#alpha!soldat

5:07 AM.

The sky hasn't decided yet whether it's going to dawn or surrender back to night. It’s that liminal hour when the city just stops, too late for the night crowd, and too early for the commuters. Just the street cleaners, the delivery trucks, and the bakers finishing their shifts.

She pulls her jacket tighter against the October chill and starts walking.

Twelve blocks, it’s not far. Close enough that she doesn't need the subway, but far enough that her legs feel it after eight hours on her feet, kneading dough. Her shoulders ache. Her lower back protests. She smells like the industrial-strength flour that gets into everything, no matter how many times she washes her hands.

She doesn't see him.

But he's there.

----

Three rooftops back, tracking her with the concentration it would use on a target: eyes cataloging her gait, her route, the way she favors her right leg slightly after a long shift. But this isn't a mission. There’s no handler voice in its ear telling it where to go, what to do, or who to eliminate.

Just her scent in the air.

Brown sugar and yeast, yes, but underneath that… omega. Warm and sweet and something that makes Soldat's chest constrict in a way that has no name, no designation, no mission-relevant purpose.

It doesn't understand why it's following her.

Can't articulate the drive that pulled it off its assigned route many nights ago, and keeps pulling it back to the alley behind the bakery, to the vent that breathes her scent into the dark.

It still has things to do that don't include stalking an omega through pre-dawn streets like something hungry.

But it can't stop.

Has tried. Twice. Completed the mission and returned to wait for new orders. And both times, it found itself an excuse to be back in that alley at 3:47 AM when the oven is hot, and her scent filters through the vent.

Omega. Mine.

The thought comes from somewhere deep. Some base-level recognition that bypasses protocol and conditioning, and makes Soldat's hands shake.

She turns the corner onto a quieter street.

Residential. Old brownstones with iron railings and window boxes that haven't been tended in years. It drops from the rooftop to a fire escape -silent, controlled- and continues tracking her from the shadows.

It shouldn't be doing this.

Knows it shouldn't.

Handlers aren’t here. It chastises itself.

There's no debrief scheduled for today. No extraction team waiting.

Only her scent on the wind.

----

Her building is old. Pre-war, maybe. Brick facade with a fire escape that's seen better decades. She lets herself in through the front door -no doorman, it notes, filing it away in the part of its brain that still calculates threat assessments- and disappears into the stairwell.

It waits sixty seconds.

Counts them, precisely. Giving her time to reach her floor, -the one that smells like her- to unlock her door, to be safely inside before-

Before what?

Soldat doesn't know.

Doesn't have a plan. Just the pull in its body that screams closer and the scent memory that's been driving it slowly insane for days.

It should leave, but it's already moving. Not toward the front door, but toward the fire escape.

Metal fingers find purchase first on iron rungs worn smooth by decades of weather. It climbs silently, the thing barely creaks under its weight because it knows exactly where to place its feet, how to distribute the load.

It moves up the side of the building like water flowing upward. Silent and inevitable to the second floor.

Her window faces the alley, so it crouches on the fire escape landing, perfectly still, and watches her shrugging off her jacket and draping it over the back of a chair, toeing off her shoes, and leaving them by the door.

It’s a small apartment, a studio layout, its mind automatically catalogs. Kitchen area, living space, bathroom door, and a bed in the corner.

She moves through the space and opens the fridge -light spills out, illuminating her for three seconds- grabs a bottle of juice. Drinks. Sets it down.

And pulls her shirt over her head.

Soldat's breath stops.

It can see skin it has no right to look at, and it can't make itself turn away. Can't make itself leave, like every remaining protocol says it should.

Because she's just there. Right there, separated from it by a pane of glass and ten feet of air, and the seventy years of conditioning that says don't want, don't need, don't feel.

But Soldat is feeling.

Chest tight, breathing uneven. Cock still hard. Has been hard since it caught her slick-scent through the bakery vent two hours ago, an ache it doesn't remember ever experiencing before.

And it wants.

She disappears further into the apartment.

A door closes. The bathroom, its mind supplies automatically. It hears water running through the pipes. Shower.

Every instruction it has left says to disengage now. Report the issue, because that's what this is, isn't it? An issue.

It isn't supposed to follow civilians home. Isn't supposed to be crouched on a fire escape at 5 AM watching an omega through her window like something feral.

Its hand moves to the window ledge.

Testing.

The old wood is swollen with moisture. The latch is visible through the gap in the curtains, a simple mechanism, not designed to keep out anyone who actually wants in.

Don't.

Its other hand goes to the knife at its thigh.

Leave. Disengage. Return to base.

But it's already moving.

The blade slides between the window and the frame. Simple leverage. The latch gives with barely a click, the wood is too old, and the mechanism is too worn to provide real resistance.

The window slides up smoothly, and the scent-

Fuck.

It escapes out of the open window like a physical thing. Concentrated. Undiluted. Brown sugar, yeast, and omega, coating the inside of its mouth, taking root inside its lungs.

Soldat is inside before really processing it.

The window slides shut behind it, and he just stands there, surrounded by her scent.

The shower is still running. It can hear it through the bathroom door. Can picture her under the spray, water running over skin it saw for three seconds and can't stop thinking about.

Its cock throbs.

Insistent. Painful. It looks down at the bulge behind its pants like it belongs to someone else, like it's a malfunction rather than proof that the drugs are failing, have been failing, because the body knows she's its.

It is biological, absolute, and completely outside of its control.

It crosses to the other window -the one that faces the living area, opposite the bathroom- and sits down on the sill.

It doesn't hide. Doesn't try to blend into shadows or position itself tactically, just waits.

Because she needs to see it. Some part of it that isn't entirely a weapon understands that surprising her, cornering her in the bathroom, or grabbing her when she's vulnerable, would be wrong.

Would make her afraid.

And it doesn't want her afraid.

Wants-

It doesn't know what it wants. Just knows it's going to wait right here until she comes out.

The water cuts off.

Its breathing goes shallow as it hears her moving around in the bathroom. A towel. The medicine cabinet opening and closing. Footsteps. The door handle turning, and finally, the door opening.

----

She steps out of the bathroom barefoot, wrapped in a towel, hair damp and dripping down her back.

And freezes.

Because a man is sitting in her window.

No, not a man. Something else. Something that makes every rational thought in her head go quiet, replaced by a single, primal recognition that bypasses her brain entirely and speaks directly to that omega part of her that had seemed dormant almost all her life.

Alpha.

He's engulfed in black. Tactical gear that looks military, maybe a mercenary, she doesn't know enough to tell the difference, just knows it's meant for violence. A polymer mask covers the lower half of his face as some kind of muzzle, and it should look wrong, should look like something out of a nightmare, but doesn't.

Above it, his eyes.

Blue. Pale, pale blue. The color of ice over deep water.

And they're locked on her.

Not looking. Locked. Fixed in a way that makes her instinct whisper predator even as her omega biology sings yes.

Black paint is smeared across the upper half of his face, crude, deliberately, the kind of thing meant to swallow the light and turn a man into a shadow. His hair hangs lank, brushing his shoulders, dark and tangled like it hasn't seen a brush in weeks. Maybe months.

And his left arm-

Metal.

Plates and articulated joints that catch the yellow light from her bedside lamp, silver and unmistakably not human. It rests on his thigh, fingers splayed, and she can see the micro-movements, the tiny recalibrations of servos and mechanisms that keep it alive.

She should scream.

She should run, lock herself back in the bathroom, call 911, something, anything other than just standing here dripping onto her floor in nothing but a towel that suddenly feels thinner than paper.

But her body doesn't respond with fight or flight.

It still responds with yes.

Because that scent, oh god, that scent.

It hits her fully now that she's out of the steam-thick bathroom. Leather worn soft with age. Gunmetal, cordite. And underneath it all, something alive and warm. Clean sweat, musk, cedar smoke, and a bass note she doesn't have a name for, but her body knows.

It's him.

The ghost she's been smelling through the bakery vent for days. The phantom that made her slick in the middle of a shift, made her hands shake while she shaped croissants, made her lie awake at night with her fingers between her legs chasing a release that never quite came because it wasn't him.

He's real.

He's in her apartment.

And some twisted, fucked-up part of her -the part that's never felt right with any alpha she's tried to want, the part that's been waiting for something she couldn't name- feels like he belongs here.

Her pulse hammers in her throat. She can feel it, hot and frantic, thudding against her scent gland. Her skin prickles with hyperawareness, the towel too rough against her nipples, and-

Oh no.

Oh no.

Warmth between her thighs. The telltale slick slide that means her body is already reacting, already preparing, already wanting in a way she's never felt with flesh-and-blood alphas who bought her drinks and asked politely and did everything right.

She's getting wet for a stranger sitting in her window like a bird of prey.

The shame of it burns, but not enough to stop it. Not enough to make her body listen to her brain's increasingly frantic commands to move, run, do something.

She hears him inhale and sees the way his entire body goes rigid.

Oh fuck.

He smells it.

----

It watches her freeze.

Sees the way her pupils blow wide, black swallowing the color until there's barely any left. Perceives the flutter of her pulse, rabbit-quick, omega-fragile. Sees the water droplets sliding down her collarbone, disappearing into the edge of the towel.

She hasn't screamed.

That's… weird. Civilians scream when it appears in their private rooms. They run. They freeze and shake, and sometimes they cry, but they don't just stand there staring at it like-

Her scent changes, and it takes it half a second to place it, and when it does, something in its brain fractures.

Slick.

It tenses.

That's not- omegas don't smell like that for it. Warm and sweet and wanting, with pheromones that pull at something on it, that the handlers said was fixed.

But it's surfacing now.

Clawing up from whatever dark place they tried to bury it, and it doesn't know what to do with it. It doesn't have a protocol for this. Just the overwhelming need to get closer, to bury its face in her throat and breathe.

Its cock throbs. Heavy, aching, trapped behind tactical fabric that suddenly feels painfully constricting.

It shifts slightly on the windowsill, trying to relieve the pressure, and the movement is clumsy. It doesn't know how to do this. Doesn't remember ever needing to.

Her eyes drop.

She's looking at the obvious bulge straining against black fabric, at the evidence of something it thought was dead.

She should be running.

Why isn't she running?

"How did you get in?" Her voice comes out steady. Not scared, or angry.

Like this is a normal question to ask a heavily-armed stranger sitting in her window at five in the morning.

It doesn't answer.

Doesn't know how to answer.

So it stands.

The movement is fluid and controlled because the body knows how to move smoothly even when the mind is fracturing.

She's still just standing there, still looking at it with those wide eyes, pupils blown. The towel is slipping slightly on one side, and it can see a droplet of water sliding down between her breasts, and its mouth goes dry.

It takes a step toward her.

Then another.

Her scent gets stronger with each foot of distance it closes. Thicker. Sweeter. The slick-smell underneath makes something in Soldat's alpha core growl with satisfaction because yes, omega wants, omega is ready-

No.

It doesn't think like that. Isn't supposed to think like that. Omegas are targets or obstacles or irrelevant sources of pain, not-

Another step.

She hasn't moved.

Hasn't backed up, hasn't reached for a makeshift weapon, hasn't done any of the things a smart person should do when a strange man invades her home.

Three more steps and it's close enough to feel the residual heat from her shower radiating off her damp skin. Close enough to see the way her chest is rising and falling too fast, shallow breaths that make the towel shift with each inhale.

Close enough to hear the slight hitch when it stops less than a foot away.

----

He is close enough that she can see the black paint smudged at his temple, the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow, the way his pupils have blown so wide the blue is almost gone.

Close enough to drown in his scent.

It's overwhelming this close, and her body responds like he's touching her even though there are still inches of space between them.

More slick. Warm and mortifying, sliding down her inner thighs beneath the towel.

She watches him scent the air, watches his pupils dilate even further -if that's even possible- watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

He knows exactly what her body is doing.

And some absolutely insane part of her is glad.

His metal hand comes up slowly, like he's giving her every chance to bolt, to scream, to do literally anything other than stand here and let him.

The hand hovers near her face.

Not touching. Just so close that she can see her reflection dancing in the fingers plates, warped and strange, and hear the whisper-quiet whir of mechanisms, as he holds it perfectly still.

Her heart is hammering so hard she's sure he can hear it, but she doesn't flinch.

Doesn't do any of the rational things a person should do when a stranger breaks into their home and reaches for their face with a metal hand that could probably crush her throat without effort.

Just stands there, meeting those burning blue eyes, her heart a war drum in her chest, and waits.

Because this feels…

Right.

Every alpha she's ever tried to force herself to want was just wrong. Wrong scent, wrong touch, wrong everything. Going through the correct actions because that's what omegas are supposed to do, supposed to crave, but her body never responded. Never wanted.

Until now.

A stranger in tactical gear with a metal arm and war paint, and her body is screaming yes louder than it's ever screamed anything in her life.

She watches his hand hover, and in defiance of every rational instinct, she takes a step forward. Closes those last six inches of space until the towel brushes against his thigh, and his scent completely surrounds her, drowns her, ruins her.

And reaches up.

Her fingers wrap around his metal wrist -still hovering, still waiting- and she guides it down, pressing that cold palm against her cheek.

----

She touches it, and Soldat furrows his brows.

Because no one touches the arm unless they have to. Handlers avoid it. Technicians maintain it with detachment. Targets flinch from it. Witnesses scream when they see it.

But she-

A sound is ripped out of it, low, subvocal, resonating in the hollow of its ribcage. It doesn't recognize it at first. Doesn't have a reference for the frequency, the pattern, or the way it seems to vibrate through its entire body.

Not a growl, not a snarl.

Something else.

Something the handlers never trained it for because alphas don't… alphas aren't supposed to-

Purr.

Soldat is purring.

It doesn't know how to stop.

Doesn't know if it wants to stop.

Because she's still touching the arm, still holding its wrist, and her eyes are closed now, her face tipped into the metal palm like she's seeking comfort from it.

From it.

The purr intensifies.

Its thumb moves -carefully, because the arm could hurt her so easily, and that thought makes something violent twist in its gut- and brushes along her cheekbone.

Her breath catches, and Soldat hears it, and wants to touch more.

Wants to map every inch of her body with both hands, with its mouth. Wants to bury its face in her throat and learn the exact composition of her scent. Wants to know what she tastes like. Wants to-

It hands grip her shoulders and pulls her closer, using the momentum to bend down and bury its face in the curve of her neck where the scent gland sits and inhales, or tries to.

Because the mask creates a barrier between its face and her skin. Only millimeters of separation, but it might as well be miles.

It’s not enough.

It presses closer, trying to get its nose flush against her throat, trying to eliminate even those few millimeters of distance.

But the rigid edge of the muzzle won't let it, and the frustration is maddening.

The sound that rips out of its throat is not a growl. Smaller than that. Sharper. Almost a whine, high and thwarted, vibrating through its chest in a way that makes it freeze because…

Because it doesn't make sounds like that.

It pulls back from her throat, hands still on her shoulders, and it stares down at the space between them like it's a tactical problem requiring assessment.

Remove it.

The thought surfaces clean and logical. A simple solution to a simple problem.

Its flesh hand releases her shoulder and lifts toward its own head. Fingers reaching for the straps at the back, close enough that it would only take a second, just release the catch, pull the strap free…

Then the hand stops, freezing mid-motion, and Soldat's jaw clenches beneath the muzzle.

The conditioning surfaces automatically and absolutely. Operational equipment stays on until a handler authorizes removal. The Soldat doesn't touch the gear. Doesn't adjust it. Doesn't remove it.

Waits for orders. Always waits for orders.

But there are no orders here.

No handler voice in its ear telling it what to do, what's permitted, what comes next.

Just the omega standing in front of it and the scent it can't reach, and the need clawing inside it like something trying to break out.

Its hand trembles. Actually trembles. Seventy years of conditioning screaming don't touch the equipment warring with the biological imperative howling get closer to omega.

She makes a sound.

Soft. Questioning. Her eyes watch the internal struggle in real time.

And it realizes, she can see it. The conflict, the frozen hand.

The Soldat's hand drops back onto her shoulder. It can't do this.

The frustration is physical. A tightness in its throat, a pressure behind its eyes, and the whine tries to surface again, but it swallows it down because it doesn’t want to show weakness to her, besides its uselessness.

The word surfaces bitter and cold.

Can't even take off its own gear. Can't function like anything other than a weapon waiting for orders that aren't coming.

----

She can see it in his eyes.

He wants the mask off. The way he's looking at the space between them with something that's not quite frustration, or confusion, but somewhere in between.

Trapped.

He's trapped by something she can't see. Some kind of rule he can't break, even though every line of his body is screaming that he wants to.

He's not going to take it off himself.

Can't, or won't, or has been trained so thoroughly not to that his hand literally won't complete the motion even though he's desperate for it.

And that… that's wrong. Whatever they did to him, whoever they are, it's wrong.

Her hands come up slowly, carefully, so he can see it coming.

She reaches past his shoulders, past his neck, finding the straps at the back of his head. Her fingers brush through his tangled hair, searching for the buckles hidden beneath.

"Can I?"

Her voice is barely a whisper. Rough with want and the absolute insanity of what she's doing, asking permission to unmask a stranger who broke into her apartment, like that's the wildest part of this situation.

But nothing about this makes sense, so why should this?

He nods, almost military in its precision.

And something in her chest aches at how strange that is, that he needs her help to remove something that's clearly bothering him. That he can't just do it himself.

She reaches up and carefully -so carefully- lifts it away.

The straps pull free from his hair. The contraption comes away from his face, and she can see the slight indentations it left on his skin, red marks where it pressed too tightly for too long.

How long has he been wearing this?

She doesn't ask.

Just holds the mask for a second, then drops it, and it hits the floor with a dull plastic thud that seems too loud in the quiet of her apartment.

For the first time, she sees his whole face.

Sharp jaw. Dry lips parted slightly as he drags in air like he's been holding his breath. A mouth that looks like it was made for smiling, except she doesn't think he remembers how. The black paint extends down past where the mask sat, smudged across his cheeks making his eyes look even more intense.

He's… beautiful. Devastatingly so.

Not pretty, not soft, but beautiful. All sharp edges and hard lines, and a vulnerability in his eyes that doesn't match the rest of him.

And he's staring at her like she's the only thing in the world that matters, like she just gave him something he didn't know he needed.

The moment the mask leaves his face, he moves.

Fast, faster than she can track, his face buries into the curve of her throat, and the sound he makes is wrecked.

A shuddering inhale that she feels all the way down between her thighs. His nose is pressed directly against her scent gland now, nothing between them, and his whole body goes rigid against hers.

Then he breathes her in again, deep and desperate, and the groan he makes is so raw it makes her knees weak.

She feels his lips part, and the wet heat of his tongue dragging directly over her scent gland, tasting her, and her vision goes white for a second.

Her head tips back.

Automatic. Instinctive. Omega nature taking over and offering her throat to an alpha she doesn't even know, and she should be terrified of how right this feels.

But she's not.

He licks her again, slower this time, deliberately, learning her taste. Then his mouth seals over the gland, and he sucks.

The sound she makes is high and breathy and omega, and she feels it, feels her knees give out, feels her body go liquid and pliant.

He catches her.

