Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Art by PuppyOfTindalos

It’s the emptiness, the plainness of it that does it for you. 

There was a night shortly after you moved to this neighborhood, shit, over a year ago, when you were walking your dog as you usually did. Up and down the street, around every cul-de-sac, until the entire expanse of your immediate sidewalk territory had been covered.

And you had been at the bottom of one of those cul-de-sacs, lost in the feeling of how nicely the wind was raking through your hair, when suddenly you had felt someone’s eyes on you.

You can’t explain it. There’s no way to pinpoint exactly how you knew someone was watching. It was a dark night and most of the porch lights were on, but that just means you could see that the street was dead and silent.

Your head pivoted around to search for the source of that awareness, and finally you saw it - that little red dot, glowing in the darkness before it dropped out of sight. You were so irrationally embarrassed that you didn’t note exactly which house it was, you just booked it and tried to pretend you didn’t notice them smoking on their dark porch. You were new to the neighborhood, and it felt like you were the one peeping with your not-from-here eyes, so you just walked home with your heart pumping a little faster than it should have. 

And you never feel it again. You walk the street countless times, day and night with your aging pitbull, and you're never certain exactly which house it had been. But you narrow it down to two, and that should tell you something important about how fucking pathetic you are. One night of seeing some poor sap having a smoke on their own porch and you’re obsessing over it. 

But the thing is, there are only two houses it could have been. One of them is exactly like all the other houses in the neighborhood. A family lives there. You’ve seen toys in the yard, and occasionally a mother carrying in groceries. They decorate for holidays and keep their yard nice. 

And the other house is exactly unlike all of the other houses in the neighborhood. Sure, the grass stays cut and everything is in moderate repair, but Christ, nothing else is right about it. There are no cars in the driveway, for one thing, and never any cars on the street. Obviously they could park in the garage, but that would mean that it’s cleared out enough to park cars in there, and honestly, who lives like that?

There’s not a single ornament, decorative light or knick knack to speak of. It has only the barest of landscaping, and the fake ADT sign stands nervously in a corner of the lawn that just feels incorrect. There are never any lights on inside, and there isn’t even a welcome mat at the door. The only reason you believe it’s occupied is because of the solitary furnishing, a wooden rocking chair on the porch. 

In the daylight you pass and stare, taking in every unchanging detail and trying to work out exactly what  intrigues you so much. At night you pass and stare, wondering if there’s ever someone in there, or if it’s just some bizarre suburban summer house that remains empty most of the year.

And then, in the space of a couple of months, your dog passes away and the divorce happens. It’s all so consuming and you feel like you’re drowning, and you don’t think about that house, not even once. Nothing matters except the cycles of emotional pain and numbness that are just never ending, and you’re so dissociated that you’re barely aware which one is happening, or for how long. You’re coping hour by hour and desperately trying to distract yourself with work and Instagram reels, and then one day… you surface.

You inhale deeply and it doesn’t feel like panic. You look around and you’re able to see more than what’s strictly necessary, like all the peripheral details are no longer fuzzy. The air is clear and no longer shoving cotton down your throat. 

The neighbor next door convinces you to attend an animal adoption event, and fuck, you immediately fall in love. He’s a little black pitbull, and he’s so sweet that you think your heart is cracking open. There’s something about how unwanted he is, simply by existing in his breed and color of fur that makes you stubborn, makes you attach yourself to him like two unwanted people who decide to claim each other. 

You start walking again. The puppy is nervous at first, but soon he’s right there with you, looking forward to your long evening walk like it’s the highlight of his day.

It’s yours. You love walking at night because it’s the only time when being alone feels good. It feels good to be the only one out here, looking into the lit windows and trying to imagine the people who live there. Where they eat, where they watch TV, where they fuck. It’s easy to tell which houses have teenagers because there’s invariably an upstairs window with a colored LED light strip lining the ceiling. You wonder if they’re doing alright, because being a teenager is depressing as shit. You worry about them, the young people you’ve never even seen. 

You pass the plain house a few times in the daylight and it barely registers, just a silly little distraction that mattered to someone who no longer exists. You’re more concerned with getting your puppy fully potty trained and less afraid of the car. 

And then one night, the weather is absolutely perfect. It’s been a warm day in February which means no bugs, but the air still smells like the cusp of spring, and it’s simply alive. It’s rare that the air feels like this when there’s no storm on the way. You could walk for miles and miles tonight, and you would, if you didn’t worry about being a woman alone in the dark. Sure, you have a dog with you, but he’s on the small side, and you don’t want to put him in danger defending you. It’s hardly fair. 

So the neighborhood sidewalk it is. You go about your longest routine, around every loop and straight, some more than once. The pup is taking his precious time to smell every little thing, as if the air feels good to him, too. You’re feeling simultaneously alone and content, and it’s fucking incredible. Life feels tolerable right now. The wind is dancing across your cheeks and hair like it knows you’re a sucker for that particular treatment, and you’re so wrapped up in the happy little things that it’s jarring when you feel someone watching. 

You get your bearings in a split second. The street is well lit, unusually so, because—

Because for the first time, the plain house has its porch light on. And there’s a man sitting in the rocking chair, smoking. 

Like a glutton, you drink in every detail that you can absorb in the three seconds of polite onlooking you’ve allotted for yourself. He’s fucking huge, like the most enormous man you've ever seen, and he’s definitely watching you. With the light coming from over his shoulder, his face is just darkness and you can’t see anything else, and it’s infuriating that it’s all you get before you have to turn your head away. 

In a moment of madness you picture yourself stopping, turning around to call back to him, “Are you lonely?” You have no idea what on earth possesses you to conjure up that idea. It’s the stupidest, least cool thing you can imagine saying, but for some reason it feels right to you. The way you can feel his eyes before his house even comes into your line of sight is… Disturbing? Exciting? Something in between? There’s no scientific explanation for it, but it definitely just happened.

In your defense, you’ve always been like this. You’d read through your library system’s entire Agatha Christie collection by the time you were sixteen. Every time you see something strange, or hear a scream, you look down at your phone and note the time. Northanger Abbey holds a special place in your heart because you are her. You romanticise the fuck out of every trivial thing that happens to you, you— you married an FBI agent, for fuck’s sake. Yeah it turned out to be way less sexy than you thought it would be, but that’s just life, and it has apparently not dimmed your sense of wonder whatsoever.

Why can’t you just be normal? Why can’t you walk by the Plain House and see it as off putting, or better yet don’t notice it at all? What benefit can there possibly be in indulging these daydreams of walking up the porch steps and knocking on the door? It isn’t normal to feel like speaking to him would be a relief. There’s no reason to feel so compelled by this insignificant happening. 

It doesn’t take long for the feeling of his eyes to leave your back. Why wouldn’t he look away? Even if you were outrageously good-looking - which you’re not - he wouldn’t be able to tell in the dark, with the expanse of his yard separating the two of you. You’re sure he sees plenty of people walking their dogs every day, and you are an extremely unremarkable, freshly divorced thirty year old nobody. It’s fucking embarrassing how undesirable you are. 

Not that… not that this is some kind of sexual obsession. God, you are not a stalker. A little outrageous with your imagination maybe, but never bad enough to convince yourself that a complete stranger would be interested in you.

You'll  never go out of your way to walk by his house, you decide. If anything, you will avoid it. 

But you still find yourself thinking about the Plain House man when you begin to drift off that night. It’s hardly your fault that he lives so suspiciously. What right does he have to behave all Jason Statham with his stupid, unassuming house, and his stupid lights he never has on? It’s just screaming “moody assassin’s safehouse” at anyone who passes by. It’s absolutely slutty.

Therapy. You need therapy. Your puppy stretches out against the curve of your spine, and you put your imagination to good use for the first time that day, staring unseeing at the darkness until you can picture yourself walking by the Plain House without looking.

It’s a full week before you give yourself permission to walk down that cul-de-sac again. You glance at the Plain House when you pass by, because you look at all the other houses you pass, and it would just be weird if you avoided looking at this one. It’s completely dark as usual. No lights, no cars, no sign of life. Utterly, inexplicably fascinating. 

You wish desperately to see that man again, just to convince yourself that he’s real. Even better, you wish he would wave when you pass by. Just that smidgen of friendly normalcy which would crumble your insane fantasy straight into the dirt. It would be devastating and disappointing, and you could finally move on. 

But you don’t see him. The house stays dark and empty the next day, and the next. Through the next week and the next month, and you start to question if you ever really saw what you think you saw. It’s so frustrating that you eventually give up and do something really stupid. You start walking outside the confines of your street.

You live in a town that’s adjacent to a large Marine Corps base. If anything, the the shops and restaurants were built in order to have some place for Marines to go on the weekends besides Marine Mart. But you’re an hour from DC, so a lot of people live here where the houses are cheaper, and then commute to their cushy jobs up North. What you’re trying to say is your city is relatively safe. The schools are good, everything is HOA, and there isn’t much crime that you know of. 

You’re bored of the same sidewalk, and suddenly it doesn’t seem like that much of a risk to venture out of your cocoon of safety, even at night. Sure, there are spots with no street lamps, but you can just… walk fast. There’s never anyone else out here at night, and you’re pretty sure that’s a good thing. It feels safe enough, and your intuition has never led you astray before. Well, except for the marriage. And that guy you prematurely broke up with. And the time you drove home after the oil change guy accidentally drained your transmission fluid. Okay, your situational awareness type of intuition has never failed you. Could be luck, though. Maybe you’ll find out. 

The first walk, though it sends your heart into a frenzy and has you vigilant to the point of paranoia, is completely uneventful. You take it as confirmation and continue every night, getting further and further away from home as your stamina and confidence improve. You know you shouldn’t walk the same way at the same time every day like this, but the thing about you is you’re very selective in what you know, versus what you actually take to heart. 

So that’s where you are one night, trying to dodge gnat clouds and just enjoying the way the spring breeze is cooling your sweat, when you feel eyes on you. Your head instantly swivels to look over your shoulder, and you spot the lone jogger pretty far behind. It’s so hard to tell at this distance, but you swear he’s like… abnormally large. Like Plain House Guy large. He’s coming from the correct direction, and holy shit, he’s heading right towards you. He’s going to pass you, and you, luckiest of ducks, you are going to be within arms reach of a guy who could quite possibly be the mystery guy that you’ve seen twice ever in your entire life!

Pathetic.

Still, you straighten your shoulders a little, and make sure your dog is extra-behaving so that when the guy finally jogs by, you’ll be able to focus all of your attention on him. You step over to the traffic edge of the sidewalk because, on the off chance that he was actually planning on assaulting you, you would rather throw yourself into the road than into the woods. Bad things happen in the woods.

Everything is going perfectly, and he’s right about to pass you, so you take in one big breath right as he goes by, to creepily smell him, and—

Lord, he smells good. Warm and clean and male. It’s so distracting that it takes you a few seconds too long to realize your dog is taking off to run alongside the guy, abandoning you like you didn’t just devote weeks to spoiling him rotten. 

“No, baby,” you protest, reining him back. Then you look up as quickly as you can to gawk at the retreating back of the runner, and you swear you see his head turn just slightly, as if he heard you call your dog, 'baby,' like the idiot you are. 

You can't see his face. You imagine you probably would if you keep walking long enough to pass him after his turn around point, but with your luck it would be in a dark spot of the sidewalk and you’d miss it again. It’s bizarre the way you’re just out walking your dog, minding your own business, and still feel like you are the lunatic stalker. As if you could have somehow predicted he’d be out running at this particular location and this particular time, as if you’re not the one who has this routine already. 

It doesn’t take long for you to put together the sequence of events and realize that the original plan of seeing his face is deeply flawed. It would be fucking meaningless because you still have no proof that he is Plain House Guy. In order for this to work you need solid evidence. You need to see him coming back home. 

It’s impossible to know how long of a run he’s taking, but you do know how far this sidewalk goes, and it’s not forever. He’s traveling faster than you, and if you don’t turn around in time he’ll pass you from behind again, AND you won’t see where he lives. With a soft click of your tongue you’re turning your dog around and heading back home. You’re relying on dumb luck now, because if you’re a few minutes too early you’ll have to wait around and it will be suspicious. If you’re a few minutes too late he’ll pass you, and, one, it would look very strange if you suddenly pick up into a run only when he’s in front, and, two, you simply do not want to run. Even for a mysterious stranger. 

Lady Luck is on your side. You hear quick footsteps slowing behind you right as you turn back onto your street. A cooldown, of course. Only you feel like he should be breathing heavier than he is. That observation only lasts a split second in your head though, because you finally realize what this means. He’s heading home in the same direction. He is almost definitively the Plain House Guy. 

The face. You can’t lose this chance to see the face. It would be the most natural thing to glance over your shoulder right now. You’re a woman, alone at night, and a man is trailing behind you. It’s almost weirder if you don’t look. 

But this isn’t any random stranger. He’s your random stranger who you’ve mentally adopted, and you know in your heart that it would be an unacceptable breach in honor to steal his likeness now while he’s unaware. But you’re coming up on the offshoot street, and your house is straight ahead while he will have to turn right. And you’ll look back and watch him do it. Five paces left. Two. One. Keeping your shoulders loose and natural, you look back, and…

He’s not looking at you. He’s not even looking in your fucking direction. The bastard is headed down the side street towards his house, with his head turned completely the other way.

Chapter Text

Okay, so your little black dog does have a name, it’s William. Not to be mistaken for Fitzwilliam Darcy, who he isn’t named after. You’ve seen Austenland, and you’re not going down that road for anything. 

You stretch out in bed and think disappointedly that today will be like any other Saturday. A nice latte, a little cereal, and you can go straight to maladaptive daydreaming in your pajamas while you do laundry. There is absolutely no way that anything interesting will happen today, because Plain House Guy does not show up two weeks in a row, let alone two days. 

Well, you end up only accomplishing half of the laundry and half of the dishes, and then two walks and about eighty percent of an organizational project. So when you’re done at the end of the day, standing in the kitchen and eating tortellini, there are regrettably far too many things strewn around the house. 

This is the house you bought with your ex. The house that was probably too big for the two of you, but the market didn’t have much flexibility at the time. Still, you decorated it so pretty… in two rooms. Your ex liked Minimalist Modern style and you’re more… sensible romantic. He always complained about your preferences, so when you moved you informed him you would have free reign over two rooms, the kitchen and the fireplace room. And they turned out so beautiful. Twinkle lights, plants everywhere, antique wall art, cozy throw blankets and moody wallpaper. They’re the only two decorated rooms in the house, because though your ex didn’t like your decor, he didn’t seem to mind blank walls and empty rooms. To him anything was better than your personality, even a void of nothing. 

You moved for him, twice. Once to nowheresville Kentucky for his first field office, and then here for the Attorney General’s detail. The pay was amazing, and he already had his established career, so the move made sense. And now you’re alone in this big house with only two beautiful rooms, eating your dinner out of a pan in front of the stove. 

Your parents have begged you to move back to your home town. It doesn’t make sense, they say, that you’re still on the east coast after the split. You moved out here so recently, what could you possibly be staying for? You’re lonely, you’re depressed, you can’t even afford the house any more.

Your eyes flick down and take in the aftermath of organizational mania. Unshowered body, crumpled shirt, unruly hair. Maybe you should move back. Maybe you should pretend like the last seven years didn’t happen and pick up where you left off, this time divorced and thirty and surrounded by all the people you grew up with who have three kids and careers by now. You can just hear Count Rugen now, in his quivery, creepy voice, “I’ve just sucked seven years of your life away. Tell me, how do you feel?”

You sigh and grab the leash off the hook, making kissy noises in William’s direction until he comes bounding up to beat you to the door. On the way up the street you crane your neck to check the porch lights, in the unlikely off-chance that Plain House Guy is still in town. As you suspected, his house is just a smudge of dark on the corner of the cul-de-sac, so it’s decided.

You head straight for the public sidewalk and take your usual left turn. Past neighborhood streets and an intersection or two, until you’re walking through the uninhabited portion of sidewalk with fewer lights. It’s a thrill sometimes coming through this section, not because of the danger, but because when it’s all empty like this, you feel like you yourself could actually be the danger. It’s unclear if a part of you wants that, or just craves the proximity to it. Though, conceivably they could become one and the same, if the proximity is—

“What the fuck are you doing?” comes a deep voice from out of nowhere.

Well, first of all, you’re screaming. It’s more of a panicked squeak, right at the first word he says because he’s just scared the ever loving shit out of you. You’re stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, your traitor dog wagging his tail, peering excitedly into the darkness like he’s about to meet his new best friend. 

You should run. Book it back home as fast as you can and hope to god you make it. But instead, paralyzed, you watch the dark form peel away from the tree he was leaning against, and you are just furious with yourself for putting you in this position.

And then what he’s asked you finally begins to sink into your neurotransmitters, and it… it suddenly doesn’t sound as threatening as it should. 

“Ob– Obviously, I’m walking my dog,” you manage to choke out, angry at him for scaring you.

“It’s not safe for you out here.” 

The implicated, ‘not safe only for you,’ is annoying as fuck, so you swing your head around in an exaggerated sweep of the area and say, “I don’t see any danger.”

“Is that a fact?” 

You already know exactly who he is, but still when the shadow materializes into man right in front of you, you have to direct all your efforts to forcing yourself to stay calm. His face is no longer a mystery. He’s tan and bearded, and though you can’t see his eyes in this light, his features are so distinctive that you don’t think you’d ever mistake him for anyone else. He’s probably trying to scare you, but Christ, he’s going about it all wrong. 

“You’re not usually around two days in a row,” you remark, forcing false bravado into your tone. 

Aaaand, maybe that was not the best thing to say. Plain House Guy tucks his hands into his pockets, and you notice for the first time that there’s no pretense of jogging today. He’s wearing black everything. Pants, shirt, jacket. All fucking enormous, fitted perfectly to his body and so expensive looking.

The gratification that you were right bubbles up inside of you, and your face splits into a wide grin as your eyes crawl back to his face. Yeah, you’re about to be murdered, but it will be classy. It’ll be a beautifully maintained handgun with a top-of-the-line silencer. Or maybe a shiny piece of wire that he polishes every night, yanked tight around your throat while he murmurs in your ear, telling you exactly how much of an inconvenience you are. Oh yes, there are worse ways to go. 

He’s being the composed professional of the highest caliber that you would only expect him to be. Standing there staring back at you, his expression giving nothing away while he considers what to do. You’re sure you know exactly what he’s thinking: You’re too stupid and small to put up much of a fight. It’ll be quick and easy, but you’re right next to the road, and cars come through here intermittently, even in the middle of the night. In fact, right now you can see headlights glowing onto him from behind you. Your shadow is cast onto his body, closer and closer, his eyes glowing amber in the light, until it suddenly swipes away and everything is dark again when the car passes. 

“Please,” he says in a low voice, and you just about die of shock at hearing the last word you ever expected him to say, “just stay on your street at night. I won’t be here to make sure you’re safe.” 

Your heart is absolutely galloping now, brain scrambling to catch up to this monumental development, but he’s already turning and striding back into the treeline and disappearing from view. That part makes sense, the part where he doesn’t even bother with the sidewalk because he’s basically a ninja. The part that doesn’t make any fucking sense is where he talks to you with no conceivable purpose but to… be nice? Scare you into being safer? Make you that much more enslaved to the improbability of him?

You don’t care that you haven’t gone as far as you planned. You fucking turn your ass around and powerwalk home. The whole way you’re telling yourself that you will not look at his house on the way back, won’t even turn your head in that direction. But of course, when it comes down to it, you look. His house is still dark and plain, and it’s all so stupid and outrageously hot that you let out a growl of irritation and practically drag William the rest of the way home. 

When you’re finally, finally behind your own locked door, you lean against it for a long time, catching your breath. Long enough that your breathing steadies and your heart calms itself, and the tingles of adrenaline have begun to fade away. 

You push yourself off the door and gulp down an entire glass of water in the kitchen. Your dog is following you while dragging his leash along the ground, so you unhook him and coax him into his crate with a loaded Kong. Methodically you walk through your house, closing every curtain and set of blinds you possess, making sure they cover everything entirely without even an inch of peek-through. 

You go into your living room, the one that’s decorated, and turn off all the lights until only the soft glow of the moon through the blinds is visible. One by one you strip off your clothes and then you sit your bare ass on the cold leather couch. You put your feet up on the edge of the cushion, and let your knees fall as far apart as they can. And then you reach down and softly stroke the little aching place between your legs until everything is all better.

So, maybe this obsession is a little bit sexual. 

The next morning you blink haziness out of your eyes, and instantly your brain goes right back to the matter at hand: where you will walk tonight. Granted, that dilemma seems unimportant compared to the mystery of Plain House Guy, but they are now inseparably intertwined. He made the leap to first contact, just to convince you.

On one hand, you don’t know this guy, and he doesn’t know you. He sure as hell doesn’t have any grounds to be bossing you around. Also, as he already stated, he won’t be here, so there’s no way for him to actually verify your obedience. 

But on the other hand, he did say please. And he is, well, the crux of your life at the moment.

You decide on a safe-feeling lie. You’ll walk past his house first, and if he’s not home you’ll go out to the public sidewalk. It’s also more or less the perfect excuse to walk by his house every night.

So if you thought yesterday was bad, this day absolutely drags. But the fact that Plain House Guy is actually in your life now does change things. You look around, and can’t help but imagine the what-ifs. What if some day in the distant future, you speak to him again. What if it’s cordial this time, or even friendly? What if you actually, in some impossible, alternate universe, become friends? What if some day he’s here in your house?

That gives you something to do, at the very least. You finish that project, and the dishes, and the laundry, and you even wash your makeup brushes because, well, you’re a woman now. You’re a woman who has deadly conversations with assassins and lives. You have a scrap of consequence. 

Finally at the end of the day, when groceries have been bought and night has fallen, you step outside with William. Your first and only walk today. It’s Sunday night, and the air smells like laundry detergent. People are turning in early and no one is around to observe your madness.

You can tell from your street that his house is dark, but you walk there anyway. He could be smoking in the dark. He’s done it before. You round the familiar cul-de-sac, and it feels an eternity but finally you’re there in front of his house, and right before disappointment can hit you, you see a red dot.

Your stomach does a loop de loop because a second later you realize it’s not a cigarette. It’s the blinking dot of a camera that was never there before. He put up a fucking survalliance camera, aimed directly at the sidewalk, the day after he finally talked to you. 

You laugh in an insane, choked cackle, and you flip that camera the bird, right before heading straight for the public sidewalk. 

It becomes your thing. Every night you go straight to his house and flip off that camera before you start your walk. On weekends you do it during the day as well. Sometimes you have a huge grin on your face, other times it’s just a quick flick of your wrist, like you’re crossing off a chore. But you never fail to check in with that fucking camera, rain or shine, and it never occurs to you that it might be exactly what he’s hoping for. 

It’s on a random Tuesday three weeks later that you’re turning down his stupid street, and it’s so automatic by this point that you barely glance at his house until you’re nearly there. So of course you miss the thing of whopping importance straight ahead, and it has you nearly stumbling over your own feet when you finally notice. His porch light is on. 

Be cool, be cool, for the love of God be cool. Plain House Guy is sitting there in his chair watching you, with no cigarette in sight, as if he has no purpose there but to wait for your sorry ass. Slowly you drag your feet forward until you’re on the square of sidewalk where you’d normally flip off the camera. And then you stop, and stare up at him across the lawn.

In reality, the space of time is no more than ten or so seconds, but it feels like an agonizing forever where you just stand there, hoping he’ll be the one to speak first. He doesn’t.

“Fancy a walk?” you ask in a lighthearted voice, holding up your dog’s leash. You belatedly realize the gesture could be construed as a rude suggestion, and pray he doesn’t make the same mental leap you just did.

Five more excruciating seconds of silence elapse. He pushes himself up from the chair and then turns his back on you, heading straight for his front door. Your heart does a loop de loop this time when instead of going inside, he simply locks up before facing you again, and crosses the porch down to where you’re waiting.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s about to be near you. William is absolutely elated, and you can barely keep him back at a polite distance in his eagerness to inflict love. Plain House Guy stops just a few paces away, and you belatedly take in his clothing. Jeans today, a black tshirt, and, most bizarrely, gloves. Black leather gloves which make no sense given the current weather. That’s the first time you get a little inkling, a tug in the back of your mind that wonders if he might be some kind of mutant. 

But there’s no time to ponder that possibility, because you’re dragging William away and Plain House Guy is silently trailing behind you, because he’s so big that it’s either that, or one of you walks in the grass. Your heart is absolutely galloping, and you’re just scrambling to find something cool to say, or at least something not dumb. 

It’s useless. You have nothing in common with this man besides the address of your mortgages. The longer you wait, the more awkward a conversation starter would feel, so you keep waiting. It’s a horrifying loop of uselessness that gets worse and worse each time around. Normally not having to scan your surroundings would feel like a relief, but you’re so stressed about your current predicament that you can practically feel knots growing under your shoulder blades. 

Why do you fucking do this to yourself? You could have easily walked right past, or better yet, flipped him off in person. Why the fuck did you invite him on a stroll like you’re some garden party socialite, and why the fuck did he say yes?

Still you can’t pass up this opportunity, and refuse to cut it short. You walk in uncomfortable silence the entire distance of the sidewalk, and you walk all the way back. Cars are slowing down a little when they pass by and you can feel their eyes on you, probably wondering why some little idiot like you is hanging out in public with the guy who’s always sent to kill James Bond. 

You finally turn back onto your street, and that’s when the panic really hits. It’s over. You’ve squandered everything again, and this is the last time you’ll ever see him and it will absolutely wreck you. Your steps slow when you get to the juncture between his street and yours, and you look over your shoulder so you can at least get one last view before he turns and walks out of your life once more. 

But he doesn’t. His eyes flick to yours and he keeps walking. He follows you across his street and to the other side, and you finally realize he’s walking you home. You surreptitiously swing glances in his direction every few seconds, but his face is the same. Expressionless. You don’t dare to straight up stare because it would be rude, and you would undoubtedly trip over a raised piece of sidewalk. You do it enough already when you’re just walking normally. 

He stops when you arrive in front of your house, as if he knows exactly where you live. A deep breath, and you open your mouth, and— nothing comes out.

You’re just standing there in the soft glow of your inadequate garage lights, looking up at him with nothing to say. And then you reach inside and collect your mania, scooping it up carefully a handful at a time until you’re full with it. And you open your mouth again.

“Do you want to come in?” 

He looks blankly at you. “Why?”

“Um… C-coffee?” Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He looks around at the very much nighttime sky and the empty street behind him before turning back to you. 

“Okay.”

“It’s okay, you don’t—” 

You both talk at the same time and you don’t register his answer until you’re halfway through yours, when you promptly shut up. Okay. Okay.

Chapter Text

Plain House Guy is in your kitchen, sitting down on your stool. He’s leaning his elbows against your island countertop and looking at your wallpaper. And this is the first time you’ve truly seen his eyes, with the soft, warm glow of your hanging lights illuminating them when he looks at you. They are amber, with a light center diffusing to dark on the outside. They’re so beautiful that you’re actually a little jealous. But seeing as you can’t take them for yourself, having them looking at you feels like the next best thing. 

“Do you take sugar?” you ask, turning on your espresso machine.

“Yes.”

Finally a green flag. You give William a bone and busy yourself making coffee, shooting glances every now and then to your enormous visitor who is still eyeing you with an unreadable expression. 

Shot. Mug. Steam. Vanilla syrup, one and a half pumps. 

“Well, I guess you’re either here to kill me,” you flirt, shooting him what you hope is a somewhat charming smile while you swirl in the foam, “or maybe you’re just as lonely as I am.”

You carefully slide his mug across the counter to him. His eyes flick down to watch the coffee's progression, but when it comes to a stop he doesn’t move a hand to take it. 

He just looks up at you - well, anyone else would be looking up at you, but as it is it’s more eye to eye - and slowly asks, “Who do you think I am?”

Oh God, that is exactly what an assassin would say. 

“Come on,” you say playfully back. “Your house is so suspicious.”

“My house is perfectly normal.”

“Hah! NO.”

“You’re one to talk about acting suspicious,” he says, finally taking a drink of coffee.

Okay, you’re pretty sure at this point you’re not going to die. He’s taking a crack at you. This is good. 

“What’s your name?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer, which is just so fucking perfect that elation is bubbling up in your chest. You act like nothing is out of the ordinary and say brightly, “Well my name is—”

“Mrs. Stevens,” he cuts you off, carefully watching your face.

Which, of course, means he sees the flush of red exploding through your cheeks at hearing your married name coming unexpectedly from him. You drop your eyes down to the counter where there’s a drop of milk, and slowly mop it up with the hand towel.

“Not anymore,” you admit, and tell him your maiden name instead. “It’s okay, it’s… ah… a newish development.”

He doesn’t say anything, so you turn around and pretend to make coffee for yourself. It gives you a convenient excuse to find some composure. 

“I’m sorry, are you or are you not trying to blackmail me?”

You fling yourself around to face him, eyes wide with shock and gasp out, “No!”

“So why am I here?”

Oh, you fucked up. You really fucked up. 

You stare at him, open mouthed, and he’s just looking straight back at you with that faux nonchalance that hitmen have in movies right before they blow someone’s head off. Slowly your palms place themselves flat on the counter, and then they slide forward, and your elbows hit the cold stone and you just give up. 

You fucking lay your face in the dark cradle of your arms and say in a pathetic, muffled way, “I apparently got the entirely wrong idea. I don’t know how I could have ever imagined… Someone like you, and someone like me... Oh my God. Look, if you need to kill me now, that’s totally fine. I— fuck, I brought this on myself. Just please, out of the goodness of your heart, make it quick. And also please let my dog out the front door when you leave so someone will find him.”

You lay there in the black void of your arms, and you’re simply dying inside of embarrassment, which makes no sense because you should be actually terrified, and maybe that means you’re more suicidal than you realized. 

Finally you hear him. It starts as a little chuckle and then you raise your head in astonishment, and he’s full-on guffawing at your idiocy. He laughs long enough for your surprise to turn to annoyance, and finally he scratches through the side of his beard with a gloved hand and takes another drink of coffee. 

“I like you,” he says.

“You don’t know me.”

“True.”

You aren’t going to die. He likes you and he’s sitting in your house and you aren’t going to die. The rollercoaster of ups and downs has taken its toll on you, mind and body. You straighten up and glance down curiously at your own hand which is shaking against the edge of the counter, like it hasn’t quite caught up with current events. 

“Are you alright?” Plain House Guy prompts, following the direction of your gaze.

“Yes,” you’re quick to say. “I don’t know why my hands are doing that. I’m not—” you cut yourself off when he stands, and you really didn’t appreciate before exactly how big he is. He takes a step towards you, hitting that distance that’s right on the edge of your personal space. “…not scared of you,” you lie weakly.

His hand reaches out and covers yours on the counter, in such a deliberate, casual way that you just stare down at it dumbly. How is it possible that leather could be so warm? His hand feels so comforting that you swear the shaking relaxes, but then you look back up at his face, and it’s already an inch away from yours.

Right on the side of your jaw, by your ear, he plants a quick, scruffy-feeling kiss before immediately pulling away. It’s so unexpected that your body has a delay in response. The place where his mouth touched is already fading in warmth when a delighted tingle works its way down your spine. He looks down at you like he would a frightened stray dog, trying to gauge your reaction to the treat he threw in your direction. 

You want to reach up and touch that spot on your cheek, but your hand is still trapped under his. Not physically trapped, of course. You could move it if you tried. But mustering the desire to pull away from that warm weight, you find that part just impossible. 

There must be something you’re supposed to say, or some way you’re supposed to smile to make him understand that you like him, too. But it’s been so long since you’ve had a first kiss, and your brain is so overloaded and sluggish that you’ve got fuck-all. 

“I should be going,” he tells you quietly, not moving his hand away from yours.

“Alright,” you reply automatically, staring up at his beautiful eyes. 

Except he doesn’t go. He takes your chin in his other hand and lifts it just slightly so he can kiss you on the mouth. 

Your neck is a little contorted but that doesn’t bother you in the least, because Plain House Guy is kissing you. It’s soft and closed-mouthed at first, little pecks and breakaways and finding an angle he likes. Then his hand leaves yours to wrap around your waist, urging you to take that last step into his body, and you do. You part your lips and feel the way his fingers shift position on your jaw, guiding your mouth open so he can lick inside. 

That first contact of tongues does you in, sparks excitement through your blood with because everything is just a sensory paradise. The leather of his hand cupping your face, the scruff, the fucking smell of him, fresh like outside, and the taste of dark espresso. His tongue feels slightly rough, not abrasive like a cat’s, but still not totally smooth like you’re used to, and that only excites you more. A sound comes up your throat that you never intended to make, and the hand on your waist pulls you in tight up against the wall of heat. 

It isn’t until you feel William’s claws and urgent jumps up onto your hip that you break away. 

“Sorry,” you say, inexplicably embarrassed now that there’s breathing room between you, “he needs to go in his crate. Or we could go up–upstairs. I mean, unless you need to go, of course. You don’t have to stay.”

“I don’t need to go.”

Your eyes flick up to his, and he’s just staring down at you, arm still wrapped loosely around your waist and looking quite comfortable. 

“Okay, um, this way.”

You lead him upstairs, heart going wild in your chest. You don’t dare to look back and him and reveal what a nervous mess you are, so you just keep your face resolutely forward and manage to close the door behind the two of you without William getting inside. You stupidly forgot to turn on the light when you first opened the door, so now it’s pitch black and you reach out to fumble for the switch, but hands pull you back and he guides you until you’re both dropping down onto the bed. 

Okay, so pitch black may not be the worst thing, because your bed isn’t made and you’re pretty sure there’s a pile of clothes on the floor of your closet, from when you couldn’t decide what to wear. That thought only lasts a second though, because you’re getting pulled effortlessly to the middle of the bed and lips have once again found yours, and lord he’s a good kisser.

You’re a little afraid that being in bed is going to lead immediately to sex, but it doesn’t. It’s just him, fully clothed, nestling himself over your body and letting you simply relax there while his lips play with yours. You know you’re being slutty, but it just feels so nice to lie here with your legs open and let the weight of him press into that hot little area. Everything is soft and comfortable, and you’re just so tired of thinking that a long, cozy makeout session is just exactly what you need. 

There’s eventually a break when he drops his mouth down to kiss your throat, and you attempt to catch your breath and collect yourself. He shifts to the side, tucking your leg between his so he has room to trace your waist from ribs to hip, stopping to sink his fingers into that spot right above your ass. The pressure shifts your body slightly, just enough to have you feeling the flame there between your legs. 

His movements are unhurried. It’s not a tease, but he’s deliberate in the way that he’s respecting the barrier of your clothes. It’s incredibly convenient not to lay there worrying about how quickly you’ll be naked or how soon he will try to get himself into your mouth. You can just breathe and enjoy the lazy nuzzling kisses to the crook of your neck and the gloved fingertips exploring the inch of skin that’s revealed from your shirt riding up. Your hand is steady now on the back of his neck and you slide it up into his hair, enjoying the scruffiness of it and just how good it feels to be held like this. 

You can’t tell if he’s a tits or ass guy because he bypasses them both, trailing his fingertips lightly up and down the middle seam of your shorts, right where you’re the most sensitive between your legs, and…  holy fuck. That one, simple touch is cotton candy. Straight sugar to your system, flooding you with dopamine and getting you all sticky. 

Fuck it, you’re ready to be naked. You don’t know where he came up with this plan of convincing you to take off your own clothes, but it worked. You hook your thumb in the hem of your shorts and underwear and shove them both down. 

He rolls off you enough to assist, and his long arm easily gets your underthings off your legs before he pins the one under his hip where it was before. You have no time to feel embarrassed that you’re going full Winnie the Pooh because his thumb is stroking the side of your free knee and pushing just enough to show you what he wants. 

You bend that knee to the side so that you’re spread out for him. He can’t see anything in this dark anyway, but that just makes the next thing he does unaccountable. He lifts his head from your neck and looks down, like he’s taking in your body, all disheveled and half pinned under him, and his hand slides along your spread inner thigh to rest there right next to where you’re all wet. He acts like he’s watching while his thumb reaches out and parts your folds, like he can see the slickness begin to ruin the leather of his glove when he slides it up the center of you to slowly circle your clit.

Is he a pussy guy? Are there pussy guys? You’re just lying there doing mental inventory, glad you shaved somewhat recently and showered this morning. You wish you could climb back into the kiss-drunk headspace you were in a few minutes ago, but it’s like you’ve been roughly dragged into self awareness. You wish he would take off his gloves, too, but you respect that he obviously for whatever reason wants to keep them on. 

And then worst comes to worst, and he’s withdrawing down your body, going straight for the kill. 

“Wait. Wait, wait,” you say, reaching out to stop him from putting his face in your cunt.

His reaction is instant, coming back up to lie next to you with a, “What’s wrong, baby?”

Here it is. The worst, dumbest conversation that you absolutely have to have. 

“I, uhh… I don’t really like when people go down on me.”

You can feel him shifting his shoulder, settling down beside you like he plans to be there a while. “Alright. Why don’t you tell me about that?” 

Not, ‘Okay then fussy bitch, let’s just fuck.’ Not, ‘What is wrong with you, all women like that.’ Not even, ‘Why not?’  

So you do tell him. “It just doesn’t feel that good, to me. I can’t cum from it and I don’t want you to be disappointed or wasting your time on something that’s not going to happen.”

“I see.” He doesn’t sound like he’s doubting you, just considering what you said. For a long moment you’re afraid he’s going to try to convince you, like he’s got some magic tongue, which, conceivably he might, but he doesn’t try. He palms your breast over the front of your shirt, thumb finding your nipple with unnerving accuracy and asks, “What makes you wet, little girl?”

Without thinking, just consumed with relief that he’s not pushing the matter, you answer with complete honesty, “Blowjobs.”

You immediately regret it, wincing internally because you just know he’s going to ask for one now, and that’s simply the least sexy way to go about it. But he just makes an interested noise, like it’s a pleasant surprise and says again, “Tell me about that.”

“We-ell,” you begin, building your soapbox, “they’re fun. And complex. There are so many different directions you can take it, different sensations and speeds and each time is like its own little story. You can plan it out and make them feel exactly the way you want them to, and it’s just so… powerful.”

He makes a rumbly hum in his throat like he finds it amusing the way you’re nerding out on the subject. “And feeling powerful makes you wet,” he surmises.

“Uhmm, I guess, sometimes.” All of a sudden you feel like you’re confessing to being a dominatrix and you are absolutely not that. You’re losing your nerve, but you can still feel him hard against your thigh, so before you can stop yourself you decide you have to just tell him. “I just— wouldn’t be able to do that, today. With you.”

“Why’s that?” he asks, mercifully sounding curious instead of affronted.

“You intimidate me. I wouldn’t be able to feel comfortable and it wouldn’t be the same.”

Well, that’s that. You’ve just fucked up everything. You’ve finished telling him he can’t go down on you, and you won’t go down on him, and all that’s left is straight-up fucking and Christ, everything was going so well before you went and ruined it. 

His hand is still lazily feeling your breast, but then he shifts it lower, cupping you comfortably between the legs like he just wants you to know that your pussy is safe with him.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he explains. His head is tilted down as if he were looking into your eyes, making sure you’re listening so you stare up into the darkness and pretend you can see him. “I’m not going to make you cum, not even gonna try. But what I am going to do is take your shirt off. And then I’m going to touch you, right here,” and his middle finger comes up to brush over the top of your clit. “I’m going to be gentle because I want to make sure it feels good. And I may kiss it a little, because your pussy is so pretty and I just want to. Does that sound alright?”

You don’t even take a second to think before you just dumbly nod up at him, because when he puts it like that, it does sound super casual and alright. He can’t possibly tell whether or not your pussy is pretty but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless. 

He helps you get out of your shirt and bra, and it’s all so relaxed and strangely sober that you’re totally present. You feel every drag of fabric and bareness of skin and the way your body is quivering with nerves from being intimate with someone new for the first time in so long.

He does touch you, and he is gentle. He takes his time with you, waiting for you to get impatient and squirmy before giving you more pressure or speed. It’s strangely… fun, like this. Not knowing what he’s going to do next but looking forward to it. He’s not putting anything inside any of your holes and it’s absurd how relieved you are at that. You do want him to fuck you, once you’re ready. But this right now is somehow better, the way he’s tending to your body first. He's rubbing his thumb over your clit and massaging the inside of your thigh like he wants to make sure you know how intentional these touches are. They're a conversation from his body to yours, coaxing you out of your mental hiding places and keeping you there with him while he does what he promised.

And then he leans down and kisses you. It’s slow and feels scruffy on your thighs, and his tongue never seems to leave his mouth. It’s like he’s using his lips to cradle your clit and let you feel how warm and safe it is there while his tongue softly plays with it. God, he is a good kisser. You relax into it, not counting the seconds for it to be over or dreading some future event. You simply… let him kiss you. Just like he was doing before, but to your pussy this time, with his lightly textured tongue giving you a continuous motion that’s so easy to acclimate into. 

You don’t think about how long it’s going on, or how tired he must be of doing this, because this is what he wanted. He’s not trying to make you cum, he’s just playing with your body because he wants to, so you let the heat beat waves all the way down to your toes, let your core tighten and your inner muscles give little pulses of their own accord. You surrender to him just kissing you ‘a little,’ and you’re so programmed to believe that you can’t cum like this that when your pussy is suddenly so wet and achy, and you’re no longer able to relax your pelvis, it takes you a few seconds longer than it should to realize that you’re right about to cum in his warm mouth. The impossible is seconds away, and you are suddenly panicking, trying to figure out what to do. 

At the last possible moment you jam your hands down, one to pry his jaw away from your cunt and the other to cover yourself from future onslaught with a wall of fingers. 

“Ho— shit,” you pant, “I almost came.”

“ Mm hmm,” he rumbles, completely ignoring the hand that’s trying to keep his face away, his tongue spreading out across your knuckles and in between your fingers. It isn’t until then that you stupidly, belatedly realize that he lied to you. He never intended to just ‘kiss it a little.’ He’s making his own little story , and it includes you wrecking out against his tongue while he pretends it was an accident. 

“I don’t want to waste it,” you explain up at the ceiling, fingers still pressed tight to your vulva. “I want to wait—” But you stop yourself from saying more because your brain is overloaded by how close you were to cumming and you’re kind of embarrassed actually saying it.

“Wait for what, baby?” 

He’s licking through the spaces between your fingers, upwards towards your swollen clit like he just needs to get at it, but you’re off balance because you suddenly realize he might… He might not actually be planning on fucking you. This might be it. And you don’t want to sound ungrateful because this is good, really fucking good because you’ve never cum on someone’s mouth before, but at the same time you were really looking forward to cock.

But he doesn’t owe you sex and you shouldn’t even have expected it. You’re an adult and you can be mature and understand that it’s okay to want sex and it’s okay to not get it. You pull your hand away and let it rest back on your stomach, fighting to stay present and ignore the disappointment you know you shouldn’t feel.  

He seems to sense your change of mood because he’s going slow again. Massaging that space where your ass and legs connect with his thumbs, running soft, open mouthed kisses along the inside of your thighs. It's too much and too little at the same time, and your legs seem to shiver unconsciously while you just lay there and force your hips not to chase his mouth. The pressure in your pelvis nearly hurts with how badly you need him to touch your clit again, but you can't allow yourself to ask on a one night stand like this. You just keep your knees pressed back towards the mattress and hope he reads how badly you want it by the way you're holding your legs wide open for him. The sensation of his beard sliding across your skin is like a tickle that hurts with how good it feels, somehow overstimulating and withholding at the same time, keeping you right there on the brink of cumming.

A moan drags itself from your throat when you finally feel that dextrous warmth again on your neglected clit. His mouth is playing with you just like before, guiding you quickly through the final stages of arousal until you're right back to where you were. The only difference this time is he knows you're right on the edge. You can feel his thumb massaging the outside of your vulva, just spreading around your wetness like he’s showing it off to himself. He doesn’t go inside, not even close, and it’s just enough of a tease to have you mentally putting his fingers in there, or his cock, and fixating on how that would feel while your clit is sucked like this. 

You’re picturing him fucking you when you cum. You’re so good at imagining it that it almost feels like those hot waves of pleasure are coming from something besides his mouth. It’s encompassing you, wrapping you up all tight and hot and relentlessly throbbing–... and then you drop. You fall into yourself, into your naked body and the messy bed and your neighbor’s tongue still hugging your clit. You’re moaning and it sounds so much like a whine that it annoys you, but you’re too incapacitated to do anything about it. 

Finally you drop your shaky hands down to push him away, and he listens this time. He settles back on top of you and it doesn’t occur to you until that moment that he’s still fully fucking clothed, and you’re just lying there a sticky mess and probably ruining the front of his jeans like you already did his glove. But there’s not much you can do because he’s so heavy, and you’re so weak from what just happened that you couldn’t reach his belt if you tried. 

He doesn’t fuck you. Which, you know, sucks. But he does kiss you for what feels like hours, on and off, lazily playing with the sensitive parts of your body until one moment you’re just grinding into his hand a little, enjoying yourself, and the next you’re helpless to the way his finger is teasing your clit straight to your doom. How have you become so disconnected from your body that you don’t notice when you’re about to cum? You’re just so focused on him and how good he smells and how long you’ve wanted him to give you this kind of attention, that what your body does is secondary, involuntary. 

You cum like that. Gasping into his shoulder with his hand planted between your thighs and his strangely sharp teeth barely grazing your neck. It blows your mind that you’ve never come by anyone’s hand but your own, and then today it’s happened twice. Twice, and he hasn’t even penetrated you. 

He turns you on your side and tucks you back against him, and in the back of your mind you protest, knowing he still hasn’t cum. But he’s got you so relaxed and fuck, you’re sleepy. You’re still telling yourself you need to roll him over and get his pants off when eventually you do pass out.

Sometime in the middle of the night you feel those warm arms lift away from your torso and pull the blanket up to your neck, and even half asleep you understand he’s leaving. You just lie there trying to go back to sleep because you don’t know when you’ll see him again, and if you just fall asleep right now, maybe you can pretend it’s not over.

He’s leaving. Not small-leaving, back to his house, but big-leaving. You’re not sure how you know, but you do. He’s leaving the area, and he never fucked you and never said goodbye. Your maybe-mutant situationship doesn’t feel real right now under the haze of heavy sleep, but you know in the morning this will all devastate you. 

Maybe that’s why he didn’t fuck you. He knew he was leaving and didn’t want you to feel used. He had no way of knowing how many times you begged your ex for sex. How he told you that you were the messed up one for wanting it more than once or twice a month. How your willingness was such a turn off for him. And you wonder for the first time if all those stupid concessions - only giving oral and never receiving, trying to make yourself as easy and fast and enjoyable to fuck as possible - were just nonsense rules you made for yourself in a desperate attempt to be wanted.

Tears prick your throat but you have to keep them back until this guy leaves. He’s using the bathroom but any minute he’ll be out the door and the one exciting thing you’ve ever truly experienced will be gone. 

Chapter Text

“It would make things a lot easier if you would just go out with me.”

You look up, mid chew, to shoot an aggrieved look at your coworker.

“I know, I know,” he says, gesturing defensively with his hands. “You just got divorced, not ready for anything yet, yada yada. But it doesn’t have to be like that. Let’s just hang out. Get coffee, sit next to each other and play our separate phone games. It’ll be fun. And it’ll beat sitting at home by yourself.”

You swallow down the last of that bite of dry muffin, but your hurry to free up your mouth is in vain because there is simply no correct response to that. Tyler is shuffling his coffee between hands nervously, and truly you are dragging out your answer longer than is kind, but things are complicated.

Sure, it’s been over a month since Plain House Guy snuck out of your room in the middle of the night. And yeah, he hasn’t contacted you since, even when you stopped walking by his camera every day. But that one night was fucking good, and you can’t bring yourself to be embarrassed that you’re clinging to the memory. 

But at the same time, it’s been a month, and he hasn’t given you near enough crumbs to keep the hunger pangs away. 

“Alright,” you say. 

“There she is. That’s my girl! Can you do this Saturday? We can go up to The Mall and walk around first. Should be hot, but, you know, sun’s out, guns out.”

It’s an effort not to grimace, but you politely accept and head back to your desk. This is good. A real, tangible person with a real name and a taxable income. This is a step in the right direction, even if you don’t see it going anywhere. This is practice. This is healthy for you.

So by the time Saturday rolls around and Tyler picks you up in his car, you’re mentally prepared. This date is going to be taken at face value, exactly what he offered and no more. 

“You look really cute in that dress,” he says during one of the traffic standstills on your way to DC. 

“Oh. Um, thank you.” The traffic is unusually bad for the weekend and you’re peering at your phone navigation, trying to figure out why. You glance absently at your outfit, a blue cotton sundress whose primary function is to keep you from getting too sweaty, and back out the window. 

“You can’t pretend I don’t look cute, too.”

You give his khaki shorts and polo a sideways look and say, “Mmhmm,” because it’s the closest thing to a lie you’re willing to manufacture. 

“I’m not sure about this watch, though. Do you think it’s too big? Big watches look cool, but I think maybe a small watch would show off my arms more. But I don’t want it to seem like I can’t afford a bigger one.”

“It’s the perfect size for you,” you reply, and it’s true. The watch is mind numbingly normal and an alright size. Now maybe if you could just have a second to think, you could figure out why there’s so much traff–

“You’re not going to kiss me today, are you?”

Your head swivels over to stare wide-eyed at him, but he’s just laughing like it was a joke. 

“Got you. So what’s your favorite thing to do in DC?”

You’re a little shook, but you pick your brain and spout off details of the three times you’ve been to the place. Tyler did get you. He’s got you thinking about kissing him, and not in a good way. You’re picturing how to get out of it, how to break away politely if he springs it on you. 

Although… he is handsome. In that wide shouldered, hairy chested kind of way. He usually smells good and clean and he seems like the kind of guy who flosses. There’s nothing inherently wrong with him, and you can actually kind of picture enjoying a kiss with him, in a very specific set of circumstances. 

So you’re sitting there looking at the side of his face while he drives, and you’re picturing it. Kissing him, touching him, letting him touch you. It’s not as off-putting as you expected. In fact, if you could get him back to your house, in your bed with the lights off, there’s a very real possibility that you would like it. He probably wouldn’t do things the way you want, but you could take charge and take life by the dick, so to speak. There’s blood lazily heading south, and that catches you so off guard that you have to stop and evaluate, and that’s when you figure out your monumental mistake. 

The week after Plain House Guy left was spent with your fingers in your pussy every night, cumming as many times as you could before sleep overcame you. And then the next week you were just exhausted and bored of touching yourself, so you stopped. Looking back it’s been close to three weeks now since you last had an orgasm, and– Oh, you’re a fucking idiot. You never go on dates horny, and you definitely never go on dates horny when you don’t actually want to sleep with the guy. 

You clamp your knees together and shove your fingers under the outside edge of your thighs until you’re just one, tight ball of resistance. This will not conquer you. You can and you will be perfectly normal and pleasant on this date, you’ll keep your sluttiness to yourself, and when you get back home, you will take care of it solo. You’ll run a bubble bath and it will be nice and slow and you know exactly who you’ll be thinking about when you cum.

Tyler was planning on parking a ways out and walking to the National Mall first, which turns out to be a good thing because DC is packed. And unlike the typical touristy crowd, these are mostly white, middle aged people with shirts that say “Friends of Humanity.”

“Must be some kind of rally,” Tyler mutters, keeping you close to him while you walk in the direction of the Washington Monument. “Bad timing I guess. Do you want to go somewhere else?”

“No, it’s okay. But let’s go to the coffee shop first and maybe this will clear up by the time we’re done.”

Tyler twines his fingers in yours while you walk, and you allow it. It’s actually a beautiful day, with enough wind to take the edge off the early-summer sun. Your skirt is dancing around your knees and you let your hair down, for maybe the last time this summer. It feels so good that you grin up at Tyler, who looks like he just figured out that you’re actually pretty, and gives your hand a squeeze. 

But then about a block later, you begin to see the signs. “MUTANTS MUST DIE,” “MUTANTS, GO BACK TO WHERE YOU CAME FROM,” “PROTECT OUR CHILDREN.” It’s shocking to come face to face with it in real life, with how far removed you typically are from the politics. It’s a privilege, you guess, that you haven’t seen this, haven’t had to worry about it. You’ll never see a sign in your life that says, “STUPID 30 YEAR OLD WOMEN MUST DIE,” or prepare yourself for the possibility of hate crimes from people around you. 

“Hey! Any thoughts on mutants for TikTok?” 

There’s a couple of college-age guys walking towards you with a weirdly tiny mic and a phone, and you balk. 

“No comment,” Tyler says. “I don’t know any mutants and I don’t want to get involved.”

He’s trying to lead you away, but something about the way he said that just clamps its dirty fingernails right into your fur and rubs you the wrong way. 

“I have a comment,” you offer. 

The interviewer flicks his eyes up and down your body and motions for his friend to get in place to record. He stands next to you weirdly, with his feet planted too far apart and asks you for the camera, “Your thoughts on mutants?

The tiny mic is extended in front of your face, too far down like he wants you to work for it a little. The dynamic of that frat guy grinning down at you on camera, urging you to lower your mouth to get it close enough sparks anger straight through your chest. But you’re already this far, and he can only humiliate you if you allow it.

 You glance at Tyler for a second before saying, “Yeah.” You grab the hand holding the mic and tug it up to you, making sure it’s close enough to pick up every syllable, and you look the camera in the lens and state with a smile, “They give really good head.”

Tyler is giving you an aggrieved look, but the guy holding the mic is whipping his head in his direction and Tyler immediately holds up his hands and says, “I’m not a mutant.”

The look on his face when he realizes what he’s just admitted on camera is fucking priceless. He’s hauling you away by your hand, and you hold back a laugh at his expense, but just barely. It’s not like you set him up or anything. You just had a weak moment and let your anger win, and it won’t happen again. You will be pleasant. You will be dateable. 

At least, that’s what you’re deciding when you hear a booming voice up ahead, so loud it seems impossible that it’s not amplified, saying, “Mutant rights? Mutants can’t have rights, they’re not human beings!”

“God, is this ever going to end?” Tyler grits out, power walking you through the accumulated crowd. 

“Maybe we should just turn around and go a different—“ you start to say, but Tyler has stopped and so you stop too. 

You find yourself at the front of the crowd, on the edge of a wide semi circle, and in the center is a man up on a homemade platform, gesturing angrily with a “MUTANTS MUST BE CONTAINED,” sign above his head. It’s an out of body experience that you’re here, standing among all the muttering, worked up extremists. You can feel their energy in the air, hot wrath directed outwards to someone who’s not even there to defend themselves. 

But you’re wrong. You look across the circle, your eyes almost on autopilot because you’ve just felt a very specific gaze. There, standing head and shoulders above the angry mob is your Plain House Guy, looking right at you. 

Heat blasts across your cheeks, at seeing him, at being caught in this horrible, ridiculous position, at the worry that he thinks you’re one of them. Fuck, at being caught holding hands with someone else. You try to disengage your fingers but Tyler won’t let you. He’s on his tiptoes, scanning the area and trying to figure out the best way to get through this mess to the other side. 

“Mutants are a disease on this earth! The more they breed, the more powerful they become. Listen to me when I say that breeding is their mission! Taking our wives and daughters and making them incubate new demons!”

A roar goes up from the crowd, and you swing your furious gaze up to the platform, rage exploding in your chest. It’s unthinkable that this is somehow allowed, that he would even have the audacity to say this with his whole face, in public and right in front of mutants. It’s beyond any scope of common decency that’s expected for society. Ugly and uncalled for and… you look back at your man across the way.

He’s got his face turned to the speaker, expressionless. Dead. Like this is every day for him, every waking moment. Being forced to hear how much lesser he is, how unworthy of life and air and happiness. It knocks you figuratively off your feet, seeing the world through his eyes in that moment. How alone he must feel, how angry and fed up with society. You want to run to him, grab his hand and yank him away, far far away where he can’t be treated like this ever again. But you can’t. There isn’t anywhere far enough that he can go and be safe from this.

You’re powerless there, unable to do anything but burn in barely contained rage while you watch. Plain house guy isn’t reacting, doesn’t even flinch when he hears that man say how he should have no rights, how he’s no better than an animal and should become property, owned by the government. It’s like he’s heard it his whole life, and hearing it is so commonplace now that he’s barely even listening. 

Helpless tears prick your eyes, but it’s not enough. Crying won’t make this man stop talking. It won’t block that message from your neighbor’s ears. You are no one, weak and stupid, and there’s nothing you can do but wrench your eyes away and seethe, letting the tears fall from your bowed head to the sidewalk below. 

But then your eyes fixate on something very convenient right there by your foot. A perfectly sized rock, small enough to fit comfortably in your hand, but large enough to do some damage if it’s thrown right. You stoop down and take it in your fingers, getting a feel for the weight. It feels so fucking good that an explosion of power shoots through your chest, hot and irresistible. Your focus narrows on chasing that feeling and you straighten up, eyes dry and locked onto the horrible man on the platform. You could do it. You’re close enough, you could get that rock to connect with him. Not enough to kill him, but enough to end this. It would feel so free.

You clench the rock tight, cocking your arm back just a little, practicing the movement and making sure no one would stop you. They wouldn’t. You’re nobody, normal looking and unworthy of notice, and you could do this with just a second of motion. You look up at that horrible waste of life on the platform and you make the decision. Screw everything, including yourself. 

But as soon as you’ve decided, your eyes land back on your neighbor across the crowd. He’s looking straight at you, eyes flashing and shoulders turned parallel to where you’re standing. He looks so fucking angry that it completely knocks you out of your murder haze and you blink, trying to understand why he’s glaring at you like that. And then, eyes still locked on you, he shakes his head a few times in a slow, formidable, ‘don’t you fucking dare.’

Oh. Okay. The rock tumbles out of your fingers and the clatter of it hitting the concrete is lost under the booming hate polluting the air. You watch it roll to a stop and then Tyler is grabbing your hand and pulling. You don’t even have time to look back at Plain House Guy before you’re whisked away, out of that hell and the crowd and down sidewalk after sidewalk. Your feet automatically move even though your legs feel numb as the gravity of what you’ve almost done, what Plain House Guy prevented you from doing, really starts to sink in. 

Chapter Text

Tyler collapses onto the couch next to you and nuzzles his head around your lap with a happy sigh, getting nice and comfy using your thighs as his own personal pillow. You stare down at your phone and pretend not to notice, determined to get the fuck out of his house. 

The anti-mutant rally was only the first nail in Tyler’s coffin. You guys ended up in a coffee shop that also had a full bar, and Tyler energetically went about getting drunk. So drunk, in fact, that you had to lead him by the hand back to where he’d parked the car. And you, who he picked up for a first date, had to drive his ass back to his house in his own car. So now you find yourself here, sitting on a couch in his living room, trying to get enough signal to order an Uber because he’s too drunk to remember his wifi password. 

Tyler hasn’t exactly been the most mannerly drunk, but it’s not until he gets to the comfort of his own home that he starts coming on to you. Nothing physical, thank god, but he’s making it very obvious that he’s interested. Even now from below your phone you hear intermittent little whines, different versions of, “My lips are so lonely,” and, “I bet you would cum if we fucked,” and you’re so utterly turned off. Your thumb is tapping the loading screen impatiently, desperate to escape this nightmare and get back home to William. 

The need to cum has been a low level buzz between your legs all afternoon, especially after seeing your mystery man in DC. That bubble bath is still singing a siren song in your mind, and the only things standing between you and cumming all relaxed and warm in the water are a bleary eyed manchild and poor phone service.

Finally, finally your Uber arrives. Tyler has mercifully passed out, and you carefully extract your legs out from under his surprisingly heavy head. Time to be free of this hellish date. 

It’s dark outside by the time you plod up the steps to your porch. You’re reciting your responsibilities to yourself while you unlock the door. Get William outside to pee, find something to quickly eat, maybe even just a PB&J, and drink some water. Get your clothes off, run the bath nice and h–

What the fuck. 

You stand in your entryway, staring in bewilderment at William’s crate, which is empty and wide open. Did you… did you forget to put him in there? No, you distinctly remember the toy you selected for him. Had he escaped somehow? That’s possible, right? 

But if he were loose, he would be here to greet you.

“William!” you call, voice a little panicked. “I’m home!”

Nothing. You turn on your heel and stare at the front door. It was definitely locked when you got here. You practically sprint to the back door, and it’s safely locked as well. The basement door is shut, so the only thing you can think of is that your dog escaped his crate and then accidentally locked himself upstairs somewhere.

“William!” You call again, taking the stairs two at a time. Your bedroom door is slightly ajar so you push it open and–

There’s William. His tail is thumping steadily on your bed because he is happy to see you, but he doesn’t lift his head from the long leg he’s resting his chin on, as if he can keep your neighbor glued to your bed forever with just his little puppy noggin. Plain House Guy has one arm draped over your dog and the other resting behind his own head, seemingly quite at home with his legs stretched out on your mattress. 

“William,” you scold. “Oh my God, William, I thought someone stole you.”

Your neighbor cracks a smile. “This little guy? Nah. We’ve been getting to know each other.” William is looking at you with just his eyes, tail still drumming a muted, thump, thump, against the blanket. It seems impossible that a dog could look both guilty and smug, but he manages. 

“Has he been outside?”

“Fifteen minutes ago.”

You let out a resigned breath and drop your keys on the dresser. “Okay.”

Everything is alright. You’re still a little jittery and exhausted and trying to keep up with the way this day is changing at every turn, but everyone is safe. It should be a thing to you that your mystery neighbor broke into your house to cuddle your dog, but it just isn’t. It seems like something entirely reasonable to you, based on what you know of Plain House Guy and what you know of your adorable little pitbull. 

You sit on the edge of your bed and pet the only part of William you can reach, his butt, and try to figure out what’s happening here. Waiting for you in your bed of all places seems to be a pretty clear signal that the bubble bath is canceled in favor of something better, but you don’t want to presume, especially since he saw you at the rally earlier. He could actually be here to kill you this time. 

“My name is Victor,” he says unexpectedly, like it’s nothing. Just like that, on a random Saturday, you’re on a first name basis with the only assassin you know. 

“Nice to meet you, Victor,” you say softly, as if you’re trying not to spook him. You reach out your hand and squeeze his gloved fingers. 

William has finally decided that relinquishing Victor will not make him disappear, and he shuffles around with a piggy sort of grunt to plop down next to you. 

“Hi, baby,” you say, running his velvet ears through your hand. “Sorry I’m so late.”

The events of the date, momentarily forgotten, come rolling back through your mind, and it’s all so embarrassing that you just groan and dig your palms into your eyes. You get a few good grinds of working your eyeballs into your brain before you feel the bed lift next to you. 

“Come here, puppy,” Victor says, getting up, and surprisingly William listens. He lets Victor lead him out of the room and shut the door behind him. All you can hear is the sudden drumming of your pulse in your ears while you watch him turn and flick the overhead light off. There only the bedside lamp now, softly illuminating the lines of his body in a way that makes your chest itchy with the need for contact. 

All of a sudden your body is so alert and interested in this turn of events, but you aren’t quite content. It isn’t right to do it like this before you’ve said your piece. You spent those hours watching Tyler get drunk, mulling around exactly what you wanted to say the next time you saw your neighbor. Sure, you didn’t expect it to be this soon, but that just means that it’s fresh in your mind and you’ve braced yourself for it.

“Victor,” you begin when he’s halfway back to the bed. Something about the look on your face makes him stop, and he’s just standing there a few paces away, looking down at you and waiting.

“I have to tell you something, and I hope you understand the sentiment when I say,” you pause, taking a huge breath before you go all in, “I need you to be rough with me.” 

He blinks at you, surprised, but you continue in a rush before he can stop you, “I want the lamp on, and I want your gloves off, and whatever scales or weird skin you’ve got under there, I want to see it, and I want to feel it on my body.”

You watch his fingers curl into loose fists for just a second before relaxing again, like he’s suddenly annoyed by the restriction of the gloves. 

He sets his jaw and says, “I don’t think you understand what… rough… means to m–”

“Don’t tell me what I don’t understand.”

Yeah you interrupted him, but you don’t care. Your eyes are flashing up at him in challenge because you are just so sick of being told what to be and what to want.

“Alright.”

He tilts his head at you, probably considering what to do with your horny ass. You hope he understands why you weren’t specific. This isn’t about you, this is about him. You want him hard and into it and showing you exactly how he likes to fuck you best. 

Victor stretches himself out in the middle of the bed and tugs on your hand with a, “Come here.”

You come. You slide off your sandals and crawl over to straddle his hips, your knees sinking down into the mattress on either side and your hands resting atop your thighs, watching his face. It’s a pleasant surprise when instead of pulling you down for a kiss, he lifts his hand and says, “Take it off.”

You glance from his glove to his face, making sure you understand exactly what he’s asking. Then you take his solid, warm wrist in your hand, and undo the velcro caging him in, and you slide that familiar glove off as fast as you dare. 

Claws. You make a startled jerk when you first see them, because they’re enormous. Reaching a full two inches past his fingertips, you’re confused how they ever fit in those gloves, but then you watch them retract. They go back into his fingertips, still pointed but manageable, and you realize he just wanted to show you right away what he’s capable of. Get the worst out of the way and make sure you’re good with it. Mitigate the pain of possible rejection. 

“You want to feel that on your body?”

Your eyes flick back to his face, where he’s watching you so very closely. “How sharp are they?”

“Fuckin’ sharp.”

He extends them again, halfway this time, and you’re reminded of when you were a kid and you broke something glass for the first time. You’re still holding his wrist and, mesmerized, you reach out with the other hand to press a fingertip to the dangerous point of his claw, like you just have to find out how easily it will cut you. Like the injury will be worth the knowing. 

At the last instant before you make contact he retracts his claws, all the way down, and the unexpected movement makes you yank your hand back as if you actually had been cut. Your eyes fly to his, and you’re breathing a little fast now. It makes sense why he didn’t finger you the last time. It would be so easy to shred your insides completely by accident. Rough is an entirely different concept for him. Rough is just scaling back the gentleness he has to perform perfectly every time he touches you. 

You give him an encouraging smile and reach for his other hand, and he lets you. He watches you steadily unwrap the most secret part of him, and you can feel him growing hard from where you’re sitting. It’s so fucking intimate and powerful that it gives you a headrush. This is what you were trying to explain to him before, about blowjobs. The crossing of that boundary, taking someone’s most hidden anatomy and letting them know with your mouth how much you are not only okay with it, but turned on by playing with it and having it inside your body. 

Finally he’s free, and you’re looking down at him and remembering what he did for you today, feeling all mushy, and then you see a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. It’s the only warning you get before pain splinters over your scalp and you’re getting yanked backwards by your hair.  

He’s wrapped his fist around the very ends of your hair, so suddenly that you fling your head back with a gasp in an unconscious effort to relieve some of the pain. He drags you back so far that you can’t fully plant your palms on his chest, and you’re grasping around, desperately trying to hold your weight on just the tips of your fingers to keep yourself upright. 

He keeps you there, with your face pointed to the ceiling and says, “Let’s find out if you still want it.”

You feel his claws scraping up the front of your thigh, and it’s like he knows the perfect amount of pressure to exert against your skin, just enough to rough up that top layer and shoot electric currents of fear up and down your spine. You steel yourself, tamping down your body’s reactions to the pain and forcing yourself to breathe in and out through your nose. It hurts but it’s bearable. He’s slowly raking along your skin, up under your skirt, and you have a moment of actual terror where you think he’s heading for your pussy. Your fingers are shaking from the fear and the effort of keeping you upright and you don’t know how much more of this you can handle, but you just focus on getting enough oxygen and—

And it’s over. It’s like you’ve passed some sort of test, because all of a sudden the claws are gone. He’s sliding his warm palm up your exposed throat, and the relief of a gentle touch forces an obvious shudder through your body. His thumb strokes the skin there, right on the side of your windpipe with a slowness that almost seems affectionate. His hand continues down, splaying out across your collarbone and giving you something warm and soft to focus on instead of how your leg is stinging and your hair is still pulled tight. 

The strap of your dress tugs for an instant and then loosens entirely, and then you feel the other one fall as well. You suck in a quiet lungful of air and endure the soft drag across your nipples as your dress is pulled down your body. He’s being agonizingly slow with it, as if he knows how it’s making your pussy clamp down and hold onto nothing, until finally the motion stops, and you’re pretty sure your whole chest is just out and exposed to the air. 

You’re held like that for a moment, suffering the absence of his hand before you hear a quiet, “Mmmm, pretty.”

Fuck. He’s touching you now, letting you experience his claws on the delicate skin of your breast, but he’s not cruel with it. It’s like he’s acclimating you to the feel of them, like they’re going to be repeat visitors to your body. You’re fighting your own lungs, working to get air in but afraid if your chest heaves up and down too much you’ll get sliced. There isn’t much room to work with, with you still bent back like this, but fuck, you’re trying to keep still, and he’s… He’s just lazily sampling the weight of your breast in his hand, watching the way your nipple tightens up when he runs a claw over it. 

You’ve got your teeth clamped together and you’re trying to ignore the way your blood is scorching through you, the way your nipple seems to have a direct line to your clit, and every fondle is just shooting electricity straight between your legs. You prevent any sounds from escaping your throat because you’re afraid of what you’ll say if you begin to let yourself vocalize.  

“That feel good to you, little girl?” he asks so quietly it’s almost like he’s saying it to himself. 

“Yes,” you whisper up to the ceiling. There’s no way for him to know that you’re fucking leaking through your underwear right now, hot and swollen and hating yourself for making it that much more painful with your three weeks of buildup.

All of a sudden the tension on your hair relaxes, and you gasp in relief, finally able to plant your palms on his chest. It takes a little while for your neck to figure out how to work and lift your head forward again, but when you do he’s just laying there all relaxed, with one hand tucked under his head and his bicep flagrantly stretching his sleeve, and he’s grinning at you. Another spike of excitement shoots through you, because for the first time you see his full set of teeth. His canines are elongated and look sharp as hell, so predatory that you don’t know how you never noticed them before. 

“Is that what you had in mind for ‘rough?’” he asks. 

You pretend to consider, trying to hide the way your body is quivering from residual adrenaline by resting your hands on your thighs. “I was imagining more like, anal with choking.”

That gets an actual, real laugh out of him. He takes hold of one of your hands and kisses your knuckles lightly. “Nah baby, not for you. Not tonight.”

Something about the way he says it, so deep and warm in his throat, dips something through your belly, sweet and heavy. Yeah, you’re sitting here with angry red marks on your thigh, and yeah, your dress is all cut up and pooled around your waist, but the fact that he knows how he wants to fuck you, has maybe even thought about it before today is… something you haven’t had before.

Chapter Text

Everything is going so well, and he’s so ready under your ass, and you’re so ready, and he pulls your hand away from his mouth, and—

And his eyes narrow at something. He looks at your hand, at the way your fingers are quivering despite your best efforts to stop.

“When was the last time you ate?”

That is simply the last question you expected so you’re scrambling to come up with a lie, but you’re so hungry that your brain is just working off fumes. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but the pressure to come up with a number of hours is somehow too much and you can’t decide what’s an acceptable answer. Two hours? Eight hours? How often do humans actually eat? It’s been so long now since he asked the question that you have to say something, so you just blurt out the truth. 

“Um, breakfast, I think, but it was like a later breakfast. And some coffee in DC.” 

He makes a disapproving noise and you brace for a chastisement, but it doesn’t come. He just starts to scoot you off of him and begins to sit up, and you freak the fuck out.

“No!” You exclaim, pushing him back down so hard that you’re sure he can feel the jittery vibrations running down your arms to his chest. “You are not leaving this bed until I have your cum on some part of my body.”

You glare down at him and he slowly blinks up at you, and you realize it actually might not be the sexiest thing that you’re shaking nonstop like a drug addict. You swing your leg off him.

“I’ll go eat something, and I’ll be right back. Stay there.”

You don’t even spare him a backwards glance, just start to head for the door, but your dress slips further off your hips and you halt, staring down at it. Making a quick decision you push it all the way off until you’re just in your underwear, and when you finally get to the door you turn back with the intention of giving him another promise that you’ll be right back.

But you don’t get the words out. Victor is lying there with one knee drawn up, eyes dark and fastened on your ass, and one large hand is slowly palming himself over his pants. It’s so fucking hot that you half turn back, wanting to say screw it and return to bed.

But then his eyes swing back to your face and he grits out, “Fucking go,” and you do. 

You haul ass to your kitchen, and feed William, and jam cold, leftover pizza down your throat. You use the bathroom and chug some water too, just to make sure he won’t send you back down here for anything. While you’re at it, you scrub your teeth with the toothbrush you keep down here for nights you pass out on the couch and are too tired for stairs. 

Your ruined underwear can’t be helped so you just shimmy it off, and then you’re ready. You’re about to get laid with someone new for the first time in, like, most of your adult life, and unlike Tyler’s offer, this time you know you’re going to cum. You know it deep in your bones. There's no stopping the combination of how horny you are and how into making you cum Victor seems to be. It’s going to be wet and amazing and you’re going to get to feel a cock just fucking breaking you when you need it so bad.

It’s going to change your life. 

And then you’re standing there at the top of the stairs, hand half raised to the doorknob, and you’re hesitating. What if… what if it’s like before? What if he doesn’t want to fuck you? What if he just wants you for… fuck, what else could he possibly want you for? He’s never explicitly said he’s going to fuck you. That was you, your sorry ass that said the thing about his cum. What if you’re just like, a makeout budd—

The door wrenches open before you can even finish your thought, and Victor is there, shirtless, glaring down at you like you’re just purposefully annoying the shit out of him. 

And that was a mistake because William seizes his chance and bolts between Victor’s legs, claiming the bed with a flying leap. 

You both turn away from looking at your dog’s wildly thumping tail and look back at each other again.

“I got nervous,” you admit, eyes flicking to his bare chest even though you’re telling them not to. 

He shifts to lean against the door frame, suddenly not so angry looking. His mouth opens and then closes, and then, “We don’t have to—“

“I got nervous that you don’t want to fuck me.” You’re blinking up at him, crossing your arms to give your hands something to do, but then it looks like you’re showing off your tits so you drop them stupidly to your sides again. “I have some, um, history of people not… wanting to fuck me.”

There. All your guts spilled out at his feet. It’s so humiliating that you instantly cringe, regretting every word of what you just said. You just admitted, to the guy you want to fuck, that people avoid fucking you. You’re standing there in the hall, bare ass naked and telling him all your relationship trauma, and you’re still so horny, and basically you just want to die.

Victor doesn’t make things easier. He looks down at you for a long time, like he’s trying to decide what to say, working the words over and over in his head until they’re ready. Finally his jaw flexes and he takes that last step into you, wrapping his arms around your waist and running a rough palm up your spine. Your bare chest is pressed against his bare stomach, and it’s all warm and slightly furry and you just stand there with your cheek lying on his pectoral, waiting for the rejection. He takes a big breath in, filling up those enormous lungs and then just slowly and deliberately lets it all out.

The beard tickles your jaw when he nuzzles his face into your hair, right behind your ear and quietly asks, “You got a spare bedroom?”

You can’t see William over his massively tall shoulder, but you know he’s just perched like a Sphinx on the bed, ears perked up and waiting for his two favorite people to come turn him into a happy little pitbull sandwich. 

“Yeah,” you whisper back. 

He inches you forward so you have to blindly back up a step. “Does it have a bed with sheets on it?”

Fuck. “Yeah.”

He’s backing you away, towards the other doors in the hall. “Why don’t you show me where it is.” 

Oh, god. You can’t move much because he’s still got you pressed to him, but you grope your hand out until you’ve got hold of the right doorknob, and you open it with the steadiest hand you’ve had all night. 

He flicks on the light and closes the door behind you, and that soft click of the latch and the warm glow of the lamp blurs your nerves away to nothing. He’s going to fuck you. Not only that, but he’s going to do it in your nice, clean spare bed, with no William and no gloves, and no clothes.  

Your hands fasten frantically onto his belt as the backs of your knees hit the bed frame. But of course it’s not a regular buckle, it’s one of those tactical ones, and you’re just fumbling around for a few seconds before he has enough mercy to push you down to the bed and get it started himself. 

You lean back on your arms, blinking slowly up at him like you can’t believe this is finally happening, and he’s such a goddamn expert he just removes his belt by touch so he can keep looking at you. The middle of his beautiful eyes are a thick dot of black, but he’s not dazed with it. You swear you can see him thinking, working through exactly what he wants here and every step he’s going to take to get it. 

“Lie down on your stomach.”

It’s just a little thing, telling you the way he wants to start, but he may as well have said, ‘face down, ass up,’ for the way your toes curl at the instruction. He’s stopped with his pants unzipped like he’s waiting for you to get in place first, so you do. You turn and flop your belly down and rest your head on your hands. 

And it’s not until then that you truly grasp what a vulnerable position it is. He’s within arm’s reach of a belt, and your ass is just conveniently there in the middle of the bed. Even a smack on your ass right now feels a little too forward, and you’re just lying there listening to the rustle of fabric behind you, a little pit of dread opening up in your belly, trying to weigh the odds that he would do something like that without asking first. 

But then you feel him climbing over you. He doesn’t crush you, he just pulls you back slightly on your side, and you naturally bend your knee out so that you’re halfway spread and quite comfortable with your front pillowed into the duvet and your back up against his warm skin. He swipes the hair off your neck, planting a kiss there, and you feel his hand work its way down between your belly and the bed. 

His knee pushes against the back of yours, knocking it out a little bit farther right before his fingers make their first contact with the hot area between your legs. 

“Mmmm, wet little baby.”

Involuntarily you press your hips down into it, chasing that sudden, wonderful feeling of being touched. 

“Here’s where we’re at,” he says, finding a steady rhythm across your clit and making sure you can’t do anything but lay there. “I’ve got a history of wanting to fuck you so bad that I drive back here instead of finishing my job in DC.”

It’s pathetic the way you whimper under him, the way your cunt clenches tight and your clit throbs under his fingers at that one confession. 

“But you’ve got me all worked up and I’m not sure how long I can last, so we’re just gonna go nice and slow and make sure you get what you need.”

What you need is cock, immediately, in your pussy. You need him to pull your hips up and destroy your shit until you can’t remember ever being horny and alone with no one to take care of it. His fingers are still steadily working the ache out of you, and your pelvis is practically cramping with how much you just need him to go ahead and fuck you senseless. 

You feel the head of his cock push through your folds just slightly, holding there while he huffs a couple of quick breaths into your hair. And then he’s pulling it out again, and it’s so frustrating that you unleash a wail of distress into the mattress. 

“Victor, I– I’m so turned on. It hurts.”

“I know, baby. I’m gonna take care of it.” He’s dragging his pointy teeth over the side of your neck, and it’s not until then that you realize there isn’t even a hint of claw on your clit. “I’m just— fuck, I’m trying to get you ready first.”

But you’re past ready. Three weeks past needing to be fucked and everything below your waist is one giant, dull ache. You need cock, hammering into the back of your cervix and erasing all the bad memories stored there. You’re wiggling your hips a little, searching for it, but it’s not there. So you do the only thing you can think of to hurry him up while his finger runs an agonizing little circle. 

“Victor, I don’t think you know how w-wet you’ve got me. It’s been so long since I– hhhuh– since I came the last time, and I’m pretty s-sure, if you just get your cock over here and push it– hhholy fuck– push it inside me right now, I would just f-fucking cum.”

“Fuck, shut up.” You can feel the tip of his cock again, nudging into your entrance and then holding there, just a couple of inches inside, and it’s maddening to have it so close and not fucking in you. 

It’s pure desperation that fuels your mouth to just start babbling barely coherent statements into the blanket, “I’ll cum— easy for you. It’s not even f-funny— God— how fast I’ll cum if you’ll just— hngh— slide it in my pussy a few times. I’ll let you f-fucking feel if it’s wet enough, and you can make sure it’s s-soft in there—“

That’s it. That’s as far as you get before he shifts and an enormous hand plants itself over your mouth, fingers reaching ear to ear, and he pushes all the way inside you. 

“Fuck,” he spits out, sounding actually kind of angry, “impatient little baby.”

He’s keeping himself there, flexing his hips against the back of your cervix, and you can’t do a fucking thing about it but make embarrassing throat noises and curl your toes at the deprivation. But then his finger is moving again, and he sloooowly drags his cock backwards through your cunt, and with equal heartlessness grinds it back in. 

He brings his mouth to your ear and nips hard on the skin there before murmuring, “You think I never saw you, walking your sweet little ass by my house every day? Watching my house like you were trying to see in my fucking windows? God, it made me so mad.”

It’s agony. You’re sucking in air through your nose and trying to move your hips to meet him, but you’ve only got about half an inch of flexibility. You’ve got him as hard as can be inside your desperate cunt and he’s not letting you move, not letting you even beg for it. You can only lie there, trapped tight with two arms, and suffer the agonizing pace while his finger breaks you down.

“All that time and money spent getting that house legal and inconspicuous, and you just come by every fucking day and wreck my shit.”  

Something in your body shifts, like it’s decided that what he’s giving you is fucking plenty. You feel your orgasm rising inside you, burning up your legs and licking around your pelvis, but he’s going so slow that it keeps starting and stopping, waiting for just enough cock to push you fully into it. You’re clamping down, your whole body rigid and straining to launch yourself over that edge on your own. He fucks into you a little deeper, a tiny bit harder, and it’s just enough. Your knee spasms up, searching for more purchase on the bed and—

“Oh, baby’s cumming.”

Fuck, he’s right. You start to cum and you don’t stop this time. The bastard is maintaining complete control, not giving you any more than you’re already getting, and your insides erupt. Molten heat splashes through your belly and down your legs, and it’s like that slow fucking is just dragging you through an eternity of wet sensation. Victor is making pleased noises into your neck, but it barely registers when every nerve in your body is focused on the way his cock is splintering you into a thousand pieces. 

The comedown is long and shaky. You’re left a panting, sweaty slab of mush, and his hand moves away from your clit to run claws along the curve of your hip. A whimper of despair rises up in your throat only to get muffled in that wall of fingers. There’s no way to tell him that all the first orgasm did was open the fucking floodgates of your deprived body and pour gasoline on everything. How you can already feel something vicious and hot rippling up the base of your skull and attaching to your spine.

You briefly consider biting his fingers just so you can tell him that you need to cum again, but the sharp reminder of claws on your skin keep you from doing anything stupid. He’s keeping you locked in that slow wringer, and it’s not enough. It’s not enough, it’s not enough, it— it’s gonna have to be enough. 

With a desperate groan you shove your hand down between the bed and your body, searching frantically for your clit, but your fingers are getting caught in the wrinkles of the comforter, and you just need to cum so bad, and—

And warm, steady fingers come back under your hip to stroke your poor little clit, and his knee shoves firmly against the back of yours, angling himself deeper, straight down against your g-spot like a fucking self guided missile. It’s more than enough.

“Baby, are you gonna cum again? O-ohh, yeah, there it is. Shit— shit, baby likes my fingers.”

You’re falling in slow motion, like one of those James Bond intros, all swimming colors and lights and nothing to land on. The one, solitary thought rolling around in your head is you’re never going to recover from this. No sexual experience you ever get to have is going to top the way he’s finally fucking you good and hard, and it’s everything you could ever want.

It’s going to end. It’s got to end. You’re braced for it, waiting for the drop and totally fucking numb, and— you drop. Hard. Loud, too, because Victor has removed his hand just to hear you humiliate yourself with the most broken sounding whine you’ve ever uttered. 

He’s asking you something, but it doesn’t poke through the brain clouds until he takes his hand off your clit and pants it into your ear again.

“Can I come inside? Fuck, I’m c-clean, let me just cum like this, baby.”

“Yes,” you groan, and almost instantly, he does. 

Your body is squeezed up against him so tight that for a few terrifying heartbeats you actually can’t breathe, but he’s making a weirdly animalistic sound deep in his chest and his hips are slowing into an erratic rhythm. 

At this point you’re pretty sure he could be tap dancing on top of you and you still wouldn’t move. It’s so relaxing to just lay here and feel the last throbs work themselves out inside you. You’re not really sure if they’re coming from your body or his, but it’s not bothering you. Nothing could possibly bother you right now. You’re sticky and boneless, and besides, you’re Baby. 

“Fuck.”

