Count Cuntress ݁ᛪ༙

Milo is wiping down the kitchen counters when the smell hits him.

It isn’t the usual scent of his apartment—the lingering aroma of dinner and the much stronger smell of lemon kitchen cleaner he’s using. And it certainly wasn’t his own scent of roses and thorns.

No, instead it’s the metallic, coppery tang of blood.

There’s unfortunately only one person Milo knows whose pheromones smell like that.

Frank’s.

Sighing, Milo walks toward the front door with the dish rag still in hand. He barely gets halfway when he hears the doorknob groan in protest before the metal gives way with a brutal snap. The door then swings open, and filling the frame, bleeding all over the welcome mat, was none other than Frank Castle.

“Fuck’s sake,” Milo breathes out, the words leaving him in a rush.

Frank looks like shit. Actually, he always looks like shit. But tonight he looks like he got into a fight with a black bear and lost. Horribly.

A long, angry gash splits his left eyebrow, leaking a sluggish trail of red down the side of his face and into his stubble. His left eye is almost swollen shut, his cheek bruised, and his lip busted. His knuckles, from what Milo can see, are raw with the skin peeling back in a few places.

But the main event is the dark, blooming stain soaking through the gray of Frank’s hoodie on the right side of his torso. 

He has his arm pressed firmly against it to maybe help with the bleeding, but blood has already seeped down to his wrist and is dripping from his fingertips onto the floorboards.

“You couldn’t wait five seconds for me to open the door?” Milo questions, huffing a little.

“I’ll fix it later.” Frank grunts, his voice a low, pained rasp. He steps into the apartment and pushes past Milo, his broad shoulder brushing against the taller’s shoulder. 

The contact was brief, not even a second, and sent a stupid, hot jolt up Milo’s spine.

“Got anything to drink?”

Closing the front door, Milo sighs. “Water? Beer? Your blood that’s currently all over my freshly mopped floors?” The alpha snaps, fear and concern for Frank’s wellbeing manifesting as annoyance. 

When he’s back in the kitchen, he tosses the dish towel onto the counter and goes to grab a cup from the cupboards.

Meanwhile, Frank has already made himself at home on Milo’s worn, brown leather sofa. The only piece of furniture in the room that could hold the man’s weight without complaint.

Frank leans his head back against the cushions and closes his eyes, deliberately keeping his breathing slow.

The scent of him—that coppery tang of blood, underlined by aggressive alpha musk and Frank’s usual stink—floods the space. It might be a challenge; it’s definitely a warning, and a siren call to Milo’s own instincts.

The alpha part of Milo bristles. A low growl wants to form in his throat at the fact that another alpha is in his home, leaking aggressive pheromones everywhere.

However, the man part of him is too busy watching the way Frank's throat works and the way his jaw is clenched tight in pain, how big he looks on the couch, and how crazy attractive he looks covered in blood.

Milo, glass of water in hand, walks to the couch and hands Frank the glass, “Here.” 

Frank opens his eyes, and instead of taking it, he raises a questioning, if not slightly judgmental, brow. “Thought you’d bring the beer,” he gruffs, finally taking the glass of water.

“How about you shut up and drink the damn water?”

Frank mutters something under his breath but does take a sip of water. The brunet runs a hand through his locs with a sigh. “Alright. I gotta go get the first aid out of the bathroom.” Milo states, forcing his voice to stay calm and level.

“Don’t move too much. And please, for fuck’s sake, try not to bleed on anything else. We both know you’re not going to clean it.”

Leaning forward to set the glass on the coffee table, Frank looks at the younger alpha with a mix of exhaustion and annoyance on his stupidly handsome face.

“You’re bein’ real fussy tonight.”

“And you’re a pain in my ass every night. Don’t see me complaining.”

Milo turns on his heel and heads for the bathroom down the hall. Despite his bravado, his hands are shaking, and his heart is beating out of his chest. He rubs the pads of his fingers together in a weird self-soothing gesture while also taking deep, somewhat calming breaths.

It’s okay, just breathe. Frank’s fine. He nearly bleeds out every other day. It’s fine. You’re fine.

In the bathroom, Milo leans against the sink and takes another deep breath. His reflection stares back at him: brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, dark locs tumbling over his shoulders, cheeks a little warm. He looks flustered. He feels flustered.

Frank looking like he has one foot in the grave isn’t the only reason why his heart is trying to shoot out of his chest. 

As much as he hates to admit it.

The brunet drops his head, groaning. 