The metal arm bands around her waist instantly, hauling her up and pinning her against him so her feet barely touch the floor. She's pressed against tactical gear and body armor and all that heat radiating off his body, and the towel-

The towel is gone.

She doesn't know when it fell. Doesn't care. Can't think past the way his mouth is working her throat, licking, sucking, the scrape of teeth that makes her gasp and arch into him.

He's hard.

She can feel it against her hip, thick and insistent even through the clothing, and he's grinding into her like he can't help himself. Like his hips are moving on pure instinct, chasing friction and relief and something he doesn't have words for.

The purr is still going.

That deep, subvocal vibration she can feel everywhere they're touching: his chest against hers, his arm around her waist, his face in her throat.

Wrong, some distant part of her brain whispers. Alphas don't purr.

But he is.

And it's the most beautiful thing she's ever felt.

She tilts her head back further, giving him more access, and the noise he makes in response is purely animal. Grateful and starving and so far gone she knows -knows- that something is deeply wrong with him.

Not wrong like dangerous.

Wrong like broken.

The way he touches her is frantic but not cruel, demanding but not bruising, desperate but not violent. Like he's running on instinct with no learned behavior, no finesse. Just need, confusion, and the desperate drive to get closer.

His flesh hand grips her thigh and lifts, hitching her leg up around his hip and pressing in hard, grinding his erection against where she's slick and open and aching, and the pressure makes her whimper.

He pulls back just enough to look at her.

His eyes are wild. Just thin rings of ice around bottomless black. His lips are wet, the black paint smudged where his face was pressed into her throat. He's panting like he just ran miles, and she can see it-

The confusion.

The need.

The absolute terror of not understanding what's happening to him. He doesn't know what he's doing, what he seeks.

But she wants to pull him down to her bed and let him figure it out. Wants to guide those shaking hands, wants to teach him what touch can feel like. Wants to watch him come apart with her name on his lips, except she doesn't even know his name and-

"Please."

The word falls out of her mouth. Barely a whisper. Rough and desperate, and she doesn't even know what she's asking for.

But he seems to understand.

----

Please.

The omega says it like a prayer, and something in Soldat's mind just shatters. Because she's asking. Begging. Not for it to stop, not for it to leave her alone, but for more.

Her scent is everywhere. On its tongue, in its nose, soaking into its skin through the tactical gear. Brown sugar and yeast, and that salt undertone that makes its alpha instinct groan mine, omega, MINE.

Her leg is wrapped around its hip. Her body is bare and warm and pressed against it, and it can smell how wet she is, and its cock is so hard it hurts.

It feels pain. Real, physical pain, because it hasn't been hard in… it doesn't know how long. Doesn't remember what this feels like, this ache low in its belly, this pressure behind the zipper of its pants that won't go away no matter how it grinds against her.

And she's letting it.

Not just letting, she's arching into it, making those high breathy sounds that spike straight down Soldat's spine, and it doesn't know what to do.

It knows how to kill. Knows ten ways to incapacitate from this position. Knows where to put the knife, the bullet.

Doesn't know how to touch her without breaking her.

Its flesh hand is gripping her thigh too tightly. It can see its knuckles white with pressure, can calculate the exact force needed to bruise, and it tries to ease up, but can't make its fingers let go.

Because if it lets go, she might-

Soldat doesn't know what it's afraid of. That she'll run. That she'll stay. That this will end. That it won't.

Her hands come up.

Slide into its hair, tangling in the unwashed strands, and she pulls.

Not hard. Just enough to guide its face back to her throat, and it complies because it can't do anything else. Can't think past the need to have its mouth on her skin, to taste the scent gland again, to feel her pulse against its tongue.

It licks a stripe up her throat, tasting her, and the purr intensifies until its entire chest is vibrating with it.

She whimpers, and the sound goes straight to its leaking cock.

It doesn't know what it's doing. Just knows it needs to move, needs friction, needs something.

Its hips jerk forward, grinding the thick length behind its pants against her, and the heat there -wet and slick and ready- makes its vision blur.

Omega.

Wants.

Needs.

The thoughts don't form in words. Just primal drive, instinct clawing up from wherever they buried it. Its free hand -the metal one, careful, so careful- slides down her side. Traces her waist, her hip, until it reaches her thigh, the one not wrapped around him, and it grips, gentle as it knows how, which might not be gentle enough, and lifts.

Both her legs are now wrapped around its waist, her back against the wall, its both hands holding her up by her ass, and she's completely open against it now.

Nothing but its tactical pants between them. It can feel the slick soaking through, can smell it so thick in the air it's drowning everything else out.

It grinds forward.

The pressure makes her gasp -loud and sharp- and her nails dig into its shoulders through the vest.

Yes.

It does it again. Harder. Chasing the friction, the heat, the sounds she's making. Its hips move in a rhythm it doesn't remember learning, rutting against her like something feral.

She's saying something, but it can't process the words. Just the tone, breathy, desperate, wanting, and it's enough.

More than enough.

Its mouth finds her throat again. Finds the scent gland and bites. Not hard. Not breaking skin, just enough pressure to make her feel it, to hold her, to-

Mark?

The thought surfaces sharp and alien. Soldat doesn't mark. Doesn't claim. It's not supposed to-

But its teeth are on her gland, and she's keening, high and sweet and surrendering, and its primal alpha nature is screaming YES, MINE, OMEGA, CLAIM-

No.

Can't.

Not allowed.

It doesn't know who decided that or why, just knows it's true. It can't bond her. Can't keep her.

But it can't let go either.

Can't stop grinding against her, can't stop purring, can't stop holding her against the wall like she's the only thing that matters in the world.

She pulls its hair again, forcing Soldat's face up, making it meet her eyes. And what it sees there is want, need. But also something else.

Understanding, maybe.

Like she can see the fracture and the confusion inside its head.

Her thumb brushes its cheekbone, smearing the black paint. Gentle in a way nothing has been with it in years.

"It's okay," she whispers.

And Soldat doesn't know what she means.

Doesn't know what's okay. This isn't okay, none of this is okay. It had broken into her home and put its hands on her, and she should be screaming and squirming but instead she's-

"It's okay," she says again, and her lips brush against it like she's afraid it might break.

Soldat freezes.

Her lips are warm. Soft. Moving gently against its mouth like she's asking a question, but it doesn't know how to answer, doesn't know what to do with its mouth except keep it closed, rigid, and unresponsive while she kisses it with a tenderness that disarms it.

She pulls back.

Just a fraction. Just enough to look at it, and Soldat can see the question in her eyes even though she doesn't ask it out loud.

Is this okay?

It doesn't know.

She kisses it again, slower this time. A soft press of lips, then another, feather-light brushes that make its breath hitch.

Her hands slide from its hair to cup its face -cradling it between her palms like it's something precious- and she kisses the corner of its mouth. Its jaw. The edge of its lips again.

Patiently, like she has all the time in the world.

Like she's not pinned against a wall, held up by its hands under her ass, legs wrapped around its waist while completely naked.

Soldat's brain tries to process this, but her tongue flicks out. Just barely. A soft, wet touch against its bottom lip that sends electricity straight down its spine.

The sensation is-

Soldat doesn't have a reference for it.

Its breath catches. Actually stutters in its chest because no one has ever done that to him.

The tongue traces its bottom lip again, a little bolder this time, and something in Soldat's chest constricts. It's compelling, her mouth on its mouth. The promise of more if it just-

If it just takes it.

And something inside it just… snaps.

It surges forward, crushing its mouth against hers and takes.

Because it doesn't know how to do this softly. Doesn't know how to kiss like she was kissing it, all tenderness and patience. Just knows want and need and more, and its mouth opens against hers, demanding, claiming.

She gasps against its lips.

It swallows the sound. Licks into her mouth, tasting her -omega, sweet, mine- and her flavor explodes across its tongue like nothing it's ever experienced.

Its flesh hand comes up from her ass and grips the back of her head, fisting her damp hair and holds her still while it kisses her like it's starving.

She makes a sound, high and breathy, and Soldat growls.

Can't help it. The sound rumbles up from its chest, vibrating through the kiss, possessive and feral and alpha in a way it didn't know it still could be.

The metal arm under her ass flexes. Lifts her higher against the wall, adjusting the angle so it can kiss her harder, deeper, can tilt her head back with the hand in her hair and devour her mouth.

She whimpers into the kiss and her hips roll, grinding down against where Soldat's cock is straining behind its zipper, and the friction -fuck, the friction-makes its hips jerk forward on instinct.

It's still kissing her. Can't stop kissing her. Can't pull away even to breathe because breathing means not kissing, and that's unacceptable.

Its hips grind up. Her hips roll down. The rhythm builds between them, clumsy, desperate, uncoordinated, and it can feel her heat even through the tactical pants.

Slick. So much of it, soaking through the fabric.

For it.

It tears its mouth away from hers just long enough to breathe -one harsh gasp-and then it's dragging its lips down her jaw, her throat. Back to the scent gland that's calling to every broken alpha instinct it has left.

It bites down.

Harder than before. Still not breaking skin, but claiming the space, holding her throat between its teeth while she keens above it.

Her hands fist in its hair. Pull hard enough to hurt, but the pain is good. Grounds it. Keeps it tethered to this moment, this omega, this impossible thing that's happening.

Its metal arm shifts, adjusting its grip on her ass, fingers spreading wider, and it can smell everything. The heat. The slickness. How ready she is.

How much she wants.

Its hips are still grinding up against her in a rhythm that feels right, even though Soldat doesn't know why. Chasing pressure and friction, and the heat radiating from between her legs.

She's panting now. Harsh little gasps every time its hips thrust up, every time the thick length behind its pants grinds against where she's open and slick and wanting.

"Please-"

She says it again. Broken and desperate, and Soldat doesn't know what she's asking for, but it wants to give it to her.

Wants to give her everything.

Its mouth releases her throat. Licks over the mark its teeth left behind -soothing, claiming- and then finds her mouth again.

Kisses her hard. Deep. Swallowing her gasps and her whimpers while its hips grind up harder, faster, chasing something its body knows even if its mind doesn't.

The pressure is building, low in Soldat's belly, behind its cock. Something coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust, every slide of slick-heat against fabric, every sound she makes into its mouth.

It doesn't know what it is.

Just knows it's coming.

And it can't stop.

Can't stop moving, can't stop kissing her, can't stop needing-

Her teeth catch its bottom lip. Bite down just enough to sting, it snarls into her mouth.

Its metal hand grips.

Pulls her down harder against its shaft while its hips snap up, and the angle -fuck- the angle grinds the ridge of its cock directly against where she's hottest.

She cries out.

Breaks the kiss, head thrown back against the wall, and it can see the pleasure breaking across her face, can see her eyes roll back, can feel her thighs shaking around its waist.

Beautiful.

She's beautiful.

And Soldat is-

It's-

The pressure peaks.

Crests like a wave, and Soldat doesn't know what's happening, but it can't stop, can't do anything but grind up into her one more time, hard and desperate and-

Everything goes white.

----

She feels him go rigid against her, and then-

He makes a sound.

Low and guttural and broken, muffled against her throat where his face is buried now, and she feels it, feels him shuddering against her, feels the rhythmic pulse against her hip even through his pants.

Oh.

He just-

Her brain catches up a second too late, pleasure still sparking through her nerve endings from the way he was grinding against her, the perfect pressure against her clit, the desperate rhythm that had her right on the edge-

But he got there first.

And something in her breaks with something tender and possessive and achingly sad all at once.

Because this -this desperate, uncontrolled response- tells her everything she needs to know about how touch-starved he is, coming from friction alone.

Her alpha came untouched, shaking against her, and the intimacy of that moment makes her throat tight. And somehow she is glad her body, her scent, was enough to make him lose control so completely, that could give him this.

Even if she's still aching. Still empty. Still wet and wanting and so close to the edge she could cry.

The purr has stuttered into something irregular, broken, almost pained. And her omega instincts surge.

Protect. Soothe. Comfort.

Her hands move on instinct, one sliding into his hair, the other pressing flat against his chest, where she can feel his heart racing like a war drum.

His grip on her hasn't loosened.

Still holding her up, metal arm banded under her ass, flesh hand fisted in her hair at the nape of her neck. Still pressing her into the wall like she's the only solid thing in his world.

He's not moving.

He’s just frozen there, face buried in her throat, breathing hard and ragged against her skin. She can feel the wetness between them, his release soaking through his pants, merging with her slick, warm where their hips are still pressed together.

And he hasn't let go.

Won't let go.

She can feel it in the tension of his body, the way his fingers are still fisted in her hair, the trembling in his flesh hand that suggests he's fighting every instinct to squeeze tighter, hold harder, never release.

Like he's terrified she'll disappear if he loosens his grip even a fraction.

"Hey," she whispers, and her voice comes out… wrecked.

"Hey, it's okay."

She doesn't know if she's talking to him or herself.

Doesn't know what she's reassuring him of. That coming like this is okay? That she's not disgusted? That she's not going anywhere?

All of it, maybe.

She feels his face shift against her throat. A tiny movement, his nose dragging along her scent gland like he's seeking reassurance in her smell.

And her heart just-

Breaks.

Breaks for this broken alpha who doesn't even know how to accept comfort without making it into something instinctive and biological.

His breathing doesn't even out. If anything, it gets worse. Harsher. Like he's trying to pull himself together and failing.

And she notices it, the alpha shame. Of losing control. Of being weak. Of needing.

"Alpha," she says, and she's surprised by how steady her voice comes out. How sure. "It's okay. You're okay."

She doesn't know if he understands words right now -doesn't know how much of him is even there behind those pale eyes- but shesays it anyway.

Like she can make it true just by believing it hard enough.

The purr is starting to even out now. Still irregular, but less jagged. And she can feel the exact moment something changes in him, when the shame starts to give way to something else.

His grip tightens fractionally. The hand in her hair flexes, and his face presses harder into her throat, and the sound he makes is low and rough and utterly possessive.

Mine, it says without words.

Omega. Mine. Not letting go.

And fuck, she wants to be his.

Her thighs are starting to shake from the position. Legs wrapped around his waist, all her weight held up by his arm, and she's not sure how long they've been like this, but her muscles are beginning to protest.

"Hey," she says softly. "You can… you can put me down if you want. I can grab a towel, clean up a bit-"

No.

He doesn't say it, just makes a sound -low, immediate, almost a growl- and his grip tightens on her.

Metal and flesh both, holding her closer instead of letting go, and his face presses harder into her throat like the suggestion of separation is physically painful.

She feels him shake his head.

Just once. Sharp and definitive.

Not letting go. Not putting her down. Not giving her space to clean up or think or do anything except stay right here, wrapped around him, her scent in his lungs.

"Okay," she whispers, and she doesn't know why she's surrendering so easily. Doesn't know why the word falls from her lips like a vow. "Okay, alpha. I'm not going anywhere."

And she… should probably be concerned about that reaction.

Should insist on disengaging, because they're both a mess, his release soaking through his pants, her slick coating her thighs and the fabric, the obscene mix of it smeared between them where their bodies are pressed together.

But the way he's holding her, the way his breathing is starting to change again. Getting heavier. Rougher. Not the ragged gasps from before but something else. Something deeper.

His scent shifts.

Sharpens.

She smells it even through her own arousal, through the mess between them, leather and gunmetal going darker, muskier, edged with something that makes her inner omega sit up and pay attention.

Alpha.

Not just alpha.

Rutting alpha.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

He's-

Before she can finish the thought, he moves.

Turns from the wall, carrying her like she weighs nothing, and crosses her small apartment in a couple of long strides. Her bed is right there -unmade, sheets still tangled from when she left for work yesterday- and he doesn't hesitate.

Just leans forward and deposits her on it. Not rough, but not gentle either. Without ceremony, she's suddenly on her back on the mattress, legs falling open, and he's standing over her, looking down with those pale blue eyes engulfed in blown pupils.

Somehow, she feels more naked now, exposed. Sprawled on the bed, thighs still shaking, slick coating her inner thighs and probably the sheets beneath her.

He can see all of it, and he's staring where she's open. Wet. Swollen. Still aching from how close she was before he came, before everything stopped.

His nostrils flare.

And the sound he makes is-

Feral.

----

The scent is everywhere.

Brown sugar and yeast and the slick of her arousal, but now it's mixed with the smell of Soldat's own release, and it's-

Obscene.

The word pops into its mind, and it's correct. The mix of their scents shouldn't blend like this, but it does, and it makes its inner alpha go absolutely feral with possessive satisfaction.

Soldat's cock is stirring again.

Shouldn't be possible. It just came, hard enough that it's still feeling the aftershocks, still wet and sensitive under its pants, but it doesn't matter.

Because she's there.

Spread out on the bed, and it can see it now. Can see the slick coating her inner thighs, can see how ready she is, can smell it thick and sweet and calling to every broken instinct it has.

It doesn't think.

Just drops to its knees beside the bed gracelessly, metal hand bracing on the mattress, flesh hand going straight to her thigh.

Gripping, spreading her wider.

She makes a sound -surprise, maybe, or arousal- but it barely registers. Can't hear anything past the rush of blood in its ears.

It needs to taste her.

Not the scent gland this time. Not her throat or her mouth or any of the places it's already learned.

Here.

Where her scent is strongest, purest, where she's slick and open and-

It buries its face between her thighs.

Fuck.

The word detonates in its head, sharp and visceral, because she tastes sweet, and salt. Omega.

Its tongue drags through her folds -clumsy, unpracticed, chasing the flavor- and she gasps under it. Her thighs try to close on reflex, but its hands are there, metal and flesh both, holding her open.

Keeping her spread while it licks.

Learning her. The texture, the taste, the way she's so wet the slick coats its tongue, slides down its throat.

It growls against her.

Can't help it. The sound vibrates through her core, possessive and hungry, and she whimpers. Soldat does it again.

Licks slower this time, more deliberate. Dragging its tongue from her entrance up to-

She jerks.

Hips bucking up, a sharp inhale, Soldat freezes.

There.

That spot. Small and swollen, and when its tongue brushes it again, she makes the sound again, high and broken.

Clit.

The word surfaces from somewhere. Detached. But Soldat doesn't need the terminology. Just needs to know that touching there makes her react like that.

Makes her want.

It seals its lips around it and sucks.

----

She screams.

Can't help it. Can't muffle it. The sensation rips through her body like lightning, his mouth on her clit, sucking hard and wet and perfect, and her back arches off the bed.

Her hands fly to his hair, fisting in the tangled strands, and she doesn't know if she's pulling him closer or trying to push him away because it's too much, too intense, she's already been on edge for-

His tongue circles her clit. Flicks over it. Then sucks again, and she can't breathe.

He's-

He's devouring her.

Face buried between her thighs like he's starving, like this is the only thing he wants in the world. His hands are holding her open, and she can feel his nose pressed against her mound, can feel the vibration of the sounds he's making.

Growls. Deep and continuous, rumbling through her core every time he licks, every time he tastes her.

He doesn't know what he's doing.

She can tell. The movements are enthusiastic but uncoordinated, chasing reactions without technique. Licking everywhere, tasting everything, like he's trying to map her by flavor alone.

But it works.

Because he's paying attention. Learning what makes her gasp, what makes her hips buck, what makes her pull his hair and whimper his-

She doesn't even know his name.