You make a sleepy, questioning noise in your throat and he slowly pulls out of you, splashing wet down the back of your thigh. 

“Fuck, I shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have been… so hard on you.”

“It’s okay,” you manage to reply, “I sort of asked for it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you fuckin’ did.” He’s smoothing your hair, running his fingers through the ends in the way of someone who knows how to avoid knots. It feels nice and you relax into it, and you hear him quietly say, “You’re getting it soft next time.”

The thrill of hearing him say that there will in fact be a next time is overshadowed by what you suddenly realize you have to say. For some reason the very important thing shoots straight to the forefront of your brain. There’s no way around it, no delaying because you simply don’t know when you’ll see him again.

“Victor, I… I may not be here, w-when you come back. I mean, I’ll probably still be in the area, but not in this house any more.”

“Why’s that?” Another stroke, running the pads of his fingers across your scalp. It’s all so embarrassing and you just blurt it out as fast as possible to get it over with.

“I have to sell the house. I should have done it already, Can’t afford the mortgage since the divorce. But I’ll find… somewhere else. An apartment. And I can give you my, um, my phone number— if— if you want it. I just don’t know how long it will be before you’re back here again and I don’t want you to think I… disappeared.”

He’s quiet for a long time, his hand motionlessly curved around the back of your head, and you quickly plummet from eighty percent to twenty percent sure he’ll take your phone number. 

Finally he says, “I won’t be gone as long, the next time.”

And that’s it. That’s all you get.

Chapter Text

He lied. 

Well, technically you don’t know that at first. You go about your life that first week, floating on a rose scented cloud, secretly happy and oblivious to any problems around you. Any day now, he’ll be back. Knocking on your door or waiting for you on his porch or, hell, you’d even take a break in. But days pass and he… doesn’t. 

And then the things start happening.

Your workplace has local news always playing in the breakroom, and in the back of your mind you’re aware that they’ve been talking about some double suicide for the last two days, but it’s not until the phrase, “Friends of Humanity,” finally works it’s way down your ear canals that you actually look at the TV. There, right on the screen, is the face of the man who was addressing the crowd at the rally. On the other side of the screen is a face you don’t recognize, but the news anchor lets you know he’s some important person in the organization. 

It seems too incredible to believe. You were so angry at that man less than a week ago, so much that you wanted to hurt him, and now he’s dead. He and the other guy must have found a scrap of conscience and decided to end it. But you look at the date of the deaths, and it doesn’t make sense. You heard him speaking just the day before, saw the fire in his eyes at how firmly he believed in his cause. A suicide you can imagine, for some unrelated reason, but a double suicide? Of two people in the same organization? Incredible.  

But that’s merely the smallest of The Things. 

It’s the following week when you log in to pay your mortgage before you get a late fee, and you’re mindlessly searching around, clicking between pages, not sure what you’re actually looking for because this part has always been so automatic. You frown and actually pay attention to the screen, to where you need to click, and you finally comprehend that the button is gone. You squint incredulously at the screen, trying to decide if you just imagined that orange ‘Submit Payment’ button that used to be right there. Has the website changed? Moved the options around?

You’re stubbornly clicking around for a few minutes before you finally give up and call the bank. They go through the normal verifications and finally you get to talk to somebody. 

“Okay, yeah, so I went online to pay my mortgage and it’s not giving me the option to do that for some reason.”

“Okay,” replies the bank lady, “let me check it on my end… Okay, yes I see the loan… okay, so it’s already paid.”

“No, no, I haven’t paid it yet. That’s what I was trying to do.”

“I’m sorry—“ there’s a moment of confused silence before she says, “I’m not understanding the problem. The loan is closed, it’s been paid in full.”

Okay, so this isn’t going to be as easy as you’d hoped. “No, listen, we got this house like, two years ago. I’m just trying to make my monthly payment.”

There’s a resigned sigh, like she just can’t believe that you’re asking questions about your own financials. “Okay, let me pull it up.”

A few minutes of silence later, and, “This loan was paid in full on the seventh of this month, with a funds transfer of four-hundred ninety-two thousand dollars and sixty-four cents. Your letter of mortgage release should be in the mail very soon.” 

You just sit there, stunned, your frustration melting away to shock. “Can you…” you get out weakly, then clear your throat and try again, “Can you see who did the transfer?”

“Mmm, yes. I’m looking at it right now, and it’s got your signature.”

“Okay… O-okay, um— Thankyougoodbye.”

You end the call and lean back in dumb shock, failing to fully process what just happened. Intellectually you know that this is not a mistake. This kind of bank error would be one in a billion on its own, but to have your own signature there… It's not a mistake. It’s real. Intellectually you know this. But you also know that there’s only one person in your life who might have the means and ability to do something like this, but the idea that he would want to is just totally impossible.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

You lift your eyes and blink up at Tyler, who in your stupor you didn’t notice approaching your desk. And that’s just great because you’ve done so well avoiding him until now. 

“Um, hi Tyler. I'm sorry, it’s kind of a bad time. I'm on my lunch break and I just got some news about… something. Just trying to process it.”

“Aww man, I’m sorry. I just, uh, wanted to touch base with you, since we haven’t talked since the date and I’m not really clear on… what happened.”

“What happened?” You repeat back stupidly. 

“Yeah. I mean, did we…? You and me?” He lowers his voice and asks, “Sleep together?”

Oh. Scenes of a very different happening that night flash unconsciously through your mind. You, naked from the waist up, getting Victor’s claws on your skin for the first time. You spilling out all of your biggest fears, and him just patiently listening. You, with nowhere to go, pressed up tight against a hard chest while he pushes you into the relief you need. 

“Nothing happened,” you mumble. 

It was nothing. Just a one night stand, and he didn’t even let you exchange phone numbers, and it meant nothing. And the fact that your mortgage page is staring at you right now with a zero dollar balance is actually, truly terrifying. There was no conversation about this. At no point did you ever consent to, fuck, a sugar relationship. There’s no way to transfer the money back, no way to ever pay him back for this. He slept with you one time, and he bought you an entire house. It’s… degrading. 

It sinks an absolute boulder of anxiety in your stomach at what he’s going to ask for in return. 

What’s even worth half a million dollars? Surely even surrogacy wasn’t nearly that much. Maybe a… kink… surrogacy? Where he impregnates you and makes you eat shit and sleep in a dog crate or something? You could see that hitting the right dollar amount, but Christ, to pay up front before you come to any kind of understanding…

“–So anyways, I’m free tonight if you want to come over. We could watch old movies or something. Do you like old movies?”

Your vision slowly adjusts back to Tyler’s face. He’s smiling a big ol’ fake smile, becoming more and more forced by the second. You can practically see the wall surrounding him, hiding who he truly is behind a plastic sheet of how he wants to be perceived. 

“No, I don’t want to come over tonight. I think we’re done, Tyler.”

The smile falters and then drops away completely. You see a nasty light in his eye that you never thought him capable of before, and he mutters, “Bitch,” before turning and walking away.

“Incel,” you mutter back, too quiet for it to carry. Your lunch break is up and you try to work, mind all a blur.

You go home that night and sit in your decorated living room and just stare. Look around at that house that’s now somehow yours. Not the bank’s, not your ex’s, yours. With that extra money every month you could decorate the whole thing. Wallpaper everywhere, a jungle of plants, a piano… Shit, you could invest. Max out your retirement fund every month and buy some stocks. 

Or you could sell it. Move to an apartment and immediately have more money in the bank than you could have ever imagined. If you invested that, things would really get going. Regardless of what you choose, regardless of what Victor wants in return, you sit there and feel a weight lift from your chest, one sank so deep into you that you never noticed its existence until it’s gone. 

It’s such a relief that when the one, final, colossal Thing happens, it totally blindsides you.

You’re walking William for a little Saturday sunshine, and everything is good. The air is slightly less humid and there’s a little wind, so you go farther than you normally do. All the way to the end of the sidewalk, just like you walked that one night with Victor. It’s approaching three weeks since you last saw him, and that’s unsettling. The vague idea that something has happened to him grows more and more urgent every day, but you have absolutely no way of knowing or checking. You only have a first name and a face. He’s given you nothing, purposefully, like that’s not going to have you running what ifs through your mind for weeks. 

On the way back you walk down Victor’s cul-de-sac like you usually do, like you’ve done every day since you hooked up, and your attention is held by the SUV you see parked on the curb in front of his house. It has to belong to one of the neighbors, right? That happens. Neighbors sometimes park in front of an adjacent house, even though, fuck, the next door neighbors have completely empty driveways. 

You’re approaching his curve of the sidewalk, scanning for any clue to the vehicle, and Victor’s front door suddenly opens. Your feet come to a stumbling halt, because out walks a blonde woman. 

She’s pretty. Older than you, but prettier. She’s got nice clothes and perfectly styled hair, and you’re just so aghast that Victor has a woman in his house, you don’t notice the sign she’s got under her arm until she stops by the sidewalk and begins to hammer it into the dirt. 

She finally looks up to acknowledge your incredibly rude, open mouthed stare, and says, “Good morning! Are you looking to buy in this neighborhood?”

“U-um,” you stutter, “Maybe.”

“Well this house is fresh on the market! It’s got some nice updates inside. Open house is tomorrow at noon if you want to stop by!”

You mutter a thanks and force your feet to keep walking. It’s so unexpected and awful that you walk all the way home before the understanding fully sinks in. Victor’s not coming back. He’s fucking gone. You had a one night stand, and he knew he was leaving so of course he didn’t take your phone number, and he paid off your mortgage to soften the blow, or to maybe to keep you quiet about what you suspected. You’ll never see him again because you’re a liability. You fingered him for who he is, and he had to cut his losses. He practically told you as much– fuck– when he had his hand over your mouth. 

You’re just an inconvenience who’s too stupid to bother killing. That right there, that knowledge is what really guts you. Makes you sit down and stare numbly at the wall and ignore William’s questioning licks on your fingers. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with you, what you’ve been chasing all this time: you can’t bear to be inconsequential. The need to be someone, to do something with your life, has always lit a fire in you. And maybe all this desperate longing to be wanted by someone important is just your way of meeting that need, because it’s the only option you feel you have. You know you won’t ever have a significant job or kids or power of any kind, but for one day, you had Victor. And it felt like a little bit of consequence, for that one day.  

All night you tell yourself you won’t go to the open house, but when the time rolls around you go anyway. You can’t help it. All those months you wished and imagined getting to see the inside of your mystery man’s house, and were always denied the pleasure. Well, today you can just walk right in and snoop to your heart’s content, so you do. 

“All the furniture conveys with the house,” the realtor announces cheerily. “The kitchen and master bath have been recently renovated with subway tile.”

It’s nothing like you pictured. There are no half cleaned guns lying across sofa arms, no energy drinks or building plans spread out across the coffee table. It’s like a hotel in its bare, dull mediocrity. Normal, normal, everything is fucking normal. Not a single scuff on the walls or personalization of any kind. 

You stare down at the couch, where you had imagined so many times a scene of you right here, in his living room, straddling him on the couch and making out until he begs you to touch him. And there’s the dining table, where you fantasized about eating cereal with him while he deftly avoids your questions about what he does for work. You almost don’t want to see the master bedroom, but you do anyway because you deserve that pain. You need to see every bit of this house, and let it fully sink in what an absolute fool you are. You must feel like this so you will learn this lesson once and for all. 

Finally your allotted torture is done, and you step off the porch and look back at the house for one, final longing. The security camera is gone. Everything that ever made this Victor’s house is gone. Well, except the rocking chair. 

An idea sparks in your mind, and you head home before anyone can somehow pluck it from your thoughts. It’s literally so dumb and foolish, but your wounded heart latches onto it and won’t let it go. You obsess over it for the rest of the day, into the night, and finally when it’s late enough that most people are asleep, you go. 

With a promise to William that you’ll be back soon, you close your front door behind you and walk down the sidewalk until you get to Victor’s house. The realtor’s face is smiling brightly back at you from the For Sale sign, and it seems so wrong that all of the outside lights are on like that. The exterior is still plain, but for some reason it just looks incredibly ordinary now, and you’d never give it a second glance if you saw it tonight for the first time. 

You climb those steps and walk across the porch to sit in the rocking chair. There are little gouges at the end of the arms, like someone came by and stuck a pen knife into the wood a few hundred times. You lay your palms out flat against those imperfections and let the sensation of roughness permeate your skin. 

You sit there and look out across the lawn to the sidewalk, and in your mind’s eye you see yourself walking by. First with your old dog, looking curious and on edge at being alone in a new neighborhood. Then with William, sad but recovering, more confident now because you have little left to lose. Your hair is pulled back in a ponytail and you’re wearing that pink sports bra that always peeks out the neck hole of your shirts. There is nothing interesting or significant about you except the fact that you’re fucking annoying, barely giving the other houses a look before staring intently at this dark porch, hoping to invade someone’s privacy with your idiot eyes. 

You imagine sitting here, pockmarking the wood because you’re so pissed off at this woman. All you want is a little bit of time to relax after fucking murdering someone, and you’re giving off every possible sign that you want to be alone, and this stupid girl won’t stop walking by and perceiving you. First you’re mad. You consider killing her, nice and slow, making her apologize sweetly to you and mean it. But what kind of hitman would you be if you let someone as weak as her dictate your emotions? You change your mind. You turn the light on, let her see you and how big and dangerous you are, but she’s too pathetic to care. It only eggs her on, makes her walk by more often and stare more openly. 

So you stalk her one night. She’s started going out of the neighborhood, which is really fucking convenient for you because there won’t be as much immediate suspicion when she’s found. There’s woods there and you could snatch her so easy, gag her and make sure she feels the agony of what she’s gotten herself into. It’ll feel so good to let her see every horrible part of you, just like she’s wanted all this time, and for her to take it all back and regret every second that she ever wanted to know. 

But for some reason you don’t. You walk right back to your house and ignore the way she’s trying to get a look at your face. It doesn’t make any sense why you don’t take her, but you decide not to linger on it. There will be plenty more opportunities to make her pay. She’s just as easy to stalk the next night, and this time you’re nice and prepared. Black and menacing and bloodthirsty. You make sure she’s properly frightened even before she can see you. Normal people would run, give you a fun little game, but of course she’s too stupid for that. She runs her mouth. Explains how perceptive she’s been, gives you every fucking reason to end her. And you don’t. You still don’t understand why, but you let her go. 

She makes contact the next time. Invites you for a walk and then over to her house, gives you the perfect setup for a slow and private murder. And then she’s there in the kitchen, confessing her stupid feelings for you, and you see the perfect opening. You see how you can ruin her and then make her live the rest of her life in that wreckage. It’s the evilest thing you can imagine, so of course you do it. You touch her and listen to her and call her baby and make her cum hard. You make her feel special, like she means something to you. Like she’s somehow earned your attention. And then you fucking leave. Oh, it feels so good.  

With a deep inhale you, yourself, pull out of the fantasy. You sink your own fingernails into the wood of the rocking chair and clench your jaw hard enough to hurt. You still haven’t shed a tear on Victor’s behalf, and you’re not about to start now. You just stand up and, heart pounding, and carefully hoist that rocking chair over your head.

It’s late enough that not a single soul catches you carrying that chair, one step at a time, all the way back to your house and around to your backyard. You put it on the back deck because, though excitement is coursing through you at your crime, you’re too nervous it will somehow be recognized on your front porch. Chest heaving from the exertion of getting it up the stairs, you plop down on Victor’s stolen furniture and breathe steadily until everything slowly settles inside you. 

And you get out your phone and download Tinder.

Chapter Text

You originally hit the dating scene in the age of OkCupid, so tinder is obviously different, but one thing remains the same: men are cheap sluts. It’s like a nympho’s paradise out there so long as you have no standards. Of course you have standards, but it’s confusing because you’re not looking for anything serious, and you have no idea where to set the bar besides, “tolerable to look at.” Though, you suppose that’s where men as a collective seem to have set their own bar, so you can’t be too hard on yourself.

Your ex asked you once if you had an entire day to kill someone and get away with it, could you pull it off? You had immediately said yes. You didn’t go into any details, of course, because you didn’t want him to think you’re the kind of girl who imagines having sex with other people. But it would be so easy to kill a man. They routinely beg complete strangers to come over to their houses, give out their phone numbers and addresses and bodies like candy, and the most that ever crosses their mind is that someone might try to steal their wallet. You’re pretty sure the majority would even let you tie them down on a first date as long as you’re naked when you do it. The idiots are practically volunteering to be serial-killed. 

But normal people don’t think about those kinds of things, so you never said it out loud. You never expected to ever again be in a position to seek out casual sex, never really had an opportunity to experiment even before your marriage. And now your one, solitary taste of the stuff burned you, but you’re hoping to wash it down, swiping through profiles like a fucking dick connoisseur. 

Worst case scenario, they’re a carbon copy of Tyler, with an average sized dick and about two minutes of go time. You can work with that, just enjoy the fucking and rub one out when you get back home. It’s really the feeling of another body that you want, that skin on skin and the way they’re paying full attention to you, because they’re horny and it’s the only way they’re going to get off. Your bar is low, you’re good with it.

Still, you’re selective just for the sake of not wasting inventory. You pick a guy who has a house and no roommates, and seems like someone who understands the definition of consent. You throw on a black thong and bra, nothing lacy or special because you don’t want the occasion to be memorable. It’s just a meaningless fuck, and you think if you force yourself to remember that, everything will just go down easier. 

Though it’s full summer you still grab your favorite hoodie because, on the off chance you’re not comfortable and want to leave before things get started, it makes a convenient sack to hide your body. And if things do go well, you can still hide in it afterwards. 

It’s strange the way you’re not particularly horny when you ring his doorbell. Like you haven’t bothered to get in the right headspace to make this a turn on. This should be hot, you acting all unaffected and using someone for sex. But he’s opening the door, and you don’t have time now, so you just settle into the incredibly awkward stage before kissing. 

It’s fine. He has an okay house and makes sure you have something to drink, and you end up kissing, and it’s fine. He’s an adequate kisser. He knows how to casually lead you to the bed, and how long to kiss you before he takes your clothes off, and how to grab your ass so you know he likes your body. He knows how to rub your clit a little too hard before you get started, and put on a condom, and pretend you’re wet enough when he puts his dick inside you. It’s totally average and fine and nothing more than you expected. Yeah, you’re zoned out and not present in your body. Yeah, he’s already making the warning grunts of being at the end of his rope, but you’re prepared for this. It’s fine. It’s fine.

It’s not fine. As soon as he cums and his weird-smelling stranger body collapses down onto you, the ick grabs hold with its icy fingers. Nearly painful tingles of repulsion prickle across your skin and it’s all you can do to not shove him off with all your might. You clamp down on your self control and manage to just nudge his shoulder until he takes the hint. 

Numbly you go to that stranger’s bathroom, clean up, and put your clothes back on. It’s not you mumbling a goodbye and grabbing your keys and driving home, it’s just your body doing those things automatically. Your body goes home and feeds William and starts the water running for a bubble bath. 

And you lay there, naked in the water, rubbing yourself between the legs but somehow not getting an ounce of pleasure from it, until you finally give up. The hookup didn’t feel like you thought it would. It didn’t feel like power or independence or moving on. It felt like self harm. 

You cry. You finally let yourself go, sobbing it all out so deep that you’re glad William is behind two closed doors and can’t hear the full extent of it. You finally admit to yourself how much you miss Victor, how he made you feel and how life seemed so much more exciting when he was your Plain House Guy. 

And you realize it wasn’t ever about him, it was about you. The way you had always relied on other people to make you feel like life was worth living, like excitement was a resource you couldn’t generate on your own and had to suck it out of everyone else. You’re a little tick, going through life on the lookout for the next bit of blood you can find, and you hold onto it until someone picks you off. 

You have to change. You have to figure out how to meet your own needs in your life, and not wait around for crumbs of whatever drops in your lap. You need to, you’re going to invest in yourself. You’re going to give yourself time to mourn the person you used to be, and all the things that she thought she wanted, and then you’re going to work to build a life where you never need a savior ever again. A life where you never need Victor to come back. 

It’s been a week since your awful hookup. You’re sitting in Victor’s rocking chair on your back deck, coughing and wheezing because, frustrated that you were doing it wrong, you took a really deep drag of your first cigarette and it hurt. Your coughing fit is not helping the fact that it’s July and humid as hell. Red faced, you swipe your suffocatingly hot hair off your neck with your free hand and try to catch your breath. Surely there’s an acclimation process to smoking. You see people all the time being so casual with it and not even struggling to breathe. Is there some kind of trick to suck it down the right way?

“My fucking chair? Really?”

Every piece of your body freezes in shock, and you look up to see Victor leaning against your railing. How the fuck did he get here without you hearing him? You look down at your still-smoking cigarette and remember the embarrassing fit that probably covered any noise he could have made. 

Red faced and unthinking, you quickly snub out your cigarette on the railing, and then stare down in dismay at the scorched wood. Slowly what he said, and the fact that he’s here, worms its way into your scattered brain. Why the fuck is he here?

“Your realtor said all the furniture was going with the house. Didn’t think anyone would miss this beat-up old thing.”

You still can’t bring yourself to look up from the bent cigarette in your hand because you just don’t know what your face will betray when you let yourself look at him. 

“Didn’t know you were so attached to it. I would have asked her to give it to you if I’d known.” He moves across the railing to stand in front of you, like he’s daring you to look at him. 

“Asked her, like, by telegram?” You reply, finally finding that spark of anger that you need to get through this, and looking him right in the eye. “Or do you own a phone?”

His eyes narrow and he slides his hands in his pockets, like he’s bracing for something. Good. He should be scared. 

But of course the movement makes you look at what he’s wearing, and fuck, it’s like your wet dream. Black everything, with boots laced up all high and tactical pants with pockets on the sides, and a long sleeved shirt, fucking snug, that seems so inappropriate for the current weather. Your eyes rise up to his face, and you’re suddenly very worried your inner drooling is coming through because one side of his cheek is twitching up. 

“Did you miss me?” he asks.

You adjust yourself, putting your knee up and trying to look as comfortable as possible when you reply, “At first.”

“Missed you.”  

First of all, fuck him and the way he knows how to take your carefully built steel wall and push it down with one finger. You close your eyes in frustration and breathe deep, trying to work up that inner calm you need in order to get through this. All you have to do is tell him to go away. Easy peasy. G O  A W A Y. Open your mouth and utter three syllables. Fucking do it.

You open your eyes and suddenly feel so tired, like the weeks of exhausting emotions are just coming back up to slap you all at once. Flatly, making sure they should like statements instead of questions, you say, “What do you want, Victor. Why are you here.”

 “I meant to come back sooner. Fuck, like weeks sooner. But I got caught up in stuff and arranging things for a new venture I’m thinking about starting.”

You drum your fingers on the arm of the chair and with your head leaned back, blink your eyes slowly and disrespectfully back at him, waiting for him to take the hint and leave. 

Ignoring your body language, he continues, “See, I’ve been running into this trouble with work, where I’m awfully conspicuous. I have this one neighbor who picked up on it right away, the first day she ever saw me. Makes it hard to do surveillance or even just hide away the times I need to. And I’m sitting there in a park one day, trying to watch a mark and my buddy says to me, ‘You know what we need? Women and dogs. We stand out like a sore thumb, just two scary blokes sitting on a bench doing nothing.’”

You can’t help it, a smile pulls your mouth upwards at the mental image. 

Victor smiles back and says, “And so I thought to myself, where could I find a woman and a dog, and a house that doesn’t have people wondering who lives there?”

The absolute presumption of it. You lean forward with flashing eyes. “And so you thought you could just come here and pick me up whenever you need to, and drop me back at Mommy’s house when you’re done with me?”

“Nah. I thought I should hire you.”

That actually catches you off guard. “For… what?”

“You keep this house looking normal with your normal life, and I get to use it when I’m in the area, to get ready and reset from jobs. And I take you with me sometimes, when I need your help. You bring the dog and help me with surveillance and whatever else I need, but you don’t come close to the actual job. Low danger.”

You’re trying to stay numb and unphased, but a rush of excitement is gripping your spine against your will. There has to be a catch, some kind of horrible cleanup job or free sex attached to this offer. 

“So that’s why you bought my house? You thought it would make me say yes?”

He tilts his head. “I consider… that… an investment in our working relationship. And proof that I can pay you what I say I can. Your current salary, plus ten percent of any job you help with. You travel for it, you get ten percent.”

“And if I say no?” You don’t want to say no. You’re internally screaming at yourself to take it quickly before he rescinds his offer. 

He shrugs. “No hard feelings. I can make other arrangements.”

You’re not stupid enough to believe it would go as smoothly as that, but why would you say no? The job is, completely, everything you ever wanted. Travel and excitement and… illegal activities. It sounds fucking amazing. You’re sitting there, practically vibrating with how bad you want this, but something compels you not to betray that. 

“Twenty percent,” you counter. It seems stupid as soon as you say it, as if he hasn’t already handed you half a million dollars, but it feels like the right thing to say. 

He smiles, a wide, delighted smile. “Fifteen.”

“I want distance,” you counter. “Between me and what… you do. I never actually see … it.”

“Alright.”

“Alright.” You stand up and take a minute to smooth imaginary wrinkles out of your shorts before taking a step toward him.

Victor’s looking down at you in an assessing kind of way, and you’re suddenly quite sure he thinks you’re about to do something entirely unprofessional. 

You stick out your hand and say, “Nice to join your company, Mr. Victor.”

“It’s Creed,” he says, shaking your hand firmly with his enormous one.

“Alright, boss.” You raise your chin and smile clinically at him before removing your hand from his and taking a step back. 

You think he can tell, in that moment, the way things have changed between you, because he tilts his head, and one side of his mouth flashes a fang.

Art by 8bitkraken

Chapter Text

You finally did it, accomplishing every girl’s dream: You found a way to monetize your most annoying qualities. 

You stretch out in bed and William snuggles a little tighter into your side, huffing a happy little puppy sigh. You’re sore all over from clearing out your garage and getting things ready for company and just generally having a mania-fueled spring cleaning the day before. Victor was around all day, changing locks and putting up cameras and unloading dozens of those big plastic storage cases. You never saw the insides, but you can imagine. Shiny, beautiful rows of guns, all snug in their perfect foam cutouts. Magazines and grenades and explosives and ammunition and night vision. Swoon.

You offered the basement for his gear, but he takes two bedrooms instead, one for gear and one, the spare bedroom he’s visited once before, to sleep. You assume he’s capable of sleeping and isn’t some kind of Edward Cullen on steroids who just hangs over your bed and broods his existence all night, but for some reason the idea of him actually letting his guard down enough to sleep is difficult to imagine. 

William decided it’s time to get up and does his little paw tappy swim over to your head, dragging his belly across the blankets with a furiously wagging tail.

“Good morning, baby. Did you have a good sleep?”

You hold him down for rapid-fire kisses and that turns into a bitey wrestling match, and finally you force yourself to get up. You’re across the bedroom and just about to go downstairs when you realize you actually have to get dressed now that there’s a man in your house. You don’t necessarily want to put on pants, but it just reminds you of how exciting your life is about to be so you don’t mind too much. Somehow it will be worse when Victor is gone and you can go downstairs in just a cami and underwear. 

Shorts come first and then a bra, and hoodie because the house is still cold from the frigid temps you like at night. Victor’s door is closed when you pass and you vaguely wonder if he’s a night person or a morning person, but that question seems to be answered when you hear movement in the kitchen on your way downstairs.

“Morning, pup.”

William has blasted through all of his own speed records, clomping downstairs and making himself as wiggly as possible against the side of Victor’s leg. 

“Outside, potty first,” you order, eyes flicking briefly to Victor and then looking away as fast as possible because he definitely didn’t get dressed before coming down. He’s fucking shirtless, in your kitchen, wearing dark gray sweatpants that sit distractingly low on his hips. 

“Good morning,” you say, feeling the need to acknowledge him verbally since you can’t bring yourself to actually look in his direction. 

“Morning, sunshine. You want any eggs?”

“Umm, no thank you.” 

You busy yourself doing piddly little things in the corner of the kitchen farthest away from him, and finally annoy yourself enough that you give up. You can’t just hide from him all day, in your own house. Best to pretend you’re normal, totally-never-fucked-each-other roommates who just happen to be in the same room at the same time, and one of them just happens to be shirtless. 

“Do you want a coffee?” You ask casually on your way to get milk from the fridge.

And it’s only because you’re studying him so closely in your peripheral vision that you see his head snap up and his spatula stop pushing the eggs around the pan. 

“What?” You demand, forgetting to avert your eyes.

His gaze is fastened to your chest, and you look down, suddenly panicked that you actually did forget to put on a bra. But everything is contained and in place, and it’s just your hoodie staring back at you, looking completely normal.

“Sure,” he says slowly, like he’s thinking about something else. “Sure, I’ll take a coffee. Two shots if you can.”

“Okay.” You quickly turn around to get milk because he’s still staring at you with a weird intensity and you’re not really sure what you’re supposed to do. 

“So,” you say offhandedly when you’re scooping espresso and he’s finally turned back to his eggs, “What are we doing today?”

“Well first I’m giving you that.”  You turn your head and catch the tail end of his gesture over to the counter, and it’s the first time you notice the little white box there. 

Your heart does a little flip because he’s giving you something, and that means you’ll have some proof of him even when he’s gone, and that is… a bad sign. Simply emotional suicide that your thoughts even go there. You aren’t ready to get hurt again, you won’t allow those feelings to form. 

Inside the box is absolutely as advertised on top: a brand new iPhone, complete with screen protector and a nondescript case. 

“It’s already set up with my contact information,” Victor says, coming to stand by your elbow. “Passcode is ‘baby.’”

You give a little huff and punch it in. “Can I change it?” 

He leans against the counter, taking his time getting all comfy and making you wait, and you can hear the amusement in his voice when he finally replies, “'Course you can. But isn’t it just so convenient to remember?”

You really should be more angry at the absolute audacity, but imagining Victor hunched over this little phone, programming “b a b y” with his enormous pointer finger is so funny that you have to fight your smile. 

“No social media apps on this device,” he instructs, “and especially no Whatsapp or TikTok, they’re not secure. This is the only phone you take when we travel, and on jobs. You can text your friends, call your mom, I don’t give a fuck, just leave your other phone at home so you can’t be traced.”

“Alright,” you agree.

“You use this phone when you contact me, no exceptions. If you call me and I don’t answer, you wait for me to call you. You do not call me twice, unless you’re in an emergency. You call me twice and I’m going to assume you’re laying on the floor somewhere bleeding out.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

“When you text me, you refer to me as Victor, never Creed. If you call me Creed that means you’re under duress. Someone has you and is forcing you to type out the text. Understand?”

“Holy shit. Is that really going to happen?”

“No,” he answers quickly, “Zero percent chance.”

“Then why have these rules?”

He gives you the most pandering little smile and looks you right in the eye and says, “Because you like this shit.” 

But there’s something about the specificity of his rules that makes you think it’s slightly higher than a zero percent chance, and you commit them to memory regardless. 

You pull up Messages and quickly write something to the one contact you have, labeled VC:

Where is your shirt?

You look up with a grin of anticipation, and watch his eyes narrow suspiciously before he slow-blinks in annoyance when his phone dings in his pocket. It’s got to be eating him up inside, wanting to know what you wrote but also not wanting to give you the satisfaction of looking when you’re behaving like this, and that only tugs your smile even wider. Obviously he doesn’t look, because he’s a consummate professional with deep reservoirs of self control, and he just walks away to grab a plate from a cupboard like he already knows where you keep them. 

While you drink your coffee he explains the new door locks and how to access the cameras from your new phone, and where to find the pistol he got for you. 

“What happened to ‘zero percent chance?’”

“Do you know how to shoot?” He asks in an offhand way, completely ignoring your question.

“Of course.”

“Can you hit a target at twenty yards?”

Fucker. “Um, probably not.”

“I’ll take you to a range sometime. Not today, because we’re leaving this afternoon.”

“Leaving?” You repeat blankly.

“Got a job.”

Your heart starts pounding and you look over at William excitedly, like he’s your fellow stowaway. “Where?”

Victor leans back a little in his chair. “Similar weather to here. You’ll figure it out when we get there. Pack for a week.”

“Why can’t you just tell me now?” you hedge.

“Don’t trust you yet.”

Oh. So it’s like that. “What do you think I’m gonna do, call the local police?”

“No,” he answers calmly, “but you’re completely inexperienced and I’m trying to reduce as many risk factors as I can while you settle in.”

In other words, he’s worried he can’t predict all the mistakes you’ll make and your leash is going to be microscopic for a while. Which is fair, you guess, though relatively humiliating. But you understand the stakes are higher in this game than any you’ve ever played, so you just say, “Okay,” and head upstairs to start packing.

You aren’t sure what to expect when you begin your road trip with your new boss. The choice of a Honda CR-V is confusing at first until you’re on the road and realize that though the window tint was a little darker than it should be, your vehicle is perfectly common and ordinary, and not one will look at you twice. 

William starts out in his crate, but it only takes about half an hour of pitiful, barely audible whines until Victor pulls over with a, “For fuck’s sake,” and lets him loose in the back seat. Then it’s all sunshine and wiggles and occasional sneaky licks to the side of your neck. Victor is getting the same treatment and pretending to be annoyed by it. 

“Switch your clothes at every location if possible,” Victor tells you, continuing this crash course on surveillance. “Jackets and sunglasses are the easiest changes. Hair up one location, hair down the next. He stops to eat lunch, you’re someone who’s frightened of all eye contact. He walks down the sidewalk, you’re someone who keeps your chin up and looking at everything. Body language is just as recognizable as clothing.”

“I only packed for a week.”

“And you’ll only do surveillance for a day. All I need is for you to follow him long enough to get a photo of who he’s meeting with.”

You stare down at the face on your phone screen, memorizing the impression of his features. Face only, because you won’t know his name until the day of, per Victor’s tiny leash. 

“I’ll be in touch frequently, and you can quickly change in the car between locations. Use your peripheral vision as much as possible, but don’t ignore your human nature. If he yells at a waiter and everyone else is looking at him, you look too.”

To be honest, you’re trying not to freak out at this point. You’re fairly sure you will forget everything in the heat of the moment, and imposter syndrome is really starting to take hold, but Victor is somehow convinced you will be ‘a natural,’ so you keep your doubts to yourself. After all, it’s only following an unknown, probably dangerous man to a meetup with another unknown, probably dangerous man. Only the one specific job description you have, that you’ve never even practiced before, and will have to execute flawlessly to have any hope of success. Easy peasy, right? Yeah, there’s no possible reason to be so stressed that Victor keeps eyeing you and telling you to relax. Everything will be fine. 

It’s not until that night, when you’re tucked into a queen sized hotel bed with William, that Victor deigns to reply to your text: 

I run hot

You roll your eyes and type out a reply.

Highly unlikely. I’ve seen the way you dress in the summer.

Yeah and I’m fuckin miserable

Prove it. What’s your thermostat set to?

And then you get nothing. He replied so instantly before this that it’s strange when that message goes several minutes unanswered. You know he’s in the next room over, probably also in bed, with nothing better to do than reply to your stupid texts, but he doesn’t. It gets you reading it over and over, wondering if what you said was too personal, or too flirty or something. God, he’s your boss now. You have to force yourself to maintain some level of professionalism when you talk to him. 

Thoroughly annoyed at yourself, you backpedal with a simple, appropriate text:

Goodnight Victor.

That goes unanswered too, and you lay there, picturing Victor in his room and what he could be doing. How weird is it that you kind of miss him? You wish you were over there, peering at the number on his thermostat and noting which shows he watches on TV. You’ve been inside his house, and it’s still not enough, there’s still endless more that you want to see. The way he brushes his teeth, which guns he carries and how he straps them on, how he looks reading a book or just lying in bed or… texting you. 

Finally your phone dings.

Get some sleep. You’ll do just fine tomorrow

You put down your phone, and softy from behind your back come little piggy snores.

It was an outrageous oversight that you didn’t anticipate this. At the time, you’d thought you were hurt enough to bury those feelings forever, after the hellish month of no contact he put you through. But here you are, fucking itching to swipe your keycard on his door and glue yourself to him for the rest of the night. All those anguished resolutions suddenly mean nothing when he’s so close by and giving you attention and making you feel important. 

You aren’t sure if it’s a stroke of luck or simply an act of mercy that he isn’t flirting in earnest, because you know exactly where you would end up: right back in that bathtub, crying your heart out again when he leaves.

Art by 8bitkraken

Chapter Text

You want to tell Victor no. Thanks but no thanks, you aren’t cut out for a life of crime like you thought you’d be. He would understand, you think, maybe even let you off easy and just go straight back to the safety of the hotel. He’d figure something else out and you could go back to your boring, ordinary life and watch his house change hands from the safety of the sidewalk. 

That’s what you want to do. Instead you sit in the car with Victor in downtown Pittsburg, sunglasses clutched in your hand and your knee jumping up and down while you wait for him to give you the signal to go. It’s not that you’re worried about getting hurt - even though, okay, you kind of are - but mostly you’re just scared that you will mess up and blow the whole thing, and then Victor will finally realize what a stupid plan it was to hire you in the first place. 

You’ve opted for every conceivable distraction from your face, at least for the first location. Sunglasses, William, hair down. Still, your stomach is in knots while you watch the mark sitting in his own car, staring all paranoid in every which way and acting horribly observant. William can sense your distress and is tap dancing back and forth in the backseat, waiting for whatever it is you’re all keyed up about. 

A warm hand places itself on your knee, and you jolt in surprise.

“This first one is a blank slate,” Victor says in a low, steady voice. You turn to look at him, and his thumb runs a soothing back and forth on the outside of your knee as he continues. “You’re just somebody who happens to be walking their dog in the same direction as some random guy. You’re thinking about your day ahead and your to-do list, and nothing interests you about him.”

You stare back into his eyes and nod, focusing on the weight of his hand and trying to force yourself to breath deeply.

“This is about power, and pretending not to have it. You are the only thing he has to be afraid of, and the game is not letting him know that. Now go.”

He lifts his hand away from your leg, and your head swivels to look out the window and see the mark disappearing down the sidewalk. It’s instant the way you’ve got your sunglasses on and you’re already out the door and grabbing William from the back seat, and you’re walking. Away from the safety of the car and the known, and towards the uncertain adventure of your new life. Well, you try, but William insists on immediately stopping to pee on a tree.

But it turns out that your dog is a fantastic accomplice. He gives you a really natural distraction for your eyes, and an excuse to stop when you need to or pick up the pace when the mark gets too far ahead. You keep your body loose and just hope that you’ll make all your mistakes before your first change of clothes, he won’t remember you as the weird idiot behind him. 

Block after block you walk, and you begin to realize that you’re actually doing just fine. The mark is being far more suspicious than you, with his jerky scans of the area, never once giving you a single glance. But then he makes a sudden change in course to cross an inconvenient street, and you pull out your phone while your feet walk past it.

“Yeah,” Victor answers immediately.

“He’s changing direction.” You give him the street name and where you are.

“Meet me at the curb of the Starbucks ahead on your right. Be ready to change.”

William makes a beeline for a trash can, and it gives you an excuse to spot your mark again where he’s fidgeting while he waits to cross the street. Perfect.

You meet with Victor, and your blood is pumping, but not from nerves this time. It’s like your body has switched everything up, deciding that this is actually a fun game, and one it wants to win. A hoodie and jeans are waiting for you in the front seat, and you’re so in the zone that you’re basically done changing in the time it takes Victor to give William a treat and a head rub.

“Want me to drop you off further up?” he asks.

“No.” Your hand is already on the door handle. “I’m going from here. See you.”

You aren’t waiting for a reply, you’re just out the door and striding down the sidewalk, tossing your hair in a messy bun on top of your head. The mark is halfway across the street and if you jog you could just make that light… but you don’t. You meander. Traffic is moving again by the time you arrive, and you just take that time to calculate your mark’s retreating figure and how long it will take you to catch up at an ordinary speed. 

You decide Hoodie Girl walks faster than Dog Girl, so it will feel natural. Hoodie Girl is annoyed to be out here with all the common folk, and keeping her elbows away from the people nearby. But the seconds are ticking by and you’ve now lost sight of your mark, and the panic really starts to set in that this was a colossal mistake. In an effort to avoid suspicion, you completely failed the mission. He could be up there crossing different streets by now, totally gone with no way of finding him or catching up. 

It’s finally time to cross, and you phone vibrates in your pocket. 

“Hello?”

Victor’s voice comes through on the other side. “He’s going slow now, still heading straight. You’ll be able to see him if you just keep going.”

Sweet, sweet relief. “Thanks.”

“So what’s the story with that hoodie?”

You’re nearly to the other curb by now, walking fast, but the question takes you by surprise and it takes you a few seconds to process it. “Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s my ex’s old hoodie.”

“Doesn’t smell like him.”

Hoodie Girl’s irritation is real now, and you channel it into your stride. “I’m sorry, do you have scent preferences for your stay at my house? Do you need me to douse all my clothes in alcohol for your sensitive nose? Or is this your way of saying I stink?”

There’s a long pause, and Victor says, “I know what your ex smells like, his scent is all over the house. But that hoodie is the only thing that smells like someone else.”

Oh. OH. Is it… actually possible he’s talking about your Tinder hookup? Can he sense that with his mutation? Embarrassment runs through you, and that just makes you angry because you didn’t do anything wrong.

“Again, none of your business, boss.”

“Normally I’d agree, but it’s also got your fear all over it, and that particular combo’s been worrying me.”

You huff in irritation and further embarrassment, and switch the phone to your other ear. Victor’s right, your mark is still straight ahead like he’s making himself nice and convenient for you.

“Speak for yourself, Mr. Scrapey Claws. What if I’m into that?”

There’s another prolonged silence on the other end, like he’s fighting himself not to say what he wants to say, and you finally sigh and take pity on him. 

“Okay, this is the only time we’re going to mention this. It was a one time thing, it was completely consentual, and I’ll wash the damn hoodie when I get home so you don’t have to think about it ever again. I have to go, Mom. Tell William I said hi.”

Your mark disappears into a restaurant door and you end the call, angling your feet like that building was your intended destination. It’s all historical brick and exposed beams inside, and you catch the back of your mark weaving through tables to get a corner spot with the best visibility. Your excitement ramps up because surely this is where they’re going to meet. All you have to do is settle in and not draw any attention.

You’ve never asked for a specific table in your life, but you do so now, following Victor’s directions and slipping the hostess a folded twenty. Soon you’re perfectly catty corner to the mark, able to catch his every movement out of the corner of your eye without being in his direct line of sight. The waiter is taking forever to get to you, so you just sit there awkwardly for a few minutes before you realize you should be doing something more natural. 

Hoping to calm your nerves, you type out a text to your actual mother:

Hi mom, new phone! How’s work going? Tell dad I say hi!

And of course she doesn’t text back because she’s your mother and she checks her phone about twice a day. 

You order a coffee and the check right away, but the way the waiter gives you a little wink right before he walks away sparks an idea in your head. You quickly type to Victor, 

At a restaurant, mark is alone. What if the waiter is the person he’s meeting?

Send pic of waiter

You do, pretending you’re getting an aesthetic story for Instagram and managing to get three quarters of his face while he’s working another table. Your photo only says delivered for a few seconds before you get the reply. 

Not him 

How do you know? I thought you’ve never seen the guy. 

Just know

You roll your eyes, but that does give you some measure of comfort, and once the check is paid you’re able to casually drink your coffee and wait for the next thing. No one has approached your mark, and he doesn’t seem to be watching the door of the restaurant for anyone in particular.

When he leaves turn left and come to bookstore for clothes and dog.

But I already did a location with William.

No one remembers black dogs

You’re about to reply because the mark is still halfway through his sandwich when he suddenly gets up and walks straight out of the restaurant, so suddenly that you wonder if he’s skipping out on the check. You wait until his back has just disappeared outside and then you’re moving again, swerving around tables and annoyingly slow people clogging the walkway, and finally you’re outside.

There’s a sundress laid out in the seat when you reach the car, and it’s like the entire phone conversation from before was just for the sake of your nerves, because Victor doesn’t say anything to you. Your mind’s eye is totally focused on your mark and how you want to appear this time, and you don’t even register the lack of his gaze on your body while you change right next to him. Don’t notice the way he’s got his face casually pointed towards the window, even though the mark is walking in the totally opposite direction. 

You’re probably making mistakes but he doesn’t comment on them, just silently packs your discarded clothes into the bag once you’re dressed, and as you step out to the curb you decide this is as good a time as any to get in character. You turn back with a dramatic swish of your hair, and when Victors eyes flick up you flash him your best Manic Pixie Dream Girl grin, adding in every bit of actual excitement you feel at being here and doing this job, and you just fucking blast it, white teeth and sparkling eyes, right at his face. 

You don’t see the dazed look on his face because you’re already skipping to the side door and grabbing hold of William’s leash, and before Victor even has time to drive away you’re flouncing down the sidewalk, letting your fingers splay out like they’re sampling the wind rushing by at every forward bounce.  

People are looking at you but it’s alright, Sundress Girl is meant to be looked at. She’s a self propelled force of unbridled sunshine and a touch of autism. William is completely in character beside you, smiling a big pitbull grin with his tongue flopping out and looking at you like this is the best day of his life. You look down at him and just start laughing for no reason, because you feel it too. This isn’t merely fun. The mountainous ups and downs have taken their toll, and your body is accepting the current up like it’s pure amphetamine, absolutely pouring happy chemicals into your blood. You are Sundress Girl, readily risking her life for a little adventure and a story to tell some day in the nursing home. You’re fucking living.

And it’s like you’ve just manifested everything perfectly into existence because your mark’s body language shifts. He’s no longer paranoid and jittery, he’s making purposeful strides towards a particular street corner, and you know deep down what’s about to happen. You are one organism with him, with a shared brain, and it’s like you remote control him to step towards the booth and buy a ticket to the conservatory. 

Sundress Girl makes sure her dog has a chance to pee before buying her own ticket, and she’s following dreamily along, head in the clouds and eyes on all the beautiful plants. The fact that she passes the mark, who is speaking in hushed tones with another man, doesn’t even register because she is the main character of her own story. It’s totally natural for her to bend down and give William a pretty little kiss, and then take her phone out and snap a happy sunshine selfie for the ‘gram. Beautiful overhead sunlight streams down behind her, and the faces of two men are coincidentally captured there in the corner of the photo.

You pull it up immediately in your photos and zoom in, making sure it’s clear, and miraculously it’s absolutely perfect. 

Your fingers are shaking when you send it to VC with the word, “conservatory,” and mere seconds later you get a reply.

Turn left, one block, Starbucks on the right

It’s a struggle then to keep Sundress Girl in place, because you finally feel dangerous. You’ve got the right kind of setup and proximity to Victor, and you’ve somehow carved out a way to be your own kind of predator. It feels amazing. 

William has come around the wrong way behind you so you channel Sundress Girl one more time to lift your arm and do a little twirl until he’s straightened out, and then you look around all confused and begin walking towards the exit with the most airhead look you can muster. Both men turn to glance at your face and you make brief eye contact. Though your blood is suddenly pounding in your ears you just float on by, propelled by a magical breeze and a radical sense of self importance. 

And then you’re out of the conservatory, and the dazed look is gone. Sundress Girl died the second your foot crossed the threshold. William has twin satellites all perked up and he’s right there with you, striding down the sidewalk with one purpose in mind: get to Victor. His car is right up ahead, and your spirits soar. You did it. In a few more yards you’ll get to grin at him again and see the proud look on his face at what you accomplished. 

The door opens before you even get close, and Victor’s walking towards you quickly, face grim. You catch the keys that are suddenly lobbed in your direction and he passes by with a, “Go back to the hotel, don’t wait for me,” and then he’s gone.

Just… gone. Not even a goodbye or a promise to see you soon. You stop and stare down at the keys in your hand, and the dopamine scatters away into nothing. Numbly you load up William and set the seat and the mirrors for someone much smaller, and you slowly drive away, like you expect any time Victor will come running back and everything will be better. 

It’s like a ruined orgasm in the way your body feels finished but unsatisfied. You wait in your room for the rest of the afternoon, ordering room service more because you’re bored than hungry, and watching TV that you don’t particularly enjoy. Still no communication from Victor. You text him, asking how things are going, and there’s no reply. After dinner you actually call him, but he doesn’t pick up and his voicemail is turned off, so you just send another text:

Hey, it’s me! No emergency, no need to call me back, just maybe text me when you’re safe and finished or something. We’re fine. 

Wow, so cool and unaffected. You mash your head back into the pillow and stare at the ceiling, fingernails tapping the back of your phone case. Hours later you’re still waiting and worrying. What if something has gone wrong? What if Victor is the one lying there bleeding out, with only a weak and stupid assistant waiting at the hotel, completely incapable of assisting in any way? You push those thoughts back down and try to remind yourself how big and mean and sharp he is. Maybe he should have roughed you up a little bit more than he did, just so you’d have that security that he’s as dangerous as you hope. 

It’s nearly ten o’clock and there’s still no word. Over and over you type B A B Y into your phone, like there will be messages there that have somehow never showed up on the lock screen. Even your mom hasn’t texted you back, and it gives you this nagging worry that your phone just isn’t connected to the network and you’re missing vital pieces of information from Victor. But eventually you fall asleep, all the lights still on, and it’s like your body knows not to get too comfortable because you wake up again a little past midnight. 

Still no messages. You start to roll over and snuggle back into the blankets, but a sudden worry springs forth that you never thought of before. What if Victor is already back? In his room, right now, snoring the night away while you lay here and suffer. Could he be the kind of person who would do that? Just go to sleep without contacting you? 

Yes, yes he would. You spring out of bed and snatch both key cards, grateful that he made sure you both had a card to each room. William is immediately up and getting excited because he thinks he’s finally going to see Big Guy again, and he follows you into the hall and you open Victor’s door and—

Nothing. Totally empty. William makes a beeline for the bed but you just stand there and let the door close behind you. There’s Victor’s suitcase, all zipped up and tucked neatly into the corner. He hasn’t abandoned you, which is a slight relief, but he’s still gone, and you are still not convinced he’ll wake you up when he gets back. 

So you do the obvious thing. You tuck yourself into Victor’s bed and curl up with William and fall asleep with your phone in your hand. It will probably send the wrong message, but you’re banking on him being too exhausted to care. 

Sometime much later, early in the morning when you’re sleeping your deepest, you’re woken by the sensation of being lifted into someone’s arms. The room is dimmer than it was when you fell asleep and you can’t see much, but you smell Victor and your body knows not to be afraid.

“Did you get him?” you mumble while he starts to walk with you in his arms. You’re struggling to keep your eyes open, especially when things get brighter in the hall.

A chirping beep and a click, then, “Yeah, I got him. You did so good today, baby.”

You’re still half asleep and barely aware of any details besides the fact that everything is alright, but it still forms a little bubble of happiness in your chest to hear him say it like that. You try to commit it to memory, begging yourself not to forget the exact way his voice softened at the last part, but you’re being laid down somewhere incredibly comfortable and almost immediately you fall back to sleep. 

When you wake up the next morning, you’re in your own bed with William, and your phone is thoughtfully plugged in beside you. 

“Sundress Girl and Victor” by Taumoebaa

Chapter Text

Victor is watching you. Just lying there on the couch with his head turned in your direction, trying to figure out what you’re doing downstairs. You already went to bed, so you shouldn’t be down here, especially not in your sleep cloth– 

Wait…

You glance down, just to make sure you’re not imagining that bare sensation, and sure enough, you’re absolutely nude. 

What the fuck? Did you get too hot and remove your clothes in your sleep, and then somehow leave your room without realizing? How is that possible? Why don’t you remember getting to this point in time?

His eyes are still on you, like the fact that you’re naked is exactly what he expected. As if it were meant to be this way, and he’s patiently waiting for you to stop freaking out, and come over to him. It’s always him waiting for you to make that first move. He doesn’t seem to understand that you’re equally afflicted with the fear of rejection. Two oft rejected people, tiptoeing around each other and trying to make sure it’s safe before they ask for what they need.

But it doesn’t feel like rejection, the way his eyes are tracking up and down your bare skin. It feels like a heavy wave of desire, dipping straight through your lower belly. Need, and wanting, and heat. All of a sudden you’re so horny you’re physically incapacitated with it, muscles curling in on themselves, cramping and begging you to do something. In this fuzzy, in-between place you’ve found yourself in, you can’t remember a single reason why not to do something. 

Your feet seem to start walking on their own accord, and before you know it you’re brazenly swinging your leg over Victor’s middle and settling there, gravity pressing your pussy down onto the thick bulge in his pa—

Wait. What pants?  

His clothes have disappeared just as suddenly as yours, and the thing you’re pressing your – absolutely dripping – pussy down onto, is— fuck— it’s a whole lot more than a bulge. 

You shouldn’t do this. It’s wrong to fuck him so soon, without any foreplay, and without even speaking to each other. It feels enough like a mistake that you hesitate there, turning your focus inwards and trying to get a handle on the urges wracking your insides.

Fucking him would be wrong, because there’s something you have to tell him first, something vital. You attempt to say it, but it doesn’t leap to your mind like it should. The idea stays in the hazy portion of your brain like a dream, slipping away every time you try to concentrate on it. And then there’s the heat, rolling through your belly so intensely that the plan of gathering your thoughts seems silly in the face of all this need. 

When you finally manage to open your mouth, all that comes out is a quiet cry low in your throat, and all you can do is shudder and drag your clit against him, desperately hoping he doesn’t judge you for it. You wouldn’t be able to bear it if he started judging you, because everything is building up so fast and overwhelming that you don’t think you can maintain your dignity right now.

Victor takes in the way you’re all curled into yourself, and he seems to understand. He doesn’t speak, which is decidedly odd, but he does reach a hand down and angle himself into you, and you take your opportunity. You just plop yourself down onto him, experiencing the most intense, solitary thrust of your life. Sweet heat obliterates you from the inside out, to such an extent that you find yourself sitting there motionless, gasping and whimpering while you wait for it to subside, and then it just never does. It continues to flood up and down your legs, hot and insistent, and it doesn’t make any kind of sense that it should feel this good, just sitting here—

Oh, wait, you’re not just sitting here. You’re moving, still so lost to the haze that you didn’t even register the way you’re mindlessly fucking yourself on him, with every slide in and out just as good as the first one. 

It’s only been a few moments, but somehow you’re already so close to cumming. It’s almost like you’re experiencing one continuous, low grade orgasm twisting through your body for how good it feels. But it’s not an orgasm. It’s so good, but you haven’t even reached your release. Things are steadily building, ramping up to an orgasm so sweet and wet that you can taste it in your toes. You’re on your hands and knees, your focus directed inwards at the urgent need to cum, instinctively working yourself towards the tipping point. There’s nothing that can stop it now, because you’re locked down in position, rolling your hips just right, and you’re gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna fucking cum— 

And then your alarm rips you out of your dream, and into raw, unsatisfying reality.

You just lay there in shock and disbelief, completely motionless, as if you can make this the dream, and transport yourself back to the other reality if you only ignore the alarm long enough. But it keeps going, and suddenly the reason for setting an alarm while it’s still dark outside flashes to the front of your mind:

You’re working today, with Victor. 

With a groan, you roll over to put your phone out of its misery, and then reach down to apply some pressure to the aching area between your legs. It does help a little. As the seconds tick by and more distance is put between you and that dream, your arousal begins to dissipate. Normally you would take a few minutes to take care of things when you’re this worked up, but you, oh clever one, decided to shower and do everything already last night so that you’d have maximum sleep-in time, and now you’re forced to flop out of bed and get going, frustration or no. 

You do the necessities, and pull on some shorts before grabbing your backpack full of outfits and descending the stairs. Maybe if you’re lucky, Victor will still be getting ready, and you’ll have a few precious minutes of alone time to reset your expectations.

“Morning, sunshine.” A very awake looking and ready-to-go Victor is sitting at the counter, scrolling on his phone while he drinks coffee.

It enrages you. 

Not because he’s not allowed to be happy and rested, and sexually satisfied when you’re not, but… okay, yeah, that’s exactly why. It’s absolutely unfair of you, so you attempt to push that feeling back down to protect him from it. But still, something about your body language entices him to look up suddenly from his phone. 

You can’t help raising your eyebrows irritably. “What? I washed the hoodie.”

But he isn’t looking at your clothes, he’s looking at you, and you have no patience for it, because being perceived is about the last thing you want right now. You turn and head straight to the espresso machine, where… There's a latte already waiting for you on the counter. That fucker.   

“Thanks,” you mumble, truly wishing he hadn’t done this, so you could continue being annoyed at him for no reason. 

Even in your dreams he’s sweet and thoughtful, and it’s so stupid that you feel this way. The goal should be to feel absolutely nothing for your boss, but you seem stuck between love and hate, with nothing in between. 

There’s this inexplicable worry that Victor will somehow divine the dream right out of your skull if you get too close. You wish you could take your coffee to another room to drink, but you know that effort would be in vain. You’ll be sitting next to him today, likely for hours, so you might as well push through the discomfort now. 

Ugh, the discomfort. Bringing your coffee over and taking the seat next to him, it’s nearly a menstrual cramp with how tense and raw you feel down there. Briefly you consider taking some ibuprofen, but ultimately decide it would have little to no effect on the affliction of inopportune arousal. All you can do is shift in your seat and try to ignore the pressure between your legs. 

Your only hope of getting through the day is separating the physical from the mental. Accept the discomfort that you can’t change, focus on the job, and think about anything but that horribly realistic dream. 

Victor seems to sense your foul mood, because he’s being unusually quiet, and before long he gets up to transport a couple of duffels to the car. It’s been two weeks since your last job, so he’s been away doing what you can only assume were jobs too dangerous or inconvenient for your assistance. You dropped William off at daycare yesterday, and all that remains now is uninterrupted stalking, and hopefully a decent bonus.

“The job is for him,” Victor explains, pointing to the picture on your phone, “but his brother is the mark. I have reason to believe he knows where this guy is hiding, and might pay him a visit today.”

You switch to the other photo, memorizing the face. You’re parked a distance from the brother’s house in DC. It’s still early in the morning, but you’ve had time to scarf down some fast food, sipping coffee and settling in while Victor does his briefing.

“If the brother leaves at all, we’re following. Me if by car, you if on foot. Have your bag with you so you can change on the go if necessary. There isn’t much traffic over here, and the car’s gonna be conspicuous.”

You nod, preparing yourself for the possibility of changing behind a bush or in an alleyway. This job is a slight loosening of the leash, and you may be on your own with it. There’ll be no Victor to get eyes on the mark if you lose him, or to defend you if you’re made. The reality of how easy your first job was, exactly how many training wheels you had attached to yourself, is quite apparent today.

“The second the brother enters another building, or you see the actual guy, you call me and I take it from there. Clear?”

“Yes.”

Determinedly, you keep your eyes on the house, avoiding Victor’s face at all costs. Not that eye contact is super necessary right now when you’re just doing surveillance, but you find it unimaginable to look at him while the dream still lingers in your mind.

You’re not together anymore. You don’t have that kind of life anymore. Those weeks where you had that fresh spark of hope are behind you, and you’ve made your peace with it. But that dream, that momentary flash of something familiar… You got a good taste of the contentment you get when you’re with him. The rightness in your chest when he’s looking at you, thinking about you. It washes over you each time you replay the dream in your mind – the connection, the powerlessness, the pleasure.

It’s maintaining the pressurized buzz between your legs, and in this tight space, with no William and no other distractions, you can smell him. It’s that fresh, outside kind of smell that’s not earth or water or air, but all of them at the same time. It’s an effort not to fantasize about all the times you’ve been in close contact with that scent, had it all wrapped around you while other, interesting things were going on. 

And the worst part is that now you can feel the weight of his eyes on you, like he’s trying to figure out what’s got you silently suffering this morning.

“Are you alright, baby?”

“I’m fine,” you mutter, your gaze never leaving the mark’s house. “And don’t call me that.”

“You seem kinda… keyed up.”

You finally glance at him, because at this point it seems rude to avoid it. “Well, we are on a job, so.”

“Hmmm.” He seems unconvinced, but nonetheless he shifts back in his seat and finally looks away.

If you’d only had fifteen minutes extra to take care of things this morning. Hell, you’re pretty sure you could have done it in five. Five minutes is all it would have taken to give you perfect focus and comfort for the rest of the day, but no, you couldn’t even have that. You wiggle around in your seat a little, trying to find an angle that’s less distracting on the swollen area between your legs, and keep your eyes locked on the house because you’re afraid if you look at Victor, you’ll really start to look.

“You know what you need?” he says unexpectedly.

You stop fidgeting and clamp your legs together a little tighter. “I have everything I ne—“

“Some really good head.”

Your face whips around to look at him now, trying to tell if he’s messing with you or… somehow serious. He’s raising one eyebrow with an unreadable expression and, fuck, he might be serious. 

“That,” you say, steeling yourself for the biggest whopper of a lie you’ve ever told, “is the last thing I need, especially from you.”

He twists in his seat a little so he can watch you more conveniently. “Nah, just look at you. See how tense and grumpy you are?”

“I’m grumpy because it’s the ass crack of dawn, and I have to be in here all day wi—“

“What you need,” he says, all slow and smooth like he’s purring it out, “is a comfortable place to just relax, and a nice warm mouth to cum in.”

Fuuuuck himmm. Despite your best efforts, despite every wall you’ve built between you, as if you’re not suffering enough as it is, he’s just stomping all over your aching uterus with his stupid perceptiveness and his stupid, rumbly voice. It’s an effort not to rub your thighs together a little just to get some relief, and you absolutely would if he weren’t just staring at you so intently. Instead you just clamp your teeth and glare out the window, fists clenching in your lap, trying to ignore the dull ache and just hoping he’ll take the hint and shut up for a little while so you can calm yourself dow—

“I should eat you out tonight.”

That’s it. That’s all it takes for something inside you to snap. It hurts so bad, and he’s just there, twisting the knife while you have nowhere else to go. You’re helpless and stuck and the power dynamic is so fucking far from even, so you do the only thing you can think of and stab him right back.

“Oh yeah,” you spit out, eyes flashing with anger, “you know how much I love pretending to cum when someone’s going down on me, and then getting ghosted for a month. It’s my favorite. Or even better, we should totally just fuck tonight. Scratches all over me and a bruised cervix. Sounds fucking great.”

You wrench your eyes away and suck air into your lungs, and then there’s a long silence and you even hate him for that, for letting your scathing words settle into the still air and reverberate through your head until you loathe yourself for saying them. 

“I told you,” he says quietly, like he wants to make sure you’re listening, “you’re getting it soft next time.”

You glare over at him and he isn’t even looking in your direction, just staring at the mark’s house with one hand clenched a little too tight on his knee. 

“There won’t be—“

“On my bed,” he says, cutting you off with a flick of his suddenly bright eyes to your red face. “You’d be more comfortable on your bed, but mine will make you feel powerful, like you’re controlling me.”

You clench your legs together and just seethe in his direction. So he twists in his seat again until his shoulders are facing you, and casually says, “I’ll let you lick me, you know. I’ll let you play with it and do it however you want.”

Fuck. FUCK. Painful heat washes through your middle against your will. Of course you want that. You’ve always wanted that. 

“Shut up,” you grit out, but he plows ahead like he hasn’t heard you.

“You’ll probably want to tease me a nice long time because it’ll feel good to see me under your thumb for once.” He smirks down at you like it’s all just a funny joke. “Make me get all shaky and desperate, and find out if I’m the type to beg. You’ll want to touch yourself while you do it, but you won’t because you don’t want me to know how wet you’re getting with my cock in your mouth. Besides, you enjoy the deprivation. Turns you on.”

“L-look,” you say slowly, trying to find the will to resist, “if you’re just gonna sit here and talk about blowjobs all da—“

A warm hand reaches over and lays itself on your knee. There’s nothing inherently sexual or menacing about it, just a casual, steady weight, but you jolt because it takes all that aimless heat in your pelvis and sends it like an arrow straight to your clit.

“I’ll want to lick you too, but I won’t, not at first. I’ll let you do what you need to do to me. I’ll let you get on top and I’ll pretend you aren’t just wet as fuck and dripping all over my cock.” 

His hand moves. It’s just fingers lazily running up and down the side of your knee, but it has your arguments scattering. You should grab his damned hand and peel it off you, should scream at him about sexual harassment in the workplace, but you don’t. You sit there, muscles locked, enslaved to watching his hand move and feeling the shocks of it seep down into you. He begins to work lazy strokes up and down a few inches of your thigh. 

“You’ll let me touch you then. I’ll have to squeeze your ass and tits a little so you can convince yourself that’s what I’m really after, but then once you’re nice and comfy on my cock I’ll touch that pretty little clit.” 

You're certain it isn’t so pretty looking right now with how tight and painful it feels, but you don’t have time to think about that because his hand is moving lower now at each pass, his closest finger exploring under the hem of your shorts and nearly hitting the indent between the inside of your leg and the area that’s currently screaming at you. 

His voice softens into a low murmur and he says, “That’s when you’ll get it soft. I’ll make sure you can’t feel anything sharp. Rub your clit just how you like it and let you get what you need on my cock. I’ll keep you like that as long as it takes, until you’re ready to just relax and let yourself cum.”

Right as he says that last word, he reaches his little finger out and runs it lightly down the middle seam of your shorts. You gasp, legs jerking farther apart purely on instinct, and your hand snaps out to take hold of his wrist. 

“Victor,” you gasp, but he doesn’t stop. He slides his hand up over the front of your covered pussy, so slowly that it’s like he’s dragging a deep, pulsing throb out of you.

You know his eyes are boring fucking holes into your scull with how closely he’s watching you, but you can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. You just sit there gasping and staring down at his hand between your legs and your grip on his wrist loosens, because you are a weak, weak woman. Slowly, like he’s trying to make extra sure you’re not going to stop him, he reaches over and undoes the button on your shorts one handed.

“Tell me again how I’m gonna make you pretend to cum.”

Your zipper goes down, and his hand along with it. Slowly, right into your underwear, he slides two fingers down to your pussy. 

You’re wet. You know you’re wet. There’s not a single brain cell you possess that believes you’re anything but fucking soaked down there, but you still pray to god he’s not going to comment on it when his fingers find that hot little puddl—

“Mmmm, baby got wet hearing how she’s gonna play with me.”

Technically you got wet dreaming about fucking him, but you don’t think that confession will work in your favor. The rage you feel at his audacity to mock you for your response is only surpassed by your body’s need for him to touch you more. Your hand is sweaty, limp and useless on his wrist. You’re not sure if it’s there to pull his hand away or push it up harder so you can grind against his fingers. You’re just completely undecided and needing that extra bit of control, so you keep holding on and hoping for both. 

He slides a wet finger up to your clit, and your head slams backwards against the headrest, jaw hurting with the effort of keeping your noises contained. He makes a pitying sound in his throat and softens his pressure a little, to make it that much more of a tease. 

“Baby hasn’t let me touch her in so long, she’s got this pretty little pussy all wet on her own.”

“Fuck,” you finally manage to say, but then it breaks off into another small, breathy, “fu-uck.” The way he’s touching you is, fuck, just right, and searing heat is just lancing down your legs every time he opens his goddamned mouth. 

“It’s okay, baby. Just stay like this, and I’ll touch you as long as you need. You don’t even have to pretend you want to cum right now. I’ll be the bad guy for you, I’ll make you do it.”

He’s giving you an out, a way you can cum and deny that you even wanted it. Everything is rising up inside you so fast, and you’ve been deprived so long, there’s no way it will take much to push you over. You close your eyes and try to breathe through your nose and attach yourself to all that rising pressure, and you don’t fight it. You don’t have to. You let it swell and a part of you hopes he’s going to start talking again so you can latch onto the mental image when you cu—

Without warning Victor pulls his hand out of your shorts. Your eyes spring open and an undignified whine automatically bursts forth, but you don’t have the opportunity to hold onto his wrist before it’s yanked away. 

“Take off your shorts.”

For the first time today he’s looking at you like he’s not sure if what he’s asking for is okay or not, like it’s actually a question. This is where he draws the line? Not sexually harassing you, not touching you like he has some kind of right to your body, but this? Taking off your clothes so he can… watch? Fuck, okay.

Your hands aren’t exactly steady when you hook your thumbs in your shorts and underwear and slide them off completely, getting rid of your shoes too, while you’re at it. You settle back and angle your ass a little farther forward on the seat so he can have better access, and you look up at him. He’s got his eyes locked on the front of your pussy that he can see, and it feels so raw and powerful that you don’t even think about how you’re naked in the front seat of a car where anyone could see. You just stare up at his face and watch him watch you spread your legs. You let one knee fall out by the gear shift and the other settle onto the arm rest, and you catch the way some kind of fierce longing sharpens his features, like he’s having to hold himself back from something. 

Maybe he is a pussy guy after all.

He twists in his seat so he can use the other hand this time and really touch you, easily gathering up some of your wet and smearing it all around your clit while you watch the path of his fingers around your hot, sensitive area. It’s so bizarre being naked out here in the fucking sunshine and watching someone else’s fingers work you up just as good as you could yourself. You can see the slimy coating all the way down to the first couple of knuckles and the way the sunlight shimmers off of them is absolutely enthralling. What’s happening inside, the tightening and the coiling and the way your pain has morphed into sticky goodness is all just in the back of your mind when you can watch him play with you so brazenly like this. 

“Fuck,” he breathes when a particularly strong throb has you dipping your hips back to get away from the intensity. 

He never loses contact, following the movement and making sure the pressure stays steady and inescapable. You shove your hands flat under your ass in an effort to keep yourself still, because you don’t want any temptation to take over the task and touch yourself. You can touch yourself any fucking time. This, Victor forcing you to cum when you desperately need to, this is a once in a lifetime kind of experience. 

It’s coming, you’re cumming, just as fast as you feared you would. You only allow your shallow breaths to turn into gasping pants when you fall over the edge, the force of it flexing your head down to your chest and finally breaking the lock between your gaze and his fingers. You’ve got your eyes shut tight, cutting off as much stimuli as possible so you can just focus everything on the electric shocks coursing through your body. It’s so fucking sharp, and you thank god that Victor seems to know exactly when to slow everything down and just give you the barest caress that you can tolerate. 

Eventually your muscles unlock and you’re able to stretch back out against the headrest and you finally feel that relief, your body suddenly so soft and relaxed. You blink slowly up at Victor, whose beautiful eyes are now looking right back at yours. The thought of closing your legs never even occurs to you when his warm fingers are still stroking gently over your satisfied cunt like he’s just petting you there for your own comfort. He’s right, you needed that. It’s a miracle cure for your pain and suffering, and now you feel all floaty and warm here with the sunlight hitting your bare legs. You will straight up fall asleep with his hand still petting you if you’re allowed to stay here long enough. 

You’re not sure what you want to say, but the urge to tell him something along the lines of, ‘thank you,’ is pretty strong, and you decide to just wing it. You open your mouth and–

“Fuck.” Victor’s hand suddenly goes still and tense on your clit, and your eyes launch down with a fleeting terror that he’s going to accidentally unleash his claws. But he just pulls his hand away from you and quickly wipes it on his jeans. “Gotta go, baby.”

What? Your head is screaming at him to stay here and stop being so ridiculous, but the car door is already slamming behind him and he’s running. You watch him cross the lawns and launch himself up the the roof with the agility of a tiger, like it’s fucking nothing, a split second before the front door opens and a guy, the guy, not the brother but the actual guy you’re here for, walks out the front door. Victor has already disappeared over the peak of the roof and all of a sudden you realize your vulnerable position. Cursing steadily, you yank your clothes and shoes back on and look around for any sign of movement.

Nothing. Victor is gone and so is the guy. What the fuck are you supposed to do? Twenty minutes later you’re still sitting there, growing more and more annoyed as the time passes. And then finally your phone dings, and you see:

Go home

Chapter Text

Go home

Go home, because I don’t need you. Go home because you’re completely useless and I only keep you around to fuck with anyway. That was fun, making you degrade yourself on the job. Let’s do it again some time, but right now just go home because I can’t be bothered keeping up with you. 

You obey. You drive to the dog place and pick up William, and it’s so early in the morning that you just take your clothes off and go back to bed. You’re trying not to think about how humiliated you feel and just focus on the good parts, but your mind continually replays go home until you’re stuck in an agonizing loop of self pity. Eventually you exhaust yourself enough to fall asleep and it’s a relief because you’re sure once you wake up with a clear mind, you’ll have a better perspective on everything. There will be some angle you’re missing that will make everything make sense.

You wake up around noon with a pounding headache and… full-on rage. There’s absolutely no communication from Victor, as always, and you don’t even bother to call this time. Victor Creed is a selfish idiot, and most importantly he has no idea what you’re capable of. The ways that you’ve betrayed yourself on the altar of love and the hurts you’ve sustained, the irreparable damage to your soul. You are a wounded animal backed into a corner and poked with bigger and bigger sticks, and he simply doesn’t expect that you’ll ever bite back. 

The fool.

That’s the thought rolling around in your head all afternoon while you just sit around and wait. William watches you glare at the wall and slowly chew through a bag of gummy worms like you’re gnawing off some part of Victor’s anatomy, and he’s confused by it but supportive nonetheless. 

“I hate him,” you confess quietly.

William puts a reassuring paw on your knee and sniffs around to check if the gummies are edible.

“He makes me feel wonderful and then makes me feel like shit. Every time. And now he’s my boss and I quit my other job because I thought I could keep things platonic. I thought he would let me.”

William gives you a look that says you weren’t really trying all that hard, but you ignore it and shove another worm in your mouth. 

“I want to fuck him up.”

A whine from below your knees. 

“Not like, physically, just… Mentally. Emotionally. Crush him some way he doesn’t see coming and make it really fucking hurt.”

You smooth your hand over your dog’s head. “I’ll probably lose my job so I’m sorry about that, but don’t worry, we’ll be alright. I’ll just sell the house and move back—“ the words catch in your throat because when you actually say it like that, you don’t want to go back home. You want to be anywhere but the city where you met your ex and dreamed up all those dreams that never came true. “We’ll move somewhere better, you and me. Somewhere we don’t want to run away from.”

The dishes need washing thanks to dropping everything yesterday when Victor only gave you an hour’s notice that he was in the area. You go ahead and clean the floors too, because your headache is finally gone and you need something to occupy your hands while you scheme. 

A bath comes next, and you exfoliate and shave everything for good measure. You put on the good lotion and your favorite lingerie, not because you plan to be seen in it but because it gets you in the right headspace. Black lace, powerful, evil , hidden under your clothes where no one would ever suspect it exists. You walk William and order delivery and even light a candle in your room. You lay on your bed in just the lingerie, watching the flickering patterns the candle casts across the ceiling. Your surroundings are the perfect calm, and any other day you’d be laying here trying not to fall asleep. But under your skin the predator writhes, pulling at the chains and snapping her teeth, feral for blood.

It’s nearly nine before you hear the whirr of the front door lock when Victor scans his fingerprint. William hops down, excited that someone is home who isn’t having an active mental breakdown, but the door remains closed and he’s successfully kept from greeting his friend. You sit up, loosening that mental chain just a bit. Letting your blood begin to thrum in anticipation of battle and focusing on the way the thong is biting into your skin.

Slowly, tired-sounding footsteps climb the stairs and you swear they pause at your door for a few seconds. You hold your breath and kick yourself for not locking the door, because it never occurred to you that he might seek you out after everything that happened earlier. But then the feet are continuing down the hall, and it’s not until then that you note he hasn’t texted you that he was coming back. He didn’t think it was even worth the bother. Go home was sufficient to convey everything he wanted you to know about how much he cares. 

Doors close, and eventually the shower in the hall begins to run. Good, he’ll be nice and clean for this. You haven’t moved an inch since you sat down but your body is gearing up for the storm. Skin hot with the escalating beat of your heart, hands clasping your knees with the urge to do something. But the initiation has to be perfect. He’s enormous and strong and you can’t let him have the upper hand even for a moment. You’ll have to rely on surprise and underestimation, and the pure incapacity of him being horny to have any chance of pulling this off. So, you clench your hands into fists and wait.

Finally the shower is off and you hear his bedroom door close. You spring up, surprising William so much that he leaps off the bed with a startled hmph, and you quickly strip off the lingerie. Probably smells like your ex, anyway. Naked, you stride down the hall and you don’t pause when you get to his door which you’re pretty sure won’t be locked. 

It isn’t. Victor looks up and quickly thumbs his phone screen off, probably hiding porn. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed with just a towel wrapped around his waist, which isn’t doing much because he’s just manspreading the fuck out of it, and he seems genuinely surprised to see you in your current state of undress.

You capitalize on it. Before he can open his stupid mouth you cross over to him and push his shoulders hard, until he falls back on the bed with a surprised huff of air. He probably let you do that, but you celebrate it nonetheless. One more way he’s digging his own grave. With an upward flick of your chin you wordlessly instruct him to move to the middle of the mattress, and his confused expression is transformed into this smug, understanding look on his stupid face. He complies, leaning back on his elbows and cocking an eyebrow at you.

On my bed.

You climb your naked body over his, pushing his shoulders flat to the bed and tugging the towel open without ceremony. He’s already half hard, still slightly damp from the shower, and you realize you’ve never actually seen him like this before. The weak part of you that cares for him wants to just stay here and stare at him and how powerful he looks even naked, but that would be a mistake and a waste of crucial time. Instead you run your hand between his legs and smile sweetly down at him. 

Make you feel powerful, like you’re controlling me.

You plant your palm square in the middle of his furry chest and use the other to get him fully hard.

“Hey, baby,” you murmur all soft down at him, holding his gaze. 

His eyelids stutter like that was the last thing he ever expected you to say, and you can feel the shock of it twitch his cock in your hand. You make a show of looking down at it and tilting your head.

“Baby’s so hard all of a sudden.” 

That’s when you see the understanding hit his face, of what’s actually happening. It’s the one moment you fear, where he will make the choice to either regain control or let you do what you want with him like he promised you could. You just look into his eyes and let a little bit of the predator come through in your expression while you slowly stroke him dry like this, and the moment passes. He’s made his choice, you can tell in the way his muscles tense a little, like he’s bracing himself for the next thing coming. 

You spit in your hand and bring it back down, smearing it across him and then watching your thumb slide back and forth over the top little slit. 

“H-mm,” you say in a pleased chuckle, “that’s a pretty cock.” 

You make sure your voice is soft and low and just sexy as hell, and he seems to eat it up. There’s this rumbly noise in his chest, vibrating through your palm almost like a purr. His eyes keep bouncing between your hand and your face, like he can’t decide which one is more interesting to watch. 

“I bet baby’s been all tight and uncomfortable in those pants today. Just needed a nice soft hand to fuck, didn’t you?”

You let your eyelashes do the work for you, tickling the top of your cheekbone and then fluttering back up to look at his eyes, which are dark and fully focused on you. You swipe off a little bead of precum and then watch him through your lashes while you suck it off your fingertip. 

“Aww, baby’s dripping. Does this cock need some special attention?”

A little teasing glide of your fingertips, all the way from the bottom to the top, swirling around before sliding back down. 

“Fuck.” It’s the first word he’s said to you, although he says it more to the ceiling, letting his head tilt back while you caress him.

He’s already so hard. That’s when you know for sure that he hasn’t had time to jerk off all day. He’s been stalking and working, and probably using his free moments to remember about how fun it was to tease you and make you cum in his car. He probably thinks you’re just willingly living out his fantasy right now, going through all the motions he said you would, and he suspects nothing.

Your hand wraps around him and you give him a few hard pumps before settling into your desired pace. Steadily, unrelentingly stroking him, swirling your thumb at that special spot every time you reach the top. Masterful disguised as casual, you work him up as fast as you dare.

His hands curl into fists at his sides, and you coo down, “There you go, baby. Let me take care of this cock for you.”

“Mmmp,” he complains, “don’t want—“

“Shhhhh, you need this. Baby’s just so hard.”

He purses his lips and rolls his neck out against the mattress like he’s just having to delve into the depths of his self control, and you smile back with your best thoughtless, babydoll expression. 

“Baby,” he tries again, throbbing a little under your fingers, “let me—“

“Just relax,” you soothe, cutting him off. “Let yourself cum.”

It’s an educated bluff. Just as you suspected, you feel his muscles instantly tense in protest, and you put more of your weight onto his chest to remind him to stay down. His breathing is getting shallow and you can feel him mentally resisting the motion of your hand. 

“Nu-uh,” you chide, tightening your grip, “baby needs to cum.”

“Wait. Baby–”

Victor’s arm twitches up hesitantly, and that’s when you make your move. As fast as you can manage you drop your elbow forward and down, earning a choked noise of surprise when you put weight on his neck with the hard front of your forearm. His hand instinctively clamps around your elbow and you gasp when five tiny pricks puncture your skin, but he doesn’t have any force behind it and within a few seconds the pain is gone again. 

You lean your full weight onto his throat, forcing him to turn his face to the side so he has room to gasp in a breath of air. Amazingly he just lays there and lets you hold yourself up by the arm pressed to the side of his windpipe. He’s swallowing, adjusting to the position and the way you’re still relentlessly fucking him with your other hand, though your spit is drying up and it can’t feel great with those patches of friction. You let go to spit on your hand once more, and he lets out a relieved groan when everything is all slick and soft again. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it, baby?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady like it was before. “Getting that pretty cock rubbed on this nice comfy bed.”

He likes it. There’s no hiding the way he gets rock hard when you say that, flexed tight like he’s about to explode.

“Wait,” he gasps out, “ Waitwaitwait—“

You don’t wait. You continue and make him fight the growing tide of sensation and ask quietly, “Wait for what, baby?”

A set of muscles in his jaw flex in aggravation, and you smile heartlessly. You’re paying very close attention to the muscles in his arms and stomach, and you mark the exact moment that they relax, finally surrendering to the unwanted orgasm. It’s exactly what you were waiting for. 

You drop your hand low and hold it there, wrapped motionlessly around the base of his cock, withholding. His fist pounds the mattress at his side but you’re convinced he’s too proud to let out the noises he wants to. His whole body is just rigid, flexing under your fingers with how much he wants to cum, but his jaw is obstinately locked into place.

“Aww, was that a close one, baby?” You ask softly, finally dragging your fingertips feather-light up his shaft and teasing them around the head of his cock.

“Hah,” he chokes out humorlessly.

“You don’t have to say it, baby. I know it was.”

You wait a few seconds and then your hand is back in place, slowly and steadily pumping him. 

“Is this your idea of f—“ his words choke off in a splutter because you’ve suddenly gripped him tight and you’re maintaining that ruthless drag up and down his cock, your hand now just an inescapable vice.

“Uh, oh,” you remark, giving your voice a laughing edge, “Baby’s gonna cum.”

There’s no denying it. He’s minutely curving his whole body up into your hand, silently begging for it, claws pricking your arm once more. You stroke a little faster, enough to increase the pulse in his neck to a hard gallop, and just when you’re sure he’s at the very fucking edge, you drop your hand down once more and give him nothing. 

It’s so close that you actually worry he’s going to work himself over the edge all on his own. He’s throbbing there, overworked and leaking and agonizingly close to cumming, lips peeled back to reveal that fang on the side of his mouth. Still diligently silent. 

You decide to get him a little more wet, and it’s just one finger that deposits more of your spit on him, softly swirling it around the desperate, stretched skin. 

“The fuck are you waiting for?” He finally grits through his teeth.

“Someone promised me shaking and begging.”

There’s a few seconds where you’re dancing your fingertips across the underside of the head, and he’s just working his jaw, hating you for reminding him of his own words, and then he finally growls out, “You realize I could just fucking flip y—“

You don’t let him finish the threat, just start furiously pumping him until the words choke off into nothing in his throat and his hips flex upwards on instinct, and then you just… let go. Lift your hand completely away from his cock without warning.

“FUCK!” he roars, and you smile.

“What were you saying, baby? Didn’t catch it. Must not have been important.”

In the pit of your stomach you know you’re being cruel, doing things to him that he would never do to you. But it’s not about the physical abuse, it’s about making him feel the way he made you feel. The confusion and the hurt and the abandonment that have been your constant companions for months, wrapped up for him all pretty for one final night.