Frank’s scent is already clinging to his clothes. It’s addictive, his scent. It’s disgusting. It makes his skin warm. It makes his dick twitch against his thigh with traitorous, eager interest.

This has to be the worst part of the older alpha’s impromptu visits. This pathetic, helpless want that’s a physical ache in Milo’s bones.

It wakes him up some nights. Sweaty, heart racing, breathing heavy, and pathetically hard. It makes him linger in the spots Frank once was, hoping to get a little more of those pheromones.

It makes it hard to keep his hands to himself when Frank is near. It makes it hard to keep his mind from wandering whenever Frank pats him on the shoulder or brushes past him. It makes his head spin when he smells Frank’s scent. It makes his eyes linger on Frank’s lips, his throat, his scent gland, his hands, and his fingers. It makes him want to touch, squeeze, kiss, lick, bite.

It makes him feel fucking crazy.

Milo crouches down, opens the sink cabinet, and grabs the industrial-sized first aid kit that he bought specifically for Frank.

Upon returning to the living room, Milo sees that Frank has already peeled off his shirt and hood, and tossed both onto the floor.

The brunet should nag about the mess, but his focus is completely on the older’s scarred, muscular torso and his hairy chest. No matter how many times he’s seen Frank topless, Milo always gets a little breathless. 

Milo’s eyes snag on this evening’s main star. A nasty slice along Frank’s ribs, deep enough to need stitches. Stitches the bastard probably expects him to do.

“You know you’re going to need stitches, right?” Milo says while walking over. He puts the kit on the coffee table and sits beside Frank.

“So stitch it,” Frank grunts, putting his arm along the back of the couch and shifting around to get more comfortable. He closes his eyes and leans his head back, which in turn exposes more of his neck.

Milo swallows. The impulse to lean over and sink his teeth into the juncture of Frank’s neck, hard enough to draw blood, hard enough to leave a mark, a scar, nearly overtakes him.

But the young alpha manages to shove it deep down into the pit of his stomach where all his other idiotic feelings for Frank lived.

“I’m not a doctor, Frank,” Milo argues, even as he’s already digging through the kit for everything he’ll need to stitch the big man up.

He’s watched dozens of YouTube videos and even practiced on some cuts of meat a few times. This also isn’t the first time he’s had to stitch Frank up. 

So, technically, he’s the most qualified person Frank knew to do this particular brand of surgery. This is assuming the older alpha doesn’t have other friends. 

Which Milo doubts he does because he doesn’t see many people standing for or tolerating Frank’s fuck-awful attitude.

“You’re what I got,” Frank says, opening his eyes. “So just shut up and do it.”

Milo’s eye twitches. “You’re aware I could just kick you out and leave you to bleed out somewhere that isn’t my couch, right?” he questions while laying out the supplies on the table. 

“And besides, I’m just sayin’ a real hospital has drugs and proper sterilization and doctors who didn’t learn their craft from a guy on YouTube named ‘SewingWithGoober’.”

Frank, closing his eyes back, groans. “Don’t want a hospital. I want you.”

Milo pauses, his heart skipping a beat.

“Whatever. Here,” the brunet puts a roll of gauze up to the older’s alpha’s mouth, “Bite down on this.” Frank does as he’s told without fuss. Thankfully.

After cleaning his hands, Milo got started. Cleaning the wound is easy. Listening to Frank groan and moan is not.

The young alpha had to think about the time he walked in on his granny naked to keep from pitching a tent. Gross, but it helped.

“Can you stop moving?” Milo hisses, frowning. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

Frank takes the gauze out of his mouth. “If you were me, would you be able to keep still?”

“If I were you, I would have never gotten cut in the first place.”

Frank’s response was a low, pained huff that may have been a laugh. Might have been a death rattle. With Frank, it’s hard to tell.

Milo fights a smile. 

This whole thing brings back memories of the night he first met Frank.

It was raining hard, and Milo was taking trash out to the dumpster behind his building. He remembers grumbling about his upstairs neighbors when the dumpster rattled and scared the dog crap out of him. At first, he thought it was a cat or a very big rat. 

Then he peered inside and saw a body. Surprise, surprise, it was Frank. The older alpha had been lying on a bed of trash bags. His face was busted up and covered in grime.

Frank had looked up at Milo and his eyes—even half-swollen shut—were murderous. There wasn’t a single doubt in Milo’s mind that Frank would have, somehow, killed him if he perceived him as a threat. Shit, the fuckwad had even growled at him—actually growled like a feral dog.

Milo should have left him there to rot, but he didn’t. Instead, he hauled Frank out of there, basically dragged him up three flights of stairs, and fixed him up once they were in Milo’s apartment.