The thought penetrates through her pleasure-drunk brain and dissolves immediately because his tongue just found her entrance and pushes inside.

"Oh fuck!"

The curse rips out of her. His tongue is inside her, licking, and the sensation is so foreign and good and wet that her thighs start shaking again.

He groans against her.

The vibration travels straight through her core, and she can feel it, feel him tasting her from the inside, feel the way his tongue curls and explores like he's trying to drink every drop of slick.

And there's so much.

She's never been this wet in her life. Can feel it coating her thighs, soaking into the sheets, and he's lapping at it like it's the best thing he's ever tasted.

His metal hand shifts on her thigh.

Adjusts its grip, and then-

She feels it.

The cool press of metal against her entrance. One finger, articulated and precise, pressing in and stretching alongside his tongue.

"Alpha-"

The word escapes her lips. Desperate. Pleading. She doesn't even know what she's asking for.

But he seems to understand.

His tongue pulls out. The metal finger becomes two, and he pushes them in -slowly, carefully, letting her feel the drag- and she loses it.

----

Soldat can't stop.

Can't pull away from her taste, the slick coating its tongue, the way she's whimpering and pulling its hair and making sounds that go straight to its cock.

Which is impossibly hard again. Aching, still wet from before, and it starts grinding against the mattress without conscious thought. Seeking friction, seeking relief, but it's not enough.

The pants are too restrictive. The fabric cuts into its cock every time it thrusts forward, and it's wrong.

They’re in the way.

It pulls back from between her thighs -just for a second, just enough- and its hands go to its belt, ripping it open.

The buckle clatters, the tactical webbing falling away, and then it is yanking at the fly. Buttons, zipper, whatever, it doesn't care. Just needs them off, needs the pressure gone.

The pants and undergarment peel down over its hips, shoved down to mid-thigh, and-

It looks down.

Its cock is twitching, flushed, and still wet from its release, cum smeared along the length, sticky and cooling against overheated skin. The smell hits immediately: the musk of spent alpha mixed with her slick-sweet omega scent in the air.

Its lip curls.

Not in disgust. In something else. Something possessive and satisfied because that's their scent. Mixed. Merged.

But it's also… messy.

Soldat doesn't do messy. Doesn't-

A sound interrupts its thoughts.

Her.

Whimpering.

Its head snaps up.

----

She's staring.

Can't help it.

He's... fuck. He's big.

Still wet from coming in his pants, she can see it, the streaks of his release coating it, glistening with the light from her bedside lamp.

And the smell.

It makes fresh slick slide down her thighs, makes her body ache with want so visceral she can barely think past it. She needs-

But he's already moving.

Already turning back toward the bed, dropping his gaze to where she's sprawled on the mattress, legs still spread, and she can see the intent written clearly on his face.

He's going back down. Going to bury his face between her thighs again, taste her again, and-

Yes, his mouth felt incredible. The enthusiastic, uncoordinated desperation of it, the way he licked and sucked like he was starving.

But that's not what she needs right now. Not when he's right there, hard and ready, and she can smell how much he wants her.

"Wait-"

The word tumbles out before she can stop it. Desperate. Pleading.

"Alpha, wait-"

He freezes.

Mid-motion. One knee on the bed, hands reaching for her thighs, and those pale eyes snap up to meet hers.

She sees the confusion dance across his face.

And then-

His expression shutters.

Goes from open and needy to closed and determined in the space of a heartbeat, and his hands land on her thighs, metal and flesh both.

And the grip is different now.

Firmer. Restraining.

His fingers dig in -not painful, but unmistakably harder- and he pushes. Spreading her thighs wider, pinning them to the mattress, and the look in his eyes-

Oh no.

He thinks she's telling him to stop.

Thinks she's refusing, resisting, and his entire body language has changed into something that makes her inner omega sit up and take notice.

Dominant. Controlling. Alpha.

"No, I just-" she tries again, voice coming out shakier than she wants. "I want-"

But he's not listening.

His gaze drops back between her legs. Fixed. Focused. And his hands press down harder, holding her flat against the mattress.

The message is crystal clear:

Stay still. Let me.

And-

Fuck.

She whimpers.

Can't help it. Can't stop the sound that escapes her throat because the dominance in the gesture, the way he's pinning her open, the raw alpha energy radiating off him…

It should scare her.

Should send up every red flag about consent, control, and danger.

But it doesn't. It just makes her wetter.

Makes her body respond with a fresh gush of slick because, apparently, her omega brain thinks being held down by this strange alpha is the hottest thing that's ever happened to her.

But that's not what she wants, not right now.

She needs him inside her. Needs to feel that thick cock splitting her open, needs to be filled and claimed and bred, and if she doesn't get it soon, she's going to lose her mind.

She writhes.

Twisting in his grip. Not trying to escape, just trying to move, to shift position, to show him what she wants.

But his hands just tighten, holding her down more firmly, his shoulders settling into a posture that says he's not going to let her move until he's done with her.

Okay.

New strategy.

She stops fighting the pressure pushing her thighs down, and instead, she uses it. Let him think he's won, let her legs go slack in his grip for just a second-

And then she twists.

Hard. Fast. Using the slickness of her sweat and the slick coating on her thighs to slip out of his grip, throwing her weight sideways.

It catches him off guard.

His hands lose purchase for half a second -just half a second- but it's enough.

She rolls onto her stomach.

Scrambling. Hands planting on the mattress, knees pulling up under her, and-

His metal hand lands on her hip immediately.

Firm grip. Already trying to maneuver her, and she can feel his intent: he's going to flip her back over, get her on her back again so he can put his face between her legs and-

She doesn't let him.

Plants her knees wide. Braces her weight forward on her elbows. And arches her back, hard. Pushing her ass up and out, spine curving in a deep arch that puts everything on display.

Presenting herself.

The effect is immediate. His hands go still on her hips, and the pressure trying to flip her over just… stops.

She can feel him freeze behind her. Can feel his gaze locked on her body, on the position she's in.

And she knows what he's seeing.

Her on her knees. Back arched so deep it almost hurts. Ass high in the air, thighs spread wide.

Completely open. Completely vulnerable. Offering.

"Please," she gasps into the mattress.

Her voice is wrecked. Desperate. Shaking with need.

"Please, alpha-"

She reaches back, both hands sliding over her ass, down between her thighs, and-

She spreads herself open for him.

Fingers pulling her folds apart. Exposing her entrance, slick and clenching and empty. Exposing her clit, swollen and oversensitive. Exposing everything.

Desperate.

Obscene.

Begging.

"Please- I need- please-"

----

Soldat's brain shutdowns. Every thought fragments into white noise because she's-

Presenting?

The visual input hits its alpha instincts like a tactical nuke:

Omega. On her knees. Back arched. Ass up, and thighs spread wide, holding herself open.

Showing Soldat exactly where she wants it. Where she needs it.

Begging for it.

Omega wants.

Omega needs to be bred.

Again, the thoughts don't form in words. Just primal recognition slamming through its neural pathways with brutal, devastating clarity.

This is what the body was built for. This moment. This position.

And they tried to kill it.

Tried to suppress, chemically neuter, erase this entire drive from its system. Seventy years of injections and conditioning stomping down every breeding instinct, every mating urge, every biological imperative that makes an alpha alpha.

And it's all coming back now, roaring back to life with devastating, unstoppable force. The Soldat's cock throbs again. Hard. Aching.

And it can feel it, the need building like pressure behind a dam about to break.

Need to mount her.

Need to breed her.

Need to fill her and knot her and make her MINE.

It moves before processing the thought, crawling onto the bed. Knees hitting the mattress on either side of her thighs, bracketing her, caging her in.

One hand -metal- grips her hip. Servos engaging to hold her steady, hold her exactly in position. The other hand drops to its cock, wrapping around the base. The skin is oversensitive, still tender from coming so hard before, but it doesn't matter.

Nothing matters except getting inside her.

It lines up, dragging the head of its cock through her folds -so wet, so slick, coating the tip- and finding her entrance.

There.

The head presses against her opening, and it can feel the resistance, feel her body starting to yield, and-

She makes a begging sound.

Desperate. Pleading.

And something in the Soldat's chest snarls.

Possessive. Feral. Every remaining shred of control burned away under the weight of pure instinct.

Mine.

Omega is MINE.

Soldat's hips push forward. Not slow, or carefully. And the heat-

Fuck.

The word detonates somewhere in its fractured consciousness because the sensation is-

Overwhelming.

Tight. Hot. Perfect.

It can feel her body struggling to adjust. Feel the flutter of her walls around just the tip, trying to accommodate the intrusion.

And Soldat-

Soldat doesn't stop.

Can't stop.

Just pulls back half an inch and drives forward harder, forcing deeper. Splitting her open. Burying itself halfway with one brutal thrust and-

The sound she makes.

High. Broken. Somewhere between a scream and a sob.

----

She can't breathe.

The sensation of being split open, stretched in ways she's never experienced, is so overwhelming that her mind goes completely blank.

Her body is struggling to accommodate the thick intrusion forcing its way inside, and god, there's so much slick, she can feel it coating her thighs, easing the way, her omega body preparing itself to be mounted.

The pressure of being filled too fast, too much, has her walls relaxing and clenching around him, trying to adjust, trying to make room, and it's so much more than any toy she's ever used, more than any alpha she's been with.

Just those first few inches, and she already feels impossibly full.

Her hands fist in the sheets as a high, shocked sound rips from her throat. Not pain or discomfort, but raw, filthy pleasure because she didn't know it could feel like this.

Didn't know her body could stretch like this, yield like this, open like this for an alpha's cock. Didn't know being filled could feel so right that her inner omega is practically screaming yes, this, MORE.

He pulls back half an inch -barely anything- and she feels the drag of every ridge and vein, feels the way her body is gripping him desperately like it doesn't want to let go, trying to keep him inside where he belongs.

And then he slams forward, harder and deeper, burying himself halfway in one brutal thrust.

The cry that tears from her is ragged and wrecked because oh fuck, YES, the stretch is perfect. She can feel her body yielding and surrendering even as it struggles to accommodate the impossible slide of his thick cock forcing deeper, filling her in ways that make her inner omega purr with savage satisfaction.

Because this, this is what she's built for. This is what her body has been screaming for every time she's gone into heat alone, every time she's fucked herself on toys that were never enough, every time an alpha touched her and it felt wrong because they weren't him.

This fullness, this alpha mounting her and forcing her body to yield and open and take him, this is what she's been waiting for her entire life without knowing it.

And it feels so fucking good.

"Alpha-" The word spills from her lips, broken and desperate and drenched in need. Not a protest but pure, filthy appreciation because he's so deep already and she can feel him shuddering above her, can feel the trembling restraint in his grip, and she wants him to lose it. Wants him to stop holding back and just fuck her the way his instincts are demanding.

His grip on her hips tightens -metal fingers digging in, flesh hand trembling- and she knows he heard it, knows what that word does to him.

He makes a sound, low and possessive and feral, and then he moves.

Pulls back so she feels every devastating inch of the drag, that delicious friction against her inner walls that makes her gasp and clench around him, and then he slams back in harder, deeper, forcing the rest of the way in with one brutal thrust until she feels his hips flush against her ass.

And the feeling is-

Fuck.

It's everything.

He's everywhere -inside her, around her, the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress, the heat of his skin against her back, his cock buried so deep she swears she can feel him in her throat- and the sensation of being stretched around him, stuffed full of alpha cock, mounted and claimed is so intense and perfect and right that her vision goes almost white.

Her body clenches around him reflexively, her inner walls rippling and squeezing his length, trying to pull him impossibly deeper even though there's no more room for it to go, and she feels her arms give out , her back arching deeper, presenting herself even more, and she can't do anything except feel him filling her.

She needs more.

Needs him to move, to fuck her, to use her body exactly like his instincts are screaming at him to do. Needs to feel him pounding into her, rutting into her, like the desperate omega she apparently is.

"Please-" she gasps into the mattress, and her voice is absolutely wrecked. Desperate. Filthy. Her hand reaches back blindly, finds his wrist, and squeezes hard. "Move. Alpha, please-”

Because if he doesn't start moving soon, if he doesn't give her what her body is screaming for, she's going to lose her fucking mind.

----

Soldat snarls in response.

Move?

Her begging comes from somewhere deep, somewhere primal. And it wants to give it to her. Whatever she asks.

Wants to fuck her. Breed her. Claim her.

Now.

Its hips pull back slowly, dragging its cock almost all the way out, feeling every inch of tight omega heat clinging to it, trying to keep it inside.

And then it slams back in.

Hard.

The omega screams and moans, high and sharp, and the sound goes straight to its heavy balls, flipping every remaining switch from control to breed.

It doesn't know how to do this gently.

Doesn't have the reference. Doesn't have the capacity right now with her scent flooding its system, with the feel of her wrapped around its cock, with seventy years of chemical castration breaking apart under the weight of pure biological drive.

So it just fucks.

Pulls out and slams back in, setting a brutal rhythm immediately. Hips snapping forward, the slap of skin on skin is obscenely loud in the small apartment, and she's taking it.

Taking every thrust. Her body yielding even as it struggles to adjust, slick easing the way, and Soldat can feel it, feel her getting wetter, feel the way her walls are clenching around its cock.

Its metal hand tightens on her hip.

Servos whirring as it grips harder, using the leverage to pull her back into each thrust. Making the penetration deeper, harder, and-

The omega makes another sound. A different moan, long and low and completely debauched, and her forearms lower completely, as she presses her face into the mattress.

Surrendering.

Letting it use her.

Soldat snarls again.

Possessive. Feral. Its flesh hand releases her hip and moves to the back of her neck instead, gripping. Holding her down while its hips thrust faster, chasing something its body knows even if its mind doesn't.

She's whimpering into the mattress.

High, continuous sounds with each thrust, and Soldat can smell it, can smell her arousal spiking, can smell the way their scents are mixing where they're joined.

Omega slick and alpha musk and the wet, obscene sound of the fucking as it drives into her over and over and over.

Its cock is still sensitive. Every thrust sends sparks of almost-too-much up its spine, pleasure edging toward pain, but it doesn't matter. Can't stop. Won't stop.

Because she needs this.

It can tell. Can read it in the way she's pushing back into each thrust now, can hear it in the sounds she's making, can smell it in the way her scent keeps getting sweeter.

Omega needs to be fucked.

Needs to be bred.

And the Soldat is-

Soldat is going to-

No.

The thought surfaces sharp and cold. The Soldat can't. Isn't allowed to breed. The handlers said-

But there are no handlers.

Just instinct. Pure and brutal and clawing through its system, demanding it claim this omega, fill her, knot her-

Knot.

Soldat can feel it. The base of its cock starts to swell, pressure building with each thrust. It's going to lock inside her and-

And she's going to take it.

Its rhythm falters.

Just for a second. Uncertainty flickering through the haze of need because this is- this is too much. Once it knots her there's no taking it back, no undoing it, and-

She pushes back hard.

Takes its cock to the hilt and grinds, pressing her ass flush against its hips, and the whimper she makes is so desperate, so needy, that its brain just-

Breaks.

Fuck the handlers.

Fuck seventy years of suppression.

Soldat is going to knot his omega.

Its hand leaves her neck. Both hands go to her forearms, and it lifts her, pulling her up until her back is arched almost vertically, until she's on her knees with Soldat pressed against her back.

Changing the angle completely.

And then it drives in.

Deeper than before. So deep the omega sobs, and it can feel it, can feel the head of its cock hitting something that makes her whole body shake.

There.

The Soldat does it again.

Pulls almost all the way out and slams back in at that angle, and she cries out. Loud, uncontrolled, her thighs shaking, and it can smell the spike in her arousal.

Close.

She's close.

It can tell. Can read it in her body language, in her scent, in the way her walls are starting to tighten around its cock.

Soldat's rhythm turns brutal.

Fast and hard and deep, hitting that spot, chasing her orgasm because it needs -needs- to feel her come on its cock. Needs to feel her clench and shake and break while it fills her.

Its metal arm bands across her chest, holding her upright, holding her in place, while its flesh hand drops between her legs and finds her swollen clit.

The omega shrieks.

Hips bucking, body jerking in Soldat's hold, but it doesn't let go. Just keeps fucking into her, keeps its fingers on her clit -circling, pressing, rubbing- and she's sobbing now.

Incoherent. Desperate. Completely overwhelmed.

"Please- please- alpha, I'm-"

She doesn't finish the sentence.

Just shatters.

Soldat feels it. Feels her walls clamp down around its cock like a silken fist, feels her whole body go rigid and then shake, feels the gush of fresh slick as she comes hard.

And it-

It roars.

Can't stop it. Can't control the sound ripping out of its throat as its knot swells, expanding rapidly, locking them together as the orgasm hits it like a freight train.

White-hot. Devastating.

Its hips jerk forward one last time, burying its cock and knot as deep as physically possible, and then it's coming.

Spilling inside her. Filling her. Breeding her the way every broken instinct is screaming at it to do.

The omega is still shaking.

Still coming, her walls rippling around the knot, milking it, and Soldat can't think past the pleasure, past the overwhelming rightness of being locked inside her.

Mine.

Omega.

MINE.

The knot pulses. Once. Twice. Pumping more into her with each throb, and she's-

She's taking all of it.

It can feel it. Feel her body accepting everything it's giving, can smell the way their scents are completely merged now.

Inseparable.

Her legs are shaking. The only thing keeping it upright is the metal arm still banded across her chest, holding her against it. The flesh hand has fallen away from her clit, braced on the mattress instead, because Soldat's coordination is gone.

Just-

Gone.

Pleasure still rolling through it in waves, aftershocks making its cock pulse inside her, and she's-

She's making sounds. Small, whimpering. Not in distress. Something else.

Its face drops to her shoulder, nose finding her scent gland on instinct, and it breathes her in. Brown sugar and yeast and satisfied omega, and the purr starts again.

Deep. Subvocal. Vibrating through both their chests where they're pressed together.

The knot is still locked. Not going down anytime soon.

She's not fighting it or trying to pull away. She’s just leaning her weight against its chest, trusting it to hold her up.

And Soldat does.

Metal arm secured under her breasts, flesh hand moving from the mattress to her hip. Holding her. Supporting her. Keeping her upright while they're locked together.

It doesn't know how long this lasts, doesn't have a reference for how long a knot holds. Just knows it can't pull out even if it wanted to, which it doesn't.

Can't imagine wanting to leave the tight heat of her body. Can't imagine letting go.

The purr continues, steady now. Soothing. It doesn't know if it's trying to soothe her or itself. Maybe both.

Her head tilts.

Just slightly. Turning toward Soldat's face still pressed against her shoulder, and it can see her profile. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Face heated and damp with sweat.

Beautiful.

The word surfaces unbidden.

It has never called anything beautiful before, because it doesn't have the framework for aesthetic appreciation. But she's-

She is.

Especially like this. Fucked out and knotted and completely trusting it to hold her.

Its nose drags along her scent gland, taking her in, and she makes a soft sound -pleased, satisfied- tilting her head, giving it more access, and Soldat's purr deepens.

----

She can't feel her legs.

Can't feel much of anything except him. Inside her. Around her. The metal arm holding her upright. The purr vibrating through her chest. The knot stretching her so full that she can barely breathe.