You start to touch him again, a slow, teasing up and down motion, and his grip on your arm surprisingly drops away. He is shaking now, a barely discernible tremor rippling through his stomach for how bad he needs to cum. But he’s being good for you, so you ease up on the pressure of your arm on his neck a fraction, and—

That was a colossal mistake. He takes the opportunity to rotate his face forward and he’s looking at you, right up into your eyes while you torture him. His face is tight, but not with agony, with restraint. He’s letting you do this to him, has been from the beginning. Every second of it only occurs because he’s decided to allow you to do your worst, like he believes he deserves it. He’s just lying there with your weak, human arm flattened down on his throat, so fucking hard and hurting from it, and the only reason he’s not holding you down to the bed and fucking you right now is that he wants this to happen. Enduring this is better than not having you engage with him at all. 

You’re never going to get the satisfaction you want from this. You realize that, staring down at his blown out pupils which are tracing minutely over your face like you’re not his own personal demon. Almost like you’re someone he… cares about.

It ruins everything. Erases the anger from your mind and just desolates you with hopelessness. It makes your hand falter and still while you stare down at those beautiful eyes. Slowly you change your grip, sliding down and beginning to determinedly work him up again, because you don’t even care any more. 

It doesn’t take long.

He’s cumming, and you let him. You make sure it’s soft and comfortable and generous. His eyes are unfocused at the ceiling, flexing up into you and spitting out incoherent consonants that just end in one long, agonized groan. Your hand slows at the right time and you just let pulse after pulse of cum splatter onto his stomach and drip down your fingers. 

That was a fucking good orgasm. You know it, he knows it. It was perfect. 

It was awful. 

He’s at the tail end of the comedown when you let go. You don't look at him, and you don’t say anything. There’s no need, because he’s just lying there, panting and debilitated in a warm pool of cum, and you’re free to go. You just push yourself off the bed and cross the room and open the door to leave—

But then the door is suddenly slammed closed again, the doorknob wrenched out of your fingers with the action, and you see a large hand planted there on the door, right in front of your face for a split second before you’re being lifted and body slammed back onto the bed. 

Chapter Text

The shock of being airborne and then hitting the bed like that paralyzes you for a few crucial seconds, long enough for Victor to plant his hand square between your shoulder blades and pin you there facedown on the mattress. 

When he speaks, it’s a low growl. “You just gonna leave me like that, without letting me do what I said I was gonna do?”

“Why not?” You snarl, finally figuring out how to make your limbs move again. It’s enough to thrash around a little, but miserably inadequate for getting out from under his hand. “You do it to me all the time. Just fucking leave me like it didn’t mean anything. Doesn’t feel good, does it?”

Tears of despair and frustration are filling your eyes because it’s all just useless. You executed everything perfectly and then just miserably failed at the last, important step, and now you know he’s just going to ruin you. So you just keep your face pressed into the blanket to hide the fact that you’re crying, and you begin to feel fingers sliding up between your legs and dipping into your pussy and then just… halting. 

“You’re not even wet,” he mutters incredulously, like that’s the most shocking event of the night. 

“What did you fucking expec—“

“Baby.” He sounds actually, truly upset and you feel his hands move to roll you over on your back.

Fuck. He’s looking down at you all heartbroken like he finally gets it, and something inside you breaks. Your hands shoot up to cover your face because the tears are still squeezing out, so you try to suck them back in and not make any noise even though your chest is heaving up and down in silent sobs, and you just internally beg him to let you leave so you can have a really good cry in your room.

“Fuck, baby, please.” He actually sounds anguished now, and a hand is running up and down your stomach like he can somehow soothe you with the rapid, panicky motion. It all just makes you cry harder in the privacy of your hands. 

“I c—an’t d-do this any— any— more,” you manage to hyperventilate out.

“I know, baby, I just— fuck, I’m so sorry. I-I won’t touch you again. Fuck, I’ll leave you… alone. I promise, just, please, baby.”

You’re not really sure what he’s begging you to do, but the idea of him leaving you alone forever is far more desolating than you expected and it’s the opposite of comforting. 

“You always d- do this,” you accuse with a wet snort. “Always le-eave me, and th-then, I always think you h-hate me.”

There’s a long silence and it just makes you irritated with your stupid loud crying and inability to express yourself the way you want. 

Finally you hear a quiet, “I’ve never hated you. Not once, not even for a minute.”

It’s strange the way that bare minimum acknowledgement makes the tears stop flowing. You just lay there still hiding your face and hope he’ll keep talking because he never tells you anything. 

There’s a deep sigh from somewhere above you, and you’re being pulled into the middle of the bed and tucked into a warm chest, still sticky with cum. Gently he pries one of your hands away and you feel fingers wiping your wet hair out of your face. 

You reach your hand out, desperately feeling across the bed until the towel makes contact with your fingers, and you yank it out from under your leg to roughly wipe your face off. You lips feel all puffy but at least you don’t have snot on your face when you finally find the will to look up at him.

“There’s those pretty eyes.”

A wall of water immediately blocks him from view again and a little sob trembles your voice. “Don’t— V-Victor, you can’t say shit like that t-to me, not, not anymore.”

“I know, I’m just— Fuck, I did this. I fucked up. Was just trying to give you a chance to find… someone else.”

You stare incredulously back at him, at the way he’s avoiding your eyes like he’s embarrassed, like he truly means it.

“You… fucker,” you whisper. “You fucking FUCKER!”

The flat of your palm makes contact with his chest and somehow it doesn’t even move. You hit him again, harder, rapidly smacking his pectoral and wordlessly shrieking and just absolutely incensed that he’s still holding you after what he just said. 

“FUCK, stop.”

“Fuck you! Just man up and tell me you don’t fucking want me, but don’t give me that shit about avoiding me for my own good like some pathetic vampire… fucking… teenage story!”

“FINE,” he bellows right in your face, grabbing your wrists and holding them down by your head hard enough that they lose circulation. “I don’t want you.”

You blink up at him in shock and he just breaths heavily there, glaring down at you and finally as angry as you are.

“If it’s gonna be like this,” he says, finding the will to calm his voice a little, “if you’re just gonna be hurt all the time and hate me, then I don’t want you.”

A deadly stillness settles in your chest and you say, “Okay.”

“Okay.” He’s still staring down at you, puffing air in and out through his nose, and he really doesn’t need to keep holding your wrists like this because you wouldn’t move if you could. 

Somehow you feel more attracted to him now than you’ve ever been before, with his amber eyes burning down at you and the red marks from your slaps visible across his chest. Maybe it’s the special blend of daddy issues and finally getting rejected, or maybe it’s just because in the heat of the argument it feels like he’s finally being a little bit vulnerable with you. But regardless of the reason, your eyes are tracing over his features and settling on the hard set of his mouth, and you’re thinking that you’ve only ever kissed him that one ti—

“Nah, don’t you fuckin’ do that to me. Don’t even do it.” He pushes off the bed and stands up, swiping the towel across his stomach in a vain attempt to remove the half dried cum. 

“Do what?” you demand, pulling yourself upright. 

“You know what,” he retorts, swirling his finger in the direction of your face. “That thing, with the eyes. You fuckin’ know.”

“I’m not doing anything with my eyes, and it’s not my fault you’re so self absorbed that you think I am.” Though, technically, right now your eyes are wandering down lower than they should, and he continues to glare at you and roughly wrap the towel around his waist.

Aaaaand now you're the naked one, just hanging out on his bed, in his room, for absolutely no reason. 

“Goodnight,” you huff, getting up and glaring in his direction, making sure he’ll let you leave this time.

He’s got his hands on his hips and he just jerks his chin towards the door in an obvious dismissal. It makes no sense. You are the one who should be mad. He didn’t do shit to earn that privilege, yet here he is ordering you out of his room and too annoyed to even say goodnight. Fine. 

You close the door a little too hard on your way out and shut yourself in your own room with William. You expect him to be agitated from hearing mom and dad fight, but he’s just peacefully curled up in your bed, and half asleep again by the time you slide under the covers.

At least you don’t feel like crying any more. Sleep finds you easily and keeps you under all night without a single dream. When you check your phone in the morning you’re braced for some form of “you’re fired,” staring back at you, but the text you have waiting is somehow even more shocking:

Had to finish up some things from yesterday, back by 3p. Next job is Wednesday, flying without dog so make arrangements for him for a couple days

Things are different from then on. Victor keeps a carefully neutral attitude around you, but the communication - it’s like night and day. He starts sharing his schedule with you, even going so far as to tell you where he’s going when he takes a solo job, and when he expects to be back. You offer to help with small things, and he doesn’t refuse. So you take up whatever you can, from booking hotels and flights to planning out surveillance routes. 

Things go well, and you get more and more leash from him. He lets you drive sometimes, teaches you how to avoid detection while following a vehicle. You see him cleaning a gun one night and he has you go get your pistol, and he makes you practice cleaning and assembling it until well past the time he’s done with his. 

You use your free time decorating and painting and working on projects outside, and eventually most of the house looks just as good as the original two rooms. There’s a wordless understanding between you, like you’ve each agreed to respect that line in the sand. Victor has kept a careful emotional distance, and over the weeks you slowly lower your guard, beginning to trust him not to hurt you again. 

Still, there are these blips, little snapshots of time that burn themselves into your memory. Moments where you hurt yourself with your foolish heart and inability to move on. 

Victor smoking in his rocking chair late at night, clothes still a little roughed up from a scuffle and smoke slowly curling up around his head. You’re just sitting there on the wooden planks, hugging one knee and a little cold, but you can’t bear to go back inside yet. You sit there running your eyes over his relaxed body and imagining how his mouth would taste after a cigarette.

Victor wearing those combat boots with black pants, shirt half untucked while he sits at your counter and looks through blueprints on a laptop, calculating the height of a jump he needs to make. His outline is so distinctive that you think you could recognize those shoulders anywhere, that sprinkling of gray hair which you can see even from the back.

Victor the first time you ever see him sleeping, stretched out on the couch with lights from the muted TV flickering across his face. William has wormed his way under that strong arm and is sprawled out across his stomach, dead asleep as well. You’re able to lean against the doorframe and study the curve of each knuckle that’s splayed over William’s dark fur.

Victor laughing at one of your jokes from the passenger seat. How human he looks like that, happy and entertained, with a subtle dimple peeking out through the wiry texture of his beard. The way you just soak up every tiny affirmation he gives you, like you need so little to feel insanely alive.

It makes you wish things were different, if only you could make this your beginning and not all the mess that occurred before. Makes you wish you had put your foot down earlier and told him how much you could grow to care if he would only meet you halfway. But he doesn’t want you any more, and things are peaceful, and it’s okay. It’s okay to not get everything you want in life and just enjoy what you have. And if you were a smart, good sort of woman you would do everything you could to maintain that emotional distance. 

But you’re not. 

You think about him when you’re naked in the bath or when you wake up in the morning. You’re touching yourself one night and you can hear his feet climbing the stairs and passing by your bedroom door, and the thought of him walking in on you makes you clamp your teeth together, because you’re suddenly cumming hard under your hand. It’s alright, you decide. As long as it stays like that, just a stupid little fantasy, it’s okay. It takes the edge off. Fortifies you to avoid riskier options. Yeah, you’re jerking off more than usual, but that’s just a safety net to make sure you don’t do anything stupid. 

And that’s exactly why it’s so surprising that one night, when you’re curled up on opposite ends of the couch, watching a show with Victor that you both actually like, you have a brand new realization. Your sock covered toes are selfishly tucked under the warmth of his leg, but it’s slight enough that you pretend you’re not doing it and he pretends not to notice. It’s the third night in a row that he’s been home, and you finally comprehend that he’s not seeing anyone else, either. 

Well, he could be, you suppose, when he travels without you. Could be here, too, if he pretends to have a job when really he’s just meeting up with someone, but somehow you don’t think so. For starters, there’s no need to hide it. You’re not dating, not even close. The only reason you can think of that he’d hide a hookup is just to spare your feelings, and it seems like an incredibly elaborate undertaking just for that. 

You know exactly why you’re not moving on, but why isn’t he moving on? He seems to be local more and more, and now that you really think about it, your fifteen percent bonus has been getting smaller and smaller lately, like he’s taking cheaper jobs just to have a reason to be in the area. Could it be for… William? Okay, that’s a weak conclusion, even for your idiot brain. Your foot pulls away from his heat, and you’re foolishly still studying the side of his face instead of watching TV, so of course he glances over at you, and all the orgasms in the world can’t prevent the way your heart dips into your belly.

“Everything… um… good?” you ask. “With work lately?”

“Yeah.” He sighs, running fingers through his beard. “Just trying to figure out if I should take you… somewhere.”

Fuck. “Take me where?”

“Not a job, exactly. Just a… meeting… with some– ah, old friends.”

“I’ll do it,” you declare instantly. “It’s okay if there’s no bonus.”

“Yeah, I thought you might. It’s just that it’s a little dangerous. More than usual, and I hate to–”

“I’ll go,” you interrupt. “If you need me, I’ll go. Don’t even worry about it.”

He’s staring down at your foot that’s still a few inches from his leg, and you quickly shift to sit up and tuck it under you.

“Alright,” he says finally. “It’s next week, in New York. Just a day’s drive.”

“Okay.”

You have every appearance of watching TV, but you’re not taking in any of it. He doesn’t expose you to anything like this, never even asks. So what about this meeting makes him feel the need to have you along? What could you possibly do to help with… danger? 

You don’t get an answer to that until you’re on the road several days later, finally brave enough to ask. 

“Victor, what’s my job exactly for this ‘meeting?”’

“Make me look good,” he says, but the definite lack of a smirk has you narrowing your eyes with suspicion.

“Like a… plus one?”

“Nah,” he quickly clarifies. “Just my assistant. More than anything I just want you there to make sure…”

He drops off, not finishing the sentence and you prod, “Make sure what?”

“If something happens to me, it would be nice to have one person who knows where I am. Someone normal. Innocent enough that they wouldn’t hold you accountable for what I’ve done.”

You frown in surprise. “Why would you willingly go somewhere like that? Where you’re worried they’ll… do something to you? Let’s just turn around.”

He’s keeping his eyes diligently on the road. “I don’t think anything’s going to happen. These fuckers invited me, and they like to keep their hands clean. But I’m glad you’re here. It’ll complicate things and throw them off.”

Okay, now you’re really nervous. “What do I need to know about where we’re going?”

“I think the less you know the better. It’ll help if you seem clueless about them. One rule, though.” He glances over to you, eyes sliding quickly over the jeans and blouse you’re wearing. “Don’t fuck any of them, no matter how nice they ask.”

“Pfft, I would never—“

“Except the skinny redhead. You can fuck her if you want.” His mouth is quirking up at the way you’ve got your arms folded in outrage. “Just not the short guy with the weird sideburns. That’s an absolute no.”

“You don’t even have to say that. Of course I won’t.”

He nods, looking in the rear view mirror at William who’s panting, still a little nervous about riding in the car. “This is gonna be interesting.”

Chapter Text

You’re not sure what you expected. Maybe some abandoned warehouse or strip club back rooms, because when you think, ‘people dangerous to Victor Creed,’ your mind doesn’t automatically go to a beautiful mansion in the countryside. 

“It’s a school for mutants,” Victor explains, hands tight on the steering wheel while he makes the endless journey up the gravel driveway, “run by mutants.”

“Where are we supposed to even park?” you ask, overwhelmed by it all. 

“They invited me here, they can fuckin’ valet.”

You’re almost to the circle drive now, and figures appear at the top of the steps, walking too fast to be casual. Five, ten, too many of them for your liking. Victor finally stops the car and turns to you. 

“Wait for me to open your door.”

He’s definitely worried, and tense, and you do not like this one bit. You want to get out with him and show that he’s not alone, but what could you possibly do against that many mutants? They’re all just as tense as Victor, as if he’s somehow the threat here.

One of them, a short man with weird sideburns, steps forward and calls out, “Look who finally showed up. Could have given us warning.”

Victor slides his hands in his pockets, rounding the front of the car and he casually shoots back, “Where’s the fun in that?”

He’s grabbing your door handle, and you frantically unbuckle just in time to watch him turn his back on all those mutants and wink at you when he lets you out. 

Ten pairs of eyes, give or take, lock on you like they’ve never seen a human woman before. You quickly step out to give Victor room to close the door and carefully brush imaginary dust off your jeans, mind grasping for what you’re supposed to do. Victor saves you. 

“My assistant,” he says, introducing you by name when you straighten up. You smile and wave cheerily and pretend this isn’t all an incredibly horrible first impression.

“Since when do you need a fuckin’ assistant?” asks the short man incredulously, narrowing his eyes in your direction. 

You twist your head around to look for some sort of sign from Victor, but he’s just got his arms crossed tersely, seeming quite backed into a corner, and you finally realize he’s just winging this whole thing.

It’ll complicate things and throw them off.

Victor doesn’t need you here. He doesn’t need someone to book hotels or fill his car with gas or do surveillance with him. He needs Effie Trinket. 

“Maybe you do,” you answer blithely, bouncing forward with your hand outstretched. “Because I still don’t know your name.”

The short man frowns down at your hand for a couple of painful seconds before hurriedly shaking it. “Logan,” he tells you.

“Wonderful to meet you!” You flash him a grin and take a step back, scanning the others with the most brainless look you can manufacture. “It’s awfully nice to be here. Though Mr. Creed,” you say, swiveling your head back to glimpse his unreadable expression, “hasn’t told me much, this place is just lovely and I’m sure we’ll have a fabulous time.”

You practically skip back to the car to retrieve William, and you doubt he’s ever peed on a patch of grass with a larger number of shocked eyes watching him. 

‘Mr. Creed’ grabs the luggage, and he’s intelligent enough not to give you away with any knowing smiles. Somehow your Effie act is working. The tension has diffused considerably, some of the onlookers even going back inside, and William is simply basking, cute as can be, in all the attention. You have to pull him away from greeting everyone personally, and before you know it you’re stepping inside with Victor right in front of you, arrival finished and onto the next thing. 

The skinny redhead whose name you’ve already forgotten tells Victor that ‘The Professor’ is not here, but will be back tomorrow morning. 

“Until then,” she says, eyes flicking back at you for a moment, “I guess you can hang out. I wasn’t expecting your assistant, but we have enough room.”

“Thank you,” you chirp graciously, nudging William away from an expensive looking vase sitting on the floor. 

Your phone chimes and you quickly pull it out of your back pocket to see a DoorDash coupon notification. 

“I’m not sure what exactly you’ll want to do,” the redhead is saying, glancing at a silent Logan by her side, “but I suppose—“

“Mr. Creed,” you say loudly, cutting her off with an apologetic smile. “Is this urgent or can it wait until tonight?” You sidle up to him and hand over your phone with the DoorDash offer.

Victor, bless him, makes a consummate performance of scrolling down for a little while and considering the text while your two guides just stand there looking annoyed. “It can wait,” he finally tells you, handing back your device. “But I’ll need to know by tomorrow night.”

You bob your head in an understanding nod, and apologize profusely to your hosts for the interruption. The redhead - Jean - has completely lost her train of thought. 

It goes on like that for the rest of the day, people talking down to Victor and you brainlessly inserting yourself in such a pretty way that they assume you’re just ‘like that’ and leave you both alone. It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does, watching Victor be treated as less-than by these people in their posh mansion. You know they have history together, and maybe he’s done some things that were deserving of their scorn, but it still raises your hackles every time. 

It’s exhausting. By the end of the night it’s a monumental effort to keep that persona going and force yourself to be all bubbly. Victor is having a beer in Logan’s vicinity with no sign of heading to bed, so you decide the professional thing is to excuse yourself and rest up for another day of masking. 

Your room is conventionally alongside Victor’s, and you’ve barely locked your door behind you and collapsed onto the bed with William when your phone dings.

I’m so fucking glad I brought you  

And now you’re wide awake, starfished out on the bed while a pink glow of happiness settles over you. It’s all worth it. The instability and the danger and the occasional long day, all worth it when he tells you shit like that. 

It’s not long before you hear Victor’s door close, and on the other side of the wall there are muffled sounds of movement. The hours you’ve spent together have made you accustomed to his rhythms and it’s almost like you can see him sitting down on the bed and tossing his phone on the side table. You picture him there, falling back onto the bed just like you, and you wonder if he’s also thinking about his next door neighbor. 

You punch B A B Y into your phone and stare pathetically at his text. Finally the satisfaction you feel at your success today fuels you, and you unthinkingly type:

Me too, Mr. Creed.

And then your stomach drops because you’ve just make a huge mistake, and you hurriedly shoot off:

Sorry sorry no duress just dumb 

You hear a soft chuckle on the other side of the wall and it fills your chest back up with that same magical, pink fog. You get another text.

Goodnight

Goodnight. Just by itself, tailing off into unsatisfying nothing, because you know what he wanted to say. Goodnight, baby. The not-saying-it is so much worse, like it’s just being waved right in front of your face and withheld. It’s a physical ache how much you want him to say it, to keep saying it even when you tell him to stop. You’ll never not want to be Baby. 

But he’s trying. He’s being so good and doing exactly what you asked him to do, and he’s still not moving on, and it seems like such a waste that you’re here in your room, alone, and he’s in his room, alone. You know you kissed him before, but you didn’t do it right. You didn’t understand the depth of what would occur, and never dreamed that you would be living life alongside him with that one, solitary night as your only chance to kiss him. He’s been keeping his beard shorter lately and it’s just so frustrating that you don’t know what it feels like. You have to watch him absently play with it and merely envision your own fingers running through that scruff up into his hair, and your thumbs smoothing out across his cheekbones. 

You’re not horny. That’s the thing, you’re not horny. This is not some hormone fueled one night stand you’re dreaming up that will make you hate yourself in the morning. This is… a kiss. Just a little kiss, to let him know that you’re thinking about him. He doesn’t have to kiss you back. You don’t expect him to, because it’s just a… business kiss. Hey boss, glad you appreciated my work today, smooch, goodnight now. Totally professional. 

Totally off limits. You stall, brushing your teeth and donning pajamas and just hoping the wanting will go away by the time you get back to bed, and of course it doesn’t. You lay there and think about his lips and his tongue, replaying all the memories of how they felt, and you just want harder and harder until you can’t take it any more. 

You peek out into the dim hallway and of course there’s no one around. There are never interruptions when you actually kind of want an excuse not to follow your head’s crazed notions. Heart thrumming, you close your door as quietly as you can, and then reach out and open–

Victor’s door is locked. The knob only rotates a fraction before offering solid resistance, because of course he locked his door. He’s practically rooming with enemies here, he’d have to be a fool to keep it unlocked. You should have realized this. 

Your hand releases the doorknob like it burned you. There will be no romantic sneaking into Victor’s bed in the dark, waiting for him to smell that it’s you, and then climbing on top and feeling him shift to conform around your body. No, the solitary option you have now is knocking on the door and stupidly waiting here in your pajamas to stutter out a ridiculous explanation of why you changed your mind about everything, and can you please come in so you can kiss him a little bit? It’s unthinkable. 

You move as quickly as you dare, tiptoeing back into your room and carefully rolling the doorknob even before you’ve closed the door so that it doesn’t make any noise when it latches. And you lock it, of course, because why wouldn’t you? 

There’s movement on the other side of the wall and you’re airborne before you even realize, launching yourself into your covers and huddling there with your heart in your throat, as if you’re trying to convince the guy who can’t even see you that you’ve been in bed this whole time. You hear the door next to yours open, and then nothing. Like he’s just standing there, staring at your locked door and trying to decide if he simply imagined someone trying to get into his room just now. The silence stretches on so long that you argue with yourself over whether or not he’s already back in bed and you just somehow missed the noises, but then there’s a definite click of a door latching, and you finally hear him go back to bed. 

It’s strange, seeing someone you know amongst a group of people and not immediately recognizing them. It makes your brain go through these weird gymnastics of cataloging them as a new person until you finally figure it out. And in that in-between time when they’re still a stranger to you, you actually see them as they are, with every feature that some time ago your mind decided is too commonplace to notice. 

For a few seconds, as you’re coming down to breakfast, you see Victor Creed as he is. You notice the way he’s so big and mean-looking that there are several empty seats on either side of him. The hard set of his brow and the muscles flexing under his sleeve while he eats. Everything about him screams, ‘stay away or suffer the consequences,’ and there’s not even a hint in his appearance that he’s even capable of gentleness or forethought. 

You halt there in the doorway, staring at his side profile and searching for that spark of something you saw from the first time you met him. The thing that told you he was capable of kissing you softly and paying attention to the needs you communicate without words because you’re too afraid to say them out loud. Sitting there at breakfast in a room full of strangers, it’s somehow gone like it never even existed, just a figment of your imagination in the muddy haze of memories. 

But then he must smell you, or somehow sense your gaze because his head turns to look for you, and that’s when you see it. There’s that softening of his shoulder line, the subtle relaxing of his jaw that made him so approachable to you in the first place. It’s all still there, but only when he’s looking at you.  

Fuck. You’re in deep, deep shit. The mask settles back over your face, and you plaster on a smile that you don’t actually feel, and weave through the chairs over to him. 

“Morning, Mr. Creed,” you say like an announcement, dropping into the chair on his left.

“Good morning.”

There’s really quite a good spread here, and you help yourself to some southern biscuits with butter and jam, and consciously block the dangerous flow of thought that just seems to endlessly build upon itself from last night. 

The guy with the red sunglasses is speaking to Victor about people you don’t know, and he’s being respectful so you just accept the momentary break to fill your belly. But you can’t help noticing Victor’s hands again, as you’ve been doing far too much lately. They’re a dead giveaway more than anything else about him. The way he holds his fork and dances his claws across his knee is anything but clumsy. His fingers move in that smooth, practiced way of someone who’s had to make a living off precision, like a magician or a pianist. It’s captivating to watch, and you can’t seem to pry your eyes away.

And because you’re already watching, you just happen to see him unlock his phone when an email pops up, and for the first time you actually glimpse the home screen for a split second before he angles it away like he always does. The only reason you’re even able to recognize the image in that short space of time is because you’ve seen it before, because you were the one who took that photo. It’s the one of you in the sundress, thoughtlessly smiling up at your phone’s camera in the conservatory. 

You sit there mid chew, frozen with shock. He’s got your picture as his wallpaper. Has for some time, you just know it. Probably put it there the very next day, and he’s been so diligent to hide it from you that he never had to change it, even after he promised to leave you alone.  

Fuck, Sunglasses is asking you something.

“Sorry, what was that?” you prompt, swallowing down the suddenly dry biscuit.

“I said, what are your plans today?”

“Um…” you struggle, not daring to look up at Victor because you’re sure your face will go absolutely red and betray everything. “Not sure. It depends if Mr. Creed needs me for anything.”

“I’ll be in a meeting for a few hours at least,” Victor’s voice supplies somewhere to your right. 

“Well, then,” you say nervously down to your plate, “I guess I’ll take the dog for a walk or something.”

Mercifully no other questions are posed to you, and you quickly reach down into your purse to tear off a small corner of paper. Carefully you move it to the side of your leg where Victor could never see it, and you scribble a short note before folding it in half. You straighten up, dropping the pen back into your bag and just sit there with it clutched in your sweaty fingers under the table, heart pounding while you come to terms with what you’re about to do. Jean arrives to sit next to Sunglasses, and just as she’s greeting Victor you slide your hand over to rest on the top of his leg, paper held upwards between two fingers.

Victor doesn’t make any sign that he understands, simply lowers his hand casually under the table mid sentence and takes the paper from you. You’re absolutely locked into the path of it when he changes it over to his other hand, and then he’s just holding it there, still closed, for far too long. You begin to worry he’s not even going to read it, like he thinks you passed him a dirty napkin or something, but finally there’s an opening in the conversation and you watch his thumb flick it open and his head tilt down to read it.

That’s when your heart really starts racing. You know exactly what he’s reading, just five words, and they don’t take near the length of time to read that he’s currently devoting to staring down at them. 

Leave your door unlocked tonight

Chapter Text

You get nothing. No acknowledging glance, or little squeeze of your knee, or any other of the literally infinite number of things he could do to make sure you know that he understands, and is more or less… willing. Victor just tucks your paper into his pocket and continues to eat like nothing even happened. You sit there with your knee bouncing up and down, poking your food around your plate and monitoring from the corner of your eye every little change in his body language, because surely there will be something. 

“Creed,” Jean prompts again, because for some reason he hasn’t replied to her question, “will you be available to meet with The Professor in twenty minutes?”

“Yes.” 

It’s unlike him to be this distracted. Sunglasses seems to think so too, and shoots Jean a pointed look, but you barely notice because you’ve come to your own conclusion: He’s turning you down. Trying to let you down easy by pretending it never happened, because you read things wrong again. And you may be an idiot with unreturned feelings for a mutant hitman, but you are not up for the punishment of just sitting here and taking the humiliation. 

“Excuse me,” you mutter, quickly getting up and not sparing any of them a glance on your way out.

A caffeine withdrawal headache is beginning to pulse around the edges of your brain but you ignore it, getting the fuck out of that mansion as fast as you dare. You’re soon outside, searching for a private nook on the stonework to just tuck yourself away and get some of that damp, country air deep into your lungs. This is the worst, most horrible trip of all trips, and Victor can defend himself against these people for all you ca—

There’s a separate crunch of gravel behind you and Victor calls your name, because of course you can’t even have five minutes to wallow.

“What?” You demand sourly, swinging around to face him. 

His face is maddeningly blank while he holds up your note, still advancing on you and asks, “Is this really what you want?” 

Fuck him for making you say it twice. You wish you could deny it, turn it into a joke or something because your stomach is absolutely twisting with mortification. But on the off chance that there’s any hope at all, and in the spirit of being brave and true to yourself, you cross your arms and huff out a reluctant, “Yes.”

He looks down at you, brow furrowed, and you just fucking unload. If you’re going down for this, you’re going down in a rushing waterfall of things you’ll probably regret later. 

“I know, Victor. I know we’re away from home, with all of these people, and it’s not ideal. I know it’s crazy and impulsive and it’s going to ruin everything, but I’m just… tired of fighting it. I’ve been thinking about you. Fuck, all the time. I can’t stop thinking about you, and looking at you, and you’ve been giving me exactly what I needed and communicating, and it finally feels right to me. Does it f-feel… a little bit… right… to, to you?”

He’s kept himself intensely still through that whole monologue, and when you’re done he opens his mouth to answer, but there are suddenly students filtering down the steps and passing along with curious expressions. You back up towards the wall to let them by, trying to appear as professional as possible though you’ve just practically confessed your love to your boss and your heart is still racing a mile a minute. Victor follows you over there, settling his back up against the wall a couple of feet from you and crossing his arms. 

You both silently watch the flow of students pass by, second by nerve wracking second, and finally when the last one is out of earshot he turns his head towards you and says, “I want to bite you.”

You jerk your shocked eyes in his direction, and he’s looking down at you, gaze sparking with perfectly contained fire, and it’s all you can do to keep your mouth from dropping open in surprise. 

“…every time I see you,” he continues, shaking his head in agitation. “I’m just looking at you all the time, imagining taking your little ear off with my teeth like a fuckin’ weirdo, cause you’re so cute I can’t even stand it.” He twists to lean just one shoulder there, so he can face you and simply stare you down with those gorgeous amber eyes. “I’ve got your scent stuck in my nose for days when you’re not even there, got the feel of your fuckin’ body burned onto my hands, and you wanna know if being with you feels right to me?”

The wires in your brain don’t connect. You’re unable to think of a single response to that, and just let your arms hang uselessly by your sides and stare dumbly back at him while he keeps going.

“There are things I haven’t told you about me. Things you need to know, about… what I am… that I can’t bring myself to say.” He’s roughing up his beard with his fingers, all stressy like you’re some Friends of Humanity crazy and not literally the woman who loves him.

“I already told you,” you promise, “I’m good with it. It doesn’t bother me.”

“Yeah, you did say that, and the next time I saw you, you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

There it is. That’s the big one, you know it in your gut. The whopping insecurity that’s been eating at him for months. He’s spent all this time thinking he revealed too much, and you rejected him for it.

“Victor, no,” you breathe, taking a little step towards him, desperate to prove how wrong he is, but he stops you with a firm hand on your shoulder. 

“I’m old. Really fuckin’ old, like a couple hundred years. Got a healing factor where I never get sick and never die, no matter how hurt I am. Got claws on my toes and eyes that see in the dark, and I killed that guy in DC. Killed him for fuckin’ free cause he made you cry, and I’m not sorry about it.”

“It’s alright,” you tell him quickly, barely even processing the mountain of information he just shared. “Don’t— don’t even think—“

Victor’s name is being called, and you both turn to see Jean and Logan at the top of the front steps. Jean has her hands on her hips, and Logan has his eyes narrowed, locked for some reason onto you, with an awful, angry slant to his shoulders.

“Fuck,” Victor spits out. “Always fuckin’ something.”

“It’s okay, we’ll talk later. Tonight. We have plenty of time.” Hopefully like, years.

You drink in the sight of his back while he walks away, until he’s stepped inside and released you from his gravitational pull. 

The morning feels like a dream. Days are passing, years, of you exploring those enormous grounds, tramping across the wet earth like some Pride and Prejudice era main character, with a happily off-leash William sniffing around for bunny poop to snack on. You can easily imagine yourself the lady of some country cottage nearby, taking her daily walk for a little fresh air, this outdoor trek being the highlight of her day aside from her husband coming home and fucking her brains out every night. 

That part is effortless to imagine. Preparing something for dinner… fuck, bread or something, elbows deep in flour. The man of the house coming right in because no one locks their doors during the day, and he looks exactly like Victor, and he sees how tied down you are to your task and capitalizes on it. Presses up behind you, wraps his hands around the front of your waist and buries his face in the side of your neck. Tells you to keep working and knocks your feet a little farther apart with his boot. Reaches up to ease your cleavage out the top of your dress, just enough to expose your nipples and play with them one handed while he runs the other one over the curve of your ass. 

Phew, okay, today is going to really suck for you if you keep this up. You’ve got to think about something else, like… how you’re going to kiss Victor tonight. It has to be right. You won’t let your horniness get in the way of really kissing him the way you need to, long and sweet, making sure he knows how much he deserves to be kissed like that. Fuck, you’ll tell him. You’re not afraid. You’ll narrate your feelings and make him understand how much he means to you, with your body and your words, until there’s not a single piece of him that doubts your sincerity. 

Eventually your phone dings, and it’s Victor letting you know he’s heading to lunch, so you book it back to the mansion, leaving William in your room for a nap. Victor is already eating by the time you arrive, and you take your seat before you realize what’s waiting for you on the table. 

“How did you get this?” you ask delightedly, taking the lid off the still-hot latte and giving it an appreciative sniff.

“Threats of violence.”

“Victor,” you coo, and he’s giving you that one sided, self-satisfied smile. You want to kiss him so bad, but you can’t, so you just squeeze his knee under the table and whisper, “Thank you.”

“Excuse me,” chirps a voice beside you. 

You turn to see a teenage girl a few seats away, hands clutched nervously to the seat of her chair when she leans in your direction to whisper, “Are you that girl from TikTok?” 

That’s just about the last question you expect, so you just rapidly blink back at her and say, “Um… I don’t have TikTok.”

“From the Friends of Humanity interview. It has to be you.”

Suddenly you’re horribly grateful that Victor is on the other side of you and can’t see the heat explode through your cheeks. 

“Can I take a picture with you?” The girl asks eagerly, taking your silence for acknowledgement. “My friends will be so jealous. Your video went crazy around here.”

Thank god Victor is being good and still just silently eating his food next to you. You quickly agree to the photo just to make her go away faster so he won’t ask any questions. The girl poses with the tip of her tongue up on her teeth, and after a quick, “You’re my hero,” she skips away excitedly. 

You sigh deeply, and you’re about to finally take a drink of your coffee when it hits you how odd it is that Victor hasn’t asked you anything about that interaction. Your glare shoots over to his face and he points his eyes innocently to the ceiling. 

“You’ve seen it,” you accuse, aghast.

“Got it saved to my phone.” And there’s the shit eating grin. 

“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your face and sliding down in your seat. “It was just… like… we didn’t mean to be there, and then all of a sudden there was this guy, and my date was annoying the fuck out of me, and I just got this crazy idea, and it just… came out.“

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me. That shit was funny.” He gives your knee a couple of friendly pats. “And cute.”

“So anyway,” you say, desperate to change the subject, “how was your meeting?”

He makes an irritated huff and frays the edge of the tablecloth a little with two claws. “It was fine. Professor wants my help with something this afternoon. Said yes.”

“What kind of thing?”

“Can’t talk about it. You’re not missing anything though, gonna be a fuckin’ dick drag.”

“Okay,” you say, feeling a little put out, “just be safe.”

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

You shoot him a look and say, “Just because you can’t be permanently injured doesn’t mean you can’t get hurt.”

“Pain is temporary.”

“No,” you argue, setting down your fork, “the idea of you being in pain will be permanently tattooed on my mind. Don’t act like it means nothing.”

He leans back in his chair, appearing almost amused at the way you’re defending him to himself. “I’ve lived a long time, and it hasn’t all been soft and comfy.”

“All the more reason to have it now.”

“Pain makes you appreciate the absence of it.” 

He says it so casually, but he's looking at you again with that very specific expression, and all of a sudden the argument on the tip of your tongue floats out reach, and your thoughts go directly to somewhere soft and comfy, and feeling the complete opposite of pain.

You don’t know if it’s a relief or a tragedy when Victor finally gets up with a little squeeze of your shoulder and disappears through the doorway. Most of the older mutants have trickled out too, so now it’s just you and an irritating pocket of students who are whispering and grinning in your direction. 

The caffeine has you too hyped up to rest with William, so you decide to poke around the garden area and try not to worry about whatever it is the mysterious professor has Victor doing. You find yourself wandering, sifting regretfully through memories and wishing you had been brave enough to talk things out earlier. Not that you’re the only one to blame. Hah, no. Victor could have been a whole lot more forthcoming with you, and that would have helped things tremendously.

The scuffle of footsteps behind you has you snapped out of your thoughts, and you turn around to see Logan of all people standing there a few paces away. 

“Hello,” you greet him, trying not to sound too wary.

“Hey, kid.”

You rankle a little at the disrespectful label and remind him of your name. 

“Yeah, I remember.” He looks anything but comfortable, shifting his weight and looking up at the trees every now and then. It’s extremely irritating.

“Can I help you with anything, Logan? Is Mr. Creed alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s fine. He’s with the others. I actually wanted to talk to you.” He steps to the side slightly, and something about the way he’s got his body angled, perfectly positioned to block your exit, has you pulling out your phone with faux nonchalance. 

“Well, here I am,” you reply cheerily. Hardly looking down, you pull up Victor’s messages on your phone and type out, “Creed,” but just keep it there and don’t hit send yet. 

He sighs. “Are you and him?… you know.” He grimaces meaningfully. 

“Are we what?” If he’s going to insert himself in your business, you’re gonna make him say it.

“Are you two fucking?”

“Logan,” you scold, “Mr. Creed is my boss.”

“And that means fuck-all to someone like him,” he says tilting his chin up. But he’s relaxing a fraction now, and looks at you like he might actually believe you. “Listen, I just think you should know something, in case things ever change.”

You spout off quickly, “I’m sure Mr. Creed will tell me everything pertinent to my wor—“

“It’s not about him. It’s about you.”

“M-me?” 

He takes a step forward and lowers his voice a little. “He ever tell you what you smell like?”

You blink rapidly back at him, trying to figure out what he’s getting at so you can get two steps ahead. “Logan, if you’re trying to insinuate I stink—“

“Nah,” he says, sounding so like Victor that it gives you pause, “you smell fine. Better than most people. But I think you should know that you smell like someone he used to be close to. Someone he cared about.”

Shit. SHIT. “What?” you manage to croak out, caught completely off guard.

“A girl from a long time ago. You look nothing like her, of course, but the scent is fuckin’ identical. Couldn’t believe it when I met you.”

He seems to feel sorry for your stricken expression and sighs again. “I’m sorry you had to hear it like this. He should have told you.”

When? When could he have possibly felt comfortable enough to tell you that? ‘Hey, you know how all this time you thought you were somehow charming enough to catch my eye? Yeah, you were just coasting on someone else’s tailwind.’

“What’s her name?” You hear yourself ask.

“It was Amelia.” 

Was. She’s dead, you know it. Probably died doing dangerous things with Victor, maybe even as his assistant. Or worse, in a nursing home somewhere after he got tired of her.

“Was she a mutant, like him?”

“Yeah.”

Of course she was. It’s the obvious reason they even got together in the first place. She was his equal. You aren’t the replacement Amelia, you’re the knockoff. Made in China and never working as well as the first one, only here for the sentimental value. 

“Blonde?” you guess, just to hurt yourself.

“Yeah.”

“Tall?”

“Why do you—“

”Tall?” you insist.

“Shorter than you.” 

Blonder and smaller and prettier, and able to make him love her in a way you never could, because they were the same. 

But… was your smell really that important? He never really smelled you, like lowered his head and took a giant whiff of your hair, or sniffed you over like a bloodhound. He’s never even mentioned your scent except this morning. Your desperate heart is grasping at that idea, just blindly hoping that it didn’t matter very much. 

“Is scent— is it, like, a big thing to him?” you ask, finally able to look Logan in the eye. 

He tilts his head all pityingly and says, “You don’t know much about him, do you?”

No, no you don’t, because he’s been hiding everything, all this time.

Chapter Text

There are moments in your life where you’re unstoppable. Brave to a fault, doing what needs to be done and willing to get hurt over it. You make life worth living, one impulsive choice after another, and never seem to regret it because each decision teaches you something about yourself. Something valuable that you would have never known otherwise, that you’ll surely use later. You know, for the plot.

And then there are times where you take the coward’s way out. 

You’re lying on your bed with William sprawled across your stomach like an arched bridge, occasionally digging his pointy little elbows into your ribs and making grunts of annoyance as if you’re just purposefully not being soft enough for him. Hours have passed and you’re still not any closer to figuring things out than when you started. Every time you try to untangle the mess, ideas and memories and things Victor has said just come at you from all sides, random and unhelpful, and you just end up exhausting yourself in an anxious loop. 

Worried that Victor would be back soon and looking for you, you sent him a text saying that you were taking a nap with William. If you were the sort of woman with a strong backbone and sense of justice, you would have simply waited outside his door to demand an explanation, but as it is you merely hide there in your room like a useless lump.

But you do jolt in surprise when you finally hear Victor’s door open and close. William gives you a judgemental stare and then settles his head back down with a huff. You don’t dare say anything or make a sound, because the last thing you want is Victor knowing you’re awake and avoiding him. God, you can’t believe the two of you are doing this again. When will it end? Surely at some point the catastrophic revelations will trickle off, and you can actually live your fucking lives.  

The shower on the other side of the wall turns on, and you find that odd because he showered before breakfast, which you know because you are an incurable snoop who pays attention to everything he does. What kind of ‘dick drag’ would get him dirty or sweaty enough to clean up immediately after? Was he actually injured, as he insinuated he might be? Part of you wants to say fuck it, and go check on him, secrets or no. But you wrestle with yourself long enough that he’s done with his shower, and shortly after you get a text:

Finished. Wake up already

It flashes silently across your screen as a banner, and you don’t open it on the off chance that it will display as read. You know he’s sitting on his bed in a towel, probably hoping you’ll expedite your little meetup and try his door now. Your eyes swing to your own doorknob, checking for the hundredth time that it’s definitely locked. You don’t want to see him, or speak to him, or have to eat dinner next to him while you still don’t know what to do. He’s going to pick the inner struggle out of your head the second he sees you, and you’re not ready to explain yourself. 

Enough time goes by that he must believe you’re still asleep. You hear his door close again, and eventually your stomach settles back out of your throat when you’re sure he’s not going to knock on your door. He’s going to go kill time until you’re up, and you have got to just… never be up. But the thought of staying here in this stuffy room literally all afternoon and all evening and all night, just to delay the inevitable, is absolutely unbearable. You need air. A peaceful place where you can just arrange your thoughts and think logically about everything without the back of your throat threatening tears. 

You peel William off of you and crack your door to scan the hall, and mercifully Victor is nowhere in sight. You quickly don your shoes and jacket and with a mumbled apology to William, you shove your phone in your pocket and start to step out of your room. 

Your phone. You pull it out again, looking down at Victor’s text once more. Can he trace your phone? Find out the exact moment that you leave your room and follow you with it? You can’t take that risk. Quickly you text him:

Feeling sick, going back to sleep and not coming to dinner. Don’t worry about me, I’ll probably be fine in the morning.

Cowardly, but it should buy you a few hours at the very least. You leave your phone in the room and walk as quickly as you dare down the hall and towards the elevator. It takes some doing, getting out of the mansion without running into Victor. A lot of peeking around corners and avoiding the main areas, but finally you’re free. 

It’s late September so the air has lost its summer heat and gained a little breeze, and it’s heaven. There are only a few people outside and they don’t give you a second look, so you just stroll as casually as you can across the grounds. It’s an eternity of holding yourself back and looking over your shoulder to make sure, but finally you’re out of sight of the mansion.

 You run. Full tilt, sucking that perfect air into your lungs and racing away from responsibility like you’re a kid again. It doesn’t last as long as you’d like before your chest is hurting with the uncommon strain, but you’ve made it to the treeline where you and William explored that morning. A quick look back across the grass shows a definite lack of Mr. Scrapey Claws and confirms that you got away clean. 

You’re your own woman for a few hours, and you’re determined to make the most of it. You set an impressive pace into the woods, through the brush and thorns and trees, and you’re not sure exactly what spot you’re looking for, only that you’ll know it when you see it. The sun is pretty close to setting but for some reason that doesn’t bother you. Maybe in the back of your mind you know Victor will come for you if you get lost, or maybe you just want to put yourself in the position where you’ll be happy to see him. Regardless, the sky is a beautiful pink dusk when you finally find what you were looking for. 

There’s a pretty little clearing somewhere deep in those woods where a pond sits. The ground has been roughed up on one of the banks as if students come here occasionally to swim, but it’s not trampled enough to make you believe it’s a regular thing, and with the cool air you doubt anyone will be making the trip out here tonight. 

At first you just sit there on the bank, trying to find enough peace to think, but the racing thoughts are back and preventing any headway. Maybe you should run again. Something physical and shocking to exhaust yourself and give you a reset. Agitated, you get back to your feet and eye the water warily.

After removing your shoes and socks and folding up the hem of your jeans, you’re able to wade out a few inches and verify that, yes, the pond is pretty fucking cold. Rocky and slimy and probably full of crawdads and water spiders. Still paranoid, you glance over your shoulder to scan the trees, but you don’t see anything. The light is fading and the frogs begin to sing because you’ve been still long enough, and you make the impulse decision to chase that reset after all. 

Your clothes land in a pile on a clean patch of grass and you begin to wade in. It’s pretty easy going and you’ve just about convinced yourself that you can do it, until the water gets to about hip height and your body begins to really protest the exposure. You take a step back and then stop, considering. If you go back, you’ll be comfortable but you won’t have gained anything. If you keep stepping forward, it will just be a slow torture of icky water and you know you’re going to give up. The only way you’re going to get your reset is if you dive in. 

It takes a few tries, false starts where you chicken out at the last second and heave yourself back to standing. But finally you just do it. Go all in, in a stupid sideways flop that definitely does the job. You meant to keep your eyes closed because you don’t want some kind of infection, but the frigid bite of water closing in on you has them snapping open automatically. 

Immediately you realize you’ve lost your grasp on which way is up. The water stings your eyes and there’s not enough light left to see through the muck you’re churning up. Disoriented, your feet find the bottom, but then a dropoff or something makes you slip and you’ve lost it again. You’re flailing around for a few terrifying seconds before your hands finally find a wall of slippery rock, and you shove your feet underneath you and push off as hard as you can.

Air hits your face, a heavenly burst of warmth that you eagerly suck into your lungs, and you doggy paddle back the embarrassingly few feet to where you can stand up again. Soon you’re a puddle on a soft patch of grass near the bank, panting and shivering and blinking up at the couple of stars that have come into view. 

It worked. Your mind is fucking empty, totally cleansed of the downward spiral. You search around a little for what you’ll need to do, and the answer comes almost instantly. The rocking chair.

You’re Victor, smoking after a job one night on your porch. A girl is walking past, stupidly looking around at the stars, oblivious, the type of person who will never understand the cruelty of the world. Somehow she spots you there and it’s obvious by the way her shoulders tense that she’s unsettled by the feeling of your gaze. Whatever, it’s your porch, you can fucking smoke here if you want. 

But then the wind shifts, and her scent is cast in your direction. It’s such a shock that you nearly drop your cigarette. Could it be… Amelia? Impossible, she died in a freak logging accident all those years ago. But perhaps… a relative? You watch her back while she walks away, until her scent is gone and you start to wonder if you somehow imagined it. 

You follow her home, sneakily, because Amelia was everything to you. The love of your life who you will never get over and will always compare to every other woman you care about. Yes, it’s definitely the same smell. You’re obsessed with this woman, must have her for your own, for no reason other than nostalgia. So you… don’t see her… for another year?

That doesn’t seem right. Now that you think about it, the very obvious gaps in your early contact with Victor don’t exactly scream, ‘kinky ex girlfriend smell enthusiast.’ If anything it would almost suggest he was repelled by it. Could that be an option? Because if you saw someone who looked exactly like your ex, who you yourself loved very much at one time, it would be a massive turnoff for you. Okay, start over.

Sitting in your chair, woman walking by, blah blah blah. The wind shifts and you smell… Amelia. The girl who broke your heart and cheated on you a hundred times and made your life a living hell. How is this possible? She died all those years ago during a bank robbery in France. But no, it’s definitely her smell.

How awful. You gag in the darkness and make a mental note to take jobs elsewhere or sell this house. You don’t see the woman for another year, but simply because you’ve forgotten the encounter it happens again one night. She walks by and the scent is the same. Gross. You wish she would die in a car wreck and rid the earth of that smell forever. 

So then two nights in a row, the next month, you see her walking outside the confines of the neighborhood, and you… tell her not to? Why the fuck would you care? Okay, skip to the next one. She invites you in, and her whole house smells like putrid heartache and you… kiss her. Get close and come up to bed with her. 

What the fuck. Neither of those perspectives work logistically. But you can only think of three options, either he was compelled by your scent, hated your scent, or… it didn’t really matter that much.

You’re sitting there smoking, woman and dog, blah blah blah. Her scent floats over to you, and it’s identical to Amelia’s. How strange. It doesn’t inspire any particular longing or hatred within you, because… you’re over her. It’s just an oddity that you soon forget about because it really doesn’t matter that much to your life. A year later it happens again, and again you just brush it off as the strangest coincidence. 

And then one night you see her doing something dangerous, and for some reason that bothers you. It shouldn’t bother you, because she’s not Amelia, but something compels you to pretend to go for a jog just to make sure she’s safe. And when you get near you smell that familiar smell, and it’s just whatever to you, so you start to run past, and she says, “No, baby.”

You think for an insane second that she’s talking to you, because of the long ago memories from her smell that makes you feel as though she knows you already. But just as you’re about to turn and figure out why she’s telling you not to leave, you remember she has a dog, and she’s definitely not talking to you. She has no reason to talk to you. You monitor the rest of her walk and make sure she can’t see your face, and you head home. Onto the next job in the morning. 

But you’re sitting there, feeling not particularly compelled towards love or hate of this woman, yet somehow bothered by her taking unnecessary risks. There isn’t much in your life that’s unusual any more. Nothing really gives you pause or has you confused, but this is such a strange little puzzle that for some reason it makes you change your plans. You’ll just scare her into behaving, and then you can wash your hands of it, your one good deed for the decade.

Except it doesn’t work. She engages with you and seems to have no sense of self preservation. It’s so annoying that you install a camera just to make sure she hasn’t died while you’re gone. And then she starts being an idiot and flipping you off every day, and for some reason you like it. 

That’s the one. You could go on and on and you just know it would fit. The conflict and the hot and cold and trying to stay away, because Victor didn’t want to develop feelings for you, but he did. Your scent is just a random peculiarity that he accepted and moved on from, as partners do. As you will have to do, in regards to Amelia. 

You look up and focus on the stars again. There are more there than before because it’s fully night now. You’re low enough here on the ground that the wind isn’t too bad, and most of your skin has dried off so it’s pretty bearable. The crickets are chirping again. They had stopped for a few minutes just a little bit ago, you suddenly realize. Stopped even though you haven’t moved. 

“Victor?” you call hesitantly. You feel like an idiot doing this, but on the off chance that he’s actually—

“Yeah, baby.” 

It comes from somewhere above you, in one of the trees, but you can’t see a thing up there. 

“What are you doing?” you ask curiously, heart picking up. 

There’s a hint of amusement in his voice now and he replies, “Respecting your boundaries.”

Oh yeah, you’re naked. You should immediately get up and yank your clothes on because he’s got to be annoyed at you for lying, but instead you just lay there and gaze up into the dark leaves. 

Your heart knows he’s forgiven. At this point it would be stupid to even tell him about your afternoon of suffering, because you’ve already worked everything out, and solved the problem before he even knew there was one. You might as well erase the whole day from existence, from the time he told you that he’s been crazy about you. 

You try to think back to the morning, and what you wanted to say and do tonight. You were concerned over kissing him right. Making him feel special and wanted. It would have been easy because you would still be in your room with a belly full of dinner, and his door would be unlocked, and you wouldn’t have pond scum dried to every inch of you. 

You would have slept together, you know it for an absolute fact. Regardless of what the X-men would think, you’d have done it, more than once if Victor wasn’t too tired. You’ve been lapping up his affection drop by drop, and now, faced with a running faucet of it, and you would have drank your fill. 

But instead you’re here, naked on the grass, and Victor is somewhere above, watching you. 

“Do you want to fuck me?” you whisper up at him.

There’s a long pause. You can imagine him shifting, trying to figure out if you’re serious or not. “Out here in the woods like an animal?”

You stretch out on the soft grass, shoving your arms above your head and pushing your chest forward a little as you wiggle and let out a dreamy sigh. “...Yeah.”

“Fuck yeah, I do.”

Goosebumps scatter across your skin and you grin at the sensation. If you were in a vindictive mood you would spread your legs open right now and touch yourself. Make him watch and suffer for everything he’s put you through, until you’re satisfied that he’s earned some pussy. But you’re not in that sort of mood. You’re in the sort of mood to fuck him in his nice soft bed and kiss him exactly how you want. 

Feeling awfully like a dried up salamander, you peel yourself off the grass and set about putting your clothes back on. The back of you is still damp and it makes everything an enormous pain because you have to attempt to do it pretty since Victor is here, as if there’s some way to put underwear on pretty when your legs are like the underside of a dirty sticker.

Finally you’re dressed and peering through the trees, trying to figure out which direction leads you back to the mansion. You got yourself into this, might as well get yourself out.  

Chapter Text

“Are we really doing this?”

You glare up at the dark nothingness in the branches above and say, “I am doing this. You can go back whenever you want.”

“You’ll fall in another pond without supervision.”

You roll your eyes and take a few steps forward, reaching out blindly in front of you so you don’t run into any trees, and of course you manage to poke a sharp stick right in the middle of your palm. You yank your hand back and suck in a breath through gritted teeth, unwilling to give Victor the satisfaction of hearing a complaint pass your lips.

From above comes an irritating, “I could have you back in that nice, comfy bed in about five minutes. Kiss that little hand for you and make it all better.”

“Five minutes is a gross exaggeration,” you mutter, getting another few steps forward without hurting yourself. Why does this have to be the night with no moon?

“Is this really how you want to spend the night? It’s gonna be five hours with you stumbling around in the wrong direction.”

“I won’t be going in the wrong direction, because you’ll tell me if I do,” you tell him confidently. 

“So you’ll let me be a compass but not carry you back? What’s the difference?”

“The difference is…” you stop and decide if you’re actually willing to be honest with him. “The difference is I’ll be embarrassed if you have to carry me back.”

There’s an enormous thud on the ground right in front of you, and you squeak, jerking backwards in fright before it finally sinks into your brain that Victor has jumped down from his tree.

“It won’t be embarrassing,” he assures you sweetly. “It’ll be warm and cozy and smell real nice.”

“Oh my god.” You brush past him quickly, because the fact that he landed in this spot probably means that there are feet clear up ahead. And of course he does smell amazing. 

“Bet I can give you a good reason,” he calls from behind you.

“Can’t wait to hear it.”

“William hasn’t had any dinner.”

Fuck. This man knows exactly how to twist the knife. He capitalizes on it, too, stepping up close behind you and saying, “He hasn’t been outside, either. Poor little guy, having to hold it that long.”

You let out a heavy sigh, full of fake exasperation because you’re actually quite relieved to have a legitimate reason to give up. “Fine. Fine, carry me back to the house like a princess.”

“Mmm, pretty sure princesses say please.”

Oh.

So it’s going to be like that.  

You close your eyes for a few seconds, taking a deep, annoyed breath, before suddenly spinning to face him. You plaster doe eyed rapture onto your face and cup your cheeks sweetly with your hands. 

“Oh, can it be?” you ask in your best breathy princess voice. “A man? A real man here to save me?” 

With a happy cry and an exaggerated flounce you throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms tightly around his middle with your face half buried in his shirt.

“Please, enormous man. Please carry me back to my room. Your gallantry has me simply aching to give you some sort of physical reward. But oh, the sensations in my body are all so new and confusing, because… Oh, it’s so embarrassing to admit, but I’m still a virgin, woefully ignorant to the mysterious ways and the hard bodies of m—” 

“Alright, alright.” 

You’re effortlessly scooped up under your legs, and you just slide your arms up around his neck and laugh uproariously at your own joke.

“Glad you’re feeling better,” he chides, giving you a quick, fuzzy kiss to your cheek. 

The journey back takes a whole lot longer than five minutes, and you suspect it’s just because he enjoys carrying you. Or it could be because of your fingers lazily playing with the edge of his beard and exploring the back of his neck. It’s always like this with the two of you, soaking in the moments of closeness because you never know when you’ll get it again. 

Logan could be waiting for you right outside your door to tell you some new, horrible thing that will ruin your evening, but somehow you doubt there is much else to reveal. At least, nothing that will curb your now frothing-at-the-mouth obsession. Your hormones have launched you into full blown puppy love, and anything less than a crater sized chunk being ripped out of your heart would have little effect.

Victor has carried you halfway across the lawn before you think to ask, “How did you know I wasn’t in my room?”

“Hah,” he says humorlessly. “Someone asked about you and Logan had this fuckin’ look on his face. Didn’t even get to eat my dinner.”

This is it, the perfect opportunity to talk about what happened. But you just lay your head back on his shoulder and hope he can’t hear your heart picking up. The whole situation is disgustingly stale in your mind at this point, and it would be pure torture to bring it up now. Boring and hurtful and stupid.  

“Fuck him,” you say flatly.

“You alright, baby?”

“Yes.” He’s stopped because you’ve both made it to the front steps, and you sigh into his chest, already mourning the upcoming loss of contact. “I’m actually really, really alright.”

You can tell he wants to ask what happened but he doesn’t. He just lowers your legs and says, “How about this. You take care of William, and I’ll scavenge some room service.”

“Okay.”

About a half hour later you’re stretched out on your stomach across your bed, wiggling your toes into the pillows and happily packing your face full of cheese and crackers. 

Victor tosses William an olive and then laughs when he spits it right out. 

“You’re being too obvious with it,” you say. “You have to make it seem like it’s forbidden.”

The olive in your hand rolls out onto the carpet, and before William can even take a step forward to sniff it you snatch it up again with a, “Oops, no olives for puppies.” William sits there, ears all perked up and locked onto what you’re holding, and you let the olive fall once more. This time he snaps it right up, chewing slowly with a disgusted grimace like he wants to spit it out but he’s too committed.

“Impressive,” Victor tells you. “Explains a lot.”

“Har, har. You know, you always seem to think I’m smarter than I am. Half the stuff I do is just some random, impulsive decision.”

“You have good instincts. I’ve always thought so.”

“Oh my god, you’re going to give me a praise kink.”

“You can’t give someone a kink,” he informs you, running a tickling claw down the underside of your sock and making you pull your foot away. “Either it’s already there or it’s not.”

You can’t think of any response to that which doesn’t reveal too much about yourself or sound dumb, so you just continue to eat and toss William little bits of cheese. 

“Do you want to find out?” Victor asks quietly.

Fuuuck. You don’t even need to try, because the very idea of him being that sweet to you and touching you at the same time has blood rushing to embarrassing places. 

“Umm,” you stall, trying to get a grip on yourself before you say something foolish, like yes. “You don’t have to do that. I don’t need— don’t want you to, like, have to think up stuff to say that don’t mean anything.”

“It wouldn’t be hard.”

Oh, god. The urge to bury your face in the bed is so strong you almost do it. Be cool, be cool.

“And just because it doesn’t mean anything,” he says, wrapping his hand playfully around your ankle, “doesn’t mean it’s not fun to hear. Or say.”

“I’m…” you yank your foot away again and can’t resist looking back at him to make sure he’s not laughing at you.

He’s not. He’s sitting there all relaxed against the headboard, giving you this lazy, appraising look. 

You feel so backed into a corner between your arousal and your feelings that you blurt out, “You just want to tell me how much you love me and pretend it’s sex.”

Victor blinks in surprise, face betraying nothing, and you inwardly give yourself a thousand hard kicks. Why did you have to let that slip out? Things were going so well, nice and casual, and then you just decide to drop the L word for no good reason. 

“I’m sorry,” you backpedal quickly, “I didn’t mean—“

“No,” he interrupts, “I don’t want to pretend anything. I’m not gonna say shit I don’t mean. I’m gonna sign my fuckin’ name on every single thing I tell you tonight, and you’re gonna have to deal with it.”

“Oh,” you say weakly.

“I’m still mad that you ran off. Fucking pissed that you won’t tell me what Logan did that upset you. You’ve known the guy one day and you’re already protecting him.”

You frown. “It wasn’t like that at all. He told me about Amelia, and… basically insinuated that you only like me because of her, and I just needed some space to think about it.”

“Of course he did,” Victor gruffs, “must have been eating him up inside seeing me with someone who smells like her.”

“He… liked her?”

“She left me for him.”

Oh.

Holy fucking shit.

You’re momentarily stunned, eyes frozen on the grim look on his face. Logan doesn’t know you. Doesn’t know anything that’s happened between you and Victor, and all the selfless things he’s done on your behalf. He was just projecting his own thoughts onto Victor, assuming he was possessive of you for the same reasons, and unwilling to let him have this one thing in peace.

You don’t care that you’re still all pond-y and probably stink from running. You push yourself up and crawl over to Victor, climbing onto his lap and wrapping yourself fully around him. You tuck your face against his and squeeze him tight. As tight as you think he could possibly find comfortable. His arms come up to hug you back, and you both just sit there for a minute, breathing. 

“I didn’t want to tell you about it,” you explain into his neck, “because I decided it didn’t matter, and I didn’t want you to worry over something so stupid. It doesn’t change anything for me. I still trust you, and I… still, um, love you.”

A little vibration rumbles against your chest. He brings his hand up to cup the back of your head, and you feel his face turn to plant kisses along your jaw, up towards your ear. “I love you too, baby,” he murmurs. “Always have, ever since I saw you try to kill that guy.”

“I was not trying to kill him,” you protest, pulling back to look at him. But it’s a weak retort because you’re smiling and warm fluff is simply filling your insides. 

He’s smiling back at you, eyes all warm and soft, and he runs his thumb over your lower lip. “Brave little thing.” 

You’re not sure why he’s just looking at your mouth like that, like he wants to kiss you but he’s just not. It’s driving you crazy.

“Are you imagining biting me?” you ask.

“Always.” His claw is dragging your lip down, releasing it to slide across your chin. He’s so focused on the movement that it’s actually fascinating to watch his face, the way his pupils shrink and widen.

“Tell me,” you whisper.

The amused set of his mouth slips away, and he’s looking into your eyes like he’s making sure you actually know what you’re asking. Silently he taps your cheek. You open your mouth to say something, but he keeps going, flicking the tip of your nose. He runs a finger down the side of your neck, taps your shoulder, then the outer curve of your breast, the side of your waist, your ass. 

“And really, especially right here,” he confesses, running his palm up the inside of your thigh. “That’s the one I’m always thinking about when you’re sitting on the couch with your feet up.”

“So basically all the major arteries,” you tease, trying to hide the fact that you’re getting turned on. 

“Not my fault you’re all soft and tasty.” 

“Oh my god,” you groan, laying your forehead on his shoulder. “I— I need a shower.”

“So shower.”

“Don’t want to leave,” you mumble childishly.

“Want me to come with you?”

It’s tempting. Shower sex isn’t your favorite, but somehow you imagine anything is better with Victor. 

“No,” you decide, and finally drag yourself off his lap. “I’ll just try to be quick.”

It starts out hurried. You grab some pajamas and take a peek back towards the bed before you shut yourself in the bathroom. Victor has his eyes closed, head leaned back over the top of the headboard like he’s having to meditate to get through your absence. It does something to your stomach, a little fluttering twist that pushes more fluff into your heart.

But then you’re in the privacy of the cool bathroom, and the water hits your skin and grimy hair, and all thoughts of urgency melt away. You take the time to shave and moisturize everything, brush your teeth and even blow dry your hair. Eventually you’re a clean, blank slate, ready to be kissed and fucked and bit and whatever else Victor wants to do to you, because you know he’ll make you like it. 

You’re expecting him to still be there on the bed when you return, but he’s not. William is curled up there on the warm spot where Victor used to be, alone. Your heart sinks with the insane thought that it was all an elaborate prank and he didn’t mean any of it, but then you see the scrap of paper sitting there on the empty nightstand. It’s the one you recognize instantly, but you still open it just to be sure. 

Leave your door unlocked tonight. 

Of course, because his room has no pesky, cockblocking pitbull to deal with. And even better, he’s giving you that opportunity you wanted last night. Getting to sneak into his room and kiss him the way you want to. 

You hope Logan will be able to smell it on you tomorrow. 

Chapter Text

You can do this. 

After all, it’s pretty much the same as all the other times. Same you, same Victor, same parts and fluids and general physical needs. There’s really no reason for you to be this nervous… but you are. 

Sleeping together now feels serious and significant and real. Even something as basic as feeling cute and desirable seems impossible because you’re so nervous, and you do dumb, unsexy stuff when you’re nervous. You’ve only ever actually fucked him once, and now all of a sudden you’re expected to express your love, but not so much that you seem needy, and you’ll need to make it the best sex of his life but also cum yourself, because he’ll want you to, even though all you really want to do is kiss him and give him a blowjob. 

God, that would hit so good right now. Make out, blowjob, cuddle, all predictable and well inside your comfort zone. But you try not to think about it too much because it will just set you up for disappointment. You’ll have to fuck somewhere in there, it’s the law. You exchange I Love Yous, and you fuck. It’s the same in every book, every movie, every expectation that people collectively have. 

You stand there with your forehead pressed to the cool wood of your door, trying to figure out what it is you’re afraid of. There must be some outcome you’re trying to avoid by maintaining control. You don’t think it’s rejection, oddly enough. Embarrassment? Difficulty cumming? Regret? 

No, you’re afraid of disappointing him. Full stop, you think you’ll do or say something wrong, and it will make him realize how flawed you actually are, because this is what happened the last time. Your ex told you he loved you, and you moved in with him, and then he started to see the defects. 

But the rational part of you knows that Victor is not like your ex, in any way whatsoever, and he’s never worshiped perfection in you. So you just need to find a way to get over the insecurity because all it’s doing right now is being an enormous cockblock, and you refuse to let your ex keep you from getting laid ever again. Stubbornly latching onto that conclusion, you yank your door open, and then Victor’s, and before you know it you’re slipping into his bedroom and locking the door behind you. 

Your eyes strain to adjust to the sudden darkness. There’s strangely not a single light on, so you have to carefully walk towards the black lump that must be the bed, and it’s an unexpected relief. Intellectually you grasp that Victor can probably see you quite clearly with his superhuman vision, but when it’s all dark like this and you can’t see his face, it’s so easy to pretend that he can’t. It gives you one less thing to worry about.

But he hasn’t said anything, and when you’re climbing onto the bed and your hand makes contact with a hard leg, you suddenly have this irrational fear that it’s someone else lying there.

“Victor?” 

“Yeah, baby.”

You let out a relieved breath just as he reaches for you, hooking an arm around your waist and pulling you up on top of him. There’s no doubt who’s holding you now. You’re lying on a large, Victor-smelling body, with your cheek resting against that familiar bare chest. Victor isn’t moving aside from the slow motion of his breaths, and his arm is a comforting weight across your back, so you just lay there gratefully for a minute, breathing with him and acclimating to the contact. 

“Hey,” you finally whisper, angling your face up towards his.

“Hey, pretty girl.” A thumb strokes over your cheek, not having to fumble around at all to find the exact spot he wants to touch. 

You run your hand idly over the front of his shoulder, trying to seem relaxed when inside you’re still trying to figure out what to do next. He’s probably waiting for some sign that you’re settled, and you can’t let too much time pass or it will start to get weird. But you’re still not settled, not internally, and how much time is too much? 

Victor shifts his face to nuzzle into the top of your head, breathing in the smell of your freshly washed hair, and runs his hand down your spine in an unhurried motion.

“I’m nervous,” you admit, so quietly that you’re not sure if he hears it.

“I can tell.”

Fuck. Of course he can. He’s trying to figure out how to get you to stop being so awkward. Heart sinking, you push yourself up to sit on his stomach, trying to decide if you should just cut your losses and escape now. 

“It’s okay, baby,” he tells you, tucking his fingers into the back of your knee. “Let me just kiss you. Come get under the blanket with me.”

A warm, weighted dip happens in your belly at the idea of saying yes to that. It would work, you know it would. You’d be putty in his arms in no time flat, getting his lips on yours in that cozy pocket of warmth, and just letting him take control until you don’t have to think about anything. But you know what would happen next. He would take your clothes off, and lick you, and make you cum a few times with various parts of his body, and it would be amazing… for you. 

But that’s not what you want.

“Um, actually, will you let me,” you stammer out, fidgeting above him, “j-just, like—“

“Yes,” he answers immediately. 

You blink quickly in surprise. “You didn’t hear what I was going to say. Could be something you don’t want to do.”

He sucks in a slow, unbothered breath, and takes hold of one of your hands. Bringing your fingertips to his lips, he kisses them and asks, “Would you be offended if I said I’m not scared?”

That makes you smile incredulously. “Did you forget that one, particular night?”

“I didn’t forget.”

He’s still got your hand held loosely in his, and he brings it over to his cheek, running your palm up and down the lovely texture of his beard as if he likes your hands in it as much as you do. For some reason he’s letting you argue with him instead of overthinking everything, and it’s working. 

“I can’t tell if you think I’m not scary,” you say, “or if you’re just being brave.”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

You can feel his cheek lifting in a smile under your hand. He certainly doesn’t seem annoyed at you for making everything difficult, so you might as well go ahead and be even more of a pain. 

Gaining control of your hand, you quickly slide it down and wrap your fingers around his neck, giving the barest amount of pressure onto his throat. He’s not expecting that, you can tell by the way his hand brushes across your wrist like he’s about to grab it but changes his mind. It makes you smile down at him, though it’s hardly a threat because you’re being gentle and careful to keep your weight off his neck.

“Ready for anal with choking?” you ask, striving to keep the giggle out of your voice.

Victor begins to shake under you with poorly suppressed laughter. You grin back, removing your hand to plant it on the mattress next to his head, and you lean down and kiss him. 

His mouth is still curved into a smile when your lips make contact. It makes all the nerves melt away, because just knowing he’s happy means everything to you. 

“I want to kiss you,” you pull back just enough to whisper, “on top like this, because I want you to be able to relax for once. Is that okay?”

His fingers slide into your hair and he brings you back down to him, making an affirming noise against your lips. You kiss him just the way you imagined, tenderly exploring his lips, with your hand wrapped around the side of his head and your thumb stroking through all that glorious stubble. He’s touching you gently, your arm, your cheek, your waist, settling into that slow, lazy pace exactly how you want him to.

And then, as if you both telepathically communicated the decision, you open your lips at the same time that Victor does. He makes a soft sound into your mouth at that first slide of your tongue, and the idea that you are the one forcing sounds out of Victor Creed instantly pushes electricity through your blood. 

“I love it when you make noises,” you breathe against his lips. 

He chases your mouth with another rumbly sound, and you melt yourself into him. You know what’s going to happen next, and he doesn’t, and the anticipation of it has your pussy getting so hot on top of his stomach that you’re glad there’s a blanket there so he can’t tell. It’s so intense that it reminds you to slow down and savor the kiss for a little while longer, until you’re high with the feeling of his mouth and the burn of his fingers teasing up under the hem of your shirt. 

Finally you drag your lips down to his neck and plant wet kisses there while you try to catch your breath. He’s breathing just as hard, the movements of his fingers on your skin more tense and jerky, like he’s having to remind himself not to touch you how he wants to. 

Raising your head a fraction, you gather up every ounce of courage to say, “I’m going to put my mouth on you, Victor. It’s gonna make me really wet, and it’s gonna feel amazing for me, and I want you to just lay here, and relax, and let yourself enjoy it.”

His body shudders under you, actually shudders, and you feel him nod his head, like he can’t manage to actually reply to what you just said.

The room felt a little cold when you first entered but now your body is blazing with excitement. You lower yourself down the length of his torso, dragging the blanket with you, and it’s a welcome surprise to find that he’s already naked. Your palm slides slowly up his hip, and then you wrap your hand reverently around him, letting that rush of power trickle into every part of your body. He’s so hard that you know you could grip him rough and he’d like it, but you don’t. You keep him there gently in your hand, and lower your mouth and finally, finally let yourself lick him. 

Dear god, he tastes good. All cock is not created equal, and his is simply heaven. Velvety and perfect, with a wonderful little drip of precum from making out with you for so long. A needy, whimpery sound leaves your throat when you take him into your mouth, because you don’t want to hold back. You don’t want a single speck of doubt in his mind about how much you really enjoy doing this with him. You’re wet, and hot, and the knowledge that he’s probably watching you do this has you hastily removing your shirt before you go right back to hugging him with your lips. 

It’s an effort to go slow. A part of you is dying to know how fast you could make him cum if you just grasp him hard with one hand and relentlessly work him with your mouth, but you want to feel his reaction to every speed and grip and lick that you can invent. So you take your time with him, maximizing your enjoyment for every second, until you’re in that glorious, cock drunk headspace where not a single thought crosses your mind besides how good and right it feels to play with him. You have no concept of time, only a catalog of his audible breaths and groans, and the particular movements that make his cock flex and throb in your hand. 

It’s like waking up from a dream when his large hand eventually wraps up under your jaw and eases you off of him. You’re feeling so relaxed and submissive that he’s able to effortlessly position you down onto your back and settle himself on top of you, pressing the side of his face against yours and staying there for a minute to catch his breath. 

“Thank you,” you say up to the ceiling, brain still fuzzy and warm. “I liked that a lot.”

“Fuck, I know. You smell… very turned on.”

It should bother you that he can apparently tell when you’re aroused, but right now it seems like the tiniest of insignificant details. You release a slow, happy breath, shuffling your legs together. “I love being this wet.”

“Baby,” he sighs into the crook of your neck. “You’re killing me.”

“So die,” you tease.

“Mmm, not yet. I have something I want to do first.”

He’s kissing your neck and dragging your shorts and underwear down one handed so he can keep contact with you. 

“Your cock is so nice,” you sigh drunkenly. 

“Shhh, you’re gonna make me forget myself.”

He reaches out to drag a pillow over, and then another, until your head and shoulders are propped up on a soft cloud, and you’re so limp that there’s not a single thought of resistance when he eases your legs open.

The outline of him is barely visible, leaned back on his knees between your legs, and for some reason you expect him to put his mouth right on you. But instead he glides fingers up through your wetness and back down, the sensation proving to you that you are, in fact, absolutely soaked. 

“Victor?” you whisper, letting yourself drop your hands to your sides and relax into his touch.

“Yeah, baby.” God, his voice is so deep and sexy, it’s incredibly distracting. 

“You’re the only—“ you start, and swallow, making sure it’s actually something you’re willing to say. “Um, the only person who’s ever made me cum. Not without… help. I’ve always had to do it.” 

His thumb stills its up and down motion on your clit, and you clench internally at the loss. 

“I know that probably doesn’t mean much to you,” you say quietly towards that dark outline when he starts moving again, “but it means a lot to me.”

Victor is silent for a long moment, so long that you think he’s not going to respond to what you said.

“Do you know how pretty you are?” he finally rumbles out, so tender that it has your heart rising up to your throat. “How fucking perfect your little pussy is? How soft and cute it gets when you’re all excited like this?”

The way he’s touching you now - gently gliding fingers through your folds like he’s demonstrating it more for his enjoyment than yours - is, fuck, convincing. You stare up at him and feel heat rising to your cheeks because even though he’s told you this before, for the first time you actually kind of believe him. 

“I could stay here and play with you until you’re sick of it.” He promises, laying his wet hand on the crease of your thigh to frame your vulva, and slowly sliding his thumb up in a long, encompassing stroke. He lets out a shaky breath and murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it, “I wish I could… Fuck… You drove me out of my mind that first night telling me I can’t put my mouth on this perfect little baby.”

Okay, so that’s doing things to you. You were aroused before, but comfortably so. Now you’re hurting with how bad you need him to lick you or at least touch your clit some more. You thank the heavens when he finally does, with a skilled and purposeful finger.

“Always so cute,” he says, softly massaging your clit and purring out each word so they really settle into you, “and sweet, and no one figures out how smart you are until it’s too late for them.”

The pride in his voice actually has your mouth popping open in surprise, because never in your life has anyone called you smart. 

“Sweet little baby,” he says, squeezing his other hand across the inside of your thigh while he works you. “Always figuring me out. It’s been too late for me for a long time.”

You want to say something back, or kiss him, or cry, but there’s no opportunity before he lowers his face down between your legs. He settles that warm tongue over your clit and you moan out a long, anguished breath at how good it feels. Your fingers tentatively slide into his hair, desperate for some semblance of control but unwilling to actually grip into it. You end up just resting your fingers there on his head while he does… whatever it is he does, all wet and magical and licking fire up your legs.

It’s an effort to be good and keep your legs open, because your body is fidgeting and resisting how quickly you’re being pulled towards an orgasm. Victor does one particular, sucking thing with his mouth, and your thighs immediately try to press together in an unconscious effort to ground you through the suddenly scorching sensation. But Victor doesn’t let you, he just wraps his hand around one hip and wedges an arm over the other, keeping you in place and captive to that rising pressure. 

You’re finally clenching your fingers into his hair and letting that be your anchor to reality while you flex back on those pillows, stomach tight and quivering, and know you’re going to cum. Any second now his continuous, inescapable rhythm is going to flick you right over the edge, and you can’t tell any more if your body is fighting against it or lunging for it. 

But then he drags his mouth away, which is a testament to his strength because you’re suddenly panicking, crying out at the loss and doing everything in your power to physically keep him there.

“Fuck,” he mutters, resting his forehead on your thigh. 

“Please,” you beg, abandoning your dignity, “I’ll cum, just give me a little bit more.”

“I know, baby. I’m just– I just got the urge… Just give me a second.”

You can feel his beard roughing up the sensitive inside of your thigh, and then his tongue, and then a sharp drag of his teeth that’s not nearly as gentle as you’ve grown to expect. Your body jolts in surprise more than anything, but he tightens his grip to hold you in place and does it again, mouthing into your skin and pricking the surface a little, not quite enough to draw blood. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, relaxing his grip to smooth his fingers over the skin. And that’s all the explanation you get before his mouth is back on your pussy, more gently this time. He’s working you slowly, coaxing your orgasm out instead of forcing it, and you’re aroused enough that it won’t take long. Your body is finally letting you relax, and you just concentrate on breathing and letting the sensation of his tongue envelop you entirely. 

You can feel yourself cumming, first in your thighs, the hot ripple holding there for a few agonizing seconds with how softly he’s licking you, before it finally washes over your whole body. Victor is in complete control again, keeping your hip steady under a firm hand while he guides you through every bubbling wave. They get smaller and eventually stop altogether, and you’re able to relax every muscle in your body while the last few throbs work themselves out.

Victor lays himself down beside you, tucking you into his side, and eventually you have enough awareness to realize that obviously his mouth is gone, and it’s actually a hand cupping you between the legs that’s giving you that comforting pressure. You naturally drape your knee up over his hip to give him more room, or maybe it’s in the hope that he’ll fuck you, because when his hand is replaced by the careful push of his cock, you welcome it with a happy moan. He’s going slow, giving you time to adjust after so many months with nothing but your fingers. Long, torturous months of needing this.  

Once you’re comfortably stretched around him you move your hips a little in invitation. God, the slide is so easy with how wet you are. He’s holding the back of your knee in place and starting to fuck you so good, generous and deep, and making you shiver by running his teeth over the shell of your ear. It’s just like that first night with how you’re fully present, focused on the feeling of being completely surrounded by him and the sense of belonging there. 

“Victor?”

“Mmmm,” he breathes heavily into your hair. “Yeah, baby.”

It should be difficult to talk through that wet drag of his cock pushing sparks between your legs, but instead you find yourself spilling your secrets like they don’t belong to you. “That first night, when we talked for the first time, I… I was fantasizing about you killing me.”

He pulls back to look at your face, and you quickly explain, “Not in like, a suicidal way. I just… I thought it was the only kind of attention you would ever give me.”

“A fuckin’ bullet in the brain?” he asks, but the lazy way he says it makes you think he’s not that surprised. 

“I, um, imagined you choking me with a piece of wire, and telling me how inconvenient I was.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, grinding into you, “that’s hot.” 

You’re beginning to lose your breath at how pleased he sounds while he continues to fuck you, but you plow ahead before you can lose your train of thought. “I went home– hhuh– right after that… and touched myself… Made myself cum th-thinking about you.”

He loses his rhythm then, and for a few heartbeats you think he actually finished, because he’s just barely moving inside you. And then, like he’s decided something, he shifts, letting go of your leg and wedging his hand down between your bodies to find your clit. “You’re gonna make me fuckin’ blow my load if you keep talking like that.”

“Oh.” A devious part of you wants to press it, just to see what would happen, but you’re getting fucked and rubbed at the same time, and it’s too overwhelming to find the will to do anything but lay there and enjoy it. 

He leans forward to take your mouth, rough and careless, and for the first time you can feel the sharpness of his teeth on your tongue. It’s exhilarating. You kiss him back just as heedlessly, almost trying to cut yourself in your desire to fully experience him. 

“Fuck, stop,” he groans, wrenching his mouth away and rolling himself on top of you. “You’re killing me. Always killing me.”

He begins to move inside you again, elbow planted by your shoulder and fingers suddenly finding a motion that’s blindingly intense. 

“There we go,” he murmurs when you gasp and close your eyes. “Is that a good spot right there?”

It is, he knows it is. You don’t have to reply or do anything but grab hold of that sensation and wrap yourself tightly inside it. 

“It’s okay, baby. Don’t try to cum, just feel good for me.”

Oh. He must have noticed how you’ve got your legs flexed tight and hips locked into the best possible angle. You sigh and let go, melting into the bed and waving goodbye to the fierce orgasm that was right at your feet. 

But another one slides in to take its place, a little slower to take hold but just as consuming. Soon you have to close your eyes again and focus on submitting to the sensations he’s dragging you through. Don’t try to cum, don’t try— don’t— don’t cum—

You cum, you can’t help it. You cum hard and sweet, eyes springing open and gasping up into the dark nothingness above. You slowly come back to awareness with the sensation of his thumb, wet and slippery from your body, sliding up across your cheek and his hand wrapping around the back of your head. He’s got the side of his scruffy face pressed against yours, nipping carefully at the bottom of your ear with his teeth and still grinding slowly into the last of your wet spasms. 

“Oh baby, you needed that one,” he tells you right into your ear. “That was a fucking good one.”

There’s this barely discernible sound continually reverberating through his chest, like the beginnings of a growl that he can no longer hold back, and his hot, rapid pants are tickling across your ear. 

“How do you want me?” you ask weakly, still catching your breath. “Where do you want to cum?”

“Fuck, let me— can I—“

“Yes,” you agree impulsively, wrapping your hand around the back of his neck. 

“Baby—“

“Do it,” you demand. “Whatever it is, do it.”

You feel the twitch of hesitancy in his arms, but then he’s fisting your hair tight at the scalp and forcing your head to the side. A thrill of fear-laced excitement ripples through you when you finally feel those teeth on your neck, really feel them pressing down deep for the first time, nearly breaking skin. He’s giving you a few seconds to come to terms with the injury before it happens, so you suck in some breaths, as deeply as his weight will let you, and attempt to relax your muscles. 

