded inside of your chest. He toyed with the collar of your shirt absently. "If you were an alpha, what kind of omega would you go for?"

"Erm" You said, stupidly. "I don't know? A nice one?"

That made him laugh. "You're so cute" he teased, eyes fond. When you squirmed and looked away, he laughed louder. "Just the cutest. I'm gonna be so sad when an alpha finally takes you away"

Again, there was an odd bit of truth. It was a fear of his, you could sense it. You could not possibly see a world where you and Satoru were not close. You could both be eighty and still sharing the same nest.

"Come on now, Satoru" You murmured, gently massaging his scent gland to let some of his sweet persimmon-peach scent into the room. "You wouldn't lose to an alpha"

He laughed, and all was restored.

"No, of course not" Satoru leaned close and brushed your noses together. You returned the gesture. He moved his head down and your lips hardly brushed together. It happened sometimes. "I'll never let an alpha take you away from me"

When Saturday inevitably came, you found yourself sick with nerves.

No, literally. You woke up from a nightmare and went to spew up last nights dinner into the toilet. You clung limply to the bowl, gasping for air. You skipped work, barely remembering to properly call out (you sounded so awful over the phone that your manager didn't even kick up a fuss).

A pit had formed at the bottom of your stomach. It grew its roots until there was nothing left inside of you but fear for what was to come. Suddenly, your phone lit up with a text. You didn't have to look at it to know that it was from Satoru. Somehow, you just knew.

8.00. Don't be late :) !

You hurled again but nothing came up but bile that burned your throat. You wiped your mouth, flushed and then gurgled a lot of water to regain any fluids potentially lost. You brushed your teeth and forced yourself back into bed. When you woke from your nap (that conveniently lasted the whole day), it was 4:48 PM.

At 5:02, you got out of bed for the second time today and forced yourself into the shower. The water was scalding hot, just the way you needed it. So hot that it bordered on uncomfortable. So hot you couldn't even anxiously spiral about the whole Satoru-Suguru situation. You spent a long time underneath the shower-head, and then even longer sitting butt naked on the floor of your closet, wondering what to even wear.

If you were going. And that was a big if. Technically, you said no. You said you wanted nothing more to do with that. Them. So if you didn't want to go, what could they do? Drag you to their house? Chain you down and force you to stay?

You chuckled bitterly. That didn't seem so far from possibility with Satoru in mind. Suguru at least, had minimum contact with you these last few years. He sent you a happy birthday text once and very rarely liked your story posts on Instagram from his business account.

He wasn't like Satoru—who you suspected had somehow gotten flowers inside your house. Suguru respected your wishes enough to leave you alone.

In the end, you said fuck it, pulling on simple pants and a nice enough blouse (hiding it underneath a light jacket) and left your house with nothing but your wallet, house-key and phone. You weren't going.

Instead, you walked without any real destination in mind. It was a habit you hadn't managed to break. Back in your hometown, you could walk anywhere and eventually end up where you began. There was safety and familiarity in the same places. Whenever you became stressed, agitated, you would just set out walking. The scenery would calm you down.

You didn't think of how much of an easy target you made. An unmated omega without scent patches. It wouldn't be hard for an alpha with the wrong sorts of intentions to find you.

That was how you met Suguru, actually. An alpha with the right sort of intentions; stopping you from ending up on the channel 9 news. Immediately, you scrubbed the memory from your mind. You didn't want to think about him. If there was a way to forget them both completely, you were you would take it.

Eventually, you happened upon a park. It seemed familiar. Maybe all parks were that way—pockets of nostalgia that held the word together in its plastic slides and chain-link swings. You walked the perimeter of it for what felt like a dozen times and collapsed onto the nearest bench with a relieved groan.

Your legs and feet were pleasantly sore. You propped one leg up onto the other and gently rolled your ankle as though it were a ball on a hinge. The bone creaked and popped—maybe this was a sign that you were getting older.

You brought up one hand, fingers massaging the middle of your forehead. A killer headache was approaching. The sound of you greedily inhaling air was the only thing around for what seemed like miles. Until a car pulled up to a screeching stop and killed the engine. It wasn't a model you recognized.

Body frozen with fear, you watched apprehensively as the driver got out of the car and briskly made his way over. He didn't slam the door—that was never Suguru's style. Heart trapped wildly in your throat, you could say nothing when he called out to you.

He said your name again, this time with a familiar expression. His lips thinned and his left brow jumped, before a furrow appeared between them. You felt like a scolded child. It was weird when paired with the fact that when you saw him, you felt relief. Pure, unadulterated relief. You wanted to jump into his arms and let him make everything right again.

Ruthlessly, you squandered that down. Suguru was Satoru's alpha now.

"What are you doing here?" You asked instead, and your voice only sounded slightly winded, which you were proud of.

Suguru glanced around. "This is where you always go when you're stressed out, dear. I figured I'd check here when you didn't show"

The reminder made you want to grind your teeth together. Again with the assumption that you would just do whatever they wanted. Like you hadn't left on your own. Like you haven't survived three whole years, on your own.

"Well tough shit" You heard yourself say. Internally, you preened at the display of strength. At not crumbling. "I said I didn't want to go"

To that, Suguru said nothing. Your eyes bounced on him and away again. You didn't want to oogle him, to see all the ways his appearance might have changed or otherwise stayed the same. You didn't want him to look at you either, but you could feel his eyes sliding over your body anyway.

When he continued to say nothing, you scoffed and stood up. Pain flared in your legs and feet but you refused to show it. Hands shaking, you pulled up the maps app on your phone and quickly typed in the directions to the nearest bus stop.

"Wait, wait" He said, sounding all out of breath. You did not, and put one foot in front of the other. Suguru exhaled a sharp breath (how similar he and Satoru were, in some lights) and grabbed onto your arm. Of course you tried to break free, but there was no beating the natural strength of an alpha. "Let's just talk about this, alright?"

You shook your head, saying nothing. You didn't want to talk. Talking with Suguru was worse than fighting. He had such a way of words. Spinning them in such a way that you got all mixed up and tired—always admitting defeat. Shamefully, you felt tears rising up at the threat of a verbal confrontation with him and harshly scrubbed them away with the palm of your free hand. More tears fell.

A lump formed in your throat as you pushed down a hiccuping cry. Stupid. You were stupid for leaving the house. This whole situation was stupid. You were just a stupid girl who never seemed to learn.

"What are you doing out here, all by yourself?" You heard him ask. Suguru's voice was soft and slightly condescending, as if you couldn't be trusted to make decisions for yourself. "It's late. Your phone doesn't have much battery left to it. What if something had happened to you, dear? Could you really walk nine miles back to your house?"

"How did you–?" You stopped crying long enough to blink your teary-eyed gaze up at him quizzically. You powered on your phone. Just like he said, the battery was pitifully low. Then, you glanced down at your feet. Had you really walked nine miles? You shook your head. That didn't matter. "I can take care of myself. You...you don't have to worry about me anymore"

"I always worry about you" Suguru said, and his face looked perfectly believable.

You tried to scoff, but it sounded weak. And more importantly, it sounded like you were about to cry again. Once more, you tried to tug away from him. He didn't let you—instead crowding too close into your space. Stop, let go of me, you said pathetically quiet , but he cut you off with soft shushing noises.

Suguru pressed your foreheads together. And it reminded you so painfully of Satoru, and the sweet way you always brushed your noses against one another. His eyes were open, unblinking as they bore down on you. Even when you screwed your own eyes shut (which you couldn't do forever, and then opened), you felt his stare keenly.

"Why didn't you come?"

You set your jaw, swallowing thickly. "I...I was scared"

"What's there to be afraid of?" He asked "It's just us"

And therein lied the problem. You felt yourself sighing heavily, trying to resist him. It wasn't worth getting yourself hurt again. You knew that. No matter how badly you wanted to feel loved again, it wasn't worth being passed back and forth between them like a chew toy. But before you loved Suguru, there was Satoru. And he was always impossible to resist.

That's why you needed to get away. And stay away. Because no matter what Satoru did to you, it was impossible to truly hate him. Not when he was so wrapped up in your DNA you couldn't tell where he ended and you began. You spent the past three years shuffling through the motions, hardly living.

You said nothing. Maybe you didn't need to. Suguru knew you well. How many times had you cried into his chest, feeling pathetic and worthless without Satoru there to guide you? Before they even met, he hated Satoru, for what he put you through. You wondered how that worked. Being fated for a person you could only half-stand. Maybe these three years had given the two of them plenty of time to sort everything out.

"It's alright" You heard him murmur. His hand snaked underneath your jacket, unzipping it to expose your top. You feared only for a second what he would do before your inner omega calmed that right down. It was Suguru. Suguru would never do anything to hurt you. His hand pressed against your unbitten mating gland. He studied it silently for a bit, gently tipping your head this way and that to get a better look at it.

Then, without another word, his palm slid to the back of your neck, and he scruffed you.

With a panicked noise, you fell into his chest, breathing hard against the instincts that made you submit to him. It didn't take long at all for that too to die out, leaving you boneless against him.

"I know you don't like being scruffed, honey." You heard him say as he gently hoisted you up into his arms and walked over to the park. "But you can't run away forever. We need you back"

"I le-left..." You slurred; with great effort as he gently deposited your prone form into the passenger side. "I don't...I wan–I wanna go home"

"We are going home" Suguru murmured, buckling you in and kissing your forehead, and again on your slack mouth. "Now sit tight. That'll wear off by the time we get there, don't worry"

You felt sick the entire ride there, like you did this morning. In reality, it couldn't have been longer than 30 minutes. You tried to focus on the scenery, maybe deduce where Suguru could be taking you. But your instincts and mind were all muddled.

Because Suguru scuffed you. Something that alphas did not to reign in their unruly omegas—something that was meant as a last resort. He used the intrinsic trust placed in him by you and he took away your autonomy. You never thought he would do something like that to you.

Your head lolled in the seat as you tried to wait for the effects to run out. Suguru drove with one hand on your thigh; making soft conversation with himself. He didn't seem to mind the fact that the only thing you could get out were incomprehensible little noises.

Just like he said, the effects of the scruffing wore off just as he pulled into the driveway of a luxurious penthouse complex. The sort you would never be able to afford. Your heart dropped right to your ass and when Suguru rounded the car to open the door for you, you fitfully whimpered.

"None of that now," He chided, gently kissing you on the mouth again. You hated how much that relaxed you.

To that, you said nothing, allowing him to hold your hand as he led you inside. The man at the front desk, nor security, seemed to care that there was a fearful smelling omega clutching at one of the alphas. He simply waved a greeting and that was the end of it.

Your body thrummed with nerves as Suguru herded you into the elevator. There was no one else present. A small mercy. Even with the constant touching meant to soothe, you were terrified. You didn't want to be there. You wanted to go home. But you weren't so sure either of them would let you.

At one point (just how high up was this penthouse), Suguru crowded you against the back wall, chuffing into your throat. He didn't seem to mind that your scent stunk of distress. If anything, he just made more soothing noises and rubbed your sides—his own scent smelling completely at ease.

Like this was normal.

The elevator lurched to a stop, and your heart with it. You planted your feet on the floor, a last ditch effort, wildly shaking your head as Suguru made move toward you.

"No, no, I don't—" Want to. You could laugh so hard that you burst into tears. It was clearly obvious that neither of them cared what you wanted. Instead, you tried for a different angle. "He's going to be angry with me"

Suguru glanced at you, and hummed. "Only for a little while" He said, and pulled you out. You could feel the searing warmth of his hand on the back of your shoulders—as if he didn't trust you not to make a break for it at the first chance.

You were completely silent as he led you down the hall. You gnawed at your inner cheek harshly, tasting the copper of blood as he slid the key expertly into the lock. Suguru ushered in you inside with an amused huff and a gentle shove.

Their combined scents slapped you in the face. It was potent, maybe even more so with so much distance and time between you. Even your own place didn't smell this strongly. Openly curious, your eyes traveled around the place.

It looked how you would imagine. Clean, like something out of a magazine. Suguru's work, no doubt. If there was a mess made from dinner, there was no way of knowing. The kitchen was spotless and slightly smelled like cleaning products. The lights were off, save a lamp in the sitting room and a small one over the stove. Satoru was nowhere in sight.

Confused, your steps faltered, clumsily sliding out of your shoes. "Where's—?"

"Here." Suguru said, gentle smile on his face, bangs slightly obscuring his eyes. His hand settled on the small of your back as he once again herded you around. He led you to what you could only assume was their bedroom.

Your stomach churned with nerves. You tried planting your feet again, shaking your head. "W-wait. Wait, I changed my mind. I don't, I want to go home—"

"Ssshh" He soothed, and kissed your cheek from behind. His chest was like a brick wall behind you. He pushed the door open, gently guiding you inside. The door closed behind you both with a click, and the lock sliding into place sounded like the end of any further escape attempts.

Just like the rest of the penthouse, the big lights in the bedroom were killed. There were a couple of floor lamps that illuminated the space into a gentle glow.

And there he was.

Satoru was sitting on a plush chair. He was wearing a large shirt—probably Suguru's, and...a pair of your sheer pajama shorts. You recognized the blue fabric immediately. How long had that set been missing? Why, after three years, is Satoru wearing your lingerie? Why had Suguru kissed you, not once, but twice. Why do neither of them seem to accept the word 'no' for an answer?

The lamp made shadows against his face. He looked sweet, gentle, kind, white hair framing his face as his slender fingers splayed across the book pages. It must have been act. You have never willingly seen him pick up a book. He glanced up at you, and you felt the air around you prickle.

He wore a blank expression. You couldn't tell if he was pissed off or the happiest man on the planet. It wasn't like a couple of days ago—when he saw you and leapt into your arms. Satoru studied you for a few moments, and then tossed the book aside. He waved you over, though not unkindly, somehow, that was worse.