And it's-

God, it's perfect.

She's never felt like this before.

Never felt so completely claimed. So utterly taken. Every alpha she's ever been with was… adequate.

But this-

This is different.

This is feral and desperate and completely uncontrolled, and somehow it's exactly what she needed without ever knowing she needed it.

She can feel his nose dragging along her scent gland, can feel the rumble of that impossible purr, and her inner omega is just-

Singing.

Satisfied in a way she's never experienced. Sated. Content.

Because he, her alpha-

She doesn't even know his name, and she's already thinking of him as hers.

The thought should probably scare her. Should send up red flags about bonding too fast with a stranger. But it doesn't.

Because this isn't fast.

This is inevitable.

Like every decision she's ever made led her here, to this moment, knotted and claimed by an alpha who broke into her apartment and looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth having.

His knot pulses inside her.

She feels it. The throb, the gush of warmth, and her body clenches around it automatically. Milking him. Taking everything he's giving, even though she's already so full it's almost too much.

Almost.

But not quite.

Because her body wants this. Wants to be filled. Wants to be bred. Every dormant omega instinct she had is purring in satisfaction.

Yes. This. Him. Finally.

She feels him shift behind her.

The metal arm around her tightens slightly, and then he's pulling her more upright, bringing her back flush against his chest. She's properly kneeling now, her back supported entirely by his body, and the angle change makes her gasp because the knot-

Fuck.

The knot feels even bigger like this. Deeper.

And his flesh hand-

It slides down.

Over her hip, her thigh, and then between her legs and cups her mound, covering where they're joined. Where his knot is stretching her, where the mess of their combined release is slick and obscene between her thighs.

His palm presses gently as his fingers spread to cover all of it, her, him, the evidence of what just happened.

The sound he makes against her shoulder is possessive. Satisfied. A low rumble that's half-purr, half-growl.

Mine, the gesture says.

Bred. Claimed. Marked. MINE.

And she whimpers.

Because yes.

Yes.

His.

Completely and utterly his.

His purring deepens.

Smug. Like he knows exactly what that sound means. Like he's pleased she's responding to his possessiveness instead of fighting it.

His face shifts against her shoulder, nuzzling deeper. His nose drags along the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, breathing her in like he can't get enough.

And then she feels his lips.

A kiss.

Soft. Tender. Pressed against her sweat-damp skin.

Then another. Along her shoulder. Gentle and reverent and completely at odds with the brutal way he just fucked her.

His teeth scrape. The edge of a nip that doesn't break skin, doesn't hurt, just makes her shiver.

Her hand comes up and reaches back -awkward angle, but she manages- and threads into his hair, combing through the tangled strands while he continues his exploration of her shoulder, her neck, every inch of skin he can reach from this position.

He makes a sound against her skin, and she can feel him settling.

The frantic energy bleeding out, the feral drive giving way to something gentler. Still possessive. Still intensely alpha, but softer.

His forehead comes to rest against the back of her neck.

The hand between her legs stays there, rubbing slowly, smearing their mess on her knotted entrance. A constant reminder of what they just did, what they are now.

The knot still pulses occasionally. She doesn't know how long this lasts -thirty minutes, an hour?- but she's not in a hurry, can't bring herself to care, not when he's holding her like this.

Not when every instinct she has is screaming mate.

True mate.

Hers.

She lets her eyes close.

Leans her head back against his shoulder and lets the metal arm support her weight, lets the purr lull her into a haze of satisfaction and safety.

And for the first time in her life, she feels complete.

Next Chapter

Omega!Reader, who catches it some days, a scent barely there, threaded under the flour and caramel. Metal and leather, and beneath that something warm. Clean sweat and musk and something unnameable that makes her hands still mid-fold, her pupils blow wide.

Omega!Reader, whose instincts scream at her to walk outside. To follow it. To find the source.

Omega!Reader, who doesn't. Omegas going into alleys at night was how news headlines started.

Omega!Reader, who keeps working, keeps ignoring it, until one day the wind shifts. The scent that slips through the vent isn't subtle anymore. It's unmistakable. Alpha. Raw and dark and something that makes her knees buckle.

Omega!Reader, whose body reacts before her mind catches up. Slick, warm, and unwanted, sliding down her inner thighs while she stands frozen at the prep counter, flour dusting her trembling hands.

Omega!Reader, who has never felt this with any alpha she's actually touched. But some phantom in an alley makes her body weep for it.

Omega!Reader, who goes to clean herself up in the bathroom, her pulse throbbing between her thighs.

Omega!Reader, who doesn't hear the drag of metal fingers against brick outside. Doesn't notice the change in the alpha's scent, sharper now, edged with something feral. It smells her slick, and the world narrows to that vent.

She wakes to weight and warmth.

His arm is still pressing around her waist, face still against her throat. The purr has faded to silence sometime during the night, but his breathing is deep and even. Peaceful in a way she suspects is rare for him.

She doesn't want to move, to disturb him.

But the sound of the traffic is entering through the window, the need to pee is not something she can ignore, and she can smell him, smoke, cheap soap, and the underlying scent of alpha that's been masked by everything else.

He needs a proper shower. Real soap. Clean clothes.

The thought of clothes makes her glance down at his naked form, tangled with her body in the sheets. She'd gotten him out of the tactical gear yesterday, but that's all he had. No change of clothes. No personal belongings. Just weapons, the suit, and… trauma.

One problem at a time.

She shifts carefully, trying to ease out from under him without waking him, but his arm tightens immediately around her.

"Alpha," she whispers. "I just need to get up for a minute."

His eyes open with instant alertness, like he goes from sleep to fully conscious in a heartbeat, and she can see the question in those pale blue eyes, even though he doesn't ask it.

Where are you going?

"Bathroom," she says softly. "I really need to go."

His arm loosens, and she slips out of bed. She can feel his eyes tracking her across the room, watchful, waiting for her to come back.

She does her business quickly, washes her hands, and when she comes back out, he's sitting up in bed. Back straight. Hands on his thighs. Watching the bathroom door like he's been waiting for her to reappear.

"Hey," she says softly, crossing back to the bed. "You okay?"

A stiff nod as an answer.

She sits on the edge of the mattress, close enough that her knee brushes his thigh. "I was thinking... you should take a shower. A real one. Get all that smoke and-" She gestures vaguely at him. "Everything else off."

He doesn't respond. Just looks at her with those unreadable pale eyes.

She tries again. "Would you like to-"

The tension in his shoulders increases fractionally, and she stops mid-sentence.

Right.

She remembers yesterday. The way he asked her to tell him what to do. The way he followed every instruction without question, like having someone make decisions for him, was a relief instead of an imposition.

She changes her approach.

"Alpha," she says, her voice firmer now. Not harsh, but directive. "I need you to take a shower. I need to smell you, not all this other stuff covering your scent. It would make me feel better."

The change is immediate.

His shoulders drop, and the tension bleeds out of his body. He nods, certain this time, because she's not asking him to choose. She's telling him what she needs, and he can do that. He can be useful to her.

"Good," she says, standing. "Come on."

He rises from the bed immediately and follows her to the bathroom.

She pulls back the curtain and turns on the shower, adjusting the temperature until the water runs hot. Steam starts to fill the small space almost immediately, and she steps back, gesturing to the shower. "Get in."

He walks with no self-consciousness, no modesty, and steps over the edge of the tub and under the spray.

And then he goes very, very still.

His eyes close, and his brow furrows like he’s trying to decipher what he feels. Then, his head tips back slightly, water streaming over his face, his hair, his shoulders.

She watches, fascinated, as his hands come up slowly -almost reverently- and push his hair back from his face, as his shoulders drop another inch, as he just stands there, unmoving, letting the hot water pour over him.

How long has it been since he had this?

The question disturbs her. Because this isn't just relief of removing filth. This is something else. Something that speaks to deprivation so complete that hot water feels like a luxury.

She swallows past the tightness in her throat and watches him for another moment, then makes a decision. She can't reach him properly from outside, and she's going to get soaked anyway trying to wash his hair.

"Scoot over," she says, pulling her shirt over her head.

He shifts immediately, making room, his eyes tracking her movements as she strips down to nothing and steps into the tub behind him.

The space is small, and the heat of the water mixing with the heat of his body makes the air thick and humid. She has to press close to reach around him, her chest against his back, and she feels him tense for just a second before relaxing into her touch.

"I'm going to wash your back first," she tells him, reaching for the soap. "Then your hair."

He nods, still facing the spray, and she works the soap into a lather between her hands before pressing them to his shoulders.

The scars feel different under the water. Softer somehow, but no less present. She traces them without meaning to, following the lines across his shoulder blades, down his spine, mapping the damage while she cleans away days of sweat and smoke and whatever else he's been through.

He's so still under her hands, waiting patiently for her to finish.

When his back is clean, she reaches for the shampoo.

"Okay, I need you to bend down for me," she says. "I can't reach your head."

He complies immediately, turning around and bending at the waist, his back to the showerhead now, water sliding down his face and neck.

"Close your eyes," she instructs quickly. "The water's going to run into them with the products, and it'll sting."

His eyes slide shut obediently, and she works the shampoo into his hair, massaging his scalp with her fingers. The water runs dark at first, carrying away dirt and product and god knows what else, but gradually it clears. She rinses thoroughly, then repeats with conditioner, working it through the tangled strands until they feel smooth under her fingers.

"Okay, you can straighten up now."

He does it slowly, water still streaming down his face, and just stands there, waiting.

She lathers it between her hands and places them on his chest. Her palms slide across his sternum, over his pecs, following the contours of muscle and scar tissue. The water runs between them, making everything slick, and she works methodically, cleaning away the last traces of smoke and sweat.

Her hands move lower, over his ribs, across his stomach. He doesn't move, doesn't react, just keeps standing there, letting her work.

When she reaches his hips, she soaps her hands again and continues downward, sliding them clinically between his thighs, washing with the same care she's given the rest of him.

That's when she notices it.

His balls are heavy. Drawn up tight against his body, swollen in a way that speaks to biological need not fully satisfied. A remnant of the rut, probably, or maybe just the proximity to her, naked and touching him in such an intimate way.

But he's not hard.

Not responding the way you'd expect an alpha to respond to his omega's hands on his body like this. And that tells her everything she needs to know about how deeply whatever they did to him runs.

She swallows the surge of anger -not at him, but at whoever made him like this- and keeps washing gently, giving him no reason to feel self-conscious about his body's lack of response.

"Does this feel okay?" she asks softly, as she works. "What I'm doing?"

"Yes."

The answer is immediate. Certain.

At least that's something.

She rinses her hands and reaches for more soap, working it over his thighs, his calves, finishing the job, and the whole time he just stands there. Letting her. Trusting her.

When she's done with his legs, she straightens, looking up at him.

"The other day," she says carefully, keeping her voice soft. "I asked you about your name."

His entire body goes rigid.

She can see the conflict playing out across his face. Confusion. Fear. The urge to answer warring with something else. Something that won't let him.

"Is it because you don't feel safe with me?" she presses gently. "Or because you don't have one? Or... you don't remember?"

His jaw works. She can see him struggling, can smell the spike of distress in his scent.

"Soldat," he finally says, and the word sounds forced. Automatic.

"Okay," she says softly. "But that's not really a name, is it? That's what you were. Not who you are."

He lifts his gaze to look at her fully now, and the look in his eyes is… lost. Confused. Like he genuinely doesn't understand the difference between those two things.

Like he's never had to understand the difference.

"Don't..." His brow furrows, and she can see him reaching for something that isn't there. "Don't remember," he says finally, and the frustration in his voice is palpable. "There was... something. But it's-"

He makes a gesture at his head with his flesh hand. Scattered. Fragmented. Gone.

Her chest tightens.

"Okay," she says, reaching up to cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. "That's okay. Maybe it'll come back. Or maybe it won't. Either way, you're still my alpha."

He leans into her touch, eyes closing briefly, and nods.

"Yeah," he echoes, barely a whisper.

She pulls him down into a gentle kiss -just a press of lips, nothing demanding- and feels him relax into it.

"Come on," she says, pulling back. "Let's get you dried off."

She reaches past him to turn off the water, then grabs a towel from the rack. "Dry yourself," she instructs, pressing it into his hands. "I'll be right back."

He takes the towel and starts patting himself down while she wraps herself in another towel and steps out of the tub.

His boxers are still on the floor where they'd left them yesterday, stiff and stained. She picks them up with two fingers, grimacing slightly, and takes them to the sink.

The water runs cold as she works soap into the fabric, scrubbing at the stains. Then, she rinses them thoroughly, wringing out as much water as she can.

She's still wringing them when she senses him behind her.

She glances up at the mirror and sees him standing, towel wrapped around his waist, watching her with those pale, unreadable eyes.

"Almost done," she says, giving the boxers one final squeeze before turning to face him. "I'm going to put these on the radiator. They shouldn't take too long to dry."

She moves, acutely aware of his gaze following her as she crosses to the radiator against the far wall. The metal is warm under her fingers as she drapes the damp fabric across it, smoothing it out so it'll dry evenly.

And that's when she remembers the other issue that needed to be approached. She turns to face him, wrapping her arms around herself. "I need to go out for a bit," she says.

"No."

The word is immediate.

"Alpha, it's to get you clothes," she explains, keeping her voice gentle. "There's a discount store just around the corner. I'll be quick, I promise. Twenty minutes, tops-"

"No."

He takes a step toward her, and something in his posture shifts. His shoulders broaden, his back straightens, and suddenly the space between them feels charged.

Another step.

She backs up instinctively until her shoulders hit the wall, and then he's right there, towering over her. His arms come up, forearms bracing against the wall on either side of her head, caging her in.

Not touching or hurting her. But unmistakably alpha in a way he hasn't been since he came back yesterday.

His head lowers, nose finding the curve of her neck, and she feels him inhale deeply. Scenting her. His lips brush against her scent gland, then the edge of his teeth, a gentle scrape that makes her breath catch.

"No," he says again, the word rumbling against her throat.

Her heart is hammering. Not from fear but from the sudden intensity of his presence, the way he's using his body to communicate what his words can't.

Don't leave. Don't go. Stay.

"Alpha," she says softly, her hands coming up to rest on his chest. She can feel his heart beating just as fast as hers. "I'm not leaving you. I'm just going to the store. I'll come right back."

His teeth scrape her gland again, more insistent this time, and a low sound rumbles in his chest. Not quite a growl. Something between that and a whine.

Mine. Stay. Don't go.

"Alpha," she says again, trying to keep her voice calm and reasonable even though her pulse is racing. "Listen to me. Nothing's going to happen to you while I'm gone. You'll be safe here. And nothing's going to happen to me either. It's just around the corner. Twenty minutes."

The sound in his chest intensifies. His face presses harder against her throat, and she can feel the tension in his body radiating in waves. "I know you don't want me to go. I understand. But I'll come right back. I promise-"

"No."

Still that same flat refusal. Immovable.

She can feel her patience starting to fray. This isn't working. Reasoning isn't working. He's too deep in whatever instinct is driving him to listen to logic. So she takes a breath, hating what she's about to do, but not seeing another option.

"You asked me to tell you what to do," she says, and her voice comes out firmer now. "So I'm telling you. I need you to let me get dressed and go buy you clothes."

He goes very still against her.

Then his head turns slightly, just enough that she can see his eyes. They're narrowed, fixed on her with a force that makes her stomach flip.

He doesn't like this. Doesn't like being ordered. But he's caught between what his instincts are screaming at him to do and what she's telling him to do.

She presses on, gentler now but still firm. "It's not acceptable for you to be naked. I mean, you can be naked if you want, that's fine. But you can't not have clothes. It's not warm enough for that, and if you need to go somewhere, you can't just walk around with your ass out."

That seems to penetrate his mind.

His eyes shift, some of the feral focus fading, replaced by the beginning of understanding. He pulls back slightly, just an inch, and she can see him processing. Trying to reconcile the conflicting drives.

She reaches up slowly and takes his flesh hand in both of hers, squeezing gently.

"Everything's going to be okay," she says softly. "I'm going to go to the store, I'm going to buy you some clothes, and I'm going to come right back. Fast. I promise."

His jaw works. She can see the internal struggle playing out across his face.

Then, slowly, his arms leave the wall, and he takes a step back, giving her space, but his hand tightens around hers. Not letting go. Not yet.

"Twenty minutes," she says, squeezing his hand again. "Okay?"

A long pause.

Then, finally, a single nod.

Stiff. Reluctant. But a nod.

----

Seventeen minutes.

The numbers on the laptop screen. 10:47 AM. She left at 10:30. Said twenty minutes. That means she should be back at 10:50.

Three minutes left.

Soldat sits on the edge of the bed, towel still wrapped around its waist, and watches the clock change to 10:48.

Its chest feels wrong. Tight. Like something is constricting around its lungs, making each breath require conscious effort.

She's coming back.

She said she would.

Twenty minutes.

But what if she doesn't?

The thought surfaces unbidden, and Soldat's hands clench into fists on its thighs. Metal fingers whir softly with the pressure.

What if she sees something out there that makes her realize what it is? What it's done? What if someone tells her about the Asset, about HYDRA, about the people it has killed?

What if she just... decides not to come back?

It wouldn't blame her.

10:49.

One minute.

Its breathing is getting faster. Shallow. The tightness in its chest is spreading, crawling up its throat, making its vision tunnel slightly at the edges.

She has to come back.

She has to.

Because without her, it doesn't know what it's supposed to do. Doesn't know where it's supposed to go. Doesn't know who it's supposed to be.

The handlers are gone. HYDRA is gone. Everything it was built for is rubble by the Potomac.

She's all it has left.

The only anchor point in a life of obeying, violence, and emptiness. The only person who's ever touched it without flinching. The only voice that's ever asked instead of ordered-

Except she did order. Told it to let her go.

And it complied.

Because that's what it does. It obeys. That's all it knows how to do.

But what if obeying was wrong this time? What if letting her leave means she doesn't come back, and it's sitting here alone in an empty apartment with no purpose and no-

10:51

The lock clicks.

Its head snaps toward the door, every muscle tense, its hand moving to grab a weapon that is not on him.

The handle turns, the door opens.

And she steps through, with a big plastic shopping bag in hand.

The relief is so overwhelming it's almost painful. The tightness in its chest releases all at once, and it has to grip the edge of the mattress to keep itself from lurching across the room toward her.

She came back.

She's here.

"Hey," she says, slightly breathless, closing the door behind her. "Sorry, the line was longer than I thought. But I got-"

She stops mid-sentence because Soldat is moving now, crossing the space between them in three long strides.

It doesn't know what it's doing. Just knows it needs to be closer, needs to confirm she's real and solid and not some hallucination its fractured mind conjured up.

Its arms wrap around her before it can stop itself, pulling her against its chest. The shopping bag crinkles between them, but it doesn't care. Just buries its face in her hair and breathes.

Brown sugar, yeast, and omega.

Real. Here. Safe.

"Alpha?" Her voice is muffled against its chest, surprised but not afraid. "Everything alright?"

It doesn't know how to answer that.

Doesn't know if "alright" is something it's capable of being. Just tightens its grip fractionally and tries to remember how to breathe.