He’s still holding his mouth there, unmoving, hips slowing like he’s having to invest all of his attention on the act of biting you, and still nothing happens.

“Fuck,” he finally groans, easing up the sharp pressure, “Can’t do it.”

“It’s okay. Just do it, baby. I want you to.”

He nuzzles back into your neck again, but his fangs aren’t pushed down so hard this time, and you can feel the aversion warring inside him with the way his breathing isn’t even. He wants this so bad, he wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t. He wants to cum while he’s got his cock deep inside you and his teeth sunk into your skin, he just doesn’t feel safe enough to do it. Second by second the want is slipping away, being replaced by some kind of insecurity, and you can only guess at the source. 

He’s overthinking when you want him absolutely brain dead with instinct. He needs to not even care if you’re hurt.

Without warning you tear your fingernails as hard as you can into the skin of his upper back. Deep, bloody and painful, not holding back.

There’s a ragged gasp at your neck and a spasm in the hand clenched into your hair, and for a fraction of a second you’re terrified that he’s going to rip it out of your scalp or slice off a clump or something. But then he bites you, hard, just like you wanted, and it’s so sudden that you aren’t braced for it. You can’t squash down the cry of pain or the way your body jerks away from him, though you have nowhere to go. 

He keeps his teeth in your flesh, going no deeper, and slowly his tongue begins to lap through the blood, but he’s not fucking you. He’s still right there, hard as can be in your wet cunt, but he’s so focused on how you’re receiving his bite that he’s forgotten the purpose. Your fingernails are still in his skin, so you ignore your pain and dig them hard, working all those little wounds as deep and painful as you can.  

That earns you an angry snarl and another bite, right alongside the first one, but through the blinding pain you feel his hips begin to move. He’s finally fucking you like he wants to, rough and deep, with the white hot brand of his teeth as your only companion to the way he’s wrecking you below. It should be full agony, and maybe that says something about how fucked up you are, because instead all you feel is cold blooded pride at your success. Your body is whimpering involuntarily in pain, but your mind is absolutely purring with that delicious self satisfaction.

He cums so hard that you’re afraid he’s going to accidentally chew through something important. A few of your hairs abandon your head while he spills himself out, flexing and shuddering against you with how good it is. You can feel the motion of his throat swallowing your blood, and somehow it’s not even weird that he’s doing that, like he’s just conveniently cleaning up the mess. 

You finally extract your fingernails from his skin and you can feel the shudder when your hands gently slide down his back. 

“Fuckin’ wildcat,” he complains between heavy breaths.

The hypocrisy has a giggle bursting out of you, and it takes you a little while to cut it off. You can feel his cheek rising in a smile against your face, and that’s when you get that little heart flutter of pure sunshine. 

When you’ve finally got a grip on yourself he takes hold of your chin to turn your head to the side and inspect the damage. 

“Am I gonna make it, doctor?” you ask impishly. 

He grumbles something too quiet for you to hear and then releases your chin. “You're getting it soft next time.”

“How long are we waiting?” You breathe, feeling him flex his hips against yours, still inside. 

“You know me, about a month.”

“Don’t even joke like that, god.”

He finally pulls out and… yeah, there’s a lot. It’s probably getting all over the blanket.

“You can sleep in my bed if you want,” you offer. 

“Mmm, okay.”

“Or we could go home.”

He’s halfway to sitting up before he stops and lays back down. “Tonight? Right now?”

“Yeah,” you say with a smile in his direction. “Let’s just leave. Take turns driving home, and then sleep all morning.”

You can hear him sucking in a breath through his teeth. “God, I like you.”

Chapter Text

You blink your eyes open, sleepily taking in the familiar surroundings of your bedroom, brighter than it usually is, and there’s this niggling voice in the back of your mind that’s trying to remind you that something is different. Finally, with a flicker of recollection, you roll over and confirm that instead of William lying beside you in bed, there’s a familiar, large body stretched out there. 

Victor is a stomach sleeper. You didn’t notice last night when you both collapsed into bed around four in the morning, but now he’s got one pillow tucked below his torso and he’s hugging another under his head, and it’s strangely… adorable. His face is turned in the other direction, but you believe he’s still asleep based on the slow rise and fall of his back. 

The blanket has fallen nearly to his waist with the warmth of the morning sun hitting your bedroom, gifting you an eyeful of tan, muscled skin. You shift onto your side and just shamelessly stare. Normally you’d feel guilty for ogling the powerful curve of his upper arm - contradictory in the way it’s tucked into a soft pillow and belonging to a man fast asleep - but after last night you feel a small sense of ownership. 

Careful not to wake him, you gingerly peel yourself off the bed and slip away to the bathroom to get rid of the last of that gatorade from the drive home. You’re still sleepy and fully intend on passing out again when you get back to bed, but you freeze in horror when the toilet paper comes back red. FUCK. Of course you’ve started your period. Not even a full day since you finally slept together and you’re already bleeding, because when is life ever fair?

Cursing the heavens, you fumble through your toiletry cabinet and grab double protection, just in case, because the last thing you need is Victor catching you bleeding onto the sheets while you sleep. Oh, god, can he smell it on you? Surely if he’s attuned enough to sense… other things, he can notice your menstruation. Shit, that’s disgusting and humiliating and just the worst thing you can possibly imagine. You think back a few months, trying to remember if he’s been around for any of your cycles. Surely he has. If you had only known, you would have… Taken five showers a day, or something. Tucked an air freshener into your underwear. Thrown yourself off a bridge.

You crack the door to the bedroom and are relieved to find Victor still exactly where you left him. But what if you go back to sleep now, and he wakes up and wants to fuck? You’ll be all conveniently in bed and braless, and you’ll have to tell him the awful truth, and it will mortify you. But if you go downstairs now and avoid him, you’ll only delay the inevitable and be sleep deprived when it eventually happens. 

Well, this is going to be your reality now. You’re Victor’s girlfriend, more or less. He’s going to be around while you menstruate and get sick and shave your belly, so you might as well get used to it. After all, he’s had a long life, and has surely experienced… lots of… women…

Nope, no depression spiral. Bad girl. 

You force yourself to creep back into bed, and though it does take longer than it should, you eventually fall asleep. 

When you wake up again, finally feeling rested, you’re alone in bed, and a text is waiting for you:

Went to the gym. Fed William. Sleep as long as you want, might take you shooting later

Why is it that the guys who say the sweetest things always text like robots? It’s a relief though, on several fronts: He’s gone for a little while, and he’s planning a non-sex activity for when he gets back. 

But you’re not too relieved, because you’ve never been involved with a man before who has a decent sex drive. You don’t even know what a period week looks like for a normal couple, let alone someone like Victor. There’s a thin tightrope you have to walk now, because if he tries to start something, it will only lead to an awkward conversation that will make you want to die. But if he doesn’t try to start something, that will probably hurt your feelings. Okay, let’s be real, it will definitely hurt your feelings.

You’re fucked.

“So how’s the roommate situation going?”

You glance over at your next door neighbor, a woman in her fifties who has a strangely suspicious look on her face, like she’s trying not to smile. 

“Fine,” you say automatically. And when she seems to raise her eyebrows and wait for something more, you sigh and admit, “We’re kind of dating now.”

“See, I knew it! I knew it! Didn’t I, Paul?” She looks at her husband for backup, and he just humors her with an amused nod from his patio chair. “I saw how he started mowing the lawn for you, and I told Paul, ‘That man is collecting feelings.’”

“Catching feelings,” Paul corrects.

“Catching feelings,” Liz repeats, evidently proud of herself. 

The turn of the conversation has you remembering the very first time Victor ever offered to take care of the yard for you, one day when you were glued to the couch with menstrual cramps and trying to muster the willpower to get up and do it. At the time it felt like a blessed coincidence, but now you wonder if he knew. You wanted to turn him down, just to maintain that status quo, but you were so desperate that day that you ended up surrendering to the assistance, and ever since then he’d taken care of it whenever his schedule allowed.

“Yeah, well, it’s still early stages, so keep it to yourselves,” you request. “And especially if you run into, um, Aaron, please don’t tell him.”

Liz makes a disbelieving noise and assures you that she’d never do such a thing. You’d kept the house in the divorce, and also, apparently, the neighbor’s loyalty. 

You’ve been hanging out so long in their driveway that you start to feel bad that you didn’t bring William, but you know why you’re there. You’re looking for any excuse to avoid the situation at hand. You fall naturally into the usual conversation of bunny sightings and which owl was being harassed by the blue jays, and when you finally hear your garage door opening, you peek over your shoulder through the shrub and feel quite thankful for the extra delay in seeing Victor.

“When are we gonna meet him?” Paul pipes up, earning a look of disapproval from his wife, though she looks back at you like she wants to know just as much. 

“Um, I’m not sure,” you stall, fiddling with the collar of your turtleneck that’s currently hiding your sins. “He’s very shy.”

“Oh, he’s coming over,” Liz announces excitedly, peering over the hedge, and suddenly you’re the shy one, crossing your legs and trying to make yourself as small as possible in the chair. 

“Hey, Victor,” you say nervously when he comes around the edge of the landscaping. 

He greets you back with your actual name, and it’s actually kind of weird to hear him say it after a full day of being Baby again. You introduce your neighbors, and hope he can’t read how ecstatic Liz is to be shaking his hand, which he’s mercifully prepared with a glove. Victor should be absolutely terrified of these people, because they’re the neighborhood busybodies. Completely harmless, of course, and quite dear to you, but they notice everything.  

“Are you in town for a few days?” Liz asks.

Victor pauses, and you love that. You tend to insert ‘um’s into your conversations, or fill the gaps with nonsense sentences until you can figure out what it is you want to say, but he just takes a second to collect his response, and it makes whatever he says feel extra important.

“I’m actually heading down to Florida tomorrow. Just a short trip.” 

Puerto Rico, if you remember correctly, and it feels incredible to be the only one he trusts enough to know that. A part of you wishes that he wouldn’t leave so soon, but then again, you were hiding from him in the neighbor’s driveway. 

The first really noticeable cramp starts to grind your insides. You tune out the conversation for a minute, focusing on breathing through it, until you hear Liz ask Victor what he does for a living.

“He’s in insurance, remember?” you pipe up, unsure if you ever compared notes on the story you told the neighbors. “Verifying claims and stuff like that.”

Victor is looking at you, but you keep your eyes on Liz, trying to appear as if you’re telling the truth and not actually in a great deal of pain. 

“Oh, that’s right. Must be fun to travel so much.”

“Sometimes,” Victor answers, his gaze sliding only momentarily to your neighbor before coming back to you, like he can’t bear to pull his eyes away. “Not this week, though. The weather is much nicer here.”

Your face is getting hot because he might as well have said, ‘My sweet little baby cupcake is here,’ for the way he looked at you. Paul is grinning, pretending to look down at his phone, and you know he’s going to give you a hard time about this as soon as Victor is gone. 

“Well,” you announce, standing up, “I’d better be getting back. Send me more owl pictures when you get them.”

You both make your goodbyes and head back to your house, a little slower than usual thanks to the cramps, but Victor silently keeps pace. Leaving him to be attacked by William once you get inside, you head straight into the kitchen and shuffle your hand around the medicine drawer in search of ibuprofen. Your body is conveniently angled to block his view so you quickly gulp the meds down with some water and manage to close the drawer again before you feel him coming up behind you. 

His solid arms wrap around you without hesitation, and it feels so good that you forget everything else to twist around, burying your face in his chest and holding him tight. He must have showered at the gym because there’s no way anyone could work out and still smell this good. 

“Let’s go out for lunch,” he suggests, and then checks the time. “Late lunch.”

“I thought you wanted to go to the range?” 

“Maybe another day.”

You’re a little relieved about that, because having to stand and concentrate around loud noises is pretty much the last thing you want to be doing right now. 

The rest of the day is wonderfully lazy. The painkillers kick in, and you make sure to shower and stay on top of changing out your toiletries to prevent even the smallest accident. The hardest part, though, is avoiding physical proximity with Victor. 

Not that it’s difficult logistically. He’s being incredibly respectful of your personal space, occupying much of the afternoon with laundry and doing things on the computer for his upcoming trip. No, the hard part is not seeking him out yourself. He’s big and warm, and even his muscles are soft when he’s relaxed. It would feel so good to just cuddle and kiss him, and if you had no shame you might even grind a little on his leg to help relieve that serrated slicing deep inside that the meds aren’t fully reaching. 

But you do have shame, lots and lots of it. There are only three things that give you any relief for those first few days of cramps: painkillers, hot baths, and orgasms. So when night has fallen and Victor lets you know he’s taking William out for a walk, you haul ass up to your bathroom and get the water running. 

Oh, it’s good. It’s so good. You groan and settle into the layer of bubbles, only realizing how achy you were when the hot water succeeds in dulling it. You stay there for a long time, as immersed as you can be, with your head leaned back and your eyes closed. So long that the water has lost most of its magic and the bubbles are nearly gone, and finally there’s a soft knock on the door. 

The water makes a swishing noise when you jump in fright, because you’re so unused to sharing intimate living spaces. Your eyes instantly scan the room for what Victor could possibly want, and then you spot his toiletry bag on the counter.

“Um, come in,” you call, bringing your knees up and attempting to cover yourself without appearing to be covering yourself. 

“Sorry,” you say when he slips in, “I didn't see your bag there or I would have left it outside for you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He grabs the bag like he’s going to leave with it, but hesitates and looks back at you. “Mind if I brush my teeth in here, or do you want privacy?”

“Oh. No, I don’t mind.” You actually do want privacy, but you’ve always been curious about Victor’s teeth, and the opportunity to watch him do anything with them is impossible to pass up. 

To your surprise, he starts flossing. It’s so unexpected that you find yourself staring openly, eventually earning a raised eyebrow while he works the floss between his molars. 

“Can you even get cavities?” you blurt out. 

He breathes a surprised laugh and says, “Not that I know of.”

“So why floss? I mean, not that I’m complaining, but I know I wouldn’t, if I had the choice.”

His hands halt their motion for a few seconds, and he doesn’t answer, even when he works through the last few teeth. Your question seemed utterly straightforward when you asked it, but when he tosses the floss in the trash and looks at you, you realize you must have accidentally hit something below the surface. 

“There are times,” he finally says, pulling out his toothbrush, “where I have to focus on being as human as I can. Small habits like wearing socks or flossing remind me to be human, and help keep me… sane.”

You’re absolutely bursting to ask more questions, because that was the biggest tease of an answer you’ve ever heard in your life, but Victor has started brushing his teeth and you’d feel rude asking him to talk through a mouthful of toothpaste. So instead you sit there in the lukewarm water, narrowing down your swarm of demands into a few concise questions. 

“What happens when you don’t focus on being human?” you finally ask when he’s done.

Victor comes over to sit on the edge of the raised tile surrounding your tub, propping an arm up on his knee and quickly raking his eyes over what he can see of you through the water.

“When I let my senses be my only reality, I become nothing you would recognize.”

“Like, dangerous?” you ask.

“Feral.”

The way his eyes darken, fastened onto the bites you know are quite visible on your neck, has you shivering momentarily. “What makes you get like that? Why the decision?”

He takes in a deep lungful of air, looking over your head at the plants trailing down from a shelf. A finger and thumb are fidgeting on the outer seam of his pants, something you’ve never seen him do before. “Sometimes when I lose the will to live. When I don’t care any more, about anything.”

Oh. Because he doesn’t even have the option of suicide. Obviously the question pops into your head, if he’s ever tried to end his own life, but even you are too polite to go there. Instead, you try to keep it light and joke, “So you’re always one bad breakup away from turning into Bigfoot?”

He gives you a little shrug, not at all convincing.

“What gets you back to civilization? Because obviously, here you are. More civilized than me.”

That gets you a rueful smile. “I get sick of myself. Living like that always ends up boring and predictable.” 

You’re satisfied with that, and you end up just silently staying in your respective positions, him leaning against the wall and you settled back against the tub, and for some reason it’s not even weird that you’re doing nothing but looking at each other.

It’s not that you’ve forgotten your dilemma of the afternoon, it’s more that it seems less important after your bathroom conversation. You end up on the couch afterwards, draped over Victor’s chest and not paying much attention to the movie you picked because he’s giving you an absolute feast of touch. Playing with your hair, running his hand over your back, exploring your fingers and how they fit into his. You’re a love-drunk puddle by the middle of the movie, when he tilts your chin up to kiss you. 

It’s so nice and relaxed that you let yourself enjoy it, and it doesn’t occur to you until he’s licking into your mouth, and you begin to feel that familiar stirring between your legs, that you have to shut it down before things go any further. 

You begrudgingly drag your mouth away and admit, “I’m on my period.”

Victor blinks down at you for a few seconds, like he’s failing to understand, and says, “Okay.” 

You swallow. “I can, um, give you a blowjob, if that’s what you want. I don’t mind.” 

A relieved breath punches out of you. You did it, it’s over. You said what you needed to say, and now you can just get it over with, and not worry any mo–

“I’m alright,” he replies, sounding amused. And then the bastard just nuzzles his face back down and kisses you again.

You try to relax. You try to pretend it’s just for fun, like a silly little makeout just for the sake of having something to do, but your body is responding. Everything feels warm and tingly, and your uterus gets extra achy, and after one tiny, involuntary moan into his mouth, you can feel him getting hard under your hip. 

“Oh, my God, Victor,” you complain breathlessly, “just let me blow you real quick. It’s no big deal, seriously.” 

He lets out an exasperated breath. “I’m a big boy, I’ll be okay.”

You frown, giving him a few seconds like you’re positive he’ll change his mind, before you finally prod, “You sure?”

“Very sure.”

You’re the one that starts the kiss this time, hesitantly, like you’re still not quite convinced. He just wraps his hand around your jaw that way that makes your knees weak, and gets his lips comfortable against yours once more. You're going to make out with him, and he’s going to be turned on, and you’re going to have to ignore it. What fresh hell is this?

Victor isn’t helping things. Out of all of the times he’s driven you mad by keeping your clothes on, he chooses this to be the day where his hand travels up under your shirt and begins to stroke the bare skin of your side and stomach. 

You’re not wearing a bra. Of course you’re not wearing a bra, you’re in your pajamas with your boyfriend, in the comfort of your own home, and your breasts are all tender and sensitive, so a bra is about the last thing you want on your body right now. But you’re suddenly hyper aware of exactly how braless you are when the backs of his knuckles skim the bottom curve of your breast. 

Is he trying to turn you on? Because if so… he’s succeeding. He slowly fondles your breast like he’s in no hurry to get you there, and you’re struggling to focus on the kiss, fighting back any noises so you won’t give him the satisfaction. If he thinks you’re going to let him get you off and not take care of his needs, he’s an idiot. Two can play the game of restraint. 

At least, that’s what you’ve stubbornly determined, until his thumb rolls gently over your nipple and a very unladylike whimper rises up unbidden. Victor makes a possessive sort of sound in his throat and does it again, just as slowly. Okay, new plan, because you’re not going to be able to hide how turned on you are. You’re just going to have to be horny and not let him do anything about it. 

Victor drags the bottom hem of your shirt up to bunch around your neck. He hasn’t taken his lips off of yours to actually look, so you’re not sure what the purpose is aside from driving you crazy a little more conveniently. But just having one bare tit pressed into his ribs and the other visibly out for him to touch is getting you really, really hot. Aimless need spirals like a caged bird through your belly, trying to find something to latch onto, but too far removed from the stimulation to do anything with it. He’s quickly getting you to the point where if you don’t get anything between your legs, you’re going to become quite grumpy and frustrated. 

His hand leaves your breast, and that feels like a mercy until he slides his fingertips under the band of your pants, just enough to have you jerking your hips away from the temptation.

“Can I touch you here?” Victor pulls his face back enough to ask, keeping his fingers inside the band and going no further. 

You shake your head, eyes closed and every nerve focused on the exact location of his fingers and how bad you want them on your clit. He sighs, pulling his hand out only to stroke little circles over the skin of your belly. 

“Will you touch yourself?” he finally asks. “I’ll hold you while you do it.”

Your eyes slide open then, looking up at those warm, serious eyes. You can still feel how hard he is, bunched up in his pants and not allowing you to do a thing about it. 

“I’m a big girl,” you level back at him, “I’ll be alright.”

You watch that light of competition spark in his eye, and he just makes a little, “Hmm,” noise, and kisses you again. 

You’re not pulling punches any longer. Your fingers are in his beard, running down his neck, dipping into the collar of his shirt to play with his chest hair. And you start to run your tongue, just a little at first so he can think he’s just imagining it, over the point of a fang. 

That’s when you get the first, glorious, intensely frustrated noise out of him. He should know you well enough to expect that you’re going to put up a decent fight in any sex game. You let your hand wander, stroking down his chest and belly until you stop just above the top of his belt, keeping your fingers there and running little up and downs to his navel and back.

You wait until his heart is a rapid thud under your ear before you pull your lips away and say, “Baby, please let me suck you.”

He heaves in a breath through his nose, closing his eyes like he can’t bear to see you lying half naked on his chest while he forms his reply. 

“I’ll get down on my knees on the floor,” you promise, pushing your luck by stroking your fingers lightly over his bulge while you murmur sweetly into his neck. “And I’ll take my clothes off, and you can sit here and just watch.”

Victor says something in a language you don’t understand, but it sounds a whole lot like a curse, and finally he’s reaching down to knock your hand away and loosen his own belt. 

You won. Your body heats in anticipation, and you crawl off of him to rid yourself of clothes while he does the same. And when you finally settle yourself down on the floor between his legs, and you look up at him, at the way his eyes are locked onto the slide of your tongue up his shaft, it sure tastes like victory. 

This position is electric. The submissive posture is there, but at the same time you can drape your elbows over his legs and focus on doing what you love in relative comfort. Victor wraps his fingers around the back of your head, and you think for a moment that he’s going to ruin it by taking over control of the motions, but he just keeps his hand there, tucking your hair out of your face and stroking a thumb down your cheek. 

You love it. Mind and body, you’re glowing with the attention and the shamelessness of what you’re doing. The tampon is fresh so it must be something completely different that’s lubing you between the legs, more and more noticeably by the minute. You’re going to have to get yourself off tonight, there’s no way around it. Maybe in the shower, or, if you can manage, do it discreetly under the blanket after Victor has fallen asleep. Lord knows you’ve had enough practice doing that over the length of your marriage. 

“I want you to do something for me,” Victor says, reaching his other hand out to trace lightly over the bruised skin on the side of your neck. 

“Okay,” you agree, tongue hardly leaving contact with the head of his cock when you reply.

“Feel how wet you are. Just reach down and feel.”

A moan breaks forth out of you even before you’ve done it, just from the way the command burns through you with arousal. You keep your mouth working him while you reach down, just so you can feel extra slutty when your fingers swipe through your slick entrance, and it feels so good that you moan again and work a few quick circles over your clit. 

“Tell me how wet you are.”

You start to pull your mouth off to do just that, but his hands are suddenly iron on the back of your head and neck, keeping you halfway down on his cock. It’s not enough to hit the back of your throat but definitely gives you a mouthful. You make a startled noise and work your tongue around a little, trying to comprehend what it is he wants you to do. 

“Just tell me around my cock.”

Another noise leaves you, not at the strange request, but at the way electricity rolls down your spine at the thought of trying to talk with your mouth still full of him. You have to press your fingers down hard onto your clit to try to ease some of the sudden, intense pressure. 

Once you’re sure you’ve got a grip on yourself, you work your mouth carefully, pressing your tongue onto him to avoid scraping him with your molars when you finally get out, "I’m really wet." With his cock still restricting the movement of your mouth it comes out all wet and garbled and you can’t believe how turned on you’re getting.

“Yeah? Why are you so wet, baby?”

He’s still not letting you pull back one bit, so you just shudder through a few more circles of your finger and slowly get out some muffled, drooly version of, “Because your cock feels so good in my mouth.”

“Aww, baby, I know it does. Feels good to me too.” 

You’re fucking close. Already, with hardly more than a minute or two working your clit, you’re nearly ready to cum. The whimper that comes out sounds so much more embarrassing with your mouth full, and you have to rip your hand away and clamp it onto the front of your thigh to avoid something even more obscene.

You suck in a deep breath through your nose and ask him, as slowly and articulately as you can, if you can keep sucking him off.

“Not until you cum, baby.”

The fucking bastard. 

You blink in disbelief and rage, mentally running through your options. First of all, you’re going to try to get free. Laying both palms on the top of his legs, you test exactly how strong his hold is on your head and find it basically unmovable. It’s infuriating. You’re here, suffering through your period, horny as fuck and thinking you won, and all of a sudden you find that you’re quite spectacularly powerless. 

Finally you relax back down, trying not to drool quite so much onto his lap, and let out an unintelligible whine in the hopes that he’ll take pity on you. 

He just strokes a thumb across your jaw and says sympathetically, “I know, baby. I know. You’re gonna have to rub that clit for me a little bit longer. Just breathe and touch yourself.”

A substantial part of you still wants to resist. He can’t technically make you touch yourself, and you’re not all that uncomfortable here. Maybe to someone else this would be more of a punishment, but you’re you, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. If you really wanted to push yourself, you could stay here for quite a while before your jaw hurts bad enough to surrender, but of course by then the enjoyment of finishing him off would be long gone. 

Resigning yourself to losing this round, you bring your hand back down between your legs.

“There you go,” he says, letting out what almost sounds like a relieved breath. “That’s a good girl.”

It doesn’t seem quite as bad, letting him win, when your fingers are making you feel so good and you know he’s watching, pushing your hair out of your face whenever it falls down. You close your eyes and smooth your tongue over him while you rub yourself, pushing through those last few walls of reality until eventually you’re shuddering and gasping through your orgasm. 

Victor’s hands finally release you, smoothing down to your shoulders in a comforting way while you slide your mouth free and close your eyes, panting through those last few pulses. Finally you steady yourself with a wet hand back on the top of his knee, and you look up at him, brain still soft and fuzzy and not quite remembering what it was you were angry about.

He remembers. He’s got a wary look on his face, and his hands are conveniently braced nearby to prevent some kind of attack. It sobers you, and you wipe spit off your chin with the back of your hand and mentally flick through your options.

God damn it, you don’t even want to get back at him. Somewhere between surrendering and cumming, you completely lost your will to fight. All you want to do now is touch him and make him cum so good that his brain melts. 

You sigh, wrapping your hand around the base of his cock and giving the tip a lingering kiss. “I love you, Victor.”

It might as well have been a stab to the heart for how he flexes in your hand and sucks in a surprised breath. 

“You’re always so strong,” you tell him softly, planting little licks along his length, “and good to me, and make sure I’m taken care of.” 

He makes a happy rumble in his chest and strokes his thumb over the back of the hand that’s wrapped around him. You can feel him finally relaxing into what you’re doing, exactly the way you want him to. 

“But you’re going to have to meet me halfway,” you tell him, “and let me take care of you sometimes when you need it. Can you do that for me, baby? Will you let me love you so much?”

Lethal. You watch the motion of his throat swallowing, and he whispers, “Yeah, baby.”

And when you sink your mouth back down onto him, it feels a little bit like you won after all.

Some time later, draped back over him in a soft tangle of legs, you ask, “Why don’t you want to cum without me?”

His claws scratch gently up and down your back. “Because you’re the one who needs the practice.”

Art by 8bitkraken

Chapter Text

“Why were you so nervous about getting your period?”

You groan internally and switch your phone over to the other ear. Everything was going so well, and you were just beginning to think Victor hadn’t noticed, and now here you are, your only consolation being that he didn’t start this conversation face to face.

“Well, obviously, it’s embarrassing. And gross. And I was afraid to, um, disappoint you, if you wanted to, like, fuck, which you did, so I’d say it was pretty justified.”

You lay on your bed and cringe, ready to dig in your heels about periods being gross, but he just says, “Do you know how many times I’ve had blood on me in my life?”

“No? A lot, I’m guessing?”

“Hundreds of times. Thousands. A whole lot more than I’ve had you on me.”

God damn it. You stutter for a few seconds, trying to form your argument on the fly. “Th-there, look, there’s a big difference between having blood on you, like, from a fight, and having to fuck someone who’s bleeding out their fun parts.”

“Having to fuck…?” he repeats incredulously. “Baby. Of course there’s a difference. Cause one is some random bastard who smells like shit and drugs, and the other one is you,” he lowers his voice, “making the cutest little noises.”

Your fingers press into the bites on your neck, reassuring yourself that they’re real with that sore ache. “You really don’t care?”

“Not a fuckin’ bit.”

You try to imagine what period sex would be like, how you could possibly keep blood from getting everywhere while it’s getting fucked out of you. The shower, maybe? Lay down a towel?

“You’re gonna regret this,” you finally promise. “I get really horny on my period.”

Victor sighs on the other end of the line. “You gotta learn to make better threats, baby.” And now you’re just imagining him fucking you on every available surface as soon as he gets back.

“An-y-way,” you interject pointedly, “how’s Puerto Rico?”

Victor gruffs out an annoyed noise. “Sucks. Fuckin’ hot as shit, and humid, and the guy I’m after is staying with someone who I’m pretty sure is trafficking. Everything locked down real tight. Gonna hit the house tonight and hopefully I can be on the first flight out in the morning.”

“I’m sorry. William says he’ll let you be the middle spoon when you get back.” 

“Hah. You know that’ll last about five seconds before–” Victor cuts himself off, and there’s silence for a moment. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Roommate and his friends just left in a van.” There’s a full minute of silence, and your heart rate starts to pick up before he finally says, “I’m gonna hit it now.”

“Oh my god,” you breathe, “don’t… get too hurt. Text me when you’re safe.”

“Bye, baby.”

The call ends before you can respond. ‘Don’t get too hurt?’ Really? You couldn’t come up with anything better than that? 

You’ve always known that he does stuff like this, like this is just a normal Wednesday for him, but actually hearing him mention the specifics feels stark and unsettling. This isn’t some white collar dude walking down the street in Pittsburg, this is like, cartels. Even after seeing the perfect skin of his back the morning after you clawed it up, you still sit in your anxiety, as if just worrying about him enough will somehow help his chances.

You fill your time by emailing him a list of different flights for the next morning and afternoon, hoping he’ll be on one of them and very glad you’ll be the one picking him up from the airport. An hour goes by, then two, and you finally get a text:

I’m fine, got some more I have to do. Book the 11a flight for me

It should be a relief that you hear something, and that he’ll be back before night time tomorrow, but something about the ‘more’ he has to do sits odd with you. Granted, you don’t know much about what he actually does right after a hit. Maybe there are loose ends to tie up, or fingerprints to wipe. Or, horrible idea that it is, wounds to heal.

You realize that what feels off about this is the fact that he even texted you at all. He never texts you before a job is finished, so why would he do it now?

That night is terrible. You’re flitting in and out of dreams, checking your phone a few times whenever you’re conscious enough to remember why you’re stressed. But it isn’t until morning the next day, after you’ve already broken down and used up your one allotted call which he didn’t answer, that you finally get another text:

Job is done

It’s normal enough, concise in the way he always texts, but something still feels off. He’ll usually call you back if you’ve called. Ever since he started including you in the planning, he’s almost always called as soon as he’s finished with a job. The only reason you can think of that he doesn’t call now is that he doesn’t want to talk to you, and that’s worrisome because the only reason he wouldn’t want to talk to you is if he doesn’t want to talk to anybody.

Victor is completely closed off when you pick him up from the airport, and all it does is confirm the reason you were stress-chewing the inside of your mouth the whole way there. He hasn’t even removed his gloves for the hour-long return trip, and just gives you the barest answers to your questions, eyes cast on his phone or out the window. It’s surreal, because you had nearly forgotten that gutting feeling of someone you love intentionally not looking at you.

You know it probably has nothing to do with you. Something bad happened on that job, and your relationship simply hasn’t progressed far enough for him to talk about it. He just needs a little space to decompress, and a decent block of sleep, and then everything will be fine again. All you have to do is not allow yourself to be hurt by it.

Marriage has unfortunately trained you very well for dealing with an emotionally distant man. You settle yourself back into that familiar mental hiding place, a little closet that cuts you off emotionally from the rest of the world. It’s not soundproof, and it’s not as good as running away, but it’s the next best thing. 

“Oh, shit,” you mutter when you finally exit the highway. “I forgot to get gas. Do you mind if we stop real quick?”

“Sure,” Victor says, barely flicking his eyes over to the gauge. “I need some cigarettes.”

That’s a little bit of a surprise because of all the times you’ve been intimate, he’s never tasted or smelled like smoke. You kind of had this unconscious belief that he only smoked when you weren’t romantically involved, like he didn’t do it all that much and could stop whenever he wanted. Maybe he reserved it for jobs that went bad, and you just never knew enough details to connect the dots.

“I’ll take care of the gas,” you offer, pulling up to the pump, and he doesn’t fight you on it. 

You pause working through the hundred gas pump questions to watch Victor’s back disappear through the doors covered in cigarette ads, and because you’re in your closet, you don’t feel a thing. No sadness that he’s upset, no guilt that you should have said or done something different to make him happy, not even any longing for him to open up to you. Just… emptiness. He can’t hurt you if there’s nothing to hurt. 

Hearing your name being called in a male voice from the other side of the pump snaps you unceremoniously back to reality.

“Aaron?” You reply, scrambling to adjust to how this day just went from bad, to the worst thing you could possibly imagine.

“Hey,” your ex says, his familiar, tall frame coming around the pump so he can speak with you, as if he has some conceivable reason to do so. “You’re still living here?”

“You know me,” you reply, not even doing him the courtesy of forcing a fake smile. “Predictable.”

“Oh, come on, I never called you that.” If you remember correctly, the word he used was, ‘boring,’ as if he hadn’t spent seven years sucking every bit of enjoyment out of your life. 

“How’s Chelsea?” you ask casually, turning back to the screen that’s trying to verify for the second time that you don’t, in fact, want a car wash.

“We… broke up.”

“Aww, so sorry about that,” you say, your tone suggesting very obviously that you are not.

“Yeah, that’s just life. How are you doing?”

“Good.” You grab the handle and start pumping gas, hoping the sooner you’re done the sooner you can escape. 

“Good. You look… good. New car?”

“Oh, it’s–” you cut yourself off, suddenly realizing that if you admit it’s not your car, he’s going to ask a whole lot of questions you don’t want to answer. “Is that why you came over? To ask about my car?”

“Well, considering you’ve still got my number blocked, I didn’t want to lose the opportunity to see how you were doing.” 

You finally turn to him, fully intending on giving him some scathing response, but that impulse trails away to nothing because to the side of Aaron’s body, you see the gas station door open and Victor walk out. 

You picture it clearly, as your eyes make contact with Victor’s, like the world has suddenly shifted to slow motion while the tempting scene plays out in your head.

Victor coming over to stand beside you, and Aaron taking in his height and power and stupid crazy sex appeal while you possessively link your fingers into his. You’d introduce Victor as your boyfriend, and gobble up the way Aaron’s eyes narrow, picturing for perhaps the first time you moving on with someone far better than him. Forcing him to see you as desirable in a way he never has, with a man like Victor touching you and loving on you.

Victor would let you objectify him like that, you know he would. He’d overlook the fact that you’ve never held his hand in public before, and even as tired as he is, he’d stand there and look pretty for you. Let you make up some high-paying occupation and talk about the dog you adopted together, and the cushy life you now have, while your ex remains single and desperate enough to approach you at the gas station. God, it would feel good, and right, like the universe has finally aligned.

But your big, bitey man called you smart once, and impressing your shitty ex is cheap compared to living up to Victor’s estimation. 

“Aaron,” you say, nodding to your man when he arrives, “this is my friend Victor. And Victor, this is… Aaron.”

“The evil ex husband,” Aaron supplies, holding out his hand and leveling Victor an assessing gaze, like he doesn’t buy your ‘friend’ line for a second.

You freeze for a moment, just praying that Victor isn’t the sort of guy insecure enough to start a squeeze-off, but he appears to shake your ex’s hand quite normally, face unreadable, and says, “Hey. Heard a lot about you.”

And that’s a strange thing to say, because you’ve told him nearly nothing about him whatsoever. 

“I would say I hope it’s all good, but I doubt it, considering the nature of divorce.”

Victor’s eyes drift to you, and you just stand there helplessly, feeling like a kid whose parent just requested a behavior report from the teacher. Either way Victor replies, in the affirmative or the negative, it will strip you of the tiny amount of authority you finally managed to glean. They’re talking about you, in front of you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

“Yeah, well, doesn’t really matter that much any more, does it?” Victor drawls, and Aaron blinks like that was the last thing he expected him to say. Your ex husband glances over at you, and you see that recognition in his eyes, incredulity that you’ve already moved on.

The gas nozzle clicks, startling you, and Aaron quickly says his goodbyes while you finish up. 

“It was good to see you,” Your ex husband says over his shoulder. 

“Bye, Aaron.”

You and Victor silently climb back into the car, and you turn to look at him, mouth opening to say some kind of ‘thank you.’ But he’s yawning heavily into his glove, looking absolutely exhausted, so you just turn on the car and begin to drive the short distance home. 

“Why did you tell him I’m your friend?”

You glance over in surprise, for some reason unprepared for that question. “Um. Well, I couldn’t say you’re my boss, because he works for the FBI and I didn’t want him asking questions. And I didn’t want to call you my boyfriend, because… we’ve never had that conversation, and I’m not sure if we’re, um, exclusive or not, and I didn’t want to assume.”

“Baby,” he protests gently.

“What? Plenty of guys say ‘I love you’ to women they’re not exclusively dating. You could have, like, ten other safehouse girlfriends for all I know.”

There’s a little pause, and you concentrate on waiting for a break in traffic to turn onto your street.  

“Do you want to be exclusive?” he finally asks.

“Yes.”

“Then we’re exclusive.”

The way he says it, like it’s already occurred, has you narrowing your eyes in suspicion. “When’s the last time you…?”

Victor sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Baby, I’m gonna shoot you straight. I’m fucking beat, and my ribs are still a little broken. I’m gonna need some sleep before we talk about stuff like that.”

“Oh my god, are you alright? I didn’t even think… I’m sorry.”

He just brushes it off with a casual wave of his hand, like broken ribs are a slight injury compared to what he’s used to. You’re trying to remember if he’s ever told you exactly how fast he heals, and wonder if there were any other injuries that are already better.

You want to ask what happened. The desire is so strong that you have to dig your teeth into your bottom lip while you pull into the garage, but you manage to restrain yourself. The attempt to carry Victor’s suitcase for him only earns you an exasperated look, so you decide to give him space and take William out for a walk instead. 

It’s a long walk, because so much has happened that you want time to process it, and you want Victor to go right to sleep. Partly because he needs it, and partly because you hope it will get you answers sooner when he wakes up. 

The house is quiet when you return, so much so that you wonder for a second if he’s gone. But then William is running up the stairs and sniffing under your bedroom door, and you feel that rush of relief that he’s home, safe and comfortable and asleep in the bed that smells like you. 

Night still hasn’t fallen, but you can’t stand the idea of watching TV by yourself. You quickly eat some leftovers and move the laundry to the dryer, and then climb the stairs to your room, and attempt to sneak in quietly without William getting past your leg.

There’s no need for such measures, because your bed is empty. You blink at it, heart dropping like a stone, and have to reassure yourself that the car is still there, so he can’t have gone far. William finally gets past you with his ears perked up, searching around a little bit before he darts down the hall to Victor’s old room. Of course, he wants to be alone. You restrain William and open the door a crack to check, and sure enough, there’s Victor, stretched out on his side and dead to the world. It must be the right side ribs, then, that are broken, and you make a mental note to be extra careful with him when he eventually wakes. 

There’s a fizzing edge of adrenaline rushing through you now, so you head back downstairs. You scroll through videos on your phone while you watch TV and chew through half a bag of chips, anything to distract you until you’re exhausted enough to sleep. It doesn’t work. Nine o’clock rolls around, and you’re just as stimulated as before. Giving up, you head upstairs and get ready for bed in your empty room, and lay yourself down in that lonely bed. 

You try to close yourself back into the mental closet, but the thing is, you don’t want to be there. It’s been so long since you last used it that you can actually see it for what it is, a lonely, boring space that smells like cat pee and mothballs. What used to be your safe place from your husband’s sour moods now feels a whole lot like jail. That knowledge makes you spiral, feeling more and more sorry for yourself, and finally you just get sick of it. 

Your feet pad silently across the carpeted hall, over to Victor’s room, and you slip inside. It’s completely dark in there, but you’re able to slowly crawl onto the bed without disturbing the other resident too much, and once you’re settled under the blanket he wakes up enough to wrap his arm around you and let out a sleepy, happy noise into your hair. He smells a little like cigarette smoke, but it doesn't bother you. Lord knows you've coped in worse ways.

His warm hand snakes up under the hem of your tshirt, sliding across your bare skin until he finds your breast, and he just holds it there in his palm. You’re expecting him to keep waking up and start something, but he doesn’t. He falls back to sleep with you held against him like that, hand pressed against your breast like it’s just a nice thing to hold, and you actually kind of feel for the first time like you have a boyfriend.

It’s some time in the middle of the night when you wake up. Victor’s hand has slid down to your stomach, and you lay there for a few minutes, slowly retrieving your consciousness, and wondering if he’s awake too. His breathing doesn’t feel like the usual deep, slow breaths his big lungs put out when he’s asleep, and something tells you you’re right.

“What happened in Puerto Rico?” you whisper into the darkness.

He shifts slightly behind you and takes a deep breath. You wait patiently, knowing that this is part of it. You’ll be here for him and listen to whatever he’s able to say.  

“I found a dead kid last night, tied up in the basement.”

“Oh, baby,” you breathe, devastated on his behalf. 

“Spent the rest of the night finding everyone and killing them.”

That should be a shock to hear, admitting to that kind of murder rampage, but instead the only regret you can find within yourself is that he was the one who had to do it. That society had failed that kid over and over until the only redemption available was bloodthirsty revenge in the form of a hitman they didn’t even know. 

Your hand comes up under your shirt too, to stroke over the back of his in what you hope is a comforting gesture. 

“Didn’t want to sleep with you cause I get… weird, sometimes, after something like that. Didn’t want to scare you.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him. 

There’s this strange tension in his body, like he’s dying to do or say something, but holding himself back. 

“Tell me,” you murmur. 

“When… When I was a kid…” he trails off, still tense, so you grab his hand and slide it up over your breast again and hold it against you with yours.

“I had a brother,” he finally says. “And this was a long time ago, mind you. He was a… a mutant, too. And when his powers came the first time, he did something real bad with them.”

He pauses like he expects you to say something, or tell him to stop talking, but you don’t. “My father was afraid of him, and what he could do, so he chained him up in the basement to keep everyone else safe.”

“Victor,” you breathe, heart breaking. 

“My father was… someone you wouldn’t like very much. He wouldn’t stop telling me about it, trying to convince me that it was for the best, and my brother would eventually learn to be good. That he deserved what was happening to him.”

“No, baby. No kid deserves something like that.”

He sighs deeply into your hair, nuzzling his lips around until they find your neck. You try to imagine him as a boy, witnessing something so unspeakable, and too young to do anything about it. The violence and cruelty and fracture of the soul it would take for a father to do that to his own son. 

Victor hasn’t said anything else, and you’re sure he’s revealed all he wants to, but you can’t help but ask, “What happened to your brother? Did he ever escape?”

You swear you feel a hint of claws on your skin, just for the briefest moment before his hand is kneading your breast gently. “No, baby. He died in that basement.”

Chapter Text

Sleep is simply impossible. Every worry from the last day circles through your mind, never pausing long enough to get a good grip on it before the next one takes its place.  

Aaron. Puerto Rico. Victor’s childhood. Period sex. Victor avoiding you. Being his girlfriend. Broken ribs.

Over and over they filter through your thoughts like some nightmarish PowerPoint presentation, keeping you just awake enough to add “can’t sleep” to the list of worries. 

There’s a familiar restlessness rising inside you, that inescapable impulse to leave. To run, to drive, to walk alone at night until your mind and body are exhausted. Something, anything that will remove this suffocating feeling in your throat, like a scream prickling up your airway that you’re simply too sane to let yourself release. Too sane to scream, too scared to walk, too predictable to drive. That’s the worst part of it, how much you comprehend that you are your own jailer.

All you’d have to do is get up. Just push yourself slowly off the mattress and escape Victor’s arms without waking him up. You mentally practice the movement, over and over, yet you can’t quite find the will to accomplish it. What would be the purpose? There’s not like you have anywhere you can go that will calm your agitation. There isn’t a single place you could drive to tonight that would make any difference. 

You want to see Victor’s house. That used to be your distraction, walking around that cul-de-sac and looking for a sign of life in those dark windows. But now it’s a normal, single family home, with pumpkins on the porch and a welcome mat, and it won’t satisfy. You’re already in Victor’s house, in his bed, in his arms, and there’s no way to get any closer.

“Can’t sleep?” Victor asks quietly, somehow not scaring the crap out of you by suddenly breaking the silence. You tense, not wanting to admit that you can’t sleep because then he’ll ask what’s wrong, and the last thing you want to do right now is talk through all the things you are powerless to change. 

When you don’t answer, he says, “Your heart is pounding.”

Fuck, of course it is. You’ve probably been keeping him up all this time with the endless anxiety coursing through your body. 

“Sorry.” You lift your head, finally giving your muscles the command to get up and let him sleep in peace, but his arms possessively tighten around you. 

Trapping you.

You fucking panic. There’s not even a second to process what’s happening before your instincts kick in, and you just start thrashing. Gasping, frantically clawing at his forearms and kicking off from the mattress in a sudden explosion of every ounce of strength you possess. 

“What the–” is all Victor has time to get out before he’s letting you go, so suddenly that your momentum has you tumbling off the side of the bed. 

You instantly pop to your feet, panting and practically vibrating with the aftershocks of the mental violence you just experienced. Even while your mind is screaming at you to stop, to just calm down and deal with this like a rational person, your body is still telling you how unsafe you are. You were feeling trapped, and then you were trapped, and now all that matters is the exact location of the door and the distance to reach it.

Victor’s breathing is discernible from the general area of the bed, heavier than normal, but he doesn’t move to grab you. He just stays there, silent and still, and lets you decide if you need to run for the door, or if you can afford to stand here for a little bit and calm down. 

It takes longer than you’d like. Your civilized brain begins to oust your lizard brain, and with it comes a heavy wave of guilt and humiliation. You step backwards until your shoulders hit the wall, covering your face with your hands and racking your brain for some way to explain what just happened. The thing is, there’s no good explanation. You don’t deserve to have that reaction. Victor is the one who should get to be like this, not you.

“I’m sorry,” you say, finally lowering your hands. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“It’s alright, baby.” He’s saying that like someone soothing a child, and it irritates you because it almost sounds like this breakdown comes as no surprise to him. As if, no matter that you’ve managed to lock it down tight, he somehow guessed how fucked up you are and was just waiting for this to happen. You just shake your head and flatten your palms against the wall, working to calm your inhales.

“I followed you home,” he tells you, “the first time I ever saw you.”

For some reason that confession has icy dread squeezing your chest, and you’re so far gone in the panic spiral that you’re unable to understand why.

“Just got back from a job, and you walked by, lookin’ so pretty and sad, and smelling like someone I hadn’t thought about in fifty years. I needed a distraction that night, so I followed you.”

There’s an audible click, and all of a sudden you have to squint against the blast of lamp light illuminating the room. Victor settles back in place, shirtless as usual, propping himself up on one arm and eying you with unnerving calm. You’re trying to remember that night, what could have possibly made it worth a story, but everything except spotting Victor seems to be erased from your memories. You just stand there in growing unease, steeling yourself for whatever mortifying thing he heard Aaron say to you. 

“You went home and started watching TV with your husband,” he continues, speaking quietly like he’s afraid you’ll freak out again. “I was able to jump to the top of that bay window on the back of the house and watch you from there. There was something on TV that tickled you the right way, and had you laughing for a long time. Real, happy kind of laughs that made me smile.”

Victor extends a claw, looking like he’s about to rough up the blanket but then thinks better of it. “And then your husband made this stupid fuckin’ noise, like there was nothing more annoying in the world than you bein’ happy, and you stopped laughing. Didn’t even say anything to the dick, just watched the rest of the show without even smiling.”

“Why are you telling me this?” you ask, shame scorching through you, wanting to be anywhere but here right now. 

“You don’t have to pretend with me. I saw it. I know.”

A humorless laugh barks out of you, even though you have to raise your eyes upwards to keep tears from spilling out. “Oh yeah, I’m totally so happy that you saw me at my most pathetic point in life.”

“You think I take any pleasure in it? I didn’t come back for a long time ‘cause I was afraid if I saw him, I’d do something you wouldn’t like very much.”

You do laugh then, a weird cry-laugh that you force out until it sounds insane. “Oh, yeah,” you say in a poor imitation of his voice, “‘I’ll just wait a year or two, she’ll be nice and fucked up by then.’ Well guess what? I fucking am.”

“That’s not–” Victor starts to say, but you cut him off in a raging torrent.

“You wanna know why I’m nervous about period sex? Because my ex couldn’t stand the idea. Went years giving him head on my period because that’s the kind of pathetic slut I am, until one day he was suddenly super into anal.” 

You huff miserably. “He wouldn’t touch me when I wasn’t absolutely perfect down there, but fucking my ass was A-okay! I didn’t want to do it, but he kept pushing it for months, and finally I caved in, because it felt good to be wanted for once. And surprise surprise, I liked it. But the funny thing about someone only wanting you for kink is you start to feel a little used. So now the idea of anyone fucking my ass makes me want to blow my fucking brains out.”

His face is grave. You’re crying freely, chest heaving up and down, but for some reason actually shocking him into silence is just sobering enough to get a tiny grip on yourself.

“I’m not mad at you,” you tell him, wiping your nose on your shirt. “I’m yelling at you, but I’m mad at myself.”

He’s just sitting there patiently, waiting to see if there’s anything else you need to tell him, and when there isn’t he says, “Come here, baby.”

You do a quick assessment of your body and find that the confessions and the crying have successfully wiped away all that agitation from earlier. Now you’re just an insecure wet mess, and you actually do really want some comfort, so you jerkily push off from the wall and crawl into bed again. 

Victor wraps you in his arms without hesitation, tucking the side of your face against his while you try to unstuff your nose as quietly as possible. 

“Today sucked ass,” you mumble.

“Yeah it did.”

His fingers are running through your hair, playing with the strands like it’s solely for his enjoyment, and you’re just glad he’s not trying to soothe you because you really don’t deserve it. 

“Want to talk about it some more?” he asks.

You instantly shake your head.

“Think you can go back to sleep?”

You make a complainy noise in your throat and tug on him, pulling and leveraging him with your legs until he lets you roll him on top of you. 

“Just smush me,” you instruct. “Eventually I’ll pass out from lack of oxygen and, voila, problem solved.” But the bulk of his weight sadly remains on his elbow, and one of his knees pushes your legs apart so he can settle between them. 

“Or,” he offers, nuzzling his scruff against the sensitive skin of your jaw, “you can let me take your mind off things for a little while. Get you nice and sleepy.”

“That seems like a lot of work for you when smushing is on the table.”

“Maybe I’ve had a hard day, too.” He pulls back enough to slide his hand up your shirt, dragging the bottom hem with him until your breasts make contact with his bare chest. “Maybe I don’t want to think about anything but you for a little while. Maybe I like work.”

He takes your wrist in his enormous hand, planting it into the mattress right above your head and running his thumb along the inside. There’s no way he can’t feel your pulse beating fast there, or notice you minutely pushing your tits up into his chest, or smell what he’s doing to you.

“I like this,” you say, grateful for the lamp so you can actually see his warm eyes looking down at yours. “I like that you’re not so careful with me now.”

“If you wanted me to be rough, all you had to do was ask.”

“I meant more like, not asking for permission. I don’t think you realize how much I trust you with my body.”

You said that unthinkingly, not meaning anything by it beyond the obvious, but you can feel the effect of your words right between your legs, when he’s suddenly rock fucking hard against you. It makes you wonder what that kind of trust means to someone as sharp and dangerous as him.

“Baby,” he breathes, tightening his hold on your arm just shy of pain.  

“Will you put your claws on me?” you ask, the rush of having this effect on him making you suddenly ravenous for more. “Please?”

“Fuck.” He leans down and brushes his lips over yours, lingering to worry your lower lip between his teeth. “So hard to kiss you when your mouth is busy sayin’ such nice things.”

You murmur against his lips, dropping your voice slow and soft, “Do you like to keep my mouth busy, Creed?”

He pulls himself up, letting go of your wrist to flatten his palm over the side of your face and turn it until you can’t see anything but the wall and one of his fingers draped across the bridge of your nose. “You trying to make me nut in my fucking pants?”

But a delicious shiver runs down your spine because he’s got his claws out, and his other hand drags them up your stomach, to the sensitive skin of your exposed breasts. You can see yourself quite clearly in your mind’s eye, one hand still above your head where he left it, face forced to the side, goosebumps rising across your skin at the wickedness of his claws while you subtly clench your thighs together. 

The pressure on your head feels so fucking good, because he’s not giving you a choice. You don’t have to think about how he’d want you to touch him, or about grabbing a cleanup towel from the other room, you just have to lay there and let him play with you until he’s satisfied that you’re wet enough to fuck.

It won’t take long. He’s running a sharp circle around your nipple, tightening everything up until it’s all one small, sensitive nerve that he’s teasing, and you can feel your pulse in your clit with how fast you’re getting turned on. It’s not like the first time, when he was testing your pain tolerance to see if you really wanted it. He’s just sitting back and watching the scariest part of him arouse you in a way that you’re powerless to hide. 

Five sharp points rake back down your stomach, dipping straight into your underwear, and you gladly open your legs to give him better access. There’s finally a digit spreading your wetness up your clit, but then he just holds it there, unmoving. 

“Are you partial to these clothes?”

You fight the desire to rub up against his finger and ask, “Are you going to let me cum if I say no?”

He seems to take that as permission, and slides his hand off your pussy to somehow cut away your shorts and underwear with barely a rip to be heard. 

Maybe you’re still feeling a little of the earlier insanity, or maybe not being able to see him makes you bold, because you blurt out, “Will you let me feel it? Like, on my clit?”

You immediately regret letting your curiosity get the best of you, because the hand on your face tenses, and now all you can feel is the air of the room chilling you between the legs, an unwelcome reminder that he’s still not touching you. 

“You’re gonna have to be really fucking still.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” you explain quickly.

“Hush, baby.”

Fingers slide through your folds, getting you as wet as possible, and you just lock your body obediently into place and wait for the prick. 

Nothing.

He moves his hand off your face with a, “Stay just like that,” and plants it firmly right above your pubic bone, fingers splayed out to prevent the possibility of any movement. It makes sense, you suppose, because one wrong move would probably ruin his chances of getting laid for a couple of weeks. Your gaze is unfocused on the wall in front of you, and you finally piece together that though he likes putting his claws on your body, for some reason he doesn’t want you to watch him do it. 

A lance of electricity suddenly shoots through you, straight from your clit, and you breathe out an audible, “hhhuh!” in surprise. And then it’s gone, of course, because he thinks he hurt you.

You just lay there for a few seconds, blinking in shock, before you find the presence of mind to say, “Do it again,” and after a moment of hesitation, he does. 

Fuck, it’s not at all what you expected. Your body doesn’t even register the sharpness as danger, just a prickling sensitivity so concentrated that it pumps heated exhilaration through your blood. 

“Whhhy does it…” you start to say, failing to fight the tremor that runs through you, and glad for his restraining hand. “Why does it f-feel so good?”

“I… don’t know. No one’s ever asked me to do this.” He’s working a tiny path across the most sensitive part of your body, barely even touching you with the point of his claw. 

“Holy shit,” you warn, hand blindly finding his knee, because things are suddenly snowballing out of your control, “Fuck, fuck, I'm gonna cum.”

There’s a quiet curse from somewhere above you, but he’s intelligent enough to keep doing the motion he has been, back and forth over the hood of your clit.

“Canyoukeepmedown?” you pant out as fast as possible, because it’s coming on so quickly that there isn’t even time to prepare. His hand forces your hips farther into the mattress, and amazingly, impossibly, an instant later you’re cumming, bolts of pure energy crackling through your body.

You've never been one to really believe in a 'screaming orgasm,' mostly because the ones in porn are fake, and you've never felt the need to scream, no matter how hard you've cum. But, okay, you do get almost there this time. Your lungs empty themselves in a cry of overwhelm, because your skin is pricking across every nerve with how good it hurts. 

“Fuck, baby. What the fuck,” he mutters, bringing you down slowly with just the pad of his finger, which turns out to be a really good thing because you would have jerked away from anything sharper. 

“Sorry,” you pant, eventually releasing your death grip on his knee, “I didn’t know that would happen.”

When the last of the sensation is gone and your pussy is just faintly pulsing, he finally removes his hands. You turn your head to look at him, dread clenching your chest because you’re quite afraid that you’ve just done something too fucked up even for him. 

Victor is sitting back on his heels, still hard as fuck and resting the back of his hand on his leg with his fingers held up in the air like he's showing off how wet they are. He looks down at you with a boyish grin slowly spreading over his face.

“I just made you cum with my claw.”

Heat floods your cheeks, so you prop yourself up on your elbows and try to appear as unaffected as possible, though seeing him apparently so pleased is a bit of a relief.

“Congratulations,” you mumble. 

“You just came in like thirty seconds, and you–” he cuts himself off, shaking his head and quirking his eyebrows like he still can't believe what happened. He's still smiling, and it makes him look much younger for some reason, like you're getting a glimpse of a teenage Victor from long ago. 

“Yes, I know, I was there.” You’re still pretty embarrassed, suddenly aware that your shirt remains bunched up around your armpits, and he probably saw your tampon string hanging out, and for some reason your inner thighs are really wet, like.. water wet.

“You are…” he starts, rubbing a thumb along his jaw, “the best.” 

You watch him bring his proudest claw up to his mouth and lick it.

Chapter Text

“I’ll be right back,” you say, pulling your shirt down to cover yourself again. “I need to get a towel for… after.”

“No.” 

You’re halfway through picking up the scraps of your underwear before his answer registers, and you glance over at him. “What?”

“No, you can’t go.” Victor lays back on a pillow, head turned to give you a steady and completely serious stare. He’s a vast expanse of golden skin and relaxed muscle, bending one knee up to frame the hard-on in his pants that he’s doing absolutely nothing to hide. “If you leave, you’re gonna get all nervous, and convince yourself of shit that isn’t true, and then you won’t be able to relax. But if you stay, we can skip all that, and you can just come over here and get comfy with me.” He runs his palm in a circle over his chest, demonstrating exactly where he wants you. 

“Oh.” Your eyes flick between his lap and his face. “But I… have to… have to go get rid of my…” You trail off, twirling your finger towards the general area of your crotch. And you need to brush your teeth, shave, and take a shower.

He raises an eyebrow and gestures with his chin to the corner of the room. “Trash can.”

Some expression of horror must cross your face, because he sighs and drapes his forearm across his eyes. “I won’t look, baby. Promise.”

Holy shit. You glance down and try to imagine taking your tampon out while he’s literally right there, and frankly it seems impossible. Not that it will be that bloody, considering you’re past the worst of your flow, but still… 

His voice breaks the silence. “I’ll do it for you, if you–” 

“No! No, no, that won’t be necessary.” His offer is just insane enough to force you into action, sliding off the side of the bed and squatting down so that even if he did look, your lower half would be blocked from view. You wrap the stupid thing in as much of your underwear as you can and hope the heat on your face isn’t as obvious as it feels.

Victor waits all of half a second after he hears the thunk in the trash can to look over at you with a pleased smile. He’s ridding himself of his pants, and you’re climbing back onto the bed, and everything is just happening so fast that you don’t have any time to stop and consider all the things that you’re anxious about. That is, until you’re halfway swinging your leg over him, and then you do remember one important detail.

“Your ribs.”

“All better,” he assures you quickly.

But you move back off him and frown, poking your fingers into his side because the odds are pretty good that he’d lie about it. He is totally the kind of person to be in excruciating pain while you fuck him and not even bother changing positions. Though, as you press your fingers into the bumps of his ribs you realize you’re not sure exactly what you’re looking for, short of a wince he’s probably far too stubborn to make. 

“Always worrying about me,” Victor gruffs, shoving himself up into a sitting position against the headboard and reaching for you. 

All of sudden you’re being lifted by your waist like you weigh absolutely nothing, and, completely ignoring your shocked gasp, he drags you straight onto his lap. Steadying yourself with your knees on either side of his hips, you stare down at that familiar smirk, a wordless dare for you to argue, because there’s nothing left to worry about and he knows it. 

Obviously, you don’t. You keep yourself upright to avoid accidentally squishing his parts with your ass, and it’s such a rare thing to be looking down at big scary Victor Creed that it actually makes you smile back. You slide your hands up the sides of his neck and into his hair, absorbing all that amber warmth being directed up at you. He looks so soft and peaceful like this, the complete opposite of the impenetrable moodiness of that afternoon. Right now he looks like he would tell you anything about himself so long as you keep running your fingers through his hair.

“I like when you look at me like that,” Victor says.

“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing.”

Your thumb reaches out to slide down his cheek, reluctant to move at all and ruin the moment. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, letting his hand wander up under your shirt.

“How much I want to know about you. I snooped through your old house and it didn’t give me any clues.”

“You might learn something you don’t like very much.”

You consider that, a little distracted by the fingers slowly making their way up the back of your thigh. “Guess I’ll have to risk it. I’m a very curious person.”

“I know.”

Something like determination flashes across his face, but you don’t have time to dwell on it because he’s tugging you down by your hips until your knees slide forward and he can reach your mouth with his. His fingers sink into the indent between the back of your thighs and your ass, spreading you open and encouraging you to settle down onto him. You briefly consider just sitting on his stomach and delaying everything to make out, but the second you feel his cock pressing up against your entrance, sliding inside a fraction simply from how slick you are, there’s not even a question of what you want. 

It almost seems like he wants to push you down onto himself from the way his fingers flex into your skin, but he doesn’t. He just holds you steady with a palm planted in the middle of your back, the other one keeping you spread open, letting you gasp little breaths against his lips while you surrender to gravity and slowly ease him into you.

Your shirt is getting stripped off, and finally you’re naked, wrapping one arm around the back of his head and the other around his shoulder, burying your face in his neck while you hesitantly drag his length in and out a couple of inches. You have to suck in a lungfull of air and close your eyes to process the fucking stretch. Has he always been this big? Has it always felt this intense? He’s surrounding you, inside you, his scent and presence invading every piece of your being until you’re powerless to hide from him in any capacity. It feels overstimulating even though he’s barely touched you at all, and you’re unable to fight back the nervous tremor that flutters down your limbs.

“It’s alright, baby.” Victor is making soothing noises in his throat, kissing your hairline and bringing his knees up to keep you more comfortably in the cradle of his hips. “We have time. Go slow.”

His hand slides under your ass, assisting you upwards to fuck him so slowly that it must feel like absolute torture. This position should put you in charge, but instead he’s taken over, holding you and softly finding the corner of your mouth with his, controlling your movements and making sure you give yourself time to adjust to the fullness. The way he’s looking after you makes everything so much worse. It touches something emotional and sexual inside you, and it feels completely foreign in the way they’re intertwined together. 

It terrifies you. You’ve barely started fucking and it’s already so overwhelming that you’re making desperate little noises into his skin, struggling to keep up with the intensity. You know fucking, you understand kink and domination and the game of arousal. But whatever this is, it’s different and completely outside of your comfort zone. If this continues, if it ramps up or, unimaginably, if he makes you cum like this, it will destroy you. You will die here in his bed.

“Fuck, baby, you’re gonna have to talk to me.” He pulls you back with a hand on either side of your face, and you open your eyes and realize he actually does look pretty worried. 

“Do you need a different position?” he asks, brows furrowed. “Need to stop?”

You shake your head, shutting your eyes again so you don’t have to process his dark gaze boring into your soul. 

“You smell like someone getting tickled.”

You crack your eyes open to check if that was a joke, but it doesn’t seem like it was. His hands are still framing your face so your only two options are closing your eyes again and trying to mentally escape, or giving up and letting him kill you. Maybe dying won’t be so bad, after all.

“I love you so much it hurts,” you admit in a whisper. “I feel completely out of control, like I should be resisting these feelings, but you’re not letting me.”

“Baby,” he breathes. “You can let go. It’s okay.”

“I don’t know how.”

He silently considers that, sliding his thumb across to your lower lip without even having to adjust his enormous hand. “How about I just take over for a little bit, and then we can worry about the rest later?”

You nod, closing your eyes again. Just let him cum now, and then you can deal with your own shit without him distracting you with sex.

“You trust me?” he asks.

“Yes.” 

He guides you backwards and you blink up at him in surprise, your back coming to rest against the tops of his thighs and you failing to comprehend where this is going. He’s running his eyes up and down your body, apparently enjoying the visual of you stretched backwards on your knees, still full of cock and trying not to squirm at the sensation of having him motionless inside you. His warm, dry hand makes contact with your body, sliding up your stomach, running a steady palm to your sternum, and then up your throat. His fingers curl loosely around your neck, and you nearly sob with relief with the realization that you’re about to be manhandled and won’t have to think at all. 

“Just relax for me.”

He pushes higher, framing your jaw with the inside of his hand and forcing your chin backwards nearly as far as your neck will allow. Your hands automatically jerk up to grab onto his wrist for support and you’re suddenly breathing hard, swallowing and staring up at the ceiling, and you finally realize what’s happening when a slick digit slides into the space right above where you’re joined.  

You lick your lips and clamp your fingers harder onto his arm, anchoring yourself to him while a burn of pure desire flickers through your belly. It grows and spreads as the minutes pass and he relentlessly rubs you, each stroke warming your skin and diffusing into parts of your body that were never reached with how fast you came the first time. You can’t decide which is better, closing your eyes so you can focus on the warmth of his hand, or looking up at the ceiling, your blank reminder that it’s all he’s letting you see.

A particularly intense spot has an audible breath leaving you, and your stomach tightens automatically. You hear him spit, and then the sensation immediately changes, getting so much more comfortable and hot and wet between your legs. You’re suddenly quite aware that you’re still stuffed full and unable to get even the smallest amount of friction from it. Would he let you wiggle a little? Fuck yourself on him just an inch or two? 

You don’t ask, you just do it, rocking your hips forward a tiny bit and hoping he’s good with it. 

“There you go, baby. Does that feel good?”

It fucking does. You do it again before he’s even finished talking, panting and internally squeezing him, staring up at the glorious ceiling while you grind. It doesn’t make sense that just an inch of friction would feel this good, and maybe it’s just from your depraved imagination latching onto the image of you being slutty enough to fuck yourself while he’s got his hand basically wrapped around your neck. 

Whatever the reason, you find yourself suddenly very, very turned on. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you realize, embarrassed for the second time now at how quickly it’s about to happen.

“Do you want to stay like this, or do you want to ride me some more?”

“Like this,” you gasp out, believing you’ve just caught hold of the orgasm, and then moaning brokenly when it slips away. 

It’s that minuscule space in time where you need to cum so bad that you’d agree to anything, would take a hard slap to the face or the most degrading name you can imagine, because your brain chemicals have convinced you that absolutely anything would feel good right now. You’re at your breaking point, completely defenseless, and the time for trust is long gone. All you know now is surrender.

“I love you too, baby,” comes that familiar, low voice, poking through your blurry consciousness. The motion on your clit slows, keeping you stuck there, coiled tight and suspended in the moment of physical vulnerability. “Don’t know what to do with you. Can’t stand leaving you for a single fuckin’ day.”

You stop moving, you have to. It’s the only way your one remaining brain cell will have any hope of processing what he’s saying. 

He lets out a heavy sigh.

“I know you don’t want to do this,” he warns gently, the hand under your chin sliding around to support the back of your neck, “but I’m gonna be selfish right now, and you’re gonna have to deal with it.”

You’re so blissed out that you can hardly form an answering worry. He moves forward, positioning you with your back on the bed like him moving your entire body is no trouble at all. He wraps his arms around you and deliberately breathes you in, kisses you, and then he sinks back into your wetness and starts to fuck you hard. 

It’s sweet, horrible, wonderful torture. He’s dragging his lips across your jaw, boxing you in with his arms and grinding into you just enough to put some pressure on your clit with every thrust. You don’t know if you’re about to cum, or if he is, or how to stop making desperate little noises in your throat every time his hips meet yours. 

And then all of a sudden, you know.

He worked you up so good that you do something you’ve never done before, and you cum just from getting fucked. It’s such a shock that your eyes spring open, and it overtakes you just in time for Victor to raise his head and watch your face screw up while you experience your first vaginal orgasm. You barely notice because you’ve risen above the visual plane, floating through a world where you’re just endlessly cumming in those safe, strong arms, his cock the only thing pushing you through it, the only thing you’ll ever need to focus on. 

Hips falter against yours, grinding through the last few tremors of his own release while a raw, rumbly sound that you didn’t notice before begins to fade away. His weight is uncomfortable for a few seconds while he indulges himself in a moment of laziness, and then he’s planting an open mouthed kiss on your cheek, hard, like he’s trying to rouse you from your cum coma. It works, sort of, waking you enough to reflect on what your body just accomplished and marvel at the novelty of it.

And then Victor slowly starts to pull out, and with a burst of mental clarity your arms whip out to clamp around his back and keep him inside you.

“No! You’ll ruin the blanket, I’m on my period.”

He lays back down on you, grumbling wordlessly into your neck.

“If you had let me get a towel, we wouldn’t be stuck here.” You crane your head back, searching for the location of your shirt, and realize in dismay that it got thrown off the side of the bed. 

“Fuckin’ slave driver.” Still joined, Victor gets his knees under your hips and lifts you, holding you securely against him.

“What are you doing?” You hiss when he steps off the bed and just starts walking like you’re a little baby koala clinging to his body.

“Not making a mess on your precious blanket.” 

He flicks on a light, and though it’s obvious where he’s taking you, you still let out an affronted huff when he pulls out and sets you down on the toilet seat. He steps back and your eyes automatically lower to his half hard dick, and yeah, there’s blood. 

“You’ve been leaving cum on my blankets all this time when this was an option?” 

“It was one time,” he replies, unperturbed, and reaches over to turn on the shower. He’s not looking in your direction, which is good, incredible even, because the last thing you want is the mental image of you sitting on the toilet rolling around his brain at any time. 

Once he’s safely out of sight behind the shower curtain, you start cleaning up and ask, “Why didn’t you just put me straight in the shower?”

“Didn’t think you’d want to pee on the floor right in front of me. But if you’re game, then by all means.”

“No,” you choke, aghast at the thought.

“Well, there you go.”

Now that he mentions it, you actually do need to pee pretty bad. You went straight from sleeping to fucking, and never had a chance to use the bathroom. Besides, it’s the after-sex rule. 

“Are you gonna pee?” you ask.

“Already did.” 

You mutter a curse under your breath and concentrate on relaxing your muscles. Pee, dammit. But then an awful thought pops into your head, and you tense up again.

“Victor, how good is your hearing?”

There’s a suspiciously long silence on the other side of the shower curtain. “You want the truth, or you want me to tell you what you wanna hear?”

Fuck. 

“Lie,” you request, closing your eyes in despair.

“What’s that? Can’t hear you over this loud ass shower.”

That makes you laugh, and you can hear an answering chuckle and a shampoo cap opening, and all of a sudden it does seem stupid that you don’t want to pee when he’s literally in there washing your menstruation off himself.

It happens, eventually. It starts and stops at first, because you really are embarrassed no matter how you try to convince yourself you’re not, but finally it’s over. You sigh in relief, and flush, and hurry over to poke your head around the shower curtain. 

“Hey,” Victor says, rinsing suds off his chest.

“Hey.”

“Come on.” He steps aside to let you into the water. 

The hot water is amazing. Victor wraps an arm across your collarbones, keeping you back against his body so he can get a little of the heat that’s cascading across your skin. You sigh happily and tilt your head back, partly to enjoy yourself and partly because it pushes your breasts forward into the spray of water so Victor can see them a little better. Just as you’d hoped, his hand lowers to wrap around that soft curve, and you’ve finally reached heaven. 

“Thank you for making me cum,” you mumble, eyes still closed. “It felt so good.”

“Mmm, good. Felt good for me, too.”

You’ll tell him someday what it actually meant to you in terms of firsts, but not today, not right after the claw thing. He’d never get over it. 

His hand is traveling down your side, fingers wrapping around your thigh and pushing it forwards so you have to shift your weight onto one foot.

“What are you doing?” you ask in alarm when you’re lifted without warning, higher than you’ve ever been in a shower, with one of your thighs pressed up against your chest by a firm hand on the back of your knee. 

“Helping,” he says casually, lifting your other leg in the same manner and bringing your body up his chest until your head is high enough to rest back against the top of his shoulder if you wanted to. 

Everything looks different from this vantage point. You’re so high up that you can look down at the top of the shower head, and the fine layer of dust that’s collected where you’d never normally see it. Victor adjusts you slightly, letting the hot spray hit your sensitive parts, and it’s a solid reminder that your pussy is completely spread and exposed. It has you tilting your head down, following the open line of sight between your breasts and down your stomach, where you can see the soft spray hitting right between your legs. 

“This okay?” Victor asks. 

“Yeah, it’s okay. Forget how strong you are sometimes.”

He makes an irritated huff and brackets one forearm under both of your knees, effectively keeping you exposed to the water like it’s no effort at all, and you feel his other hand come down to stroke through your folds. He’s not stimulating you, and you’re not sure if you’re relieved or disappointed about that. He’s just cleaning the sex mess in the most ridiculous, inconvenient way possible. Showing off, of course. 

You tilt your face back to look at him and he smiles over at you, appearing exactly as self satisfied as you expected him to be. 

“Pretty baby,” he murmurs, “always letting me play with you.” 

“I don’t think any girl would turn down an appointment with a shower head.”

“Mmmm, that’s a good idea.” His fingers leave your pussy, and you watch his shoulder flex while his arm extends up, and surely… surely there’s no way he’s doing what you think he’s doing. 

There’s a click, and you squeak and arch against him when the comfortable spray suddenly turns into a fucking firehose straight onto your clit. “Too much,” you gasp.

He mumbles an apology and adjusts it a little, somewhere between the two settings that lets you relax, partly for the gentler stream, and partly because all the shifting around has moved your clit out of the line of fire. 

You don’t think he can actually see what he’s aiming for, thanks to his massive arm braced across your stomach, and he brings his fingers down again to feel where the water hits and move you under it. Fucking clit whisperer. It feels pretty good, but he doesn’t seem satisfied, finally shifting back to hold you up with a hand under each knee. And that’s when it starts to really feel good. 

You watch the water hit between your legs, shocked at how arousing it is to see yourself in this kind of position and know that Victor is taking in the exact same image. He’s the one holding you here like some hentai bimbo, trying to make you cum with the showerhead just because you’re here and he finds it fun to do. As if this were perfectly normal behavior for a man who already made you cum twice, and came himself, and couldn’t possibly have any good reason to be doing this. 

Fuck, you love it. You should probably feel humiliated at being played with like this, but you don’t. You let your body relax and drape your cheek back over the top of his shoulder, sucking and nibbling on the skin of his neck while your arousal steadily builts for a third time. 

“Are you hard, baby?” you mumble into his delicious wet skin.

“Oh yeah.”

“Do you like watching me enjoy this?”

“Of course I fuckin’ do,” he murmurs back, turning his head to kiss your cheek. The short lapse in focus moves the water off that wonderful spot, and you flex your hips forward in frustration until he shifts you back where you want to be.

“Will you fuck me again? Right here in the shower after I cum?” you beg.

“Don’t you worry, I’ll fuck my pretty baby as many times as she wants.”

Oh, no, he’s got you talking. Your pelvis is swirling with pleasure, feeling all relaxed and the farthest thing from self conscious, and you’ve suddenly got the overwhelming urge to torture him. You smooth the side of his neck with your tongue, and fall headlong into depravity.

“Maybe I won’t want to, after all. Maybe I’ll just put you back under the water so you can start to get warm again, and I’ll get down on my knees in front of you.”

Shit, you’re getting painfully close. You fight it, clenching internally and determined to finish saying what you want to say before dreaded post nut clarity hits.

“I’ll be so wet from this, my pussy will be fucking dripping between my legs, and I’ll make you hold the back of my head and fuck my mouth.”

You feel his deep breath lift your back, and his fingers tighten on your legs, but you don’t dare to look at him or look down at the water, because you’ll just cum straight away. 

“I can’t decide,” you pant into his skin, flexing your thighs and barely holding on. “I want your cock in my mouth, and in my pussy, and I don’t even care if I cum again, I just want you to fuck me hard and don’t stop until you’re wrecked.”

You somehow make it through without cumming, so you groan and look down, surrendering to the orgasm, just to have Victor suddenly dragging you away from the water. 

You complain instantly, loud and unintelligible, clamping your hands onto the front of those steel arms in a useless effort to move him back. 

“Hush now,” he says, lowering one of your legs back down to the floor.

“I was so fucking close!”

“Don’t care.”

He’s already pushing inside you from behind, getting you close enough to the shower wall that you can brace your forearms over the cold tile and balance on just the one leg.

“Fucking short,” he mutters, and your foot suddenly loses contact with the floor so he can fuck you more comfortably in the air. “Mouthy little thing. Too wet and naked to be talking to me like that.”

“How should I talk to you?” you retort, trying to seem as angry as possible even though you’re getting the exact pounding you requested.

“Guess you’ll have to try again. See if you can get it right this time.” One hand comes up to fondle your breast, bouncing it in his palm.

“Um, okay. Thank you for fucking me?”

“Nope.”

“Please wreck me, you strong, enormous man?” you hedge.

“You’re not even trying.”

His fingers drop down to your clit, so easily accessible with one leg stretched upwards, and you shudder at the stark reminder of your need to cum. With it comes an uncomfortable urge to get away, because you’re pretty sure now that you know what he’s asking for.

“I like it when you…” you start, voice quiet, and then let it trail off when you hit that emotional wall.

Victor slows down to a gentle slide, stroking your clit, and murmurs, “There you go, baby. Keep talking.”

You take a deep breath, the focus required making it nearly impossible to register anything physical. “I like when you hold me down because it makes me feel safe.”

“I know it does.”

You shiver, and he pulls you back tighter against his chest, barely even fucking you now.

“You make me feel wanted,” you confess, “and it feels so good to be wanted that I’m scared I’m going to mess everything up, and turn you off somehow, and then you’ll never want me the same way again.”

“No, baby,” he says, steadily stroking up and down your clit. “You don’t scare me, not one bit. You’re just a sweet little thing who makes me laugh and likes to be held down every once in a while. Fuckin’ easy.” His nose finds the spot under your jaw, breathing in your wet skin. “Can’t help myself with you.”

He starts moving inside you again, and the worst possible thing happens: you cum. Surrounded by him and truly believing his words, you pass away, panting brokenly with your wet cunt pulsing around him and his lips sliding back and forth across your jaw. There will be no recovery for you, no resurrection of a person who can settle back into life without him if he leaves. 

You’re fucked.

Chapter Text

“The waitress right there is his girlfriend,” Victor says quietly, so only you can hear.

“Can’t you just follow her in, the next time she visits?”

“The bastard’s been laying low ever since his contract went live. Girl’s keeping her distance.”

You assess her up and down, from the short shorts to the two French braids running down the back of her head, the kind little girls wear in the summer. She’s the definition of cute, blonde and sparkly eyed, and looking so young that she could easily be a college student. She weaves away from the table she was attending, two older men who were eagerly soaking up the playful attention. Watching her cutesy smile drop away to flat irritation makes you smile into your drink. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

There isn’t much to go on here, but you and Victor stay nonetheless, you because it kind of feels like a date, and him because… who knows, you’ve never actually gone out drinking with him before. He’s got his gloves on, though he’s far too large to avoid notice. Maybe if he were uglier and clumsier people wouldn’t stare as much, write him off as a normal sort of giant and move along. But that subtle something, the fine motor skills and the fluidity with which he walks, marks him as something other, and you’re not the only one to notice it immediately.

You get through your first jack and coke, and you’re such a lightweight that you already feel that warm comfort of a pleasant buzz when you excuse yourself to use the bathroom. The dim reflection of your face stares back at you in the bathroom mirror. There wasn’t time to get a hotel between dropping William off at a NYC branch of his daycare - yes, you feel like a mom - and the bar, so you’d done your makeup in the car during the drive. Had changed into a dress, too somewhere on the interstate where the only person who could see you strip was Victor, and it’s always difficult to tell when he’s looking.

In the mirror, you do your best impression of the waitress’s youthful smile. A thoughtless tilt of your head, a slight lift of the chin, and relaxing the hairline… there it is. She does it better, of course, but it’s close. It’s that innocent, “Of course I trust you, step daddy,” look that perverts everywhere empty their wallets for. 

It sparks an idea in your head. You stand there, tilting your face at different angles and rolling the idea around while other women filter in and out of the bathroom. Victor is probably worrying by now, but this is important, and you can’t be distracted by anything else until it’s right. Eventually you have it nailed out in your head, every step and gesture down to the smallest detail, and you drop those silly, little girl eyes. You smile coldly back at yourself in the mirror, letting your eyes narrow in predatorial satisfaction while you adjust your cleavage a little higher. If this doesn’t work, if Victor has to resort to brute force to break in, so be it. But you want the first crack at him.

After a quick swipe of lip gloss you head back to the bar, eager to discuss your artistic vision. You’ll lay out your plan, really sell it because you’ll probably have to work to convince Victor to let you put yourself—

A glance towards the bar has your heels clacking to a stumbling halt. There’s a man sitting next to Victor, leaning his shoulder towards him in a gesture of obvious familiarity. He's dark haired, and pretty average-looking from what you can see of the side of his face, wearing dark jeans and a brown leather jacket. Whatever he says makes Victor shake his head and chuckle into his drink. A friend, then. 

You hesitate, unsure if this is some chance encounter, or a meeting he decided not to tell you about. On one hand, he’s never specifically told you not to recognize him in public, but on the other hand, he promised you would be kept away from the dangerous side of things. Is it possible for Victor to have regular, normal kinds of friends? Are you making a big deal over nothing?

You choose to play it safe, taking a seat at the only empty table and carefully monitoring your boyfriend’s body language. He knows you’ll be coming back. You should have been back long before now, he should be looking for you, but he’s not. He’s not looking anywhere but towards his friend and his drink.

He wouldn’t forget about you, right? How many beers has he had? You suddenly feel so stupid just sitting here doing nothing, too conflicted to even pull out your phone and pretend to be busy. Your gaze is caught on his friend’s knee bouncing under his hand, and you wish you were closer so you could take in every detail of this man. He doesn’t seem like much of a threat, and Victor hasn’t tried to communicate any version of ‘stay away’ which would be so fast and simple to text. Maybe you’re being far too paranoid.

The dark haired man glances your way curiously, with only his eyes moving in your direction. Of course he would, you’re sitting by yourself directly in his line of sight and practically ogling him. You flick your eyes away, embarrassed at your own ineptitude, but in your peripheral vision you see the man lean forward and say something to Victor.

Victor twists his body, both men looking at you now, and you just sit there like a frightened deer, locking eyes with your boyfriend and trying to mind control him into telling you what to do. 

It’s slight, such a tiny movement that you’re certain the other man doesn’t see, when Victor shakes his head, ‘no.’

Got it. Hear you loud and clear, boss. You turn your head completely in the other direction, face hot, and resign yourself to waiting until this surprise meetup is over. Or maybe ‘no’ means leave. Get out of here, stop being so conspicuous. Walk around the city a little bit, and I’ll find you when I’m done with big boy business. 

The door is behind you, so you wouldn’t even have to walk past them to disappear out to the street beyond. Sounds loads better than sitting here all nervous, looking like some pathetic sap whose date stood them up, cause he actually kind of did. You get up and grab your purse, rummaging around automatically to check that you have your keys, which makes no sense because you walked here, and then raise your head to shoot one more glance at the guys. 

They’re both looking at you again.

“C’mere,” Victor’s friend says, lifting his chin at you. 

You glance quickly at Victor, at the flat, bored look on his face that doesn’t give you a single clue as to what’s going on. He’s sticking with, “no.”