You knew what he expected of you. You turned your head, glanced once more at Suguru. He wasn't going to save you. Not when he wanted the same thing Satoru did. The omega's eyes tracked you as you stepped closer. He widened his legs a bit and sighed pleasurably once you straddled his lap and hugged him.

Of course, three years wasn't nearly enough time for you to unlearn him. Not all of him. You carded your fingers through his hair and let him nuzzle and lick at your chin and cheek.

"I'm really hurt, you know?" Satoru murmured, eyes flickering upwards to meet your own. You said nothing, but nodded to signal that you understood him. "I worked really hard, all week, to make dinner for you. I wanted to make you feel special. And you didn't even show!"

"I'm sorry" You said immediately, because the pout in Satoru's voice was so familiar. As youth, you never did anything truly heinous to him. Your biggest offense was always not giving enough of your attention to him. All you had to do to get back into his good graces was dote on him some, pet his hair and croon about how sorry you were. How you'd always be right where he wanted. "I'm sorry for not showing up, Satoru"

You felt him sag against you at the sound of his given name.

"No you're not" He said suddenly. Terrified, you watched as his expression went from cheery to hard. As if you were nothing. "I don't believe you. You'll leave again. The minute we turn around....you'll leave. You always leave. You're always trying to leave us"

"Ow–ow, Satoru, you're hurting me—"

His hand presses bruises in the shape of his fingertips around your forearm as you foolishly attempt to get up. He quickly follows after you, and the more you fight him, the harder it gets to break your way free. Until you can do nothing but huff, scent tinted with heavy fear and distress.

Satoru's purring now, happy and pleased now that he has you restricted underneath him. He's wrapped himself around you—and the omega is much too tall and gangly for the hold to feel anything but terrifying. It takes great force to relax, trying to project notes of soothing into your scent so that he'll let go of you.

He doesn't. He just purrs louder.

You're forced at an eye level with his mating mark. Only then do you seem to remember that Suguru is still there. His feet sound almost silently as he crosses the room over to the bed. A shadow falls over you both and Satoru lets up only a bit so that you can look the alpha in the eye.

"I get to have her first" Satoru says, voice thin once Suguru attempts to touch. He pulls you in against your chest and restricts your airflow with the strength of it. "Remember?"

"You're going to make her pass out" Comes Suguru's blithe reply, somewhere above you.

Satoru makes a noise of surprise, releasing you all together. You get a handful of seconds max to categorize your positions before everything shifts again as he begins pressing hurried little kisses all over your face. "Lemme make it up to you baby, 'm sorry"

A whimper gets caught in your throat as Suguru maneuvers your form on the bed. You try to fight him, but Satoru pins down your arms as the alpha unbuttons your slacks and pulls them down your legs and then off; tossing them somewhere you can't see.

The omega pulls a face. "I wish you would have worn sexier panties" He says, like he has any right to dictate what underwear you choose. Satoru's fingers find the band and snap them against your hips. Then does it again once you flinch. "Hm. Nevermind. I can sorta see the appeal to these, can't you, Suguru?"

"The simple ones have their charms" He agrees, studying the lower half of your body. "I think the white makes her legs look longer"

Satoru tilts his head and sucks his teeth. "Yeah, you're right. Baby, you've got really pretty legs, you know that?"

Two sets of eyes shift upwards to where you're desperately trying not to cry. You know you should say something. You know you just can't lie there and let them fuck you. But your mind is drawing a blank. Satoru sucks his teeth again and murmurs, why's she upset? And to which Suguru replies, maybe she's tired of you teasing her.

Even if you can somehow get past Satoru and Suguru both, there's no way you're going to escape the penthouse. Much less the locked bedroom door. And what would you do then? Run down to the lobby with no pants on? As you struggle to think of an escape plan (with the dawning horror that there might not be one), the mated pair strip you bare from the rest of your clothes.

Once you're naked and trying to curl up on yourself, you're forced to watch them both makeout. Even when you turn away you can still hear them, Satoru's exaggerated moaning and them swapping spit. It dredges up bad, awful memories. You walking in on them the very first time, Suguru's teeth at his throat, both of them naked from the waist down like they just couldn't wait.

And when Suguru gets a hand on you, rolling you once more onto your back, Satoru snarls and goes—"I get to go first"

"I know that," Suguru says, and has the gall to roll his eyes. "I'm just getting her ready for you, is that okay, you big baby?"

"No" Satoru snaps, petulant. You say nothing, watching with wide fearful eyes, hardly daring to breathe as the alpha and omega regard one another with a series of looks. At last Suguru gives in, hands held up in surrender and Satoru crowds your entire vision, smiling.

"Hi" He says, booping your nose.

"Hello" You reply, sniffling.

"Don't worry, I wouldn't let that brute go first" The omega murmurs, spreading your legs around his waist. Like that's the source of your concern. "You haven't fucked an alpha in a while. I bet his cock would break your poor pussy, wouldn't it?"

The words make it feel more real, suddenly. Satoru is going to fuck you. He found you, tracked you down. Stalker you. Got you to meet him at the cafe with the intention that on Saturday (today), he was going to fuck you. Your omega ex best friend is going to fuck you and his alpha is probably next and there's nothing you can really do about it.

"Please, no, please–" Satoru rolls his eyes, but the words won't stop pouring. "I don't—please. Please don't, Satoru. 'm sorry. I'm not....'m not ready. I can't—"

"Of course you're not ready, silly" The omega says, grinning as he sucks on two of his fingers before bringing them down to your hole. "It's been three years. Did you think I was just going to stick my cock in?"

You try to snap your legs shut, sniffling and whimpering. But Suguru pins down your knees and keeps you spread open. Satoru's fingers are thick, a little longer than what you're used to. They seem to reach deep inside, scooping out most of your coherent thoughts.

It's good, I don't like this, it feels really good, I don't want to do this; I want to go home—

All the while, Satoru shushes your cries, like the sea lapping against rock. Sssh, sssh, sssh. He coos at you, flicks your clit with his thumb to get you wet. Noses along your scent gland and murmurs, "That's it baby, just like that. Feels good, doesn't it? Your omega's makin you reel good"

He seems to have never ending patience. Goes slow until your body feels laden and heavy, pussy noisily sucking in his fingers. Two, then three, Satoru mumbling encouragements while hovering exactly three centimeters away from your face all the while. Reassures you that he isn't mad. Not anymore. Tells you how much he loves you, how happy he is to have you home. How long he's been waiting for this.

It makes you sick. Even worse when the omega pulls his fingers free and you whine, dazedly wanting to feel full again. You don't even try to close your legs again, maybe because Suguru is still there and you know he wouldn't let you. Maybe because you like it and you want Satoru to keep going.

You just lie there, sucking in lungfuls of air and mentally prepare yourself. They'll have to stop sometime, won't they? And then you can leave. All you have to do is endure for a little while, and it'll be over.

Satoru teased you with his cock, smirking. He's more well endowed than what you would expect a male omega to be, but you know from personal experience that Suguru's much bigger. Satoru though, is a little shorter than 6 inches, and pretty girthy. And as much as you hate to admit it, you're glad he's going first.

Because Satoru is right—you haven't had sex with anyone, much less an alpha male, in close to three years. And there seems to be this superstition that omegas are always loose and wet, but that isn't really the case. Of course omegas slick up, but mostly during heat cycles. Outside of that, your pussy is meant to stretch to birth pups, not to take alpha cocks without prep.

"Ready?" Satoru asks, and you bite down on your lip as his cock pushed in. The omega grunts, bucks his hips, and shoves inside all in one thrust. You yelp, legs threatening to snap shut. Satoru smiled smugly against your cheek. "Big stretch, sweetheart, yeah, you can take it. Good girl"

You turn your face into the sheets, keeping your noises trapped behind your teeth as Satoru starts fucking you entirely too quickly. How to describe it? It's unlike anything you've ever felt before. You and Suguru had what most would 'lovemaking'.

He was hardly ever rough with you. It was soft and slow and gentle—like every whispered fairy tale omegan girls told themselves, sighing and simpering amongst their own second gender. This wasn't that.

Satoru was fucking you meanly. Like he was punishing you for leaving even though he swore he wasn't mad anymore. If you moved too much against him, hips trying to get some sort of relief, he would attack your throat, growling lowly until you stopped trying to run.

The noises you tried to bite back escaped, and it was too intense to be called pleasurable, really—it was too much feeling for all of it to feel good. You couldn't describe it, just that your whimpers turned to wails that you were sure others could hear (which only embarrassed you further), hands scrabbling at Satoru's slick sweaty skin.

He delighted in the markings, even if you were sure they had to hurt. He pinned your hips down to the mattress, laving at the skin of your scent gland with his wet tongue as soft, animalistic noises pouring out of his throat.

"We coulda had this the whole time" He grunted, grabbing your chin in his hand and directing your attention back to his face. "Isn't this nice, baby?"

You didn't answer him, you weren't sure you could. A series of strangled gasps left your lips, hand maybe trying to shove Satoru off or pull him closer. "I can't" it's not even higher than a gasp. You register Suguru's hands brushing your hair back. "I c-can't—I can't—please....please"

"Ssssh, it's okay" Suguru, this time. Your eyes lift to meet his, and you realize that your head is pillowed in his lap. You can feel his hard cock jerking against the side of your face, which fills you with disgust. "You're having fun honey, that's all. I know it's a lot. But you're doing so well. I'm proud of you"

You slap your hand over your mouth, mouth making a wild, panicking sound as your orgasm slams into you suddenly like a train. Your vision whites out for a second. You're scared, you've never felt like this before, and you want so badly to go home.

"Yeah, see?" Satoru murmurs, a bit breathless. "We're having fun"

He makes a noise of appreciation, pulling out for a moment to watch your cum trickle out of you in slow trickles before gently, ever so gently, sliding back in again. You make a pained sound, oversensitive, but Satoru just shushes you. He coos, a more omega sound, and that settles your nerves enough to let him continue sliding into your puffy cunt with slow, languid strokes without much protest, save for the occasional whimper.

Suguru suddenly moves. He does not toss your head out of his lap, but he is not all too gentle either. The suddenness throws you off guard, so you miss the look the mated pair share.

Teeth settle over your throat. Instinctively, you suck in a breath, panicked sound caught in your throat, trapped on a plea, right as Suguru bears down and bites. The pain is blinding, and you squeal, to which Satoru easily holds you down, gives a couple of jerky thrusts, and cums.

He rests his head on your shoulder. Both of them do, one on each side. Panting. Hair tickles your neck, your sensitive gland, your face. You join them, caught in a sea of nothingness that seems to bobble as far as the metaphorical eye can see.

You're brought back to the present as someone bites down again. Satoru this time. You don't even struggle. You don't even feel much of anything. Even the pain seems distant. You register him licking the wound clean, followed by the sound of kissing from above.

They marked me, they marked me, theymarkedme how am I supposed to leave–they marked me—

Bonded omegas can't survive without their mates. Not this early. It'll kill you, or the bond sickness will become so bad that death will seem like the merciful thing to endure.

Satoru pulls out. His fingers push his spend back into your cunt. "Hey Suguru?" He says, questioning lilt in his tone. You can feel his eyes piercing into you. "It would be something if I got her pregnant before you did, huh?"

Suguru growls. A proper alpha one that has the hairs raising on your arms and the back of your neck. You start whining, plaintive little noises to try to calm him down—even though you don't care in the slightest. Your mind is suddenly overwrought with alpha mad, alpha's mad at me—

"No, no, not you sweetheart" Suguru murmurs, holding onto your cheek and stroking away your tears with his thumb. "Satoru just got me riled up, that's all"

You can hear Satoru cackling. You try to sit up, body aching. It's hard. Especially when Suguru intercepts the action with a soft, not yet baby—loops that toned arm around your waist and gently turns you over. You find yourself on your hands and knees. Not that the position lasts very long, because he pushes down lightly on your lower back, and you collapse like a house of cards, which delights Satoru greatly.

"Ready?" Suguru asks. Which is pointless. Of course you're not ready. You panic a little in the clutch, whimpering and trying to get away from him, summoning what little fight you have left. All Suguru has to do to put a stop to it is nibble on your mating mark. You turn your face into the sheets with a gasp, breathing in the dank scent of sex as the alpha pushes inside.

He's big. Of course. All alphas are (or so you've heard). Even though you feel like Satoru had fucked you to hell and back already, nothing really quite compares to the way Suguru's cock reaches in deeper, deeper than where Satoru could ever go, and molds your pussy to his shape.

Tears wet your cheeks, and you stile a sob as the alpha bottoms out. He groans, slides out an inch before slamming back in, his balls slapping against your ass.

"I know" Satoru murmurs, sounding almost wistful. You can't tell if he wants to be in your position or if he just wants to fuck you again. Hands that had once pinned you down and restricted your movements now brush the wetness from your face, followed by soft kisses.

"Fuck" Suguru isn't one for cursing. Even in spite of everything, you find yourself thinking, maybe he's changed this way, too. His head must hand forward, because you can feel his hair, like a curtain of ink, sliding over your back.

"Good?"

He nods. You can feel it. The curtain moving. "It's been so long"

"Careful" Satoru says, exposing a hint of teeth. "She was my omega first, and I might get jealous"

"Mmm...I let you have your turn" Suguru replies, running wide hands down the sides of your body. He sounds like he could have been trying for nonchalant, but more realistically, it sounds like he's short of breath.

Maybe it's the bond. Maybe it's just Satoru, who is undeniably closer. But you swear you can feel his breath on your skin.

"Alright, dear" Spittle trickles out of your mouth, and you can only summon a strangled noises as Suguru adjusts your position slightly, notching your hips upwards a bit. His hand rests on the innermost part of one of your thighs to keep you upright. Your eyes meet, or what you can see of him anyway, through blurred tears. "Oh, you really are so pretty. Okay, I'm going to start now"

"Oh, boo" Satoru says, leaning down to literally lick up your drool, kissing your forehead as you attempt to draw back from him. "You never fuck me that gentle"

"You don't like it gentle" Suguru points, and you think he might be rolling his eyes.