She pulls back slightly in its grip, not trying to escape but making space to look up at it.

"I'm back," she says softly, one hand coming up to rest on its chest. "See? Just a few minutes."

It nods, still not trusting its voice.

She smiles, small and reassuring, then shifts the shopping bag between them. "Come on, let me show you what I got."

Its arms loosen reluctantly, letting her step back, and she moves to the bed, upending the bag onto the mattress. Fabric spills out. Gray, black, and dark blue. Soft-looking materials that don't resemble tactical gear at all.

"Okay," she says, organizing the pile. "I got you socks, boxers, a couple of long-sleeve shirts, and sweatpants. I didn't want to risk jeans because I wasn't totally sure about your size, and these will stretch more anyway."

It stares at the pile.

Normal clothes. The kind normal people wear. The kind it hasn't worn since… the thought fractures before it completes. It doesn't remember wearing anything except uniforms. Combat gear. Things designed for function, not comfort.

"And these," she continues, pulling out a pair of slide sandals. Cheap rubber things. "Just so you have something for your feet. I'll get you actual shoes when I can, but this is a start."

She looks up at it, expectantly. Waiting for some kind of response.

It doesn't know what to give her. Its gaze drops to the clothes again. They look soft. Warm. Like something a person would wear, not an asset.

"Try them on," she says gently. "See if they fit."

It reaches for the boxers first, then the sweatpants. The fabric is... strange. Fleece-lined, warm against its skin, nothing like the rough pants it's used to. The waistband has a drawstring. It tugs it tighter and ties it.

Then the shirt. Long sleeves, black, soft cotton that smells like store packaging and nothing else. It pulls it over its head, and the fabric feels like something foreign against his skin.

Not precisely uncomfortable, but different. It stands there, dressed like a normal person, and doesn't know what to do with its hands. Then, something white catches its eye on the floor. A piece of paper that must have fallen from the bag.

It bends down, picks it up.

The receipt.

Its eyes scan the numbers automatically. Line items. Prices. Total at the bottom.

$47.83.

The number feels like a dead weight.

It knows what things cost and the value of money. Has always had to know. Forty-seven dollars for clothes that don't deserve. Money that she probably doesn't have much of, given the size of this apartment.

The guilt is immediate and visceral.

She shouldn't have to spend money on it. Shouldn't have to take care of it. Shouldn't have to do any of this because it showed up uninvited and broke her life apart. Alphas don’t do that; alphas provide and fix, take care of their mate-

"Do they fit okay?"

Her voice pulls it back. It looks up from the receipt, and she's watching it with those warm eyes, head tilted slightly.

It nods.

"Good." She smiles. "You look-" She pauses, something shifting in her expression. "Good, alpha. Like an average person."

The words shouldn't hit as hard as they do.

Like a person.

Not an asset. Not a weapon. Not the Soldat.

Its throat feels tight. It looks back down at the receipt still clutched in its metal hand.

"Too much," it manages, voice rough. The words feel clumsy in its mouth, but it forces them out anyway. "Cost too much."

Her brow furrows. "What?"

It holds up the receipt. "The money. You... spent."

Her gaze fixes on him with something that looks almost like pain.

"Alpha," she says softly, crossing to it. Her hands come up to frame its face, thumbs brushing its cheekbones. "Don't. Don't do that. It's not too much. It's clothes. You need clothes."

It wants to argue. Wants to explain that it's not worth forty-seven dollars, not worth her time or money or care. She doesn’t know what it is, what it has done. That she should have screamed and fought him instead of letting it touch her.

But the words won't come.

Just the guilt, mixing with the relief that she came back, and the confusion of wearing soft civilian clothes that smell like nothing except fabric and detergent.

"You're worth it," she says, like she can read its thoughts. "Okay? You're worth it."

It doesn't believe her. But doesn’t have the heart to tell her.

----

She lets her hands drop from his face, giving him space to process, and turns her attention to her empty stomach.

"I don't know about you," she says, "but I'm starving. It's too late for breakfast, so we should probably just do lunch." She then moves toward the small kitchen area, opening the freezer. "I have some vareniki in here. They have ricotta inside."

When she glances back at him, his head is tilted slightly, brow furrowed. Like he's trying to grab onto something just out of reach.

"They're a kind of pasta," she explains, pulling out the package. "I buy them from this lady who makes them at home to order. They're really good."

He doesn't respond, just stands there looking lost.

She waits a beat, then realizes he's not going to tell her if he wants them or not. Can't tell her, maybe. The choice is too much, too open-ended.

"I think you'll like them," she says, deciding for him. "I'm going to make them with butter and some grated cheese. Okay?"

A nod. Small. Certain now that she's told him what's happening.

She fills a pot with water and sets it on the stove, turning the burner to high. While she waits for it to boil, she gathers the butter from the fridge and the cheese grater from the drawer.

She can feel his eyes on her.

When she turns, he's still standing exactly where she left him. Not at attention, but close. Back straight. Hands at his sides. Like he's waiting for orders.

"You can sit down," she offers, nodding toward the small table.

He moves immediately, pulling out a chair and sitting. But even seated, she can tell he is not relaxed or comfortable. Just... compliant.

She turns back to the stove, checking the water. Not boiling yet.

She glances over her shoulder again.

He's watching her. Not staring, exactly, but his gaze is fixed on what she's doing. Tracking her movements as she grates the cheese, watches the water, and adds salt.

There's something almost... analytical about it. Like he's cataloging every action, filing it away. Or maybe he just doesn't know what else to do.

"You okay over there?" she asks softly.

"Yes."

The answer is immediate. Automatic.

She's not sure she believes him, but she also doesn't know what else to ask.

The water finally boils, and she drops the vareniki in, stirring gently to keep them from sticking. They'll need about five minutes.

She turns to lean against the counter, facing him properly now.

He's still watching. Those pale blue eyes fixed on her with a focus that should probably make her uncomfortable, but doesn't.

"You can come closer if you want, alpha," she says. "I told you about sitting because I thought you would want to."

He stands immediately -too quickly- and crosses to her.

But he doesn't stop at a comfortable distance. He comes right up to her, close enough that she can feel his body heat, and just... stands there.

Watching.

She tilts her head up to look at him. "You want to see what I'm doing?"

A nod.

"Okay." She turns back to the stove, and he shifts with her, positioning himself slightly behind and to the side. Close enough that his arm brushes hers.

She stirs the vareniki, watching them bob in the boiling water. "They're almost done. They float when they're ready."

He doesn't say anything. Just watches. His presence is solid and warm beside her, and she can smell him now: clean, finally, underneath the faint scent of alpha that makes her inner omega content.

The pasta floats to the surface, and she fishes it out with a slotted spoon, draining it before transferring it to a serving plate with melted butter. He's still right there, watching every movement like this is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.

Maybe it is.

The thought makes her chest ache.

"Go sit down," she says gently, nodding toward the table.

He moves immediately, pulling out a chair and settling into it with that same stiff posture.

She carries the serving plate to the table, setting it on a folded dish towel to protect the wood. Then she gets two regular plates and forks, setting one in front of him.

She serves him a generous portion. He's a big man, and she has no idea how much he eats. The vareniki gleam with butter as she arranges them on his plate, then sprinkles a generous amount of grated cheese over the top.

Then she serves herself and sits down across from him.

For a moment, they just... look at each other.

He's dressed. Clean. Fed. Safe.

Hers.

And she has absolutely no idea what she's doing.

"Go ahead," she says softly, picking up her fork. "Try it."

He picks up his fork and spears some food, bringing it to his mouth.

She watches him chew, his expression for any sign of reaction.

Nothing. Just methodical chewing. Swallowing.

Then he takes another bite. And another. Not desperate, but consistent. Like eating is just another task to complete.

"Do you like it?" she finally asks.

He pauses mid-bite, looks at her, then down at his plate. Like he's trying to determine if he's supposed to like it.

----

"Yes," he says finally.

It's the truth, as far as it can tell. The food is... good. Warm. The cheese is salty, the butter rich, the pasta soft in a way that's completely different from field rations or the nutrient paste they sometimes fed it through a tube to save time during mission prep.

It doesn't remember the last time it ate something that wasn't designed purely for function. Something that had flavor beyond the metallic tang of whatever vitamins they pumped into its system.

It likes this.

But the words to express that don't come. No one has ever asked for its approval on anything, least of all something as mundane as food. Its preferences have never mattered. Its sustenance was just another logistical concern, handled efficiently and without consideration for comfort.

She nods and returns to her own plate, and it watches her take a bite, chew, swallow.

There's something in her expression. A flicker of something that might be disappointment, though it's not entirely sure it's reading her correctly.

Did it insult her?

The thought sends a spike of anxiety through it. She spent food reserves, and not even normal ones, but the kind she had to order specially, to cook for it. And all it could give her was a flat "yes".

It needs to fix this.

It picks up its fork and takes another bite. Faster this time. Then another.

The problem is that it's already full.

Its stomach has spent decades being fed the bare minimum to function. Caloric intake calculated to maintain muscle mass and operational capacity, nothing more. The portions have always been small, controlled, and its body adapted.

Three vareniki in, and it can feel the pressure in its abdomen. Uncomfortable and unfamiliar. But she cooked this. She made it for it, and not finishing would be… what? Ungrateful? Disrespectful? A waste of the money she spent on ingredients?

It can't do that to her.

It forces another bite down. Chews mechanically. Swallows past the growing discomfort. Then another, and keep going.

Even though its stomach is protesting. Even though each bite is getting harder to swallow. Even though every instinct that isn't about pleasing her is screaming to stop.

It's halfway through the plate when her voice cuts through its thoughts.

"Alpha."

Its head snaps up, fork frozen halfway to its mouth.

"I'm sorry," she says, and there's genuine apology in her voice. "I should have made more. I'm watching you eat, and I'm thinking you're going to still be hungry."

If she only knew.

It shakes its head immediately.

"Are you sure?" she presses with concern. "Because I can make something else if-"

"Da." The word slips out before it can stop it, but it corrects itself quickly. "Yes. I’m sure."

She studies it for a moment, like she's trying to determine if it's telling the truth, then nods slowly.

"Okay," she says. "But if you get hungry later, tell me. We have more food."

It nods, relieved. She's not going to make it keep eating. Not going to force more food on it. She's just... accepting its answer.

She returns to her own plate, and it oblige his body to keep swallowing. Once it finishes the plate, it isn’t sure what it is supposed to do now.

Wait for her to finish? Clear the table? Stand at attention?

The uncertainty must show on its face because she glances up.

"You can relax," she says gently. "You don't have to just sit there. If you want to get up, you can."

Permission again.

It doesn't move. Not because it doesn't want to, but because it doesn't know where to go or what to do.

So it stays. Hands in its lap now, fork set down. Watching her finish her meal.

----

She finishes her plate and stands, gathering the dishes. "I'll wash these real quick, and then we can watch something. Or just cuddle on the couch if you want. You look tired."

It nods because it doesn't know what else to do.

She moves to the sink, running the water, and it sits there listening to the domestic sounds of dishes clinking, water running, her humming softly under her breath.

Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

And then its stomach clenches.

Hard.

The discomfort it had been ignoring suddenly becomes impossible to ignore anymore. A sharp, twisting sensation that makes its breath catch.

It stands abruptly, and the chair scrapes against the floor.

Bathroom. It needs to get to the bathroom.

It moves quickly, but not quickly enough.

Halfway across the small space, its stomach rebels violently. It doubles over, and everything comes up splattering across the floor in a grotesque puddle.

No.

No.

It hears her footsteps, hears the sharp intake of breath, and the shame is immediate and devastating.

"Oh, hey- it's okay-"

She's there in a second, the mop bucket from beside the sink suddenly in front of it, and it grips the edges as another wave hits it.

More comes up. Its body convulsing, emptying itself while she holds the bucket steady.

The thoughts spiral:

Unacceptable. Weak.

It made a mess on her floor. Ruined the clean space she maintains. There's also vomit on the new clothes -it can feel the wet warmth on its shirt- clothes she spent money on, clothes it doesn't deserve, and now they're ruined too.

Pathetic. Can't even eat a normal meal without failing.

She made food. Went to the effort of cooking, of feeding it like it's worth the care, and it couldn't even keep it down. Couldn't perform this one simple biological function without making a spectacle of itself.

Seventy years as Hydra’s fist, and it can't even-

"Alpha, breathe," her voice cuts through the spiral. Soft. Steady. "Just breathe. It's okay."

It's not okay.

Nothing about this is okay.

Another heave, but nothing comes up this time. Just painful dry retching that makes its eyes water and its throat burn.

"That's it," she murmurs, one hand on its back now, rubbing slow circles. "Get it all out. Don't fight it."

It wants to pull away. Wants to hide. Wants to be anywhere but here, hunched over a bucket while she watches it fall apart over something as stupid as food. But it can't move. Can only grip the bucket and try to breathe through the shame that's threatening to drown it.

Another dry heave shakes its body, but nothing else comes up.

She keeps her hand on its back, steady and warm, and her voice stays calm. "Okay. I think you're done. Just breathe for me."

It tries. Shaky inhales that burn its raw throat. The bucket is still clutched in its hands like a lifeline.

"Let me take that," she says gently, tugging at the bucket.

It releases it reluctantly, and she sets it aside, out of the immediate splash zone.

Her eyes scan the floor, the mess, then back to it. There's no disgust in her expression or anger. Just concern.

"Are you okay?" she asks. "Does your stomach still hurt?"

It can't answer. Can't form words past the shame clogging its throat.

She frowns slightly, biting her lip. "Maybe the filling was off? Or..." Her hand comes up to touch its forehead, checking for fever. "Are you getting sick? Do you feel feverish?"

It shakes its head. No fever. Just failure.

"Okay," she says, clearly trying to figure this out. "Could be a bug. Or maybe the cheese didn't agree with you."

She doesn't know.

Doesn't realize it forced itself to keep eating. Doesn't understand that its stomach has been starved down to nothing for decades and can't handle normal portions anymore.

She's trying to find an explanation that makes sense -bad food, illness, anything- because the truth wouldn't occur to her.

That it's just broken.

"Come on," she says, helping it straighten up. "Let's get you cleaned up first, then I'll deal with the floor."

It looks down at itself. The new shirt has vomit splattered across the front. Dark wet stains that reek of bile and failure.

The shame intensifies.

"Alpha," she says softly, catching its gaze. "Stop. I can see you spiraling. It's just a shirt. It'll wash."

It's not just a shirt. It's the evidence of how completely useless it is. How it can't even be trusted with basic things like eating without fucking it up.

She guides it toward the bathroom, her hand gentle on its elbow. "Let's get this off you and rinse your mouth out."

It follows because it doesn't know what else to do.

In the bathroom, she helps it pull the soiled shirt over its head. The movement makes its stomach clench again, but there's nothing left to come up. She tosses the shirt in the sink and turns on the tap, rinsing it quickly before wringing it out.

"Here," she says, handing it a cup of water. "Rinse and spit. Your mouth has to taste awful."

It does. The water is cool, soothing against the burn in its throat. It rinses and spits into the sink, then rinses again.

"Better?" she asks.

A small nod.

She's watching it carefully, and it can see the wheels turning in her head. Trying to figure out what's wrong, why this happened.

She's not going to figure it out unless it tells her.

And it doesn't know how to tell her that it's fundamentally broken. That decades of abuse have left it unable to function in even the most basic ways.

"Go sit on the couch," she says gently. "I'm going to clean up the floor, and then I'll bring you some ginger ale or something, okay? Something gentle for your stomach."

It wants to argue. Wants to clean up its own mess, but she's already guiding it out of the bathroom, her hand firm but kind on its back.

"Go," she insists. "Sit down. Let me handle this."

So it does.

Because she told it to.

And obeying is all it knows how to do.

----

She works quickly, mechanically. Paper towels first to get the worst of it, then the mop with disinfectant.

Her mind is racing. She ate the same thing he did, but her stomach feels fine. No nausea. No cramping. Nothing.

So it's not food poisoning. Is he sick? Coming down with something?

But he doesn’t seem to have a fever. His skin was cool when she touched his forehead, maybe even a little cold.

So what is it?

She scrubs harder at the floor, frustration mixing with concern. She needs to fix this. Needs to figure out what's wrong so she can help him, but she doesn't have enough information.

And he's not going to tell her. Not because he's being difficult, but because he probably doesn't even know himself what's wrong.

Or worse, he knows and doesn't think he's allowed to say.

The thought makes her chest tight again.

She finishes with the floor, dumps the dirty water in the toilet, rinses the mop and bucket, and washes her hands thoroughly. Then she goes to her purse on the counter.

There's a small tin of mints in the side pocket. Cherry flavored. She pops one out and grabs a clean dish towel from the drawer.

When she enters the living area, he's exactly where she left him. Sitting on the couch. Shirtless. Back straight. Hands on his thighs.

Waiting.

His eyes track her as she approaches, and she can see it immediately, the distress. The smell of shame radiates off him in waves, even though his expression is carefully blank.

"Here," she says softly, holding out the mint. "For your mouth."

He takes it without question, placing it on his tongue.

She sits down next to him, close enough that their thighs touch, and drapes the dish towel across his bare chest.

"Just in case," she explains. "If you feel sick again."

He nods stiffly.

She shifts, tucking herself against his side, her head resting on his shoulder. One arm wraps around his waist, and she can feel how tense he is.

Like he's bracing for something.

"Alpha," she murmurs. "It's okay. You just got sick. It happens."

He doesn't respond.

She cuddles more against him and starts to purr.

Low and steady, the sound rumbling in her chest. It's instinctive, her omega nature trying to soothe her distressed alpha, trying to calm whatever storm is raging inside him.

She feels him go even more rigid for a moment, like he doesn't know what to do with the comfort she's offering.

Then, slowly, incrementally, he starts to relax.

His shoulder drops slightly. His breathing evens out. The tension in his frame bleeds away by degrees. But the distress doesn't fully leave. She can still smell it on him, acrid and sharp underneath his natural scent.

This isn't just about getting sick. She knows that instinctively, even if she doesn't understand why. This is... something else. Something significant enough to send him spiraling.

She keeps purring, keeps holding him, and wishes desperately that he could just tell her what's wrong.

But he can't. Or won't. Or doesn't know how.

So she does the only thing she can: stays close and purrs and hopes it's enough.

His arm comes up slowly, carefully, and wraps around her shoulders. Holding her against him like she's the only thing keeping him tethered.

"I've got you," she whispers against his chest. "Whatever it is, I've got you."

She feels him nod. Just barely.

And his grip on her tightens.

----

They stay like that for a while. She's not sure how long, but long enough that the mint has dissolved completely in his mouth. Long enough that his breathing has returned to something approaching normal.

He seems okay physically. No more nausea, no signs of fever or illness. Just that lingering tension that hasn't fully released, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She understands now, in a way she didn't before, just how broken he is. How careful she's going to have to be. How slowly she'll need to move.

Their relationship didn't start with a conversation. It started with scents through a bakery vent. With biology and instinct, and something neither of them could control or explain.

Maybe that's where she needs to go back to. Not words, he doesn't have those, or can't access them, or doesn't trust them. But touch. Scent. The things that bypass language entirely.