“Sorry,” you shoulder your bag and raise your voice enough for them to hear over the music. “Gotta go.”

There’s only enough time for you to take a few steps towards the door, before there’s a familiar, low voice telling you, “It’s cold out there.”

Incredulously you rotate on your heel, eyes locking with Victor’s. “Got a seat for you right here,” he says, tilting his head to the stool next to him. 

Shit. You were too obvious, and now Victor is forced to pretend you’re a stranger checking them out from across the bar. Shit.  

You walk slowly over, both of them watching your progression, and just when your ass hits the stool, the dark haired man asks, “What’s your name?”

Finding a hook under the bar to hang your purse gives you a convenient few seconds to rake your mother’s name up out of your mental hysteria. “Reggie,” you answer, eyes flicking up to meet his deep brown ones. 

“Stupid fuckin’ name.”

Shocked, you gape up at Victor, who is taking a slow swallow of his beer and not looking at you after he said something like that. Even his friend pinches his brows in surprise.

Well. Okay, then.

You quickly swipe your purse off the hook and swing around his body to a different stool, the one next to the dark haired man. 

“I think I like this seat better,” you tell him in a lighthearted way. “It’s a lot less rude.”

The man grins at you, obviously pleased at being your preference, and you don’t have to look over at Victor to know he’s scowling. 

“Don’t mind my friend,” the stranger says with a conspiratorial wink, “he’s not great with the ladies. Most of his experience comes from drunk, back alley fucks.”

“That sounds awful,” you reply with a pointed glance at your boyfriend, who just takes another gulp of beer. You turn back to the friend. “Will you tell me your name if I promise to like it?”

“Charlie.”

“Such a good name,” you gush, grabbing his hand off the bar top and giving it a firm shake. “Aren’t we just the all-American pair?”

“Didn’t think you were done talking business.” Victor mutters, as if he didn’t invite you over here. 

“Come on, you worried about this little thing?” Charlie complains. “Look at her, man. She’s not gonna hurt nothing.”

You plop an elbow on the counter and rest your chin in your hand, smiling sweetly over at Victor with the most innocent little blinks you can muster. 

“Women were always your weakness,” Victor remarks, his eyes never leaving your face.

“A good way to die, if you ask me.” Charlie slides the back of his knuckles against the side of your thigh, so low that you’re sure Victor doesn’t see it, sending an uncomfortable pinch of goosebumps over your scalp.

“Spoken like someone who’s never died before,” Victor remarks. 

“You know what,” Charlie retorts in his direction and clearly aggravated by the cockblocking, “you’re right. Why don’t you go die, right now, face full of tits, and balls deep in a nice tight cunt, and you let me know how it compares.”

You can’t help it, you recoil away an inch, suddenly regretting your choice of seat. 

Your boyfriend doesn’t respond to that barb, just shifts his entire body on the stool to face you and smoothly says, “You can stay if you come sit on my lap.”

What the fuck? You straighten in your seat, failing to pull any sort of hint from his unreadable face. 

“You’re the one who invited me over,” you stall. “You could at least be a little nicer to me before making that sort of request.”

“What are you drinking?” he asks, avoiding your very valid point.

“Jack and coke.”

Victor quickly orders the drink and then leans over, reaching his stupid, long arm around an irritated Charlie to tug your hand. You let him, feeling quite out of your depth and lacking any other options. He’s going to be the asshole, and you’ll apparently have to be Lap Girl, desperate enough to reduce herself to a rude stranger’s knee, and too stupid to understand the “business” they’re finishing. 

Fine. Better than Charlie feeling you up. You allow Victor to pull you over until you’re standing in front of him, and his thumb strokes across the top of your hand.

“How about I promise to be nice,” he says, eyes warm and slightly playful, “and keep my hands to myself, and buy you as many drinks as you want. Will you come sit with me, baby girl?”

You pretend to consider, shifting your weight to one foot as if he didn’t just murder your resistance. 

“What’s your name?” you ask.

“Victor.” 

And then that pain in your ass raises your hand to his mouth and brushes his lips over your knuckles. 

“Stupid fuckin’ name,” you mutter, but you let him pull you in. You’re worried that you’ll look clumsy, climbing up onto his lap with your legs clamped together to keep your skirt in place, but he easily lifts you onto his knee. A strong arm keeps you there pretty comfortably with that warm pressure around your middle, and you realize this isn’t nearly as bad as you feared it would be. That’s when you can finally see Charlie, finishing off his beer and shooting your boyfriend a look that clearly conveys, “When did you get game, man?”

“Dad knows we’re coming to Thanksgiving,” Charlie says instead.

“I know.”

“How are you planning on getting there?”

Victor’s gloved fingers stroke across your side and then stop, like he suddenly remembers not to touch you. “Haven’t decided yet.”

“Course you ‘haven’t,’ you lying bastard. You gonna at least let me know when you’re coming, so we don’t get stuck in the driveway at the same time?”

“No.”

“You two are brothers?” you cut in, because you feel you have to ask, given the circumstances.

Charlie looks annoyed that you’re inserting yourself and not just sitting there being eye candy. “Um, step-brothers.”

What a stupid thing to lie about. They talk about the job a little longer, and you glean that Charlie is also a hitman, hoping to get to your guy before Victor does. It’s a big paycheck and neither of them seem inclined to split it. They talk in weak code about the place the guy is holed up in, the defenses and security system, all things you already know about. They seem to be hoping the other will drop some new information, and when neither does, they settle back into small talk and inside jokes. 

That part is all fine. What’s a little more difficult is that, since you’re pretty comfy and have nothing to do but sit there and look pretty, you soon get through a couple more drinks, and… it’s affecting you. You drink so rarely that you forgot it’s like this, so much heat going between your legs for absolutely no reason other than increased blood flow, but fuck, it’s distracting. You’re hyper aware of the velvet cadence of Victor’s voice beside your ear, how you can feel his chest against your back, his breath across your bare shoulder. The closeness of his arm every time he reaches across you to take a drink. 

You catch yourself over and over, looking down at your legs draped over Victor’s thigh, and wishing you were back at the hotel already so he could put you right back on his lap like this and touch you. In the haze of alcohol, you imagine his other hand coming up the inside of your thigh, sliding your skirt up to your hips and playing with the front of your underwear until you’re sticky and desperate. How did you manage to keep things platonic as long as you did? You’re feral for this man, obsessed with everything about him from his smell to his hair to the way he’s a little mean to you sometimes. 

Maybe just a tiny touch, a harmless little toeing of the line. It’s a relief to place your palm in the middle of his chest and snuggle your head down to his shoulder, drunk and happy and completely tuning out the conversation. You’ll be Lap Girl for him. He can objectify you all he wants, and you’ll just be soft, and sweet, and nice and wet for when he takes you back to the hotel to fuck. You almost forget Charlie is even there when your face turns to kiss that little spot where Victor’s neck meets his shoulder. 

That was a mistake. You know it instantly, not from Victor’s reaction but from your own. A hot wave rolls through your belly, and you’re so inebriated that you forget to repress the little moan that it pushes out of you. 

“You’re getting lucky tonight, man,” Charlie remarks quietly, either believing you to be too drunk to hear, or not caring.

“I get lucky every night,” your boyfriend answers.

You love hearing his voice like this, reverberating through his chest all deep and wonderful. You want that sensation vibrating over your entire body, consuming you in its deliciousness. You kiss his neck again, lingering on the skin there with soft little suckles.

“No, cause listen,” Charlie argues. “The way you treat women… all one night stands… you don’t get the full benefits. You gotta lead ‘em on a little. Make them chase you, and try to tie you down. That’s the sweet spot. That’s when you get the real good stuff.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” Victor replies in a steady voice. You realize then that he hasn’t been drinking much, has barely finished off a beer since you got on his lap.

“It’s worth it, though! They’re suckin’ you off all the time, and cooking for you, and all you gotta do is hint that you’d like to meet their parents some day, and, bam, ass is suddenly on the menu.”

“If you’re just lookin’ to get your salad tossed, I’m sure there are easier ways to do it.”

“Har, har,” Charlie says, and air moves like he’s getting up. “Real comedian. Have fun with that, by the way. There’s a nice dark alley a little south of here. See you around.”

“Bye, Charlie.”

You wait there, face half buried in Victor’s neck, until there’s a kiss brushed against your hairline to tell you the coast is clear.

“Hey,” you mumble. 

“Hey, baby.”

You breathe deep, sucking the maximum amount of air into your lungs and puffing it back out. “I’m drunk.”

“I know.” He doesn’t move, but you swear his heart rate picks up slightly.

“I’m horny,” you admit, a little quieter.

“I know.” Definitely a faster pulse.

“Which way… stands…” you pause, frowning at the effort it takes to form words. “Which one is south?”

“Nope, you’re going to bed.”

“Ooooh, yessss. I like beds.”

Arms are helping you stand, and you’re soon quite appreciative of it when you realize what a challenge it is to walk in heels all of a sudden. The next little bit is all a blur, but you’re pretty sure Victor gets your jacket on you, and you’re pressed to his side, not quite desperate enough to ask to be carried. But he gives you no choice when you reach stairs. Up and up, you lose count of the flights because his arms are so comfy, but eventually you’re set down and lean against something cold and concrete. There are beeping noises, and then Victor helps you up a step and into a lit room. 

It’s the strangest looking hotel you’ve ever seen. Whoever hired the maids should be fired, because nothing looks correct here. Thankfully the bed is made, though, and you’re about to collapse down onto it before a hand on your waist is steering you in the other direction, towards the bathroom. 

You come to a stop, blinking down at the toilet that’s weaving left and right for no reason. 

“You gonna need help?” asks the enormous man behind you.

“No.”

But you’re still just standing there, suddenly baffled by the fact that you have on panties and a dress, and one of them needs to go down while the other goes up, and you can’t remember how to accomplish that acrobatic feat.

There’s a sigh, and hands quickly come up under your skirt, stripping your underwear down, and you work to switch mental tasks. Apparently you’re fucking now. Excellent.

Victor pauses, then crouches down to take your heels off and slide your underwear off your feet. His face is so close. If he just tilts his head back, he can lift your skirt and make conta—

“Can you sit down by yourself?”

You open your eyes and look back down at the toilet in front of you. “Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Surely it must take him several seconds to leave, but in the haze it feels like the door clicks closed instantly. You sigh and rub a hand down your face, stopping only when you realize you’re wearing mascara. Okay, to business. You can do this. 

A memory of peeing with Victor in the shower pushes a giggle up through you when you finally relax enough to get it out. Victor heard you pee. Hilarious! You have to cover your mouth with your hand to eventually stop, and once your muscle memory kicks in for the toilet paper, you’re finally finished.

You strut back out to the bedroom, very aware that you’re not wearing anything under your skirt, and look down at Victor who is sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I hate Charlie,” you admit with a grin.

“Don’t blame you.”

He’s looking up at you, sort of amused, and you’re not sure exactly what you did that’s so funny. You’re not laughing, you’re horny.  

“Do you think I’m preeetty?” you ask softly, swishing your skirt back and forth.

“So pretty.” He’s still smiling a little, and you can’t tell if he’s laughing at you or with you.

“Well I think you’re pretty, too.” You step between his legs to put your hands on his shoulders, leaning more weight on them than you intended in an effort to stay upright. “Look at that pretty face. Dimples and beautiful eyes…” you trail off with a guttural moan. “Those eyes do things to me.”

“Good to know.” He pushes up off the mattress and you have to back up a step to give him room. “Why don’t you lay down, baby.” The way he says it is more like an order than a question.

“Help me get my dress off, first, so we can fuck.”

Again he assists you to undress, until you’re bare ass naked, and find yourself lifted into his arms and set down on the bed. You sigh happily, looking up at him with pure adoration, raising your arms above your head and stretching out on the blanket to show off your body. 

“You wanna be under the covers?” Victor asks, straightening.

“No, I wanna fuck like this.”

“Mmmk.” He looks over his shoulder, towards the bathroom. “I’m gonna go brush my teeth.”

“Alright,” you agree, sliding your hand down to squeeze your breast invitingly. “I’ll be here.”

“You better be. You better lay there the whole time, and don’t even move.”

“Okay, okay, bossy boss.” You look up at the ceiling, smiling to yourself, and don’t notice that the door still hasn’t shut.

“No, I don’t like that,” Victor decides, and you look over to see him staring at you, leaning against the doorframe. “Roll on your side so I can see you when I come back.”

“Okay.” You gracelessly heave yourself over, tucking a hand under your cheek and giving him a full view of your tits.

“Perfect. I’ll be right back.”

He actually isn’t right back. He takes forever to brush his teeth, and eventually you hear the shower running, but you’re so sleepy that it doesn’t matter as much as it should. Your knee kicks out, and you roll a little forward to snuggle into the pillow exactly the way you like to sleep, and before you know it, you pass out. 

You’re completely dead to the world when Victor finally finishes his shower and peeks around the doorway to make sure you’re fully asleep. You don’t feel him pull the blanket back and tuck you into bed, don’t see him stand there in indecision, before ultimately leaving to go sleep on the couch, even though there’s plenty of room in the bed that somehow smells like him even before you got there. 

Chapter Text

The first things you notice upon waking are the ache in the base of your skull and the rough dryness of your mouth. You acclimate to it for a minute, swallowing uncomfortably and screwing your eyes shut against the morning light, and you try to go back to sleep. But the effort is useless, because the events of the night before begin to surface, and you’re suddenly quite confused about where you are.

 The next thing that hits you upon dragging your eyelids open is that you’re in a strange bed, completely naked. With a dread dropping in your gut, you roll over and get that instant relief of finding yourself alone. 

“Morning, sunshine.” 

Victor’s voice is quiet enough that your head doesn’t protest the sound, but it still startles you upright. He’s fully dressed, looking perfectly rested and not even a little hungover, sitting on the nearby couch with an ankle crossed over his knee. Stupid healing factor.

“Good morning,” you manage to croak, hiking the blanket firmly up to your armpits. Your gaze drifts beyond him, taking in what you now realize is a studio apartment. It appears clean but surprisingly lived-in, with a stack of mail on the kitchen counter and a laundry basket containing mostly black clothes perched on the dresser. Your fingers stroke across the heavy grey quilt, and you look back over at Victor.

“This is your place,” you guess.

“One of them.”

Curiosity replaces the dullness in your head, and you look around again with renewed interest. There’s wall art, and shelves along the wall, with strange, antique-looking metal objects. Impulsively you reach over and open up the drawer of the nightstand, only to be greeted with a few black magazines full of shiny brass, an ancient looking iPod, and a box of condoms. 

“You said you wanted to snoop,” Victor explains, the calm in his voice sounding a little too forced to be casual, “so here you go. I haven’t been back here since the first time we were together.”

You close the drawer carefully and glance over to him. “The time we kissed, or the time we fucked?”

One side of his mouth quirks up. “Kissed.”

He watches you utterly fail to hide your excitement, sitting up straight and barely remembering to keep the blanket covering your chest. There are things to look at here. Insides of drawers, cleaning supplies, refrigerator… Thermostat. This whole place is perfectly preserved for you, a time capsule from back when Victor was still your mysterious neighbor. What a gift.

“I’m going to go get our luggage and pick up some breakfast,” Victor says, standing up with enviable fluidity. “Enjoy.” 

He’s still wearing his rumpled clothes from the bar last night, and it’s not until you watch his back leave through the front door that the sudden memory of your drunken come-on slaps you hard in the face. You groan and fall back onto the bed, grinding your palms into your eye sockets until it hurts. 

He’d been smiling at you last night, laughing at your idiocy. If anything you should have been frigid after he made you sit on his lap like that, but instead you eagerly threw yourself at him the first chance you got, didn’t even wait for his friend to leave first. Humiliating.

As much as you love sex, you really hate it sometimes. You resent that it’s such a consuming factor in your life, the irresistible pull to scratch all those itches at once: Attention, affirmation, connection, completion. Your ex never gave you much of the first three, retreating mentally and barely speaking the whole time, and that’s exactly why you’re struggling with it now, why you have to be really fucking turned on to be comfortable with intimacy. You’ve relied on numbing yourself with arousal for so long that it doesn’t feel safe to fuck, well, sober, for lack of a better term.

It’s something to work on. Something to ease yourself into, whether or not you decide to express the internal conflict to Victor. You’re a grown woman, and it’s unfair to put him in the same position over and over again, having to figure out the absolute perfect thing to say, to reassure you every single time. You’re going to start dealing with your own shit. 

And the first order of business is rejecting your instinctive, knee jerk reactions to last night. You’re not going to jump his bones at the first opportunity, as some kind of test for him, and you’re also not going to make some rash vow to never initiate sex ever again, and force him to come to you every time. You’re the one who fucked up, and you can get things back to normal by simply not spiraling, and just living your fucking life. 

Victor will get a day off from fixing you even if you have to fight for it tooth and nail.

Resigned, you drag yourself out of bed and pause to stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. It’s… horrific. Dark makeup is all smudged around your eyes, and not in a sexy, smokey eye kind of way, but a flaky mess. And of course because you don’t have your luggage with you, the best you can do is wash your eyes with some hand soap until they’re stinging. The hot water of the shower helps a little, though, and you end up tilting your head back and opening your mouth to drink down a few disgustingly warm mouthfuls. 

There’s no sign of Victor when you reluctantly leave the marvelous heat of the water and venture out of the bathroom in a towel. Your dress is still on the floor where you left it the night before, and the idea of wearing it again holds about the same appeal as chugging a lukewarm beer. And he did give you permission to snoop. 

A quick shuffle through the laundry basket doesn’t reveal anything promising, but once you open the middle drawer of the dresser you know you hit the jackpot. There are band tshirts in there. Mostly from the 90’s if you had to guess, though there’s a Guns N’ Roses shirt towards the back that looks quite worn. You throw on the Everclear one with delight, relieved that it’s basically a dress on you, and you won’t be embarrassed when Victor returns. 

Spurned with the knowledge that he could be back any second, you fly to the bed again and belly flop down onto it, reaching out for the nightstand drawer in the same movement. He might as well have given you the logins to his bank account for how excitedly you plug those old earbuds into the iPod and try to figure out how to turn it on. It doesn’t have a screen, so you just push random buttons for a while and you’re finally rewarded, a grin spreading across your face when the unmistakable beat of Weapon of Choice begins to play. 

It’s set so loud that you can’t hear anything else, so you sprawl out for a minute and imagine you’re Victor, listening to this after a job. Or, hell, before a job, because killing is probably so commonplace to him that he makes it a game, finds the humor in it. A perverse shiver of pleasure runs through your body while you listen to that ridiculous song and imagine it playing in Victor’s head while he smashes his claws into someone’s spinal cord. 

Oh, no, you’re happy now. Ecstatic even, and you can’t help but jump up and prance over to the stack of mail. Another song starts to play, one you’ve only heard driving in the car with your dad a long time ago, but you’re flicking through bills and barely notice. There’s some random letters about building fees and utilities, and you’re just passing over another few pages when your date of birth catches your eye. You flick back to it, shocked to see your full married name printed farther down. It’s a medical record, from back when you lived in Kentucky and had your IUD removed. How the fuck did he get this?

You’re more careful now, setting the iPod on the counter and flipping slowly through papers. There’s not a single medical bill for Victor, of course, because he’s probably never seen the inside of a hospital. Sadly there’s nothing else of interest, and you’re just picking up the last page disappointedly, when a photo falls down to the counter below. 

It’s one you’ve never seen before, because you weren’t aware at the time that you were being photographed. Sweaty, red faced and fatigued, you’re sitting on your front porch steps with your elbows leaning on your knees. You’re wearing your mowing shoes and there are little bits of grass stuck to your sticky arms, so it’s obvious what you’ve been doing, but it’s still a shock to see yourself so candidly. It’s not an unflattering picture, per se, but at the same time, you’re completely unposed here. Your back is slumped in a careless display of poor posture, while your face… It has the oddest expression of satisfaction.

You flip over the photo and see one word scribbled there, in pencil: Happy

What the hell does that mean? Is he saying you’re happy, or the picture makes him happy, or something? Or maybe it’s completely unrelated, like some password he didn’t want to forget, so he just hid it on the ba—

The sudden weight of a hand on your shoulder has you fucking screaming, wrenching away from the touch and flinging yourself around to face the bearer of your imminent demise. Victor just stands there, throwing back his head and laughing at you while a Cake song continues to play in your ears. 

“What?” you demand, trying to get your breathing under control and tugging the earbuds out.

Still grinning, Victor snags the iPod off the counter and shoves the earbuds in his own ears. “You hungry?”

“Starved,” you reply, inconspicuously sliding the photo back into the papers behind you. 

Victor hesitates, running his thumb slightly, up and down the plastic fabric of the leash in his hand. William is just excited to be here, looking back and forth between mom and dad, and the city, anticipating the next adventure. 

“Your parents died this morning,” Victor finally tells you, softly, keeping his eyes trained on the sidewalk. “In a wreck on the interstate. A semi lost control.”

“What?” you laugh nervously.

Victor finally levels you an emotionless stare. “They lasted a few hours, just barely hanging on, but the hospital wasn’t able to reach you in time because you don’t have your phone. They’re gone, and you’ll never get to say goodbye.”

You frown, trying to internalize what he’s saying, but it doesn’t hit right. The words just glance off your heart and don’t land the way they should. It doesn’t feel real. 

“And then this morning,” Victor continues, “I found the dog eating rat poison. You know it’s all over the city. He got a big mouthful of it before I could stop him.”

Both of your gazes swing to William, who just stands there none the wiser, appearing definitely dumb enough to do that, but still healthy as ever. 

“His internal organs will be shutting down right now. He’s gonna be in a lot of pain real soon, and there’s nothing you can do about it. This is the last time you’re gonna see him alive.”

Eyes trained on your sweet little dog, you try to force that lump of emotion to your throat, but it doesn’t come the way you want it to.

“Your bed is gonna be empty when you wake up tomorrow. And the next day, and forever. He’s never gonna get another walk. Never gonna eat another olive, or chew another tennis ball until it looks like a wet rat. Those fuckin’ black hairs all over your sheets are the last parts of him you’ll ever get to have, because after today, he’s gone.”

You screw your eyes shut, straining to latch onto that emotion and digest it into your heart, and… nothing.

“I’m sorry,” you finally say, shaking your head. “Despite what you may think, I’m not much of a crier. I’m telling you, you’re going to have to slap me.”

In two quick strides Victor is right in front of you, sharp fingertips tilting your chin up to look at him. “One,” he says, pinching your cheek roughly between a finger and thumb, “I’m not going to slap you in the middle of the fuckin’ city.” He does the same to your other cheek, and it hurts enough to wince away instinctively, though his firm hold on your jaw prevents much movement. 

“Spit,” he instructs, cupping his hand right below your mouth.

Obediently you gather all your saliva and deposit it disgustingly right onto his fingers. 

“Two,” he continues, swiping his fingertips over one eye and then the next, carelessly smearing mascara and spit down your cheeks. “No job is worth that. Now, look sad for me.”

You glance down, and then slowly lift your eyes, putting every ounce of trust and hurt you can muster into the way you stare up at him through your damp lashes. 

“Perfect,” he mutters, finally releasing you. He shoves a separate leash into your hand - just the handle side, because the clip half of it has been raggedly cut off - and nudges you away.

You take a step back, then another, your eyes swinging once again to your dog who is sitting politely beside Victor’s leg. And then you turn on your heel and walk fast in the other direction, down the sidewalk, and you don’t stop until you’ve made your way to the opening of an alley.

“William!” you call, which of course doesn’t do anything because he’s still on the leash somewhere behind you. “William!” you yell louder. Over and over you start to scream your dog’s name, stepping into the alley and getting more and more frantic with each passing second. Finally pure panic is spiking through your voice, and you’re screaming so loud that the word breaks your voice.

“Shut the fuck up,” comes a garbled voice, like someone speaking through an intercom.

“Hello?” you ask, swiveling around stupidly in search of the source of the noise. “Who’s there?”

“Shut up and go away,” the disembodied voice insists.

Finally zeroing in on the exact camera doorbell that’s speaking to you, you stumble over and say, “Excuse me sir, have you seen a dog running through here?”

“No.”

“A little black pitbull?” you press, sniffling pitifully and swiping a hand over your cheek. “With a white stripe on his forehead?”

“N—“ the voice starts to say, and then cuts off. “Is that your dog, there behind you?”

You blink stupidly for a moment before straightening up and turning, and sure enough, there’s William, braced with his butt in the air, furiously wagging his tail and staring you down. Conveniently clipped onto his collar is the other half of the leash in your hand.

“WILLIAM!!!” you shriek again, as loud as you can, lunging in his direction like a madwoman. But of course you trip and fall, scraping up one palm and landing hard on your hip. Your dog is bounding away by the time you raise your head, so you just clamber to your feet with a moan of despair and a whiny little, “Ow.”

Uncaring that you’re still in full view of the doorbell, you rub your ass, lifting the back hem of your athletic shorts to expose your entire butt cheek. You gingerly squeeze the bare flesh there, whimpering at the soreness, and groan brokenly. 

And then your messy eyes lift and connect with the camera lens that’s still pointed straight at the bare half of your backside. 

“Oh my God,” you say, yanking your shorts back down, “sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to flash you.”

“It’s okay,” comes a slow, quiet reply that has the hair raising on your arms.

“Do you… do you think you could help me out? I’m new to the city and I don’t know anyone, and my dog’s so fast… I’m afraid I’ll lose him.”

A sigh. “I’m… I’m busy, I don’t think—“

“Please, sir,” you beg, taking a step forward and letting your voice break in an anguished, breathy sob. “I really need help. Sir, please, I’m… I’m desperate.”

You stand there, twisting the broken leash in your hands and just hoping, and finally you hear a heavy, resigned sigh through the speaker. The door beeps, and there’s a loud clunk, and just about the thickest metal door you’ve ever seen, more like a safe than a front door, slowly opens.

If there were a photographical database of all the country’s internet predators, you’re sure they could all be superimposed onto each other and it would generate this person. He’s somewhere in his forties or fifties, with patchy salt and pepper scruff and a button up hawaiian shirt, and he takes you in with unabashed interest.

You know exactly what he’s seeing, because you were very careful to curate this fantasy for him. White sneakers and the shortest athletic shorts you could find, your hair gathered in a messy, high ponytail, and another hair tie around your wrist. The shirt was the most difficult decision, and Victor nearly talked you into something with cleavage, but you went with your gut: a nondescript, oversized tshirt which would blend in at any college campus or high school. 

The man reaches somewhere behind him to grab for keys, and quickly locks up.

“Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you so much. I really owe you.”

You ignore his eyes sliding over your bare legs, and walk out of the alley as fast as you can, craning your neck for your dog. 

“There,” the man says as you turn the corner, reaching out a hand to stop you and grazing your breast in the process, one that’s just hanging behind your shirt without the restriction of a bra. 

“Oh my god, thank you.”

You crouch down this time, softly coaxing William with kissy noises, and he eagerly runs straight over to you. 

The force of him ramming into your chest has you falling to the side, fingers flailing out and accidentally wrapping around the man’s knee for stability. You make sure the other hand has a firm grip on William’s collar and look up towards your helper with startled eyes, terribly embarrassed to find your tear streaked face suddenly right in front of his hips. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” you say, quickly yanking your hand away and scrambling to your feet. 

“It’s alright,” he answers, laughing nervously though his eyes are glinting with excitement. “At least you got your dog.”

“Yeah, thank you so much.” You’re bending down to tie the two ends of William’s leash together, swinging the side of your head obliviously right back to the location it was before, lingering there because you’re too stupid to figure out how to tie two granny knots in a timely fashion. You finally notice where you are with another flustered glance up at his face before looking back to the front of his pants, nervously licking your lips. 

Finally you’re able to straighten up, keeping your face all confused and innocent-looking, and stare gratefully into his dark, steely eyes. “I’m sorry sir, I feel so awful that I made you come out and help me. I don’t have any money on me, or I’d offer you some kind of reward. I had to run after my dog, and I didn’t even get a chance to grab my phone.”

His gaze dips down to your nipples, which you assume are tight and obvious against your shirt, considering your ridiculously inadequate clothing for the chilly October day. “I’ve got some, uh, chores you could do for me. As payment.”

“Oh my god, yes, I am so good at cleaning. Let me just drop my dog back at my place real quick.”

He wavers for a moment, probably trying to think of any way to get you to abandon William here on the sidewalk. “You got roommates?” he hedges instead, looking around nervously and starting to follow you as you walk away.

“Yes sir, but they’re all at work, or I’d ask them to come get my dog. You don’t have to come with me, I hate making you walk after you just helped me so much.”

“It’s okay,” he assures, reaching out to pat your hair, his fingers lingering in the strands cascading from the ponytail. “I’m always happy to help a pretty girl like you. I’ll just walk you back real quick.”

“Aww, you’re literally so sweet. Everyone said people in New York are all grumpy and mean.”

“Lucky, then, that you met me.”

You smile innocently back over your shoulder, taking in his cigarette stained teeth, and manage to trip again in the process. 

“Oh my God,” you exclaim when he walks right into you and places a steadying hand on your waist. “You’re gonna think I’m just the biggest klutz in the world. I’m not used to New York. Or sidewalks.”

“It’s alright, sweetie.” His hand travels to the small of your back and stays there, planted right above the curve of your ass while you walk. 

You look back at him again, forcing yourself to lean into his touch and watching his gaze fasten on the action of your tongue moistening the corner of your lower lip. And right then you walk past a windowless white van with the sliding door open. A large, clawed hand snatches out of nowhere, yanking the man aside by the scruff of his neck, a startled gurgle the only sound he has time to get out with how suddenly he’s jerked into the vehicle. Then there’s only the relief of sudden coolness when your back is free from his nauseating touch.

Turning to face forward, you click your tongue a little to get your dog’s attention and keep walking, ignoring the muffled grunts and sounds of a struggle coming from somewhere behind you, until the door to the van slides closed with a satisfying metallic slam.

A smile probably would have spread across your face then, if you didn’t suddenly lock eyes with a dark haired man sitting on a stoop just up ahead. Charlie is leaning an arm on his knee, trying to act unaffected, but you can see how he’s internally fuming behind that tight lipped smile. Danger twists in your gut because both of you know he could hurt you right now and Victor would be too occupied to do anything about it. That’s the only reason you blow a kiss as you walk by instead of doing what you really want to do, and flipping him off.

“You know what they call a woman who fucks the guy paying her bills?” he calls after you. 

William growls but you keep walking, dragging him farther away, not quite fast enough to get out of earshot before you hear him hiss, “Prostitute.”

Chapter Text

Prostitute.

You grin to yourself, starfished out on Victor’s comfy bed with William fast asleep between your legs. Charlie was definitely trying to hurt your feelings, and he’d probably be devastated to find out that he only achieved the opposite. All he did was let you know exactly how jealous he is of his friend, how much he wishes he were him, because even Victor’s scariness can’t keep away someone like you. Someone who actually improves his life, who can help him and earn her keep, who loves him and will happily spread her legs whenever he wants. Charlie sees that, and it makes him absolutely consumed with envy. 

You’ve never felt more valuable. 

And the best part of it is, Charlie has no fucking clue just how comfortable you are being the slut. How utterly at peace and good with it you are, if he truly believes that about you, today and forever. If you weren’t worried he would unalive you right then and there, you might have stopped and bragged about it a little, made up ridiculous exaggerations about how Victor gets to use you sexually, just to see the look on Chuck’s face. But that scene from Pretty Woman flashed through your head, where George Costanza assaults Julia Roberts out of the same type of envy, so you just kept walking, doubling back a few times to make sure you weren’t followed to the safehouse. 

Turns out it’s really good that you have this win over Charlie to celebrate, because despite everything, there’s still a tiny, nagging doubt in the back of your mind that wonders what Victor thought of your performance. That gross old man’s hands were on you, and though you don’t feel the least bit ashamed in your own right, you are Victor’s girlfriend now. He knew the general idea of what you had planned, but he never gave you express permission to take it as far as you did, pushing that pervert to touch you like that, and you’re still not sure if you should have asked first. Didn’t even think to ask, really, because you were too elated to have the opportunity to show off for him. 

As if your conflicted thoughts somehow manifested it, your phone suddenly chimes with a text:

All done, be back in 30 min

Shit, shit, you never expected him to return this soon. Maybe there’s some magic about NYC that makes it easier to get rid of a body, or maybe it’s because you were able to deposit him right into a vehicle for Victor. He’s coming regardless, so you spring into action to order some delivery and wash the smeared makeup off your face. 

Finally you’re pulling out utensils and plates, and then leaning back against the kitchen counter, forcing yourself to confront your anxiety by playing Worst Case Scenario. In the worst case scenario, Victor is mad about what you did, and you can apologize and promise not to interfere in jobs again. The food will arrive and it will appease him a little, and you can just continue being sorry about it and eventually things will go back to normal. You can live with that, so really there’s nothing to be afraid of. Everything will be alright.

You definitely don’t play Best Case Scenario, because hurting yourself with false hope would be a stupid thing to do. You don’t imagine him coming home and telling you how happy he is to have you, and how much of an improvement it is to work jobs when you’re here with him. You certainly don’t let your thoughts drift back to the time when he said watching you almost hurt somebody made him fall in love with you in the first place. Obviously you don’t dwell on the tone of his voice when he said that, and the knowledge of how pleased he always seems when you excel at something related to what he does, because that would be incredibly foolish. 

Through the door, a series of muffled beeps begins to sound with the password input, and your heart hammers against your chest while your hands clamp onto the lip of the counter behind you. You focus on breathing, and the door soon opens, and Victor makes eye contact with you as soon as he steps inside. 

“Hey,” you say, flashing him a hopeful smile. 

“Hey.” 

He closes the door behind him and locks it without looking, so he can run his eyes over your face and ponytail and the stupid outfit that you didn’t think to change out of because it’s actually pretty comfortable, and your smile begins to drop away. Oh, n—

In the space of a heartbeat, impossibly fast for someone as large as he is, Victor is suddenly in front of you, pressing you into his body by way of a hand on your waist and another wrapped around the back of your neck. You tilt your head back to get a look at him, only glimpsing a quick flash of dark amber before he brings his lips down to press against yours, and happiness bubbles through your chest. You don’t even bother being relieved, because it feels like a waste of emotion when you can skip right ahead to pure joy. 

Victor pulls back to look down at you, smoothing his thumb over your temple. “Don’t you tell anyone ever again that I’m your friend,” he says, and you’d think it was a threat except that his voice is so warm. “I don’t want to be,” he pauses to run his lips against yours and say into that feather light caress, “your fuckin’ friend.” 

All you can do is smile against his lips for a moment before his mouth is on yours, kissing you like your Best Case Scenario was true, like he needs you, like he wants to be inside you, but this will have to do for now. He’s backing you up, pressing forward until you have to offer some resistance to avoid getting your tailbone smashed into that hard edge of granite. But he ignores the weak movement, wrapping a hand around the back of your thigh and lifting you onto the counter so he doesn’t have to bend down as far to reach your mouth. 

William is placing curious licks on your leg that’s dangling, but you barely notice because Victor is kissing you and that means Victor likes you. He likes the person you are and the talents you have, and maybe some part of him sees this part of you and reads it as sameness, as acceptance of who he is, displayed through your own questionable morals. In that moment it’s like it doesn’t even matter that you’re not a mutant, because that’s just something you’re born with, but this is something you chose. You chose him.

A large hand on your ass is shoving you forward until he’s pressed hard into the space between your legs, and you’re held there so tightly that it applies pressure to your clit and makes you gasp into his mouth. You instantly regret it, though, because the noise seems to sober him slightly. He sucks in a deeper breath and the kiss loses some of its urgency, denying you the pleasure of feeling him so raw. You make an encouraging sound in your throat and pull the back of his neck down, but it’s no use. With one quick nip of your bottom lip, he drags his mouth away and leans his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“I gotta go shower, baby. I’ve still got blood on me.”

You want to tell him it’s okay, that if he can fuck you bloody, then you sure as hell can return the favor, but another kiss keeps your mouth occupied for a moment. It’s slower, almost like an apology, and then he pulls back to look at your face.

“I need to clean up,” he repeats, like he’s trying to convince himself.

“Alright,” you agree, feeling marvelously dazed and just glad your pussy is still mashed into the hard front of his pants. 

“I have to. I can’t just fuck you like this until I’m clean.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s okay.”

Still Victor doesn’t move away. His hand kneads into your ass, so hard that you could cry with how much you love being handled like this. His other hand shifts, cradling across the entire base of your skull and pressing you forward until your lips are so close that you can feel his warm breath ghosting over them. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, baby feels good in my hands.”

Okay, you’re done, your self control is now a broken thing discarded in the trash. You’d happily take his cock, right here, with no more foreplay than this. A little bit of leverage with your thighs, and you’re pressing upwards, smoothing your tongue into his mouth and grinding your pussy a little against him. He groans into you, tilting your head back so he can kiss you deep and slow, sending boulders of want simply smashing their way through your insides.

The ring of the doorbell scares both of you, has your teeth clacking together when you jolt in place.

“Sorry,” you gasp, pulling away. “That’s probably the food. Are you hungry? I got Thai.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” he manages to say between breaths, taking a step back to adjust himself in his pants. “That’s perfect, I am… hungry. I’m… I’m gonna go shower.”

“Okay, cool. See you soon.”

Victor runs his eyes over you again, taking in how your heavy breaths are pushing your chest up and down and you’re still perched on the counter with your legs open. He drags a hand over his face with the look of a man at the end of his rope, before turning and stumbling over William in a moment of uncharacteristic distraction. 

“Do you want to bite me?” you ask as if you don’t already know the answer.

Victor’s eyes swing to your face, though his palm doesn’t stop moving, sliding down the inside of your thigh. “Of course. Doesn’t mean I should.” 

You finished your food first, partly because you’re a fast eater and partly because he’s got three portions to work though, so now you’ve got your head and shoulders resting on his lap, and it didn’t take him long to decide he only needs one hand to eat with. One of your knees is resting against the back of the couch, with the other one spread wide and hanging off the edge so that he can drive you insane as conveniently as possible. 

He takes another bite of food without relinquishing contact, lingering on that softest bit of thigh right by your pussy, sinking his fingers into it possessively before letting go and slowly dragging the backs of his knuckles up, trailing sensitivity all the way to your knee. 

“Just because you shouldn’t,” you tempt, blinking your eyes softly up at him, “doesn’t mean you can’t.”

Victor takes his time chewing and playing with you, soft strokes of fingers and experimental squeezes on your other leg, and resolutely avoids looking at your face. “I can’t be marking you up all the time, baby. You’ll get scars.”

“I don’t—” you start to protest, but those warm fingers leave your leg to press firmly over your mouth.

“You’re the type of girl who would bleed herself dry for a guy like me, so I gotta be the one to tell you no sometimes, no matter how pretty you sound asking.”

He waits until your brow smooths and you exhale in surrender before he removes his hand, reaching down to pull the hem of your shirt up to your neck and expose your bare chest. You watch him inhale deeply while he palms one of your breasts, running his thumb over your nipple with agonizing slowness. “You don’t have to sacrifice yourself to turn me on, baby. I promise.”

Fine. If he’s going to limit you to normie sex then you’re going all in, and screw waiting for him to finish eating. You reach down to shove your shorts off, kicking them onto the floor and making sure your upper half doesn’t move too much and disturb his perusal of your chest. Then you stretch back out and look up at his face, at his dark eyes locked onto the front of your delicate, silky little thong when you let your legs relax open for him once more. 

“Fuck me,” Victor breathes, wandering his hand down your stomach to curve two middle fingers over the gentle swell of your pussy. “Baby’s gonna cum in my mouth tonight.”

You have to close your eyes to handle the pounding rush of heat when he slowly drags his fingertips back up that same path, the fabric so thin that you might as well be wearing nothing, and lingers there over your aching clit. 

“Oh my god,” you mumble, hips rising slightly into his fingers despite your best efforts to stay still. 

Victor seems to be in no hurry to give you more than that, palming your thigh and running his thumb over that space of quickly dampening fabric while he finishes off his food. You’ve got your head leaned back over the top of his thigh, eyes closed and just breathing through the sensations because soon you’re going to get your pussy licked, and then he’s going to bend you over the bed or something and fuck you rough, and… that sounds almost perfect. 

His obvious enjoyment of your inner thighs has you getting a bit of a big head. Having his hands on you just makes you feel so pretty, and the idea of having four little white marks there from his teeth, on that velvety skin right by your pussy, suddenly seems like a really great idea. It would be kind of like a subtle tattoo that you can look at whenever you want, and only the two of you would see those marks and remember that delicious bite. 

Or maybe fate is kind after all. Maybe this urgency you feel to experience every rough, raw part of him is the lie, because your last relationship gave you a false sense of scarcity. It’s possible that there’s only an abundance of happiness waiting for you, and you’re the one doing yourself the disservice by greedily scrounging for it before the time is right. 

Breathe. Be present. Enjoy. 

Your eyes flutter open when Victor eases your head down to the couch so he can go put his plate away. He stops to coax William into the bathroom, and the anticipation coils tight in your pelvis. It has you sitting upright, wondering if you should hop over to the bed and wait there, or maybe even bend yourself over it with your ass in the air and make him question just how badly he wants to lick you first.

Victor returns before you’ve decided. He’s so quiet that if your eyes had been closed, you would never know that were was this enormous man standing in front of you, tilting his head and looking down at your bare legs and rumpled shirt that’s fallen halfway down your stomach. Silently he lowers himself until he’s on his knees in front of you. He slides both large hands along the outside of your thighs, and you lift your hips so he can drag that wet thong down your legs and toss it somewhere on the floor.

The delay is getting you fucking soaked. Your breathing is shallow now as he brings his face down to kiss the front of one knee, and then the other. You feel his fingers wrapping around each of your ankles, and bolts of desire shoot through your belly while he slides your feet apart across the soft carpet. He keeps that firm hold on your ankles, locking eyes with you while he lifts one foot to the edge of the couch and then the other, never once looking at what you’ve got waiting for him between your legs. He hooks his hands under your ass to pull you towards him, so suddenly that it makes you huff in surprise when you’re yanked forward, having to spread yourself completely open and hook your heels onto the edge of the couch to stay there.

Finally his eyes slide down to your wet pussy, and then, like he’s not quite satisfied, he pulls your hips forward one more inch, so that you’re nearly to the edge and utterly helpless to whatever he does to you next. You make a pitiful, breathy little whine, needing him to lick you more than you’ve ever needed anything in your life. 

So of course he looks up at your heated face and carefully kisses the inside of your thigh. 

You can’t take it. You close your eyes and tilt your head back with a groan, devoting everything you have to waiting patiently, and finally you shudder in relief when you feel that slick, dexterous warmth on your clit. 

“Fuck,” you gasp.

“Mmm, baby needs to get her pussy licked more often, doesn’t she?”

It’s probably a rhetorical question but you whimper in affirmation nonetheless. You’re sure Baby could get her pussy licked every day of the week, and still want it twice on weekends. 

He’s got the pad of a finger massaging around your opening, just barely pushing inside to the extent of what he’s willing to risk on your delicate parts. It makes you peel your eyes open and ask, “Will you fuck me rough after this?”

A soft kiss on your clit, and he pulls away to murmur, “If you want me to.”

“So bad,” you whisper.

Victor’s eyes connect with yours he whispers back, “Okay, baby.”

He’s right, though. It’s only been a week since you last came on his mouth, and somehow you’ve already forgotten how good it feels, that little bit of rough texture on his tongue making everything blindingly intense. The effort you have to exert to keep your legs in place just builds everything up that much better, switching your attention between keeping spread and feeling the motions of his mouth and that teasing finger, and before you know it you’ve surrendered to the orgasm rising up in you. It’s holding there, threatening to snatch your soul away, right when Victor backs off a bit to explore inside you with his tongue. 

“Bite me,” you gasp, numb to anything but how aroused you are and utterly incapable of embarrassment. 

Victor makes a “negatory” type of noise in his throat without bothering to stop what he’s doing. 

“I want the scars,” you plead between panting breaths. “I want to have something that reminds me how I’m feeling right now. Fuck, you make me so happy… just— just one time, baby, please.”

His mouth loses contact with you, and you look down to see conflict there on his face. A smidge of weakness.

“Do you want that, too?” you capitalize quickly, reaching shaky fingers down to slide across the skin he was playing with on the couch earlier. “Do you want to see your teeth marks right here every time you get me wet?”

A grumbly sort of growl comes out of him, but he pushes your hand off your thigh to replace it with his own, digging his fingers into your skin like he’s trying to find a particular spot. You’re not sure if he’s convinced until he lets out a deep sigh and looks up at you again. 

“My instincts have me wanting to bite here, right over your femoral artery.” He demonstrates with his fingers what feels like a pretty convenient place to set his mouth. “But if you really want this,” he levels you a pointed glare, “it’s gonna have to be right here,” and he moves his hand lower and further in, digging his claws painfully into your skin like he’s testing you. 

“Perfect,” you tell him, curling your toes in anticipation.

“Baby.”

“Yeah?”

He shakes his head a little, bringing his other hand up to slide his thumb over your clit. “Just this one time.”

“Okay,” you lie with the prettiest eyes you can manufacture, quite convinced you could pull this whole routine again and get the same outcome. 

“Fuck, you’re…” he trails off with another growl and doesn’t finish the thought, just puts his mouth back on your clit and begins working you up again. Maybe he’s going to make you cum first, to make sure it’s not your horny brain making all the decisions. It’s not, though. He could make you choose between a bite and an orgasm right now, and even as aroused as you are, you know exactly what you’d pick.   

You relax into it, letting him pull needy noises out of you the closer you get to release. One of his hands is wrapped around the outside of your hip so you grab onto that wrist, closing your eyes while all the excitement of your win morphs into hot arousal. He presses into you tighter, holds you to him so hard it almost hurts, and if you weren’t right about to cum in his mouth you’d realize that means you need to brace for something completely different. But your mind is warm, fuzzy mush, and you just relax into the tip of that orgasm and let it begin to wrap its gentle fingers around your cunt, and—

And then you’re suddenly screaming because your orgasm came crashing through you with white hot pain. 

Your eyes automatically yank open to figure out what the fuck just happened to you, and what you see is Victor there, with his teeth sunk deep into the flesh of your thigh. What’s confusing you is the thumb still working over your clit, keeping you aroused because when you finally gasp in enough oxygen to do an internal assessment, you realize you still haven’t cum yet. 

If Victor thought bringing you to the brink of orgasm would be some kind of pain management, he was wrong. It hurts far worse than the ones on your neck did, worse than you ever imagined it could, and he’s still got his teeth in you, swallowing the blood as it comes out of those four little wounds. 

“Oh, shit. Oh, fuck,” you chant, pushing his hand away because there’s no way you can cum right now, and it’s just an irritating distraction to have that stimulation. Why did you ever want this? It hurts so bad you’re shaking with it, just barely restraining yourself from clamping your fingers into his hair and yanking hard until he lets you go. 

Finally with a pained sounding groan, Victor extracts his fangs from your leg and leans back on his haunches, eyes closed and sighing in obvious pleasure while he tugs at the tented front of his sweatpants. He looks so relaxed that you quickly search for some telltale wet spot at his crotch, but don’t see any. Finally he cracks his eyes open and grips himself over his pants. “Fuck, that felt good.”

“Good,” you say weakly, bringing your fingers down to gingerly feel the bite mark. He doesn’t seem as concerned with your wellbeing as he was the last time, but that might be thanks to you basically demanding the bite in the first place. A part of you pouts internally, though, until he rouses himself enough to guide your feet back down to the floor and place gentle licks along the still-bleeding punctures.

“Did you cum?” he asks against your skin, eyes flicking to your face.

A messed up and immature part of you wants to lie, to deny yourself that pleasure all night and stay mad at him for hurting you exactly like you asked him to, but instead you admit that you didn’t.

“Good.” He stands, pulling you upright and not even bothering to let you attempt walking on your own. He picks you up princess-style and crosses the room in a few quick strides before depositing you down onto the bed.

Victor is getting naked, so you do too, stripping off your shirt and endeavoring in vain to clamber out of the hole of self pity you’ve fallen into. He starts to climb on top of you but pauses, seeming to realize how that position would irritate your injury, and settles on his side behind you instead. 

“How bad was it?” he asks, pulling your back into his chest and nuzzling his stupid beard into your neck.

“Bad,” you admit, still mentally spiraling. 

“Well maybe it’ll be just the one time after all.” He pushes a hand between your legs, careful to avoid the bite, and strokes a finger over your clit. “You mad at me?”

“Yeah,” you say, and then, with the resulting and well deserved wave of guilt, you decide to ask, “you mad at me?”

“Yeah.” 

It makes you smile, and that feels like such a relief that it turns into a grin. There’s a soft chuckle behind you, and Victor kisses your jaw and drops his hand away to line himself up from behind. 

You both make happy groans when he finally pushes into your incredibly wet cunt. Just like that, your hurt feelings drop away, and you’re able to relax in his arms and focus on the wonderful feeling of him rocking into you. 

“You still want it rough?” 

“No.” You sigh, bringing your own fingers down to rub your clit. “I just want to cum.”

“Okay, baby.” He pulls your leg up by the back of your knee, giving you both better access, and you can feel his tongue licking across the skin right under your ear. 

It’s wonderful. For some reason you feel emotionally raw, so just getting held and steadily fucked hits the spot better than you could have imagined. When you cum, the orgasm is long and sweet, with Victor telling you what a good girl you are for getting his cock so messy while you spasm around him. 

It ignites you enough ask for it a little rough after that, so he pins your front to the mattress and fucks you good and hard for the full sixty seconds it takes for him to cum. That makes you giggle, and him grumble, but it’s his blanket he’s ruining this time so you really don’t care that much. 

Chapter Text

“Let me see those pretty eyes.”

You slide your eyes open and look up at Victor, mind blank to anything but how fucking swollen and aroused you are, and the wonderful feeling of having him in your mouth. He’s got a hand wrapped under your jaw and the other one gripping himself, steadily feeding you his cock while you keep yourself stable with your palms on his thighs. 

“Touch,” he murmurs, and you slide a hand off his leg to stroke a finger across where you’re dripping. You’re kneeling on the edge of the bed with your thighs spread wide, getting your face just the right height for him to slowly fuck your mouth until you’re completely drunk on it. 

As if he wants to make sure you can devote your full attention to rubbing your clit, he backs off a little, and, knowing what he wants, you once again push your tongue forward so he can just drag the head of his cock against the top of it, teasing himself while you blink up at him. He hasn’t once hit the back of your throat. If anything he’s being gentler to your mouth than you would if you had control over it, and that just allows you to relax into what he’s giving you, and get very, very wet. 

With a little whimper you drag your slippery fingers away to rest back on the front of his leg, feeling that rolling throb once again fade away to nothing as you edge yourself for… how many times has it been, now? Four? Somewhere around four.

“Fuck,” he breathes, slotting himself back into your mouth, “this is the hottest fucking thing.”

You make some kind of agreeing sound in your throat, closing your eyes again and stroking your hands up and down his hips, too dazed and wet to do anything but whatever he tells you next. 

He slides himself out of your mouth and pushes your chin up, forcing you to flutter your eyes open and look up at him. “You want to cum, or do you want more cock?”

You don’t even have to think about your response. “More cock, please.”

“Okay, pretty baby.” He pushes himself all the way into your mouth, running his thumb across your cheek. “Touch.”

Your fingers are shaking a little, but you obediently play with your sensitized clit, every tiny stroke burning through your belly with how close you are to cumming while he slowly fucks your face. He doesn’t pull back this time, forcing you to turn your focus inwards to avoid inadvertently tipping yourself over the edge. It doesn’t take long at all before those warning sparks of flame start to wrap around your spine and you once again yank your hand away, panting through your nose. Four, that was probably number four. 

Victor pulls back again, letting you slide your tongue across the underside of his cock and look prettily up at him, as blissful as if you were getting your birthday and Christmas presents all at once. 

“Does baby need to cum?” he asks, dragging himself out of your mouth. 

You hesitate this time, unsure exactly how many more times you can go before you ruin everything completely by accident. But, on the other hand, cock.

Finally you open your mouth and stick your tongue forward again, deciding to keep going until he makes you stop. And from the way his eyes are already so dark while he exhales heavily, giving himself a quick stroke, it may not be long. 

Victor eases himself all the way into your mouth and slowly drags back out, restarting that rhythm that’s making you the happiest little baby there ever was. “Touch.”

Your fingertips slide back over your slick cunt, easily gathering some wetness and circling around your aching clit, each stroke feeling so fucking good, your body screaming at you to just cheat, to touch yourself for a handful of seconds longer and end this. Instead you pull your hand away once more and moan around him with how gloriously helpless it feels to be stuck in this loop of arousal. 

Victor’s hand shifts on your jaw and he quietly asks, “Does baby need to get fucked?”

Yes, but no. Stubbornly you close your eyes and adjust to him rolling his hips into your mouth without giving you a break. 

“What do you need?” he asks, finally pulling out and letting you breathe and swallow down some of the drool. 

“More cock, please.”

His hand wanders down to play with your nipple for a moment, making you close your eyes again to handle the internal screaming that small touch is making you do. “Open,” he says softly. You open your mouth and try to focus on your face getting fucked, try to ignore that he’s still rolling your nipple. “Eyes,” he says, and you drag your eyes up to his face. “Touch.”

Your fingers twitch on his leg, wanting to obey but scared that you’re too far gone to go one more round. 

“Fuck,” he grits out, voice low and delicious, still steadily filling your mouth, “are you really that close?” 

You make a whimpery affirmative sound. 

“Baby, if you want more, you’re going to have to keep touching. That’s how this works.”

Fuck. One more, you can do one more. Ignoring his stupid fingers still playing with your nipple and making everything that much more sensitive, you look up at him and slide your fingertip over that needy spot once, twice, the faintest little strokes, and you get so close to cumming that you lose focus and accidentally gag on him when he pushes himself all the way to your throat. 

“Fucking hell, two seconds? You can only handle two seconds?” He’s breathing hard, holding there motionlessly in your mouth, waiting for you to get a grip on yourself. 

You’re swallowing around his cock with your wet hand clamped onto the front of your thigh, fighting so hard not to cum into the fucking air that you can’t see him, can’t see anything even though your eyes are open. Or maybe it’s because of the haze of tears from gagging when you weren’t supposed to, when there was really no reason to because he was being so careful. Victor swipes his thumb across each eye to remove the dampness from your lashes, and you finally have enough composure to just breathe and focus your vision on him again. 

He must have managed to pull himself together as well, because he wraps his hand around your jaw and pulls back enough to let you make the call. “Does baby need to cum, or does baby need more cock?” 

You’re done. You know your limits, and you’ve reached them, but you don’t want this to end. You want him to make you gag again and keep giving you this attention and telling you what to do, but you also need him to trust you, because you’re going to want to play this game again sometime.

“I need to cum, please.”

“Okay, baby. Fuck.” He lets out a heavy breath, releasing your face. “Go lay down for me.”

Your legs are shaking, but you manage to scoot yourself backwards and then immediately spread your knees apart, because you’re afraid it would only take a few times of squeezing your thighs together to get a really unsatisfying finish. 

Victor climbs right over you, yanking his eyes away from how sopping wet you are to drop his head down and give you a kiss on the lips. It’s just one closed mouth, soft little kiss, but you’re so aroused that it sends electric tingles across your skin in anticipation. Just a few minutes ago you’d do anything to delay this, and now the seconds cannot go by fast enough until you get to cum. 

And then, as if you’d been the one to say, ‘touch,’ he moves down to get his face between your legs and slides one long, excruciatingly slow swipe up your pussy with the flat of his tongue.

You gasp and your hips instinctively follow the motion, every nerve weeping when it’s not enough and your clit loses contact with his tongue at the top. Everything is so tight and hot inside you that just that one lick was nearly enough to send you over the edge. Victor knows it too, one hand wrapped around the inside of your thigh and just hovering there, watching your cunt spasm helplessly a few times even with nothing to push you all the way into release.

“Shit,” he mutters, and you can’t even tell what expression has crossed his face because you’ve got your eyes squeezed shut and your hands balled into fists at your sides. 

Thankfully you don’t have to wait long. He shifts over you and your eyes spring open when you feel his cock sinking down into you, and he doesn’t even bother to let you adjust before he plants a hand by your head and starts fucking you. 

Your entire focus is so locked onto what you’re feeling that you’re struggling to take in anything you’re seeing, anything you’re hearing, even though any other time you’d love to pay attention to him dragging your earlobe through his teeth and telling you how wonderful and wet you feel. Faintly you recognize that he’s asked you something, but your mind is drifting, and it’s not until he turns your face to look at him that you’re able to collect enough intelligence to listen when he repeats himself.

“Can you cum like this or do we need to do something else?” 

“I—” Fuck, it’s so inconvenient to try and form words right now. He’s still got your jaw in his hand, keeping your face tilted up to look at him while your inner muscles flutter around his cock, your brain dull and mouth absolutely useless. “Victor?” you whimper, eyes blinking unfocused up towards his face while he continues to fuck you so steady and deep. And then a little, “Oh, no,” slips past your lips because you know what’s right about to happen.

“Aww, baby,” he soothes while your brows pinch together with the beginning of that monstrous orgasm. “Yeah? Is that what you needed? Fuck, you smell so sweet when you cum.”

You’re gasping out unintelligible, whiny moans but he doesn’t seem to mind, running his tongue up your throat and purring while wave after wave has you contracting hard around him. He starts to fuck you faster, dragging out your release until you almost can’t stand the sensitivity, and then he finally does that grunted gasp and you hear fabric rip when his claws punch down into the bed under his hand 

“Fuck,” he mutters, after you’ve both just laid there for several minutes catching your breath and trying to connect your limbs to your bodies once again. “We’re definitely doing that again.”

You huff a weak laugh in response, turning your head to wipe a hand across your face. “I’ve actually got even more ideas.”

“I fuckin’ believe you.”

He rolls off, grabbing the towel you insisted on having handy and quickly wiping himself down before he hands it to you. 

“Why have you never used condoms with me?” you ask, finally blissed out and uncaring enough to say what’s been rolling around in your head since New York.

“You’ve never smelled fertile.”

You frown up at him while he pulls his pants on, unsure if he’s joking or not. “You can smell that?”

“Yes.”

“So like, theoretically, if my birth control failed and I could actually get pregnant some random day, you’d know?”

He levels you an annoyed look that says he’s not going to bother repeating himself again.

“Wow,” you mutter to yourself. “That’s really convenient.”

“Mhmm.” He checks his phone, obviously uninterested in the topic. “I gotta go to that meeting now. If you go out tonight, stick to the main areas and be armed.”

You smirk up at him, stretching out on the mattress. “You want me to stay here, don’t you?”

“Don’t care.” He doesn’t look over at you, and you can’t tell if it’s because he’s in a hurry or because you’re still naked. He does pause, though, on his way to the bathroom. “Text me if you do leave, and when you get back.”

“I will.”

You spring into action as soon as the bathroom door closes behind him, yanking on your discarded underthings along with jeans and a hoodie. By the time you pass Victor for your turn in the bathroom, his phone vibrates with your text.

Heading out! ily

He doesn’t reply, of course, because Victor Creed.

Chicago is beautiful at night. Your hotel is near the Riverwalk, so you get to indulge your nighttime walking habits somewhere so much more interesting than your usual sidewalk. It’s a main area…ish.

Whoever set up this job for tomorrow specifically asked for Victor, so here you are killing time while he does his big boy stuff, because you’re not even here to work. You’re here because neither of you can stand the idea of you staying home, and you’re both finally humble - or pathetic - enough to admit it. 

You’re leaning against the railing, looking out over the lights reflecting on the surface of the river, when an uncomfortable pinch of danger crawls across your skin. Pretending you’re flipping your hair out of your face with the wind, you quickly scan the area and zero in on a man also loitering a few yards away. He’s not looking at you and there’s no obvious reason for you to feel him as a threat, but your body knows. 

When he pushes off from the railing and starts to wander in your direction, you don’t move. The last thing you want is to let him chase you away from this populated area. Let him choose between walking past, or drawing attention to himself by talking to you. 

The man settles a few feet away and leans sideways against the railing, looking at you. 

“Move along,” you say as low and unfriendly as you can, one hand digging into your purse for your phone. 

He tilts his head, still brazenly watching you, so you slowly turn your face towards him and glare, taking in his average appearance and slightly short frame. 

“Where’s Creed?” he asks casually.

Worry rips through you, but only one blink passes before you say, “Go away, fucker.” Your phone is hidden against your hip and you try to unlock it without looking.

The man takes a quick step towards you, making you recoil and hiss, “I’ll screa—“

But that’s as far as you get before he lets you see the silver gleam of a gun pointed at you, hidden at his side. “I’ll ask again. Where is Creed?”

Your heart is suddenly galloping, adrenaline flooding your system while your body freezes in place. “I don’t know,” you whisper. 

He steps into your body, pressing up against you and shoving the hard barrel into your ribs. “Try again.”

Nothing in your body or brain is working correctly. You’re scrambling to find something to do or say to get you out of this, but instead you find yourself paralyzed with shock, breaths coming too fast to do you any favors.  

“He’s meeting with someone,” you admit. “I— I don’t know who, or where, or when he’ll be back.” You scramble for the line people say in movies to make someone believe them, and tack on, “He doesn’t tell me those things.”

The man flattens his lips in annoyance. “Give me your phone.”

Fuck, why couldn’t you have left it in your purse so you could grab your gun instead? Stupid, stupid, bad luck. You start to hand it over, and the man pushes the gun harder into your side, making you wince.

“Unlock it.”

Setting your jaw, you type in B A B Y and hand it to him. 

His eyes barely leave you, flicking back and forth while he checks through whatever he’s looking for, call logs or something, and then stops and squints down at the screen. 

“What’s “ill-ee?”

“What?” you breathe, genuinely confused.

“‘Heading out, ill-ee.’”

The realization makes you bite down on your bottom lip to avoid an insane giggle slipping out. This is not funny, this is life or death. Get it together, woman.

“I think it’s a typo.”

The man grunts and shoves the phone back to you. “Tell him to meet you at O’Callaghan’s. Don’t send it, just type it.”

Unable to believe your good fortune, you carefully keep your face neutral and type with shaking fingers:

Hey Creed, meet me at

“How do you spell that?” you ask, fingers faltering.

The man makes an annoyed sound and yanks your phone from you, looking down and then quickly typing the rest of your text. Your eyes are locked onto what you can see of the screen, trying to tell if he uses the backspace to erase the one vital word, but from the angle of the phone it’s impossible to tell if he has. Your heart is racing, praying that he’ll send the first part as-is, and then you hear the whooshing “sent” sound when he presses the button. 

Your captor only waits until he sees that the text has been delivered before he flicks his wrist and tosses your phone into the river. Just like that, you’re completely expendable and a boulder of dread opens up in your gut. 

“Walk,” he says, pushing you forward with a bruising shove.

“Are you gonna kill me?” you ask, backing up a step in the direction he indicated.

“Walk,” he repeats.

No second location. It’s the one thing that’s been drilled into you, from every movie and true crime show and basic instinct. You back up another step, glancing around at how many people are in the area. It’s so risky of him to try to take you like this. There must be something really, really important he needs from Victor to risk his wrath upon your death. But you don’t like the look of this man. He’s got his jaw set in a way that says if you turn and run right now, he has no qualms with shooting you in the back and trying his luck to get away. 

So you walk. You hang onto your purse and let him force you away from the main area, farther and farther until the lights are dimmer, and you find yourself facing a dark nook between two large buildings. 

“In there,” the man insists. 

It’s empty and silent, and you will die in there, there’s no doubt in your mind. There are only two ways you’re going to be able to not die: If Victor gets to you in time, or if you can rescue yourself. And you simply aren’t convinced there’s going to be enough time.

“What’s in there?” you ask, facing the man and obediently backing up a step into the darkness. He’ll shoot you if you reach into your purse. There’s no way you’ll have enough time to grab your gun, pull it out, and aim it before you’re dead. You’re going to have to acquire it like an accident.

“Keep walking.” 

The man stalks forward with every backwards step you make, until you’re both in the shadows and his head swings around a little, making sure there’s no one else in the area. 

“Ow,” you gasp, faking a backwards stumble that has you actually landing pretty hard on your ass. Your purse falls off your shoulder, contents scattering across the ground, and in the automatic scramble to push everything back in, your hand finds your pistol and your fingers wrap around the handle. 

In reality there’s no time in the interim. It’s only that adrenaline fueled slow motion, like your life flashing in front of your eyes, that has you hearing that memory so clearly. It’s not Victor speaking, it’s actually your ex husband who tells you, “If you’re going to shoot someone in self defense, your goal isn’t to hit them, your goal is to stop them. One bullet is not a guarantee. You aim and you shoot, and you don’t stop, you just keep firing until your gun is fucking empty, you understand?”

There’s only a second in between when your finger finds the trigger and you whip your arm around and fire your first shot.

BANG.

The sound is so loud and the recoil of the revolver against your palm is so sudden, it shocks you for just a second. Shocks the man, too, the unexpected explosion probably even more than the wound he’s now got in his shoulder.

BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-click-click-click.

The man is already falling forward, his gun hanging limply and unfired in his hand when his face hits the ground with a horrible crunching noise. You yank your foot towards you, away from the blood that’s surely gushing out onto the concrete from the six rounds in his chest. Shit, you just killed someone. You’re alone in this random alley in Chicago with a dead guy, and— 

Victor.  

A new wave of adrenaline has you stuffing your purse contents back in, has your next actions laying themselves out clearly in your mind like stepping stones. You have to get away from this body, and you have to find Victor. You pull yourself to your feet and look down at the empty gun in your hand. You can’t leave it with the body, it’s got your fingerprints all over it, so you shove it back in your purse and take one step away before stopping again. 

You don’t have your phone. There’s absolutely no way for Victor to contact you or find you, beyond walking back to the hotel, and you’re not positive how to get there from this spot, not even sure if it’s safe to go back there. Get away from the body, that’s step one. 

Can Victor find your scent and follow it, like he did that day in the woods? God, you hope so. You briefly consider rubbing some of your blood as you go to leave a trail of breadcrumbs for him, but that kind of DNA evidence would be stupid to leave with the scene of a body. You’re going to have to trust that he can find you in this enormous city full of people, just from his nose. 

Shaking like a leaf, you step onto the sidewalk and begin to move. 

You’re more tense and tight than you’ve ever been in your life. It’s nearly midnight and you’re sitting at a bar - you’re not sure which one, you only looked long enough to verify that it wasn’t the one Victor was being lured to - and you’re convinced that you’ll be found at any moment. There will be the static of radios, and urgent cries of, “Police! Hands where I can see them!” and people will scream and you’ll be taken into custody for murder.

Yet still, the law doesn’t come. Surely there were cameras or something. Various establishments with security footage showing you and that man walking towards the alley, and only you coming out. They’ll be hunting down those cameras right now, serving warrants for the footage and combing the streets for a crazed woman in a hoodie and jeans, rampaging through the city with her little handgun. 

You take another drink of whiskey and shudder, recalling for the thousandth time ending that life. How you could practically feel the bullets ripping through his skin, coming in clean from the front and taking with them a large chunk of flesh out the back. 

Suddenly a heavy hand lands on your shoulder, and amid the resulting lance of terror, before you can turn your head to look, you’re being jerked right off your stool and slammed into a large, Victor-smelling chest. You’re held there so tight you literally can’t breathe, which is probably good because as soon as he lets you go slightly, and you can suck in oxygen, your eyes fill with tears.

“Victor, I–” 

“Not here.” 

Victor grabs your hand, and you barely have time to snatch your purse before he’s tugging you around the tables, out of the bar and onto the sidewalk. Numbly you follow, your mind swirling with a hundred questions, but instead you focus on keeping up with him. He’s so fucking in the zone that you would find yourself dragged if you didn’t keep up with his long strides. 

“Order an Uber,” Victor commands, not slowing his pace.

“I don’t have my phone. Someone threw it in the river.”

Victor glares back at you. “Walk faster, then.”

“Baby,” you insist, digging your heels into the sidewalk and forcing him to stop. “I killed someone.”

“I know, I found the body.” He drags you forward, and you fall back into step behind him. 

“What’s happening?” you beg to know.

“Something bad.” He stops suddenly, sniffing the air, and you swing your head around without noticing anything out of the ordinary. 

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. “I never should have brought you.”

You’re getting pulled by your hand towards that awful Riverwalk again, near where you first met the man. There are still people around but it’s not as populated now, and you’re so keyed up that you wouldn’t be able to sense danger, or anything at all, with your mind constantly swinging back and forth between gut wrenching worry and mental replays of your crime. Your head is spinning so fast that you’re going to puke if you don’t have a second to stop and calm down.

Something causes Victor to halt, and he turns to look at you, eyes connecting with yours for the first time since he found you, and... fuck, you immediately begin to cry. His gaze flicks to something over your head and he pulls you into his chest, hooking one forearm around your neck and kissing your hair before murmuring, “I’m sorry.”

Sniffling, you’ve just begun to relax slightly in the comfort of his arms when you’re lifted so fast that you can’t even brace for it. One shocked gasp is all you have time for, an involuntary inhale to scream, because you’re falling, arms and legs flailing helplessly through the air, and the scream doesn't have a chance to rise up before you hit the water. 

It’s so cold that your entire body locks up for a few crucial seconds, even though your mind is roaring at you to move, to swim to the surface and take in air. Thank goodness you see faint lights above and figure out which direction to go just as the paralyzation gives way to panic, and you start thrashing through that frigid water, purse abandoned to the depths. 

Your head breaks the surface and you gulp oxygen in relieved sobs, only to hear shouts and pained screams and gunshots from somewhere. The current is taking you away, faster than you realized it would, but you blink water out of your eyes and locate the source of the noise just in time to see Victor, slightly hunched in pain, roaring in fury while he punches his claws into someone and throws them out of your line of sight. 

There are still guns going off, and you can see the force of the rounds hitting Victor's chest, slamming him backwards, but there’s no way you could get to him, even if you were a decent swimmer. All you can do is choke on water and watch in horror as two louder bangs reverberate through the air, and the back of Victor’s skull explodes. 

Chapter Text

[5 months later]

Your boyfriend is in a bad mood.

He’s the kind of person who wears his emotions on his face, betraying himself with every eyebrow twitch or slight curl of his mouth. Ever since the first night you met him, you’ve mentally crowned him the king of micro expressions, with his face constantly shifting, flexing and relaxing with every new bit of stimuli he comes across. 

Or perhaps he’s a slave to those expressions, because all you have to do is watch his face while you unload about something that matters to you, and it’ll be obvious exactly what he thinks. You’ll know everything he feels about the actual topic, about whether or not he wants to be standing there speaking with you, and how he feels about you personally. He’s the easiest read imaginable, so long as you’re paying attention.

At the moment you know exactly how he’s feeling, by the way he’s not looking at you. Well, to be more accurate, you can tell by the way he’s looking through you, like you’re some translucent fixture that he’s not quite sure actually exists. As if the consequences of your physical movements - his dinner plate being set in front of him, getting taken away when he’s done, a hand leading him to the couch and setting a beer by his elbow - those insignificant ripples in his reality are the only proof that you’re even there.

You always told yourself you’d never end up here again, and yet here you are, chanting over and over inside the privacy of your own head that some things are worth the sacrifice.

“Michael.”

At the sound of his name, your boyfriend blinks his chocolate brown eyes in your direction, like he’s just now noticing you’re there, in your own fucking apartment.

“Rough day?” you press, tucking your feet under you to get a little more comfy on the other side of the plush couch.

He stretches out his neck, exhaling deep, and rubs a palm over his face like he’s being dragged back to reality against his will. “Coworker again.”

“Aww, I’m sorry. What did that jerk do this time?” You scoot a few inches closer, near enough that you hope he understands the offer of companionship if he wants it, but leaving enough space that you won’t suffocate him in the process. 

“He’s always digging at me,” Michael complains, running a hand agitatedly through his dark, curly hair, “and I never get a fucking break. Today it was that I, ‘smell weird,’ like, as if he can even smell me with how far apart we are.”

You make a sympathetic noise and reach out to stroke his forearm with your fingertips, braced to pull back if the touch annoys him. True to form, he seems not to even notice. 

“It’s getting to where I don’t even want to go to work anymore, ‘cause I have to sit there and listen to him all day, telling me I’m ugly, or an incel, or… a disgrace to my mom. I swear to god, I can’t take it any more, for one more fucking day.”

“You should report him to HR,” you offer. “I keep telling you.”

“Nah, nah, he’s too important for the project, they won’t do shit.” 

“Baby,” you say softly, leaning into the warmth of his body and running your hand across his chest, to the middle where you can feel his heart steadily beating. “I’m so sorry this is happening, Michael. You deserve better than this stressful job, and it’s not fair that you have to put up with it.”

He nods slightly, covering your hand with his and squeezing it like he finally appreciates your presence. Those expressive eyes look into yours, his dark lashes highlighting that European sort of handsome, though the grumpy set of his mouth turns it into more of a ‘peaked in high school’ kind of face. 

“But while you’re stuck with the shitty job,” you add, pressing his side into your chest for a hug, “I’m here for you.”

“Yeah?” He slides his palm up your arm, goosebumps rising across your skin in the wake of his touch. “You got my back?”

Your fingers play with the soft fabric of his tshirt over his chest. “Of course I do. I can listen, and I can support…” you glance into his eyes to check for a sign of rejection, and when you don’t see it, you lean forward to linger a soft kiss to the side of his neck, pitching your voice slow and gentle. “…and I can also help you relax.” 

A peaceful noise comes up from his chest, like he’s settling himself in for something he’s been looking forward to. Your mouth climbs up to his ear, slowly nipping at it, and you whisper, “I really enjoy helping you relax, baby.”

“Oh, yeah?” He pushes his hips forward and spreads his legs with all the arrogance of a man who knows what he’s about to get. “Why’s that?”

Your nibbly kisses trail over his jaw, making a lazy path to his mouth, though he seems to be in no hurry to press his lips to yours. “Because you’re my boyfriend, and you’re so wonderful, and I like making you happy.”

Michael takes hold of your hand and slides it down his body, along his stomach and over the buckle of his belt until you’re fondling him over his jeans. You make a pleased little noise at how hard you find him while he just tilts his head back and groans happily. 

“Aww, baby, do you need some help with this? You must be so uncomfortable in these pants.” 

He’s already unbuckling and unzipping, raising his head to flick his eyes from the little bit of cleavage you have visible to the teasing motions of your fingers. “Okay.”

“There we go,” you praise, pulling him out the top of his underwear. “Let’s just get this beautiful dick out so it can get nice and comfy with me.” You spit discreetly in your hand and begin to rub him the way he likes, working your hot mouth along his throat.

“Fuck, c-can you suck it a little?”

Ice floods your insides. You pull back a little to look at his face, taking in the slight pout and hopeful gleam in his eyes. “Michael,” you falter, “you know I’m not ready for that yet. My last relationship—”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves his hand dismissively because he hasn’t forgotten. He knows quite well how emotionally burned you were, how everything is all one bad memory and it’s going to take some time before you can handle being physical like that with anyone again. He hasn’t forgotten, he’s just hoping he’s broken you down enough to reconsider. 

“I just don’t understand how that’s any different than what you’re already doing,” he gripes, still slumped on your couch with a belly full of the dinner you cooked, and still steadily getting jerked off in your soft hand. 

“It’s different to me,” you mumble, casting your eyes down. “I guess I just need some more time, to, um… to feel safe enough.”

Your hand shifts, hitting a twisting movement that he usually likes, and he sighs in defeat, relaxing fully into what your hand is doing. “Alright, but can you talk to me? The way you like to do?”

Sweet, sweet relief. You bring your lips back to his throat, nibbling on his skin between soft little praises.

“Mmm, of course, baby, I love talking to you. I love making you feel so good, getting to wrap my fingers around this big dick, and helping you forget everything except how good you’re doing for me.”

Michael doesn’t like to make noises when he’s getting off - probably programmed from the bizarre silence of men in porn -  but there’s no hiding the blissed out look on his face when you tell him, nice and slow, how good he’s doing just sitting there.

“Did you know you’re doing so well? Getting this beautiful dick nice and hard for me, and letting me take care of you the way I like to do. You’re doing such a good job, baby. I can’t wait for you to get a little harder in my ha– Oh, there we go. Doesn’t that feel better now that you’re so hard and ready to cum?”

Despite the grumbling about handjobs, it doesn’t take long. It never does. Michael is soon grunting and twitching through his release, and usually you’re more careful with it, but this time you let cum splatter onto his stomach and drip down his balls, slowly working the last of it out of him with a continued flow of sweet nothings in his ear. 

“Fuck,” he finally groans, turning his head to give you a sloppy kiss, “you’re gonna make me marry you.”

Shocked, you laugh and extract your sticky hand. “Is that a proposal?”

“Would you want to, if it was? Someday, if I did ask?”

Fuck, Michael’s face is serious. You were halfway getting up when he said that, so you sit back down for a moment and think carefully over your words. “If someday you decide to propose, and you’re really sure, I– I guess I wouldn’t say no.”

He nods his head, ever the information consolidator, and looks down at his messy, limp dick with a sigh. “I’m gonna have to shower real quick.”

“Okay, baby.”

You’re already getting up to wash your hands, but after that you stand there in the living room and wait until you can hear the shower turn on in your bathroom, before slipping outside to finish up a chore you need to do. Anything to keep your mind busy and off the pain of your previous relationship, that raw hole in your chest that’s still there, endlessly throbbing and unfilled. You’ve been dwelling on the memories far more today than you usually do, and it’s impossible to tell if it makes things better or worse. Everything just hurts, every day, all the time. 

You’re doing dishes when Michael reappears, clean, his face finally clear of the day’s frustrations. He gives you a quick kiss and leaves for his place, his mind already onto the next thing. Dinner with you has been a checkbox for him lately, always the same and always leaving him with a sense of peace and comfort, exactly how you want him to feel around you. 

The dishwasher has just started to run when he’s back again through your front door, letting himself in because you haven’t walked over yet to lock up. 

“My fucking car won’t start,” he seethes, throwing his keys forcefully back into the bowl.

“Oh, no! Is it the spark plugs again?”

“How should I fucking know? Jesus, this day is just one thing after another! Now I have to deal with a fucking tow truck, and waiting however many days for it to get fixed. Fuck my life!”

“Hey, hey,” you soothe, walking over to give him an unreciprocated hug. “It’s going to be alright. I can take you to work tomorrow, and get it towed, and you don’t have to do a thing tonight. Just stay over and we can figure it all out.”

“You sure? You won’t have to call in to give me a ride?”

“Wednesdays are always slow in the mornings, Sarah won’t mind.”

He belatedly wraps one arm around you, waiting until you’ve solved all his problems to acknowledge your companionship. “Thank you.”

“Of course, baby.”

The night drags like you wouldn’t believe. It seems like an agonizing forever before you’re finally in your room, throwing on your running clothes and pushing earbuds into your ears. You run most nights now, but tonight especially you need it. Michael is already asleep on the couch when you slink by, and you’re able to close the door behind you without disturbing him. 

That’s when you’re finally free. You turn to face the dark Wyoming landscape, the concrete buildings and parking lots and a few trees that you can make out by the light of the street lamps. None of it feels like home, but then again, that’s the point. 

You turn music on loud and start running. Yes, it’s pretty much the opposite of what you of six months ago would ever want to do. Hell, you don’t want to do it now, even. Running isn't fun for you. It’s not for your health, it’s not for relaxing or reducing stress, it’s for self harm. You figured that out pretty early on, after everything happened with Victor. You can really push yourself and run until it hurts, and then beyond, and it makes things bearable. Your nighttime runs are the only time you let yourself think about Victor any more, when your lungs are burning and your legs are aching and cramping, feet sore and painfully jostled every time they make contact with the unforgiving sidewalk. That’s when you can revisit those memories, when the physical pain numbs you enough to handle them. 

The burning in your lungs is practically demanding that you stop to take a break, but you don’t. You keep going, faster and farther than you usually do, gasping for air and racing furiously through memory after memory, the good and the bad, hoping for some insight that you’d missed before. Some little nugget of affection that you can see with new eyes, tuck it into your heart and fill yourself up with it. Something that will ignite you to action, help you get through this night to what lies beyond, looming right on the horizon now if you’re just brave enough to reach for it.

You’re limping by the time you walk back up the steps to your second floor apartment. Michael is still snoring softly so you gulp down a couple of glasses of water and retreat back to your room, sufficiently injured to get through the night. Soon you’re stripping off your clothes and showering, methodically washing and exfoliating off every spare skin cell. 

When you finally crawl between your cold sheets you just lay there for a while and shiver, staring up at the dark ceiling with unseeing eyes. It takes you a long time to fall asleep, partly because you’ve got your mental to-do list running you ragged, and partly because, for the first time in months, you’re letting yourself continue to think about Victor after you’ve gone to bed. 

“Good morning, sweetie.” 

You sit down on the edge of the couch and run your fingers through Michael’s soft hair to wake him up. It takes a few more prompts - and grumbles - but eventually you get him up and eating some breakfast. 

Weapon of Choice is blasting through your earbuds while you do your makeup, so loud that it actually startles you when Michael comes up from behind and slides his hands around your waist. 

“Yes?” you ask, pausing the music and endeavoring to force down your irritation that he completely threw off your groove. 

“We have a little time before we need to leave,” he mumbles into your neck. 

“Yeah, we’re doing pretty good on time.” You return to applying bronzer and just pray that he’ll take the hint and keep his hands off you for a little longer. But no, he pushes his hips against your ass and you can quite distinctly feel that your carefully constructed morning is about to be derailed. 

“Just a quick one?” He asks. 

“Baby…”

“Please? Just to get my mind off work before I have to actually go.”

Motherfucker. You inhale patiently and sigh, putting down your brush. One handjob, it’s just one handjob. “Okay.”

Half an hour and a thorough hand washing later, you’re finally in the car, finally heading out of town, to the front gate of where he works, and he’s finally dreading the day enough to shut the fuck up and drink the coffee you made him.

Your heart is inexplicably racing when you pull up to the gate guard. There’s no reason to feel nervous from just driving in, because you’re doing nothing wrong. Breathe.  

“Hey, Greg.” Michael leans over you to address the guard. “Girlfriend driving me to work today. Car trouble.”

Gate Guard Greg looks you over with a bit of interest, so you give him a friendly wave and a thoughtless smile, and hope your makeup is hiding most of the redness in your face. 

“Sounds good, go ahead.”

You drive what feels like half a mile of woods, through constant twists and turns, counting every drink Michael takes of his coffee out the side of your peripheral vision. When the nondescript building finally emerges through the trees up ahead, you lean forward to get a better look, actually shocked by how large it is. Michael had told you he works on the seventh floor, but until you actually saw it for yourself you had no concept of just how intimidating it would be, out in the middle of nowhere like this. 

“Jus— um, jus drop me up at the front,” Michael manages to say, suddenly fighting a yawn.

“Okay, baby.” You swing the steering wheel in the complete opposite direction.

“No, nah, you’re gone the wrong— why’s my tongue doin’ dis… what the fnng?”

“What’s wrong?” you ask, driving to the back of the parking lot by the woods and finding a spot.

“Summin… summin wrong…” Michael is slumping over his seat belt now, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it, not realizing how slow and useless the movement is. 

“Feeling sick?” you ask sweetly, putting the car in park and  leaning your arm on the steering wheel to smile over at him. 

“Naw. Sleep… y…”

“Okay, well, make sure not to forget your coffee. You’ll need it today if you’re already this tired.”

Michael’s forehead hits his knees, and he’s gone. You lift one of his wrists just to check, and it slumps limply back down as soon as you release it. 

With a thrill of crystal clear excitement, you unbuckle both of you and quickly round the front of the car to open his door. After a glance behind you, and finding the coast clear, you grip Michael under the armpits and heave, hauling his ass out onto the pavement and around the back of the car, the butt of his pants getting scuffed up in the path of asphalt. 

Suddenly you’re quite thankful for all the workouts you’ve been doing, because dragging a limp body into the woods is not nearly as easy as you’d believed. It’s a miracle that you’re not spotted by anyone, slow as you’re going, but you manage to hide him behind some bushes, and you only pause long enough to remove the lanyard off his neck.