You want to protest that this doesn't feel gentle. But Suguru isn't jackrabbiting into your pussy, it's deeper than that. Your hands grip tightly onto the sheets, mewling as he finds your spot with uncanny precision and proceeds to target it ruthlessly. Your mouth cracks open on a moan—and then you just don't stop.

It sounds pornographic. It's made worse with the bond, you think. Suguru's satisfaction scrambles your brain, makes the room feel like it's spinning on a wobbly carousel. It feels like wading into a pool, except the water rushes up far too soon before you're ready, and overwhelms you.

At the bottom of the pool is Satoru. Or perhaps he is the water. Everywhere, inescapable. The beginning and the ends of your psyche. When Satoru fucked you, it felt like entirely too much from the beginning. Too much, too fast, too deep, no time to breathe. It's similar with Suguru, but different too. You don't know which is better or which is worse. All you know is that you want to stop.

There's a shaky cry, a hiccuping gasp that Satoru brushes away as you choke on air, mewling and pleading for mercy. To stop. Neither of them pay you any mind. To them, it's just another part of the fantasy. Your thighs tremble, and then you just...grunt, too exhausted to even move. Suguru adapts brilliantly, follows you down, molds himself to your back, and doesn't let up even for a second.

The bond is chokingly tight. It grips you tighter, and tighter until...

Until everything just goes black.

You wake to the sun shining entirely too bright, a killer headache and an absolutely terrible taste in your mouth. Stomach lurching uncontrollably and body feeling as though you were slammed into a brick wall, you groan and smack your lips; throat scorching hot and dry.

"I know sweetheart," A voice says. It sounds as though it could be nearly angelic. "I bet you've got quite the headache, let me see what I can do about that. Open up"

Dutifully, you crack open your eyelids and pain stabs through your entire form. The voice chuckles.

"Your mouth, darling" Suguru admonishes, playfully. Oh. You do, and small tablets are dropped onto your tongue, followed by a large gush of water to help it all down. Weakly, you guzzle for more, wetting your aching throat. At last, that weird foul taste seems to go away.

Memories suddenly come forward, each one as painful and quick as the last. No, baby, we're not done. You didn't think we were done, did you? With a lurch, your body jerks up so fast that the painkillers (or whatever they were) are nearly thrown up.

"Woah" Suguru whistles "Not too much, too fast. How do you feel?"

Disgusting. Sick. Broken. "I...I don't–not good" You grasp for something. Anything. "Hungry."

The alpha leans in and kisses your forehead. Satoru must feel it through the bond, because you can feel him skimming back. That'll take some getting used to.

"I know, my poor omega" Suguru murmurs "Don't worry. We'll get some food in you soon. Satoru's making breakfast"

That causes your brows to jump to your hairline, even amidst all the pain currently wreaking havoc on your body. Satoru? Cooking? When you were younger you distinctly remembered that he hated anything that could be considered slightly omega-like. Especially since everyone around you framed it as something to be done in service for an alpha.

Cooking, cleaning, babysitting. He refused to do any of it. When he was younger, everyone swore he would grow out of it. He did not. Then everyone just made peace with the fact that his future alpha would have to know what they were getting into, mating an omega as highbrow as Gojo Satoru.

Suguru traced his fingers down the side of the bite, which made your stomach lurch again. "He did it for you; you know? Wanted to impress you. Though if you ask me, I just think he did it so I couldn't take the glory of being the one to make all of your meals"

You're only half listening. Satoru taught himself how to cook. Satoru and Suguru, at some point, must have been thinking about this for a very long time. They knew, somewhere at the back of their minds, that you would not come to them willingly.

Maybe they knew you wouldn't show. That was how Suguru knew how to find you. And then he scuffed you. Fucked you. Both of them. And now there are two burning mating marks on the side of your throat that you can't get rid of.

"I think 'm gonna be sick" You gurgle weakly.

The alpha makes a noise of surprise, and grabs the trashcan just in time for you to hurl into it. He rubs your back all the while, murmurs his little there-there's. Once it's all out of your system, Suguru thumbs away a line of spittle.

"Might have been just a little too rough" He says, "I apologize on both of our behalves. We were...excited"

You squeeze your eyes shut so that you won't cry.

Suguru doesn't wait to see if you'll accept his apology. Maybe he doesn't really care. He got what he wanted from you. The bond flowers, bursts of happiness that take control of your thoughts and whisk them away to a more pleasant place.

One of them....maybe both. They're doing that. They're forcing you to feel good. Not even my thoughts are my own anymore.

"How about a bath?" Suguru says, too close to your face.

"Okay" You say, because what else is there to say.

"Good girl" The alpha responds, and smiles, very obviously happy. He lifts you up (still naked, covered in marks and bruises—and oh god, they didn't stop—even when you passed out they didn't—). "We're going to treat you so well here, darling. It'll be like nothing ever happened, you'll see"

There's a mirror, on the way to the bathroom. You catch a glimpse at the marks marring your throat. Suguru's, deeper, redder, then Satoru's. Like a Venn diagram. The skin between them mottled and puffy.

You lay your head down on Suguru's shoulder. You try to summon the tears to cry, but you can't. It like there's something physically blocking you from those feelings. You wonder how much longer it'll be before you even forget to feel sad and hurt over what happened to you.

As your alpha helps you into the tub, gently scooping the copious amounts of cum out of your cunt, you think to yourself, no one said that mating would make me feel this helpless. It was supposed to be glorious. Magical. Your fairy tale ending. This is a nightmare that you can't wake up from. You feel cheated. You wish you had never accepted Satoru's invitation in the first place.

But really, you snort, and Suguru says, what's funny, quirking his brow and you tell him, nothing. And then you think, realistically, how much longer would you have been to resist them?

His included.

You’re good at your job. It was one of the many first things he noticed about you, and it made his ears perk up whenever you spoke and the hair on the back of his neck stand to attention.

Like whatever words rolled off your tongue was something he’d want to know, something he needed to know because missing it felt detrimental.

Whatever world you were brought into, clearly far too young, has shaped you into a person who completely understood objective. The cold hard truth of it in the unconventional, and more importantly how necessary it is.

And yet somehow, after he’d come back from something terrible and wretched in nature yet as easy as breathing, disgustingly normal for him with blood still splattered on his suit - you’d have a soft smile. Gentle, like reality held no meaning and the diner is going to close in an hour and you still have to be up for three hours so come with me Dex!

You’d drag him by his jacket like he’s a puppy who can’t be let off the leash too long or he’ll do something you don’t have enough money to pay for.

And he’d follow like he didn’t just end someone’s life hours before, and yet somehow he still deserved to have your hand on him and your late night grin beaming towards him in the midnight streets of New York.

Your energy is like a vortex of something that wants to peel away at him, pick at his brain and settle yourself between matter. He doesn’t get it. In a lot of ways it frustrates him, makes his skin itch a little because people aren’t just like that.

They don’t ask you how you’re feeling when you’ve still got fresh blood on your hands, or steal sips of your coffee and pretend they don’t see you subtly lick the edge of the cup where their mouth just was.

And yet, he felt the buzz in his brain start.

It started as a hum in the back of his skull, and yeah of course it was nice to go out for for breakfast at three A.M with a beautiful woman and chat business that always turned into talking about what movie you’d watched recently and how it changed your life.

And then he’d start talking about a mixtape that meant everything to him when he was nine and had no one but the boys in the orphanage who thought he was a fucking freak to talk about it with.

All because you asked what his favorite song is since he’s always wearing those ancient headphones, and maybe it was the faux compartmentalized safety box that he’d put you in that made it so easy.

Second arm to his boss, to a job he needs because structure had become wonky and he couldn’t have that. Not now, not after everything.

The hum quickly became a horrible, gluttonous, deafening roar.

He had, and still has no rational explanation. He knows the basics, he’s a man, and you’re you and you’re in close proximities and it is literally your job to make sure he is alive and well and every cog in the machine is well oiled.

So at his big age he should be able to differentiate between your professional and personal relationship. You meant something to Charles that wasn’t quite like a daughter, but something close and too parental in nature for Dex to understand anyways. He didn’t know what that even meant.

But Dex has never had a crush.

The word feels so fucking juvenile in his head, something from a life he’s never had and never will have. He has never felt love. Real, true, honest to god love.

He only knows the intensity of something under his skin, something that festers and writhes and aches inside of him. It crawls through veins and tendons and muscle and the framework in his spine and it beckons him.

So it did not take long for you to fester within him. To spread to every thought that wasn’t about his next hit or organizing his weaponry. Even doing the dishes, he wondered what you were doing in that exact moment.

Brushing your hair, your teeth? Were you still asleep and wrapped in your covers that he envied because they get to be bunched between your arms and legs and against your stomach?

You even seeped into the mundane everyday parts of life like something divine and real. When he did his laundry he thought of what you wore to bed and what soap you used and how you smell.

When he made his bed he thought about what your weight would feel like against his mattress, how your frame would ruffle the duvet and he’d be okay with it. And how the springs might creak when he crawls on top of you and kisses your sternum and makes a mess out of the softness between your legs.

Fuck.

He could lie and say he tried to fight it, but he’s more than grown now. He can take accountability. He’s just exercising a little free will, and he’s not hurting anyone, really.

No, this is the most devotional, wholehearted and earnest thing that he’s done in a very long time.

Your room is filled with your scent and he’s bathed in the glow of it like a wash of fresh air. His hands started shaking as soon as he walked in and felt surrounded by you, his belly hot and he really didn’t know what to do with himself with such an opportune moment.

His head went fuzzy, and his thoughts didn’t make sense anymore.

He scoped everything like forgetting would mean death. Your shaggy rug at the foot of your bed, your desk and the half open books and messy papers scattered everywhere. Your laptop still open and your chair rolled away like you got up and never sat back down.

Your bed is softer than his, and fluffy blankets surround your bedposts and there is no creaking of the springs when he sits himself down. You don’t make it in the morning like he does because the covers are still thrown from your spot and crumpled, pillow still indented with the shape of your head.

His fingertips graze the pink fabric and it lights something dangerous and hot inside of him very very quickly.

First it’s his palm on the sheets cause he wants to know if he can feel even the ghost of your heat when you lied here, and then his knees are on the mattress and god you really do smell so sweet, and then his face is in your pillow and he’s inhaling like a mad man.

He lets out a guttural groan, the blood rushing to his head as fast as it is to his dick and in the haze of it all he feels his hips buck unconsciously. Like his subconscious felt your insides too just then.

He doesn’t think about it. He can’t, or he’ll dwell and convince himself that he’s better than this. And he doesn’t want to be.

He just flips himself around, thick fingers fumbling with his belt buckle with all the trembling, and when he’s unbuckled he doesn’t even pull his pants down all the way to his knees before reaching for his weeping cock from the fold in his briefs.

He lets out a sigh of relief when the cool air from your overhead fan hits it, propping himself up on one elbow and letting his thick thighs part a little further. His feet are touching the ground, heavy boots scrunching your rug underneath their rubber soles.

He’s so hard it hurts, the tip is pink and leaking dribbles of iridescent precum down the thick of his veiny shaft.

His hand is as hot as his manhood when he wraps his thick fingers around himself and tugs with a dirty smirk and a half chuckle of disbelief that he’s so pent up. He hasn’t cum in months, and now this is happening.

“Fuck.”

He breathes out, hamstrings tightening along with his abdomen when the callouses tucked inside his fingers graze his sensitive mushroom head.

It’s dirty, and he feels like a teenager all over again because he’s staring at all of your stuff and is envious of everything that’s ever gotten to see you in your most human version.

He’s blushing at the thought of laying on the same bed you do.

He writhes his hips into his hand, pants like a dog in heat. He’s started getting a bit too messy, precum soaking into his underwear at this base. He’s still in a lustful haze when he’s looking off to his right and sees a haphazard piece of clothing that’s barely hanging off of your bed.

He twists his torso and grabs it like it owes him money. It’s inside out but he sees flashes of the white lettering on the front of the green fabric and he moans out loud. It’s one of your favorite tee shirts, you wear it to work at least three times a week and you’ve worn it on your after hours restaurant runs too.

He shoves it to his face, and if he’d done it any harder he’d break his nose but he doesn’t care. The smell of you after a shower and a night of sleep fills his senses, clouds him like a rainstorm and he’s so lost, so deep in it now so quickly.

He whimpers into the fabric, rocks his hips and the sound of his own arousal leaking out of him and being used as lube while he touches himself fills the room. He’s dragging his hand from his tip all the way down, and his head is just images of what you might feel like pulsing around him.

What it would be like if you were here right now on top of him, spread open on his thick lap and taking him to the hilt. Insides all battered and soft and sensitive. Crying his name over and over again. Getting him wet and messy and sticky.

“Fuuuuuck, baby fuck.”

It’s incoherent with your shirt pressed to his nose and mouth, at least that’s what Dex would be thinking if he had any thoughts other than your cunt and the shape of your mouth and the feeling of your cervix.

You’re honestly astonished he hasn’t heard you yet. He’s one of the best you guys have, so perceptive it’s almost superhuman and his reflexes are some of the best you’ve ever seen.

You, however, are quieter. Clearly. And it’s endearing, to see him through the crack in the door and understand almost immediately that he is the human embodiment of starvation and desperation.

It makes you gasp, because he’s so big and dressed in all black in your frilly room and the juxtaposition makes your insides throb. Of course it’s also the sounds he’s making, they’re whiny and loud your his whole hand is wrapped across his mouth with your shirt directly underneath.

It’s seeing a version of him that you never even fathomed would come to life. You didn’t even know it was this serious for him despite the fact that you knew his gaze lingered on you longer than normal during interactions.