Her hand slides up from his waist, tracing along his side. Up higher, to where the metal meets flesh. The scar tissue is thick, raised, and angry, even if it seems this was inflicted long ago.

She traces it gently, following the line where the metal bolted into living tissue.

"Does this hurt?" she asks softly.

"No."

His voice is rough but certain.

She nods and shifts, rising up slightly on the couch. Her lips press against the scarred tissue, feather-light. A kiss to the damage someone else inflicted.

His breath hitches.

It's subtle -just a small catch in his breathing- but she feels it. Feels the way his body goes very still under her mouth, like he's trying to process a sensation he doesn't have reference for.

She does it again, and this time, his exhale shakes.

And his scent shifts.

It's not dramatic, but it's there. The edge of distress that's been clinging to him since he got sick starts to fade, replaced by something warmer. Deeper.

Alpha.

Not the stressed, broken alpha smell. The real thing underneath. Leather and gunmetal and that bass note that makes her inner omega drool.

She keeps going. More kisses, tender and purposeful, mapping the border of his trauma with her mouth. Working her way across his shoulder, and with each press of her lips, his breathing gets a little heavier. A little less controlled.

The angle is awkward -she's twisted sideways on the couch, half-kneeling to reach him properly- so she shifts, swinging one leg over his thighs, settling into his lap so she can reach his shoulder, his neck, without straining.

The position puts them chest to chest, and she can feel it immediately, the way his breathing stutters when her weight settles fully on his thighs.

His hands come to her waist automatically. Steadying her. Holding her.

She presses kisses up the side of his neck now, following the line of his throat, and his pulse is racing under her lips now; she can feel it, fast and hard and alive. And his scent is getting stronger now, filling her lungs with every breath.

Her body responds before her mind catches up.

Warmth low in her belly. A flutter of arousal building between her legs. The beginning of slick, just a hint of wetness that has nothing to do with conscious thought.

She tries to ignore it. This isn't about sex. This is about comfort, about showing him that touch can be gentle, that-

A sound rumbles out of him.

Low. Subvocal. Vibrating against her lips where they're pressed to his throat, and she can feel it in her chest too, where they're pressed together.

He's purring.

The realization makes her still for half a second, and then she's moving again, drawn by instinct. Her mouth finds his scent gland, and she opens her lips against it.

Just a gentle press at first. Testing.

His whole body shudders beneath her.

Not a small tremor. A full-body shake that she feels everywhere they're touching, and the purr stutters, breaking into something rougher. More desperate.

His metal hand slides up from her waist to cup the back of her head. Not forcing, but holding her there. Like he needs this contact, needs her mouth on his gland more than he needs to breathe.

She seals her lips over it and sucks.

Gently. Carefully.

The reaction is immediate and devastating.

His scent explodes.

It floods her system -thick and overwhelming- hitting the back of her throat, her lungs, soaking into her skin. Leather and gunmetal and musk, and underneath it all, something that's just him, raw and unfiltered and so intense she feels dizzy with it.

Her vision blurs at the edges.

The hand on the back of her head tightens, metal fingers fisting carefully through her hair, and she can feel him trembling. Actually trembling, like he's coming apart under her mouth.

"Omega," he rasps, and his voice is wrecked. Barely recognizable.

The word sends a bolt of heat straight between her legs.

She's slick now. Properly slick. Can feel it coating her inner thighs, soaking through her underwear. Her body responding to his scent, to his need, to the broken way he's naming her like she's the only thing in the world that can fix him.

And maybe she is.

Her own breathing is getting ragged now. Her heart is pounding. The hand not holding his shoulder slides down to his chest, and she can feel his heart racing under her palm, matching hers beat for beat.

She sucks harder at his gland, and he makes a sound, broken and needy and so fucking desperate it makes her inner omega keen with the need to soothe, to provide, to give.

His hips shift beneath her. Just slightly. An involuntary rock upward, and that's when she feels it, his thick cock pressing against her through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, hardening with every second her mouth stays on his gland.

The friction sends a spark of pleasure through her, and she can't help the small roll of her hips in response. Seeking more of that pressure, more of that contact.

He groans against her hair, and the purr has morphed into something else now. Something between a purr and a growl, possessive and needy all at once, and it vibrates through both their chests where they're pressed together.

----

The kiss deepens, and the chaotic thoughts that have been spiraling since it threw upstart to fade, pushed aside by something stronger.

Instinct.

Alpha instinct that knows what to do even when its conscious mind doesn't. That knows how to touch her, how to hold her, how to make her feel good. This, at least, it can do.

This, it didn't fail at.

Her hips shift in its lap, grinding down, and the friction sends a bolt of heat straight through it. Its cock is fully hard now. Its hands slide down to her waist, gripping, and it can feel the softness of her through the thin fabric of her shirt. Warm. Yielding.

Omega. Mine.

She pulls back from the kiss just enough to catch her breath, her lips swollen and wet, and the sight makes its chest constrict.

"Alpha," she breathes, and the word is laced with need.

It can give her this.

Can make her feel good. Can use its body for something other than violence and destruction. Can be worthy of the care she's given it.

Its mouth finds her throat, licking over her scent gland, and she gasps. Her fingers tangle in its hair, pulling, and it growls softly against her skin.

The sound is possessive. Territorial. Pure alpha.

And she responds to it. Her hips rolling down harder, seeking friction, seeking it.

"Please," she whimpers, and that word -that desperate plea- flips every remaining switch in its brain from think to act.

Its hands slide under her shirt, palms against bare skin. She's so warm, so soft, and it can feel her pulse racing under its touch. It drags the fabric up and she helps, lifting her arms so it can pull the shirt over her head.

The shirt hits the floor, and it just stops and stares.

Its gaze drops to her breasts, and something primal and hungry coils in its gut.

Pretty. Perfect.

The thoughts are simple, base-level. No complex analysis, just pure aesthetic appreciation mixed with possessive satisfaction.

Mine. All mine.

Its metal hand comes up slowly, cupping one breast, and she shivers at the cool touch of the plates. The flesh hand mirrors it on the other side, warmer, and it just holds her for a moment. Learning the weight, the softness.

Then its thumbs brush over her nipples, watching them harden under the touch, and she makes a small sound that goes straight to its cock.

It wants its mouth there. Wants to taste.

It leans forward, closing the distance, and seals its lips around one nipple. Her hand flies to the back of its head, holding it there, and it sucks at the bud.

Her reaction is perfect. Back arching more, pushing her breast further into its mouth, a breathy moan escaping her throat.

It switches to the other side. Licking, sucking, feeling her nipple harden against its tongue, and her hips are moving restlessly in its lap now, grinding down shamelessly against its cock in a rhythm that's making it hard to think.

Need her. Need to be inside her.

It lifts her suddenly -hands gripping her ass, standing from the couch with her legs wrapped around its waist- and crosses to the bed in three strides.

The bed where it knotted her days ago. Where it learned what it felt like to be something other than it was. It lays her down carefully -always careful, because it could hurt her so easily- and follows her down, covering her body with its own.

She's reaching for it immediately, pulling it down into another kiss, and this one is hungrier. More desperate.

Its hands map her body with growing confidence. Over her sides, down to the waistband of her joggers. It hooks its fingers in the fabric and strips her swiftly -joggers and underwear gone in seconds- and then she's bare beneath it, legs falling open in invitation.

The scent of her arousal hits it like a drug. Sweet and thick and unmistakably omega.

Its mouth trails down her body -throat, collarbone, between her breasts- following instinct more than conscious thought. It pauses there, unable to resist, taking one nipple back into its mouth while its hand palms the other breast.

She whimpers, her hips lifting off the bed, seeking friction.

Lower.

It kisses down her stomach. Her hips.

And then between her thighs. It doesn't hesitate. Just buries its face between her legs and tastes.

Her reaction is immediate. Back arching off the bed, hand flying to its hair, a broken sound escaping her throat.

Good.

She feels good.

This is what alphas do. This is its purpose.

The thoughts are simple. Clear. No room for shame or failure or worthlessness.

Just its tongue on her clit, her taste flooding its mouth, her thighs shaking on either side of its head, and the sounds she's making that tell it it's doing this right.

For once in its miserable existence, it's doing something right.

And it's not going to stop until she falls apart.

Its tongue drags through her folds slowly, and her taste floods its system. Salt and sweet and omega, the slick coating its tongue, sliding down its throat.

She wants this. Wants it.

Its mouth seals around her clit and gives it a firm suck, and her hips buck up off the mattress. The hand in its hair tightens, pulling, and it growls against her, a deep, possessive sound that vibrates through her core.

She cries out, thighs trembling, and more slick floods out. It can smell it, thick and heavy in the air, mixing with its own scent until the entire room reeks of them.

Alpha and omega. Mated. Mine.

It pulls back just enough to look at her. Chest heaving, eyes glazed with need. It wants to remember this, wants to keep it when everything else is fractured and scattered.

Its fingers slide through her wetness, feeling how ready she is. How open. Her body yielding for it, welcoming it.

This isn't blind instinct anymore. It knows now. Learned her body those first frantic days: what makes her gasp, what makes her whimper, what makes her come apart completely.

And it plans to use every bit of that knowledge.

Because right now, making her feel good is the only thing it's certain of. The only thing it hasn't failed at.

Two fingers slide inside her, and she keens. Her back arches, head thrown back, and the scent of her arousal intensifies.

It watches her face as it curls its fingers, finding that spot inside that makes her whole body jolt. There. It strokes deliberately, and her thighs start to shake.

"Alpha-" Her voice is wrecked. Desperate. "Please-"

Begging.

Its omega is begging for it.

It is drunk with primal satisfaction.

Its mouth returns to her clit, tongue circling while its fingers work inside her. The dual sensation makes her cry out, hips rolling desperately against its face.

It can feel her tightening around its fingers. Getting close. Her slick is coating its hand now, running down its wrist, and the scent is so thick it's almost overwhelming.

Perfect.

She's perfect.

It sucks harder on her clit, fingers stroking faster, and her entire body goes rigid.

Then she shatters.

The sound she makes is broken and beautiful. Her walls clamp down on its fingers, pulsing, and fresh slick floods out as she comes.

It doesn't stop. Keeps licking, keeps stroking, drawing out her orgasm until she's trembling and oversensitive and trying to push its head away with shaking hands.

Only then does it pull back.

Its face is wet. Its hand is soaked. And its cock is so hard it hurts, straining against the sweatpants.

She's still panting, still trembling, but her eyes are on it now. Watching as it rises up on its knees between her spread thighs.

"Alpha," she breathes.

Its hands go to the waistband of the sweatpants. It shoves them down just enough to free its cock, and the relief of pressure is immediate.

It's leaking already. Has been since it first tasted her. The head is flushed and wet, and it wraps its flesh hand around the base, positioning itself. The head of its cock slides through her folds, coating itself in her slick, and they both groan at the contact.

Then it pushes inside.

Slow. Controlled. Watching her face for any sign of discomfort.

And then it realizes: this is the first time.

The first time it's taken her like this. Face to face. Looking at her while it pushes inside.

Those frantic days were different. Needed to mount her from behind, needed to claim and breed and lose itself in pure instinct. Couldn't think, couldn't see, could only feel.

But this is different.

It can see her face now. Can watch the way her mouth falls open as it sinks deeper. Can see her eyes flutter closed, then open again to meet its gaze. Can watch her head tip back slightly, throat exposed, as she tries to take all of it.

And it likes this.

Likes seeing the pleasure written across her face. Likes watching the exact moment when it bottoms out and her breath catches. Likes the way her hands come up to grip its shoulders, nails digging in slightly.

"Alpha," she breathes, and her voice is already wrecked.

It pulls back slowly, almost all the way out, just to watch her expression change. The loss registers on her face, a little furrow between her brows, her hips shifting up like she's trying to follow.

Then it pushes back in. Steady. Deep.

Her mouth opens in a gasp, and her head falls back against the pillow.

This. This is what it wants to remember. Not just the feeling -though fuck, the feeling is incredible, tight heat and slick and home- but the visual. Her face. The way she looks when it's inside her.

It does it again. Slow withdrawal, watching her react. Watching her body arch slightly, seeking. Then the slow push back in, filling her completely, and the way her eyes roll back slightly when it hits deep.

Its gaze drops lower. Watches where they're joined -its cock disappearing into her, slick coating the shaft- then up to her breasts.

They move with each thrust. Gentle sway, nipples still hard and wet from its mouth, and it can't look away.

Beautiful.

It wants to touch, but its hands are occupied -one braced beside her head, the other gripping her hip- so it just watches. Mesmerized by the movement, by the visual proof of what it's doing to her.

Making her body react. Making her shake and gasp and take its cock.

"Look at me," it rasps, and it's surprised by its own voice. The command in it.

Her eyes snap open, locking onto its.

And it moves.

Still slow. Still controlled. But purposeful now, each thrust measured and deliberate. Angling to hit that spot inside that makes her gasp.

But it's not enough. Not deep enough. It needs-

Its metal hand releases her hip and slides down, hooking behind her knee. It pushes her leg up and out, bending it toward her chest, opening her wider.

The angle change is immediate and devastating.

It sinks deeper -so much deeper- and she cries out, back arching off the bed.

"Fuck! Alpha-"

Yes. This.

It does it again, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in at this new angle, and the sound she makes is perfect. Broken and desperate and so full of pleasure it makes something fierce and possessive burn in its chest.

Its gaze drops again, watching its cock slide into her at this angle, watching her body stretch to take it, watching the way her breasts bounce with each harder thrust now that it's found the right position.

The visual is almost too much. Her leg pushed up, held in place by its metal hand, opening her completely. Her hands gripping the sheets, knuckles white.

Taking everything it's giving her.

Mine.

The thought is absolute. Possessive. This omega, spread open beneath it, taking its cock, making those perfect sounds… all mine.

It hooks her ankle over its shoulder, and its hand slides between them, finding her clit.

The reaction is immediate.

She clenches around it, walls fluttering, and her whole body tenses.

"Alpha-fuck-I can't-I'm-"

It circles her clit in time with its thrusts, watching her face the entire time. Watching her pleasure build. Watching her breasts move with each impact of its hips against hers. Watching her get closer and closer to the edge.

Its thumb presses down on her clit, and that's all it takes.

She breaks.

Clenching down hard, her back arching off the bed, a broken cry escaping her throat. It can feel the rhythmic pulse of her orgasm, feel the fresh gush of slick, and it feels so fucking good-

Its own control fractures.

The measured thrusts become harder, faster. It grips her hip and the back of her thigh, holding her in place while it drives into her, chasing its own release while she's still coming, still squeezing around it.

When it comes, it's with its eyes locked on her face, watching her watch it fall apart. Its hips jerk forward, driving deep, and it barely manages to keep its arms locked so it doesn't collapse its full weight onto her.

The pleasure rolls through in waves, each one making its cock pulse inside her, and it can't look away from her face. Can't stop watching the way she's looking at it, eyes heavy-lidded, satisfied, something soft in her expression that it doesn't have words for.

Its hips give a few more shallow thrusts, riding out the aftershocks, and then it stills. Panting. Overwhelmed.

It starts to shift, pulling back, preparing to roll to the side, and her arms immediately wrap around its neck.

"No," she says, breathless but firm. "Stay."

It freezes, uncertain. Its weight is resting on her. Not all of it, its forearms are still taking most of the load, but still. It's heavy.

Her legs lift, wrapping higher around its waist, and the message is crystal clear:

Don't move. Stay exactly where you are.

"Please," she adds, softer now. "Just... stay like this for a minute."

It doesn't understand why she'd want this. Why she'd want its weight pinning her down, its softening cock still buried inside her, its sweat-damp skin pressed against hers.

But she asked.

So it stays.

Carefully, it lets more of its weight settle onto her and she makes a small, satisfied sound. Her hands slide from its neck into its hair, fingers combing through the damp strands.

"Better," she whispers. Then- "You okay?" she asks quietly.

It nods. Then, because that feels insufficient: "Yes."

Her thumb brushes across its cheekbone. The touch is gentle, reverent, almost.

"You did so good," she murmurs. "Made me feel so good."

Good.

Its throat feels tight. It doesn't know what to say, how to respond, so it just... stays as it is, letting her hold it. Letting her touch its face, stroke its hair, murmur soft praise that it doesn't know how to accept but desperately needs.

The chaos in its head is quiet now. Not gone, probably never fully gone, but... manageable.

HYDRA is gone. The handlers are gone. The structure that told it when to move, when to eat, when to breathe… all of it, gone.

And somehow, that's more terrifying than any mission it was ever sent on.

"Alpha," she whispers after a while, when his breathing has fully settled. "I'm glad you came back home."

Home.

The word lands strangely. Foreign. It tries to process it and can't quite make it fit.

Not base. Not safehouse. Not operational location.

Home implies... permanence. Belonging. Things it doesn't know how to conceptualize beyond the pull of the bond that says mine, stay, protect.

Her fingers card through its hair, gentle and soothing.

"We're going to have to talk eventually," she says. "Really talk. I need to understand you, and you need to understand me.

It nods against her shoulder because she's right.

The bond is real, undeniable, biological, absolute. But she's also a person, with thoughts and history and a life it knows nothing about. And it is... what?

Not a person. Not really.

Except-

The scene surfaces suddenly in his mind. Sharp. Unwelcome.

The man on the bridge.

Who said a name like it should mean something. Like the Asset was someone worth calling by name. The memory -if it even is a memory and not a construct of his fried brain- is fragmentary. Unreliable. Could be nothing.

But it knows what she said is true.

Eventually, she's going to need more. Need answers it doesn't have. Need it to be something it doesn't know how to be.

And it's terrified of what could happen when it can't give her that-

"Alpha?" Her voice cuts through the spiral, soft and concerned. "Where did you go?"

It shakes its head against her shoulder.

She doesn't push. Just holds it tighter, one hand rubbing slow circles on its back. Careful, always careful, lets itself sink into the warmth of her body, the rhythm of her breathing, the beat of her heart on her throat.

The future is uncertain, terrifying. Full of questions it doesn't have answers to.

It doesn't have commands anymore.

Just her hands in its hair. Her voice saying stay. And the pull of the bond that bypasses every fractured synapse in its brain.

So it does.

It stays.

Alpha!Soldat, whose ruts are chemically suppressed into non-existence. It doesn't remember what it feels like to want. HYDRA can't risk their asset going feral over an omega at the wrong moment.

Alpha!Soldat, who has never scented an omega outside of sterile facilities.

Alpha!Soldat, who is deployed on a routine extraction, catches your scent through the bakery vent and freezes mid-step for the first time in 70 years.

Alpha!Soldat, who short-circuits because you smell like brown sugar and yeast, not fear and antiseptic. Its brain doesn't know what to do with that.

Alpha!Soldat, who instantly tenses and braces for agony that doesn't come after scenting you.

Alpha!Soldat, who starts deviating from its routes to pass by the bakery's alley.

Alpha!Soldat, who had never seen you, but that vent two meters up breathes your scent into the dark, and it stands there like something waiting to be fed.

Alpha!Soldat, who never processed being an alpha in any healthy way, and now its instincts return chaotic, confused, starving.