You get back in the car and quickly strip down to your underthings before yanking on a plain, blue blouse and grey pencil skirt. Everything you do from now on has to be fast and smooth. Shoes take fifteen seconds, bunning your hair another twenty. You’ve got a tiny, laminated photo of yourself ready to go, and stick it on top of Michael’s stupid face on his entry card. It’s not good enough for someone looking closely, but at that point you’re screwed already, so this will do. This will have to do, there’s literally no other choice. 

Your loud heels clack onto the asphalt with the imaginary beat of Weapon of Choice beginning to play in your head. It’s a quick, confident strut that has you to the front doors in no time, scanning the lanyard for entry. There’s someone else arriving for work, coming up behind you, but that doesn’t matter. You’re Boss Bitch now, totally allowed to be here and striding through the doors without a single glance to the guards or the security cameras overhead. 

A few people, colleagues, you suppose, glance at you when you step inside, but the song is still playing and they don’t matter. What matters is you can see the elevator straight ahead, so you keep your shoulders back and make a beeline for it and press the button for the seventh floor. The guy who came in behind you presses the button for four. He says something to you, asks if you’re new, but you make a noncommittal noise and don’t look over. Boss Bitch works on a higher floor than him, and doesn’t know the meaning of small talk. 

Four comes and takes the man with it while you stare resolutely forward, and then you’re finally alone and heading up to seven. This is the moment you’ve fantasized about for months, planned and sacrificed and betrayed yourself to get to. Just a little bit farther, just a few more minutes. 

The elevator dings and you step out, scanning the empty hallway lined with heavy metal doors. There it is, lab number four. Michael’s god forsaken lab. The door has no window like some of the ones in this hall, so all you can do is scan your stolen keycard and punch in the code that took you weeks to acquire, which you desperately hope is still active.

The box beside the door chirps in a friendly way, and you hear the muffled clunk of locks releasing. You could fucking piss yourself in relief.

But you only make it to a tiny, four foot long entryway before you have to input Michaels’s code again. This next door has a window, and you can see inside the lab. Everything is pristine, in shades of white and grey like some Star Wars empire person decorated for them. There’s Michael’s desk, and the chair he always complains about, with filtered light streaming in from a beautiful row of large windows. 

The second door buzzes open and you immediately step inside with a clack of heels, heart picking up to a gallop when your eyes swing from the desk to the beautiful pair of amber eyes, staring back at you from behind what you can only assume is about three inches of solid plexiglass.

Chapter Text

Victor doesn’t move the entire time that you just stand there frozen, paralyzed by the tornado of feelings ripping through your chest. 

You haven’t seen him since that night in Chicago, since the moment all signs of life escaped his body and, covered in his own gore, he’d slumped to the ground and out of your line of sight. You had to rely on the intelligence Logan gathered for you to know he was even here, had miraculously survived those horrific injuries and was now trapped and suffering who-knows-what at the hands of these awful people. 

And now he’s right in front of you, very much alive and sitting casually on a cot that looks far too small for him, with his forearms draped loosely over his knees. Maybe it’s stupid to worry, but your eyes still trace over him for signs of injury, and of course you find none. His hair is long, though, longer than it seems possible to grow in this amount of time, and maybe his mutation has something to do with it.  

He’s dressed in a grey tank top and elastic waist pants, looking at you with some kind of unreadable assessment, like he hasn’t quite decided that you’re real, either. If something happens to me, it would be nice to have one person who knows where I am. He told you that once, and you haven’t forgotten. You devoted your life over the last five months to being his one person, and you’d do it again in a heartbeat. 

Finally finding agency over your body, and remembering the urgent need to move things along, your heels click across the floor as you hurry over to Michael’s desk.

“This is new,” comes that familiar, deep rumble from the other side of the glass.

Your eyes flick up to look at him, where he hasn’t moved from his original position, only turned his head slightly to keep you in sight. It belatedly occurs to your overwhelmed, adrenaline-fueled brain that he’s not behaving normally. He hasn’t greeted you, or seemed happy to see you at all. 

“Let me guess,” he continues, staring you down, “we’re playing Good Cop, Bad Cop now. You gonna bat your eyes at me before you let ‘em mess me up again?”

Shit, something is very wrong. You’re just staring at him in bewilderment for a few seconds before you remember the cameras. You look up and see dozens, lining the walls and ceiling, taking in every angle and sound byte of this interaction. He’s pretending not to know you, and that could only mean he thinks you’re going to fail to get him out, and he’s protecting you the only way he can. 

You can play the I-don’t-know-you game, but pretending you’re here innocently is going to be impossible.

“Actually,” you say, focusing your concentration back down at the control panel and selecting options on the screen, “I’m getting you out of here.”

He moves then, standing up in your peripheral vision and prowling over to you, as close as the plexiglass will allow. Your trembling fingers select “Open Specimen Containment,” and you could sob in relief when it immediately prompts you for Michael’s keycard. 

You’ve just scanned it when a horrible screeching sound sends a icy bolt of fear through you. You look up, startled, to see Victor right there with his head tilted in interest, dragging one extended claw down the glass. Not plexiglass, then, because it’s not taking a single scratch, even though his knuckles are white with how much pressure he’s exerting against it. 

The panel beeps, prompting you for Michael’s passcode, and you quickly punch it in, not able to handle the intensity of Victor’s strange gaze right now. You’ve just begun to release a grateful breath when it beeps again, unexpectedly prompting you for a separate code to unlock the door. 

Mother FUCKER. Your chest heaves in horror, your mind scrambling for anything, any little hint of what it could be. It was so difficult to even get the first code, took you months of planning and deceit, and now there’s a specific one for the door that you never even knew existed, that you have no possible way of getting. 

Your palms hit flat on the desk, not in anger but in despair, because this is it, you’re done. Victor knew you’d be stuck here, and he did all he could to warn you. You’ll be lucky if you can get yourself out of this wretched building, turn your back on him again and walk away to freedom while he stays here like a caged animal. 

“4-7-9-9-2-6,” Victor says.

Your eyes slide up to his face, so lost in your panic spiral that it doesn’t make sense that he’s spouting off random numbers. He’s glaring down at you now, suddenly smacking his palm flat on the glass and making you jump with the echoey boom.

“It’s the code, idiot. Fucking put it in. 4-7-9-9-2-6.”

Oh. You punch it in weakly, not allowing yourself to relax in the slightest until there’s a chirping beep, and a portion of the wall starts to move. 

Holy shit, you did it. You needed his help, but you did it. You take a few steps back from the desk just so you can savor the wave of self satisfaction and relief, as potent as a narcotic after all those months of emotional pain. Victor strides over and slips through the opening before it’s even finished its motion, and now he’s coming towards y—

So fast you can’t track the movement, Victor’s hand whips out, and all you can register is a crack reverberating through your skull, and your feet losing contact with the floor. Pain explodes a second later, from the back of your head and the front of your neck, and you’re instinctively clutching onto his wrist with both hands to keep yourself up, frantically gasping for breath around the pressure of his fingers digging into your throat. 

He’s got you pressed up against the unforgiving wall, pinned there by just your neck, and there’s this terror you feel - justified or not - that if you let yourself settle, if all that’s holding you up is his hand, your spine will stretch and break. So your first focus is on this awkward pulling movement you have to do to his wrist to ease that pressure, your second focus on how you’re failing miserably to get in enough oxygen, and all the rest of your brain power is used up by staring helplessly, eye to eye, at the pure rage written on Victor’s face. His lips are pulled back so that you can see the full extent of every fang, his eyes burning with a crazed, murderous light, like nothing you’ve ever seen before.

“Is this what we’re doing now?” he grits through his teeth. “Make me think I’m getting out just to put me back there in a minute? It’s low even for your lot.”

There’s no way to communicate. Even if you had full control of your airflow, you’d be too terrified to think of whatever it is you need to say. Fear has sucked all rational thought out of your brain, and the only thing you have room for is emotion, hurt that he’s doing this to you and disbelief that he truly doesn’t seem to know who you are.

“You people go through all the effort of finding someone who smells like my shitty ass ex, and you don’t even bother to hide the fact that she’s fucking my jailer.” He tsks softly, the set of his mouth pulling into an insane grin. “Like I can’t smell it on her.”

Victor brings his face closer, almost touching your cheek with his scraggly beard, and you use up some precious air to whimper out a wordless plea. He ignores it, inhaling your scent deep before suddenly pulling his face away. Through increasingly blurry vision, you watch his head tilt up to look at one of the cameras, like he’s just realized how odd it is that no one has burst in to defend you. 

You’re losing feeling in your limbs. It’s that realization that makes you relax a little, shifting your mind to your imminent demise. Black spots are popping up in your vision, so that you can barely see Victor glancing curiously back at you, the gears turning behind those gorgeous eyes. There are worse ways to die, you think. You’ve just freed the man you love, and you get to die while looking into his eyes, and he doesn’t even seem very mad any more. Everything is turning numb now, and with the resulting and unexpected wave of inner peace, your hands fall from his wrist to hang limply at your sides.

“It’s okay,” you croak out in a hoarse whisper, unsure if he can even understand the words with how quiet it is. “You can kill me if you need to. It’s alright, Victor.” 

Blackness is closing in, so you let it, you welcome it, and then just before you hit that wonderful wave of unconsciousness, the pressure on your throat loosens and your body collides with the floor. 

It would probably hurt worse if you had much feeling left in your legs, but as it is you just lay there for a few seconds with your cheek pressed to the cold tile, frantically gasping in shallow breaths and actually kind of irritated that he didn’t let you die when you were so perfectly ready for it. Something jostles you, so you attempt to turn your head and see what it was, only to be greeted by a blast of pain in your neck, and the visual of Victor nudging you once more with his bare foot. 

“Who the fuck are you?”

Your knees may hurt even worse than your throat from their sudden appointment with the floor. Through the haze of pain you push yourself off the ground, shakily locking your elbows to keep you in a semi-upright position, and drag your head back to look at him. Fuck, he’s cute. Even now, with his arms folded and his gaze scrutinizing every inch of your person, you’d hit that. 

“We have to go,” you manage to remind yourself aloud, throat burning in the process. “I don’t know how much time there is before they find out you’re gone.”

“How?”

You blink stupidly up at him, still trying to get enough oxygen to your brain so that you can remember the next part of your plan, and your face swings automatically to the door you came in through.

Victor lets out a condescending laugh. “Yeah, good luck with that. I’m gettin’ out of here my way.”

He stalks over to the large window, and you’re still so dazed that for a few seconds you think you’re hallucinating him scratching it. But no, he’s got a claw out and he’s definitely cutting a large hole in the glass, as if getting down from the seventh story is just a small hop for him. Either time is passing faster because of your recent brush with death, or he’s got a lot of experience cutting windows, because it just feels like a few seconds before he makes a few targeted smacks with the side of his fist, and the oval chunk of glass breaks free, falling down until there’s a faint sound of shattering below. 

Victor is already poking his head out, gripping the sharp edge of window, and you finally realize he’s about to leave you here. Why wouldn’t he? He doesn’t know you, doesn’t have any reason to pause and help you. Sparing your life is probably an enormous gift in his mind, far more than you deserve, and you’ll be left to try your luck getting through the lobby with a stolen keycard and your neck all bruised up. 

But he doesn’t jump. He’s looking back at you, crumpled on the floor as you are, and he’s hesitating. 

“Get the fuck over here,” he finally says. 

You scramble to your feet only to immediately go down again thanks to your stupid heels. Face hot with embarrassment, you kick them off and limp over to the window, unable to look at his face until you’re right there next to him. There’s disdain clearly written on his features, but that doesn’t stop him from reaching out a strong arm and wrapping it around your waist, yanking you into the side of his body and keeping you there despite your panicked squeak. 

He’s moving you outside the window, so you simply throw your arms around his neck and clench your eyes shut, hanging onto him with every scrap of strength you can scrounge up, and his body starts to swing. There are sensations of falling, and then jarring catches where your body slips an inch in his grasp, but he always gets you back in position before the next fall, like he’s King Kong or something. Spider-Man, maybe. 

Whatever it is, it always looks way smoother and more comfortable in the movies. You never imagine how the girl’s ribs are aching and protesting being held so tight, how her mouth is open in a never ending expression of terror, getting her love interest’s hair stuck in it when he swings the right way. Finally there’s a heavier jostle, and you’re being lowered down to what you desperately hope is the ground, your legs of course immediately crumpling beneath you. 

“You got a car?”

You peel your eyes open, looking up at him from the ground yet again, and nod. 

“Goddammit,” he seethes, yelling as quietly as you’ve ever heard anyone do, “get your ass to the fucking car.”

Shit. His hand is on your upper arm, yanking you to your feet, so you break into a hobble-y run towards the back corner of the parking lot. There’s your car straight ahead, and you know it won’t be locked, so you can just slip into the driver’s seat and grab the keys from where you stashed them, and connect right back up to your escape plan as if nothing ever went wrong. 

There’s mercifully no one out here, so you yank your driver’s side door open and look over at Victor, realizing at that moment that he’s stopped moving. He’s just standing there, sniffing the air, and then his face turns to point towards the woods. Those long, lethal claws suddenly extend, and he takes a purposeful step away from the parking lot. 

Oh, shit.  

“He’s unconscious,” you blurt out quickly, finally terrified for someone other than yourself. 

Victor stops in his tracks and snaps his head around to look at you, disbelief written on his face, like he doesn’t understand why you’d want to stop him. And then it drops away suddenly at the sight of your wide, scared eyes, and a slow grin stretches his mouth, flashing fangs in your direction. 

“Get the car started,” he tells you in a silky, hair-raising voice. “I won’t be long.”

You obey, turning on the ignition and gripping the steering wheel so tight it hurts. Michael is about to be dead, because of you. If not for your plans and escape attempt, then because you just stupidly advocated for him. If you had only shut the fuck up and let Victor find him passed out and helpless, he might have let him live simply for the sportsmanship of it. But as soon as you spoke up, the gleam of excitement was obvious in his eye, like you’d just handed him a way to kill Michael and piss you off at the same time, and it gave him pure delight. 

Little pains are still throbbing all over your body when Victor returns, the nooks of his fingers and claws on one hand stained red like he carelessly wiped most of the blood off on something else. Michael’s clothes, most likely. He climbs into the passenger seat and slams the door shut behind him.

“Oh, you need to go to the back seat and lay down,” you say, returning to reality.

“The fuck I do.”

Fuck. Get it together, woman.

Your fingers start to work on the buttons of your blouse, and you barely notice his eyes following the movement while you say in a rush, “There’s a guard at the gate, he saw me drive in. If I leave with you, he’ll alert everyone and we won’t have time to get away clean.”

You chuck your blouse into the backseat and begin to shove your skirt down your legs.

“Can you keep your fucking clothes on?” Victor demands, turning his head away. 

“I was wearing something else when I came in. Please, please go lay down in the back. You can be mad at me about it when you’re safe.”

There’s a few moments where you’re focusing on donning your first set of clothes, and you don’t have to look at him to know his entire body is taut with irritation, but finally with a huff he gets out and slams the door again on his way to the backseat. You push both front seats forward as far as possible to give him room, and put the car in drive before he’s fully settled, eager as you are to leave this god forsaken compound. 

Gate Guard Greg gives you a nod on your way out, barely looking up from his phone, and you flash him another docile girlfriend kind of smile. 

“Stay down,” you mutter to Victor. “We have to change cars in a couple of minutes.”

“We don’t have to do anything. I’m going back to kill everyone.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you say to the road, thumbs tapping agitatedly on the steering wheel. “They’ll just capture you again, and you will not erase all my hard work.”

“Your hard fucking work?” He forces a laugh like that’s the sickest joke he’s ever heard. “Spreading your legs for my guard and messing up every single part of getting me out? Yeah, sounds real fuckin’ hard, human.”

Hot anger and shame swirl through you, but you just grit your teeth and ignore him, scanning the street for the turn you need to make towards your getaway vehicle. 

Chapter Text

Human.

Victor keeps calling you that, says it like it’s some kind of slur. Bastard, you want to say back. Dick. Sweet little baby cupcake. That one would probably convince him to kill you, though. 

Your thumbs tap on the steering wheel of the second car, and despite the neck pain you glance towards the back where, piled in the seat, there lie the only possessions from your fake life you bothered to bring back with you. A large duffel of clothes, a vintage lamp that you found at a yard sale a few weeks ago, and a couple of pillows from your bed. Kind of sad that it’s all you have remaining from these months away. But what you care about the most, the thing you actually have to show for all that time, is currently getting naked right outside the open passenger door.

You’re dying to ask Victor what happened to him. The question burns the back of your throat with how badly you need to speak it, and the only reason you’re able to squash the impulse down is because he still seems so angry, and you don’t need any more of that directed your way. He’s never been this angry around you. The air is pulsing with it, every line in his body taut and furious while he literally tears his clothes off in that abandoned parking lot and yanks on the new things you had waiting for him.

If only you had thought to grab some clothes from the safehouse. It would be so convenient right now to have his own familiar things, so he could smell himself on them and realize that you know him, that he can trust you. But you left all those months ago in a flurry of panic and unknowns, so now he’s putting on all new things that creepily fit him perfectly, like you’re some insane stalker. 

As it is, you’re still not sure if he truly can’t remember you, or if he’s so enraged - possibly “feral,” as he’d say - that he simply hasn’t bothered to stop long enough to try. Your throat closes up with another wave of sadness, but he glares at you as soon as his face pops through the neck hole of the black tshirt, and the warning glint in his eye reminds you to keep your sympathy to yourself. 

You turn your head forwards towards the windshield, though you’re definitely still watching out of the corner of your eye. Just like him, you’re also loathe to let him out of your sight for even a second. He’s paler than he was before, a little thinner as well, and you worry about that while he tugs the bottom hem of the shirt down to cover his stomach. He’s lost that extra little bit of fat that made him so cuddly and comf—

“Give me one good reason not to go back there right now.”

With a quick blink to clear your thoughts, your eyes snap automatically to his blood crusted hand and you just say the first thing that pops into your head. “Um… Jurassic Park.”

There’s only a beat of silence, just enough time for you to look up at his face, then, “Human, I swear to god, I am two fucking seconds away from ending your miser—“

“It’s the fear of it,” you interrupt quickly, adjusting your perception to fit his apparently microscopic level of patience. “If you go back there right away, yeah you might kill some of them, but then the police will show up, and it will be a huge mess, and the ones you do manage to kill will die without ever being very scared. But if you wait, if you make them feel that dread for days, weeks, never knowing when you’re coming but just constantly worried that you are… that just sounds way more fun.”

He stands there with his hands on his hips, frowning at you and calculating the benefits of the long game that you’re suggesting, and you capitalize on that hesitation. 

“Even better, pick them off one by one. Drag it out. Make them so fucking scared that they quit their jobs and move across the country because they can’t handle the fear any more, and then you just keep working through them.”

You don’t even know what you’re saying. It’s probably the plot of some movie you’ve seen, spouting off John Wick nonsense in a desperate attempt to keep him with you, safe for a little longer.

Victor doesn’t say anything to acknowledge the superiority of your idea, but he does lean down to put on shoes - ignoring the socks - without as much of the previous rushing. When he finally lifts his eyes to yours, most of the anger has dropped away from his face and he voices the one, worst question he could possibly ask.

“What’s your name?” 

That’s when you stop breathing and your heart slams down to the very bottom of your stomach. He notices that reaction, his eyes narrowing slightly before you remember to wipe the desolated look off your face and mumble out your name. 

You’d do anything to see a flicker of recognition then, for him to tilt his head and slowly purr, ‘Stupid fuckin’ name.’ 

Of course, he doesn’t.

One step at a time. 

“I have a house,” you say, swallowing all those emotions down, “near DC. All kinds of weapons stashed there, and some cash saved. Come back with me for a few days and reset before you get started.”

Please come back, please stay safe with me, please remember.  

“DC is a long ass drive,” he remarks, monitoring the tree line over your head.

“Two days, if you don’t mind twelve hour drives.” You know, because you’ve already planned out all of this, already booked the lodging for it. 

“Yeah, bein’ stuck in an even smaller box for the next two days sounds fuckin’ great.”

A kernel of annoyance rises up, but you push it back into the closet where you’re keeping all the sadness, and instead say patiently, “We could fly, but there’s always the chance that these people will be monitoring flights, and then they’ll know where you’re headed.”

Victor levels you an irritated look, as if this is all just the most enormous inconvenience for him, but he doesn’t bother trying to argue the point. God, why is he still so mad at you? You haven’t done anything but help him, he doesn’t know who you fucking are, and yet he’s standing there acting like you’re his greatest trial in life.

And he has no idea that you’d gladly be that, if it means he’ll stay. 

“Shit,” you curse through your teeth as soon as you take one step inside the AirBnB a little over twelve hours later.

Victor immediately pushes past you, nudging you out of the way like he would a dog underfoot, only to also stop when he sees the solitary bed. 

“I’m sorry,” you explain in a rush, “I didn’t realize there weren’t two beds. I can sleep on the couch.”

Lie, pathetic lie. You knew very well that there was only one bed, but you booked this place several days ago, and up until this very morning you had no way of knowing that it would be a problem. With the way that this day has twisted and wrenched all your plans out of your fingers, you haven’t stopped to think about it even for a second. 

Victor doesn’t bother looking back at you, just crosses the tiny cabin and says indifferently, “Don’t worry on my account, human. Got no interest in the company cumdump.”

Okay, ouch. You actually flinch, because that hit lands. Victor either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, walking away to use the bathroom and leaving you standing there in the entryway still, the strap from your overpacked duffel digging into your shoulder and probably letting bugs in because you’ve forgotten to close the door behind you. 

That remark doesn’t hurt this bad because it’s especially mean, though it is, but because it’s kind of true. You would have seduced anyone working in that position, no matter if they were married, or insisted on fucking, or any other manner of horrible situations, because you actually care that much about him. FUCK.

He has to be so confused, yet he’s still not asking you anything, and that’s the part that makes no sense. Why the fuck would he come back here with you, someone he apparently doesn’t have a shred of respect for, without even asking why you’re doing all this? 

Although, you’re just as unwilling to betray your motivations by asking the dozens of questions that are currently driving you insane. What did they do to him? Was it that, or getting shot in the head that caused this? Obviously his mutation can make his brain heal, but can memories reform along with it? Could this be a common thing for him, losing memories? Would he even know if it was?

You sigh and drop your bag to the floor, kicking your shoes off as well. He’s safe, and that’s what matters for tonight. He’s a safe, free asshole, who is apparently quite happy to take his frustrations out on you, and you just… You have no idea what you’re going to do with him.  

There’s the muffled sound of the shower running, and that makes sense. He’d want to wash off after a day of travel and being a prisoner and who knows what else. You scrounge around your things for the bag of new toiletries you packed for him, and when you hear the water turn off you wait about thirty seconds before knocking quietly on the bathroom door.

“Hey, it’s me. I have a toothbrush for you if you want it.”

There’s only silence on the other side of the door, but you still wait there in case he’s toweling off or something, and you’re about to give up and turn away when the door finally opens. 

Victor is standing there with a towel wrapped around his waist, with his hair all wet and ruffled every which way, a piece or two falling in front of his eyes. So cute, so stone cold and unreadable. 

“Here,” you say, extending the bag towards him. 

His eyes flick down to look at it, and then back up towards your face, where your fake smile is starting to droop. 

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, and then stop yourself from saying more because you’re not quite sure what you’re supposed to be sorry for. 

His lips flatten slightly, but he accepts the bag without ripping it out of your hands, and shuts the door without slamming it, so that’s something. You have a feeling that this is going to be a constant thing you’ll have to remind yourself, of small progresses that are simply better than the alternative. 

You don’t speak to each other when you swap, your turn for the shower and his turn to pick through the gas station snacks since it’s been a few hours since the last fast food stop. It’s not even close to wash day for your hair but you do it anyway, grateful to get rid of every trace of Michael that could annoy Victor. 

It occurs to you then, that you’ll never have Michael touch you ever again. You’ll never see his face, never have his name cross your path unless you look up information about his funeral or something. In a way he was your annoying coworker, the person you had to put up with every day to get the job done, and it’s strange how there’s a tiny empty spot in your chest now that he’s gone. 

You thought having Victor back would fill the emptiness instantly. It never occurred to you that you’d end up here, in a strange house with no William, none of the Old Victor, and no purpose to propel you any more. All you have now are eggshells to walk on and patience to force on yourself. You spent all this time looking forward to the emotional release of today, and the pain is especially sharp now that it’s being denied. You’re… alone. Completely alone.

Victor is already in bed when you slide in between the sheets, your hair still damp and wearing one of his old tshirts and some running shorts. You lay your head down on a strange pillow and stare at the dark outline of his back, hoping he can’t smell the grief that’s ripping through your chest. 

It’s weird that he’s on his side, though. The only time you’ve seen him sleep like that is when his ribs were broken, and it makes you wonder if he’s hurt. There were no visible signs of bruising or anything when he was getting dressed earlier, but maybe internal injuries? Or it could be a defense. He’s probably more vulnerable lying on his stomach, and he simply doesn’t trust you so close to him. That thought almost makes you smile, that he might be afraid of you, who wouldn’t know how to hurt him even if you wanted to. 

You don’t want to. You want to reach out and touch him, hold him and comfort him and tell him everything will be alright. It’s what he would tell you, if things had gone the way they were supposed to. You’d probably be crying in his arms by now, letting out five months of repressed feelings and helplessness and fear, relieved beyond belief that it’s finally over. 

You’d get over it quickly, though, because being held would feel so good that you wouldn’t want to waste it on sadness. You’d tilt your chin up to kiss him, and his whole body would just melt into yours, because he missed you just as much as you missed him. Foreplay would be almost torture because you wouldn’t be able to stand a single minute of not having him inside you. He’d understand, you think, and push himself into your body far sooner than he normally would, just for you to have something tangible to focus on.

You’d be so comfortable there, caged in the safety of his arms while he kisses you, rocking into you and making low noises like he couldn't stand to wait, either. He’d be talking to you gently, helping you get through that flood of feelings until your arousal begins to overpower emotion. It would take a little while but he’d be patient, rubbing your clit and sliding his tongue across yours and just steadily filling you with his presence until you’re so wet, right there on the edge of release. He’d be calling you baby in that deep, warm voice, telling you that you can cum whenever you’re ready, that it’s okay to let go because you’re safe with him. 

Your eyes spring open because you’re tingling in earnest between your legs now, and the Victor who doesn’t know you is lying just a few inches away, and you’re not safe with him. You’re going to have to try to get some sleep next to him, and hopefully when you wake up—

Shit.

The rogue thought has your whole body tensing with worry, and apparently Victor notices because you feel him start to turn onto his other side to look at you. 

But you’re already getting up, taking your pillow with you and shuffling in the dark over to where the couch is. There’s already a throw blanket folded there, and it’s not super big but if you scrunch your knees up it covers you enough to stay warm. There’s no more movement from the bed, so he must have just decided you’re fucking crazy and left it at that.

You don’t regret it, though. It’s not worth the risk that sometime in the night or in the morning you’d wake up next to him, and in the fog of sleep forget that he’s no longer your boyfriend. Whether it’s just seconds or minutes, it would be enough. That little spark of hope and comfort would have started to melt your heart, and then the sucker punch of reality would have smashed it to pieces in a way that you wouldn’t be able to hide.

You lay there on the couch watching the shadows of moonlight on the floor, and you know Victor so well that you swear he’s not sleeping, either. It feels like he’s just lying there in the dark watching you huddle in your little blanket, breathing in your slight scent on the sheets and puzzling through the mystery of your actions, thinking over every question he’s far too stubborn to ask. 

You’re going to have to say it. You realize that as soon as you finish lunch and start the final leg of the trip. Because you’re going to bring him home, and he’s going to take one step inside and realize the truth. His clothes are in his bedroom. His shoes are in a basket by the door. His scent is all over the whole place, months of it, and it would be so obvious that you’ve been withholding the truth for the last two days. 

Yet the idea of spending hours in the car with him, trying to stay sane while he seethes at the embarrassment of being associated with you… that sounds completely unbearable. So you stall. Hour by hour, the same silence from yesterday blankets the vehicle, but this time you’re getting more and more tense as your window of opportunity slips by. 

There’s no telling what Victor thinks of all this. He’s probably decided you’re going to betray him or something, and that’s why your knee won’t stop vibrating under your hand. And the sad thing is that a betrayal would probably go down easier than the truth. At least then you’d have some conviction in your system, anything but a scared, confused not-girlfriend who doesn’t want to make a wrong move. 

An hour left. Thirty minutes. Five. Your heart is pounding out of your chest, but your hands faithfully turn the steering wheel and your car pulls into the empty driveway of your house, and you put it in park and kill the engine.

You look over at Victor, and he looks over at you, reaching at the same time for the handle of the door. 

“I’m your assistant,” you blurt out.

Chapter Text

Victor doesn’t do so much as twitch an eyebrow in the dimness of the shitty interior car light, but his fingers stay there on the door handle and he stares at you. 

“I’m on your payroll,” you explain in a rush, “and that’s why I got you out. I don’t know why you don’t remember me, or what they did to you, or what happened, but… this is kind of your house. Well, it’s my house, but it’s one of your safehouses. I’m sorry, everything just happened so fast, and I wasn’t expecting you not to remember me, and then I didn’t know how to… tell you.”

You manage to shut yourself up finally, heart still going wild in your chest while you force yourself to meet his gaze and nervously chew on the inside of your already ravaged mouth. Victor turns his head to look at the house for a moment, then back at you, holding himself so still that you have no idea if he’s about to say something, or kill you, or snatch the keys out of your hand.

But he doesn’t do any of those things. He merely takes in and releases a heavy breath, then opens the door and steps out into the night. That leaves you to scramble out as well, and hurry to grab your duffel out of the backseat. The lights on the outside of your house had been upgraded a long time ago thanks to him, and he’s just standing there staring at the house, so you can easily see his expression as you round the front of the car. It’s the first time since your reunion that you glimpse an emotion besides anger on his features.

He looks… tired. Weary down to his bones, in the way of someone who hasn’t been able to relax in five entire months, now overwhelmed with the prospect of even more he has to process. Additional threats and complications to brace for, when all he really wants to do is sleep on his stomach for a while. 

You hate doing this to him. Forcing him to react, react, react, adjusting constantly to new information and unable to make his own moves until the revelations have ceased. You want that for him, though, to get all of this out of the way so he can acclimate and start taking charge as he always does. The last thing you want is to be the person holding the reins of his life for a single minute longer than you have to. 

You have autonomy now, you want to tell him. No one will hurt you or touch you or stare at you here. You’re safe. 

“The door is keyed to your index finger,” you say instead, as a peace offering. 

Victor blinks, coming out of whatever train of thought made him vulnerable for a moment to level you a cold scowl. 

Okay, then. Back to being the whipping boy. He’s still not moving, so you start to walk past him towards your porch, taking a smidge of comfort in the realization that this has gone way better than you could have expected. 

And then in the space of a single second, a steel arm shoots out across your shoulders and hauls you back a step against a hard chest. Your duffel swings comically with the momentum while you make a stupid, high pitched huff of surprise, your mind instantly coming to terms with him finally deciding to hurt you. 

Keeping you pressed firmly to him by way of a forearm along your collarbones, Victor reaches a claw out to break a few lines of spiderweb right in front of your face. One of those enormous orb spiders skitters away from his collapsing web just inches from your forehead, climbing towards the tree branches above.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, a shudder crawling down your spine. “Thank you.”

“Watch where you’re going.” He pushes past you, hard enough that you stumble to the side and have to flail a little so you don’t go face first into the lawn. 

He’s already on the porch when you straighten back up, opening the glass outer door and scanning his fingerprint in a fluid motion that you’ve seen him do countless times. You hurry up the steps because he’s already slipped inside your house, and you’re suddenly quite worried that he’s going to have some kind of unforeseen, volatile reaction. 

His dark outline is already disappearing into the kitchen, so you put down your bag and trail behind him, turning on a few lights as you go and grateful at least that the house doesn’t stink. It smells like hardwood and unbreathed air and the slight lingering floral of a candle. And, okay, it smells a little like dog. 

Victor is in your fireplace room, walking around the coffee table and audibly sniffing. You know he probably does that all the time, but you’re not used to him being so conspicuous with it. It makes you linger nervously in the kitchen, feeling very much like he’s somehow learning all your sins from the air of that one room. He finally turns around and sees you, so you just start talking before he can be mean again. 

“Your room is upstairs, at the end of the hall on the right. There’s a bathroom right next to it, and on the other side is a room of weapons. Not sure what all is in there, I didn’t really—“

“Will you fucking shut up?”

You snap your mouth shut, folding your hands on the counter and clenching your jaw at the rush of embarrassment. Victor keeps you pinned with his hard stare until he’s sure that you understand, and then crosses the room to survey the back deck. 

Fine. 

You turn on your heel and go back the way you came, grabbing your bag and trudging up the stairs to your room. Your legs are killing you after getting your kneecaps clobbered and then two days of sitting. Plus your stomach feels yucky, and your head hurts, and you’re so goddamned exhausted, but… you’re not sleepy. Not even close. 

You swing your duffel with unnecessary force onto the middle of the bed, and that feels so good that you pick it back up and do it again, harder. Fuck, you want to hit something. Victor. Michael. Yourself. Anyone and everyone. The itchy, unused muscles in your legs are suddenly unbearable, so you unzip your bag and quickly pull out some workout clothes. Not like you’re going to be able to sleep, anyway, so you might as well hurt yourself a little first. 

Victor is nowhere in sight when you make your way down to the basement, so you assume he’s either gone for good or checking out the backyard. Whatever, he’s an adult and he can do whatever the fuck he wants. You need to take care of yourself right now.

“This room doesn’t smell like me.”

Your hands shoot out to grasp the sides of the treadmill so your missed step won’t send you face planting. Ripping your earbuds out and keying the belt down to a slow jog, you look behind you to see Victor standing there over your shoulder with his arms crossed, waiting for some kind of reply.

“Well,” you say between panting breaths, “now it does.” 

Shin splints are killing you right now, and you honestly don’t want to talk to him so you turn your face forward again, concentrating on your run.

“Why’d you put me in the room that smells like us fucking?”

Your heart is already working hard from the exercise but now it pounds, though muscle memory keeps your feet smoothly in rhythm. Your face remains pointed towards the blank wall in front of you and you reply coolly, “The other bedroom isn’t gonna smell any different.”

There’s a long moment of silence. Your shoes continue to hit the belt in a steady flow of quiet smacks, and you can feel a large bead of sweat sliding uncomfortably down the middle of your lower back while you pretend you aren’t waiting nervously for his reply.

“How long were we together?” 

He asks it so softly, though there’s no hint of kindness in the tone. It’s a dangerous purr of restrained fury that you don’t have to know a single thing about him to identify. It’s exactly the reaction you feared, exactly why you avoided telling him. It has you turning off the treadmill, your mind working quickly because you have to figure out which answer will get you in the least amount of trouble. 

“A couple of weeks,” you say, wrapping your fingers around the sides and slumping your shoulders down while you try to catch your breath. It’s honest enough. From Puerto Rico to Chicago was only a couple of weeks. A few kisses, some orgasms, and a little string of jobs. A fourteen day fling, that’s all it was.

There’s a tight, humorless laugh behind you, and you look back to see that your answer accomplished what you intended. The fury on his face has been replaced by scorn. You clench your jaw and brace yourself for attack.

“Two weeks, human? You fucked my guard over two weeks? I mean, I know why you had to do it, cause you’re fuckin’ weak and stupid, and that was the only thing you could think of. But I expected something a little more serious than a paycheck and two fuckin’ weeks.”

God damn it! You told yourself you wouldn’t rise to the bait but you do it anyway, with a burst of pure, righteous anger exploding through your chest. You hop off the treadmill and face him, stepping far enough into his personal space that he unfolds his arms and locks his body into place. 

“I never fucked him. Unless you count kissing, no part of that man was ever inside any part of me. But if that’s a deal breaker for you, Creed,” and your eyes flash while you say his name with your own healthy dose of contempt, “then I understand.”

He holds your gaze, smiling blandly down at you like you just told a joke he’s heard a hundred times before. “Why, the fuck, would I want you?”

You realize your mistake, then. You just breathe, panting shallowly from the run and trying to ignore your throat closing up while you hold his eyes.

“You’re not pretty,” he says, slowly to make sure you catch every word, “you’re not interesting, you’re just mind numbingly human, and I can’t imagine tolerating you long enough to fuck you.”

Stomp, stomp, stomp, each point he makes places your heart right under his boot. He’s right, you know he’s right. You’re kidding yourself if you believe he’ll somehow grow to care for you again. This is the real Victor Creed, the one the X-Men had all braced for. He’ll blindly lash out at anyone in his vicinity, because he’s bigger and meaner and just because he can.

You study those beautiful, cold eyes, and all the fight leaves your body. You never got to say goodbye to him, and you never will. He’s gone.  

“I guess,” you admit quietly, “you just got desperate enough for a cheap fuck.”

He lets you by, thank god, and you fucking escape. You step around his body and climb two flights of stairs and go straight to your room, and once your door is locked you strip off all your clothes and go take a shower. It’s not a long one, just enough to rid yourself of sweat and cool your body down. 

Once you’re clean and dry you turn off all the lights and lay the damp towel on your unmade bed, and then you lay yourself down and do something you’ve gotten pretty used to over the years. You spit on your fingers and touch yourself between the legs. And you make yourself cum, not because you’re horny, but because you desperately need to feel something other than pain.

There’s no food in the house. You know that even before you open the fridge the next morning, but still some dumb impulse has you pulling the doors open and looking around, hoping some magical grocery fairy paid you a visit overnight. Surprise, surprise, they didn’t. Even the condiments are probably suspect by now, so you grab your keys and make a quick coffee and breakfast run. 

You’ve just got back and settled yourself onto the barstool when you hear Victor’s footsteps coming down the stairs. It probably irritates him that the wood creaks with his weight no matter how lightly he steps. That vindictive little thought makes you smile, has something mean sparking in your blood when you see him step through the doorway in your peripheral vision.

“Morning, sunshine,” you say ironically, turning your face toward him and savoring the knowledge that he won’t understand the inside joke. 

The flash of surprise on his features has you blinking and taking a mental step back, because you assumed that this was still war and he’d only take it as an insult. But instead there was a momentary flicker of confusion, as if he took it as an act of friendship, and that surprised the hell out of him. 

Strange.

His gaze fastens on the bag of food, and you make a beckoning gesture with your hand, because you did get him some breakfast as well. No coffee, because you’re still mad, but you broke down in the drive thru and couldn’t bring yourself to only order one croissant sandwich. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, fishing his hand in the bag. 

He doesn’t sit with you but he does lean against the counter while he eats, and that also surprises you. It has you raking your mind back over the events of the previous night, second guessing your assumptions. Victor only looks at you once while he chews, a wary flick of his eyes like he’s bracing for something, and that has you even more confused. 

He’s… worried about you, about the backlash from what he said. Why? There was certainly no hesitation last night. He fought dirty, like he didn’t care about the outcome. Like he wanted you to hate him. 

You can clearly remember that careless, taunting gleam in his eyes. Fight me, human. Kick me out, tell me I’m just as useless and that you’d never want me, either. 

Was that all it was? Shared misery and loneliness and pushing you away because it’s the only speck of control he felt he had? Because he’s… still here. Why the fuck is he still here?

Hate me, human. Leave me, hurt me, betray me. Make my world make sense.  

This is so fucked up. You almost can’t believe you’re considering it, the level of toxicity it would require…

He catches you staring and raises an eyebrow, so you push off from the bar. You get up to grab your laptop out of its bag and open the file you need. Soon the face of a particular man is staring at you in a black and white photo, and you turn your screen so Victor can see.

“This is the guy you want. Ed Pierson.”

Victor looks intently at the photo and then raises his eyes to yours. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“Who did you see?” You flip the computer back to you, opening a few more photos and displaying them side by side on the screen. You don’t have to turn the laptop again because Victor comes to stand by your side.

“Him,” he says almost immediately, pointing to the one on the far right.

You nod. “Andrew Mason, M— um, your guard’s immediate supervisor.”

You pull up more pictures, every single one you were able to find, even the ones you aren’t sure are relevant.

“Wait,” Victor says, tapping a name on the list of files. “Show me that one.”

He growls low in his throat when you grab the photo, a long shot you pulled off Facebook months ago. There’s nothing unusual about this man, no evil glint in his eye or even any frown lines. He appears to be in his early forties, a doctor if you remember correctly. Perfectly normal and inconspicuous, smiling back at you in a friendly way.

“Him. He dies first.”

Chapter Text

Art by puppyoftindalos

You slouch in the passenger seat of the car, in the middle of some random parking lot in Wyoming, watching cold rain slide down the window. Sometimes a wet dot will stay put for a while, entirely colored by one of the lights of the fast food place across the street. Other times it will be disturbed by additional water joining the surface, momentarily gathering white, yellow, red, swirling them all together before gravity destroys the effect and your eyes are once again forced to focus on the brake lights of the drive thru beyond.

The driver’s side door opens, bringing with it the wet patter of rain loud enough to infiltrate your thoughts while Victor slides into the seat. 

“He comes here every Wednesday and Friday night,” he tells you by way of greeting. 

You grab a tissue from the center console and hold it out to him, which he only stares down at like it’s some foreign object. With a sigh you grab a couple more, forcing the wad of tissues into the hand that’s currently dripping diluted red onto his pants, as if he roughly washed off most of the blood in a puddle somewhere. 

“So we take him when he pulls up tonight,” you say, watching Victor reluctantly dab himself clean. 

“Still think we should hit his house.”

“He has a wife and kids,” you repeat for what feels like the hundredth time. “Little kids.”

“And they’ll all be better off without him.”

You glare pointedly at Victor because you refuse to have this conversation again, and he finally relents with an irritated growl. “He keeps two bodyguards with him at all times. If I try to grab him when he pulls up, there’s gonna be a lot of guns going off right out in the open, and it’s gonna draw too much attention.”

You both just sit there for a minute, gazing at the windowless bar across the street that’s been recently acquired by Dr. Shane Allen, evil incarnate apparently. 

“I’ll go,” you offer. “I’ll figure out some way to get him to my car, and then you grab him. I’ll pretend I need help or something.”

“Not happening. He’ll send one of his bodyguards instead, if you manage to convince him, and that’s a big if.”

“I’ll…” you trail off, trying to think of a situation where you could get him alone. “I’ll convince him to come home with me.”

Victor levels you an unimpressed stare. “If you think your tits are nice enough to get this guy to abandon his protection, you’re an idiot.”

“Maybe you don’t know me any more than I know you. Maybe I can be persuasive.”

He tilts his head, eyes raking up and down your body in assessment, and you fight that burn of shame. The self loathing that you’re volunteering for slut duty yet again.

“This is the shit I used to do with you,” you reason, bracing yourself with a deep breath. “I’m not going to say I’m excellent at it, but I’m not a liability, either. You won’t have to come get me out of trouble.”

Victor just shoots you a smirk that forces an uncomfortable lance of doubt through your belly. Maybe he wouldn’t come for you, even if you needed him. Maybe he would let you get hurt or die, because it would not alter the course of his life. Maybe he’s just waiting for you to do something foolish enough to get yourself killed so he doesn’t have to keep up with you anymore. 

You could swear he sees all these things occurring to you, because his smile widens. The lift of his cheek allows you to glimpse that stupid dimple, because he’s shorn his beard pretty short. Surprisingly he kept the long hair, choosing to wear it pulled back in a loose ponytail that adds to the animalistic vibe he gives off now. It’s not your favorite, but it’s a visual reminder that he’s someone different, and you truly appreciate that.  

“I’m hungry,” you say, tilting your head towards the row of restaurants. “Let’s get sushi.”

“I hate sushi.”

Of course you do, New Victor. Of course you do.

The bottom hem of your dress slides smooth satin across your thighs as you walk into the bar, scanning the other patrons with all the interest of a woman open to getting laid. 

The dress is a honeyed champagne color, tight and loose in all the right places to show off your current pain-is-my-pastime body. After you put your jewelry on you’d stared at yourself in the mirror for a long moment, feeling actually quite attractive. There had been a small hope blossoming in your chest, that Victor would glance at you and also appreciate how good you look. That had been a stupid hope. The instant you stepped out of your room and into his line of sight, he’d thrown you an absolutely murderous glare, as if you’d just publicly disrespected his mother. 

Never can seem to win with him.

Still, he didn’t stop you from doing this. And best case scenario, it actually works and you can put this kill behind you, with perhaps a little more respect from Victor. Worst case scenario it doesn’t, and you merely walk away with a better knowledge of Dr. Evil’s movements and the layout of the place. This is… what was it Victor said once? Oh yes, low danger. Everything will be fine.

The inside of the bar is pretty average. It’s one of those more traditional spots that doesn’t attract many single women. There are a few people gathered around the dart board, some eating dinner at tables, and a strangely large number of bouncers near the door.  It’s an effort not to glance at them too long, trying to decide which ones are purely bodyguards. It’s insane that Allen gets paid enough to afford them, that the work he does is somehow dangerous enough to necessitate it. 

You hop up onto a seat at the bar that’s farthest from anyone else, giving you a fantastic view of the whole place. Business must be slow because the bartender comes over right away, his eyes flicking to the satin-draped curve of your chest while you brace your elbows on the counter. 

“What can I get for you?”

“I feel like something classic,” you tell him, leaning forward to give him a better view of cleavage, “and strong. What do you suggest?”

“Perhaps a Manhattan,” comes a voice from behind you, and with a violent prickle of intuition you whip your head around to check—

Yes, that’s definitely Shane Allen, smiling warmly in your direction and standing a polite distance away. Jesus, that was fast. It kind of makes you regret wearing this flimsy dress, though maybe he’s just performing his “I’m the owner” duties. 

“Or a martini,” he continues, nodding to you. “Both are good options.”

“A Manhattan,” you decide, facing the bartender to escape those bright blue eyes. “I haven’t had one of those in a while.”

“Mind if I join you?”

You turn your head again to stare at Allen, truly wide eyed with shock and unable to believe this bizarre turn of events. 

“I’m sorry,” he laughs, stepping forward and offering his hand. “I’m Shane. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Reggie,” you reply, clasping his hand and turning your shock into a nearly-real smile. And maybe it’s the dress, or the burning need to one-up Victor, but you say, “Sure, you can sit if you want.”

“A Manhattan as well,” Dr. Evil requests of the bartender, raising a hand sporting an obvious gold wedding band. He catches the direction of your gaze and laughs again. “Yes, yes I’m married. Don’t worry though, we have a longtime understanding.”

“Oh.” You blink. “That’s… convenient.” So much for owner friendliness.

“Not much is convenient in my life any more,” he replies, eyes twinkling. “But then again, you did just walk into my bar.”

“Your bar? I didn’t realize it was already claimed.”

He winks. “I’m sort of the owner.” 

“Uh huh,” you wink back, feigning disbelief. 

Shane begins to frown at you, but then shifts his face back to a smile when the bartender sets your drinks down, and you take the opportunity to quickly survey him. He’s surprisingly not creepy, not in the least, from his body language to his face to his voice. Beautiful in that sculpted perfection kind of way, like he was pulled straight from the love interest database of every modern romance. With his casually styled hair and button down that has the sleeves rolled to his forearms, it’s all very… Carlisle Cullen.

“So,” he says, holding your eyes while he sips his drink, “what are you doing here?”

You blink, your stomach plummeting with the sudden fear that he knows who you are. Maybe he saw the camera footage of Victor’s escape, and recognized you as soon as you walked in. Fuck, fuck—

Stop it, you’re a professional. You clamp down on that fear, locking it away and forcing a vaguely confused look on your face. 

“Please tell me you’re lonely,” he continues, eyes sliding down your body, “because you are way too beautiful to be drinking by yourself.”

You laugh, half in relief and half in surprise. It must be the correct reaction, because he grins back at you. “I’m a little lonely,” you admit.

“Single?”

“Yes.”

He takes another drink. “There’s nothing wrong with being lonely, you know. Most everyone is.”

“Are you?” you ask, recrossing your legs to turn your body in his direction and taking only a tiny sip of your drink. 

Dr. Evil’s wedding ring clinks twice on his glass while he considers his answer. It has you looking down at his hand again, and before you can stop yourself you observe, “You’re left handed.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Are you a genius?”

He barks out a laugh. “What a question! No, I’m a doctor.”

“Ooooh,” you lean forward, resting your chin on your hand. “Tell me about that.”

He’s obviously pleased with your response, looking around the area like he’s about to reveal a favorite secret and wants to make sure he’s alone. “At the moment I’m mostly doing research. A lot of late nights, a lot of lab work and typing up findings.” 

“What kind of research?” you whisper conspiratorially. 

That’s when you see a gleam in his startlingly blue eyes, an insane sort of sparkle that sends an icy tingle up your spine. “Animals, currently. Specifically their physical and mental responses to stimuli. Comparing their brain activity to humans.”

“What kinds of animals?” You ask quietly, your gut twisting with understanding.

“Depends. I tend to work with whatever I’m given, by whomever I’m contracted with.”

“Humanely?”

His smile no longer reaches his eyes. “Of course.”

Suddenly you don’t want to do this any more. You want to walk right out of here and never feel this man’s eyes on you again. Victor would understand, even in his current state. You got creeped out and you left, no big deal. 

As if he can read your hesitation, the hand with the wedding ring reaches out, smoothing possessively across your knee. It has you glancing at his face, at the mask of politeness he’s dropped for some reason, and then back down at the fingers stroking your thigh. 

“You know,” he says, his voice low and smooth, “I have a little office in the back of this place. We could take our drinks back there and play doctor for a little bit.”

You drop your lashes, heart pounding with the instant wave of survival instinct that’s screaming at you to run. Instead you bite your lip, grasping for a casual and flirty answer.

“Are you planning on researching me? I don’t know if I’m animal enough for that.”

A thumb presses into the soft inside of your thigh, right where Victor once told you your femoral artery lies. “I think you’d be surprised what kind of reactions I can get out of you, sweetheart.”

Breathe. Keep it light. You ignore the ripples of repulsion and murmur, “Ohhh, that sounds scary.” 

A shadow crosses his face. “Scary? Pfft, don’t be so dramatic. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

You smile coyly through your lashes, pretending to consider, though you know perfectly well you’d rather slash your own throat than go to some private room with him. “I think I’ll be lonely here a little bit longer.”

His grip tightens, though his tone remains seductive. “What if I promise you’ll like it?”

“You don’t know me.”

“I don’t need to.”

Leave. Get out of here, get away, and find Victor. You smile down at your drink as if you took his statement as a compliment. “I think I’m going to go have a smoke outside, actually.”

Shane makes a disgusted noise. “No, no you’re not.”

“Oh?”

“Smoking is terrible for you. What you’re doing is joining me in my office. Come on now, I’m doing you a favor.” He grips your hand, tugging you toward him slightly.

“Not tonight. Thank you, though.”

He smiles a dangerous, disbelieving smile, swinging his eyes over your shoulder to the nearly empty bar and then back to you. And then he leans right into your personal space, nuzzling his face next to yours until you can feel his breath on your ear. “You’re coming to my office with me, sweetheart, or else my very large friend over there is going to take you out back and do whatever he wants to you.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. How did this happen? How did you get past the point of no return without even noticing? Your heart is beating out of your chest, muscles nearly cramping with the effort it takes to hold yourself still and not wrench away from him. Adrenaline floods your brain, allowing you to process your options in mere seconds. 

Victor isn’t coming for you, he made that clear. He’s not going to walk through those doors, and he’s certainly not going to break into an office to rescue you. Just like that alley in Chicago, the only way you’re getting out of here is if you can save yourself. And the only way you’re going to be able to maintain some level of control of the situation is if you switch personas immediately, to someone utterly insane.

You lean into Dr. Evil, pressing your cheek to the smooth side of his. “What’s his name?” you murmur. “Your very large friend.”

Shane pulls back to look at you, eyes narrowing. But he sees something in the cute tilt of your head and the playfulness you’re forcing into your gaze, and a small smile tugs at his lips. “Anthony.”

“Anthony!” You call loud enough to carry, swinging your face in the direction of the bouncers. The largest one jerks his head in your direction, and you beckon him over with a smile and a flick of your finger. 

Anthony looks towards his boss, confusion obvious in every line of his body.

Mercifully Shane simply appears entertained. He gives you one curious glance, and then motions for Anthony to come over. You force yourself to grin delightedly at him, smoothing your skirt like this is just the most fun you’ve ever had, like you’re fucking crazy.  

Shane opens his mouth as soon as Anthony arrives, but you’re faster. 

“Hello, Anthony. Shane here says I can either fuck him in his office, or you can take me out to the back, and I can fuck you.”

Definite shock crosses Anthony’s face, and he whips his head in the direction of his boss. 

“That is not what I said.” Shane grits out. “And if he takes you out back, there’s not going to be any fucking.”

Your eyes widen and you swing your head between the two of them, a delighted smile stretching across your face. “Blowjob?” you ask Shane. There’s no opportunity for him to answer, because you’re already raising your eyebrows at Anthony and whispering, “Anal?”

Anthony is unable to hide his interest. He grins down at you, hooking his thumbs into his belt. 

“He’ll rearrange your pretty little face,” Shane purrs. 

“Oh, that’s no fun,” you pout, still eyeing the huge man. “He’s so cute, too.” 

Shane opens his mouth, and again you cut in first, tapping a fingertip to your lips. “Oooh, how about this? You, me, Anthony. Out back…” You make a dramatic pause, grinning at both of them and inclining your head for effect. “...Anal.”

They stare at you for a moment, Anthony with his mouth slightly ajar and Shane with his eyes still narrowed in suspicion. And then he laughs. Dr. Evil laughs, deep and long, before biting the front finger of his fist while he smiles at you. “No,” he says finally. 

“Okay, okay, let me see.” You rest your chin on your knuckles, pursing your lips and giving yourself a dramatic thinking face. You have to get yourself out the back by any means necessary, it’s the only chance you have of Victor finding you. Getting dragged to the office is not an option. You will not go to that office.

“You fuck me,” you tell Shane, and then swing your finger to Anthony, “while you watch. And then you can do…” You wave your hand dismissively. “Whatever it is you have to do. You can slap me pretty hard, I’ll probably like it.”

There’s a new laugh behind you, the other bodyguard who’s come over to snoop. Shane glances over to Anthony, who just shrugs, a smile that he’s unable to hide twitching his lips. 

“Alright,” Dr. Evil agrees.

You blink at him for a second, astonished. And then you spring to your feet, unwilling to give him any time to change his mind. “Shall we?”

The second bodyguard moves to join you, and to your dismay his boss doesn’t wave him off, so it’s now three to one. Shane wraps his arm around your waist and holds your hip against his, leading you towards the back of the building. It’s impossible to relax while you walk away from the front exit and the safety of other people. You’ve played your hand, so all you can do now is hope that Shane wants to punish you enough to pass the office and give you exactly what you asked for, and pray that Victor has not abandoned you to your own foolish risks. 

You’re soon in a narrow hallway, cut off from the sounds of the bar, and the hand on your waist starts to move. It slides lower, curling around your backside and squeezing. That’s when it gets real. That’s when you can imagine the rest of him on you, and your body recoils.

“Wait,” you say, starting to pull away. 

His hand whips out so fast you don’t see it coming. The side of your face explodes with pain, the agony centralized to that damn wedding ring that’s just collided with your cheekbone. You cry out in pain, legs starting to buckle, but a large hand wraps around your upper arm and drags you toward the back exit. 

A voice that you can only assume belongs to one of the bodyguards whispers something obscene in your ear that sparks fear through every nerve of your body. Whatever power you felt you had before now vanishes. You truly are nothing but a weak, stupid human, and the only hope you have now is that Victor’s hatred for Allen overcomes his disgust for you. 

There’s the metallic thunk of the outer door opening, and you’re getting dragged out into the damp night and shoved face first into a cold brick wall. There’s a crude laugh, and your neck is getting cranked backwards by your hair while you’re pinned in place by someone’s body. This can’t be happening, this can’t be real. There are more laughs and some awful suggestions, and then the feel of a vile hand snaking up under your skirt has you so horrified that you forget to even scream. 

Your eyes clamp tightly shut, your whole body locked in a suspended moment of disbelief and terror, and then in a sudden burst of clarity you regain control of yourself. You fight. Pushing off the wall with all your might, you turn into an animal as you thrash and twist, not even caring if you lose a good clump of hair in the process. 

You’re shoved sideways into the scratchy brick and you feel your upper arm getting torn on it, but it doesn’t stop the enraged shriek that escapes you. The entirety of your attention is narrowed on the person holding you, on the hand now clamped onto your throat, and you’re just about to dig your fingernails into that wrist when it drops away. 

There’s a panicked shout, and a gurgle, and just as you twist yourself fully to face your attacker, hot liquid sprays onto you. It splashes thickly onto your chest and stomach and face. It gets in your mouth and you taste that disgusting, metallic tang of blood, someone else’s blood, and you’re just barely rational enough not to do something stupid like breathe it into your lungs or swallow it. The man’s body slumps to the ground in front of you, and you spasm forward, spitting his blood right on top of him with a choked gag. Your stomach contents are rising but you force them back down, force your eyes to lift and focus on the scene before you.

The large shadow that is Victor Creed yanks his head back, ripping his teeth out of the second bodyguard’s throat and then spitting out a large chunk of flesh. A smaller body is on the ground, its leg already bent at an unnatural angle, and you realize it’s Shane. He’s gasping and whimpering, panting out incoherent pleas to the taloned demon currently turning and narrowing its focus on him. There’s only a dim streetlight out here, but you can still see the steady drip of blood shining slightly, coating Victor’s hand as he reaches down and hauls Shane up by his hair. 

“If you scream, you die.”

You know that voice. It’s so familiar to you, and yet you’ve never heard it like this, rough and cold and raising the hairs on your arms. Shane’s body hits the brick wall with an audible smack, and you have to turn away. Maybe it makes you a coward, but you can’t bear to watch this, not when you can still taste blood and feel the sickening wetness of it clinging to your dress. 

“Watch,” Victor orders. 

For an insane moment you think he’s speaking to you and you obey automatically, swinging your head in his direction. But he’s not. He’s got Shane’s face twisted down, so he can see the moment that Victor’s claws push into the skin of his stomach. 

That’s when you can’t handle it. You take a stumbling step away, covering your ears, and yet it’s not enough. You can clearly hear that scream, that wet smack of something disgusting colliding with the ground. 

So you run. Your heels are strapped on so there’s no opportunity to kick them off before you’re rounding that cursed building, looking around frantically for the car. Finally you spot it across the street, and you have to wait through a few endless seconds of traffic before it’s clear enough to bolt across. 

With a strangled sob your hand clamps onto the driver’s side handle, and it’s fucking locked. Your body is shaking but you keep a death grip on that handle, bracing your forearm on the top of the window and resting your head there on your own warm, sticky flesh. You got away, that’s what’s important. You’re alive, and Victor saved you, and now you just need to focus on breathing. In and out, deep breath after deep breath. 

The car beeps under you as it unlocks. You’re frozen there for a moment, trying to make sense of it with hardly a brain cell to spare and then you hear, “You’re in no state to drive.”

You straighten up slowly, and for some reason it’s that moment that you feel the biting throb in your cheek return, and remember that you probably have a handprint across your face. Silently you escape around to the other side of the car and climb in, keeping the injury hidden like you can’t bear to have one more embarrassment revealed to Victor. 

The interior light turns on and you finally look down at yourself while he slides into the driver’s seat. There’s so much fucking blood. You might as well be wearing a sponge for how it’s soaked into the fabric of your beautiful dress. The edges of it have started to dry, and that added repulsion has every nerve in your body narrowing onto the itchiness with unbearable clarity. 

“Was that really necessary?” you hiss, bending down to remove your shoes and keeping your face forward so he can’t see the injured side, which works out for the best because you don’t want to look at him anyway.

His face swings in your direction as he turns the key, and you can feel the poorly restrained wrath now being directed at you. “Didn’t like it, human?”

“No, I don’t fucking enjoy being covered in some dead guy’s blood!”

You feel his gaze slide across your body when you sit back up, to where the blood has made your dress stick to your chest like disgusting wet glue. “Could be worse.” 

The car lurches forward, pulling out onto the road without a second to even look for traffic, and his unfeeling remark sends you into a spiral of madness. You clench your fingernails into your palms, but it’s not enough. Even fighting with Victor isn’t enough. Nothing can distract you from the need to get away from the blood, the desperation of it scraping across your consciousness like sandpaper.

Fuck it. 

“What are you doing?” Victor demands, a note of incredulity in his voice. 

You don’t bother to answer, you’re too furious. At him, at those horrible men, at yourself for getting into that vulnerable position in the first place. Your dress is already halfway up your hips, and you don’t stop. You finish peeling it off, and it falls heavily to the floor by your feet with a wet thump. Then, chest heaving with the never ending adrenaline, you stare down at your body visible in the passing headlights, at the blood residue smeared across your breasts and stomach and soaking into your bra, far more than you feared there would be. 

“Keep your fucking clothes on,” Victor warns, but he’s too late. You’re already unfastening your bra and throwing it down with the rest, keeping your arms crossed tightly over your nipples to hide at least a little bit of yourself. Underwear and arms, that’s all you have on, and there’s not a single smidgen of embarrassment warming your cheeks. 

“You’ve seen way more than this, believe me.”

The car zooms forward, dodging through traffic well past the speed limit. “Doesn’t mean I want to see it now,” he grits out.

“I guess you’re going to have to deal with it.”

There’s absolute silence for the rest of the ride to your rental house. Victor must be just as disgusted as he seems, because he doesn’t once look over at you, and you certainly don’t look at him. Your jaw is locked and you’re letting wave after wave of horror wash over you at what happened, at what almost happened. Your face is aching and your arm is stinging and you want to cry so bad, but you don’t. You don’t dare display that kind of weakness now, not when Victor just had to do the one thing you promised he wouldn’t. 

The car slows and you watch the garage door opening slowly, far too slowly when you’re so desperate to escape. You need a shower and a cry and maybe some goddamn sushi. You don’t even wait for the garage door to finish closing behind the vehicle. As soon as the car is put in park you’re out the door, slamming it behind you and nearly racing into the house with one goal in mind: get away from Victor.

Your arm is caught in a near painful grip before you can even make it to the hallway. The shock has you flinching, sucking a sharp breath through your teeth while your knees buckle a little and your body recoils at being touched after all that, even as you whirl around to face your assailant. 

Victor’s eyes widen when he sees the right side of your face for the first time, sees the scraped up side of your arm and how every nerve in your body protests being restrained by him. Your arms have abandoned their former post and your breasts are completely visible, but you don’t care. You yank at your arm, needing desperately to get free, but he doesn’t let you. He keeps you there, his eyes tracing over the injuries while he takes in panting breaths through his nose.

“You say no to me,” he finally tells you, voice low and deathly quiet.

“What?” you breathe, confused and mad and your skin still crawling because he’s not letting go.

“Next time I ask you to do something like this, you tell me no.”

You scowl at him, tugging uselessly at your wrist. “I wanted to do it.”

“Why?”

You hiss back, “Because slutting it up is the only trick I know, asshole.”

You pull away again, and this time he releases you. You don’t hesitate, you don’t look back, you just escape to your room and lock your door behind you.

Chapter Text

Something rips you out of sleep around four in the morning. With the deepness of sleep fogging your mind you’re not clear if it was a noise or a feeling, and you just lay there for a moment trying to figure out what it was. Your eyes and lips are still swollen from the long crying session before you fell asleep, and your cheek still hurts, but you swear it was something else that—

There it is again.

You sit up, concentrating on that warning growl. It trails off into a stuttered grunt just barely loud enough for you to hear through the thin walls. All of a sudden the encompassing fear from just a few hours ago grips you again, and you shoot to your feet. They’re here. They came for him again, and you don’t have any way of preventing it.

“Victor?” you whisper-shout, poking your head out of your bedroom door. The silence that greets you raises the hairs all over your body.

The carpet is soft under your bare feet while you tiptoe across the hall and press your ear to his door. For a long moment there’s only the obnoxious sound of your ragged breathing breaking the quiet, but then the deep snarl from the other side of the door makes your heart slam violently in your chest. It continues on erratically, stacked between panicked huffs and air sucked in between teeth, and the only reason you can identify what’s going on is because that’s what William sounds like sometimes when he’s dreaming. 

Baby.

It’s bad. It’s unbearably distressing and your hand jerks up to grab the door knob, but then you stop. What could you possibly do for him? Even if you managed to wake him up without getting yourself killed in the process, what comfort could you provide? He hates you. Inserting yourself would only make things worse.

There’s a pained sound like a dog being kicked, and your heart breaks. Your legs slowly buckle until your ass hits the carpet, and you press your forehead to your knees, hugging yourself while helpless tears fill your eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper at nothing. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

You hate yourself for being unable to get him out sooner. Hate Michael, Shane, Logan, hate every single person who contributed to the trauma that stole Victor’s peace and turned him into this wounded person.

Finally you can’t take it any more. The noises on the other side of the door have mostly quieted, but the small, audible breaths that remain are somehow even worse, like he’s stopped trying to fight it. You’re still sitting there drowning in the same powerlessness that had been your constant companion all those months, and you can’t stand it. You have to do something.  

You get up and go back to your room and put on a bra under your pajamas, then you grab your shoes and keys in the hallway. There’s still bloody clothes in the car but you don’t care. Victor is in pain and that’s all you can focus on right now. 

When you return about twenty minutes later, there’s only silence on the other side of Victor’s door. You carefully balance the pack of cigarettes on his door knob so that it will drop when he opens the door and he’ll see it, and then you go back to bed. You pull the covers tight to your chin, and it must be a testament to how exhausted you are because you’re able to turn off your swirling thoughts enough to go back to sleep.

The cigarettes are gone when you leave for your run the next morning, but you still stupidly glance at his bedroom door when you get back, as if you’ll see them returned there like some tobacco library. Your shirt is wet and gross and reminds you unnervingly of blood, so you strip it off and carelessly toss it into your room on your way to the kitchen. 

“Morning,” Victor says from his seat at the small table. His eyes momentarily fasten onto your sweaty pink sports bra before a muscle ticks in his jaw and he looks back down at whatever he’s doing on the computer.  

“Morning,” you mumble back, feeling emotionally fragile and not at all in the mood for forced friendliness. 

At least he doesn’t stare at the bruise on your cheek, or have some haunted look in his eyes after what must have been an awful night for him. He actually appears in far better shape than you do, with a strange kind of purposeful energy that you haven’t felt from him in so long.

“Thanks for the smokes,” he remarks without looking up.

You blink, frozen in place for a few seconds with one hand holding a glass and the other curled around the knob for the sink. Then you turn your head to search his face, bracing for the scathing follow-up that’s surely coming next, and then it just… never comes.

“Uhh, it’s— you’re welcome,” you finally manage to say.

Victor doesn’t say anything else, so you chug that glass of water, unable to keep your eyes from flicking suspiciously to his face every few swallows. There’s nothing there. He’s holding himself still, though, far too motionless to be casual while he studiously avoids looking in your direction. Shit. Were the cigarettes a horrible mistake? Maybe he took it as an insult. Does New Victor even smoke?

It isn’t until you finally turn around to make coffee that you notice the lidded cup sitting there on the counter, and in disbelief you curl your fingers around it and raise it to your nose to smell it. It looks like a latte, it smells like a latte. It’s got the stamp of some local coffee shop on the side, and it’s still hot, and— 

Victor bought you coffee.

Last night was too much for him, that’s the only explanation. It was too intense and he had some kind of mental break, and now he’s brought you coffee right before he kills you in a continued fit of psychosis. Wide eyed, you turn around and glance at him again.

He says without looking up, “Will you quit lookin’ at me like I’m some kind of freak?”

“Sorry, I’m just… Um, thank you for the coffee.”

“Yep.”

Maybe you were more banged up last night than you realized. Maybe Victor somehow blames himself for what happened, and this is his way of making it up to you. Or he could be buttering you up for something horrible… like breaking into Michael’s building again, or firing you. 

“Had to toss your dress,” he says unexpectedly. 

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah, it was beyond saving. Thanks.” 

“I’m going to be gone most of today, but I should be back around eight.”

“Sounds good,” you reply automatically. 

Is this… pity politeness? Because if it is, you don’t want any part of it. You’ll take that olive branch and shove it right down his throat before you’ll let him pander to you because he feels bad. But what if it’s not? What if he’s decided to stop hating you all of a sudden, and your hurt ego is just getting in the way of that? 

He raises his eyes to give you an annoyed glance, and you realize you’ve just been standing here in your bra, clutching your coffee and staring at him.

“Um, is there anything you need me to do today, while you’re gone?”

Victor closes his computer and gets up. “Take the day off.”

You are definitely getting fired.

You’re left alone with only stress to keep you company, so you do the obvious thing and run through your entire arsenal of coping mechanisms. Bath, orgasm, shopping, driving with no destination in mind, and then when you get hungry enough you smash through some Taco Bell. They don’t make you feel any better per se, but they do fill your day until it’s finally night time and you give yourself permission to go home. 

It’s past eight when you return from the movie theater. The day off would have been fucking amazing if you had friends to share it with, or William, or hell, even grumpy old Victor would have made it better. But now you’re feeling so, so alone, and getting yelled at doesn’t seem like such a bad option anymore, because then at least someone would be there acknowledging your existence. 

God, you’re depressed. 

The house is quiet when you step inside. You peek into the garage and see Victor’s car there, so he must be home. You abandon your shopping bags down in the entryway - can’t even remember what you bought, to be honest - and wander to the kitchen, keeping your ears open for any sign of him. 

Finally you spot him outside on the back deck, smoking. This house only has one level and there’s no railing to lean against, so he’s sitting on the step with his feet planted on the ground, elbows propped on his knees and the cigarette dangling loosely between two fingers. He’s got his head up, staring off into the distance while he takes a drag, his body both relaxed and alert in the way that only he can accomplish.

He looks so lonely like this. So fucking beautiful and sexy and so… Victor Creed. It makes you want to climb into his lap and talk to him. Tell him about your day because you know he won’t want to talk right now, but you fantasize that he’d like listening to your voice while you lay your cheek on his shoulder. 

Ignoring the contradictory screaming of your heart and mind, you open the sliding glass door to join him. 

Victor doesn’t turn to look when you walk across the deck. Doesn’t glance at you when you take a seat on the wide step next to him, leaving a comfortable few inches between you. So you let the wood of the step dig into your lower back and stare off towards the same line of trees that he’s looking at. 

The stars are fuzzy and muted with how close you are to the lights of the city, but they’re still there, the same ones that watched him carry you back from your pond adventure all that time ago. The same ones which had convinced you that your heart’s desires were possible, that fate was kind and there was plenty of time to love each other. They’re the stars that betrayed you. 

“You want some?” Victor asks, offering his cigarette. 

“Sure, thank you.”

You take a little drag, careful not to suck it too far into your lungs and embarrass yourself. It’s… nice. Belatedly you realize you should be worried about Victor’s continued friendliness, but you’re just incredibly lonely and not in the state to care right now. 

“There are credit cards in my wallet I don’t remember getting,” Victor says. 

Your chest constricts but you force yourself to act casual, taking another little bit of smoke and breathing it out through your mouth.

“There are things I can’t remember,” he continues. “Things I should know. Can’t remember contacts I know I have, jobs I think I’ve done. Some faces I can’t put names with, even though I’ve known them for years. Fuck, only friend I can remember is Logan, and I sure as hell don’t want to see him.”

That mention is so unexpected that you laugh sourly and say, “He doesn’t want to see you, either.”

Fuck, that was a mistake. Victor looks curiously over at you, and you reluctantly admit, “I asked him to help me get you out, and… he said no.”

You peek over at his face and he’s just staring down at you with this strange intensity that you can’t figure out. Fuck. It’s so stupid, you should absolutely have more self control than this, but held in his gaze you find yourself blabbing. 

“So, I was left to my own devices. And, well. You know me.” You let the word slut remain unsaid and take another drag, a little too deep thanks to your sudden attack of nerves.

It makes you cough and you return the cigarette to him, ignoring the slight brush of your fingers against his knuckles. Stop it, woman. Stop hurting yourself with your stupid hyper vigilance of his body and his eyes. You force your gaze back to the safety of the tree line and hope he can’t hear how your breathing has picked up. He’s not responding though, so it seems like you got through that incredibly awkward conversation, and you can just sit here now and focus on rebuilding your emotional walls to keep yourself safe.

Victor shifts, and there’s a little disturbance in your hair. It’s not a tug, it’s just the slight lifting of a lock as if he’s gliding it between his fingers. Your damn body screams at you to lean into that touch, or at least turn your head to look at him, but you don’t allow it. You stubbornly stare straight ahead and convince yourself that you’ve got a bug in your hair or something, and that’s why he’s picking up another strand and letting his fingertips slide up to your—

Your entire body breaks out in a cascade of warmth as Victor’s hand wraps around the back of your head. Self control instantly crumbles, and you quickly turn your face to look at him, at those beautiful eyes you can barely see in the dark, directed straight at you. His hand doesn’t leave its position in your hair, only his thumb moves, stroking behind your ear as he slowly leans over to kiss you.

Your heart is a butterfly in your chest while you frantically lock yourself into place and wait for his lips to make contact with yours. You don’t reach for it, you just keep your chin tucked down and try to breathe, and then when he’s right there in front of you, so close that you can feel the ghost of his nose touching yours, your lungs force in a sharp, panicked inhale. It surprises Victor, makes him halt there just an inch away, his lashes raising to look into your eyes while he waits for you to figure out if this is something you want.

Holy fuck. All you have to do is pull away slightly. Put some resistance on the hand cupping your head, and he’ll get the message. Sorry, but this is too much too soon. You can’t afford to kiss him right now when you still don’t understand why he’s doing this, still don’t trust your own feelings or body enough to give yourself over to him. 

But you are a weak, weak woman, and you still love him, so you can’t bring yourself to move away. 

Victor’s lips brush yours, lingering there on the surface for just a moment before he fully kisses you. It’s soft and feels almost experimental in the way he keeps pulling back for a second before tilting his head and finding a new area to explore with his lips. It feels… hesitant. Like how you’d kiss somebody if you’re not quite sure that they want it.

You do want it, so badly. More than anything in the world, you want to melt into him and surrender to the desire starting to swirl in your belly. You want to reach out and touch his forbidden body and just let him feel how nice it would be to have your hands on him. You want him to suffer the same way you do, knowing what it feels like to be inside you and being unable to forget that feeling, reminded of it every day to the point of agony.  

But you can’t do this. No matter how good it feels to have his soft breath on your cheek while his lips coax yours apart, no matter that he’s got the nape of your neck cradled so nicely in his warm palm, you cannot do this to yourself. You won’t survive this.

With a pained little sound you pull away, dragging your head out of his grasp to rest your face in your trembling hands. You hide there for a second, trying to catch your breath and fortify yourself to raise your head and meet his eyes without immediately kissing him again. 

“Goddamn it,” Victor says through his teeth. “Tell me how to make us even. I don’t want to fucking owe you any more.”

“What?” you ask, shocked enough to straighten up.

He laughs humorlessly, dragging a hand over his face. “What do you want, human? You want money? Favors? Got someone you want me to kill?” 

“Y-you don’t owe me anything.”

“Bullshit.” He flicks his cigarette into the dirt and glares at it, his body tight with all the anger that was missing that morning. 

Oh, no. That wasn’t a pity kiss, it was worse than a pity kiss. That was a fucking guilt kiss. Oh, god.

“You… You gave me half a million dollars when you met me,” you explain, trying to calm yourself enough to think rationally. “You were always very generous with me, and I owe you so much it’s not even funny. If anything, I still owe you for everything we’ve been through, everything you’ve done for me.”

“I don’t remember that shit, though.”

“But I do. It happened, and I remember it, and you don’t owe me, I swear. We’re even.”

Victor doesn’t look at you for a bit, but he does seem significantly less agitated. “Give me one thing,” he finally says. “One thing I can do.”

You stare down at your shoes and really think about it for a moment, racking your brain for what you could possibly want. And then it comes to you in a dark flash of wiggly butts and piggy snores. 

“There is one... particular thing.”

Art by puppyoftindalos

Chapter Text

“Okay puppy, listen up.”

You turn off the car and look back towards William, who’s busily painting nose smudges on the window and definitely not listening. 

“Big Guy is different now. He’s not going to give you belly rubs all the time, or toss you food when I’m not looking. But he promised to be nice to you, so maybe you can get him there eventually.”

That’s the whole reason you haven’t dared to pick up your dog until now, not for Victor’s sake but for William’s. You can take the odd snub or rude name and deal with it, but that doesn’t mean your sweet little dog should suffer for your codependent life choices. 

You open the car door and grab William’s leash when he hops down. “Just… give him space at first. He’s having a hard time trusting people.”

Your parents had fallen just as in love with William as you had. They convinced you to stay for a week when you came to pick him up, and it turns out some time away was a good thing. Partly because it gave you a much needed break, and partly because living with your parents for a week made you remember exactly why you don’t visit more often. 

You don’t know which was worse, all the hugs that felt gross and weird since you were never hugged as a child, or when your mom randomly brought up that Aaron’s mom had called her, asking about you. 

“He’s almost forty, mom. He needs to move on.”

That reply was hypocrisy in its purest form, because you’re currently climbing the steps to your ex boyfriend’s safehouse with a shiny nugget of hope in your chest. 

William has his ears perked up as soon as you unlock the door. Only the soft tips bounce as he whips his head around, scanning the entryway for who-knows-what, and then he catches the scent. You can barely manage to grab his collar for how he’s suddenly tap dancing in random circles, his little body coiled with frantic urgency. God, you hope this isn’t a huge mistake.

“Incoming attack,” you call, unclipping the leash and watching William launch himself down the hall with his tail straight out behind him, all senses narrowed on finding Big Guy. It’s obvious that he’s been found in the kitchen because there’s frenzied tapping noises of nails on laminate and ragged pants of excitement. 

You hurry over to glimpse Victor standing next to a chair like he’s just stood up, staring down at William who is twisting every which way and hopping around his feet like a fish out of water, tail swinging wildly and whipping across Victor’s legs. 

Victor’s eyes meet yours in a way that effortlessly conveys, “Are you kidding me?” But true to his word, he stands there and waits for William to calm down slightly before bending down to give him a careful pat on the head. 

And you weren’t expecting the sudden flood of feelings that sight pushes forth, so you have to turn around and pretend to get a drink of water while you force yourself to be rational. It’s just a formal agreement, that’s all this is. I got you out, you let me have my dog without hurting his little puppy feelings. It’s just a business deal.

“What’s wrong with him?” Victor finally asks.

“What?” Oh, god, does William have some kind of disease that only Victor can sense? 

“He doesn’t hate me. Dogs always hate me.”

You let out a relieved laugh. “Oh, um, you’re friends already. He knows you’re… cool. You’re kind of his favorite.”

Victor continues to stare down at William, who has finally switched over to kitchen sniffing duty. “I’ve never had a dog like me. Ever.”

“He’s probably just extra dumb, honestly.” You both accel at being extra dumb where Victor is concerned.

William trots over to nudge his nose into Victor’s hand on his way to you. 

“Hello, baby!” you coo, sinking down to the floor so you can wrestle him into a bitey hug. “I missed you so so so much! I didn’t have anyone handsome to look at for five months!”

Victor shifts his eyes away like he’s embarrassed at your continued babytalk about ugly bad guys and no one to cuddle, but he truly seems entranced by William’s behavior. Even when your pibble comes back in from a pee outside, he shoots straight over to Victor, giving him one of those terrifying pitbull grimaces of exquisite happiness, and Victor is fucking shocked.  

He seems to find every excuse to linger near you for the rest of the day, and later that night when you curl up for a movie with William, Victor actually joins you on the other side of the couch. With a lazy grunt your dog army crawls over to the side of Victor’s leg, and you can’t help but smile delightedly when he immediately plops over on his back for belly rubs. 

Victor looks at you for just a moment for confirmation, and then reaches over to delicately run his palm on William’s soft little belly, and you laugh. It comes out in an outrageous peal of pure happiness, with your eyes crinkling at Victor in the dim light of the TV, and you swear one corner of his mouth lifts as his gaze flashes to you for a moment before dropping back down to your absolutely irresistible little baby boy. 

You cum that night, you can’t help it. The relief of everything with William going better than you could have imagined, and then seeing Victor actually smile at you… it called for some self indulgence to celebrate. 

Your palm is held tight to your mouth while you ride it out that finish, stifling your gasps so they hopefully can’t be heard from Victor’s room. Finally you ease your wet fingertips off your clit and sprawl out on the bed to catch your breath. God, that was a good one. Happy orgasms are always better than depression orgasms. 

You yank your shorts back on and glance at the time on your phone, deciding that it’s sufficiently late for you to avoid Victor if you leave your room. William is still fast asleep on your bed when you carefully close your door behind you so that it doesn’t make a sound. You tiptoe past Victor’s door and head to the kitchen for some cereal, and— shit. 

Victor looks up from the pack of cigarettes he’s spinning on the table, and from the heavy inhale he immediately makes, you know he… knows. 

“I don’t want to hear it,” you say, striding over to the pantry. “If you’re going to say something mean, you can just keep it to yourself.”

There’s a beat of silence, then a quiet, “Wouldn’t want to spoil your afterglow.”

“Gee, thanks.” You peek at him again when you reach for the milk, noting the sweatpants and cotton tshirt which make him seem so soft and touchable at times like this. Deceptive packaging.

“Can’t sleep?” you ask, bravely joining him at the table. 

“Nah, it’s just more fun to sit here by myself.”

So apparently he’s back to being an asshole. Fine. You silently shovel shredded wheat into your mouth and watch his claws methodically peel away the seams of the cigarette package. 

He’s looking at you. Not directly, but you can just tell he’s watching your face and the movements of your bare arm when you take a bite, the tips of your breasts he can probably see through your thin camisole. It makes you wonder what you smell like right now, if he can discern the subtleties of arousal and tell the difference between someone who’s wanting and someone who’s recently been satisfied. 

It also makes you wonder if he’s been jerking off, too. Surely he has. He’s been here with you for a few weeks now, so unless he’s just relying on wet dreams or something… or, unless he’s getting it elsewhere. You were gone all week. He could have been hitting bars every night, could have brought women back here, there’s no reason why he couldn’t. 

Stop it. You don’t own him. 

“When’s the last time you got laid?” Victor asks out of nowhere, still working on dismantling the box.

The shock of that random question makes you nearly choke on your cereal. “Um… Hah, October? Yeah, I guess October.” Shit, why did you answer that? You should have told him it was none of his business.

He just nods, keeping his eyes on the box in his hand. “Can’t remember the last time I got laid.”

“Well, then,” you say, feeling a little guilty at how relieved you are, “also October.”

Abandoning the box on the table, Victor leans back in his chair and slowly strokes the bit of beard right under his jaw, eyeing you openly now. You’re racking your brain, trying to figure out if he’s ever seemed this relaxed at any point in the last few weeks. He’s not all tense like he’s about to bite your head off, he’s… he’s acting like he used to sometimes, when he was thinking about fucking you.

“Was it good?” he finally asks. “Back in October?”

This is… dangerous, dangerous territory. You’ve just finished your cereal, and you wish he would work on the box some more so you’d have something to do with your eyes besides letting them wander over the inviting softness of his chest, and, oh god, the subtle muscles rippling in his forearm while he moves his fingers. Prickly warmth is creeping up your neck, and you can’t tell if you’re getting embarrassed or turned on. You shouldn’t be getting turned on, you already took care of that.

“It was… probably the most—“ you glance up at his eyes, just barely stopping yourself from saying something he can definitely use against you. He’s still just sitting there with the short length of table between your bodies, staring at you with those stupidly beautiful eyes. “Yeah, it was good,” you finish lamely.

He slowly traces his eyes over your face like he can imagine many options of what you were about to say, and none of them are the least bit vanilla. “Did you cum?”

Holy shit, goddammit. You have to clench your thighs together under the table and fight to hold his eyes at the inexplicable flash of heat his lazy question brings. 

“Do I seem like the kind of girl who would fuck you and not cum?” you shoot back. 

That makes him smile, and you belatedly recognize the snare you just stepped in. “No, you don’t,” he says, all smooth and low. “Not at all.”

Your cheeks have got to be blazing right now, not just because of this stupid interrogation but also because you know he can tell what it’s doing to you. It’s got you remembering in explicit detail how very nice it felt for him to play with your body that day, and how hard you came when he fucked you. He’s goading you, making you wet and embarrassed at the same time just for fun, and that’s simply infuriating because he doesn’t know you.