Your heart feels like it’s going to leap out of your chest and onto the floor with a loud, squelchy thump.

You’re not disturbed, and that’s the most concerning part. But you’ve read up on his file over a hundred times now, of course. You know he’s not…conventional in his proclivities. You know he’s suffered, that it’s altered him permanently.

And you’ve spent time with him in the outside world, away from the murder and secrecy of your work life. You know what a real smile looks like when it spreads across his broad mouth, what a genuine satisfied hum sounds like when he takes a sip of his drink and it’s the right balance of milk and sugar.

And maybe you’ve always had a soft spot for the fucked up ones. For the ones that need to latch onto someone so badly they’d hang on until their fingers bleed. Because all you know how to do is help.

However, you can’t think too much about it right now when you’re distracted by how pretty his dick looks in his big hand and how neatly shaven he is or how his greying hair is getting long and you want to run your hands through it and tuck it behind his ears.

You just know you have to open your bedroom door all the way, so your hands find the cold knob and you’re pushing it open with a tepid step.

Dex stills, everything locking into place all at once. A series of thoughts run through his head very quickly, almost too fast for him to decide on one.

Ultimately, you didn’t break the door down. Or barge in with a gun aimed at his forehead although he’d kind of like that. In fact, you’re looking at him in a way that makes his balls tighten and his manhood twitch in his hold unconsciously. His body is just responding.

It’s not so much shock, or surprise or disgust. It’s like you’re curious, utterly transfixed by what’s taking place despite the fact that he’s staring dead at you and is slowly lowering your shirt to his lap over his erection and his cheeks and neck couldn’t be more beet red under any other circumstances.

“I have cameras, you know.”

Your voice hits him like a punch to the gut, he has to stop himself from doubling over a little because the taboo nature of the scenario is really fucking doing it for him and where someone normal would feel humiliation, Dex feels thrilled.

He’s been caught, and more so, he’s been surveilled while he thought he was being incognito and expertly smart about breaking and entering.

He looks like something scary and hungry right now, you can see his cock bobbing under your shirt where it’s covering him. He’s still panting, hair a little slick with sweat and you wanna lick the bead that trickles over his forehead and down the sharp bridge of his nose.

He looks like a person. Not a case file, not a weapon, not Bullseye. Just a man. And it makes you squeeze your thighs together when his eyes rake over you like he’s not ashamed of what he’s doing right now.

“You saw me come in?”

He asks, and his voice is rough like it has the permission to be when he’s pleasuring himself in your room. Completely wired and completely fucked. He licks his lips without thinking.

And now you’re advancing towards him, and you gently kick the door shut with the heel of your boot and he thinks he might spontaneously combust when it closes with a thud. He watches you like every step means something prophetic.

“I wanna know something,” You ignore his question, and he swallows so hard you hear it. He lets out a soft grunt of surprise when you’re finally so close he can map out details in your expression and feel your body heat in rivelets.

Your eyes are innocent and sparkling, head cocked a little.

You’re enjoying this.

Dex controls the cocky smirk threatening to spread on his face. He adjusts himself because he’s so sensitive and so unbelievably pent up and of course you’d have to be, well, like this.

Looking at him with saucers for eyes, breathing heavy.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

He asks, and now his heart is in his throat because you’re kneeling beside him on the bed, situating one foot under your bum and your weight dips him towards you a little and fuck. He’s ruining your shirt.

“You didn’t even go for my underwear drawer,”

You reach out and touch his face with your middle finger, grazing the scar on his cheek before tracing his jaw and chin. Then you’re pushing his hair back from his eyes and everything in his body starts vibrating.

He’s done something good. He must have, to earn this.

“you just saw a shirt I wear almost everyday and started touching yourself.”

Your hand doesn’t leave his face. It lingers and sears him, if he could see himself it’d be a sore sight. He’s molding himself to the curve of your palm and makes no effort to deny anything you’re saying.

“Thats kind of pathetic, Dex. Keep going.”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t cum from that alone. Nothing in his fantasies, nothing he’s fisted his cock to in the shower or humped his fucking mattress to could ever have conjured a sweeter vision than what’s in front of him.

He stutters when he speaks, trembling all over again with excitement and desire. Somewhere tucked away far and deep, he’s also nervous.

But you asked him nicely, and he can see your pulse thudding and feel how you’re starting to lean into him. He jumps a little when you reach out and pull your shirt off of the protrusion underneath it because it drags against him.

“You know I have cameras, Dex.”

Your breath is against the side of his face and he closes his eyes to savor it as he wraps his hand around the base of his shaft again. The goosebumps on his skin are tingling, and his blood is starting to swoosh inside his ears.

“You wanted me to watch. So move your hand, hmm?”

He couldn’t stop himself if he tried. He gives himself a long stroke because doing anything else seems futile and useless and everything that could matter is happening right now.

His forearm is thick and strong and you watch how everything flexes and relaxes with each drag.

“Yes ma’am.” It’s said sarcastically, teasing at the end and yet his voice cracks a little when he says it.

He’s been caught, and you’re here beside him encouraging him with your voice and hands. What more could he reduce himself to?

He’s so beautiful it hurts. You’ll be angry at him later, maybe say some stuff that would humiliate and degrade a regular person and mean nothing to him. You just can’t get over how palpable your presence is to him, how intensely it’s influencing him.

All that strength, and brute and broadness and he’s nothing but this blushing, stuttering mess who’s jerking off with you whispering in his ear.

You grip his jaw with little to no force, and predictably he offers you his neck with his head lolling to the left a bit. The sound that leaves him is guttural and nasty and honest. His whole body jerks at the contact too, but you’re distracted by the taste of his skin.

You get caught up sooner than you expected yourself to. You’re mouthing at his throat, his jaw, his ear lobes. And you can hear the sounds coming from between his legs, sloppy and wet and it’s all him. Not to mention he is practically a lit wire under your touch.

You catch his thick wrist in your hand and the tendons flex harshly in your light grip. He looks over at you and now you’re low lidded gaze to barely restrained lust, noses brushing. You let the air between your mouths burn with the need to vanish.

You swat his hand away and he listens silently, fists your bedsheets instead and god, his pupils completely blow out when your grip replaces his.

“Fuck.”

You let him whimper it into your mouth, swallowing it with your lips against his and there are too many pleasurable sensations at once. His brain is completely empty, not capable of any other thoughts. He tries to use his free hand to touch you, but you shove it to the side and he knows he needs to behave.

He pouts and it’s earnest disappointment, but it doesn’t linger for long.

His tongue is explorative, finding yours immediately like he’s thought about kissing you over a thousand times.

Cause he has.

And he’s so reactive in your palm, you feel his pulse through the veins and he’s twitching with each pass of your teeth over his bottom lip and your nose brushing against his.

“Thought about this for so long.”

He confesses it like it hurts, and you finally move your hand and his pretty hazel eyes roll back. You already miss it, his overawe gaze, and so you grip his thick throat just enough to grab his attention and fuck it does.

“Did you? You’re unbelievable, look at you Dex.”

You’re toying with him now. With his emotions. It seems that anything you say will dial him up to ten and it’s riveting. Your grip on his throat tightens just a little, Adam’s apple bobbing underneath your palm and his pulse fluttering like a moth underneath his flesh.

He looks at you with watery eyes, like everything is burning hot where embarrassment should be. Where shame should be. You lick his open mouth, taunting him despite the slickness between your thighs and the blossoming heat in your gut.

“When did you think about doing this? Tell me the truth, I know you can do it.”

He scrunches his eyebrows together when you start palming the tip of his velvety cock, focusing on the sensitive underside while trying to draw out a response. You tangle your free hand in his hair now, tugging. He makes a pathetic sound through his nose.

“A w-week after I met you, fuck slow down.”

He’s genuinely overwhelmed. You can’t believe it. He’s more capable of submission than you thought, more attuned to your movements and your voice than what seems possible for not having an intimate connection until now.

His scar twists everytime his mouth quirks from your hand stroking him, crows feet crinkling by his eyes.

You tug his head back by his scalp, kiss his throat again and this time you let your teeth graze the surface. Just testing the waters, and his stomach convulses.

You remove your hand and he could really cry. But you can feel that perhaps that was going to do him in, and he’d spill all over his lap and make a mess of your sheets and you just don’t want it to be over yet and neither does he and you both know that.

Shouldn’t he know how much you’ve thought of this too? How many nights you’ve touched yourself to the thought of him? How you came home the moment you saw him on your cameras?

“Please, goddamit.”

He curses, clenches his jaw and he’s only confused for a second whenever you bring your cupped hand up to his mouth. He meets your eye and you nod, he spits at once, and then your palm is back over him with the hot saliva coating his length.

He smirks again because you let out a small gasp you didn’t think he’d notice, his lovesick eyes wondering how your lips could be so kiss bitten and swollen already, how you’re doing so good at trying not to act like this isn’t working you up so bad you’re leaking and aching just like he is.

“You’re so big, I always knew you were.”

His head starts throbbing, you’re getting dangerously sweet on him. Now you’re focused on his cock, switching to the sight between his legs and then his face because you don’t know which one you’d rather admire.

And your body has gotten so close you might as well be on his lap now, your tits against his bicep and your knees knocking his hips. He wants to lift your skirt and bury himself between your thighs, to know what your face looks like when you’re getting fucked by him.

“You’ve thought about it too.”

You just smile at his musing, and it’s sweet and familiar and it’s the version of you that he knows so well and he surges forward to kiss you again. You’re receptive, suckling the bottom and using your grip on the hair at his nape as leverage.

It’s sloppy, wet and loud and he groans down your throat. Your stroking has picked up its pace, focused on the tip where that hot stickiness leaks and lavishing his shaft ever so often. You’ve now thrown a leg over his thigh, pulling it towards you and effectively spreading them apart further.

“Of course I have, look at you. You might never know how much I’ve really thought about you.”

You breathe it out, and his heart feels like it’s grown three sizes, like it’s being mutated in real time. It might be at risk for swelling so badly it bursts from behind his ribs.

He’d chuckle in disbelief if he weren’t ruined, gutted from the inside out.

And now you’re kissing all over his face, his sharp nose, the creases in his forehead and neck. You’re hot to the touch, almost as hot as he is and your movements are full of tremble like you’re forgetting you initially started in a position of control.

He wants you to get lost like he is. He wants you to not be able to control yourself, to have no lingering thoughts about anything other than him and his body and his mouth and how heavy he is in your grasp.

He wants you to consume him, wholly and completely.

His eyes are closed so all he feels is you crawling on top of him and he bucks his hips instinctually, the heat between your legs just above his left knee as you straddle it firmly.

It’s thick, meaty and the rough material of these black cargos he’s wearing bumps right against your clit through the fabric of your panties.

He wants to feel your naked hips underneath where your skirt has risen up around your soft waist, and your breasts in his palm and how your nipples would feel rubbing against his skin.

He feels you right here on his thigh and yet he knows that he wouldn’t risk moving a muscle without your permission as to not end what’s happening.

When you start rutting yourself on the fabric, though, dragging yourself all the way up and then down over his knee, he has to grab your hand and stop you from pumping him for a second

“Just a second…please.” He asks, and you oblige him only because he looks so pretty. God.

“Using your manners, good job Dex.”

You say it like you’re genuinely proud and his eyes flutter shut as you fight his hand and start stroking him again. He grits his teeth, jaw clenched so tight it could shatter but he is surrendering in a way he’s never surrendered before.

And you’re not lost on it. No, you’re good at reading people too. You can see how the praise colors him in a blanket of warmth and lust and lightheadedness.

But now your clit is throbbing and you feel yourself leaking into your panties, the fabric is sticking to you and drags wet heat against your slit whenever you grind against his thigh.

The sight is just too much for you. Everything is clinging to him, every muscle and ridge and scar. And he is so pliable, so heavy on your fingertips that you don’t know what to do with the reality of it all.

Your hips surge forward again, and a sigh so soft leaves your mouth that he hopes he can hear that sound forever. It’s an immediate realization, a blinding sensation. He sees you with so much clarity.

“You’re so fucking pretty.”

It comes out dazed and it takes you by surprise because you didn’t expect to ever hear the word pretty come out of his mouth. And for everything he is, all the horror and all the hurt and all the misunderstanding, honesty slips out of him like loose teeth when he’s around you.

He’s pliant when you pull him to your mouth, and the kiss is raw now because you let him grab your face and his hands feel better against you than your thoughts previously cojurned in half asleep daydreams. They’re big and rough and his fingers are eager just to feel your soft cheeks, the curve of your nose.

His mouth is vicious and his tongue is greedy, and he’s making little plaintive cries in the back of his throat like your lips might be his immediate demise and he’s thankful for it, grateful for it.

“More, give me more.”

You say it like a demand but your voice is thin and weak and he just bucks his strong hips to readjust before using two hands under your ass to slide you over the shaft of his cock.

You’re planted with his length directly against your covered slit and it’s heavy and hot and twitches against you when your body recognizes what’s touching you. Who it belongs to. What situation you’ve gotten yourself into and you know you won’t refuse him. That he can’t refuse you.

Your thighs squeeze together, trapped by his broad waist in between them. You feel him everywhere already, the push and pull. Not to mention you’re sticky where he’s bobbing against you, and his chest couldn’t be more prominent through his shirt when he’s heaving like he is.

“Whatever you want. Take it from me. I’m yours, fuuuuuck f-fuck are you-“

He’s never felt anything like it, the softness of your slit and how you could be so syrupy and wet already, seeping and covering his pink tip in your essence. You’re so hot between your legs it’s making him lightheaded.

And he really is stunned in place. His body reacts for him, stomach tensing and torso attempting to grind up into you and the worst part is that you let him. That you’re allowing any of this.

Because now it’s made a home in him, not just the scrunch of your nose when something makes you laugh, genuinely laugh, or the skin by your fingers that you’ve chewed off, or your cunt rutting against him.