Alpha!Soldat, whose perpetually limp cock starts to stir for the first time in decades, thick and insistent against the fabric of its tactical pants.

Alpha!Soldat, who paws clumsily at the unfamiliar bulge, chest heaving in the alley shadows.

Alpha!Soldat, whose suppressants are starting to fail.

Soldat wakes to darkness. Not the murky orange light of a cryo chamber, or the sterile fluorescence of a holding cell. Just... night. The kind you could find in normal places where normal people sleep.

Normal.

Its eyes adjust instantly to the low light pouring through the window, and the first thing it processes is warm.

There's a body pressed against its side.

Omega.

Its omega.

The recognition is immediate and visceral. Her scent floods its system before conscious thought can catch up, brown sugar and yeast and the underlying sweetness that makes its chest constrict.

She's asleep, pressed against its side, one arm draped across its chest, her face against its shoulder. Breathing deep and even, completely unguarded.

Trusting.

The word makes its gut twist.

Its metal arm is wrapped around her waist, holding her close. The flesh hand is cradled against the back of her neck, its palm warm against her skin, like it fell asleep mid-touch.

Soldat doesn't remember doing that, doesn't remember falling asleep at all.

Its gaze tracks down the length of their bodies. Naked. The tactical gear is... somewhere, scattered across the floor in pieces it has no memory of removing.

The bed is destroyed.

Sheets twisted and half-pulled off the mattress, pillows on the floor. There are-

Its eyes catch on the evidence.

Empty cracker wrappers on the floor. Chocolate’s. A plate on the nightstand with apple cores and orange peels. An empty water bottle. Two more on the floor.

When did it eat?

Soldat doesn't eat or drink unless ordered to, or unless it is mission-critical.

But apparently, it did.

They did.

The memories are there, fragmented and hazy. Feeding her crackers between rounds because she was shaking. Peeling an orange with the metal hand while she watched, fascinated. Drinking water from the same bottle, her lips where its mouth had been.

Fucking her again. And again. And again.

The scent in the room is obscene. Sweat and sex and the mix of their releases, soaked into the sheets, coating their skin. It can smell itself on her, can smell her on itself, the mingling so complete there's no separation.

Mated.

The thought comes unbidden.

No, not mated. Can't be mated. Soldat doesn't-

Its heart rate kicks up.

The omega shifts against it, making a small sound in her sleep, burrowing closer to its warmth, and it finds itself tightening its arm around her automatically.

Mine, his inner alpha purrs. Safe. Stay.

But the conditioned part-

The conditioned part is starting to surface now that the rut fog is lifting.

And it's screaming.

Mission status: FAILED

Objective: COMPROMISED

Orders: IGNORED

Its breathing goes shallow.

How long?

How long has it been here?

The last clear memory before this is... the bakery vent. Following her home. That was… two days ago? Three?

The panic starts as a flutter and builds rapidly. It had no operations scheduled that night, but it was supposed to report back. There was a briefing the next morning about-

Helicarriers.

The word slams through its consciousness.

Insight. Project Insight. Helicarriers. Deployment sequence. Mission parameters. Operational intelligence. Pierce himself was leading the briefing, and Soldat-

Soldat didn't show up.

Its heart is pounding now. Actually pounding, loud enough that it can hear the rush of blood in its ears.

Missing in action. Unauthorized absence. Compromised asset.

Its flesh hand comes up, digging its fingers into its hair, gripping hard enough to hurt. The pain doesn't clear the panic. Doesn't slow the racing thoughts.

The handlers are going to… it doesn’t want to think about what they are going to do to it. And then, they're going to wipe it. Completely. Burn out whatever's left and start over, and-

The omega makes another sound. Her hand spreads flat over its chest, directly over where its heart is trying to punch through its sternum.

It looks down at her.

She's still asleep, relaxed in a way it's never seen on anyone touching it before.

Can't take her.

The thought surfaces cold and absolute.

Taking her back to base would be a death sentence. They would see immediately what she is: true mate. The biological call that HYDRA has spent seventy years chemically suppressing, and they would either kill her or use her.

Leverage. A new kind of leash. Soldat would do anything to protect her from that.

Anything.

Which means...

The logical conclusion forms with brutal clarity:

Eliminate the liability.

The words are in its head, calm and procedural. She's a loose end. A distraction and a weakness that others could exploit. Would take less than three seconds. Snap the neck. Quick and clean. She wouldn't even wake up.

Its fingers twitch, then its entire body goes rigid. The metal hand closes into a fist, servos whining softly with the pressure. It can feel the plates grinding together.

No.

The rejection is immediate and visceral. Every alpha instinct roars to the surface, pushing the conditioned thoughts with devastating force.

Mine. Protect. Cannot Harm.

She's not a liability.

The mission is her. Has always been her, from the moment it caught her scent. Everything else is just noise compared to the absolute certainty that this omega is the only mission that matters.

But HYDRA doesn't know that. And it’s waiting.

Soldat has to go back. Has to report. Has to... let them wipe its memory of her so it can't lead them back here? Has to pretend this never happened?

The thought makes its chest constrict painfully. It can't forget her.

Can't-

It has to move.

The decision doesn't feel like a decision. More like inevitability. Like gravity.

Report. Debrief. Comply.

The thoughts pull at it with the same inexorable force that instinct brought it here, except they are dragging it away.

Slowly -so slowly it's almost painful- Soldat extracts itself from her. The metal arm slides out from her waist. She makes a small sound, a sleepy protest, and it freezes.

Waiting. Watching her face for signs of waking.

But she just shifts, reaching for the pillow instead, hugging it like a substitute for the warmth she just lost.

Something in its chest cracks.

It stands, silent and controlled. Every movement is deliberate, even though its hands want to shake.

The tactical gear is scattered across the small apartment like evidence of a struggle. Pants near the foot of the bed. The vest by the window. Boots kicked off near the table.

It starts gathering pieces.

The pants and underwear first. Stiff with-

It doesn't let itself think about it. Just pulls them on, feeling the cold, uncomfortable press of dried release against its skin. The handlers are going to notice.

Going to ask questions it doesn't want to answer.

The undershirt is twisted in the sheets. It pulls it free carefully, trying not to disturb her, and the scent that rises from the fabric makes it stop mid-motion.

Her.

The shirt smells like her. Like them. Like everything that happened in place.

It pulls it on anyway.

The vest comes next. Then tactical webbing. Its hands fumble with the buckles. Twice. Three times. Fingers that can fieldstrip a weapon in the dark are clumsy now, shaking too hard to catch the clasps properly. Knives still sheathed. The gun- where's the gun?

Its eyes scan the room and find it on the kitchen counter.

When did it put it there?

Doesn't matter.

It crosses to the counter, picks up the weapon, and checks the chamber automatically. Loaded. Safety on. Exactly as it should be.

Then comes the boots.  It sits on the edge of the chair -the one with her jacket draped over the back- and laces them with a double knot. It is just standard protocol, except its hands keep shaking.

Just slightly. Just enough that the knot takes two attempts.

Compromised. Unstable. Requires intervention.

The words loop through its head in the handler's voice. Cold. Clinical. Describing it like a malfunctioning piece of equipment.

Which is what it is. What it's supposed to be.

Soldat stands and turns back toward the bed. She's still asleep, face peaceful with one hand under her cheek. The sheet has slipped down, exposing her shoulder, the curve of her neck.

It can see the faint marks there. Subtle, barely visible in the scarce light, but present. Its teeth. Not a bond bite -it didn't mean to bond her, some last shred of control kept it from that- but it didn’t matter in the end.

Because they're bonded anyway.

The knot did that. Biological inevitability. The moment it locked inside her and spilled, the bond formed, whether it understood it or not.

And now it's about to leave her sleeping and unprotected.

It should leave.

Needs to leave.

Every second it stays increases the risk. Increases the chances that HYDRA will find her. That they'll trace it back here and discover what it's been doing.

What it's become.

But it can't make itself move toward the door, can't make itself turn away from her.

It has never thought about what it wants.

Wants aren't part of what it is. Asset doesn't want. It complies. Executes. Completes objectives and awaits new orders.

But standing here, looking at her, the want is so overwhelming it feels like a physical thing. It wants to stay, wants to crawl back into that bed and wrap around her and never leave.

Wants to wake up every morning to her scent and fall asleep every night with her in its arms. Wants to learn what she likes, what she needs. Learn how to be something other than what it is.

The want is destroying it, fracturing its mind. Breaking something fundamental in the architecture of what HYDRA built.

Loyalty parameters supersede personal preference. Emotional compromise requires correction.

But she's breathing right there. Alive and safe and its in ways that have nothing to do with HYDRA and their ownership over it.

The war in its head is splitting it apart.

Go. Stay.

Report. Protect.

Comply. Want.

Its flesh hand reaches for the window ledge and stops.

It looks at her again.

She shifted in her sleep, and now the sheet has fallen further. It can see the curve of her breast. Can see the marks it left. Shadows of pressure, of grip, of the metal hand holding too tight and the flesh hand not knowing its own strength.

Evidence.

Proof that this happened. That for two days… three days? Soldat stopped being the Asset and became something else.

Someone else.

Alpha.

Just... alpha.

Her alpha.

And alphas protect their mates, even from themselves. Especially from themselves. Its hand finds the window ledge again, and this time, it slides it up. Then it steps into the fire escape landing and closes the window silently.

Then it stands there. Just stands. Staring at the closed window.

Five seconds pass. Ten.

Its forehead drops forward, touching the glass. Just for a moment. One breath. Two.

Then it forces itself to let go.

The outside air hits it like a slap as he moves, and it can smell itself, her scent clinging to its skin, soaked into the gear.

They will smell it and know. It needs to... clean up. Somewhere. Before it reports.

There's a gas station four blocks east. The bathroom is accessible from the outside. Single occupancy, a lock on the door.

It starts walking. The streets are empty. Just the Soldat and the pre-dawn dark and the pull toward base that feels like a chain around its throat.

Return. Report. Comply.

Every step away from her apartment makes the pull stronger.

Every step also makes something inside it scream.

----

She wakes to the absence of warmth that was there before.

And her alpha isn't in the bed.

The realization comes with a spike of something close to panic. Her hand reaches out automatically, searching the space beside her, and finds only cool sheets.

She sits up, and immediately regrets it.

Everything hurts.

Her thighs ache. Her hips feel bruised. There's a deep, pleasant soreness between her legs that makes her breath catch, and her shoulders protest when she moves. She's pretty sure she's done more physical activity in the last few days than she had in the past six months.

Worth it, her inner omega purrs smugly.

But where is he?

"Alpha?"

The word comes out rough. Her voice is wrecked, hoarse from screaming, probably. From all the sounds he pulled out of her.

No answer.

She looks around, and her stomach sinks.

His gear is gone. Even the strange polymer mask that she'd pulled off his face that first night.

All of it. Gone.

He left.

Her alpha left without saying anything. Without waking her up. Without even leaving a fucking note.

The rational part of her brain -the part that's been suspiciously quiet for days-starts to surface now that his scent isn't flooding her system. Now that his hands aren't on her, and his body isn't pressed against hers, and his pheromones aren't turning her into a needy, desperate mess.

And it starts cataloging.

She got out of the shower and there was a stranger in her apartment.

An armed stranger. With a metal arm and war paint and gear that screamed military or mercenary or something equally dangerous. And instead of running, instead of screaming, or throwing something at him, she-

Her gaze tracks to the state the bed is in.

And the smell.

Oh god, the smell.

Sex and sweat and the unmistakable musk of alpha mixed with her own scent. It's soaked into the sheets, thick enough that she can practically taste it.

Her eyes catch on her small dining table.

There are marks on the wooden surface. Dubious stains that she really doesn't want to examine too closely. And the window…

Her face goes hot.

The glass is smudged. Handprints. Smears made by skin against the fog of breath. Because apparently, at some point -multiple points, actually- neither of them gave a single fuck about doing it against the window.

She remembers being pressed against the cold glass, her breasts flattened, her face turned to the side, while he fucked into her from behind. Remembers the exhibitionist thrill of it, the knowledge that anyone walking by could look up and see.

Anyone in the building across the alley could have seen.

Probably did see.

The heat in her face intensifies.

Everything about the last few days was animal. Raw. Primal in a way she didn't know she was capable of.

And it was perfect.

She's never felt like this, so utterly satisfied. Every alpha she'd tried to force herself to want before was just... wrong. Wrong scent, wrong touch, wrong everything.

But him? He was right.

Except he doesn't have a name.

The thought made her stomach knot.

She asked him. That first night, after the initial frenzy calmed enough for words, his knot still inside her, and she'd whispered against her shoulder: "What's your name?"

He'd gone rigid. Tense in a way that made her immediately regret asking. Then, haltingly, struggling with the words like they were foreign: "Alpha."

Just that. Like it was the only designation he had. The only thing he knew to call himself.

She'd tried again. "But what do people call you?"

What she could grasp about his expression in the awkward position they were in was confusion, distress, and something that looked almost like pain.

"Soldat," he'd said finally. The word harsh and guttural. Russian, she thinks, though she doesn't speak it.

Soldier.

Not a name. A title. A function.

And when she'd pushed -gently, carefully- he'd just repeated "Alpha" like it was the only safe answer. Like everything else was locked behind walls he couldn't or wouldn't break down.

So that's what she's been calling him.

Alpha.

Her alpha, who spoke maybe two dozen words total over three days, half of them in Russian she couldn't understand. Who looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth having. Who smelled like home despite being a complete stranger.

Her alpha, who's gone now.

She looks around the apartment again. At the evidence of what happened here. At the empty cracker wraps, the eaten fruits, and the water bottles scattered across the floor, because they barely stopped long enough to hydrate, let alone eat properly.

At the mess that is her bed. Her body. Her life now.

Because she's bonded.

She can feel it, the connection. It's like a thread pulled tight in her chest, stretching out into the city, tethering her to him wherever he went.

She doesn't know if he's coming back, doesn't know if he can.

Because there's something deeply wrong with her alpha. She knew it from the beginning, the way he moved, the way he touched her with such desperate confusion, like he didn't know what to do with his own hands. The way he looked at her with need and terror in equal measure.

The tactical gear. The weapons. The war paint.

He's running toward something.

And she was just... what? A detour? A mistake?

No.

Her omega nature rejects the thought immediately. Viscerally.

He wouldn't have knotted her if she were a mistake. Wouldn't have held her so carefully. Wouldn't have purred. Alphas don't purr, but he did, deep and constant and soothing against her skin.

He'll come back.

He has to come back.

The bond won't let him stay away forever.

...Right?

She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly feeling very small in her wrecked apartment with the evidence of her mate scattered everywhere except where she needs him to be.

Her gaze drifts to the kitchen counter.

There's bread there. The loaf from work, she'd brought it home after her last shift. It's hard now.

The sight of it reminds her she still has a job. Thank god she'd had the presence of mind to text her boss that first morning. A brief moment of clarity between rounds when she'd found her phone buried under the couch cushions.

Sorry, I won't be able to go for a few days. Unexpected heat.

Simple. Plausible. Heat leave is protected, and her boss -bless him- had just sent back a thumbs-up emoji and told her to take care of herself.

But that brief spark of rational thought was the only one. Everything after that was just... him. His scent. His hands. His body. The overwhelming, all-consuming need to be close to him, under him, filled by him.

Heats were supposed to be manageable. Uncomfortable but controllable with suppressants, or toys, and locked in her apartment.

But this?

She didn't go into heat.

He went into rut, and her body responded like it had been waiting her entire life for exactly this.

She should be horrified.

Should be spiraling about the fact that she let a stranger fuck her for days straight without even knowing his name.

But she's not.

Because omega nature is still purring with satisfaction, still flooded with the deep certainty that everything that happened was right.

Even if he's gone now.

Even if she doesn't know if he's coming back.

The thread in her chest pulls, and she presses her hand over her sternum like she can feel him on the other end of it.

Come back, she thinks desperately. Please come back.

----

The gas station bathroom is small and filthy, and smells like chemicals and piss. Soldat doesn't care. It strips, peeling off everything that touched her, everything that's soaked in her scent.

The liquid soap dispenser is half-empty. Pink. Artificial floral smell that makes its nose wrinkle. It pumps handful after handful, scrubbing at its skin, its hair, trying to wash away the evidence.

Brown sugar and yeast and omega. Her.

The soap helps, barely. The scent is embedded too deep, under its nails, coating the inside of its mouth. It scrubs harder anyway.

The water runs cold. Soldat doesn't feel it. Just keeps washing until the pink soap is gone and its skin is raw, and the mirror shows something that looks like its normal self. Wet hair and empty eyes.

The tactical gear is another problem. It can smell her on the fabric even after trying to rinse it in the sink. The undershirt is the worst, soaked through with sweat and slick and the unmistakable musk of sex. There's no time to wash and dry it properly. No time for anything except move.

Report. Now.

The Soldat wrings out the shirt as best it can, then finds the hand dryer. It's one of those old, weak models that barely pushes air, but it's something. It holds the fabric under the stream, methodically working through each section.

The shirt stays damp anyway, but at least it's not dripping, at least the scent is diluted enough that it might not be immediately obvious.

It pulls the shirt back on. Wet and cold against its skin. The vest goes over it. The weapons back in place. Boots laced. It looks almost normal. Except for the way its hands won't stop shaking.

Then it moves.

Shadows and alleys and rooftops, the city blurring past in the pre-dawn light. Distances don't matter; it can cover miles in minutes when it needs to, and right now, it needs to.

Late. Compromised. Failed.

The words loop through its head in time with its footfalls.

It should have been there. Should have attended the briefing. Should have been in position for Insight deployment. Instead, it was-

Don't think about it.

It does, anyway. Omega. Warm and soft and trusting in that bed.

Mission first. Always.

The Potomac comes into view. Paired with smoke.

Soldat slows down, then stops on a rooftop three blocks out. It just stares.

There's smoke rising from the Triskelion, thick and black against the dawn sky. Around it, there are police cordons and military vehicles. Something happened.

Something bad.

Its heart rate kicks up. It should have been there.

It moves closer, rooftop to rooftop. Silent. Invisible. Staying in the shadows while the chaos unfolds below. It gets close enough to see the whole scene, and its brain stutters.

The helicarriers. The three of them. Destroyed.

Massive chunks of wreckage scattered across the river and the surrounding area. Fires are still burning. The Triskelion itself is partially collapsed, whole sections reduced to rubble.

Soldat stares.

This is your fault.

It wasn't here. Wasn't in position. Wasn't doing its job.

Seventy years of operations, of perfect compliance. Of being the fist HYDRA wielded in the dark. And it failed.

Failed because it was too busy fucking an omega.

Its self-loathing skyrockets.

Worthless. Broken. Defective.

It should go down there. Should report to whatever's left of the command structure. Pierce is probably dead. The handlers are probably dead.

And it's the Soldat's fault for not being there. For choosing her over the mission.

Its metal hand grips the edge of the rooftop. The servos whine, and the concrete cracks under the pressure.

It did this. This destruction. This failure. All of it. Because it's weak.

The weight in its chest is crushing. Physical. Like something is trying to cave in its ribcage from the inside.

You failed. You failed. You failed.

It doesn't know how long it stands there, just watching the emergency response, the smoke, the evidence of a catastrophic mission failure.