Fight or flight, you have to pick now.

“Goodnight,” you tell him, gathering your cereal things and heading towards the sink.

“You were right,” he calls over to you, “about Jurassic Park. Only got through three more this week before they closed the facility.”

It’s good enough news that you momentarily forget your escape route. “So now what? Climb the corporate ladder?”

He nods, examining the flattened box on the table. “I could stay here pickin’ off the little guys, but I’m more interested in the chain of command. Louisiana will be next.”

I, not we. 

“Okay.” You return the box to the pantry, trying not to hide your disappointment, because this is it. He’s back on his feet, and you’ve outlived your usefulness. 

“I want you to come with me. They’re gonna know I’m coming, but you can blend in.”

Okay, ouch. True, but still. You know what he’s really saying, that it doesn’t matter that everyone probably memorized your face on the security tapes, you’re so ordinary no one will recognize you. It’s probably what drew him to you in the first place, the way you’re the exact opposite of him, with only your riveting personality and nympho tendencies to distinguish you from any other woman. 

“Sounds good,” you tell him.

“I’ve got a contact down there, one I can actually remember. He’s agreed to help with the hit. Things will get more complex the higher up the chain we go.”

God, please don’t be Charlie.

“Why hello, Reggie. Such a delight to see you again.”

“Charlie,” you coo, tilting your head and smiling prettily at him. “What a nice surprise.”

Victor, to his credit, doesn’t comment on your barely contained hatred of each other. He probably doesn’t want Charlie to know about the memory loss and the resulting weaknesses he may have.

Charlie crosses the hotel room to place a tablet on the table. He pauses unlocking it to quickly run his eyes up your body. “Are you here to work?”

Out of the corner of your eye you see Victor shift closer, but you merely answer with, “Of course. You can use me for anything you need.”

That makes Charlie smile wide, and Victor swings his head in your direction, but you just smile blandly back at Charlie. If sex is your thing, you might as well weaponize it. 

Truly it’s not the worst thing to have a third person around for a few days. Things with Victor have been… weird. Ever since that night in Wyoming, he’s kept you at careful arms length. You would almost suspect he’s started to hate you again, except that you swear you catch him staring sometimes when you seem to be absorbed in something else. It’s only because you yourself are so aware of him that you notice those moments, while you were packing, or playing with William, or trying to sleep on the plane, that his eyes inexplicably wander over to your face. 

It’s impossible to guess his motivations because each time he’s got that irritatingly unreadable set to his expression, like he’s casually observing a fly caught in a spiderweb or something. There’s no longing, no hatred, no curiosity, and it’s driving you up the wall trying to understand it. Sure, you could ask. You should ask. 

But at the same time that he’s barely speaking to you, he’s also made himself more present. It’s probably thanks to the boredom of moving around and not having people to kill, but it seems like times when he’d normally be in his room or out doing who-knows-what, instead he’ll be wherever you are. Not directly, of course. He’ll just coincidentally find something to do a room away, or on the other side of a couch, or be smoking on the porch when you return from a walk. 

It’s William, it has to be William. You never would have guessed how quickly they would become friends again, how relaxed Victor gets around him. One night you were both heading off to your separate bedrooms and William planted his butt in the doorway of yours, turning his head to Victor’s retreating back and whining at him. That had been awkward.

“He can sleep with you if he wants,” you’d offered, pausing in your doorway.

Another whine, and then a yip and a bratty little paw stomp.

For a moment you believed Victor was going to agree, but he just shook his head and closed his door without saying goodnight. It was probably for the best, because you know what William actually wanted: Mom and Dad in bed together, petting him and giving him kisses while you stole touches and kisses with each other. 

“Lucky for us,” Charlie says, pulling you out of your thoughts. “Bob here cheats on his wife every Monday night with Jennifer.” 

He opens pictures of two ordinary looking people, one who looks to be in his fifties and the other around your age. Actually, she looks a lot like you. Same hair color, same skin tone and general body shape. Suddenly a mixture of fear and excitement is flooding your system, because you suspect exactly what it is your part will be in this, and from the way Charlie keeps glancing over at you, he’s thinking the same thing. 

Fortunately for you, today is Saturday.

Chapter Text

You’re in hell.

The blonde girl’s hand reaches out once more to settle on the top of Victor’s forearm, and he glances down at her tits before taking another drink of beer. She had her eye on him as soon as he sat down at the bar, and they’ve been flirting ever since. 

At least, that’s what you assume he’s doing. It’s impossible to know for sure when the table you’re occupying is too far away to hear anything. And maybe that’s for the best. You don’t want to know what he’s saying, which lines or compliments he’s giving her so she’ll be open to fucking him later. Occasionally he’ll say something that makes her laugh in that loud, drunk girl kind of way, so he’s definitely not calling her awful names. No, that side of him is apparently reserved for you.

For all intents and purposes you aren’t watching. You’re keeping your face resolutely pointed towards UFC on the TV, desperately trying not to appear as wretched as you feel, because what did you expect? That he would remain celibate? Locked up at home with you until he eventually caught feelings, like some fucked up reverse Beauty and the Beast situation? God, you’re pathetic. Maybe you deserved that guilt kiss after all. 

You try to get drunk but your stomach is so twisted that you’ve barely finished one glass before the nausea is overwhelming. Try as you might, you can’t stop picturing it. Victor, naked with that girl. Hard for her. Kissing her, fucking her, cumming in her. You doubt he’d call her baby on a one night stand like this, but— Wait, isn’t that what he called you, from that very first time? Baby.  

Maybe you need to quit this job. You stare down at the remnants of ice in your drink and truly consider it for the first time. You can just cut those ties and leave him free to sow his wild oats and find happiness, because he’s certainly not happy with you. It doesn’t matter that your last paycheck was considerably higher, like fifty percent higher than normal. Who cares if he likes William, fucking everyone likes William. It’s the lowest bar in the history of bars, and you feel utterly foolish for ever believing that to be progress.

“Did you guys break up, or are you just that kinky?”

Dragged from your miserable thoughts, you look over to see Charlie sliding into the seat next to you. Your eyes flick back to where the girl has stood up, twining her arm into Victor’s and resting her chin on his shoulder. He doesn’t shake her off.

“We broke up.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Charlie drawls, not sounding sorry in the least. “Who cheated?”

“No one. He— um, we grew apart.”

“But you’re still working with him.”

“Yeah.” The girl laughs again, stealing a drink of Victor’s beer. What could he possibly be saying that’s so funny? “I guess I’m having trouble moving on.”

Charlie sighs. “Understandable. Dude’s got a big fucking dick.”

Okay, that actually makes you laugh. You finally turn your attention to Charlie, towards his inviting smile. “It’s… not that. My ex husband was pretty tall, too.”

He raises his eyebrows in shock. “Well, excuse me. Didn’t know I was speaking with the fucking cock princess, Jesus fucking Christ.”

You laugh again, mostly because it feels good to have something to focus on that’s not wallowing in your own heartbreak. 

Charlie shoots a furtive look in Victor’s direction and then leans towards you. “You wanna make him jealous?”

Your smile fades and you stare dumbly back at Charlie, using every morsel of self control not to turn your head towards the bar again. “Um… I don’t play those kinds of games.”

There’s a playful gleam in Charlie’s eye, and he inclines his head in the direction of the bar. “He does.”

“What do you mean?” 

“He keeps looking over here to make sure I’m not getting handsy with you.”

Your eyes dart back to Victor, who’s still just sitting there drinking, seemingly quite unaware of your existence thanks to the girl practically bending backwards over the bartop to claim his full attention. 

“Are you saying he’s trying to make me jealous?” You finally ask, turning back to Charlie.

Charlie shrugs. “I could be wrong. Just seems like a strange coincidence that he looks over here every time you’re looking away, like his eyeballs are connected to the turn of your fuckin’ neck. But, like I said. I could be wrong.”

God, you don’t want him to be wrong. You want Victor to never be able to think about anyone but you, even if it makes you the worst kind of pathetic leech. 

“So what do you say?” Charlie prompts, scooting an inch closer. “You want to play too?”

“Charlie, I couldn’t do that… it’s not fair to you.”

He laughs right in your face, then takes another drink and chuckles again. “No offense Reggie,” he finally says with a pandering smile, “but I don’t give a shit about you. And you don’t particularly care for me, either. I’m not gonna get my feelings hurt if you give me a little smooch and then walk away. I’m bored, you’re hot, that’s it.”

There’s a strange kind of logic to that. You stare at Charlie, and you realize that since he’s sat down to talk to you the knot has loosened a little in your gut. Maybe you don’t need Victor to notice you, because he’s already going to do whatever it is he wants to do. Maybe you just need a distraction right now, and for some reason Charlie is the one who’s offering.

The way he’s ruefully smiling at you appears genuine, and friendly, and it— it sounds a hell of a lot better than sitting here by yourself, slowly dying inside, or going back to the hotel and agonizing over Victor fucking someone else. Suddenly you’re so tired of worrying and planning and working so hard to not mess up. You’ve done nothing but give it your all, for all this time, and look where it’s got you. 

Just… Fuck it. Fuck all of it.

“Okay,” you say, swallowing and leaning forward slightly.

Charlie smiles wide and sets his beer down. His eyes drop to your lips and then back to your eyes, and he says quietly, “Stay like that, though. Let me come to you.” 

He inches forward, brushing just the bridge of his nose against yours, and chuckles. “Oh yeah, he’s watching.” There’s a tingle of excitement that skitters down your spine, but you don’t care enough to assess it. You diligently keep your eyes on the man you’re going to kiss, on the dark curls at the nape of his neck as he presses his lips to your cheekbone and whispers, “Now close your eyes, baby.”

Your eyes flutter closed, and only a second elapses before his lips make contact with yours. 

It’s… gentler than you expected. Maybe he worries Victor will gut him if he does something you don’t like, or maybe he just thinks it’ll piss him off more if the kiss appears intimate. Regardless of the reason, Charlie tilts his head and gives you the most delicate, slow little kisses, just a handful before he pulls back slightly to look at you. 

Oh. Okay. A relieved smile tugs at your mouth, because that wasn’t nearly as scary as you thought it would be. It was exactly as he’d said, just a little smooch, but it was… nice. Quite nice. Maybe it’s just your threadbare brain cells desperate for dopamine, but you actually kind of liked it. There’s a strange kind of rush in doing something that feels wrong, like if you’re going to get the slut label anyway you might as well earn it for once. 

You’re not looking over at Victor, you’re looking at Charlie, and he’s looking back at you. His eyes are the same color as Michael’s were, but there are smile lines around them and a warmth that Michael never had, and Charlie is smiling at you in silent invitation, his gaze flicking back down to your mouth, and then up to something over your should—

“You’ve got three seconds, Charlie.”

Your body jerks in that same kind of fright you have getting caught sneaking cookies as a child, when Victor’s quiet warning sounds from somewhere behind you. 

To his credit, Charlie doesn’t need a full three seconds. He moves astonishingly fast, scooping up his beer and disentangling himself from the chair in one motion, and then, going for the gold medal in audacity, heads straight over to the blonde at the bar.

You finally get up the courage to look over your shoulder at Victor, because fuck him. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re single, he’s uninterested, and there’s no reason for you to feel bad. 

Except you do. You take one look at his face, and your heart falls, because he doesn’t even look angry. He looks… miserable. 

“Victor?” you twist in your chair to face him. “Are you alright?”

“I’m going out to smoke,” he says, inclining his head toward the door and avoiding your question. “You wanna come?”

“Okay.”

Silently you trail him through the maze of tables, wishing now more than ever before that you could poke around in his head and steal a little of what he’s thinking. 

He doesn’t stop when you reach the cool nighttime air outside, just heads in what you vaguely believe to be the direction of the hotel. Or maybe he’s finding an alley to kill you in, who knows. You follow, of course.

“Um, do you want to stop and smoke?” you ask after a few minutes of walking directly behind him.

“Don’t have any cigarettes.”

“Oh.” Now you wish you had a spare pack in your purse. That would be a very Personal Assistant thing to have. “Want to stop and buy some?”

“Not really.”

Okay, so apparently you’re walking back to the hotel. He could have just said that before, but… well, you might have put up a fight. His shoulders are so tense that you wonder if he’s getting knots in them, but he keeps walking a few more minutes before you reach a portion of sidewalk that’s empty and he finally stops and turns to you.

“Why does he call you Reggie?”

You also come to a stop, blinking in confusion at first before you comprehend his question and your brow smooths over. 

“Oh, um, the first time I met him, I didn’t want to give him my real name, so that’s just what I made up.”

“Your mom’s name?” he asks, face impassive in the glow of the street lamp.

“Yes.” 

There’s a silence, and you open your mouth to insert something meaningless, but he cuts you off with, “Does Charlie have a history with you?”

A shocked laugh bursts out of you at the idea, but you bite your lip and shake your head, forcing yourself to be serious while you stare back at him and answer, “No. Unless you count him flirting with me one time, and calling me a prostitute the very next day.”

“So why,” Victor says slowly, gliding his eyes over to the other side of the street behind you, “does he get to kiss you and I don’t?”

Your brow instantly furrows because that was simply the last question you ever expected to hear from him, and no obvious answer rises to your mind. He’s trying, god he’s trying so hard to get vulnerability out of you without revealing his own motivations. It would be almost endearing if you weren’t already so fucking sick of trying to understand him. 

You turn to look behind you at whatever it is he’s watching, but all you see is darkness and empty sidewalk and the occasional passing car. Fine. If Victor wants vulnerability, you’ll give it to him, with no frills and no softening of the truth. 

“Charlie’s a douchebag but at least he’s honest with me. I don’t have to worry about him kissing me because he feels bad, like he owes me something.”

Victor finally cracks. You watch the disbelief cross his face, and he just swipes his eyes back to you and shoots out, “The fuck did you just say?”

You merely cross your arms and glare up at him, stubbornly silent and daring him to deny it, because you know he heard you just fine with his stupid super hearing.

He starts to take a step toward you then thinks better of it, shaking his head and roughing up the side of his beard with his fingers while he looks over your shoulder again. “I kissed you cause I wanted to kiss you. And if you wanna talk about honesty…” He huffs out a wounded laugh and shakes his head again.

“What? I’ve never lied to you.”

“Two weeks, human?” His glare flashes to your face again and you feel the ice pour through your insides. ”Two weeks? Come on.”

“Well maybe if you hadn’t been such an asshole to me, I wouldn’t have had to say that! If it wasn’t worried you were going to literally kill me if I told you—“

“What?” he challenges, finally stepping closer. “If you told me what? That I loved you?”

A sickly wave of dread steels your body into place. You don’t dare look away or even breathe while you just stand there and listen to your heartbeat pounding in your ears, waiting for the next blow to land. 

“That’s why you didn’t want to kiss me, isn’t it?” Victor says, his voice quieting. “That’s why you got me out, and why you’re still here, and that’s why you kissed fucking Charlie. I loved you.”

“Yes,” you whisper, like your body is forcing the word out without your permission. 

He takes a deep, resigned breath. “I finally got back into my data storage that week you were gone. There are… notes in there. About you. Things you like, movies and restaurants. Things I wanted to teach you. Your ex husband’s address, and where to submit an anonymous fuckin’ complaint to his HOA. Apparently I’ve done that a few times.”

Oh, shit. Your eyes are tearing up and it’s all you can do not to let those tears fall, to just keep them there suspended and blurring his face from view.

“How did you expect me—” you start to say, but then your voice cracks and you have to swallow and start again. “Expect me to tell you that when you always look like you’re going to kill me every time I open my mouth? Every time I do something nice for you, which is—“ you quickly swipe your fingers over your eyes— “fucking often, and you just stare at me like you hate me? You think I don’t see how every little thing I do upsets you? You think I’d want to put that on you when you feel like that?”

He doesn’t answer. You’re right and he knows it, and he’s already laid out his hand so you have nothing to be scared of now. Obstinately you lift your chin and he just blinks down at you, looking suddenly so weary like all the fight has gone out of him. 

“I’m not sure how many safehouses you have,” you continue, “or which ones you remember, but I do know of one in New York. I can give you the address, and after this job you can go there, and you won’t have to guilt yourself into staying with me anymore. I promise, that’s the last thing I want.”

There. You said everything that’s been weighing on your heart for weeks, and you don’t dare look at him now because you know your eyes will just be begging him to stay. Determined to give him a fair choice, you turn your head and glare down the sidewalk at some random trash can that’s packed full of fast food bags. Breathe in, breathe out. You did everything you could, and now it’s time to let go. 

“I don’t want to live in New York. I like the airports in DC.”

You roll your eyes, resting your forehead in your palm to pretend to be exasperated, pretending that answer doesn’t send a burst of hope through your chest. 

“I like your dog,” he says, then pauses. “And I like you more than I hate you.”

You laugh behind your hand, at the ridiculous phrasing and the fact that you don’t even mind that much. Hesitantly you raise your face and steal a glance. 

“We could try to be friends,” you offer, and you truly mean it.

Victor sighs. He doesn’t agree, but he does say, “I got a favor to ask. And I feel like shit even saying it.”

Holy shit, this is good. This is him opening up, giving you a chance to be his friend. You don’t even have to know what it is to know that you’ll do it.

“What?” You demand.

“I haven’t… been sleeping much. The healing factor helps, but I’m only getting an hour or two every night these days, and it’s…” he sighs again, long and heavy, avoiding your eyes. “It’s fucking killing me.”

Oh, baby. You want to say something comforting, but you know he’ll probably resent it so you just bite your lip hard enough to keep it to yourself. 

“Normally I’d just push through, but that hit is coming up and I’m worried that I won’t be able to heal fast enough if I get shot. Don’t wanna… put you at risk.”

“Stay with me tonight,” you offer immediately. “Maybe having someone else in the room would help.”

“You sure you don’t mind?”

“Yes, shut up, of course. There’s nothing worse than being by yourself when you can’t sleep.”

You smile up at him, as friendly as you can, and to your intense relief, he nods. 

Okay, Victor is sleeping with you tonight, in your bed. He wants to be your friend and he’s finally talking to you, and asking for things he needs. Wow, okay.

Chapter Text

“Bestie!” You declare happily, grinning up at Victor and swinging your door wider to give him room to step inside.

But Victor doesn’t move. He merely narrows his eyes at you, still standing there in the hotel hallway, and incredulously repeats, “Bestie?”

“Obviously.” You grab his hand, dragging him inside, and you know the only reason you’re successful is because he lets you. “It’s sleepover night, so we’re friends.”

Leveling you a suspicious glance, Victor stops just far enough inside to let you close the door behind him and quickly scans the room.

“No assassins in here, I already checked,” you joke, reaching out and playfully trailing a finger across his stomach as you step past him. 

There’s no telling what he thinks is going on with you, but the reality is that you’re fucking nervous. After going back and forth on how to handle the awkwardness, Sleepover Girl was the only thing you could think of to make the situation bearable and also keep him at arms length. And he did agree to be friends. At least, you think he did. 

“I’m just gonna brush my teeth,” you call over your shoulder. “Make yourself at home.”

No matter that you already brushed your teeth shortly before he got here. Even Sleepover Girl sometimes needs a minute to panic breathe in front of the mirror when she’s just about to share a bed with an incredibly cute, scary man. When she’s about to touch him, and make him relax enough to sleep through brute force. Yeah, even Sleepover Girl is freaking out.

You leave the bathroom slightly door ajar and scrub over your poor gums again, listening intently in the direction of the bedroom and not hearing anything. What you’re particularly listening for is the door shutting because he’s bailing on you. So when you hear nothing it seems he’s tolerating this persona, and you’re sticking with it, at least until he loosens up a little.

Victor’s eyes are on you as soon as you make your appearance. He’s already sitting in bed, still fully clothed sans shoes, but at least he’s wearing a sleepable outfit. Funny that he picked the right side of the bed like he always used to.

“Lucky for you,” you say cheerily, resting your knee on the edge of the mattress by his feet, “being married for seven years made me an expert on how to get a man nice and sleepy…” You hold up a finger and give him a sunshine smile. “…platonically.”

“You gonna knock me out?” He asks, but his body is more relaxed now, like this dynamic is working for him. His eyes slide down to your bare knee and then follow it back up to your little pajama shorts.

“We both know how that would go over. Now. Are you good with me touching you?”

Victor lets out a shocked laugh, and when you just quirk your eyebrows at him and wait, he quickly sobers himself. “Okay.”

“Excellent. Take off your shirt and lie down on your stomach.”

From the way he breathes out a heavy lungful of air you’re certain he’s dying to grumble a little, but instead he dutifully grabs his shirt from the back - because of course he takes it off all sexy like that - and strips it over his head. 

That’s when the realization that he hasn’t gained any weight hits you hard. How the fuck has he not? It’s been over a month and he’s been eating, maybe not as much as before, but still. Surely with his mutation he should be filling out by now, but if anything it looks like may have lost a little bit more, with each muscle in his stomach now visible and the curve of a few ribs as well. 

To anyone else he’d probably look hot like this, but you know what lean means for him. Stress and nightmares and… suffering. Your face must have fallen, because by the time you yank yourself out of those thoughts, he’s still sitting there shirtless, watching you. 

“On your stomach, please,” you repeat, forcing a smile back in place for him. “Closer to the middle of the bed if you can.”

Victor rolls himself over, and to your amusement he does that little grunt that big men do when they have to shift their bulk. His shoulders flex and roll while he settles into place, connecting out to all of those interesting muscles across his back. A landscape of beautiful anatomy that you’re somehow allowed to touch. 

“God, you’re pretty,” you say lightheartedly, though you don’t dare look to see his reaction. You just set about turning off all the lights until there’s just the lamp on your side of the bed illuminating the room. Under different circumstances it would almost be romantic like this.

Laying on his stomach as requested, he’s got his face turned in your direction and his eyes are meticulously tracking your movements as you climb onto the bed.

“I’m unarmed,” you tease.

As you crawl over to him you have the strangest feeling, that at any moment his hand will shoot out and gut you. It’s such a random, intrusive kind of thought, and yet you’ve never had it before, through the hundreds of moments that you’ve held physical proximity with him. The only reason you can come up with is that he’s the one who’s thinking about that, and your body is picking up the signals in some kind of self preservation instinct.

You have to fight back the urge to flee in order to come near him, but you do. You sling your leg over his lower back, and by the time your ass settles on him, his whole body is one rigid board of muscle. 

“You’re doing great,” you tell him softly, laying your palms flat in the middle of his back to get him used to the contact. 

It takes longer than you would have ever expected, but slowly, inch by inch, he begins to relax under your hands. You start to move your palms carefully, gently gliding across his skin, and again his muscles go tight under your hands. A wave of sadness washes over you, and you wonder who was the last person to touch him, and whether or not it hurt.

Since you quite literally have all night, you take your time with him. You make sure every touch is soft and comfortable, and respectful of any ticklish spots he might have on his sides. Finally a resigned breath leaves him, and your efforts are rewarded when you feel him fully melt under your hands. You make a pleased noise in your throat and give him a slow drag of fingernails across his skin. 

“Fuuuuck,” he breathes, his back immediately flooding with goosebumps under your fingers.

“Just relax, and let me know if anything doesn’t feel wonderful. I have lots of ideas, and we can just move to the next thing whenever you need.”

“God, you’re annoying,” he mutters, and then groans when you get all ten fingers scratching across his skin. You let out a quiet laugh because you’re pretty sure he finds you the opposite of annoying right now. Stubborn ass.

After a few minutes he’s nuzzling his face into the mattress, shifting his arms and getting extra comfy just like you hoped he would. “This is… nice,” he admits. 

“Mhmm.” You drop your hands down to the base of his spine, applying pressure with your thumbs and massaging up the middle of his back.

“You don’t need to do that,” Victor says unexpectedly. “I can’t get knots.”

That makes you pause for a second, and you stop moving to dissect his words. “I’m sorry,” you finally reply, digging your thumbs in harder, “I thought you were here to get sleepy, not to be a whiny baby.”

It’s a gamble, and there are a few seconds where you’re waiting, convinced he’s about to yell at you, but then he just chuckles and says, “You’re right. Keep doing that.”

The absolute high you get then, grinning ear to ear in elation and barely feeling the strain in your hands while you work over his muscles. Now you get to be yourself for the rest of the night, and you get to help him, and talk to him. Bliss. 

The next half hour is wonderful and lazy, and intimate in a way that you haven’t experienced before with this brand of Victor. You alternate between rubbing and scratching to give your hands a break, and then when you’re cramping up too much to continue, you lay yourself down right next to him, and carefully remove the band holding his hair together. 

Even his eyes look sleepy, half lidded and watching your face as you smooth your fingertips over his scalp, stroking slowly through his hair so you don’t accidentally snag on any knots. He doesn’t even last thirty seconds before his eyes are closed, and his breathing turns so slow and deep that you know you just aced this task. You give him another five minutes, though, mostly for your own enjoyment of getting to touch your big scary man while he sleeps. Getting to memorize his face without keeping the feelings off yours, because they’re undoubtedly showing in your eyes right now. 

You still love him, so much.

It’s hours later, sometime in the early morning when you’re wrenched violently awake by a growl that feels like it’s right by your ear. The noise explodes in a tangible ripple that makes you jolt in place, eyes wide and unseeing in the pitch black of the hotel room.

At first your body freezes, like you can somehow hide from the enormous animal stirring next to you if you just stay quiet and still enough, so that’s what you do. You hold your breath and clench your eyes shut in nightmarish terror— But then you realize that the animal trembling beside you is Victor. 

The bed jerks with how hard he’s shaking, like he’s continually trying to push himself up off the mattress and failing to complete the motion. 

“Victor?” you ask hesitantly, flipping onto your side to face him. 

He stops growling long enough to huff in some air, so you attempt to blink away the haze of sleep and reach a hand out and touch him, to let him know you’re here. You only have a second to process the sensation of hot, damp skin and the way he instinctively flinches away from your fingers, because he’s snarling even before you’re able to yank your hand back. 

With a flash of pain the wind is suddenly knocked out of you. Victor’s hand has materialized into a vice around your throat, forcing you down into the mattress with what feels like his full weight, and all you can do is let out a startled choke and uselessly clamp your fingers around his arm while your body spasms in fear. 

Your legs can only scramble up a few inches because they’re restrained somehow, and if there were enough light in the room to see anything, you know you would be losing your vision. It’s only been a few seconds, but you already feel so close to unconsciousness. How did this happen? You were sleeping so deeply, and then the growl, and then the pain, and now you can’t breathe, can’t move, can only stare wide eyed at the trembling shadow above you and hope you aren’t about to lose your life.

Victor’s breathing is ragged in the darkness, but finally you feel the muscles and tendons in his forearm move under your fingers as he readjusts his grip on your neck. His hold mercifully loosens enough for you to drag in a lungful of air, but he merely shifts his weight above you, still panting heavily while he plants his other hand by your head and scoots his body in closer. You’re pretty sure it’s one of his knees between your legs, trapping them in place with the tension of the blanket while the other one nudges up against your ribs. But you can breathe without resistance now, so the panic is beginning to fade and in a show of good faith you unlock your hands and slide them down his arm to the base of his wrist.

“Are you awake?” you whisper up at the dark shadow between your own panting breaths. There’s a catch in the breathing above you, and a small tremor runs down his arm. 

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice rough with restraint.

Still he doesn’t release you. You force your body to relax, coaxing limpness into your muscles one section at a time, and run your thumb in what you hope is a soothing circle on the inside of his wrist. Surely it’s starting to sink in that you’re not a threat. You’re the opposite of a threat, as he’s informed you on multiple occasions. 

Weak and human, you do the only thing you can and whisper, “It’s okay, baby. You’re free. There’s a door right over there, you can walk out any time you want.”

Making sure each movement is slow and obvious, you run your fingertips down his knuckles and gently peel his fingers off your neck, one by one, and he lets you. He sets his hand down on the mattress next to your shoulder and shifts his weight onto it, working to pull himself together. For some reason he stays there hunched over you, and you have the oddest feeling that he’s just staring down at your face with his perfect vision. Does he not remember coming to bed with you? Surely he doesn’t think you attacked him or something. 

I’m not going to hurt you, your eyes wordlessly project up at him. You’re safe in this bed. You’re safe with me. 

The mattress unexpectedly dips beside your head, and then you feel him lowering his face to yours, feel the warm puff of breath on the side of your neck. 

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” you whisper back, and mean it. 

“Good.”

Your heart rate still hasn’t normalized, and now it definitely doesn’t when he makes a rumbly sound right by your ear and nuzzles his face into your hair. It’s not a grumble, it’s not a warning, it’s more like a… a purr, but in his throat, warm and tingly and almost happy. You feel his nose traveling the line of your jaw, urging you to turn your head to the side, so you do. Damn you and your lack of self control. You arch your head back and to the side, thinking he wants access to your throat, and apparently insane enough to give it to him.

You lay there and brace yourself for his lips or his fangs on that sensitive, exposed skin, but instead you gasp when his teeth find your ear. It’s careful, like he’s mapping out the curve of it with the human teeth he has, but then there’s a fang ghosting over where your earlobe connects to your head, and you shiver with understanding. He’s playing with you, playing with himself. Practicing the motion of taking your ear off because it’s what the beast inside him wants to do. 

Then there’s a scruffy kiss on your neck, and the human teeth are back to drag your earlobe lightly between them, and goddammit, your body flares to life in embarrassing places. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs, repeating the motion. Oh, he’s back. He’s fully aware and in control, focused on the way you’re shivering under him even though you’re not the least bit afraid.

This isn’t cheating, your body screams at you as he kisses down your neck. You were asleep just a few minutes ago, and he attacked you, so if you fuck him right now it wouldn’t be self betrayal. This is just complicated and purely physical, and you can allow it and then reassess tomorrow. Just give up a little bit longer, long enough not to care about getting naked with him, letting him touch you, cumming on whatever piece of him he wants to give. You can allow yourself that tonight.

“Baby,” he breathes against the side of your face, nuzzling his beard on your cheekbone while your heart slams in your chest. “You called me baby.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, needing every bit of self control you possess not to turn your face forward so your lips can touch his. 

That rumbly, interested sound again, then, “Don’t be.”

Fuck, you’re getting wet. He hasn’t even kissed you, he’s just hovering there, breathing you in and running his beard up your neck, and it’s unbelievable how much it’s turning you on. Your hand finds the arm he’s braced on, follows those hard muscles up to his shoulder and then across his bare chest. That’s always been the most difficult thing about New Victor, that he looks and smells and feels exactly like the man you loved. How much your body remembers him with longing. 

“I’m going to kiss you,” he says against your skin, “because I want to.”

An involuntary little noise climbs your throat, but you don’t move. You stay there with your head turned and wait for him to breathe his fill of your scent into his lungs. 

Victor doesn’t move your face forward, he merely lowers his to find your mouth, and connects softly with the corner of your lips. Another wave of desire rolls through you, but you stay there, waiting, with your heart racing in your ears. 

“Do you know what you smell like?” he asks in a low, quiet voice. 

“Amelia,” you immediately reply. 

“Nah. Not when you’re wet.”

He shifts to wrap his hand around the side of your head and guide your face forward, so you can look up at him. He’s slow, so goddamned slow when he leans down to kiss you, just a lingering little press of his lips before he pulls back again.

“Honey. You’re like honeysuckle, in the spring after it rains.”

You suck in a breath to reply, but his mouth is already back on yours, and it’s consuming this time. It’s warm and gentle, but inescapable in the way that he’s not giving you space to reorganize yourself. He makes you acclimate around the kiss, shoving his knee a little higher against your pussy and taking advantage of your inhale to lick across the inside of your lower lip. 

He forces you to give up. You slide your hands into his hair and kiss him back, not even pretending he’s the Victor who used to care for you. You know exactly who you’re kissing now, whose tongue is spreading warmth through your belly because he still knows how to kiss you. Dominating but careful at the same time, Victor stays there for ages and explores your mouth, the slide of your lips and tongue, until you don’t even care enough to swallow down the aroused noises you need to make. 

The pressure of his knee between your legs vanishes, and then the blanket drags down your torso until you can feel the cool air of the room on your legs. Victor sucks in a deep breath through his nose, and you try not to be embarrassed about that, try to tell yourself that it’s just a part of how he experiences sex, and you’re new to him. 

You try to convince yourself that everything is okay, that you can trust him, but maybe a part of you still doesn’t because you find yourself bracing nervously for getting naked. What if he has different tastes than before? What if your body isn’t as exciting for him as it used to be? A flutter of nerves floods your belly when Victor pulls his mouth away from yours.

“I lied to you,” he says, reaching to stroke your hair away from your face. “You’re definitely pretty.”

“Bastard,” you whisper back, the corner of your mouth rising despite yourself. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, slowly running the flat of his hand between your breasts and down your stomach, sending a hot flutter through you. “I’m workin’ on that.”

The mattress shifts, and you feel him lower himself down your body.

Oh shit, oh fuck, this is happening. His large hand is on the back of your knee, lifting it up and out, and then gliding down your spread inner thigh. He pets the front of your pussy through your shorts, just once, but it’s enough to have your hand shooting up to cover your mouth and keep an embarrassing noise from escaping. Victor makes a comforting sound in his throat and grips the back of your other knee, easing you open for him. 

And then he freezes, hand tightening on your leg. 

Your brain is scrambling for a few seconds to figure out what’s wrong, like maybe you smell bad or something, but then you remember those four little white scars right by your pussy that he put there himself. The ones you can still see if you know to look for them. It has emotion climbing your throat, and you clench your eyes shut, legs still spread where he left them. 

“Why’d you let me do this to you?”

Shit. You open your mouth to answer, but when you realize what the answer is, your throat immediately closes up. Come on, think of something. An exaggeration, a lie, fucking anything, because you’re not going to be able to hold it together otherwise. A few more seconds pass and still your brain is stuck on the answer, rolling around over and over in your mind until you might as well have said it out loud already for how tears are brimming into your lashes.

“Because I loved you, too, Victor,” you get out in a choked whisper, and then you’re a goner. 

You just start sobbing. It doesn’t matter what was about to happen between the two of you, because this is what’s happening now. All those months of pent up feelings and confusion and being so, so alone, and finally the dam has broken. You try to hide your face in your hands and just lay there with your legs open, ugly crying behind your fingers. 

In the back of your mind you know this crying session isn’t fair to Victor, but at the same time… it kind of is. You’re so lost in it that you barely register him guiding your knees back down and pulling the blanket up to cover both of you, but you do notice when he wraps you in his arms. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells you, and he actually sounds like he means it. That just makes you cry harder and start to hyperventilate a little, but he makes quiet shushing noises and lays your face on his shoulder and repeats, “I’m so sorry.”

He says that again and again while you cry, and he doesn’t once tell you to stop. It seems to go on forever with your head just tucked under his chin, but eventually you exhaust yourself and no longer need to wipe your face with your shirt. You stay there with your legs tangled up with his, and you don’t even feel guilty for it, because you deserved that cry, and he deserved to see it. And now you finally get to fall asleep like that, cried out in his arms, with his heartbeat a slow, steady thump under your palm.

Chapter Text

“Victor, are you a pussy guy?”

He blinks for a few seconds, still looking out the windshield, and then slowly turns his head to face you. “What did you just call me?”

“Um, you know.” You fidget in the passenger seat, suddenly regretting opening your mouth. “Like, some guys are tits guys, some guys are ass guys, some guys are… pussy guys.”

He shoots you a bemused look, then turns his face forward again. He stays silent long enough that you don’t think he’s going to answer the question, but finally he says, “The other stuff is nice, but seems stupid to stay there when the parts that feel good to both of us are between your legs.”

Us. He definitely said us. “Some guys don’t like pussy, though. I think they like the other stuff cause it’s like, ‘Ew, gross… pussy.’”

Victor pins you with a long suffering look. “What’s the fuckin’ point of being with a woman if you don’t like pussy?”

You hold up your hands appeasingly. “Oh, I agree. Doesn’t make any sense to me, either.”

He turns back to continue watching Bob eating lunch at a table near the sidewalk. The way he just went straight from kissing to getting between your legs last night… yeah, he’s definitely a pussy guy. You’re convinced.

“What kind of guy are you?” Victor asks, not moving his gaze. 

“Me? Um… Forearms? Hands, maybe. Beards…” You shyly turn your head in the other direction and mumble, “…cock.”

“Cock? You’re a cock guy?” Damn him and his stupid hearing.

“Well, yeah, sometimes. If it’s pretty, I’ll be a cock guy all day.”

He laughs, and you look over to watch him smile wide enough to expose the fang on the side of his mouth. “Ain’t no such thing as a pretty cock.”

“Okay, well, that’s your opinion. But as someone who’s attracted to men against my will… Yeah, they can be nice sometimes.”

Fuck, why did you even start this conversation? You basically just outed yourself as a slut, again. Jesus, shut the fuck up for once. You turn your attention back to Bob, who’s meticulously finishing up his sandwich, making sure not to get a crumb on his suit. God, he looks dull. He looks like a poster boy for corporate greed.

“You’ve got a pretty pussy, don’t you?”

Agast, you whip your head around to stare at Victor, and he just slowly grins in your direction.

“Yeah, you do,” he decides, letting the words roll lazily off his tongue. “You wouldn’t be askin’ me that if you didn’t.”

“That is… subjective.”

He turns to face you, rotates his whole upper body in the seat so he can turn his full, stupid attention on every embarrassed shuffle of your body. “You’re gonna tell me right now it’s not pretty?”

You mean to come up with something smart, but the words start spilling out of your mouth before you’ve got a handle on them, and you end up just sputtering out lame protests. “I— no, listen, I don’t have a— First of all, I don’t have to tell you anything, and also, it’s perfectly… normal looking.”

Victor keeps smiling at you, all relaxed with his arm draped over the steering wheel like this is the most entertaining thing he can imagine. But he doesn’t say anything for a while, and when he finally turns back around to look towards the cafe, you’re pretty sure you got away clean.

“I bet you’ve got the cutest little pussy I’ve ever seen.”

Cheeks hot, you purse your lips and turn your head away, looking in an irrelevant direction to avoid him. He’s so fucking annoying, and why does he make you regret every damn conversation? It was… light. It was fun. It was like a get-to-know-you prompt, and of course he had to turn it into making fun of you. 

Your pussy is perfectly normal looking. 

The fact that you shaved everything this morning in the shower is just… irrelevant.

The fact that Victor somehow took the time to go get a haircut this morning is also completely irrelevant.

Still, your eyes drag themselves back over to him like magnets, like it’s imperative that you check every few minutes and make sure you’re not imagining it. He looks so close to the way he used to, and now you’re both sitting here doing surveillance like you used to. You kissed last night, and cried, and he held you. Him, New Victor, got you wet and then held you while you cried. It’s all so… confusing. 

The side door opens, and Charlie slides into the backseat. 

“Got the tag on his car.” 

“Great,” you say with no real enthusiasm. 

“So here’s what I’m thinking,” Charlie begins, leaning forward. “This is the day before his usual hookup, so he’ll be horny. We get Reggie to knock on his door—“

“No,” Victor says immediately.

You whip your head around and stare at him, but he’s still got his eyes locked on Bob and just says, “Too risky.”

“How is that too risky?” Charlie demands. “I didn’t even say she was going in.”

Victor flicks his eyes up at the rearview mirror and gives him a look, and Charlie slumps back in his seat.

“Fine. You know what? Fine. If you’re gonna bring Reggie and not even let me use her—“

You see the claws start to come out, and you cut Charlie off before he can get himself in trouble. “Hey, it’s alright. We got a tag on his car, we can follow him around today and figure something else out. We aren’t out of options.”

But you watch the two bodyguards drinking water at the next table over, and you know there aren’t a whole lot of options. 

“Do you know if he ever goes out?” You ask. “Bars? Clubs?”

“Occasionally a club,” Charlie tells you, “but we could be sitting here for days waiting for that.”

Men who keep mistresses don’t go to clubs for the music. You stare at Bob’s suit, watch him stretch his leg out a little more comfortably, and an idea pops into your head. Its one that won’t hurt anything if you guess wrong.

“Hand me my backpack,” you say, still watching Bob. 

No one moves, so you reach your hand back and make grabby movements at Charlie. “Backpack.”

He hauls it into your hand and you quickly rifle through it, finding the miniskirt you need. If there were more time you’d change your shirt as well, but as it is it’ll just have to do tucked in.

“The fuck are you—“ Charlie starts to say when you shove your shorts off, but Victor glares at him or something, and he shuts up. 

You’re switching your flip flops for sneakers, nervously glancing up to make sure Bob hasn’t moved, and then you’re out the door.

You tuck in your shirt as you go, practicing the light, springy step you need. It takes an annoying amount of time to circle around so it’s not obvious that you’re making a beeline for the cafe, but finally you’re on the sidewalk, plastering on your best head-in-the-clouds expression. This used to be your thing, you remind yourself. You got someone to almost propose to you. You can do this. 

It only takes a small miscalculation in your step to have your foot hooking onto Bob’s perfectly shined shoe, sending you sprawling across the sidewalk.

“Oh no,” Bob says immediately, “I’m so sorry.”

You wince at your scraped elbow, pushing yourself up onto your arms and swinging your head around with a cute little, “Daddy?”

You and Bob blink at each other, you from the sidewalk and him standing there with his hand halfway outstretched, and you just hope you guessed right. 

“Oh my god,” you say, mashing your palm over your face. “I'm so sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

“Your father?” Bob asks in an amused voice, grabbing your elbow and helping you to your feet.

“My… father? No, I—“ You inhale in sudden realization and embarrassment, and momentarily clench your eyes shut. “Um, no, yeah, pretend I said yes to that. That would be the totally normal thing to be correct.”

You lean down and busy yourself wacking your skirt back into place, hoping that when you straighten back up your face will be a little red. 

“Well,” Bob says, taking his seat again, “we all have our vices, don’t we?”

“God, you sound just like him,” you blurt out, standing there for a moment in confused awe. “Your voices are like identical.”  

Bob opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off with, “Um, anyway, sorry for ruining your lunch. I gotta go.”

“Be safe out there,” Bob calls after you, as if that’s not the most ominous thing you could possibly say to someone. You can feel his eyes on you as you walk away, and you swing your hips a little, just enough to seem like it could be part of your natural gait. 

That went well. You aren't for sure that you picked the correct side of kink, but hey, no harm done if not. The van meets you once you’re comfortably far from the cafe, and as soon as you get inside you’re confronted with a hostile, “What the fuck was that?” from Charlie.

“That was making contact,” you turn in your seat to say, raising your voice a little while you buckle yourself. “Now he knows me as a cute girl with a Daddy kink, whose kinky partner sounds exactly like him. It’s groundwork.”

“It’s stupid.”

You and Charlie go back and forth about it for a while, him convinced you just ruined everything and you arguing that you gained another option, and through the whole thing Victor is strangely silent. It has you glancing over at him, trying to figure out if you just messed up in some monumental way. 

Maybe you just reminded him about Michael and all the things you did or didn’t do in that relationship. Maybe he’s turned off by how easily you think of ways to seduce men. Maybe he thinks you’re playing him, too, or something stupid like that. 

He never tells you, and the rest of the afternoon absolutely drags. 

You wake up sometime in the middle of the night, but it’s a normal kind of waking, one where you’d typically roll over and go back to sleep and not even remember it in the morning. It’s the silence that gets you, though. Because you fell asleep with Victor after doing your whole sleepy routine again, and you should be hearing that deep in and out breathing he always does when he’s asleep, but you don’t.

He’s definitely there. You can see the black lump of him on the other side of the bed, motionless, but you know he’s awake. You know it the same way you know when he’s looking at you, no matter how far away you are or how dark it is. He’s just lying there, bored and unable to sleep while you snooze away without a single nightmare. 

Maybe you should have smashed Bob’s nose instead of tripping over him. Maybe you’ll get the opportunity later at some point. 

Victor is agitated. It’s probably what woke you up in the first place, the way the air is filled with this restless kind of energy, even though he’s not moving at all. It’s emanating off him in waves, as if he’s mentally smashing through buildings and cracking skulls together. It’s strangely hot. It makes you wonder what he usually does when he can’t sleep, and if you being here is getting in the way of that. 

You’re here with him. It’s just him and you in this bed, and you made out the night before last, and there’s nothing stopping you from fucking his brains out right now. The thought had obviously occurred to you when you went to bed, had probably occurred to him, too, but his sleep was more important, so neither of you had tried anything. 

And now he’s awake, and you’re awake, and he needs something to help get him sleepy again. 

You hesitate for just a moment, shifting your feet in the sheets, and then you just… do it. You know if you wait here and agonize over all the things that could go wrong you’ll just make yourself anxious and horny, so why bother, when you can just do it. 

You push yourself up off the bed, and don’t hesitate before crawling to him and swinging your leg over his hips. 

Ohhhh fuck. His hands immediately land on your thighs, not in warning, but in a surprised, automatic kind of way. You rest your hands on his belly and stare down at the dark shadow that must be his face, watch it tilt slightly as he silently looks back at you. 

The tension in the air has shifted. It’s all about you now, your nervous excitement and his definite interest. Maybe you should say something, get some kind of consent. Maybe he’ll say something to you and break this heavy silence. Maybe it’ll just stretch on and on, coiling tighter and feasting on the unspoken words as you both look at each other and know exactly what’s about to happen. 

But the thing is, you want him to really look.  

Your fingers hook onto the hem of your cami, and you start to drag it up your stomach, feeling the delicious shift of his hands as his grip tightens on your thighs. There’s no protests this time. No, “Keep your fucking clothes on,” for you to roll your eyes at. There’s just your shirt sliding up your shoulders, over your head, and hitting the bed somewhere you don’t bother remembering, because you’re not going to need clothes for a while. 

Your breasts were covered in blood the last time he saw them. It probably wasn’t off putting to him. Maybe he liked seeing you covered in the blood of his enemies. You wonder vaguely if he’s thought about it since then, of what you look like naked. Maybe he’s been jerking off to it the same way you have. 

Your fingers trace down his furry abdominals, hooking gently into the band of his pants and just staying there, tucked into his warm skin. It feels— oh, it feels fucking good. It has your skin warming and your chest expanding at the anticipation of it. Maybe you should have started with kissing, but the thing is, if you’re going to be the one to initiate, you’re going to do what you fucking want to do. 

You lean down and kiss him. Through his pants, you linger a gentle kiss right onto his hard cock. 

There’s a rustle of fabric as his shoulders shift against the sheets, but you pay it no mind. He can get comfy all he wants, but what you’re going to do is let your hot breath soak into the fabric, kiss and nuzzle against his cock so he knows exactly what kind of guy you are. 

God, you’re a Victor guy. It’s undeniable at this point. Your pussy is getting warm and tingly as you tease him through his pants, find the head of his cock and nibble at it with your lips, stroking your palm up his stomach. 

Victor’s hands leave your legs, and then he’s shoving his pants down, and all you can do is lift your ass and let him. He sits up and brings his chest right against yours while he gets them off his feet, wraps an arm around your back to keep you stable, and you’re almost convinced he’s about to pull you down with him when he lets you go. He lays back down, fully naked, and waits for the next thing.  

Chapter Text

The fact that neither of you have spoken yet suddenly feels extra hot for some reason. It feels like a wet dream when you settle your knees between his legs and begin to lick long, soft swipes up his shaft. Maybe he won’t be able to smell your arousal with your shorts still on, maybe you can just kneel here and suck him for a little while, and he won’t know how wet you’re getting until he rips your clothes off and finds out. 

It’s a reverent hand that curls around to angle him into your mouth, just holding him at his base and letting your tongue do all the work for now. That’s when you get your first noise out of him, a soft, pretty little rumble of enjoyment. His fingers make contact with your arm, sliding up your shoulder and threading into your hair the way he likes to do, just another point of contact, a steady reminder of his presence. A piece of companionship as you take him down your throat in gentle, wet slides. 

It’s good, it’s so fucking good. All that previous sadness for him and worries of the day simply melt away, because you’ve got your baby’s cock in your mouth, and his fingers are running across the back of your head in slow, steady strokes, communicating his gratitude while a purr rumbles faintly in his chest.

It’s as if someone’s thrown a flashbang in the room, the way your hearing and breathing and any small discomfort of your throat all just dull into muffled irrelevance. Your mind, your body, every bit of who you are narrows onto the one thing that matters, showing Victor with your tongue how much he means to you. That’s all you exist for right now, just a wet mouth whose job is to make him feel good, and comfortable, and cared for. You’re surrounded by a void of fuzzy dark nothingness, barely even registering the sensation of cool air on your breasts or the warm tingles wrapping around your cunt. None of that matters tonight, when you can be such a good, wet mouth for him. 

Then the hand on your head fists your hair without warning, drags your mouth off his cock and then just holds you there right above it, your face pointed up slightly to look at the dark shadow that is his own face. 

It’s like the moment in a movie when the high pitched ringing stops, and reality slams into you with bright, razor sharp clarity: The sheets tangled around your ankles. The heightened sensation of your nipples pinched tight with the cold. The way your pussy feels all swollen and achy, and so empty you could cry. You never got to cum last night, and it’s like your body has forced you right back to where you were then: horny as fuck, brain half melted with the heat licking through your blood. 

Victor pulled you off his cock to look at you. He’s just silently staring you down in the darkness, still holding your head back by your hair, so your breasts are probably in full view for him, rising up and down as you try to catch your breath as quietly as possible. It’s hard to tell what your face is doing right now with how intoxicated you are, but you obediently blink up at him and don’t fight his hand, resisting the urge to wipe the little line of spit you can feel on your chin. Victor simply looks at you, and you look steadily back at him.

And then without saying a single fucking thing, he slowly pushes your head back down, right back to where you were with his cock stuffed in your mouth. 

Holy fuck, holy shit, you hope to god he can’t smell the way that one action scorches arousal through you. It floods your skin with a rush of heat and has an embarrassing groan forming, forced up your throat and right onto his wet cock without a thing in between the two. God, you hope he’s into this. You hope he’s not just sitting there disgusted at what you’re doing, the way it’s affecting—

“Fuck, baby. S-suck it, just like that. Fuck, that’s good.”

He gets so relaxed under you then, almost like he wasn’t really letting himself enjoy it until now. You drag your tongue along his length, knowing right then and there that you aren’t going to let him call you ‘human’ ever again. You’re going to kiss and fuck and love him until the word human doesn’t even cross his mind when he looks at you. 

Victor Creed belongs to you now, whether he knows it or not. 

Baby, your mouth silently tells him. Baby is on your cock. Baby is making you feel good. Baby is getting her pussy wet with this so you don’t even have to work for it when you fuck her in a minute. 

Or maybe he’ll just shoot his load straight down your throat. You’d— fuck, you’d be totally fine with that. You’d take it as a compliment at this point, with all the work you’ve done to get to this moment. You’ve reached that dumb, submissive headspace where there’s hardly a way he could fuck you that wouldn’t hit right. That knowledge has you shivering with desire, practically whimpering around his cock while you clench your thighs together. 

Funny how you can start something and then just hand him the control like you never even wanted it in the first place.  

Victor eventually drags you off his cock again, and this time you’re panting with need. You’re so fucking wet that it’s starting to hurt, so when he gets up and pushes you face first onto the bed, you’re ecstatic. Your shorts and underwear are getting quickly stripped down your legs, and then a knee comes between yours, knocking them out to give him room to get behind you, and before you can brace yourself, you’re just lying there getting filled in one, smooth thrust.

“Oh,” you gasp out, body tensing as your pussy spasms and works to accommodate him. That was… that was kind of rough.

“Oh, fuck. It’s been a while, huh?”

Obviously he knows it’s been a while for you, and surely there are nicer ways to tell you that your pussy feels tight. You grab onto the sheets and don’t say that though, like it’s just a passing cloud of reality that you let float on by.

Victor settles himself down over you, finding a rhythm against your ass that he likes and nuzzling his face into your hair, and then he says, “I fuckin’ hate that you waited for me.”

Wait. What the fuck? 

His elbow presses harder into the mattress by your shoulder, and his other hand slides around your throat, urging your head up with a solid pressure. 

“I hate that you’re here working with me,” he tells you, murmurs it like a secret in your ear. “Hate that you’re letting me sleep in your bed.”

His fingers tighten on your neck and you whimper for a completely different reason, as fear and emotional hurt start to trickle through you. 

“Fuck, I hate everything you do. The way you talk to me. I hate how wet you got suckin’ me off, like you enjoyed it.”

He’s still fucking you, getting harder with it. Oh, god, you made a huge miscalculation. You want to say something back, some insult in return, but your head gets cranked back farther and he nibbles his teeth against your ear. 

“And I really fuckin’ hate—“ he cuts off, groaning with a particularly deep grind against your ass— “how good your pussy feels, holy fuck.”

What the fuck does he want you to do? Apologize for being nice and having a wet pussy? You can barely swallow with how tight he’s got his hand wrapped around your neck, so you just close your eyes and try to process what he’s saying, try to force it into something closer to a compliment in your mind.

“Why’d you end up with someone like me, huh? You here for the sex?”

That has your eyes flying open again in outrage, your elbows tucking in tight and fingers gripping into the sheets as you scramble for something to say. 

“Am I just supposed to just pretend—“ he pauses to breathe you in right on your hairline, and then grabs your hand that’s braced on the bed, extends it all the way forward across the mattress. He runs his palm down it like he’s sampling the way your weak little arm feels wrapped in his huge hand. “Pretend someone who smells like you, feels like you, wants to risk her life every fuckin’ day to be with me?”

Oh, god. He thinks you’re some kind of…  mutant fetish… pervert. You spent all that time fucking sucking him off, and he thinks you’re a fucking pervert. 

Fuck - and you mean this in the most derogatory sense of the word - Victor Creed.

“You can pretend whatever— the fuck you want,” you finally spit back, have to say it between little grunts as he continues to fuck you. “I don’t give— a shit if you— believe it or not.” 

There’s a low rumble by your face, and he nuzzles his beard against your cheek. “Why does your pussy get so wet, frail? What turns you on?”

That enrages you. It’s one thing to be rough for no reason, it’s another thing to make fun of you for what you like. You should insult him back. Force out a comment about the girl from the bar, something that will really hurt. ‘Suck my dick’ certainly rolls around in your head, but you don’t dare say any of that. Not because you think he’ll hurt you, but because if you stoop to his level, it’ll give him a pass for the way he’s treating you. You’re too angry and smart to be petty like that. If he’s going to be like this, he’s going to suffer through his own words. 

You aren’t into this anymore. This isn’t fun. He’s being mean and you don’t want him fucking you this way, don’t trust him when he’s acting like this. That realization locks your jaw shut, makes your body go lax and pushes your throat harder into his hand, no longer fighting that pressure on your windpipe by keeping your head up. If he wants to treat you like this the very first time you fuck, he’s gonna get starfish. He’s gonna get silent and limp and boring and nothing. Bon appétit, Creed. Suck my wet little clit.  

He seems to sense the shift almost immediately, the bastard. He takes his hand off your neck and lets you lay your head down on the mattress, press your cheek into the blanket and screw your eyes closed. 

The fucking stops. He’s just there, motionlessly inside you for a moment, and then he lets out a deep sigh through his nose. He’s lifting his upper body off your back, raising his hips and easing himself out of you. And then right when you think he’s leaving your pussy, he plants a hand on the middle of your back - not a lot of weight on it, but some - and slowly thrusts back in. 

It sucks. He’s fucking you slow and gentle now for no reason, steadying you with that warm hand on your back, and it’s so annoying that it makes your teeth grind together. None of this is fair, not the rough fucking, not the interrogation, and certainly not this. It’s like he’s just watching your ass mold around his hips when he grinds inside, like he’s intentionally going even slower when he drags his cock back and forth across your g-spot, just to make you mad. 

It’s doing fuck-all to get you any closer to an orgasm, and you take sick pleasure in that. The high you felt from the blowjob is long gone, and you’re stone cold sober now. You wish you could suck your wetness back up, dry out his stupid dick with how not-into-this you are, but you decide to wait it out. You’ll let him do this until he either nuts or figures out that even stupid-pretty assholes like him can’t make an angry girl cum. 

Finally he pulls out. You can feel him shifting behind you, getting to his knees between your legs and keeping that hand on your back in case you get any ideas about trying to get up. And then his other hand comes over to slowly palm your ass, and you curse yourself internally for the automatic flinch you do, because you’ve just figured out where this is going. A part of you wants to brace for the spanking you’re about to get, but another, meaner part refuses to give him that satisfaction. 

So you relax into his stupid fondling, letting him think he’s going to scare you with a few smacks on your ass. You can take it. It’ll just make you that much madder, that much farther from trusting him and getting wet for him. Let him do whatever he wants, you don’t give a shit.

The hand vanishes from your back, and Victor leans down and does something that you can only describe as… kissing your ass. That makes you gasp, makes you squirm a little as he molds his hand into one side of your ass and gives soft, wet kisses to the other.

Fuck, why is he doing that? How could he possibly think this is intimidating? Although, it’s certainly throwing you off your guard. His thumb comes around and massages closer to your pussy, and there’s simply no way to fight the rush of warmth suddenly pooling between your legs. 

“There we go,” Victor says softly, and you hate that you can feel the rumble of it soaking into your skin. “That’s what you like.”

Bastard. You try to ignore his thumb now sliding up and down your slick vulva, the way he’s gently nipping at your ass, and you mutter, “Pretty sure Hitler could hold a vibrator to me and I’d still cum.”

The motion of his thumb on your pussy halts, and Victor lifts his face to laugh. It’s not even the little chuckle like he usually does, it’s an actual, real laugh. Fuck, you missed that laugh. You tuck your face into the blanket to hide the smile that breaks across it, telling yourself it’s just a muscle memory response.

There’s a lick then, swiped right along the bottom of your ass where it connects to your thigh. The motion feels so warm and scruffy and wonderful that you have another automatic response, an audible exhale that sounds a whole lot like enjoyment. His tongue explores a little closer to where you want it, and suddenly your skin is alight with tingles of anticipation. Not that you’re forgiving him, not at all, but… but getting your pussy licked would certainly not hurt the balance of things. Getting to cum on his mouth might possibly soften your feelings a little, if you’re being honest.

Apparently convinced that you want it, Victor lifts your hips up in one inescapable movement, dragging your face backwards on the bed. That’s when you get a little unsure, if you should keep starfishing and remain bent in half like this with your ass up, or if you should get yourself up on your hands and knees and risk looking eager. It’s not uncomfortable like this, per se, with your back all arched and your arms tucked in beside your breasts, but the position is… erotic. It’s submissive in a way that you haven’t prepared for.

You’re just lying there for a moment, trying to decide what to do, and then you hear, “Give me your hands.”

Hands? He can’t possibly reach your hands from here, unless he means like putting them behind your back, and you sure as hell aren’t doing that. But you hate how your automatic response is to try and figure out how to give him what he wants, and you exhale a little, “How—”

Victor reaches between your legs, grabs one of your elbows and stretches your hand back towards him between your knees. Hooooly shit, you gasp at that spike of arousal, willingly shoving the other one back too because you’re absolutely pathetic. He holds your wrists there on the bed between your knees, holds them one handed like he’s tucked each one inside his knuckles and that’s somehow enough to keep them locked into place like you can’t believe. The action brings your hips up farther, bent as far as you can possibly go and practically vibrating with how turned on you’re getting.  

You want it so bad. You want his mouth playing with you however the fuck he wants, kissing you, licking you, dragging it out until you’re begging for it. Shit, you’d take a few spankings like this if that’s what he—

“If that’s not the prettiest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever seen.”

His fingertips slide slowly through your folds, and you get wet. You abandon all of your dignity to make a humiliating noise into the blanket, thighs flexing in anticipation. You knock a knee out a little wider, just to be helpful, just to show him how good you’re going to be if he’d only touch your clit for you. 

There it is, there’s that first, warm, glorious lick through your cunt. It’s an upward swipe, so your clit only gets a second of contact, but it’s enough to have you groaning out an entire lungful of air into the mattress. Victor makes a soothing noise in his throat, one that’s so familiar to you, though he doesn’t know it, and wraps his lips around your poor, swollen clit. 

It’s magic. It’s fireworks and lava, and the additional enjoyment of the position he’s got you in makes everything go insane inside you. It’s almost nice that he’s got your hands restrained like this because you can twitch and flex, and not worry about accidentally shifting out of place. You’re literally just stuck here, getting your clit sucked so nice and your hips up so high that you couldn’t move even if you wanted to. That’s when you realize you shouldn’t have let him get you in this position in the first place, but goddammit, he’s being nice. He’s being so generous and soft and working you up exactly the way you need right now. 

This is your weakness, and he found it so fucking fast. You didn’t even have to say a thing about what you like, and now he’s got you perfectly in place to humiliate yourself with the swiftest orgasm you can imagine. 

Fuck, you have to fight it. You have to clamp your pussy and curl your fingers and think about something else. Stop picturing yourself like this, with him ducked down behind you, lapping at your cunt. Stop imagining how good it’ll feel when that orgasm finally hits you, and you can’t even move while you endure it. Stop, just— just calm down for a minute, that’s all you need, just calm down, and—

Victor does something nuzzly and warm and wonderful with his mouth, and you practically wail into the sheets with the effort it takes not to cum. So, of course, he does it again. And again. And again.  

“Wait,” you gasp. “Oh, fuck, wait please, please Victor, please don’t make me—”

“Hush, baby.”

The grip on your wrists tightens, and your legs quake as that tingling burn starts in your thighs. It can’t have been more than a couple of minutes since he first put his mouth on you, but you’re cumming and you can’t stop it, groaning through that tidal wave of searing bliss while he keeps you right where he wants you, lazily sliding his tongue against your clit.

If you could just bottle this fucking orgasm and have it again, you would. It’s short but brutal, raking fingers of pleasure up your limbs and throbbing through your belly. You could barely breathe when it started but now you’re gasping, desperate to fill up your lungs with enough oxygen to form a coherent thought. 

Victor isn’t stopping. You realize that with a jolt, as the sensation turns too sharp to handle. You try to flinch away from his mouth but there’s nowhere to go, and fuck, you’re going to have to just wrench your knees apart and flop your pussy down out of reach if he doesn’t give you a break right this fucking second. 

Thank god he seems to have a shred of sympathy because his mouth finally moves away from your clit, starts gently lapping at your opening that’s still weakly contracting in front of him. 

“Mmm, you smell real sweet when you cum.”

You’ve actually heard that one before, you think. It’s hard to remember right now, hard to remember anything but his mouth and his body and the helpless position you’re in. 

“Maybe…” he gives you vulva a long, slow swipe with the flat of his tongue, making you shiver when it contacts your clit. “Maybe I am a pussy guy.”

“Glad I’ve—” you say between panting breaths “Man–aged to convince you.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, almost purring the words against your pussy. “Dunno why I never realized it before.” Another slow lick, and another.

Fuck, you’re feeling… good. Relaxed and satisfied and not even caring that your back is getting uncomfortable in this position. What was it you were mad about? Getting fucked or something? It seems like the stupidest thing to hold against anyone, especially when you’re still getting your pussy licked so gently. Maybe you’re the cock princess after all.

Victor releases your hands, and you make a grateful moan when you can pull them back up and get rid of some of the pressure on your spine. 

“Can you get on your back for me?” he asks, only to huff a laugh when you immediately flop over and obey. 

“Is that really all you needed?” he asks, all amused as he climbs over you. “One little cum and you’re just doing everything I say.”

“You used to be nicer to me. I’m having to— hhhuh— adjust to that.”

And now you’re also adjusting around having him inside you, as he settles down with his elbows beside your shoulders and slowly starts to fuck you. 

“I know.” He lets out a long breath, rubs his beard against your cheek. “But I don’t remember it. Even if I tried— I… I might be different. Might not be the kinda guy you like, this time around.”

“I’m sure you’ll be different,” you tell him, wrapping your hand around the back of his neck. “I’m okay with that.” Can’t be much worse than he was when he was fresh out of captivity. 

There’s a long silence then, heavy in a way that you recognize as him working through his thoughts. You’re used it. You run your fingers through his hair and look up at the dark ceiling and wait for your big scary man to decide what he’s ready to say.

Finally he asks, “Have you thought about it? If you still want me anymore.” 

There it is. In a way you’re shocked he felt safe enough to ask that, pleasantly surprised that he’s willing to go there.

“Yes,” you admit quietly, “I have.”

He’s silent then, just resting his cheek on yours and still fucking you slowly like it’s just something that’s going on in the background for him while he deals with this conversation. 

You dip your chin, searching him out until you find his mouth with yours. Maybe there’s something you’re supposed to say, some reassurance that he needs, but you’re winging this whole thing just as much as he is. Yeah, you could spend some time thinking of the perfect things to say, but maybe if you let yourself be imperfect, he’ll feel more comfortable doing the same.

“I like you,” you tell him, breaking the kiss to mumble into his beard. “You like me more than you hate me. That’s all we have to worry about right now.”

“Mmm,” he rumbles into your neck. “Alright.”

Also please don’t fuck anyone else, it would destroy me, rises up in your mind. If only you were brave enough to say it. If only you thought saying it would make any bit of difference.

Victor is the one who kisses you this time, grinding deeper and faster into you, and it feels like a relief. You get to relax now in his arms while he fucks you. You get to take your time kissing him and breathing in his scent that never changes, getting his full attention and basking in the deliciousness of it. Maybe he’ll get a little more sleep after this. Maybe he’ll let you cuddle. 

He cums deep inside you, grunting and panting through it as his weight presses down, squeezes your ribs. You don’t mind. It feels good to be squished sometimes. 

It’s a few hours later, still fully dark outside, when you hear your hotel door click closed. It was closed carefully, but somehow the soft noise still wakes you up.

“Victor?” you whisper, rolling over and stretching your hand out across the empty bed. 

Nope, he’s gone. He waited until you fell asleep and then left, and your brain is too sleep-fogged to imagine why. Maybe he thought he’d sleep better in his own bed tonight. That hurts a little, but at the same time, you get it. Sleep is precious right now. 

The next time you wake up, it’s to your phone ringing, cheerily informing you that Charlie is calling.

“Hello?” you slur, sitting upright and blinking stupidly at the morning sunlight getting in through a crack in the curtains.

“I better still be getting paid for this,” Charlie says immediately, sounding agitated.

“Um, paid for what?”

“For the fucking hit you guys are pulling without me.”

Hit? You guys? 

Reality finally slaps you sober. 

“Did he go alone?” you demand, throwing yourself out of bed.

A bitter laugh. “Yep.”

Chapter Text

“You know what I hate?” you grit through your teeth, tearing the shreds of Victor’s shirt away to expose the bloody mess that is his chest. “Arrogant—“ rip— “assholes—“ longer rip— “who think they don’t need anyone, and don’t fucking communicate.”

You don’t dare look up at his face, because you just know he’s smirking down at you like he always does, and you have a firm rule about domestic violence. 

“Don’t give me that look,” you mutter, grabbing the wet rag from the sink and starting to carefully sponge away the blood. It’s kind of incredible how much of it has already healed up. 

“Just give me a few minutes and you won’t have to do that, I can just shower it off.”

“How?” you demand. “You got shot like… twenty times!” 

“Only grazed my heart. Lungs heal fast.”

You exhale in frustration, plopping the ruined rag bag down in the sink and scowling at the wounds slowly closing in front of your eyes. “Well at least you didn’t break any ribs.”

“Heh. Actually, I did.” He twists, holding his side with his hand and peering down at it. “Those are almost done.” Almost done. Like a cake in the oven. 

“The last time you broke ribs, it took like twelve hours to heal.”

He laughs like that’s some kind of joke, and then when you just continue standing there in his bathroom, glaring at him with your hands on your hips, he flicks his eyes to your face and reluctantly loses the smile. “Ribs take about five minutes.”

“Then why are they still broken?” you insist, flinging your arm out in disbelief.

“Cause I took twenty rounds in my chest,” he tells you in a placating tone.

God, why is he being so patient with you all of a sudden? He goes from fucking, to “I hate you,”s, to murder rampage, to letting you complain at him, and acts like all of it is completely normal. It’s not normal. None of this is normal. 

You finally find the will to look at his face, for the first time since he returned like this. His eyes are soft amber, relaxed and warm and almost satisfied, like that killing spree took some kind of edge off. 

“What?” you demand quietly, unsure exactly what’s going on in his head.

“Nothing,” he replies, all slow and deep and rumbly, and you know it’s not nothing. It’s something that you don’t want right now, when he’s all damaged and bloody and you feel like your nerves are stretched to the limit. 

You step past him to turn the shower on, and he doesn’t move aside. He lets your shoulder and hip brush against him in the small bathroom, doesn’t even move out of your personal space while you stand there finding the right temperature. Then you hear his belt being loosened, and force your body through sheer fucking willpower not to get interested in that familiar noise. 

The silence is cut by a little ping on the tile when a bullet pops free of his skin, so you automatically scoop it up to throw it in the trash with its other horrible little friends, completely ignoring the fact that his clothes are now in a pile on the floor.

“So theoretically,” you hedge, because you need to focus on something other than him getting naked, “if you broke some ribs, and they took twelve hours to heal… how bad were you hurt?”

He huffs like that’s funny, and turns to look at himself in the mirror while he rubs at his chest. God, his back is even worse. That’s where all the exit wounds were, shredded muscle and skin that’s so awful to imagine, you have to look away. And of course your eyes find the easiest thing to look at, namely his… ass.

“Could’ve got my internal organs pretty destroyed, like all of them. Headshot or two on top of that. Lost a limb, maybe.”

Your mouth falls open, eyes snapping to his in the mirror. “Lost a…“

“Shit happens.”

“Oh my god.”

Victor steps into the shower, and it’s all you can do not to slide to the floor in horrified realization. In a weak voice you tell him, “You went to Puerto Rico, and your ribs took half a day to heal.”

“Sounds like a good time.”

You shoot him a pleading look through the clear glass of the shower, and he just laughs at your concern. This is incredibly serious, and he’s wincing as he adjusts his back under the stream of water, and yet he’s laughing at you. 

“Victor,” you beg in a small voice, dropping your arms to your sides and just… fuck, just heartbroken still over what he did this morning, risking himself for no reason like that.

“I don’t get messed up very often.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He raises his eyebrows in a look that clearly conveys, ‘Suit yourself,’ and doesn’t bother replying. 

Your eyes drop unseeing towards the bathroom cabinets, and you try to imagine it: being so used to getting hurt that shredded organs are funny. That losing an arm could be merely half a day’s inconvenience, not even worth mentioning to anyone. He gets hurt all the time, you know it now. Victor - enormous, lethal, muscle machine that he is - would be dead a hundred times over if not for his mutation.  

He’s watching you mentally spiral. When you glance up you see him just absently running a palm over the healed skin on his chest, staring unreadably back at you through the glass. Maybe that area still hurts, or itches or something. Maybe he’s got the phantom punch of bullets ripping into him, like when you jump on a trampoline for a while and still feel your legs bouncing after you get off. 

Your eyes drift as he begins to wash up, across his relaxed biceps and down the imprint of abs that you swear look a little softer since the last time you saw them. Surely it’s just the fogged-up glass blurring your view, because it’s only been like two half-nights of sleep. But it’s distracting enough that you unthinkingly let your gaze wander even farther down, and it only takes a half second to realize your mistake and snap your eyes back up to his face, just in time to spot the upward twitch to the corner of his mouth.

“Take it back,” you tell him, ignoring the heat blooming up your neck.

“What?”

“That I’m only with you for sex. I didn’t go six months with no dick just for you to tell me that, so take it back.”

Victor resumes cleaning his arms, and you force yourself not to follow that dribbly path of suds down his chest hair. When he finally replies, it’s that infuriatingly slow rumble that plows through your lower belly. “That really got under your skin, didn’t it? I wonder why that is.”

Your mouth pops open to reply, but you quickly shut it, then cross your arms and say, “I don’t know you well enough to have that conversation.”

Yet remains unsaid, just hanging in the air, because you desperately want to be able to trust him again someday. You want him to want to earn it. 

“I don’t think you’re here for the sex,” he admits casually, like it never really mattered that much and he’s amused that you even care. 

Fine.

“Thank you,” you say, gathering up the trash bag of blood and bullets. “Checkout is in an hour. I’m going to go get ready.”

It won’t take long to pack, but your mad dash downtown earlier got you pretty sweaty and gross. Half of it was stress sweat if you’re being honest, and then there’s the fact that you still have remnants of last night’s activities on you, so you must smell awful to anyone olfactorily inclined. 

God, you’re tired. 

Emotionally you’re feeling spent, mentally you’re a mess, and physically— well, if Victor offered to rub your shoulders for a while, you wouldn’t resist. The hot shower feels so good that you have to remind yourself of the time limit, force yourself to wash up instead of standing there forever, letting the spray beat on your weary muscles. It’s not even noon and you’re already dying for a nap, just a little lie down before the long day of travel. 

There’s a knock on the outer door when you’re halfway through brushing your teeth. With a groan you wrap the towel snugly up under your armpits and drag yourself over there. The end of the toothbrush clacks against the door when you get your face close enough to squint through the peephole. It’s Victor, of course. 

“Yef?” You prompt through a mouthful of toothpaste, cracking the door open.

Oh, no. He’s gorgeous. 

Clad in full black today, with a button-down shirt and that long overcoat that he only wears when he travels. He smiles as he takes in your appearance through the six inches of open door. You still have the toothbrush hanging limply out the side of your mouth and your hair in a shower bun, so you just scowl moodily back at him, and of course that makes him grin even wider.

“Let’s go get some lunch,” he says.

“Bu– sheckout–”

“Got us a late checkout. Flight isn’t until four, and I’m hungry.”

Lunch. A casual, totally public meal right after his insane killing spree. This man is either a full blown psychopath, or can compartmentalize like a mother. 

“You sure id is… zafe? You won’t ged recognized?”

“Not where we’re going.”

Where you’re going, it turns out, is the crusty, dank side of New Orleans. The Uber drops you off at the corner of this tiny, alley-like street, and as the upkeep of buildings decline, so do your spirits. What promises to be a whopping headache begins to pulse in the back of your skull, and your muscles feel like mush, navigating the gentle slope of the sidewalk as if it were eight flights of stairs. 

Which is all rather unfortunate because it appears you could definitely use your wits about you right now. You always assumed most mutants try to blend in with society, but here it seems to be a non-issue. Sitting on steps or congregating near business entrances, the street is seemingly filled with unnaturally colored eyes or skin, strange fashion choices, and, shockingly, exposed weapons. 

Once again, you find yourself allowed into another layer of Victor’s life, and you do your best to acclimate. The most uncomfortable fact is that every single person here seems unnervingly interested in Victor’s sudden arrival. Their eyes linger on you, though, because you’re the anomaly, the unexpected addition. The air seems to grow tight with it even after they look away, as if the collective has marked you as a person of interest in everybody’s peripheral vision.

You have no idea where you’re going, but Victor plants his hand on your lower back and keeps you next to him that way, instead of letting you trail behind like you’re tempted to do. 

The overcoat fits in here. Victor fits in here. Hell, he’s even walking differently, letting his weight settle with each step instead of the fluid way he usually moves. It’s like he’s altered his personality with this new stride – purposeful, dangerous, and cold. 

“We’re going in there,” Victor murmurs, inclining his head towards what appears to be an unmarked bar on the corner. 

“How do I act here?” you whisper back, trying to think past the fog in your brain.

“Just be yourself.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. Of course he’d say that.

But that makes him stop in his tracks and face you, narrowing his full attention on your suddenly wide eyes. “Are you giving me attitude, little girl?”

“N-no, it’s just that—” You swallow the lump in your throat, gaze flicking towards the group watching from the shadow of an overhang. “Being myself is boring.”

Victor blinks down at you a few times, apparently waiting for further explanation. But your brain is pudding, so you resort to batting your lashes up at him and cocking your head with a cute little, “I’m not cool like you.”

“Hmm,” he says, finally disengaging his eyes from their exploration of your soul. “Careful.”

With that you’re walking again, and his fingers are curved a little around your waist this time. Your heart is drumming in your ears because that was fucking weird, but like… was he flirting with you?

There’s no time to dwell on it before he’s pushing you forward, making you enter the bar ahead of him even though every nerve in your body protests being put on display. The Mad-Max-esque guard at the door rakes his eyes over both of you, but Victor doesn’t pause, just steadily shoves you through until the space opens up and you step into a suspiciously quiet establishment. His hand doesn’t leave your body as you weave around a few tables of people pretending not to stare. The minute shifts in his fingers guide you at least, directing you towards the corner table that is - again - suspiciously empty. 

This is what you always wanted, right? The proximity to power, the respect and status it gives you. Well, here it is, and it’s actually quite nerve wracking. Victor lets you pull out your own chair and deposit yourself there with a relieved exhale. Somehow that walk down the street felt like a journey, and now it’s comforting to have your back to a wall and finally get to take in the dimly lit room.

The ceilings are tall, unusually tall for a hole in the wall place like this. It’s not as crowded as the street, though, with a few men lounging at tables, and a very pretty bartender who seems to be the only one brave enough to openly stare. 

“Lunch?” you whisper accusingly to your large companion. 

“Intel,” he mutters back. 

“Well, Victor Creed,” the bar girl says, sauntering over without a trace of fear. “What can I get you?” 

“The burgers here are okay,” he informs you in response. 

“Great,” you answer weakly, endeavoring to plaster on a happy expression. To the woman you say, “A burger and a coke, please.” Maybe the carbonation will settle your stomach.

“Add three burgers and a pitcher to that,” Victor tells her. 

“Right on it,” she says, winking cheekily at you before turning away. 

So, she has a really nice ass. The corner of a bar towel is tucked into the back pocket of her jeans, making it sway hypnotically as she moves. It’s not until that ass is safely behind the bar that you wrench your eyes back to Victor, and of course he has that knowing look on his face.

But the image from this morning slams back into your mind, arriving at Bob’s manor house just in time to see Victor limping out, seemingly stopping the worst bleed with one hand while the rest of his bullet holes oozed his precious blood onto the concrete. The way his head snapped in your direction, eyes fixed on you and teeth bared in warning until Charlie pulled up and got his attention. 

“What?” he asks now, because apparently you have a strange look on your face. 

“The last time I saw you shot up, I lost you.”

His eyes narrow at your hand on the edge of the table, so you quickly tuck it under to hide the clench of your fist. 

“Why did you never take me somewhere like here before?” you ask, desperately trying to change the subject because the lump in your throat is turning into a burn. 

“Probably liked the way you looked at me, not knowing the kind of things I do.”

“I always knew,” you say quickly. “I always knew what you do, even before the first time I ever talked to you, I knew.”

Victor puts his elbow on the table, reaches over and places one claw up under your chin to raise it slightly and force you to look at him. 

“You’re sick,” he says.

You frown, a little put off by the hypocrisy. “Excuse me?”

“You’re sick, I can smell it. And I can smell your headache.”

“Oh.”

His claw vanishes and you surreptitiously rub at your chin, doing quick physical inventory and discovering that he’s right. You’ve got the beginnings of a sore throat happening, and that sinus pressure that you originally thought was just the urge to cry. 

Victor’s eyes are caught by someone entering the place past your shoulder, and he mutters, “Be right back,” before loping off to do who-knows-what. 

And unfortunately left alone to your thoughts, you begin to wallow. You slump in your chair and have nothing to do but eye Victor’s back as he speaks to a man you don’t recognize. You try not to think about your symptoms, but suddenly it’s all you can focus on, the burn in your throat and the ache in your head, and how you’re stupidly sitting here all by yourself. 

“Coke,” the bartender announces, depositing it in front of you along with Victor’s beer. She touches the rim of your glass, and it does something to it that makes a definite cracking noise, but she just meets your surprised gaze with a look of mild amusement.

“Thanks,” you say automatically.

To your disappointment she lingers there, resting her hip on the edge of the table and following your line of sight. “He hasn’t been here in a long while,” she tells you.

“Yeah,” you say unhelpfully. What else is there to say? You have no idea where he goes or what he does half the time. You take a hesitant sip of coke and desperately hope it’s not drugged or poisoned.

“What does he fuck like?” the woman muses, tilting her head. “God, with that healing factor, I bet he can go round after round.”

“He’s a person,” you quietly grit back, your headache seeming to swell and throb the longer she exists in your general vicinity.

She grins down at you. “Trust me, there’s only two things these muscled idiots are good for: killing your enemies, and folding you like a pretzel.”

You don’t answer because the ache in your throat has veered dangerously close to tears territory again, and you also don’t trust yourself to be respectful with your reply. Better to be the pathetic human pushover than be on the receiving end of whatever powers she possesses. God, if he left you alone for five minutes and you managed to get yourself killed, that would be humiliating.

“Good job, by the way. Getting him out. You’re not a mutant, right?”

You blink up at her seemingly innocent expression, and you open your mouth to tell her ‘no’ when you remember that you don’t exist in a vacuum anymore. You’re an extension of Victor now, and any information you freely offer is an upper hand he no longer has.

“I’m very good at jiu jitsu,” you joke instead.

That makes her laugh - a twinkly, genuinely cute laugh - and in some different set of circumstances, you think you might actually like her. 

“Oop, burgers are ready. Be right back.”

Your gaze slides back to Victor when she walks away, and he turns to look at you across the room as if he could feel it. He doesn’t smile, but you swear you see a flicker of something familiar cross his face.

Chapter Text

You’re messed up. 

By the time you get to the airport later that afternoon, it’s all you can do to simply drag one foot in front of the other as you trail Victor to the ticket counter like he’s your mother duck. Your throat has a hundred tiny daggers stabbing it, your brain is mush, and your sinuses feel like a pressurized can of whipped cream just waiting to explode. 

At least Victor’s not making fun of you for your pathetic human weaknesses. If anything he seems more patient than usual, walking slower to keep pace with you and looking back to make sure you get safely off the escalator. It makes no sense because you’ve done nothing today to deserve his sympathy. 

And then you’re almost to the security line when he mysteriously pulls you aside and reaches into his backpack. 

“Take some of this.”

He shoves a bottle of Nyquil into your hand and you stare dumbly down at it, trying to figure out how the hell he has this, what time today he could’ve possibly stopped to purchase— Ahh, the urgent need to pick up some cigarettes earlier. That was it.

“This is the sleepy one,” you argue. 

“You can sleep on the plane.”

Skeptically you rotate your wrist and slosh the bottle around. “But it’s liquid, we can’t take this with us through security.”

Victor yanks it back with an irritated exhale and rips the plastic off the cap. He stares down at you with his jaw set in a way that you recognize as his stubborn face, and pours out a perfect dose.  

“Drink it.”

Confronted with that tiny cup in his hand, you momentarily weigh if you trust him enough to incapacitate yourself, like maybe this is some grand plan to humiliate you or something. But ultimately you’re becoming quite sick and helpless anyway, so after one last upward glance at his deadpan face, you accept the medicine and knock it back with a muttered thanks. Without a word, he immediately tosses the rest in the trash like that’s not just an enormous waste, and then nudges you over to security. 

For some reason he always makes you go ahead of him through the scanners, which is pointless anyway because he’s the one who consistently gets selected for a bonus TSA pat down. But there’s a convenient bench on the other side of the security mayhem, so as soon as you’re through you stuff your feet back into your shoes and rest with your head leaned against the wall.

Time must be doing that thing where it flashes by, because it feels like just a few seconds before your shoulder gets tapped, so you groggily force your eyes open and tilt your head back to look up at Victor. 

“C’mon, kid,” he says, inclining his head towards the flow of traffic.

“M’almost forty,” you grumble, selfishly catching hold of his solid wrist to pull yourself upright.

“Sure you are.” 

If you had full mental capacity at the moment you’d probably be stressed over this unusual display of tolerance, but your sick brain simply doesn’t care. You’re soon curled sideways into your seat at the gate, your ears starting to do that shwooshy white noise thing while you wait for boarding to start. Well, while you wait for Victor to tell you boarding has started, because you’re not paying a speck of attention.

Even with your eyes closed you can sense him sitting there next to you, as if his body were emanating some distinct physical signature. Lately his aura has been a glowing ball of rage, but today it’s softer, an unexpected kind of calm that you greedily wrap yourself in like a fluffy blanket. Days like today you can almost pretend that the Old Victor is back, that there’s someone who likes you sitting alongside you in the germ-coated airport seats.