He’s already not the same, whatever infatuation he had is now dangerous and heady and sifting through his head like it’s trying to find ways to make it stop because he really needs this job.

Unfortunately, he needs you more.

Because now he’s gripping your hips and prying his arm underneath your ass to pull your panties to the side and you’re caged against him with the air knocked out of your lungs. He’s solid and strong and you’re clumsy when you reach between your bodies to grab his cock and shove it past your silken slit.

You lift yourself by the knees, and then lower yourself and he’s completely seated inside of you with one exhale and maybe if it were anyone else you’d be embarrassed about the noise that leaves you.

“Oh god, fuck.” You whimper it out, and he trembles. The stretch is severe.

You cling onto his shoulders and he’s so hyper aware of the pouting of your lips and the scrunch between your brows, your eyes closing like you’re savoring him. He’s should feel guilty for his thoughts, for how insatiable and miserable he’ll make you if you ever try to leave because you’re fluttering around his cock and he’s kissing your cervix.

“Take your time, not going anywhere.”

He encourages, and you don’t really know what to do with yourself because minutes ago you thought you had your head on straight, that you knew how to navigate all of this and all of, well, him.

But he’s big and throbbing against your gummy walls and you didn’t think you could ever feel so full of someone. It’s incredible how he can become Dex so quickly, not the new hire or the assassin or the anti hero or the mercenary.

He’s greying hair and scarred skin and rushing blood beneath you. And when your arms fasten themselves tighter around his freckled neck, he drags himself out slowly, savoring the syrupy glide before pushing himself back in to the hilt.

You melt against him further, body weakening with the intensity and he smiles to himself, satisfied and sanguine at your disarming. At how your hips couldn’t be more loose on top of him, with all that tension and tightness right where he’s disappearing inside of and your voice all gooey and soft now in his ear.

God, he couldn’t have dreamed it would go like this.

“You’re p-perverted for breaking in.”

You taunt him while he begins pistoning himself inside of you, hiccuping each syllable. The sound of your wetness is as loud as his jerking off was, a terribly gut wrenching sound that makes his possessiveness that much worse.

And your words, they shouldn’t make him shudder and convulse the way they do but you’re saying it while he’s fucking you and you just can’t really blame him.

Your fingers are holding onto the back of shirt so tight, your cheek planted against the nook of his jaw and shoulder. You’re putty in his arms, and they’re tighter by the minute in their hold on your middle.

His hips are so powerful, and you wish you could think about how bad of an idea this is. You wish you could break yourself out of your fucked out stupor, but you didn’t know he’d fuck you this good. You didn’t know that he’d be so deep inside you’re sure you’ll be able to feel him tomorrow.

“I know shhh, I know,”

he grunts it against your hair, starts searching for the skin of your neck. He just hovers there with parted lips and a red face and that hot wetness hugging him with each thrust.

“but l-look at us, you feel so goooood fuck, look how it turned out, yeah?”

He sounds dirty, menacingly nasty in what he’s saying and how he’s saying it and most of all how true it is. You love it, it’s terrible that you love it and yet you were buzzing with excitement when you checked your cameras and saw his big frame sauntering in.

The wet squelching sounds between your legs intensify, and somewhere between the grind of your hips and your teeth against his neck you’re crying his name.

“Dexxxx, ohhhh my g-god, baby.”

His hips genuinely stutter and his stomach starts fluttering, you feel him tense and relax three times over and his torso grinds into you a bit harsher than before.

He never thought he’d hear you call him that, and he’s glad you can’t see his face because his expression is so fucked.

That word is reserved for people who care about each other. For people in love. For people who can say soft things and not feel ridiculous and out of place or like they don’t deserve to hear it at all.

“Don’t stop, j-just don’t stop please.” You beg petulantly, hands rubbing his broad back, ignoring the way his pace has faltered and he’s softly panting in your ear.

He laughs, and it’s short lived and airy but you feel it in his chest. He grinds himself deep and unfairly into you, pushing you down on him while he’s fucking up into you. He feels the blunt ends of your nails leaving crescent moons in his skin.

“W-why would I stop? I can’t, I can’t.”

It’s true, he can’t fathom it. The thought doesn’t even seem feasible right now. You’re so tight, squeezing around him and he can feel your heartbeat inside of you. Rocks you against him sturdy and hard.

It feels like forever, with him pounding himself into you and your insides being bullied. In reality it’s only about five minutes, and you’ve been sucking on the side of his neck and his earlobe and he’s balls deep - writhing his hips.

Your clit is being rubbed by his pubic mound and you feel so much intensely deep pressure from his thick cock inside you that you’re sure you’re gonna burst. You’ve started pulsing too, milking him for everything he’s got.

He really didn’t know that he could feel things this intensely that aren’t anger or despair.

It starts unraveling when you take yourself out of the crook of his neck and meet his face. He swears he sees a little drool seeping from the corner of your mouth, and you’re looking at him like he’s a completely new person.

Or maybe he’d just never noticed it before, because he was too wrapped up in noticing you. And the idea of you noticing him too felt unrealistic.

But no, no it’s real and happening and you’ve got both hands on his cheeks and your nose is against his, your hips swiveling on top of him and your pussy making a mess on his lap that he’d frame if it were practical to do so.

“It’s all mine now, right?”

You kiss his mouth when you say it, and then your hand is splayed against the broadness of his flexing chest and you’re shoving him back until he’s lying down on your mattress, staring at you with so much devotion it’s scary.

You readjust while he’s still inside of you, leaning over to kiss him again and he knows he’s going to finish in this position. He’s already hiked his feet up on the bed to fuck you good and hard and he hates that his boots are on your pretty covers but he’ll wash them for you.

“I’m yours. My dick is yours. Everything. Take it, just like tha-a-at.”

He’s whining and blotchy, and the strain in his throat makes you double over because you feel the white hot tension move in your stomach when his cock curves into the deepest parts of you.

You want it to be true, all of it, and the physical reality is too much for you to handle.

You shove your face in his neck because you don’t want him to see how completely ruined you look when you cum. No, everything is shaking and you’re trying to close your legs and the tingling and throbbing is working its way through you like a virus that’s got to fever you first.

“O-ohhh god, Dex m’cumming.”

You slur it and he thinks he might pass out because he can feel it happening. He squeezes you harder than he has the whole night, holds your wriggling body firm against his frame when he starts delivering his last round of thrusts into your cunt.

It’s trying to push him out, it’s contracting around his cock and kissing it and weeping for it. He’s never been so high off of anything he’s done to another human being. Not even the most rectified kills have felt like this.

“Oh f-fuck, gonna fill you all the way up, mmfuck, you’ll take all of it honey, yeah yeah yeah.”

He sounds delusional and dizzy, he’s past the point of trying to sound nice or sweet because his balls are tightening where they’re still tucked in his briefs and he has to practice restraint like he’s never known so that he doesn’t crush you in his arms accidentally.

You put your tongue in his mouth when you feel the staccato thrusts, the immediate heat that swells in the space between your walls as he pumps his seed into you. And he’s moaning like he’s hurt, mmm’s and ooohhhhh’s and his teeth on full display like a wild animal from the curling of his lip.

You let your mouth linger on his while he’s twitching and you’re still pulsing.

His hands find your face, and he sloppily makes out with you, almost casually if it weren’t for the tremors in his wrists or the scrunch of his brows or the way he’s keeping himself inside of you while his cock softens.

He’s happy. He realizes that’s the emotion he’s feeling when you look him in the eyes again, and your face still hasn’t changed from that soft and frowny pleasure contorted look quite yet.

You don’t want it to end either.

You’re sobering up, and the ache still isn’t going away. You’ve completely crossed a line that has sent you into a realm you won’t come back from - because now he won’t ever be the same to you.

You know what he tastes like, what he sounds in your ear when he feels good, what he’s truly capable of when he’s got your body in his hands.

“Stay.” You don’t ask, just state it plainly like it’s already decided.

It crushes him from the inside out. It’s too much of a good thing that he’s never gotten and if he didn’t work with you everyday he’d think you were being cruel, offering him such a sweet thing.

Don’t you know it’ll make it worse? That now he’ll be in here every waking moment he’s not working? That he will memorize every part of your life that you think others will never notice?

“Really?”

He asks, and you don’t expect him to sound so small after all of that. To look so pitiful and blushed crimson and spent now, with blonde hair sticking to his forehead.

You nod, kissing his nose and his hands are smoothing over your shoulders, down your arms and over your back. Explorative and greedy and you arch into them.

“You can help me put my window lock back in place, creep.”

He was kinda cute, you'd seen him doing a little dance where the chefs took their smoking breaks and had been smitten with his earnestness. He always made you laugh with a silly fact when the shifts were slow and for some reason he always asked where you parked and walked you out there when your shift was over.

"Lot of dangerous people about." He'd said once, as if that explained it all.

He'd even chased off some creeps one night, his confidence in squaring up to them surprising you. But he took it all in his stride, as if he wanted to fight them.

You supposed there probably was a good reason he walked you to your car, it wasn't exactly safe at night in Evergreen.

Taylor had warned you about the Vigilante, some guy in a costume giving the police the run around, but as you always kept to yourself, nothing illegal, nothing even half as weird as most of the patrons, you figured you didn't really have much to worry about.

Until that night.

You'd told Adrian not to wait for you that evening. That your car was broken down and a friend was going to collect you, and he nodded sagely, agreeing that it was nice to have friends, and had left you to your work, pottering about somewhere in the back saying he had plans with friends too.

While you waited for your friend you decided to hang out with the chef, eat some left over fries and help with the bins.

That's when you saw something. Behind the dumpster out back.

He walked out from behind the bin, saw you, and took two steps back. You were sure you heard a muffled "fuck" that sounded an awful lot like Adrian.

"Is that you, Ade? Don't fuck around and frighten me!"

You peered round the corner again and…nope, that wasn't Adrian. It was the Vigilante.

Dropping the bag of garbage you tried to run back to the open kitchen door,stumbling over the litter on the ground and the ashtray left on the step.

"Adrian, help!" You shouted into the empty kitchen.

"Hey!" Vigilante followed, jumping through the trash bag and lunging for you.

"Adrian!"

There was a hand on your elbow, your arm, dragging you back and before you could scream a gloved hand pressed over your mouth.

"Be quiet."

He dragged you back against his chest, holding your arms behind you. You tried to kick with your legs but he tucked his ankles against yours until you were off balance, leaning back into him rather than falling over.

His suit was hard behind you, the straps and buckles digging into your back through the thin polyester of your Fennel Fields uniform. The knot on your apron dug into your spine but there was also the hard line of a holster and — oh fuck oh fuck — was that a knife?

"Just stay quiet okay?"

You thrashed again, so scared your vision was going blurry, your knees were weak and you passed out in his arms.

Waking up feels weird, you're not out for long but suddenly you're in the back of a car, street lights flashing as you speed down the road. Fear grips you so tightly it's a wonder you haven't thrown your fries up all over the backseat, but between passing out and squeezing your eyes shut in fear you don't have time to pay attention to your body.

After only a short drive Vigilante pulls up quietly and opens the backdoor, looking down at you through his red visor, the world upside down.

"Can you be quiet?"

You open your mouth to scream and find your Fennel Fields hat pushed between your lips.

"Shhh." He holds a gloved finger up to the mask.

You're too scared to shout again, where the fuck has he taken you?

You can't help but think of the useless safety pamphlets your family gave you, the rape alarm hanging uselessly off your keys in your locker as he manoeuvres you from the car and tosses you over his shoulder.

There's nothing but gravel and dry grass beneath his feet, nothing to tell you where you're going until he unlatches a basement door and then you know you're screwed.

Fucking hell. This was the second location. Tears welled in your eyes and you sobbed loudly. What did it matter if you were quiet or not.

"Hey, stop crying." He jostled you on his shoulder, his tone more gentle than you expected, and you hit his back with your fists, spitting out your makeshift gag.

"I don't fucking care, you're gonna kill me anyway, Jesus fucking Christ, why didn't anyone come — I shouted, I shouted and no one came — no one — he didn't come — why didn't Adrian come." You sobbed again, kicking your feet too until his arm came down around your calves, holding them tight.

Vigilante went still in the middle of the basement, probably looking for whatever he was going to kill you with. Probably enjoying choosing.

"I don't want to die." You wailed, hitting him again.

"Fucking quit it." He dropped you down onto a bare mattress in the corner of the dingy basement, following you down and kneeling over you while he fiddled with a handful of zip ties.

"No! No!" You wriggled your wrists but he held them firm in one hand, wrapping the ties around you and then a thick pipe, holding your arms above your head.

"It's better if you stay still or the plastic will hurt your wrist."

Vigilante stepped back, towering over you and you passed out again.

You woke to the sound of a metal chair scraping on the stone floor. Your arms ached, still tied above your head, but there was a heater on now and a small lamp glowing in the corner of the room.

The room itself was very strange, full of pallets of…was that cocaine? Was that money?!

And on the otherside of these impossible piles was Vigilante. Sat with his back to you visor on top of his head, humming to himself. There was something so familiar in the soft curl of his hair at the nape of his neck. The way he swung his office chair side to side. Even the humming.

Carefully you tested your bonds, trying to pull your wrist through but only succeeding in making the pipe rattle against the bare brick wall.

Vigilante pushed his visor back down, the red catching on the table lamp briefly before he was back at your side.

He hasn't killed you. That was good news at least. But you couldn't read anything in his body language to suggest he'd let you go either.

"You're awake."

"Please let me go, I promise I haven't done anything wrong."

"I know." He squatted beside the mattress. "But you saw too much, you said a name, when we were out there. You were spying."

"Spying? What, no, I was taking out the trash and I heard a noise and I thought it was someone else and — please, please just let me go and I won't tell anyone. I barely know anyone, I have no one to tell."