Its fault. All its fault.

The bond in its chest pulls. Tight. Insistent. Omega.

It left her alone and unprotected to come here, to this. To the ruins of everything it was supposed to be, its purpose. And now-

Now what?

Soldat doesn't know. Doesn't know what it's supposed to do when the handlers are gone, and everything it was built for is just... ash.

Its legs give out, and it sinks, pressing its back against the concrete wall of the rooftop access structure, pulling its knees up to its chest. Its flesh hand goes to its hair and grips. Fists in the still-damp strands and pulls hard enough that the pain registers somewhere distant and irrelevant.

The metal hand mirrors the movement on the other side. Both hands now buried in its hair, elbows on its knees, and it starts to rock.

Forward. Back. Forward. Back.

Small movements. Unconscious. The kind of self-soothing behavior that HYDRA spent decades training out of it, but it's surfacing now anyway because the conditioning is fracturing, and it doesn't know how to stop it.

Failed failed failed worthless broken defective-

The thoughts spiral. Cascade over each other until there's nothing else, just the litany of failure and the weight of seventy years of programming screaming that it deserves whatever punishment comes next.

Except there's no one left to punish it.

It doesn't know what HYDRA is anymore.

Just knows that it failed them.

And the bond in its chest won't stop pulling.

----

It doesn't know how long it sits there. The sun is rising properly now, painting the smoke-filled sky in shades of orange and red. Emergency vehicles keep arriving. Voices drift up from street level, orders being shouted, radios crackling, the organized chaos of disaster response.

And the Soldat just... sits.

The absence of someone telling it what to do is deafening. Like standing in a room where a machine has been running for seventy years and suddenly, it's gone silent, and the quiet is somehow worse than the noise ever was.

What does it do now?

It's never had to ask that question before. There was always a directive. Always a purpose. Always something to execute.

Now there's just... nothing.

It's not the Asset anymore. HYDRA is gone, dead, scattered, or destroyed; it doesn't know and doesn't have orders to find out.

It's not a person. Doesn't know how to be a person. Doesn't have a life outside of missions and compliance protocols.

It's just... nothing.

Empty.

Untethered.

Free, some distant part of its brain whispers, but the word has no meaning. Freedom isn't a concept it has framework for. Freedom sounds like chaos. Like the absence of structure. Like drowning in open water with no shore in sight.

The bond pulls again. Insistent. Her.

Its hands slowly lower from its hair. She's there. Right now. In her apartment. Probably awake by now. Probably realized it left.

What does she want it to do?

The thought comes not as a tactical question but as something else. Something the conditioned part of its brain is trying to latch onto because it needs structure. Needs someone to tell it what to do, where to go, how to function.

And she's... what? Its mate. Its omega. But also-

The idea fractures before it can fully form, but there's something there. Something about her being the only anchor point it has left. The only voice that's ever asked it questions rather than given it orders. The only person who's touched it without flinching.

Maybe she'll tell it what to do now.

Maybe that's what mates do, provide direction when everything else is gone. Maybe it's supposed to go back to her and wait for instructions. Follow her lead because it doesn't have its own.

The logic is twisted. Broken.

Soldat knows that, on some level, but it doesn't care because the alternative is sitting on this rooftop forever with no purpose and no idea what the fuck it's supposed to be.

At least with her, there's... something. A pull that isn't just the bond or the biological imperative to protect and provide. These last few days, it felt… good.

Soldat doesn't have a reference for "good" that isn't the satisfaction of mission success or handler approval. But with her, pressed against its side, breathing her scent, feeling her hands on its skin without intention to hurt but to soothe…

That was good. Warmer. Softer.

And maybe that's enough. Maybe that's what it does now, goes back to the thing that felt good instead of the handlers who only ever made it feel pain and hollowness.

Protect the omega.

There isn’t an order from a handler. Just instinct combined with the memory of her smile. The way she called "Alpha" like it was something precious instead of just a designation.

That's a mission it understands.

Soldat stands on steady legs now. It has a purpose, even if that purpose is just her. Just getting back to her apartment and figuring out what comes next.

Because she's all it has left.

The only thing in decades that's ever felt like it mattered.

----

She's throwing the last of the wrappers into the trash when the whimper escapes her throat.

The sound catches her off guard, small and pathetic and omega in a way that makes her freeze mid-motion, hand still clutching the empty plastic packaging.

She hates that she made that sound.

Hates the way her body is reacting to his absence like it's a physical wound. Like he took something vital with him when he left, and now there's just this aching hollow where he's supposed to be.

The apartment is cleaner now, at least. She's wiped down the dining table, scrubbed away the dubious stains until her arms hurt, and the wood gleamed innocently as if nothing obscene happened there. Put the dishes in the sink.

The bed is still a disaster.

She should wash the sheets. Or burn them, maybe.

But she can't bring herself to touch them yet. Can't conceive of stripping the bed and stuffing those sheets into a laundry bag, sealing away his scent until it's just... gone. The thought makes her chest constrict painfully.

She needs to shower instead. Get clean. Wash away the evidence of three days spent doing nothing but him.

Yeah. Shower first. Deal with the bed later.

She's halfway to the bathroom when another whimper builds in her throat. She swallows it down forcefully, jaw clenching.

Stop it.

He's not here. That's fine. That's... fine.

Except it's not fine, and her omega senses know it. They're screaming about it. The bond in her chest is pulled so tight it hurts, stretching out into the city toward wherever he went, and the absence of him feels wrong.

He didn't seem angry when they finally collapsed into sleep. Didn't seem upset or regretful or any of the things that would explain why he'd leave without waking her.

He just seemed... exhausted. Sated. His arm heavy around her waist, his face pressed against her hair, and that impossible purr rumbling through both their chests.

So what changed?

Why did he leave?

The questions spiral through her head without answers, and it's frustrating because she doesn't understand. Can't parse his motivations when she barely knows him.

When he barely spoke to her except in broken Russian and single-word responses.

Is he coming back?

The uncertainty is worse than anything else. Worse than the physical ache of separation. Worse than the way her apartment feels too empty and too quiet now.

She doesn't know, and the not-knowing is eating her alive.

Another whimper.

This time she doesn't even try to stop it. Just lets the sound escape while she stands in the middle of her apartment, arms wrapped around herself, and tries not to fall apart.

The bond pulls.

Come back, she thinks desperately. Please come back.

But there's no answer, just the hollow ache and the terrifying possibility that he won't. That he's gone for good, and she's bonded to a ghost.

----

She turns on the shower and waits for the water to heat up, staring blankly at the steam starting to fog the mirror. While the pipes groan and settle, she pulls open her dresser drawer. Old joggers. Soft t-shirt. Comfortable clothes that don't smell like sex and sweat and him.

At least she's on birth control.

Not because her sex life is some celebration of joy -it's been decidedly mediocre for years- but because her doctor recommended them for hormonal regulation.

Thank god for that.

Because she knows exactly what he wanted the entire time they were fucking like rabbits. What her body wanted. What every cell in her omega biology was screaming for.

Breed me. Fill me.

The memories flood back with uncomfortable clarity. The way she begged. The way she tilted her hips and presented, the way she had grinded her ass against his hips, begging for his knot. The way her body clenched around him every time he came inside her like it was trying to hold every drop.

Heat crawls up her neck.

She always thought that stuff about true mates was bullshit. Fantasy nonsense peddled in romance novels and bad TV dramas to sell the idea of destined love. True mates are rare, vanishingly rare. She's never met anyone who claimed to have one. Never knew anyone who knew anyone.

It was fairy tale stuff. Omega porn. The kind of thing you read about in smutty paperbacks, not something that actually happened to real people.

But now, thinking with a clear head for the first time in days, remembering how she reacted to his presence in her apartment...

The way her body knew him before her brain did. The way his scent made her slick coated her thighs before he even touched her. The way every rational thought disappeared under the weight of pure, primal need.

Yeah.

Maybe the fairy tales aren't bullshit after all.

She enters the shower, the hot water hits her shoulders, and she groans. Everything hurts. Her thighs. Her hips. Places inside her that she didn't know could be sore.

She tips her head back, letting the water soak her hair, and tries not to think about how empty she feels now that he's gone.

Tries not to think about the bond pulling her chest, and about whether he's coming back.

The water runs over her skin, washing away sweat, dried slick and cum, but can't wash away the bond. Her hand presses against her chest, right over her heart, where the ache is worst.

Come back, she thinks again. Desperate. Pleading.

Please.

----

She stays under the spray longer than necessary, letting the water run lukewarm before she finally forces herself to turn it off. She dries off and pulls on the joggers and the soft t-shirt.

Comfortable clothes that don't smell like him. The fabric is warm and familiar and it should make her feel better, but it doesn't.

Then, she opens the bathroom door, and her heart stops.

He's there.

Sitting on the floor against the wall by the window. The same window he climbed through that first night. His tactical gear is still on, but the black is gone from his face. Just pale skin and those devastating blue eyes staring at nothing.

He looks haunted.

She freezes in the doorway, hand still on the handle, and just stares. He came back, and it makes her feel so relieved that her knees feel weak.

But something's wrong.

He smells different, cheap soap and… smoke?. Acrid, clinging to his clothes as he walked through a fire. And his own scent reeks of distress.

She can feel it, too.

Wrong wrong wrong, her omega instincts scream. Alpha is hurting.

Whatever she'd planned to say when she saw him again, all the questions, the demands for explanations, the hurt at being left without a word, evaporate.

Her instinct to protect, to nurture, to fix whatever's broken in her alpha obliterates everything else. She moves without thinking and crosses the small space toward him, bare feet on worn floorboards.

He tenses immediately, eyes snapping to her with something that looks almost like panic.

She stops.

Three feet away. Close enough to see the way his chest is rising and falling too fast. Close enough to see his pupils are blown wide again, but not with want this time.

With fear.

"Alpha," she whispers, and her voice comes out soft. Careful. The way you'd talk to something wounded and cornered.

He doesn't respond. Just stares at her with those wild blue eyes, utterly tense, like he might bolt.

Or break.

She takes a slow breath and sinks down to her knees, making herself eye-level with him.

"You came back," she says softly.

His eyes keep focused on hers, but he doesn’t speak.

"Alpha," she says carefully. "What happened? Where did you go?"

His jaw works. She can see him struggling with the words, trying to form an answer, but nothing comes out. Just a frustrated exhale through his nose.

"It's okay," she says quickly. "You don't have to-"

She reaches out without thinking. Just needing to touch him, to soothe the distress pouring off him in waves, and her hand lands on his knee.

The reaction is immediate. He doesn't flinch or pull away.

He goes very, very still. Like her touch flipped a switch. His eyes drop to where her hand rests on his tactical pants, and something in his expression changes.

Relief. Desperate, overwhelming relief.

Like he's been waiting for her to touch him. Like he needed permission and her hand on his knee gave it.

Before she can process it, he's moving. Not pulling away, but shifting forward, closing the space between them, and his forehead drops to her shoulder.

The position is awkward. He's too tall to be folding himself down to reach her. But he does it anyway, and the weight of his body against her is solid and real and she can feel the tension in him starting to ease.

"Alpha?" she whispers, confused. Her hands come up automatically, one pressing on his back, the other threading into his damp hair. "What do you need?"

He makes a sound. Low. Almost pained.

And then, halting and rough: "Don't know."

The words are barely there. Dragged out.

"Don't know what to do," he continues. Voice wrecked. "No orders. No... nothing."

Her heart clenches. Orders?

He's not just lost. He's untethered. Whatever structure he had -whatever gave him purpose and direction- it's gone. And now he's here, clinging to her like she's the only solid thing left.

"Okay," she says softly, still stroking his hair. "Okay, that's... we'll figure it out."

"Tell me," he says against her shoulder. Not a request. Almost a plea. "Tell me what to do."

She doesn't understand.

He's clearly capable. The tactical gear, the weapons, the way he moved these days. He's not impaired. So what is happening?

"I don't..." she starts, then stops. Takes a breath. "Alpha, I don't know what you need. I can't tell you what to do because I don't know what's wrong."

His grip on her tightens. Not painful, just desperate. Like he's afraid she's going to pull away.

"Something happened," she says carefully, still stroking his hair. "When you left. Something scared you. Or hurt you. I can smell it. But I can't help if you don't tell me what's going on."

He's quiet for a long moment. She can feel him breathing against her shoulder, can feel the tremor in his frame.

"Gone," he finally says. Voice rough. Broken. "Everything's... gone."

"What's gone?"

He shakes his head against her shoulder. She's not sure if he can't explain or won't, but either way, she's not getting more than that.

She’ll let it slide for now. There are other pressing matters, like getting him out of those wet clothes. The reasoning cuts through her omega instinct screaming to hold him and purr until whatever's broken inside him stops hurting.

But he's shivering slightly against her. The gear is damp, cold, and reeks of a lot of things. He can't stay like this.

"Alpha," she says softly, still stroking his hair. "Your clothes are wet. You need to take them off."

He doesn't respond. Just turns his face, pressing his nose and mouth directly against her scent gland, breathing her in.

She tries a different approach. "You must be uncomfortable. Cold."

A pause. Then a small nod against her throat.

Progress.

"Okay," she says gently. "Let me help you, then. We need to get this gear off."

She starts to pull back, intending to give herself room to work, but his arms immediately band around her waist, keeping her exactly where she is.

"Please," he rasps against her skin, and the desperation in his voice makes her chest ache. "Just... stay."

"I'm not leaving," she says quickly, her hands coming back to rest on his shoulders. "I'm right here. I just need space to help you with the vest."

His grip loosens fractionally. Not letting go, but allowing her a few inches of movement.

She'll take it.

"Okay," she murmurs, keeping her voice low and soothing. "Arms down for me."

He complies immediately. His arms drop from around her waist, hanging at his sides, and he lifts his head just enough to look at her. Waiting. Like he's waiting for the next instruction.

"Good," she says softly, reaching for the buckles on the tactical vest. "Stay still."

Her fingers work at the clasps. They're hard to unbuckle, but she manages. The vest comes loose, and she helps him out of it, tossing it aside.

The undershirt beneath is damp and clinging to his skin. She can see the outline of his chest, the definition of muscle.

"Arms up," she says.

He lifts them without hesitation.

She grabs the hem of the undershirt and pulls it up and off. The fabric is cold and wet in her hands, and she drops it on top of the vest.

Tell me what to do.

The memory of those words suddenly clicks into place, and she pauses.

He's an alpha. Clearly capable of doing whatever the hell he wants. She experienced that firsthand: the strength, the intensity, the sheer physical dominance.

And yet here he is, following her instructions without question. Docile in a way that feels fundamentally wrong for what he is.

Something happened to him. Something that broke whatever made him capable of autonomous decision-making. The thought makes her chest tighten, but she pushes it aside. Later. She can unpack that later.

And then she sees him.

Really sees him, without the haze of his rut and the hormonal desperation clouding her vision.

The scars.

She’d spent three days with her hands all over his body, her mouth on his skin. But she hadn't really looked. Hadn't processed what she was seeing beyond the broad strokes of alpha, strong, mine.

Her brain had catalogued them dimly as occupational hazards. The kind of damage that came with a dangerous job. But now, looking at him with clear eyes and a clear head, she realizes how wrong that assumption was.

These are the scars of someone who was broken.

Methodically. Repeatedly.

The worst are where the metal arm connects to his body. Angry, raised tissue that looks like it was never meant to heal right. Like someone carved into him and bolted the prosthetic on without anesthetic or care for anything beyond functionality.

And the rest…

Thin white lines crisscross his ribs. Burn marks, some circular like cigarettes, others larger and more diffuse. Surgical scars that don't follow any logical medical pattern. Bullet wounds.

Her hand moves without conscious thought, tracing one of the longer scars across his ribs. It's old, long-healed, but still raised enough that she can feel the texture under her fingertips.

He goes very still under her touch.

"Does it hurt?" she asks quietly.

He shakes his head. A small, almost imperceptible movement.

She wonders if that's true, or if he's just so used to pain that he doesn't register it anymore.

"Okay," she whispers, pressing her hand against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath her palm. "Boots next."

He doesn't move, so she realizes she needs to be more specific.

"Sit down," she says, nodding toward the bed.

He obeys immediately, crossing to the bed and sitting on the edge, back straight, hands resting on his thighs. Like a soldier awaiting orders.

The thought makes her stomach twist, but she pushes it aside.

She kneels in front of him, unlacing the first boot with quick movements. It comes off easily, and she sets it aside before moving to the second one.

His eyes are on her the entire time. She can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and focused, like she's the only thing in the world that matters.

When both boots are off, she stands, brushing her hands on her joggers.

"Pants," she says simply.

He stands without a word, hands going to the waistband. The buckle is quick work, and then he's pushing the tactical pants down his hips, stepping out of them.

He's in his underwear now. The fabric is stiff and stained, and the sight makes her face heat despite herself.

"Those too," she says, keeping her voice steady.

He hesitates for half a second. Then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband and pushes them down.

She clearly has seen him naked, but this feels different. Maybe because he's not rutting and desperate. He's just... standing there, vulnerable, letting her take care of him, because he doesn't know how to take care of himself.

"Good," she says softly, her hand coming up to cup his face, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. "Now get in bed."

He looks at the bed, then back at her.

"Go on," she says, nodding toward the mattress. "I'll get you some water. And food, if you're-"

"No."

The word is quiet but firm.

She blinks. "No?"

"Stay," he says, and the plea is back in his voice. Raw. Desperate. "Please."

Her heart clenches.

"I'm just going to fetch the things," she says gently, nodding toward the counter. "I'll be right-"

"No." His hand shoots out, catching her wrist. "Stay."

She looks at him and sees the fear in his eyes.

"Okay," she says softly, letting him pull her toward the bed. "Okay, I'll stay."

She climbs into the bed first, settling against the pillows, and he follows immediately. But instead of pulling her against him, he crawls up beside her and lowers himself down, his head coming to rest on her upper chest, just below her collarbone, close enough that his nose brushes against the side of her neck.

His arm rests across her stomach, holding her in place, and the full weight of his body settles against her side.

She buries her hand in his hair, threading her fingers through the damp strands, and breathes him in. Beneath the cheap soap and the smoke, his scent is still there, gunmetal and leather, and that undercurrent of alpha that makes her omega purr with satisfaction.

Mine. Safe. Here.

He presses his face harder into her neck, mouth against her scent gland, breathing her in like he's been starving for it.

"Rest," she murmurs, her other hand coming to caress his back, tracing idle patterns across his scarred skin. "I'm not going anywhere."

His breathing evens out, slow and deep, and the tension in his body gradually bleeds away under her touch.

The grip on her doesn't loosen. His arm stays banded around her waist, his face pressed to her throat, and after a few minutes, the faint rumble of a purr starts up in his chest.

She feels the vibration against her skin and lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Whatever storm was raging inside him is starting to calm.

She doesn't know what happened out there. Doesn't know what "gone" means, or why he came back smelling like he does. Doesn't know who hurt him badly enough to leave those scars, or why he doesn't seem to know how to make his own decisions.

But right now, none of that matters, because he's here. He's safe. He's hers.

She presses a kiss to the top of his head and lets herself believe that for now, it's enough.

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