Frank passed out. The next morning, gone.

A week later, Frank was back. Knuckles split and demanding peroxide.

“Hold still, damnit-” Milo says, his voice softer than he intended. He’ll blame it on being preoccupied with swabbing the area around the cut with antiseptic one last time before stitching.

When he’s done, Milo tosses the cotton ball with the others, cleans his hands with rubbing alcohol, and begins threading the curved needle. It took a few tries to get the thread through the hole, but he eventually got it.

“I’ma start stitching now.” The brunet voices while cleaning the needle itself with rubbing alcohol. “For fuck’s sake, please don’t move. If I fuck up, it’s your fault.”

Frank grunts in response.

“This is gonna hurt,” Milo warns, his face a mask of both hesitation and concern.

“Everything hurts,” Frank replies in a low rasp. “Get on with it.”

Milo takes a deep breath, studies himself, and pushes the needle through Frank’s skin.

Frank clenches his jaw tight enough for the tendons in his neck to stand out, and grips the couch so hard that his knuckles turn white and the veins in his forearms cord. But otherwise, he keeps still and doesn’t make a sound past a low groan.

Seeing the ravenette trying to withstand the pain is ridiculously attractive.

That, or maybe Milo’s just a perverted weirdo.

Milo works as quickly as he can without messing up: push the needle in, pull it tight, repeat.

Each time the needle pierces skin, Frank’s pheromones spike and flood the younger’s senses. It was alluring. It felt like a taunt. It made the hair on Milo’s neck stand. It made his own scent of roses rise in answer.

‘Control yourself, damnit,’ Milo thought, pulling another stitch. ‘Frank is likely in mind-numbing pain, and your dumb body is deadass trying to flirt with him through pheromones. Aggressive ones at that.’

“You’re doing that thing again,” Frank mutters, opening his eyes.

Milo frowns. “What thing?”

“When your pheromones randomly get all…flowery.”

The younger alpha feels his face grow warm. “No shit, Sherlock, roses are flowers.” He glances up at Frank. “And I can’t help it. It’s a stress response to you bleeding everywhere and smelling awful.”

Frank snorts, then winces. “Smells like your stress response wants me to bend it over the couch.”

The needle slips from Milo’s hand, causing him to curse. He fumbles as he tries to pick it back up, heart hammering against his ribs.

“Shut up,” he snaps in an embarrassingly high voice. “Don’t be weird, man.”

Frank smirks, a tiny, tired tug of his lips. “Jus’ sayin’. I’ve never met anyone whose so-called stress pheromones are so…sweet.” The way he says it and the look on his face lets Milo know that the bastard is fucking with him.

In retaliation, Milo pulls the last stitch unnecessarily hard, making Frank flinch, before cutting it and tying it off.

“Petty bastard...”

Milo ignores him and instead busies himself with putting away the needle. He grabs a few big band-aids and slaps them over the stitched wound. Frank hisses through clenched teeth, face twisting in pain. He brings his hand up and shoves Milo away by the face.

“Okay fuck, quit it, you little shit.”

A smug, pleased smile finds its way onto Milo’s face. One he doesn’t even try to hide. It earns him a glare from the grumpy alpha beside him.

Frank sits up straight, wincing as he did, and inspects his side. “Not half bad.” He says after a moment, looking up at Milo.

“Can’t you just say thank you?”

“I just did, didn’t I?”

Milo honestly doesn’t have the energy to argue.

The brunet moves on to the gash on Frank’s brow. “Thankfully, this doesn’t need stitches,” He mumbles, dabbing it with a bit of alcohol on a cotton swab. “Just a bit of liquid band-aid and it’ll be fine.”

Up close, Milo can see the individual scars that decorate Frank’s face, how long his lashes are, and the gray that’s starting to pepper his temples.

Milo shifts his gaze and is surprised to see Frank staring at him.

It kind of makes his breath stutter.

“You’re staring,” Frank mutters, his voice softer than it’s been all evening.

Milo looks away first, forcing himself to focus on literally anything else. “I’m not. I’m…cleaning.” The young alpha argues weakly.

“You’re staring while you clean.”

“Well, your face is a mess. It’s hard not to stare at a mess.”

Frank turns his head away, but Milo catches the smile on his face.

The brunet finishes with the eyebrow, then takes Frank’s hand and starts cleaning his torn knuckles.

Frank’s hand is large, rough, calloused, and warm. Milo’s own hand, which isn't all that small itself, looks almost delicate in comparison.

Milo feels stupid that his heart is beating so fast over it.