"You have a job, I saw you, what if you tell Taylor?"

"I won't, I won't tell Taylor, I wouldn't tell Taylor. I swear, I swear!"

He went quiet then, looking you up and down as if contemplating his own next step. This clearly wasn't what he'd planned to be doing.

Across the room his phone rang loudly on the desk and he sighed, hitting his knees as he stood back up.

"I'm gonna answer this, be quiet okay?" He held his finger up and then picked up the call.

"Sorry, I had to deal with something…no…someone saw me…outside the restaurant…no a girl…I don't think she is…I don't think she does…fine. I'll find out."

He hung up, tossing the phone and taking two long strides across the room to squat beside you again. His suit creaked as he moved, pulling tight over his legs and chest.

Vigilante knelt down by the mattress, watching the way you squirmed away from him, frowning at the panic in your eyes.

"Do you know anything?"

"I know some stuff…I learned today that manta rays are born like burritos, all rolled up." You gasped out. "A guy I work with told me, he has lots of facts I know lots of facts, do you want more facts?" You babbled.

"You learned that from…Adrian?" He cocked his head to the side.

"I did. I did, I learnt it today from a guy I work…wait you know Adrian?"

"No."

Vigilante was panicking now, backsliding quickly.

"What do you know?"

"I don't know that many animal facts — oh god — I wish Adrian were here, he'd tell you loads of facts and then maybe you'd let me go — would you let me go if I told you some facts?"

He clenched his hands together, his gloves squeeking at the pressure.

"Can I let you go? What if you know about Peacemaker?"

"I know about Peacemaker, everyone knows about Peacemaker, he eats at Fennel Fields, he likes zoodles and he likes Blake and — I don't know anything else though, I just know he lives round here I guess."

But Adrian was sure there was more, why had you been snooping around the bins if you weren't trying to find something out about Chris? You were supposed to be gone.

He was torn. Chris, his best friend, or you, the girl he'd been crushing on since that first night. So cute and sweet, you always listened to him, always asked how he was, and you made the nasty red uniform look like a ballgown. He couldn't keep his eyes off you when you pulled your apron tight, hugging your figure and pushing your breasts up higher in your shirt.

And now he'd managed to kidnap you and tie you to his spare mattress.

"How can I be sure you're telling the truth?" He pulled a knife from its holster, mostly because it was digging in, but also so he could twirl it around while he thought.

Your eyes darted to the sharp blade but he didn't notice, watching the way your legs curled up towards your chest instead.

He didn't want to hurt you really. He just needed to be sure.

Vigilante wracked his brains for a plan, kicking himself for being so impulsive and stupid when he remembered the last impulsive and stupid thing he'd done.

Having sex with Chris and Chris' friend, he was pretty sure she was a proatiture but Chris never confirmed these things.

Chris had gone down on the girl before they had sex, he'd spent so long eating her out that he'd been bored, scrolling his phone for a bit. But he remembered the girl had been begging him to stop eventually, pushing on Chris' head.

Maybe that was the way, if he could make you cum enough, maybe it'd be the same as hurting you without…hurting you.

He stuck the knife into the wooden pallette beside his feet and you flinched.

"We're gonna try something else."

"We don't need to, I told you, I don't know anything about Peacemaker. I don't know anything about you. Please let me go!"

He ignored you, slipping a hand between your legs to spread your thighs open.

"Yeah," he murmered to himself, before unfastening your work trousers and pulling them down your legs.

"No, no, no, no, no!"

"Don't worry, I won't hurt you."

Vigilante attempted reassurance, although from the look on your face it wasn't working. He frowned again, throwing your trousers somewhere behind him. He couldn't bring himself to look when you were sprawled out in front of him, white cotton panties rucked up around the curve of your ass, so sensible. Just like you. And, just like you, devastatingly sexy.

He knelt on the mattress this time, his weight rolling you off balance and giving you enough momentum to close your legs again.

"Hey, stop that." He spread his hands over your thighs and held them open, his gloves indenting in your skin. "I need to interrogate you, to make sure Peacemaker is protected and that you don't know anything you shouldn't."

"I told you already —"

"I know but what if you're lying?"

"What if I'm notttt—" Your protest was cut off by the involuntary noise you made at Vigilante cupping your pussy with his whole hand.

"You're really warm."

"Oh god," you bent your elbows in, trying to hide your face. It'd been so long since anyone had touched you, far too long since you'd slept with anyone. And now here you were with the fucking Vigilante cupping you through your panties and you could barely take it.

"Are you getting wet? That's good, otherwise this would hurt." Without waiting another beat he slid a gloved finger between your folds and pushed it into your waiting hole. You were very, very grateful for your embarrassing reaction when you felt the rough texture of the fabric, the plastic grips rubbing against your g-spot.

"You make so many noises, it's really hot, did you know that? Are you doing it on purpose? Like reverse Stockholm Syndrome?" Vigilante started to babble in a way that was oddly reassuring, as if his rattling off of every thought was necessary to the moment. "Maybe you're like a hyena, they have a clitoris so large it's basically a penis."

Suddenly it clicked fully into place, the hair, the humming, being at Fennel Fields of all places, the way he'd stood up for you in the parking lot that time with absolutely no fear, the fucking animal facts.

"Adrian." You gasped out as he pushed another finger inside, the palm of his glove pressed against your clit.

"What, who's Adrian? Anyway, listen, I need you to tell me what you know."

"Nothing, nothing," you thrashed your head from side to side, confused, turned on, so close to the brink. You liked Adrian and then this — this — oh god —

"Are you going to come? I bet you look so sexy when you come, I can't wait." He crossed his legs, forcing your legs wider apart, as his fingers continued a steady pace, he propped his head up on his hand, elbow on his knee, red visor trained on the spot where your panties were pushed to one side, his fingers twisting inside you.

You hated that he was right, that you were dangling on the precipice from his ridiculous dirty talk and rough gloves but then you were clenching down, back arching, your wrists burning from the zip ties.

"Oh fuck — oh fuck!"

Your release rolled through you like a shiver starting in your toes and running like lightening up your legs, your hips ruttinng upwards to catch against the palm of Vigilante's gloves.

Behind the red of his visor it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. His body still, purposeful, the blankness somehow making you feel even more flush.

"Wow. I was right. You do look sexy when you cum. So. Are you ready to tell me what you know?"

"Adrian—"

Suddenly his hand was back, sliding three fingers deep inside of you and pressing up against your g-spot while he pressed down from the outside.

"I told you. I don't know who Adrian is."

"Sorry! Sorry! Please!"

He pulled his hand back a little, slowly moving his fingers.

"What do you know?"

"Nothing!" You wailed, "nothing!"

"Maybe you just need more of an incentive."

His fingers were gone just as quickly and he stood, looking around at the odd collection of items in the basement. Vigilante looked down at his hand, lifting his sticky fingers and spreading them out to see your arousal clinging to the dark fabric of his gloves.

He turned away, lifted the visor of his mask and gave them an audible, experimental, lick

"I know there's a crate around here somewhere."

Adrian searched through a few plastic crates before standing again, triumphantly tearing through a box to reveal a plug-in vibrating wand.

"These are supposed to be good, right?"

You squirmed, they definitely felt good, maybe too good if Adrian's ability to tip you into orgasm with just a few exploratory fingers was anything to go by.

"They're terrible, awful, look — why don't your untie me. I'm outmatched, I won't fight, and we can talk about this or — or — or you just let me go or something and I promise to never ever talk about it again?"

Vigilante, Adrian, turned the vibrator on then looked down at your dripping pussy. He pressed the round bulb at the top against you gently and you wriggled a little but made no noise, biting down on your lip. Truthfully it just tickled at this angle and you were grateful for the respite.

"This won't work." He moved his left hand, resting his palm on the tidy thatch of hair above your cunt and spreading your lips with his fingers, exposing your clit. "That's better."

When the wand touched you again it was like an electric shock coursing through your nervous system. You screamed in response, bucking your hips caught between fighting off the sensations and getting more.

"Feels good I guess. I wonder if I'd like it, maybe I'll try it later."

"Let me go and you can try it now," you fought against the zip ties on your wrists again, the skin beneath a painful sting compared to the hum of pleasure building inside of you again. "Fuck, Adrian, please take it off — I can't — I can't — fuck!" Your orgasm slammed into you and tears sprang to your eyes, your body convulsing, all the while his hand followed you, keeping the head of the wand pressed torturously against your clit.

"Wow. I could watch that all day."

All day?! You could barely think, all day might actually kill you, or all night.

Tears sprang to your eyes.

"No more, I'll keep your secret."

"Are you this sensitive everywhere?"

You were considering where else he could possibly mean when a gloved, finger slid down your weeping slit and then, after a brief pause to gather your slick, it circled your puckered hole.

"Adrian, I've never done that before, I don't know if I can."

"Just one more little experiment then, to make sure you really won't be telling anyone."

Adrian's finger slid inside with ease, teasing your sensitive walls. The stretch felt odd at first, but you settled into the sensation as soon as he started petting your clit with his other hand. It felt oddly comforting, to be so intimately full, and you missed his fingers inside of your pussy too.

Canting your hips up you encouraged him to let his fingers slide back inside your now sopping pussy. He obliged quickly and you were instantly floating in a cloud of lust, pleasure and pure confusion.

You were so full, powerless to do anything but give in to his ministrations. You closed your eyes and just let yourself feel, the rough push and pull of his gloved hands, working in tandem so that you were never truly empty, teasing at the soft spot inside of you that had already made you see stars so many times.

"You're enjoying it." Adrian observed, "I thought you might, but you never know. I've never done it, apart from maybe that one time, I don't know if it's the same if you don't have a pussy too and I don't want to try sounding." He rambled, absently curling and working his fingers inside of you while you writhed in extasy.

"Adrian — oh my god — if you keep doing that I'm gonna…" you clenched down and he tipped his head to the side. You could imagine his eyes behind the red visor, taking in your every movement, cataloguing it for later.

"I think you should, is it this you like?" He pushed his fingers into both your holes at once, twisting his finger against your g-spot while he rubbed his thumb pad over your clit.

"Fuck!" You came with a shout, squirting onto his hand and arm.

"Not as much as last time." He licked his fingers. "But I suppose that's to be expected. Now. Have you learnt your lesson about spying on me and Peacemaker?"

You were half-minded to argue that you hadn't done any spying at all, in fact he'd kidnapped you for just being at your place of work at the wrong time. But the rest of your mind was blank, taken over by your orgasms and the knowledge that shy, nerdy little Adrian could make you feel so fucking alive!

"Sure, Adrian, I've learnt my lesson."

He said nothing, but crossed his arms.

"Vigilante, I've learnt my lesson."

"Good," his voice brightened. "Stay right here, I think my mom made cookies, I'll bring you one and you can go."

Fleury and Bordeaux have been on the phone all afternoon, booking motels and rental cars, sparing no expense. Adrian and Judomaster pack up all the weapons, ammo, and other supplies they might need out in the field. It’s been a while since the field kits have been restocked.

Emilia and Chris hole up the conference room so she can debrief him in-depth on each of the targets they’re trying to track down right now. Economos tries to help, but he can barely bring himself to even say the names of his prior colleagues, falling back on his typical coping strategy of avoidance. If he doesn’t talk about it, doesn’t process it, then it can’t hurt him. He sticks his head in his laptop screen and does what he needs to do, and that’s that. 

Adrian and Ads should probably be in there with them, but they’re busy doing their own preparations. They want to get moving as soon as possible, before the lead goes cold, so they’re rushing to pack their bags and Chris’s. Chris will pass on the information while they travel. 

When they’re finished, they start bringing everything to the van, which Chris and Emilia have started prepping. It would be faster if they could fly, but with all the fucking weapons they have to take, they would never make it through any kind of security clearance. 

Three duffle bags are Adrian’s. One for clothes and toiletries. Two for his weapons and the Vigilante suit. He’s lugging them outside when he catches a glimpse of something that stops him in his tracks.

Chris and Harcourt, standing at the back of the van taking a rare, soft moment to themselves, Chris pressing a soft kiss to his mate’s lips. It’s fucking weird, is the first thing he thinks, watching them be all lovey and gross. He kinda understands how everyone else might feel when he’s being soft with you.

But then Adrian remembers that the bonded pair in front of him, his pack Alphas, are about to be separated for a week, and he feels a pang in his chest, because he understands in a way that he never has before. If they feel for each other even a fraction of what Adrian feels for you—

Adrian swallows roughly and turns away, giving them privacy. Suddenly, all he wants, more than anything, is you.

He’s been apart from you before, but not like this. Not since the day you first kissed him. In the last seven weeks, he’s seen you every day. Spent every possible waking hour at your side.

The idea of leaving you behind, even for just seven days, is eating him up inside.

After a quick pit stop at your desk for your picnic blanket, he finds you in the infirmary with Adebayo, where you’d been packing medical kits for them. When he walks in, you’re doing a refresh of some important first-aid practices. 

Ads doesn’t need it. But you do. You can’t go with Adrian, but you can do this. Make sure the med kits are fully stocked, make sure the supplies aren’t expired, make sure Ads remembers how to set a broken bone.

“One last thing—dislocations,” you’re saying, as he pushes open the door. “Both Adrian and Chris have dislocated their shoulders more than once, which means it’s even more likely for them to accidentally do it again, and neither of them are exactly careful about it—”

Adrian winces. That’s true, he has to admit. He’s come crawling back to you with his arm dangling loose more than once, and every time, you look at him with this exasperated frown before correcting the problem with your gentle hands. He knows how to fix it himself, and so does Chris, but it hurts a hell of a lot less when you do it.

“They know what they’re doing for the most part, but if they need help, you want to hold the arm here, and brace them like this—have another person help you, if you can—oh, and don’t forget to—”

Ads is half listening to you, half watching you with concerned eyes, because you’re rambling almost as much as he does, which can’t be a good sign. You’re normally more put together than this, giving clear, concise instructions, but today, it’s like you can’t get the words out fast enough, and everything is coming out in a jumbled, frazzled order.

It’s strange, seeing you like this. He wonders why you’re so stressed. Yes, your relationship with him has changed, now, but—you know him. You know he’s capable. This level of worry is something else entirely. 

“I think she’s got it, babe,” Adrian interrupts, with a gentle hand on your back, and you look up at him, your brow furrowed with concentration and worry.

“I know she does,” you say. You look at Ads. “I know you do. I just—”

“It’s okay, girl,” Ads says, her voice soft. “I get it. I’ll take care of him for you. I promise.”

Your lower lip wobbles, just a bit, and you throw your arms around her. “Thank you.”

She squeezes you tight, and exchanges a confused look with Adrian, who keeps a steady hand on your shoulder. He waits for the tension to drain from your body, the way it always does when he touches you, but it never does.

“Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s take a break, baby.”

Adrian leads you out to the courtyard, to the spot beneath the tree. He has started thinking of it as your spot, a shared little bubble away from the chaos of the rest of the office. When he plops down onto the blanket, he yanks you down with him, into his lap, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him. You yelp as you topple on top of him.

“You didn’t even try to fight me,” he scolds playfully.

You roll your eyes. “I didn’t realize I had to be on guard around you. Next time you try to sweep me off my feet I’ll punch you in the face. I’ll ask Emilia to work on that with me in our next session.”

“The training with her is going good?” he checks. “You’re not hurting anymore?” Adrian’s hand brushes beneath your shirt, over the scarred skin of your healed-over bullet wounds. “I don’t want you to push too hard—I mean, obviously I want you to be able to protect yourself—”

“Emilia wouldn’t have let me even start if she didn’t think I was ready,” you remind him.

“I know. You’re super badass and capable, and also really cool and I love you,” Adrian says, and when you finally smile, he kisses it right off your face.

“You guys are so gross.”

Chris’s voice rings across the courtyard, and your lips break apart. Adrian glares at his best friend, and your bright laughter echoes in the air.

“Shut up, Chris,” Adebayo scolds in the distance. “Let them live!”

After work, you head home for the night with Adrian. You’re still buzzing with some kind of nervous energy, though it’s not as bad as it was earlier. Having something to do seems to be helping, so he steps back and just lets you take control. There’s also a tiny, selfish part of him that just wants to make sure that you touch everything that goes in his suitcase, so that everything he wears during the week that he’s gone will smell like you.

You haven’t stayed the night. It’s a bridge that both of you have been weirdly afraid to cross. You’ve done all kinds of other couple-y things. You went on cute dates to the zoo and the aquarium, you played video games, you had movie nights. You did all the same things you used to do when you were just friends, but now there’s—more. Now Adrian gets to hold you, to kiss you, to tell you the things he was never allowed to say before. But never pushes any further than that, because he’s afraid, not of you, but of himself.

After the heated moment you’d shared in the Checkmate office, Adrian had pulled back significantly. It’s hard to control himself around you. He just wants you, so fucking much, all the time, and—you’d agreed to take things slow, so that’s what he’s been trying to do. Because every time he kisses you, or sucks a dark bruise into the skin of your neck, he has to desperately resist what his body tells him it needs. To make that mark permanent. To knot you, to claim you, to make you his, forever. He doesn’t want to push you into something you don’t want, something you’re not ready for.

It’s one thing to cuddle with you for a few hours on the couch. Even in bed, above the covers. It’s another to lie there with you for an entire night. But as the evening grows later, and you’re still there, at the safe house with him, he smiles. Because it doesn’t look like you’re going anywhere tonight. He doesn’t want you to go anywhere tonight.

If he’s going to be gone for an entire week, he wants as much time with you now as he can get. And he thinks that you do, too. That it might help with…whatever the hell is going on inside your brain right now.

As you zip up the suitcase on top of the bed, he comes to stand behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, and kisses the underside of your jaw.

“Will you stay?” he asks, his voice low. “Just to sleep?”

“I was planning on it,” you say, and he smiles, rubbing his cheek against yours like a cat. You giggle, and he feels a little relieved, that you’re at least calm enough, happy enough, to still laugh like that. “That tickles. You need to shave again.”

“Ugh. Don’t wanna,” he whines, just to hear the sound again, and his heart lifts when he gets what he wants—he hears the light sound of your laugh, feels the rumble of it against his chest.

Adrian doesn’t mind shaving anymore, really. He’s used to it, now. But now, when he complains, you always offer to do it for him, and he has an excuse to stare at you for ten minutes uninterrupted.

“I’ll do it,” you say softly, and he grins, having gotten exactly what he wanted. “Just let me get changed, okay?”

Five minutes later, he swallows roughly when he sees you sitting on the bathroom counter in nothing but a short pair of sleep shorts and one of his shirts. He tries desperately to shove down his immediate arousal, even though he knows you can smell it, just like he can smell yours.

As you work in silence, sharp razorblade scraping across his cheeks, Adrian can still see the tension in the way you’re holding yourself. You’re worried. When you take a moment to rinse off the blade, he speaks.

“I’m gonna be okay, Omega,” he whispers, hands coming to grasp your hips. His thumbs rub soothing circles into your bare skin, where your shirt, his shirt, rides up.

“I know you’re going to be okay,” you say, talking while you work, finishing up the lower part of his neck. “I’m sorry if I’m being a lot. That’s not…that’s not what I’m thinking about right now.”

You finish what you’re doing and bring the damp washcloth to his face to clean him off. Once he’s clean, he grabs your wrist, turning his head to the side just slightly and pressing a kiss to the bracelet he’d made for you out of the scraps of his old Vigilante suit. You smile softly at him.

“What’s going on?” he asks softly, because you’re being quiet. Too quiet. You bite your lip and hesitate, and he hates it. “You can tell me, baby. You can tell me anything. You know that. I’m sorry we argued earlier, I don’t want you to think that I think you’re incapable or anything less than fucking badass, because you are badass, and great at your job, and I love you—”

“That’s not it,” you laugh. “But thank you. You are also a badass, baby.”

“What is it, then?”

“The week you get back,” you say carefully, “I’m due for my heat.” 

You’re trying hard to be casual about it, but—it’s anything but. You’re terribly nervous, because you know that Adrian is going to be too.

Adrian stares at you, mouth agape. You look at him pointedly.

“Oh,” he says, swallowing nervously, a little dumbstruck. “Oh.”

Everything that’s been happening with you today suddenly makes a whole lot more sense. The way you’ve been jumpy and anxious. It’s not just you being worried about Adrian going on a mission. It’s you, on the verge of preheat, if you aren’t in preheat already, being worried about your Alpha.

“So,” you say, clearing your throat. “Will you…help me through it?”

“Of course I will,” he says in a rush, his arms wrapping around you. “If that’s what you want. I just—I don’t want you to feel obligated or forced, just because we’ve been, you know, kissing and other stuff and—if you would feel more comfortable using…toys, I mean, just—I know we’ve talked about this already, that we want each other like this, and that you’re mine and I’m yours, but I want to make sure this isn’t just, like, hormones, you know—”

You cut him off with a kiss, and he melts into it instantly.

“I always want you,” you say softly. “The hormones just make it—more.”

“Oh,” he says dumbly, trying to ignore the arousal stirring deep in his gut just at your admission.

“And if you want,” you say nervously, tugging at the material of his shirt, “Since—like you just said. That you’re mine, and I’m yours. I was thinking. That I want you to mark me, Alpha.”

“I want that,” Adrian says hoarsely. He remembers kneeling in front of you, his face buried in your core, remembers just how strong the urge was to mark you, to make you his. He wanted it so bad, in that moment. He’s wanted it every day since. “I’ve never wanted anything more. But I want—I want you to mark me too. I want us to do it together. So—can we wait? Until my next rut? If your heat is in two weeks—then by the time you’re due for your next one, we should be—”

“All synced up,” you finish with a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, we can wait.”

“Should I even be going on this mission?” he checks worriedly. “If your heat comes early—”

“If my heat comes early, I will deal for a couple days until you get back.”

“No,” Adrian says firmly. He remembers how he felt during his rut, hot and writhing and miserable and alone. You will never feel like he did during that week of agony, not on his watch. “If your heat comes early, you will call me, and I will come home early and take care of you. Promise me.”

“Adrian—”

“Promise me,” he repeats, heart pounding. He holds your gaze.

“I promise,” you say. Your voice is soft. “I will call you.”

“I’m gonna call you every fucking day anyway,” Adrian says, smiling. “So much that you’re gonna be fucking sick of me.”

“I’d never get sick of you. Now, Chris, on the other hand—”

“Hey!”

“I’m just telling it like it is, baby.”

Adrian laughs as you hop off the counter and drag him toward the bedroom. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am on your side! I don’t get sick of you. I want you around all the time. Always.”

You prove your point by flopping onto the bed and dragging him on top of you. He lands carefully, bracing his arms on either side of you so he doesn’t crush you with his weight.

“I think even you would get sick of me eventually,” Adrian says. He presses a quick, teasing kiss to your lips before going to shut off the lights. You worm your way beneath the covers, holding them up for him to slide in with you when he’s finished.

“You’re wrong,” you say, more of a whisper now that it’s dark in the room. Adrian pulls the blankets tighter over you both and lies down facing you, eyes wide open in the dark, waiting for them to adjust so he can see you a little more clearly. When they do, you’re smiling at him. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”

“Stop thinking,” Adrian advises. “And just let me enjoy my first night sleeping next to you.”

“Well, if you would let me finish!” you laugh. “It’s been long enough. We should—” You cut yourself off, hesitating.

“We should what?” Adrian asks.

“I’m just thinking,” you say. “That it would be easier, if you came home, and you knew…where you were going home to.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you want, while you’re gone,” you say, “I could take all your stuff that’s here in the safe house, and move it into my apartment. This was always supposed to be a temporary arrangement.”

Adrian’s heart hammers in his throat. “Really?”

“Really. And then when you come home, you can spend every night sleeping next to me.”

He imagines it. Coming home. Knowing that home means you. Means a place that you both share, where every blanket and pillow and coffee cup is touched with a hint of your scent and his. A place where he gets to go to sleep beside you every night and wake up beside you every morning for the rest of his life.

“Yes,” Adrian says, nodding furiously, smiling like an idiot. “Yes, let’s—let’s do that. Please.”

He kisses you, again, and smiles into it, thinking about how he’ll get to do this all the time.

He just needs to get through this fucking mission, and he gets to come home. To you.

It’s happening again.

Adrian is too far away, this time. He watches the red soaking through your uniform, your knees hitting the ground. He smells your scent in the air, tinged with the metallic hint of blood. Your eyes meet his across the field, terrified and pained.

He’s living his worst nightmare all over again, and he can’t stop it.

He’s screaming, and running, and he tumbles to the ground beside you, he yanks off his mask. You’re going to be okay, you have to be okay. You will be. He knows you will be. 

He’s had this dream, he’s relived the memory a dozen times since the day it happened, but this time, when he turns you over, when he touches your face—it’s cold. His own pulse hammers in his neck as he feels for yours. He can’t find it.

“No, no, no,” he says, heart rising into his throat. “What—no, what’s happening please wake up oh god no—”

Adrian bolts awake, breathing like he’s just run a marathon, and it takes him a moment to come back to himself, to realize where he is.

In bed. With you. With you, alive, tucked against him, safe. He can see you breathing, the rise and fall of your chest. He can feel your warmth.

It’s not enough. He reaches out with one trembling hand to touch your neck, careful not to wake you. Only when he presses against your neck and feels your pulse, thrumming strong and steady beneath his fingertips, does all the air rush out of his lungs in a relieved whoosh.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, and he feels a tear stream down his cheek. He doesn’t even bother wiping it away, just closes his eyes and lets himself slump down against the pillows, trying to calm his own racing heart.

“Adrian?” you mumble, and his eyes fly open again to see your hand fumbling for him in the dark. He instantly feels both terrible for waking you and immensely grateful to hear your voice.

“It’s okay, baby. Go back to sleep,” he says, his voice hoarse, a little frustrated, even. He catches your wandering hand before it can settle against his chest, where you’ll be able to feel how hard his heart is pounding in the aftermath of a nightmare. He doesn’t want you to worry.

It’s the first night he’s sleeping with you in his arms. It should be peaceful. It’s everything he’s wanted for months. Instead, here he is, staring at you through the dark like you’re going to disappear any moment, haunted by the memory of you soaked in your own blood.

Your eyes blink open sleepily, and you watch him silently for a moment, weighing whether to do what he says and just go back to sleep, or argue with him. He stares back at you.

You don’t argue. You don’t say a word. But you don’t go back to sleep either. You sit up, shift yourself over, and hug him, feeling his arms wrap around you in return, squeezing tight to hide the way he’s shaking.

“You’re okay,” you say quietly. “It was just a dream. You’re okay.”

“Not me,” Adrian says thickly. “You. It was—it was the day you got shot, baby, all over again. I couldn’t do anything—I saw you hit the ground and there was so much blood and I couldn’t—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

“Stop that,” you shush him. After a quiet moment, you ask, “Do you dream about that day a lot?”

Adrian doesn’t answer. You sit up a little, prop yourself up on his chest, and brush sweaty curls off his forehead.

“Okay,” you say. “We don’t have to talk about it now.” You start to roll off of him, and he clings to you in a panic.

“No—stay—”

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

You roll onto your back, guiding Adrian to curl around you, pulling his head down to rest on your chest. 

“Go back to sleep, baby,” you say, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around you like a teddy bear.

He tells himself he will, after you fall back asleep. Once he feels your breathing even out. But he stays awake the rest of the night, anxious, just listening to the steady thump of your heart echoing against his ear.