They’re not even really holding hands. Frank’s hand is just…resting on top of his while he fixes up his knuckles.

Milo wraps the knuckles and then moves on to the next hand. The young alpha works in silence for the most part, laser-focused on the task at hand, pun totally intended.

When he’s done, the brunet works on adding ointment to the bruising on Frank’s face. It doesn’t take as long as the other patchwork.

“Alright, done.” Milo turns away and starts putting everything up.

Frank flexes his hands. “Thanks,” He says, the word sounding forced out of him. Milo hums a simple, “You’re welcome.”

It’s silent between them. Frank is watching Milo put away the supplies, and Milo is very, very aware of Frank’s gaze. After what felt like forever, the young alpha huffs and looks to his left.

“Now who’s staring?”

“Wasn’t staring,” Frank shrugs, leaning back into the couch and looking away.

Milo stares at him with a deadpan expression. “Right, okay.” He grabs the kit and stands. 

Without another word, the brunet walks away, down the hall to the bathroom to put the kit away. After tossing the damned thing back into the sink cabinet, Milo goes back to the living room.

What he finds upon returning is Frank sitting upright, pulling his shirt and hood back on. His scent, once aggressive, has settled down into something that doesn’t make Milo want to mount or maul him. 

Afterwards, Frank stands and stretches, but not without grimacing in pain, his hand going to his side.

He looks over at the younger, then away. “Thanks again for, you know.” Frank gestures at himself, lips pulled into a thin line.

A tired smile tugs at the young alpha’s lips. “It’s no problem. Just please don’t come back for at least a week or two.” Frank raises a thick brow, amusement coloring his handsome face.

“We both know you love when I come around.” The alpha jokes while making his way toward the front door. 

Following behind him, Milo lets out a scoff and says, “As if anyone would love having to see a mug as ugly as yours so often.”

Milo’s words are mostly a lie. The lie is that Frank’s ugly. Unfortunately, he’s not. The part that isn’t is the part about seeing him often. Don’t get him wrong, he loves seeing Frank’s face, but whenever the older man comes around, he’s usually hurt and bleeding everywhere.

Words can’t express how much he wishes to see Frank under better, less dire circumstances.

The ravenette looks over his shoulder and parrots the younger’s earlier words, “Right, okay.”

Frank unhooks the latch, then opens the door. As he’s walking out, he stops to turn to face the younger, who’s now standing in the doorway. The older alpha gestures to the broken knob, a somewhat sheepish expression on his face.

At least he has the decency to look somewhat ashamed. Fucking brute.

“I’ll fix it.”

“You said that the last two times you’ve broken it.”

“I said I’ll fix it, Milo.” The look on Frank’s face and the way Milo’s name leaves his lips has the young alpha’s heart beating uncontrollably. 

It’s stupid; it’s pathetically stupid, but his name on Frank’s lips is like a siren’s call. One that grows harder and harder to resist with each passing day.

He’d give just about anything to kiss Frank right now. To pull him in by his shirt and press him against the door. To have Frank’s legs wrapped around his waist and arms around his neck. To kiss him so hard that it leaves them both hot, hard, and breathless. He wants his lips on Frank’s neck, kissing, licking, sucking, and biting.

He wants to hear Frank moan his name over and over and over till he’s hoarse.

Frank tilts his hand and raises his brows. “Is that…also a stress response?” He smiles, tone low and teasing.

Milo blinks, then slaps a hand over his scenting gland. “It’s- It’s nothing, just, um, yeah.” The words tumble out of him, all rushed and flustered, and his face heats up. The young man looks down at the floor between them, unable to meet Frank’s gaze.

He hears a chuckle. “It’s fine. I’m not judging." Frank says, shrugging those broad shoulders of his.

“Just-” Milo looks up, and in an attempt to change topics, he says, “Just keep the wound dry and clean. Try not to do too much, especially not anything that’ll open it again.” The brunet aims for casual but misses by a mile.

The redness on his face and ears doesn’t help.

Frank hums, “Catch you later, kid.” There's a smile there. 

Milo returns it. “Bye, Frank.”

The young alpha doesn’t close the door until he sees Frank turn the corner. When he does, Milo presses his forehead against the cool wood and sighs.

Frank’s scent of blood still lingers, around the apartment and on him.

A scent like Frank’s should be gross if anything, but it’s not. It’s strangely comforting.

But maybe that’s just Milo’s heart talking.

Sighing again, Milo pushes off the door and gets to cleaning the blood and bandages left by Frank.

Proofread by my friend @simplevanquish !!