Adrian had promised you yesterday that he would back off after this mission. Get this protective anxiety out of his system. As he sits there, in the dark, he thinks that maybe that promise won’t be so easy for him to keep.

Adrian wakes up the next morning with you still draped over him, a comforting, calming weight. He’d drifted off eventually, into a half-sleep, and now he blinks awake, the world a little blurry without his glasses as he looks down at you, using his chest as a pillow, hugging him like a stuffed animal. He’s warm and soft and comfortable and he does not want to get out of bed and face the world.

He glances at the clock on the nightstand. 6 a.m. His chest tightens.

He leaves in six hours.

When he looks back down at you, you’re looking right at him, and he forces a smile, pulling you up to his mouth for a messy morning kiss.

“Your hair is a fucking disaster,” you observe, amused, lifting a hand up to tug at the little curly tufts that are sticking up every which way. “I didn’t realize you had such bad bed head.”

“I regret to inform you, there are a lot of things about me that are a fucking disaster,” Adrian jokes, hands landing on your waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles. “You did, unfortunately, sign up for this shit.”

“Well, how about you go shower and fix that while I make some breakfast?” you suggest. 

Adrian’s grip tightens on your waist. He doesn’t want that. 

The idea of spending even twenty minutes apart from you today, when the clock is winding down, when he is going to have to leave for a week, makes him feel anxiously possessive in a way that he hasn’t felt since—since he watched you walk away from him, that night at Chris’s trailer after the other Alpha ordered you to go home, when he was deep in his rut, when he needed you and couldn’t have you. It’s an irrational kind of panic, but he feels right now like if he lets you go, he’ll never see you again.

He can’t explain all that to you without sounding insane. Like some possessive, overbearing asshole. So he just clears his throat, and forces a smile, and says, “Come with me?”

You undress together, leaving your clothes on the edge of the bed, and you follow him into the bathroom wordlessly.

In the shower, he determinedly ignores the fact that this is the first time he’s seen you naked as you stand together beneath the stream of warm water, his arms wrapped around you from behind. He recalls the days you spent wrapped around him the same way while he worked on the Vigilante suit, the little kisses you would pepper on his neck, and he does the same now. You tilt your head for him, to give him better access, and he inhales deeply, hugging you tighter.

“Are you okay, baby?” you ask softly. “Still thinking about that nightmare?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Just. Gonna miss you.”

“I’m gonna miss you too. You’re lucky, you have a big fancy mission to distract you. I’ll stay as busy as I can with work, but I’ll probably have to take things a little easier this week, once I’m in preheat.”

“You’re absolutely sure that it’s okay for me to go?” he checks, even though he’s already asked you a dozen times. He doesn’t feel good about leaving you so close to your heat. “I can ask Judomaster to go instead—”

That he’s even offering tells you how anxious he is. Adrian loves going on missions, and he loves going on missions with Chris, and he complains for days when Judomaster gets to work with his best friend instead of him.

“I know myself. I know my body,” you tell him. “If I felt like I needed you to stay, I promise you, I would tell you. You’re only gonna be gone for a week. I’m not due for ten days.”

It still seems like cutting things too close for comfort, in Adrian’s eyes.

“I just don’t want you to suffer,” he says, quiet and concerned. When you turn around to meet his gaze, you know he’s thinking about his own rut. The sweaty, sleepless nights, the cramps, the agony.

“It’s not so bad. Remember, baby, you just had your first rut,” you say. “They should get easier, now. I won’t be in as much pain as you were.”

“No,” he says firmly. “Because I’m going to be there, to help you.”

“I also have a decade and a half of experience under my belt,” you point out. “I know what works for me. How to cope with it. Four times a year, like clockwork.” You smile wryly. “Except that one time you threw me off schedule.”

“You’ve been with other Alphas before,” Adrian says. He says it like a question, but it isn’t, not really. He knows you have.

“You really want to talk about that right now?” you ask with a raised eyebrow.

“No,” Adrian grumbles as he turns off the shower, both of you clean and refreshed for the morning.

“There haven’t been that many, anyway,” you say, wrapping yourself in a towel and then brushing a hand through his wet hair. He hums at your gentle touch. “It’s hard to know that they won’t…take advantage. It was only ever people I trusted. And only when it was a particularly bad cycle.”

“Take advantage?”

“Mark me,” you explain. “When I didn’t want them to.”

Unexpected, possessive anger surges in Adrian’s chest when he remembers that there are shitty Alphas in the world who won’t take no for an answer. He looks at your neck and imagines seeing the shiny, silvery mark of someone else’s bite marring the smooth skin, and he growls.

“That’s so fucked up,” he says, his voice low and fierce. “That anyone would—you’re mine—”

“And you’re mine,” you say simply. “And soon, everyone—even strangers on the street—will know that.” Adrian shivers when you lean forward and press a gentle kiss to the skin at the juncture of his neck, right where you’ll sink your teeth in when the time is right.

He mirrors you, rubbing his cheek against yours, mingling his scent with yours on your skin. It’s wishful thinking that it will linger for the whole ten days that he’s gone. But he can mark his territory for now, he thinks, as he kisses your neck, sucking a bruise into the skin there. It’s not a bite mark, but it’s something. Something that will linger for a few days, at least. You laugh.

“You are ridiculous,” you say, and he smiles.

“Can’t let you forget about me while I’m gone,” he tries to tease, but it comes out smaller than usual.

“I could never,” you whisper. If you said it any louder, your voice would wobble.

The air in the bathroom is thick with steam from the hot water of the shower. But it’s thick with the scent of arousal, too.

“I want you,” you say, stepping forward, trailing your palms up Adrian’s bare, damp chest.

“You know I want you,” Adrian says nervously, reaching up to hold your hands there, firm, against his pecs. He watches a drop of water drip down from your hair, trailing down between your breasts, disappearing beneath the towel wrapped around your body. “I want you so much. I always want you.”

“I want you now,” you say.

“Are you sure?” Adrian can feel his heart pounding against his chest. With your hand sitting there, right above it, you can probably feel it too.

“I’m sure.”

Thank god, he thinks, as he guides your wrists up and around his neck and stoops low to pick you up. He carries you like you’re something special, breakable, precious. Every step is careful with you cradled in his arms. When he sets you down on the mattress, and you let the towel fall away, he can forget, for a minute, about everything else, because all that matters is this moment with you.

He kisses you, and he’s just too goddamn happy to be anything but sloppy and enthusiastic. You giggle as his kisses trail to your cheeks, your forehead, your chin, and it makes him feel even lighter, the way you laugh.

“Are you sure?” you check, and Adrian looks at you with bewilderment.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I just know you’ve never—now that you’re an Alpha. It can be a lot. We can wait, if you want.”

“I’m done waiting,” he says, firm and determined. “I’ve been waiting for years.”

He starts kissing your face again, down your neck, until his tongue is circling one nipple, and you groan. But just as his hand drifts down toward your core, trailing over the soft skin of your belly, he has a fleeting thought and pauses.

“Wait—um,” he says awkwardly. “I don’t have, like. Condoms? And I know we have not talked at all about—pups. But I’m assuming that even if—even if we did. Now is not a good time—”

You giggle. “You really didn’t pay attention to Alpha sex ed in school, did you?”

Adrian flushes a little. “No.”

“Even if you did have condoms,” you explain carefully, “they would probably break. From your knot.”

“Oh,” Adrian says, growing even redder. “So—what—Omegas are like, really fertile, aren’t you? What do we—”

“I’m on birth control. I’ve got an implant.” You bite your lip. “And you’re right. We haven’t talked about it. But if you wanted—one day. We could.”

You’re the one lying beneath him, but somehow, he feels like he’s the more vulnerable one right now. His heart feels like it’s beating outside his chest, and your words make him feel like you’ve reached out and touched it, setting him alight like a live wire.

“You would want that?” he asks hoarsely. “With me?”

“I want everything with you,” you say, eyes shining. “Alpha.”

Adrian surges forward and captures your lips with his, his broad frame pushing you down deeper into the mattress, and you gasp into a groan when his hips come flush with yours and you can feel the evidence of his desire pressing heavy on your thigh. Your legs fall open to welcome him closer, and you reach low, taking his cock in your hand.

His eyes flutter shut and his head falls forward to your chest, your other hand coming up to run through his hair and hold him in place as he goes back to pressing mindless kisses to the sensitive bare skin of your breasts. You stroke him, squeezing gently, and he thinks, suddenly, back to his rut. When he was thrusting against a pillow, or into his own hand, imagining, wishing it was you instead.

He doesn’t have to imagine anymore. Now the real thing is right here in front of him and he’s so swept up in you he’s not sure he’ll ever come back.

Your touch is soft and sleepy and warm, and it’s almost enough to make him forget everything else for a while—how much he needs you, how long he’s waited for this moment, how much he’ll miss you while he’s gone. He’ll think about this every day, your warm hand wrapped around his cock, pumping, lips brushing against his ear as you whisper praises.

When Adrian touches you, you’re already slick and eager, ready for him, but he pushes two testing fingers through your folds anyway, dipping inside you where you’re wet and warm, listening to the gasps of pleasure you make. That alone is almost enough to make him cum.

“Just—” you gasp. “Fuck, Adrian. Skip the fucking foreplay. I’ve been waiting for this for weeks.”

“I don’t want to hurt you—”

“You’re not going to hurt me,” you insist, hitching your legs around his waist, letting his cock drag through your wetness, whimpering when the head bumps at your clit. “Please, Alpha—”

“Fuck,” Adrian says, because he can’t stand to hear you beg like that. He could never say no to you. He caves instantly, notching himself at your entrance and pushing in, trying to keep his breathing steady as he’s swallowed by your warmth. 

You hiss out a breath at the stretch of him, spreading your legs wider. A pleased hum reverberates through your chest when he gives a testing, shallow thrust, and it hits you in all the right places.

“So good, baby,” you whisper. “You make me feel so good.”

Even as you say it, you’re touching him in return in ways that he’s only ever dreamed about before, your nails digging into his shoulders, heels pushing into his back, pulling him in closer, deeper. He wants more. He wants you to touch him everywhere, to leave traces of yourself on every single part of his body. Until you’re a permanent part of him, until he’s a permanent part of you, until leaving you behind for a mission doesn’t feel like leaving himself behind.

Adrian’s mouth trails over you in return—your neck, your chest, your arms, your face. He wants to leave his scent behind. He wants you to smell like him even when he’s not around this week. He wants any Alpha that sees you on the street to know that you’re taken, to know that you’re his.

It’s that thought that spurs his movement, quick, deep thrusts that makes you whine. You shift your hips to meet his, and then there’s nothing but the sound of skin on skin, of heavy mingled breaths, as Adrian ruts into you.

As your head falls back, his eyes latch on to your neck, and he feels it. The way his teeth are itching to bite into the juncture of your neck. He wants it so bad, his instinct is telling him to just do it, but—now is not the time. He grits his teeth, looks away, down at his own arm, which he’s using to prop himself up over you as he plunges into you, feeling the knot growing at the base of his cock. 

“Oh,” you gasp, as you feel it too, starting to catch at your entrance as he moves. “Want—want your knot, please, fuck, want it so bad, Adrian, fuck.”

“Whatever you want,” he chokes, watching you take him with fascination. “All of me, you have—all of me.”

A moment later, he feels you flutter around him, and your mouth falls open, drawing his eyes again to your neck, where he can see the furiously beating pulse. The urge to mark you roars inside him.

He thinks for a split second about biting into the skin of his own hand instead, just to satisfy the urge, until his eyes fall on the crumpled ball of your underwear lying on the bed next to him.

He shoves it in his mouth with a growl and bites down on the fabric as his knot finally catches. It’s nothing like biting down into your skin, but the taste of you still coats his tongue, and it sends him over the edge himself as he comes with a muffled groan.

For a moment afterward, you’re both quiet. He lets more of his weight rest on top of you, lets himself hold you tight. He closes his eyes and tries to commit the feeling to memory. He wants this to be the thing that lasts, the thing he dreams about while he’s gone. Not the nightmares of your cold body, drenched in blood. But the good dreams, holding you like this, alive and happy and so in love he can’t take it.

“You okay, baby?” you ask him after a minute. He feels your lips on his cheek, and he smiles around your underwear. You furrow your brow as you reach up and pluck them out of his mouth.

“Why are you eating my underwear, you fucking weirdo?”

“Because I really wanted to bite you,” Adrian says. “And this was a good alternative.” 

“I wouldn’t have minded if you did,” you whisper, fishing the fabric in your hand.

He grins and kisses you as he steals them back out of your hand. “I’m keeping them.”

“Wha–why—”

“Because they smell like you and they taste like you—”

“That is so fucking weird. If I wasn’t in love with you that would be so creepy.”

“But you are in love with me,” he says smugly. “And I don’t care if it’s creepy. I’m keeping them.”

“If you take my panties on this mission and Chris sees them, I will kill you. No matter how in love with you I am.”

Adrian sobers a bit at the reminder that he’s leaving. He glances at the clock on the nightstand.

“You’ll call me?” he asks. You don’t even get annoyed with him, even though he’s asked the question half a dozen times in the last two days.

“Every day.”

“And if your heat comes early—”

“I’ll call you,” you say softly. You frown, brushing his hair out of his face with both hands, trailing your palms down the front of his chest, letting yourself touch him because you know you’ll be starved of it for a while after this. “I’m going to be okay, Adrian. You are the one going out to do dangerous shit.”

“I do dangerous shit all the time,” Adrian says lightly. “I’m pretty good at it.”

“I know you are.”

“A week is a long time,” he whispers, like if he says it too loud, it will grow even longer.

“We have survived worse things than a week apart,” you say. “But no matter how long you’re gone, you’re stuck with me. I’m not letting you go that easy.”

“Literally,” Adrian jokes, shifting his hips, almost laughing at the way you move helplessly with him, knotted together.

You roll your eyes. “You are such a dork.”

“Your dork.”

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