There are just flares of consciousness after that. He rouses you to board, somehow the very last ones to get on the plane even though you fly first class thanks to his long ass legs. Nearly as soon as the plane takes off your cheek lands on something warm and hard, and for some reason he allows you to sleep smushed into his shoulder the whole flight. He extracts himself from under you some time later, shouldering your bag in the midst of a mostly empty plane and taking your clammy hand to help you to your feet.  

He doesn’t let go of your hand after that. He guides you through the fuzzy unreality of your familiar airport with his hand wrapped around yours like he’s afraid you’ll get yourself lost. That part is nice, because your brain is dull enough to mindlessly enjoy it. Every time he adjusts his warm hand around yours it feels like this is something more than just annoyance at how slow you’re walking. It feels like you’re dreaming while awake, manufacturing soft glances that aren’t actually real, deep amber eyes that burrow into your heart and fill your lungs with something achy. 

The walk does you good, though, it wakes you up somewhat. Your nose starts running about the time you get to the car, so you spend the drive in a semi-lucid state, still too sleepy to do much but sniff your stuffy nose and sneak curious glances at your man.

He’s so sexy it’s maddening. That scruffy, delicious beefcake of a man, with his secret thoughts and criminal inclinations, messing you up with his stupid eyes and his ridiculously deep voice. You hate him so much that you actually have the urge to bite him. If you could just sink your teeth into his muscled shoulder like he’s a giant gummy bear, letting that itchy need consume you as you grind his perfect flesh between your jaws until you hit bone. 

You don’t say any of this, of course. He’ll never know the violence happening in your mind as you rest there with your cheek pressed against the leather seat, looking sleepily over at him. You’re just a stupid human, remember? Normal, simple humanity, sitting in his car and daydreaming about ripping out a chunk of his prickly cheek with your teeth. 

The car slows for a stoplight, and Victor looks over at you, eyes slightly narrowed. You give him back a sloppy grin, morbidly amused at your own secret thoughts. 

“Headache gone?” he asks.

“Yeah. Thanks for the medicine.”

He gives you the barest grunt of affirmation and turns his attention back to driving, the bastard. That attention is supposed to be yours. You bite him extra hard in your mind for that. 

Your limbs are starting to ache by the time he pulls into the garage. The NyQuil must have started to wear off or something, because suddenly you’re annoyed at every physical sensation, annoyed to be alive, dreading hauling yourself inside and up to your cold, empty be—

Sharp fingers reach over to touch your cheek. Your mouth pops open with a surprised inhale, eyes locked on his concentrated expression as he trails his hand up your hairline to rest across your forehead.

“Fever’s getting higher.”

Not to discount his lived experience, but it could definitely be just your skin flushing at his lingering touch. 

His hand drops away to click your seatbelt open, and then you sigh in disappointment when he steps out of the car. All your aches and itches return in a flood of discomfort at the sudden loss of dopamine. You’ve been resting for the entire drive but still feel the need to delay another few seconds, preparing yourself for the physical exertion it’ll take to get inside. 

And then your door opens, and you sluggishly rotate your head to peer up at Victor. 

“We doin’ this the easy way or the hard way?” he asks, leaning down into your personal space. 

What? “Uh… easy?”

“Good.” He scoops you up under your knees, ignores your complainy noises to literally carry you into the house and deposit you onto the couch. 

“Hungry?” he asks, tossing the TV remote into your lap. 

“Uhhh, I don’t think so.”

“Let’s try to get something down.”

“You don’t—“ but he’s already gone, headed into the kitchen for who-knows-what.

Fine. This is probably all one big hallucination anyways, and you’ll wake up tomorrow with him glaring at you like he always does. 

You find Forged in Fire because he used to like that show, and it’s the perfect amount of disinterest for you that you can rest your eyes and vaguely listen to the dialogue.

Before long a plate lands in your lap, and you dutifully nibble on a piece of toast without complaining. If some apparition of Victor is going to take care of you on your deathbed, the least you can do is accept the help. 

You only get through a couple of bites before male voices on the TV swirl into dreams. They’re stress dreams, the kind you always have when you’re only lightly sleeping. There are a hundred impossible tasks you need to complete, and you’re already late, and wearing the wrong clothes, and even Victor is there, judging you the entire time. 

It’s just morphed into something a little more enjoyable when you’re getting jostled awake. Normally you’d fight it, but your muscles are so useless right now that you only manage to mumble out a weak little protest as someone large lifts your body up against theirs. A strong hand tucks your thighs around his waist and then cradles your ass to hold your weight. 

You surrender to it, tired as you are. You melt into that large man’s body, his hand wrapped warm and gentle around the back of your neck, keeping your head on his shoulder as he carries you upstairs. You get deposited somewhere horizontal, and let out a happy sigh as you nuzzle your face into the familiar pillow, and then you pass once more into oblivion. 

You’re a garbage human.

You wake with a jerk, breaths shallow and body rigid as you grapple with remnants of the dream. The stress and dread lingers in your gut, arguing their authority as you quickly scan the dark, familiar outlines of your room. 

There’s a man wrapped around you, you realize in horror. A heavy, hot arm is draped over your waist, and a leg is shoved in between yours from behind. 

You always have to play the victim, don’t you? Doing everything you can to make my life miserable after all I do for you, you fucking bitch.

This isn’t right, you’re supposed to be divorced. How is it possible that he’s here in bed with you again, making you all sweaty with his large body and sucking your life force with every motion of his lungs. You’re supposed to be divorced, and then you met Victor. That’s real, right? The last year wasn’t just some delusion that you dreamed up in one night?

“Victor?” you gasp out, throat raw and dry and hurting with the effort. 

“Yeah.”

With a ragged breath you finally let yourself loosen, allow your body to relax into him once more. It was just a dream. It’s just Victor. Everything will be alright.

“Hav’ta pee,” you mumble, and he mercifully moves his arm so you can get up. 

You stumble to the bathroom and don’t bother turning on any lights, barely finding the motivation to close the door before you yank your jeans down your sweaty legs. Your forehead rests in the curve of your hand as you pee, mentally cursing Victor for being such a fucking furnace. That nightmare was so real that there’s still a nagging doubt in the back of your mind, that you still haven’t woken up. That you’ll find yourself back in Dr. Evil’s bar any minute now, with Aaron’s wedding ring fused to your finger and his eyes burning hate into you. 

After a quick stop to painfully gulp down some palmfuls of tap water, you’re able to make your way back to bed, sweat turning cold and uncomfortable on your skin. But as soon as you put your knee up and start to crawl back onto the mattress, your belly begins to protest the pressure of your jeans. Why the fuck are you sleeping in jeans? Trembling a little, you flop down and get to work kicking them off with embarrassing sluggishness. 

Yeah, you're wearing panties now, but you’re too sick to give a shit. You crawl on your elbows and knees back to Victor and bury your face in his chest.

“I’m really sick,” you tell his right pectoral muscle. 

“Yeah you are.” His hand slides up your spine, and you could sob in despair when it contacts the band of your bra. The bra that you finally notice is pinching underwire unbearably into your ribs. 

With a disappointed groan your hands scramble up your lower back, clawing for the band. One clasp comes undone easily but the other one is a motherfucker to get off, making you grunt and wriggle against Victor while you work at it, until finally it gives with a satisfying click. God, it feels good. You’re still stuck in the straps, but the underwire is no longer torturing your chest and you can stop to catch your breath against Victor’s collarbone. 

Apparently convinced of your helplessness, he assists you to strip your shirt off and then rid yourself of the infernal bra once and for all. You’d honestly go right back to sleep naked if it were up to you, but your shirt gets stuffed over your head again and you halfheartedly flop your arms back into the correct holes as he drags it into place. 

You’re shivering with cold by the time Victor tucks you back under the covers, pressed to his body the same way you were before the nightmare. A part of you is confused by his being here in your bed, but you’re so grateful for the help that you truly don’t mind. Maybe he’ll dispose of your body when this illness inevitably takes you out. 

“Who the fuck are you more scared of than me?” comes an unexpected question from behind you.

You sigh, holding his wrist and snuggling it into your chest as you get your body comfy in his arms. And you thoughtlessly say the first thing that comes to mind, that feels true in the moment. “Everyone.”

Chapter Text

I’m gonna kill Shitstain’s new girlfriend. 

Didn’t decide it right away, of course. I ain’t a fuckin’ animal. For a while she was just one more thing for the fuckface to blather on about, drilling into my eardrums how crazy she was about him. He was right about one thing, cause you’d have to be fuckin’ bat shit to put up with the rat, and I told him so. 

But then he spent the night at her place for the first time, or fucked her or some shit, and came in all saturated in her scent. I thought it was them messing with my head again because she smelled like fuckin’ Amelia of all people— except that made no sense because Doc was practically pissing himself over it. He ran around half-chubbed all day trying to figure out why my brain kept lighting up. 

Her scent should be fuckin’ nothing to me at this point. It shouldn’t feel this kind of familiar, this kind of… compulsive. Took me days to stop reacting to it, but by then I was fucking pissed. I’m stuck in this cage with nothing else to distract me from the next round of experiments, and now I gotta have her rolling around the back of my head with every cursed breath I take. Everything else has been taken from me, and now she’s here, hauling me through memories that should have been blown out of my brain stem a long time ago if a god really existed. 

Eventually I started picking up on the slight differences in this woman’s scent, telling me that at least I ain’t crazy and Amelia really is dead. But even that was no fuckin’ consolation, because none of it makes sense. Women who smell like that don’t entertain mouth breathers like him. These kinds of women only take. They lead you on and then suck you dry, but there’s nothing to suck from this fucker except a bad attitude and premature balding.

It isn’t right. The natural order of things doesn't spontaneously change just because I’m locked up. Every day I’m convinced he’s gonna come in all teary eyed over the breakup, but weeks have passed and she still hasn’t dropped him. Every fuckin’ day she tortures me by mixing her delicious skin with his disgusting phlegm, and I have to sit here and act like I don’t give a shit, so they won’t have one more thing to use against me. 

So yeah, I’m gonna kill her. Once I’m out of here I’m making one stop, straight to her place. I’ll end that fuckin’ scent once and for all, mixing it up all nice with blood and tears and piss until it’s ruined. She’s gonna have to die for her poor fuckin’ judgement and for pissing me off, ‘cause sometimes life just ain’t fair.

The unexpected click of a deadbolt has you jumping in place, your head whipping around just in time to see Victor stepping through the back door. A streak of black flies past, and he barely has time to close the door behind him before William eagerly collides with his shins.

“Victor!” you exclaim. “What were you doing in the back?” Your eyes fly to the window, but you don’t see any obvious reason why he’d need to be out there thirty minutes before he was supposed to return home. 

“Spying on you,” he says in that smooth rumble, using his knee as a shield to fend off an overly excited William. You roll your eyes and lean your hip on the counter to watch him. 

It’s been two weeks since he left. Two weeks since you were too sick to take your own bra off, and you woke up to find that you had both slept in your bed for fourteen hours straight, tucked into each other out of exhaustion and the need for mutual comfort. He stayed around just long enough to bring William home and make sure you were capable of feeding yourself, and then it was off to the next location, the next villain, the next bit of intel he needed to make the next kill. 

And now he’s here in your house, wearing a dark button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, because apparently you haven’t suffered enough lately. He stares down at your dog with a faintly amused expression while William does some hopeful hops with his front paws.

“You could carry him around all day like a purse dog and he’d probably love it,” you joke.

Victor considers for a moment, and then to your delight he bends down and scoops up your dog like a baby. William is so shocked that he freezes for a few seconds with his paws dangling in the air, and Victor is able to carry him a couple of steps before he regains his wits. 

You burst out laughing at the look on Victor’s face when your usually-polite dog suddenly turns into the spawn of satan, thrashing around in his arms and snapping at his beard.

“Jesus,” Victor mutters, struggling to keep his grip long enough to set him back on the floor. The menace leaps out of his arms halfway down and then scampers over to you, nipping at your fingers.

“Can’t win ‘em all,” you tell Victor, grinning while you land a few friendly smacks on William’s butt.  

He narrows his eyes in your direction, and the smile begins to falter on your face. Too late you notice the purposeful shift of his shoulders, too late you glimpse the dangerous upward tick to the corner of his mouth. 

“Hey—” you start to warn, but he’s already moving toward you.

Cat-like and predatory, it takes him longer than it should close the distance, as if he’s dragging it out just to be extra annoying. Obviously you’re not going to turn and run because it’s just Victor, but your heart still beats an erratic pace while you straighten up and brace yourself for whatever he has planned. You must appear sufficiently scared because he finally springs forward, ignoring your half-step back to haul you up into the air. 

“See, pup,” Victor brags, ignoring your wordless protests to manhandle you until you’re pinned tight, “this is how you behave.”

With an indignant huff you yank one hand free and shove hard at his chest, leveraging your legs to give a good show of trying to escape. It’s only a show, because you’re pretty sure fighting someone like him is completely pointless. Sure enough, he effortlessly straightjackets you against his chest so that all you can accomplish is a few useless kicks in the air. 

“Ain’t this nice?” he drawls, chuckling at your lame attempts to get free. 

Fine. You give up the struggle to glare daggers at him, and that just makes him turn up the wattage on his stupid smile even more, revealing those deadly fangs. He nudges the tip of his nose against yours and purrs, “And aren’t you just the cutest?” 

You don’t have the mental pathways to process his strange behavior right now, you’re too annoyed at being put on display. With expert precision, you rotate your trapped fingers and pinch down as hard as you can on his closest nipple. 

The sound he makes is some half-roar, half-yelp thing that makes William start barking anxiously, but your choice had the desired effect. He drops your feet back to the floor and lets you twist out of his arms. 

“That hurt,” he gruffs. 

“Well that’s what you get,” you shoot back, planting a hand on his stomach to shove him away for good. 

“Getting my damn nipple twisted off?” 

“It’s all better by now, and you know it.” 

He’s rubbing at his pec, scowling down at you with some absolutely ridiculous faux annoyance, but he seems to have learned his lesson. You’re not too concerned about that because the reality is finally soaking in, that he’s in a good mood. New Victor is in a good mood. Intel gathering must have gone far better than he expected, even though you weren’t there to help. Or maybe — resistant as you are to the thought — because you weren’t there to be in the way. 

“How was Omaha?” you ask politely, backing up a healthy distance to lean against the counter once more. 

He sighs, reaching down to pet William. “Dead end. Everyone’s hiding now, and I’m havin’ to hunt down fuckin’ nobodies to learn anything.”

You nod, fidgeting your foot against the floor while he takes a seat on a stool. He doesn't say anything else, so you fix your eyes on the stack of mail on the counter and ask, “Will you be home very long this time?”

There’s a silence then, and you long to look over and try and guess his thoughts, but you don’t. You’ve hurt yourself enough lately, so you resolutely keep your gaze on the poorly piled envelopes until he finally answers, “No.”

No explanation, just ‘no.’ The disappointment hits harder than you thought it would, because you’ve stupidly allowed yourself to hope. You thought you’d made some strides with earning his trust, or at least his company, but no. You’re going to have to volunteer at the animal shelter again this week because he won’t be here, and he doesn’t want your help, and this whole situation is meaningless now.  

“How’re you doing?” he asks warily. It takes you a few seconds to realize that he’s asking because the last time he saw you, you were still ankle deep in snot.

“I’m good,” you say, taking a deep breath and mustering up a smile in his direction. “How are you?”

“M’good.” His eyes wander around the kitchen, landing with interest on the muffins you made yesterday. 

“Hungry?” you ask, starting to push off from the countertop.

“I got it.” He’s already on his feet again, rounding the island at a speed that’s completely unnecessary.

“Really, I don’t mind—”

“You gotta stop that,” he cuts in, peeling off the top of the muffin container.

You reluctantly shift your weight back to rest against the counter. “Stop what?”

“Doin’ shit for me. You gotta stop.”

Doing… shit? You’ve already been sitting on your hands for two fucking weeks while he’s been off doing the fun stuff. You’ve been stuck here in your boring house and your boring city, and now he won’t even let you get him a fucking muffin, as if reducing you to a useless ornament was his plan all along. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Yeah, he hates you, but it’s supposed to be an attentive kind of hatred, not this goddamn… abandonment. You stare dumbly at his face while he just stands there taking an eternity to peel the wrapper off his muffin, and the helplessness rises up your chest higher and higher, until it’s in your throat and practically cutting off your airway—

“I want you to cut my pay,” you blurt out, finally upset enough to voice it.

Victor lifts his head to stare at you, the wrapper forgotten and half-hanging off his muffin. 

“At least to what it was before,” you quickly reason, gripping the lip of the counter behind your back with both hands. “Since you’re not taking me on jobs, and you don’t need me for anything here, it’s too much. Way, way too much.”

Instead of replying he just stares unreadably back at you, and you know that fucking look. He’s thinking of some bullshit excuse, trying to figure out what you’ll swallow. 

“Inflation’s gone up since I hired you,” he says finally. 

“Victor—”

“What?” He snaps irritably, planting his hand on the counter with his clawed fingers all splayed out. “What, human? What do you want me to say? I was fuckin’ weeks away from getting out of there myself, and then you showed up. I was almost out, and you were forced to follow me out there, doin’ what nobody should have to do for someone like me—” 

“I wasn’t forced,” you object hotly, blood rushing up your neck. “I had a choice—”

“You had nothing!” Victor barks, so loud that you shrink back a little, staring wide-eyed at him across the kitchen island. He clenches his jaw and drops his eyes down to the hand that’s on the counter, curling his fingers underneath until his claws are hidden in a loose fist.

“I was gone,” he says after a moment, moderating his tone, “and you had nothing. You should’ve walked away, but you didn’t, and I gotta live with that.” 

“You don’t have to live with shit,” you say quietly, as if your self control will calm his agitation. “I invested in you.” 

“Some fuckin’ investme—”

“Because you’re valuable,” you rashly interrupt. 

He scowls at the counter and takes a bite of muffin, so you cross your arms and silently dare him to argue the point. There’s nothing to argue about, because he is valuable, if not as a person, then as a weapon. Even he should be able to see that.

Victor finally looks up, and you swear you see the next fight already in his eyes, some automatic defense that’s designed to push you away. You suck in a deep breath and brace yourself for it, steel yourself not to cry or flinch or react at all to the next thing he throws at you.

“You’re not the flattering type, are you?” he finally says.

“No,” you reply, frowning in confusion. “I’m not.”

‘Yeah. That’s the complicated part, isn’t it?”

You’re at a loss for words. Genuinely baffled, you blink across at him and fail to put together the mental pathway that got you here. 

It's like he expects you to apologize for something, but won’t tell you what it is. Sorry I exist, Victor. Sorry I didn’t abandon you, Victor. Sorry for loving you, Victor. Sorry my pussy’s wet when you touch me, Victor. It’s fucking illogical.

“I’m gonna go grab my bag,” he says, stuffing another bite in his mouth as walks away. William is on the hunt for muffin crumbs, ears all perked up as he trails silently behind him. 

Fine. You know what? FINE. You refuse to overthink this. If he wants to make you stop helping him, if he wants to peel back your walls and then walk away from the conversation, then fine. He can enjoy his own fucking company. 

Pent up with things left unsaid and feeling completely unsatisfied, you trudge over to the living room and turn the TV. You plop down right in the middle of the couch to show that you do not fucking want him here, and pull up some food delivery options on your phone. When the front door opens, you don’t look up. You don’t give him any indication that you notice he’s there. He probably likes it better like that, anyways. 

In your peripheral you watch him leave his luggage in the entryway and then wander over to the living room. Maybe you should have left. If you would’ve just got in your car and put some distance between you, he wouldn’t be standing right in front of you right now, taking up valuable oxygen and forcing you to pretend you don’t see him.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

Your thumb freezes halfway through scrolling down the sushi menu, because why the fuck would he say something like that? Is this his way of sucking you back into the argum—

Victor sits down right next to you on the couch, close enough that the cushion shifts with his bulk and you have to lean away from him to avoid contact. It’s fucking annoying.

“So the money’s just to keep me around?” you gripe, straightening your back and scrolling up to the top of the page because you’ve just lost all retention. 

He’s quiet for a few heartbeats, but it’s not an angry sort of silence. The invisible connection between you is still present, like he’s tentatively tugging on that pretend rope to see if you’ll let it draw you in at all. With a sigh he adjusts his body, scooting his ass forward and spreading his knees out to get comfy. One of them rests against the side of yours and stays there. 

“I’m hopin’ you’re saving it, so when you’re done with me you’ll have some options.”

Melodramatic bastard.

“I am saving it,” you reluctantly mutter, eyes unfocused on the screen in front of you.

“Good.”

He reaches his plate-sized hand over and curls his fingers up under your chin, one claw just barely pressing into your cheek and encouraging you to turn your head. Still fuming internally, you do let him turn your face the rest of the way, and warily glance up at those honey-brown eyes.

“I don’t like how you smell when you’re mad.”

Your brows immediately drop into a scowl, and you indignantly reach up to peel his hand off your face. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says, for some reason deciding that this is the perfect time to haul you onto his lap without permission. “I’ll shut up now.” 

“Creed,” you warn, bracing your forearms on his chest so he can’t do something stupid like try to kiss you.

”Yes?” He hooks his fingers into the backs of your knees to pull your lower half right where he wants it, with your legs tucked tight around the sides of his hips.

“What do you want?” you hiss, childishly working to keep your anger churning so you’ll smell bad. 

Instead of answering, Victor just smiles. He lets his head fall back over the top of the couch, relaxing and softening under you as if he’s not an entire fuck-ton of fine-tuned muscle. He raises a hand to press it against the side of your throat.

“Baby,” he says gently, letting his fingers wrap loosely around the back of your neck. 

Your heart starts galloping, but before you can process what he’s trying to do, the horrifying realization hits you: He can feel the change in your pulse through his palm. You shift your shoulders uncomfortably, sliding your eyes down and away, and forcing yourself not to be intimidated. What’s a heartbeat anyway? It’s a pointless unit of measure that just shows how embarrassed you are, that’s all. 

“Baby,” Victor prompts again. His other hand reaches up to tug your wrist away from his chest, pulling you a few inches closer. 

“What?” you mutter. It feels awkward to be propping yourself up with just one elbow, so you finally surrender. You lay your chest down on him and hide your face in the collar of his shirt, inhaling the wild, woodsy smell of his skin. It’s really not so bad like this, so you just close your eyes and try to steady your heart rate, try to prepare yourself for the next thing he’s going to say. His hand leaves your neck to smooth down your back, all warm and heavy and annoying. 

“Baby,” he murmurs, lowering his face to nuzzle into your nape. You curse yourself for the immediate outbreak of warm goosebumps. 

This is the bad thing, your nervous system screams. This is the Big Change that’s scary and stressful, because it’s easier to hate him than to risk trusting him again. He’s proven that he can’t handle it, that he isn’t capable of being nice long enough to reciprocate feelings. 

This can’t be real. It’s a dirty rotten trick, and you’re not falling for it again. It doesn’t matter that you want to kiss him. It’s irrelevant that in your head you’re indulging every impulse, working your fingers through his hair and pressing yourself to him as tightly as is physically possible. You’d need his arms crushing you, his hands bruising with how hard he molds his fingers into your body. It needs to hurt so you know it’s real, so you know he’s as close as he can possibly be to your innermost being, to your very bones. 

That’s what you’d want if this was real, which, you know, it obviously isn’t.

Victor brushes your hair off your neck to kiss it, tickling your sensitive skin with his beard that’s so short today it’s just scruff. Heat lazily blossoms between your legs, but you ignore it because there’s no way in hell you’re going to fuck him right now. Your peace of mind is too valuable to trust him that intimately again. Two weeks later you can still feel that helplessness, and your lizard brain recoils from the possibility. 

But you could lie. 

You realize it in a moment of divine inspiration, tucked into Victor’s chest while he threads his fingers into yours and brushes his thumb across your wrist. A kiss isn’t a promise. You’re not contractually obligated to give him anything, and you really doubt at this point that he’d care.

It wouldn’t even be that much of a lie. It’s more like a… boundary. You don’t trust him, so you’re not going to fuck him. It’s just math. 

You shift enough to seek out his furry cheek with your lips, like a small invitation. The movement is a little breadcrumb to let him know that you’re open to kissing him, whenever he’s ready to make it happen.

Except the first thing that happens is he gets hard. You can feel it growing right under your pussy while he works his fingers into your hair. Your eyes are closed, but you can feel that subtle turn of his face, the moment when that scruffy skin gets replaced by a mouth softly seeking out yours. You’re so desperate to be desired that even something as superficial as making out feels dangerous. It feels brain-rottingly addictive, and far too familiar.

Neither of you point out that he’s hard, because neither of you seem to care. He hasn’t even tried to put his tongue on yours yet, so you hesitantly allow yourself to melt into him. The tightness in your back smoothes out and your thighs relax, and you’re the one who pushes his lips apart with yours. 

A low vibration starts in his chest and then begins to soak into your body. It seems to warm everything in its wake, mushes up that ball of worry that lives in your lungs, and gets your blood pumping. You grab his bottom lip with your teeth just because you can, just to brag that you don’t have any pointy things getting in the way of nibbling on him.  

Victor runs his hand up your hip to your waist, clamping tightly onto it and drawing you closer. Or maybe he’s just grinding you harder into his erection, because the sudden pressure on your clit makes you inhale sharply against his lips.

“Gentle,” you whisper, reaching back to hold onto his wrist that’s tight with engaged muscle. It goes soft under your fingers, and to your surprise he mumbles an apology into your mouth. 

“It’s okay,” you breathe. “You’re okay.”

You want to let go of his wrist because you want him to touch you some more, but on the other hand you can’t let him get close to any of your erogenous zones, because you know your plans will go out the window. It’s bad enough just making out like this, with that warm, swollen sensation already happening between your legs. But you can ignore it. Even though your body is currently screaming that his fingers are missing some vital fucking areas, you have to stay sane. 

As if your convictions mean nothing, both of his hands begin to glide down the curve of your ass, and you practically sob into his mouth with how good it feels. Just— fuck, if you just let him keep doing that a little longer, it’ll set you up for the next few weeks of absence. You release his hand and unconsciously grind yourself onto his hard-on, just chasing that sensation. He takes his time fondling you, and you’ve never been more fucking aware of how close he is to your pussy. Every centimeter is mapped out in your mind, the exact path his fingertips could take to make you a happy girl. 

Not allowed, not allowed, NOT ALLOWED. You have to stop. One of his hands is wandering up your shirt, and nothing good will happen once he gets your bra off. You’ll be naked and getting fucked before you know it, and you cannot trust him for that. 

“H-hey—” you stammer, dragging his hand back to stomach territory. You lean back on his thighs and take in some rapid breaths while you yank your shirt back into place. Come on, think of something. 

“I… um, I think I’m gonna go to the store real quick,” you tell him, just blurting out the first excuse you can think of. “Do you… need anything?”

Victor doesn't so much as blink, doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything but blankly stare at you while he processes what you just said, his chest lifting as he breaths in one heavy breath, and then anoth—

SMACK.

You yelp as his palm suddenly collides with the left side of your ass, the impact making your hands fly to his chest when your body jerks forward into him. By the time the sting of it begins to radiate across your skin he’s already letting go, shifting his shoulders into a comfier slouch and purposefully meeting your shocked eyes.

“I’ll take a case of Miller.”

Chapter Text

You’re lying in bed that night with William curled into a ball by your feet. You’re totally snuggled in, right on the edge of that warm and fuzzy drop into sleep, when a rogue thought occurs to you with an inexplicable burst of clarity: you forgot to ask Victor if he’s been sleeping. For all you know, he could have spent the last two weeks desperately waiting to get back here and feel safe enough to sleep. He could be in his bed right now, just staring up at the ceiling and failing to get any rest while you’re here snoozing away in your nice comfy bed. 

You know you’re not going to be able to relax now that you’re worrying about him, so obviously you get up in the darkness and silently traverse the hall to his room. And then you stop there in front of his door, because you’re actually not sure what to do. Knocking seems stupid because if he is getting some precious sleep, it will just wake him up. But you also can’t fathom bursting into New Victor’s bedroom unannounced unless you’re ready to die. There’s no light coming from the other side of the door so you think he’s probably asleep, but what if he just leaves the lights off when he’s by himself because he doesn't need them?

You roll the knob as slowly as possible, inching the door open and praying you’re not about to meet claws. Nope, it’s just a dark room with a Victor-sized lump in the middle of the bed. 

“Are you awake?” you whisper quietly. In fact, it’s so quiet that it’s more like you breathe the barest essence of those words into the air, just in case he’s really asleep.

“Yes,” he replies in a completely normal speaking tone, making the doorknob rattle in your hand when you jump at the sound. 

“Jesus,” you gasp. “Okay. Uhh… I just forgot to ask earlier, and I was wondering how you’ve been, um, sleeping lately. Like, since I last saw you. H-how’s it been?”

There’s a suspiciously long silence, and the shadow on the bed shifts slightly. “Pretty good.” 

The lie is so flagrant that it makes you purse your lips in disapproval. For all you know, the last night he was here could have been the last time he got some decent rest. 

“Okay if I join you?” you ask, already closing the door behind you because he’s not getting out of this. “I promise not to bother you.”

“Wouldn’t mind if you did.”

You smile impishly to yourself as you make your way to the other side of the bed, and then quickly snuff it out when you remember he can fucking see.

“Pretend I’m not even here,” you whisper, tucking your cold legs into the blankets and shuffling back against his spine. 

He makes an amused, “Hmph” sound, as if that would be utterly impossible to do. His shoulder twists away as he reaches for something in the darkness, and then there’s the hard plastic sound of a phone being laid on a nightstand. 

There was certainly no glow of a phone screen when you opened the door a minute ago. Your brain does some quick math and decides that either he’s been lying in bed clutching his lock screen, or he heard you coming down the hall and shut his phone off while you were out there deciding what to do. 

Embarrassment makes you screw your eyes shut tight, and you raise your estimation of his hearing yet again. 

He rotates himself around, and before you know it you’re getting wrapped in those massive arms. He curls himself to put you slightly under him, like you’re the little cheese filling inside a ravioli. Like you belong buried in his chest so tight that you can feel the slow, solid thud of his heart. The wall at your back lifts with his deep inhale, and you swear there’s a little purring rumble when he lets it back out, working his knee between yours in the same motion. 

You smash down the urge to moan when that sweet, dipping sensation rolls through your belly. It lingers for an ungodly amount of time, like your psyche is just throwing boulders of longing at you for no fucking reason. Goddamn it, stop.  

“Goodnight, Victor,” you whisper, shuffling your neck into a comfortable position on his bicep. 

“G’night, baby.” He’s so close that his words disturb the little hairs near your forehead. 

Somehow, you're the one to fall asleep first.

“We’re going shooting today.”

You pause stuffing your mouth full of breakfast and glance over to where Victor’s leaning against the counter as he always does, balancing his own plate of food. 

“I don’t have a gun,” you admit, forcing down your half-chewed bite.

He nods. “You can take your pick of mine.”

“Oh. Um, thank you.”

From what he said yesterday about not staying in the area, you half expected him to be on the next flight out already. What the fuck is he doing, still here, and… planning… outings?

“The range will be windy,” he says, pausing with his fork held halfway to his mouth. His eyes casually follow the line of your bare leg from your sleeping shorts to your toes. “Wear something warm.”

Two hours later you’re pretty grateful for the tip, because the flat plane of land does indeed make the spring day a bit chilly. You didn’t speak much on the way here, you because an strange kind of dread has wrapped its way around your midsection, and him because he hoards his thoughts from you like a fucking dragon with treasure. 

It seems to be a private gun range. The ground is picked pretty clean of bullet casings, and there’s no one else out here even though it’s a sunny Saturday. A wooden structure nearby provides some waist-high counter space and a little bit of shade, though it appears weather-worn enough that splinters are a definite possibility. The grass is tall and seeded, tickling your ankles as you walk around the car, and giving you an uncomfortable reminder that it’s tick season. 

The range has a few sign-looking things sticking out of the ground that you assume are for holding targets, with a large hill at the other end to catch any stray munitions. It’s peaceful, though, out here in the sunshine with the birds chirping and the occasional breeze messing up your hair. Maybe Victor will be able to relax for once.  

He begins to silently unload an unmarked, plastic case and a few boxes of bullets. You yank yourself away from the scenery and try to help, but the only thing you manage to snag is the singular hearing protection he brought. 

“This for me?” you ask, dangling the man-muffs on one finger. 

“Do you think—” he starts to say, then abruptly cuts himself off when his eyes land on your face. “Yeah,” he mutters, turning to snap open the case, “it’s for you.”

Holy shit, that’s a lot of guns. One by one he removes a half dozen pistols from fabric holsters, laying them in a line along the bench. They’re all black. They’re all beautiful and clean, and honestly they all look the same to you. A gun is a gun. 

“See anything you like?”

You swallow and dutifully step closer, straining your eyes for some difference between the handguns that would help you make an intelligent choice.

“Revolvers are simpler to load,” he says, reaching down to touch the side of one with a claw, “but more recoil.”

“No revolvers,” you decide instantly, remembering the one you lost in the river. There’s a heavy silence, but you stubbornly keep your eyes down and pick up the smallest gun. “What about this one?”

“Six round mag,” he says, stepping closer to adjust your palm around the handle with both of his hands. “Easier to conceal, harder to hold onto when you’re firing.”

Sure enough, your little finger can barely stay on the bottom with how short it is. “Oh,” you frown, disappointed.

“This one,” he says, taking it from your hand and switching it out for a different gun, “is the same thing, just bigger. Larger mag, better grip, less recoil.”

You nod, loosely holding the new gun which seems like your standard sort of killing device. 

“Ready for a target?” His palm smacks a pre-loaded magazine onto the counter, and that same ball of dread twists itself in your gut. 

“Yeah,” you whisper, staring down at the brass peeking out from the top of the magazine like it’s the key to your doom. Belatedly you realize that Victor hasn’t moved. Shit, you let the silence stretch on too long. Raising your eyes with a smile, you hand over the gun for him to load, and quickly busy yourself with arranging your hair into a ponytail so you have an excuse to turn away. 

Just do this, and then move on with your life. This is good, this is quality time, this is… bonding. You should take advantage of the opportunity to hang out as friends, doing things that are more or less passions of his. You’d have to be stupid not to make the most of it.

When you turn back to face him with another forced smile, the gun is lying on the counter and Victor has his hands on his hips, eyes narrowed at you. God, you hate it when he tucks his shirt into that tactical belt. Those fucking abs are too goddamn squishy and huggable these days.

“I know a lot of basic gun safety,” you say to divert your attention, “but if I do something wrong, just tell me.”

“Mmkay.”

Victor reluctantly swipes his eyes away, and reaches down to pull a water-warped target page out of a cubby you missed before. He leaves you standing next to a loaded gun, and strolls down the field to attach the target. It’s one of those paper ones with a plain black silhouette that’s unnervingly like the shadow of someone you’d face in a dark alley. 

You wipe your suddenly sweaty palms off on your pants and pick up the gun, keeping it pointed down at the ground. Shit, wait, is it supposed to point up or down for safety? You bend your elbow to point it to the sky instead, because the last thing you need is to accidentally shoot yourself in the foot. It’s so fucking heavy, and the metal feels unnaturally rough and cold against your skin, as if it’s emitting some evil magic that’s telling you not to use the cursed object. 

“You good?” Victor asks, coming to stand nearby.

“Yep. Locked and loaded.”

“…Right,” he says slowly. “Target’s at seven yards. You know how to chamber a round?”

Shit. “Um… no.”

He moves right next to you, fitting his hand over yours and extending your elbow to point the gun down range. He silently grabs the slide with his other hand and sets it back with enough force to crush your trapped knuckles, but the bullet is engaged and he lets you go just a second later. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, wrapping both hands around the grip and beginning to line up the sights with the human-shaped blob on the target. 

“Ear protection,” Victor quietly reminds you.

“Shit, yeah.” You lay your gun on the counter and take a few nervous breaths while you pull on the tight earmuffs. 

There’s only silence coming from beside you. You pick up the gun again, and you can feel him there with his eyes practically burning into the side of your face, just waiting for you to screw up and prove you’re not cut out for this.

Okay, shooting stance. Feet shoulder width apart. You just have to make the sights flat with each other, aim onto the head of the target, and pull the trigger. Easy peasy. Just pull the trigger and get it over with.

BANG.

You gasp and barely keep your grip on the weapon when it explodes in your hands, jerking back like it’s trying to fly up and knock the teeth out of your head. 

“Fuck,” you exclaim, staring down at your fingers like you’ll see damage on them from the impact. 

But it’s literally just normal recoil, and thankfully Victor’s got his face turned towards the target to give you some privacy to work through this. You clamp your jaw tight and raise the gun again, steeling yourself for the punch. 

BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG.

Your arms are shaking a little by the time you lower the handgun, squinting at the target to check where your bullets landed. 

“Did I get—“

“You missed,” he says simply, turning his goddamn eye-binoculars back on you.

“Okay, let me go look at it real quick so I can see which way I’m—“

“You missed the paper.”

Shit. 

Whatever, that was just the first go around. You’ve still got some bullets left, but of course you forgot to count while you were firing.

“Do you know how many shots I have left?” you ask, eyes never leaving the target because you’re embarrassed.

“Seven. Go for it.”

Okay. Deep breath, shooting stance. Dig your feet into the dirt to really plant them there. Raise your gun, line up the sights. Aim for the chest this time, because it’s a bigger target. 

BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. Click. 

The shots were slower this time, so hopefully you hit some black. You lower the gun to the counter and look expectantly up at Victor, but his face betrays nothing. He inclines his head towards the target, so you take that as a good sign and hurry over to check your work. 

“One?!” You wail, staring incredulously at the singular disturbance in the paper, a hole in the top left corner that’s still so far from where you aimed.

“You shoot like you’re scared to hit something,” Victor says from somewhere behind you.

“I was aiming straight on it!” you protest, whirling to face him. He’s got his arms crossed, leaning against the wooden beam and watching you curiously.

“Alright,” he says with an unsettling amount of patience. “Let’s try again.”

You do the walk of shame back to the shooting counter, but your throat is suddenly dry as hell, so you turn away to take a swig of water while he loads in a new magazine. At least he chambers it himself this time. Whether it’s out of pity or repulsion, you’re not sure.

There’s a dull thump of metal on wood when it’s ready for you, so you square your shoulders and step up to your spot. You’re not scared of a stupid gun. You’re not intimidated by him, or the target, or some distant memory of a dark alley in Chicago. You’re a hitman’s assistant for fuck’s sake, you can do this. 

The black blob stares you down, and you stare back. An annoying bead of sweat drips to your ass crack while you shuffle your hips, trying to figure out the optimal physicality for this shot. You take in a deep breath and hold it, steeling yourself for the explosion that’s about to rock you. It doesn’t matter that your hands are shaking, just tighten up your arms and fucking shoot.

Click.

The gun jerks comically in your hand as your muscles unconsciously yank it back without a shot even being fired.

“You didn’t load it!” you accuse, turning on Victor.

“You’re flinching ahead of the shot. That’s why you can’t hit shit.”

“I—“ you cut yourself off, frustrated, but unable to deny what you so clearly just saw. “I didn’t know I was doing that.” 

Victor reaches over and takes the gun from your useless grasp. He unloads the magazine, glances at it, and pulls the slide back to check the chamber. “You can practice without bullets for a while to help with that.”

“I know what dry firing is,” you mutter, hands on your hips. You were really looking forward to putting holes in paper today. He’s right though, you are scared. The boom, the recoil, imagining it’s a person. Everything is so un-fun about the act, you wish you could magically transform yourself into someone who can fire a gun like it’s no big deal. 

“You need to learn to shoot if you’re gonna be working with me.”

You take another breath while you stare down at the toes of your shoes. He’s right, unfortunately. It’s a weakness you’ve had for too long. “I know.”

“You ever shoot anyone before?” Victor asks.

You quickly glance up at him, shocked that you somehow gave yourself away. “Yes.”

He blinks at you like he actually didn’t expect that answer at all. His voice is softer than normal when he asks, “You ever kill anyone?”

You suck in your dry bottom lip, failing to swallow down the irritating lump in your throat. “Yeah,” you croak.

He stares down at you with those unreadable eyes for just a few seconds, but in the moment it feels like it’s stretching on so long that you nearly have to give up and look somewhere else. “You wanna talk about it?” he finally asks, raising an eyebrow.

Yes, you do. You desperately want to put the world back on its axis and reveal every secret thought and struggle you’ve had since the moment you lost him last year. But the problem is, you used to know him. You knew exactly what he’d say, the ways he would reassure you and make sure you felt the security of his attachment. You didn’t know much else in his sphere, but you knew Victor Creed. And now you don’t. 

“No,” you answer, your eyes flicking back to the shadow silhouette of the target because it’s better than looking at his face.

Victor nods his head in understanding, and turns to pop the case open again. “Let’s head back.”

Great. All that drive out here to shoot off one magazine, and the only thing it accomplished was to prove you’re a dud at this. At least he’s not big on wasting his time. 

It’s you avoiding him now. You do everything you can for the rest of the day so you won’t have to face him. You walk William for as long as possible, shop for groceries to make a meal that’s far too complicated, just to be absorbed in the task so you won’t have to look him in the eye at any point. 

Maybe it’s illogical, but you’re embarrassed. The inability to aim, the unexpected misgivings over shooting a gun. Just having him there, seeing your weaknesses with no way to hide them makes you feel inferior in a way you never have before. You almost wish he would call you human again because yes, you feel terribly, pathetically human today.

You go up to bed early with the pretense of being tired, but it’s really just so you can scroll on your phone and shut out the screaming self-accusations. William is totally fine with the extra snuggles, and he sighs in irritation when you finally get up a few hours later to do your bedtime routine. 

The brush scrubs back and forth over your teeth, and you stare at your own tired eyes in the mirror. You have to be able to shoot to work with him. It doesn’t matter that it feels insurmountable at this moment, it’s a necessity. Literally weeks ago you’d have done anything for the opportunity to be alongside him, and now you’re willing to give up the dream because you’re scared? What is wrong with you?

You don’t even bother getting back in bed with William, you just trod down the hall and open Victor’s door without pausing. 

Except this time the lights are on. And he’s lying on top of the covers, shirtless. 

You shuffle your toes in the carpet. “Do you want company toni—“

“Come here, baby.”

Chapter Text

You frown down at his extended hand, your mind running through all the ways this could be a trick to make fun of you. Your nervous system is on edge already, but on the off chance that he’s actually trying to be a friend, you close the door and step forward, stopping about a foot out of reach.

“What?” you ask warily, glancing at his face for a second before sliding your eyes away.

Seeing your clear signal that touch is unwelcome, Victor moves both hands behind his head and leans back to stretch out his spine. He takes a leisurely inhale and says, “You know I ain’t scared of you.”

Damn, he’s cute when he smiles. That lazy confidence lights up something in your brain, a flicker of familiarity which on a normal day would make you happy, but today it just hurts. There’s an intangible pain in your chest from knowing how unsuitable you are for him. You’ve always felt it, but then again he’d always soothed it away by assuring you that you were enough. He hasn’t assured you of anything in a long, long time. 

Attempting to hide all this from him, you shift your weight and ask, “Shouldn’t you be trying to get some sleep?”

“Healing factor. I can lose a few hours.”

You make a face at the insinuation and take a half-step back.

That just makes him laugh, offering his hand in your direction again. “C’mon. You think I’m going to go to sleep right now, and miss you finally being the one who’s all mopey around here?”

He’s probably trying to cheer you up, but you’re too sucked into the mire of your own thoughts to be so easily entertained. If he had just left you alone you wouldn’t have to feel bad for avoiding chit chat, but of course he chose this night to be friendly, when the last thing you want to do is talk to anyone. 

Whatever, you can make it up to him another time.

Grimacing an appeasement smile which you put zero happiness into, you go around him to the other side of the bed, trying to get under the covers without touching him. It’s not easy because he’s so big he takes up half the damn mattress, but you manage to get in without any skin-to-skin, and most importantly without any eye contact. It’s tempting to put your back to him, but that would just reinforce his guess that you’re having a pity party, so you get on your side facing him, tucking the blanket securely under your chin and reluctantly raising your eyes to his face.

He purses his lips in a quick, sympathetic motion, so you must look pretty wretched after all. One of his hands falls down to rest on his furry stomach, and he slides the other one across the short distance between you, the sheets rustling as his fingers come to a stop in front of your chin. Just one finger reaches out, stroking along the side of your hand that’s keeping the blanket in place. 

He keeps his eyes steadily on your face while he worms a claw around the bend of your finger, disengaging its grip on the comforter. One by one he gently unlocks your fingers, and you’re stubborn enough to make him work for each one, even though he’s being quite patient and coaxing you to let go. 

Finally you let out a deep breath and let your eyes drop, watching him tug your hand away from the safety of the blanket to rest on the bed.

“It can take some time to get over a kill,” he says quietly, stroking his thumb over your open palm. 

You nod, grateful for the tactile distraction so you have something to focus on that’s not his too-observant eyes. It actually feels really, really good, the way he’s kneading the muscles inside your hand. You can’t help but relax into the harmlessness of it. He drags the pads of his fingers up to the tips of yours, gently squeezing them and playing with them in his claws.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, sending waves of pleasure down your wrist as he runs his lethal fingers along the inside of yours, exploring your knuckles. 

“I kind of forgot about it,” you whisper, mesmerized by the delicate movements of his hand. “It was the day I lost you.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but continues those slow caresses on the inside of your hand. “Self defense is a basic human right. Every culture understands it.”

A resigned exhale leaves you, but you keep your focus on his fingers and the soothing sensations. 

“You know what I see, right here?” he asks, flipping his hand to lay next to yours, palm up. 

The glaring gap between your abilities? “No,” you mumble.

He lets out a half-amused, half-frustrated breath. “You’ve got pretty little hands, that have never done nothing to me that I didn’t like. I bet the time you pulled that trigger is the only time you’ve ever hurt anyone in your life. Clean and innocent.” 

Your hand curls closed with embarrassment, like hiding your palm will prevent him from reading it.

“And here,” he says, twitching each claw upwards as proof, “you got just about the dirtiest hand you’ve ever seen. Thousands of lives been taken with these claws, and you fuckin’ know it wasn’t all self defense.”

Your heart sinks and you finally look back up to his face, realizing how it looks that you’re feeling this way over one kill. 

“Point is,” he says before you can open your mouth, “if you stay with me, those hands aren’t gonna stay clean for long. And I think you need to decide how important that is to you.”

Is he fucking serious right now? 

Does he really see himself as something so ‘other’ compared to you? All your life you’ve been made to feel like your innermost desires are too selfish, too fucked up for normal society, and yet here he is acting like you’re some kind of saint. You’ve always known that your relationship with him would only change you, dirty your hands, until they match the way you’ve always felt inside. You never expected anything less.

You narrow your eyes at him. “I’m not mean enough to you, I think.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, retrieving his hand to lace his fingers together over his stomach. 

“No, I’m serious,” you say, rolling to your belly and propping yourself up on your elbows. “Apparently I need to beat the shit out of you sometime.”

He laughs again and plants his entire palm right in the middle of your face, shoving you away so that you have to flail to avoid falling off the side of the bed. You wrench yourself upright and glare at him, your fingers still locked in a death grip on the sheets. It’s hard to imagine anyone more shoot-up-able than the fucker grinning at you from the other side of the bed. You really need to learn how to aim a gun.

“Bed time,” he says, doing an exaggerated fake yawn and stretching his arms over his head. 

“Nighty night,” you croon, your sweetened voice laden with menace as you slowly slink closer.

“Hmm.” He glances suspiciously at you before reaching over to turn off the lamp. “You better not try me, frail.”

“Try you?” you murmur in your best impression of a bloodthirsty siren. Your eyes haven’t adjusted yet to the sudden dark, but you slither forward nonetheless. “Why would I do that?”

Just before you think you’re going to make contact, the mattress lifts and his weight vanishes from the bed. What the fuck. You were just being silly, he doesn’t need to act so serious about it. It’s not like you can actually hurt him in any lasting way. 

You sit up, confused, and strain to see anything in the dark, just to hear the slide of a zipper and the rustle of pants being shed. 

Fuck. Shit. Wait a minute—

A large hand clamps onto your ankle and you shriek as you get yanked to the middle of the bed, your shirt abandoning your stomach to bunch up under your breasts with the drag. Wide eyed, your heart slams in your chest, and you cock your knee back to kick away from his grip, but it’s already gone. 

His weight is suddenly on you, like he just teleported to the exact place where every part of his body is touching every part of yours. His leg is in between yours. His elbows are caging you in, preventing you from moving your upper arms, and you only have time to gasp before his hand is in your hair, fisting it at the scalp and pinning your head to the mattress. 

You clamp your jaw shut at the discomfort and refuse to make any prey noises, panting in as much air as you can through your nose. At least he gives you a moment to catch your breath before your body becomes unparalyzed and you shift, trying to figure out the best way to leverage your legs and throw him off. 

“Tell me again what you’re gonna do to me,” he says, and you can feel that rumble of speech through your own chest, his voice laced with amusement.

“Punch you right in your stupid face,” you hiss, shoving your hand up to search for his nipple again. 

“Nuh, uh,” he says, grabbing your wrist with his free hand. “Not fallin’ for that one again.”

“Will you stop? I get it, you’re stronger than me. You don’t need to keep proving it.”

“True.” Warm breath puffs against your neck as he nuzzles his face down and takes in a very conspicuous lungful of your scent. “But you smell so interesting when I do.”

He’s got to be lying. You’re not turned on right now, you're mad, and he’s told you that doesn’t smell good. “Do tell,” you grit through your teeth, body still rigid against him.

“Hmmm…” he purrs, sliding his nose up behind your ear and taking another humiliating sniff. “Conflict. You’re upset, but you want something. And you think you might get it.”

Emotions swirl through you, too quickly to understand them. Rage, horror, mortification, excitement. They all mingle in your chest in this mix that’s so specific to him, you might as well be tasting his fucking skin. 

Hmm. Good idea. His grip on your hair has relaxed slightly, allowing you to twist your chin to the side and shove your tongue right in his ear. 

The accuracy of your attack shocks both of you, has you squealing in disgust and him snarling as he releases your hair, violently shuddering with an obvious case of the willies. 

“Why the fuck would you do that?” he demands, but you can barely hear him over your own peals of laughter. He’s lifted his chest off you, frantically rubbing at his ear to get rid of the sensation, so you take advantage of your adjusted eyesight. You whip your hand free and wrap it around his throat before he can anticipate the move.

Victor suddenly goes as still as a stone above you. You’re not squeezing that hard, so you just grin up at him, trying to catch your breath, and whisper, “You ready to get your ass handed to you?”

“Oh, yeah.”

He inches down, aiming his mouth for yours, and you wouldn’t be able to stop it even if you had full strength and the best possible angle to brace your arm, which you definitely don’t. 

Lips. Warm, smooth, toothpaste-tasting lips press to yours as his stubble makes contact with your chin. A resigned little noise leaves your throat, and you move your hand around to the back of his neck and kiss him back. Your palm sings in delight at getting to touch him. The lovely warm skin on the back of his neck, melting into soft, fuzzy hair under your index finger. 

Man, your body screams. This is a hot-blooded man kissing you, and you like it. You like him, you like his body, you like his touch. You’re here in your comfortable, familiar guest bedroom, kissing this delicious man, and it feels so, so good.

Delicious. You nibble his lip. Delicious. He knocks your knee out of the way to settle himself between your legs. Delicious. Your pussy cradles his hardness, separated only by your clothes. You can feel the fabric of his boxer briefs against your bare inner thighs, because your shorts have ridden up to your ass. Fucking goddamn mouthwateringly delicious.

Why did you ever fight this? Your body is screaming for it, arousal thrumming through every nerve ending even before he swipes his tongue between your lips. You open your mouth and softly smooth your tongue against his, and Victor fucking groans into your mouth, a tremor flooding down the arm that’s keeping his weight from crushing you. 

Not fair. He’s not supposed to be affected. You’re supposed to be irrelevant to him. This is supposed to be easy for you to walk away from because you don’t trust him. 

Fair, your body argues. Good and perfect and wonderful. You can just get comfy in his wonderful-smelling sheets right now and let him kiss you the way you deserve to be kissed. All you have to do is let go, and forget. Melt into him and let yourself get wet. Whimper into his mouth and touch him, explore his face with your fingers, his neck, his shoulders. Let him feel how soft and lovely your touches are, how your kisses get sloppy when you start to lose your grip on fine motor skills. 

Victor starts breathing hard, but he doesn’t pull away from you. He doesn’t give himself a break, doesn’t put his hands on your body. He just finds your fingers with his again and entwines them, holding your hand on the mattress above your head while you kiss, not to restrain you but to connect with you. Your fingers fit wonderfully between his, delightful in the way that his hand spasms around yours with every noise you make. 

When the kiss starts to get sharp, you know he’s losing control of himself. You actually prick your tongue on his lower fang at one point, and it makes you cry out in his mouth. The involuntary jerk of pain that your body does only serves to grind your clit along his bulge while the faint taste of blood trickles over your tongue. Victor’s abs go tight, bunching and rolling as he crushes the bones of your hand and grinds himself between your legs.  

That would have gone in, if you had been naked. Your eyes fly open, staring up at the dark ceiling over his shoulder while he does it again, worrying your clit with every slow roll of his hips. It’s a miracle that you don’t hear a mortifying squelch with every one, because those humps are not dry. The crotch of your underwear is sticking to your pussy, and the fabric feels so mean against your poor, swollen clit, keeping it from receiving any real attention. 

You haven’t shaved. Your legs are a little stubbly and your armpits too, not to mention downstairs, and that’s probably going to gross him out. Victor drags his mouth away from yours as if he can sense the hesitation and dread suddenly overwhelming you. The dark shadow that is his face hovers over you, catching his breath, and memories flash through you. Victor being mean. Victor being rough. Victor wrapping his hand around your neck and making you feel powerless in the worst way.

“Goodnight, Victor,” you whisper, heart hammering and just hoping he’ll take the rejection okay. There are a few seconds of silence, and you lick your lips, fortifying yourself for his anger. 

Finally there’s a deep, resigned exhale above you. “Okay," he whispers back. "Goodnight, baby.” He lets go of your hand to shift his weight, and you can feel the muscles in his side flexing. You have to bite your lip when the movement nudges your clit, reminding you how bad you want to keep going. 

“I’m—” he pauses, sighing. “I’m gonna go… take a shower. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Oh, god. The urge to ask him to just cum in your mouth is so strong that you have to clamp your teeth into your bottom lip to shut yourself up. It’s not your job to satisfy him. You have to put yourself first.

You wait for the bathroom door to close before you roll onto your side and groan, flexing your thighs together. You worm two fingers down to your empty pussy, shoving them in a couple of times before you remember that you’re not allowed to cum, because he’ll be able to smell it. Or worse, he could walk in on you before you’re able to finish. Grumpily you wipe your fingers off on your shirt and pull your clothes back into place, trying not to think about the water running on the other side of the wall, or imagining him in there, jerking off to thoughts of you. 

He’s probably not, though. He’s probably remembering some other lays, or porn or something. Maybe he’s into really fucked up porn that would repulse you. Yeah, that’s a safe assumption. It’s a perfectly cold bucket of water over your flaming body right now. 

He was right, the shower doesn’t take long. Before you’ve fully been able to relax yourself, he’s opening the door, and a familiar, excited ball of fur leaps onto the bed. You twist around to put William in a headlock and give him kisses, while Victor climbs into bed on the other side.

Once you’ve coaxed William to plop down on your feet, you tuck the edge of the pillow into your neck and stare unseeing at the wall, trying to get sleepy. To your surprise, Victor comes up behind you to wrap his arm around your waist and give your shoulder a quick peck before he settles down behind you. He smells like soap, and his leg hairs feel slightly damp against the backs of your thighs. Maybe it was just a regular shower. Maybe you don’t affect him the same way he affects you. 

Victor falls asleep first. 

You’re going to fuck him tonight.

You know it from the moment you grab the razor that morning in the shower, and get to work on your entire body. It’s just time to do it. He’s displayed an ample amount of restraint and consideration, and it’s time to give him another chance. You feel good, you smell good, and you don’t know how much longer you can resist, if you’re being honest. You haven’t been able to jerk off in days on account of the bed sharing, and one more night of making out would make you fold, so you might as well just decide to do it. 

The trick is to hide that decision. You go about your day trying to be as normal as possible, but all you can think about, every time he looks at you, is fucking him. It forces you to invent errands so it won’t be weird. He’s busy anyway, so you take William on a hike and let yourself daydream about Victor while you walk. Time flies in this dreamy, horny haze, and thankfully Victor is gone when you return home. You launch yourself towards deep cleaning the kitchen, wiping out every cabinet, and the outsides too, before Victor returns bearing dinner. 

You turn on the TV, desperately wishing to pass the time before fucki— err, bed. What a useless day. All you can think about is your smooth legs and how they’ll feel in his sheets tonight, how heavenly his hands will feel when he finally finds all of your sweet spots. 

Early bedtime, that’s the answer. It’s not even eight yet when you get up and tell him you’re going to go get ready for bed, hoping he’ll take the hint. You lock yourself in your room and put on some lingerie, then your pajamas. Then you take it off, and put on regular underwear and your pajamas. Then you take that off, too, and just put on your pajamas with nothing underneath. That feels right. That feels comfortable and easily removed, but not too much like you’re throwing yourself at him, which you definitely are. Fuck, take a breath. It’s just sex. 

You brush your teeth, and do some skincare, and work to build William a nest of pillows which he eagerly plops himself on top of. It’s eight-thirty when you step out, listening for where Victor may be in the house. There’s movement in his bedroom. Perfect.

Slinking down the hall, you unleash yourself internally, letting the anticipation heat between your legs. You’re gonna get fucked. You’re gonna get fucked. You’re gonna—

Without knocking, you open the door and poke your head in. Victor looks up from where he’s fastening a button on his cuff, dressed in clothes he definitely wasn’t wearing before. His eyes are crackling with energy, and the anticipation you were feeling is nothing compared to what’s in this room. The air is fucking humming with the murderous purpose displayed in every terse line of his body. 

“I got a call,” he says, grabbing his dark overcoat. 

“You’re gonna go kill people,” you guess, heart dropping in disappointment.

“Yeah. Nearby, though. Turns out it was a good thing I came back to DC.”

He’s going to go kill people less than an hour away. He’s going to go, and you’re going to be stuck here with your unsatisfied body and not being able to help him at all. 

“Take me with you,” you beg. 

His body goes still, and he stares at you, directing all those violent intentions your way for a few agonizing seconds.

“Alright,” he finally says, “go get dressed. We leave in ten minutes.”

Chapter Text

Art by PuppyOfTindalos

Victor doesn’t know what to do with you.

You finally realize it, sitting with him in some run-down gas station parking lot, watching him drop a loaded handgun into the center console. He may allow you to tag along tonight out of pity, but he has no intention of actually utilizing you as a partner. 

When was the last time he saw you be successful at something? You wrack your mind for anything that you’ve done completely right, but with a horrible wave of shame, you discover that the answer is you haven’t. Nothing has gone right when you’ve been involved. Sure, the outcomes have been okay, thanks to Victor’s immaculate damage control, but you’re consistently the fuck up. And it’s very possible at this point that you’re never going to have another chance to prove yourself. 

“I’ll give them five more minutes ‘til I head over,” Victor says, tapping his claws on his phone screen in a slow cadence.

“Won’t you be late?” 

“Meeting times are bullshit with people like this. Don’t wanna seem too eager.”

But he’s gonna be late. Like fifteen minutes late. You’re stressing on his behalf. “They won’t see it as… disrespect?”

He rotates his head where it’s rested against the seat to raise an eyebrow at you. “That’s the point.”

“Ohhh.” You nod with understanding. “That’s your brand.”

Victor narrows his eyes at you, claws halting their tapping.

“It makes sense,” you reason. “If I was you, that’s what I’d do. I mean, you’re already enormous and scary and gorgeous, so people are gonna hate you no matter what. You might as well lean into it and piss everyone off. Be unpredictable.”

He cracks a smile halfway through your monologue, turning his eyes back towards the warehouse across the street. “You think people hate me ‘cause I’m gorgeous?”

“I do,” you shamelessly flirt, tilting your head and looking at him through your lashes.

He doesn’t take the bait and actually look, but the corner of his mouth definitely twitches up again. “You got somethin’ specific wrong with you.”

You make a little “hmph” sound and follow his gaze past the abandoned oil change place, to the ominously dim lights coming from the warehouse. 

“This guy’s a fuckin’ miracle. Connected enough to know when things are going down, and stupid enough to think he’s safe doing deals with me. If things go right tonight, Pierson’s gonna be next.”

Pierson already? He’s the fucking head of The Company. There’s no one left after him. After him, you assume it’ll just be business as usual. It’ll be as if Chicago never happened, and the nightmares didn’t exist, and— you’ll be the only person left who knows what happened to him. He doesn’t even remember everything, so it’s literally just you, the human archive of the last year of his life. 

And if he ever decides he wants to erase everything…

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon,” Victor says, misinterpreting your spike in anxiety. “Stay in the car.”

“I will.”

He steps out into the damp night, then turns back, pausing before he closes the door. “You’re… nice to have around,” he admits, voice a little rough like he needs to clear his throat.

Your eyes blink wide in surprise, but the door shuts and Victor lopes off into the night without looking back. You know because you watch his back disappear in the side mirror.

That was… weird. In like, a really, really nice way. You can’t help but smile to yourself as you settle back in your seat, noting the time on your phone. Maybe he’s right, and this will be quick. Maybe he’ll be in that satisfied, lazy mood after getting the information he needs. Maybe he’ll want to cum in your mouth a little bit.

Not that you’re expecting something like that. It’s just something nice to think about while you wait. The time is passing so slowly anyway, and there’s not a peep from the area of the warehouse. Thirty minutes go by, and still nothing. 

You’d think there would be something happening by now. Surely someone in there won’t die quietly. You crack the window, just to make sure you’re not missing some faint gunshots or something. Come on, Victor. Do your thing.

Forty-five minutes since he left. Fifty. An hour. You try not to worry, killing time by counting through all the jobs he’s been on since you met him, and all the times he came back safe. It’s been about one in fifty where he got his brain exploded. One in fifty is pretty good odds, he’s not due for another death quite yet. That’s definitely not what this is, right now. This unnatural silence is just… negotiations or something. 

But he wasn’t planning on negotiating. He was planning on walking in there and killing everyone to get the information he needs. There’s no reason for the time to crawl past an hour like this. 

Surely it would be loud if someone tried to take him out. He wouldn’t go down easy, not after last time. You can’t comprehend the reason for this delay, but there has to be one, and you’re just too far removed to realize what it is.

Headlights flare behind the oil change place. You’re not being at all suspicious, but you still duck your head down to just peek out the corner of the window, watching a black van slowly pull out of the warehouse area and turn onto the deserted street. 

Victor could fit in the back of that van.

Genuine fear pools in your gut while you watch those brakelights retreat. This isn’t Chicago. This isn’t public and loud and obvious. Things are happening that you’re not aware of, and that’s either a good thing, or a really, really bad thing.

Another pair of headlights make their way from the warehouse to the street, a car this time, and it takes the same right turn as the van. You’re out of your seat before they’ve had a chance to fully disappear in the distance. 

Mindlessly you push your phone into your back pocket, and start to walk away from the gas station before you remember the gun. Fuck, you might need that. Darting back to the car, you grab it out of the console with a finger and a thumb, and shove it barrel-down into the waistband of your jeans. Your shirt isn’t exactly loose, so it won’t do much to conceal the gun-shaped bulge above your ass, but the darkness will work in your favor tonight. You just have to not get caught.

You dash across the street, to the stained skeleton of the oil change place that still smells like gasoline and grease. Your heart is pounding in your ears, but the terror racing through your veins is not for yourself. You just need to verify that Victor’s either here or gone. That’s all that matters, all you’ll need to know. What happens after that will have to be a spur of the moment decision. 

Congratulating yourself for your silence of step, you scurry across the alley and flatten yourself against the corner of the warehouse. No new headlights, no movement. The possibility of you being too late propels you forward, and you spot an unmarked metal door on the darkest side of the building.

It might be loud when you open it. You rest your palm on the cool aluminum handle, flicking through every possible outcome of turning it. It might be locked, and you’ll have to find a low window. It might be unlocked, and you’ll be staring down the barrel of a gun. Victor might be somewhere behind it, or his blood might be the only thing left of a fight. 

Your ears start to ring with the seriousness of the risk you’re about to take. The two severe anxieties battle for dominance in your chest, fear for yourself and fear for your man. If only you loved him less, you could have stayed in the car.

The handle clicks when you try to turn it. Locked, dammit. You’ll have to find another entryway. You step back a pace, scanning the side of the building and the windows above, only to see the blinking red light of a security camera pointed right at you. Are they monitoring the feeds tonight? You turn to check behind you, just in ca—

A blow lands on the upper part of your chest, knocking you backwards into terrifying free fall. You don’t even have time to scream before you’re landing heavily on your upper back. Hard ground bruises your shoulder blades on impact, and all the air whooshes out of you, locking up your lungs. The shadow man above comes closer, so you try to twist, broken gravel digging into your shoulder while you scramble on the ground for your gun. 

Dirt grits into your skin as a boot presses painfully down onto the side of your neck. You freeze instantly, your body understanding the lethal threat, and only your eyes move to stare up at the figure above you.

“What do we have here?” an unfamiliar, male voice drawls. A flashlight suddenly blinds you, shining straight into your eyeballs without mercy.

Fuck.

There’s another crunch of gravel as someone else comes up behind you, crouching down and yanking the back of your shirt up. “Armed,” he mutters. Victor’s gun gets roughly pulled out of your pants, phone retrieved as well.

Little by little you’re able to suck in some controlled breaths, but the boot doesn’t let up. If anything he puts more of his weight on your neck, making you grunt with discomfort. 

“Let’s get her inside.”

There’s no opening to fight, as you’re yanked up by your arms and have to make your legs work to stand. You believe it’s Victor’s gun that’s shoved between your shoulder blades as the flashlight vanishes. 

You’re forced to travel along the side of the building, around a corner or two until you reach an open garage door with warm light spilling out onto the filthy concrete. A garage isn’t the worst thing, tools can make weapons. 

There’s a car parked right inside, and the man holding the gun unceremoniously shoves you facedown over the hood, keeping the gun tight against your spine as he pats you down for more weapons. 

“She’s hot,” the other guy remarks, coming around to look you over from the front. He’s stocky and average height, wearing dark pants and an ugly blue polo.

You glare at him, noting the wedding ring on his hairy finger. “You married?”

His gaze snaps to your face, and the other man stops frisking you. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Wedding Ring says, his eyes cold and dead and empty. 

Your wrists get forced behind you, and something gets wrapped around them. The unmistakable wzzz of a zip tie has your stomach dropping, eyes widening in fear while Wedding Ring smiles creepily down at you.

“We’re taking her to Mac,” the man behind you says calmly. 

“Yeah, we are,” Wedding Ring agrees, “in a fuckin’ minute.”

“I’m not getting in trouble just ‘cause you’re thinking with your dick. There’s too much going on tonight, and then this. Doesn't feel right. Show her to Mac first.”

“Fine, pussy.”

Wedding ring steps over to you, wrenching your arm so hard that you cry out as pain spikes through your shoulder. You’re getting dragged through the garage and into a dim hallway. There are muffled sounds of men’s voices coming from somewhere, the worst possible reminder that you’re the vulnerable minority amongst predators right now. Wedding ring seems to enjoy the way this rough treatment has made the neckline of your shirt shift lower, eyeing you sidelong with a gross smile. 

You can only hope that whoever Mac is, he’s more of a kill-on-sight kind of guy instead of whatever Wedding Ring has planned. The three of you stop in front of a new door that definitely has the voices humming behind it. As inconspicuously as possible, you leverage your wrists against the zip tie, praying there’s a defect that will allow it to break. 

Why are these guys waiting? It’s been several seconds, and neither of them makes a move to open the door.

“You find Mac,” Wedding Ring whispers, “I’ll wait here with her.” 

Fear slices through your gut, but the other guy immediately argues back, “Bullshit, you’re goin’ in, too. If I have to be in the room with that fuckin’ mutie right now, so do you.”

Wedding Ring makes a frustrated grumble, but follows his friend through the door nonetheless. You end up in the middle, stumbling forward and unable to take in many details except what’s on your immediate right and left, which are several scummy-looking men ceasing their conversations to eye you with interest. Then the man in front steps to the side, assumedly to look for Mac, and the entire room opens up for you.

Namely, you immediately see Victor.

Blood drains from your face so fast that you start to feel the edges of your consciousness get fuzzy. Your gazes are locked on each other, you with panicked, wide eyes, and him with cold indifference. He’s sitting on a worn leather chair, slouched back with one leg stretched out in front and the other braced to rise if needed. 

You no longer notice Wedding Ring’s grip on your arm, or the uncomfortable pinch of the zip tie, or the muttering going on around you. There’s only a muted ringing in your ears, and Victor’s uncaring, amber eyes. 

Is he really that mad? You pretty much disobeyed a direct order to wait in the car, and got yourself captured, but is that enough for him to let you fend for yourself against these people? He doesn’t even look that mad, he looks like he doesn’t recognize you. Like you somehow smeared enough dirt on your face in the scuffle to appear as a stranger to him. 

Someone new, presumably Mac, makes his way over to the corner where you stand. You wrench your eyes away from Victor’s non-reaction to stare at the older man as he frowns at you, his eyes sweeping over your disheveled appearance. He opens his mouth to say something, but gets cut off by a familiar voice.

“What is this?” Victor asks, his low rumble somehow carrying across the entire room and making everything go quiet. 

“Something that doesn’t concern you,” Mac snaps, turning to address him. Hope rises in your chest, that this may be finally going in a safer direction. Surely Victor could cut through these guys in just a few minutes if he wanted.

“You’ve had me waiting here for fucking hours, and now this? This supposed to be some kind of entertainment?” Victor leans forward slowly, his clawed fingers wrapping around the ends of the armrests and sinking into the leather. “Or are you trying to play me, MacDonnell?”

“No,” Mac assures quickly. “I’m not sure yet what’s going on, but the b-boss will be here real soon.”

The crack in his voice has Victor smiling grimly. “Yeah, that’s what you’ve been saying since I got here. But I don’t see no fuckin’ boss.” 

“Take her to the back and wait for me,” Mac mutters to Wedding Ring, whose fingers eagerly sink harder into your bicep. You absolutely don’t want to give anything away, but you can’t help but raise worried eyes to Victor’s face.

“You’re scaring her.”

In the blink of an eye, Victor is suddenly right in front of you, making Wedding Ring flinch and take a half-step back, though his grip remains locked on your arm. 

Victor ignores him, tilting his head as he towers over you. “Have these guys been mean to you, little girl?” 

“H-hey, back off,” Wedding Ring begs shakily. He’s doing everything he can to hold his ground in Victor’s shadow, but doesn’t dare drag you away from the objectively dangerous mutant.

Victor doesn’t even look at him, gripping the bottom of your face in his claws so hard you can feel the individual pricks in your skin. Immobilized, you blink up at the intensity being directed straight down at you, the fury barely concealed in his eyes. 

Yeah, you fucked up. Again.

What’s he going to do to you for this breach of trust? Will he never take you on a job ever again? Will he punish you somehow? Let these guys hold onto you to teach you a lesson? You wordlessly plead at him, begging him to save you from the consequences of your own stupid actions. 

“I’d be nice,” Victor purrs, though his eyes flicker with dark foreboding. “I think you’d like me, little girl.” 

You’re frozen. The adrenaline is a never-ending tide, and the ringing in your ears hasn’t fully vanished, as if it’s going to be there in a continuous warning signal until you’re able to duck your head between your knees for a little while.

“This has got nothing to do with you,” Mac insists, taking a half-step forward. 

Victor grins over at him, lips peeled back to display his fangs. “Entertainment,” he insists, knocking Wedding Ring’s hand away and pulling you to his side. 

No one disputes his claim. You sag in relief, letting Victor guide you to his leather seat in the back of the room. Safe.

He pulls you down with him, putting you on one of his legs so your ass is on his hip and you’re straddling his thigh. The hope that he’ll discreetly cut your zip tie dies as he slides his hand possessively around your neck, tugging you back against his chest. Fuck, he’s really playing this out, isn’t he?

You don’t dare ask him anything, not with every eye on you like this. The adrenaline is still racing through your veins, your eyes flicking around the room as you try to get back to the mission, try to think past the panic and figure out what role you’re playing now. 

Victor’s hand shifts, fingers brushing the remains of a boot print off your neck. “Dirty girl.”

Okay, jerk. You lean away from him as much as possible without having your arms to balance, scowling down at his knee. 

Tsking, Victor wraps his hand around your jaw, nuzzling his face into the space right under your ear. “Mark still isn’t here,” he mutters, low enough that you’re sure no one else can hear him. 

Okay, so he’s really in there, just playing the part of the Mercenary King for the sake of your audience. The world rights itself as a breath of relief punches out of you.

He plants a hot, open-mouthed kiss on your throat. “You gotta act like you don’t like this, baby.”

Oh, shit. He’s right. You quickly flinch away from him, letting his grip tighten and prevent you from moving. You squeeze your eyes shut, screwing up your face like you think his mouth is gross. 

Sharp teeth nip at your earlobe, making it sting. “We’re gonna have to cut our losses and get out of here.”

“No,” you gasp, allowing yourself to communicate your genuine protest since it works with the scene. This is his only chance. If he leaves now, it’s you who blew the mission. It’s you who forces him to be gone for the next few weeks, hunting down another lead. You refuse to be the one to ruin everything.

A dozen pairs of eyes watch the two of you from the sides of the room. They’re pretending not to look, but there’s nothing else to do and their eyes keep sliding back to what’s happening, some with disgust and some with sick enjoyment. 

A few more kisses scratch against your throat before Victor dares to whisper, “Only other option is buyin’ time, and you aren’t gonna like that, trust me.”

First of all, he has no idea what you like. This is perfectly fine, far better than being stuck in the car thinking he’s dead. You’re exactly fucked up enough to be okay with being his ‘entertainment’ for a few minutes until he can get what he needs from the mark. This is… doable. 

But how do you tell him all that? 

You squirm, wiggling your ass as much as you can, though your feet don’t even have contact with the ground. His claws clamp into your thigh in warning, and you don’t repress the yelp at the pain that trickles across your skin. 

Fight him, your mind decides. Force him to focus on you instead of blowing the mission. You latch onto the idea with grim determination, wrenching your head around to try to headbutt the side of his skull. 

The most you get is a soft bump against his hair, as he chuckles and squeezes your neck again to hold you back. 

“You got a wildcat for me,” Victor tells someone, presumably Mac, who’s glowering and leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

The tightening pressure on your throat makes you stop moving. Victor drags you back in place, not bothering to hide the fact that he’s whispering as his mouth moves against your ear. “This what you want, little girl?”

Yes. Clamping your knees against the sides of his solid thigh, you negatively shake your head. 

“Then you better behave,” he tells you, loud enough that the words carry. A hand forces your legs apart again, before kneading slowly into the inside of your thigh. 

Oh, no. You screw your eyes shut with embarrassment. Your body apparently doesn’t care that this is the most inappropriate time in the world to get interested in being touched. A familiar tingle runs across your pussy as Victor’s rough tongue slides hot and wet up the length of your throat, not helping the situation in the least. 

“This ain’t right.” 

Your eyes spring open, searching for whoever has enough of a death wish to speak out like that. It didn’t sound like Mac. Before you can spot the guy, Victor’s hand abandons your throat to blindfold you with fingers, pulling your head back against his shoulder. 

“She’s not his kind. It ain’t right,” the unknown voice stubbornly argues, louder this time, like he’s trying to get the support of the room. There are a few mumbles of agreement scattered around, but mostly the energy of the room matches the rigid line of Victor’s body, like they’re braced for an explosion. 

Seconds go by, and though you can’t see anything past Victor’s hand, you can vividly imagine the way he’s staring down whoever that stupid motherfucker is. 

“You think it should be you?” comes a slow, dangerous purr from your man. “You think she’d rather have your hands on her than some dirty mutant’s claws?” 

You gasp in shock as your breast gets groped by a familiar, large hand. Show off. 

“Hmm, I don’t think that’s it,” Victor continues in that murderous voice, landing every word with precision. “I think you don’t give a shit what she wants. I think you just feel entitled to something that isn’t yours.”

He faintly pinches your nipple through your clothes, and your shoulders wiggle against him in discomfort. What the fuck is he getting at?

“So if you deserve to be the one touching this pretty little girl,” Victor says, pressing your head farther back so you wouldn’t be able to see shit even if you found a crack in his fingers, “come get her from me.”

Any hint of murmurs stop instantly. It’s so quiet that you can hear yourself breathing shallow, rapid pants like an animal caught in a trap. Surely he’s bluffing right now. He wouldn’t let anyone take you, right?

“No?” Victor says in mock surprise. He clamps his hand hard onto your breast, like he’s holding you in place. “Then shut the fuck up.”

One hot, audible puff of air on your neck is the only warning you get before pain explodes through your body. No amount of self control could repress the scream that rips out of your chest, when the nerves in the side of your neck light up in agony. Victor holds you on his fangs long enough that the scream ends and you manage to suck in a frantic breath, and then the teeth finally pull out of your neck. 

Chapter Text

Art by PuppyOfTindalos

You’re trapped in a bubble of darkness, vague impressions of men’s voices, and pain. Most of all pain, still splintering across your neck because the predator won’t stop roughing up your injury with his tongue. 

He’s breathing hard against those raw, exposed nerves from his bite, kneading his hand into your breast and licking. He ignores your pained little cries, cleaning the blood in long, slow laves which make your eyes water and your body tremble.

There’s a low sound reverberating through his chest that might resemble a growl to anyone else, but you know better, because you belong to this beast. It’s a purr.

You instinctively flinch when that scruffy face brushes against your cheek. Hot breath washes down the front of your throat, and then he boldly runs his tongue up under your jaw, where you’re certain there’s no blood to be licked away. 

Like a prayer, the creature breathes a few words into your ear, and then drags his lower fangs over the edge of your jawbone like he wants to pry it off your skull. Some evolutionary instinct makes you lock yourself in place, unable to process what he said with the clear threat of violence so close by. You’re braced for him to close his teeth around that bone, bite through the delicate skin of your cheek and have fresh blood to lick away. 

Except he gives you something soft, instead. A furry kiss on your cheek, almost like an apology. And then another, to the corner of your mouth. Victor keeps your head bent back over the top of his shoulder and starts to kiss a slow trail down the center of your throat, lingering with soft little sucks. Your brain begins to catch up to all the stimuli, sluggishly feeding you a backlog of information.

“I don’t know how to not break you.”  

That’s what he said. That’s what this man just confessed after enthusiastically sinking his teeth into your flesh. 

His mouth feels like an overwhelming flood of stimulation, as he lingers on the crook of your neck with careless nibbles. Your nervous system eagerly accepts those kisses, stores them away in that heavy place at the bottom of your belly, because everything that’s not violence feels like mercy.

That’s definitely the reason why the thumb brushing across the middle of your breast sends warmth cascading down your spine. Your brain rewards you for the lack of bodily harm, chemical wash after chemical wash of pure dopamine as he continues to gently touch you. There’s pain and there’s pleasure now, and nothing in between. 

Victor runs his nose back up your neck, along the line of your ear. His claws map out the soft curve of your cleavage, and he whispers, “Every day, I wake up hoping you’re sleeping next to me.”

His hand works its way under the top of your shirt, and you struggle to prevent the shaking in your limbs. You’re desperately trying to focus on what’s happening so you can mentally prepare for the next hurt or betrayal or whatever he has planned for you. You need to be braced this time, so it doesn’t turn you into a puddle of tears in front of everyone.

He shifts his hips behind you, nuzzling in so close that you can feel his beard move against your nape while he speaks. “Sometimes I can smell you before I open my eyes. I think I’m gonna reach out and find your little arm tucked under the pillow, but then I realize I’m in a fucking hotel room. Like I was dreaming about your scent just to convince myself to wake up.”

He’s mindlessly squishing your tits, and you think that maybe he’s just doing that for the sake of the room, to satisfy the monsters with the pretense that he’s like them. You’re still hazy and not too terribly in touch with reality, but this isn’t bad, now. His hand is warm and he’s not giving you claws, so your weary muscles finally surrender and you sag back against him with a quiet exhale. 

Victor presses his lips to your fluttering pulse. “I know you don’t really like me no more, and maybe after this you won’t want to sleep in my bed, either. But maybe…” He dips his fingers into your bra like he can’t help himself, dragging them over your nipple that’s somehow sensitive as fuck. “… maybe you’ll still let me kiss you sometimes, when I’m not being an ass. Feels nice having you close.”

You twist your face to the side, trying to find space to peek at him through his fingers, but he just holds you tighter.

“Stay like this, baby, I don’t want you to see.”

See what? What could possibly be happening that’s worth covering your eyes like you’re a child? You try to ignore his fingers and finally focus your hearing beyond the two of you. 

Someone’s muttering something in an angry sort of way, and you catch the tail end of other whispers, guys wondering if they’ll get a turn with you, and others arguing that they wouldn’t want any piece of you after you're ruined by the mutant. Someone else laughs, makes a gruesome insinuation about Victor’s claws inside you—

“Hey.” Victor commands your attention again, apparently picking up on your burst of rage. “Don’t worry about these fuckers, ain’t a goddamn brainstem gonna be—“

He cuts himself off abruptly, pulling his hand out from under your shirt. You hadn’t quite realized how relaxed he was until he suddenly isn’t, his body now tight and coiled behind you even though he hasn’t technically moved an inch. The inside of your thigh gets enveloped with a large hand, like he’s forcing the groping to appear casual as you both brace for whatever is about to happen. 

“What is this?” comes a sharp, male voice from the general direction of the door you came in. 

“Just having some fun,” someone explains sullenly. 

“Fucking finally,” Victor growls. You blink at the sudden burst of light when he releases your face, but you have no time to orient yourself before he wraps both hands around your waist and forces you to your feet. “You had me waiting fucking hours.”

So you get to just stand here in the middle of the room with your throbbing neck and wobbly legs and your hands still tied. Great. Fantastic.

The newcomer seems to be the oldest person here besides Victor, frowning at you like you’re some disgusting roach on the ground. You straighten your shoulders and do your best to scowl back. He’s wearing a white suit and it looks stupid. 

“Someone else’s turn,” Victor offers, wrapping his hand around your neck to shove you forward. 

The fuck. 

You come to a stumbling halt in front of a group of four, and of course Wedding Ring eagerly grabs hold of you again, apparently unbothered that you’re mutant slut trash now. 

“Thanks,” he tells Victor, though his beady little eyes are on your mouth as he fists your hair and smiles at you. You prepare a big glob of spit to launch onto his face if he even attempts to bring you in for a kiss. 

“Don’t mention it.”

BANG.

The reverberating gunshot cracks through your skull and your unprotected eardrums, making it seem like the ground is suddenly moving as your shoulders flinch forward and your knees buckle.

As the room explodes with noise around you, Wedding Ring’s hold remains clamped into your hair. He decides to drag you to the ground, toppling in a delayed kind of way that makes you wonder if he’s passed out. 

Your knees slam to the floor hard enough that it rattles your entire bone structure. You cry out in pain from it, having to bend yourself in half because your head is yanked nearly to the ground in his fist. You’re forced to thrash your neck against that uncompromising grip until you’re finally able to rip your hair free and get an idea of what’s going on.

Oh, he’s fucking dead. There’s a dark hole in the middle of Wedding Ring’s forehead, slowly oozing blood down his wide open eye. 

Every explosion of gunfire batters your eardrums, but it’s nothing to the guttural screams coming from somewhere behind you. You’re momentarily frozen as you kneel there, your attention caught for some reason on that disgusting slide of blood over his eyeball, and the aching bit of scalp where you lost some hair.

And then a bullet whizzes by, smacking into the wall right in front of you. A hair-raising laugh resounds through the room, followed by a scream that turns wet before it abruptly ends. 

You have got to find some kind of shelter. You frantically look around nearby, but there’s only some folding chairs and flimsy card tables. Literally the only option you have is to lay on the ground and hope no one thinks to shoot you, and the only available thing there is to hide behind is this dead fucking body. 

A limp body flies through the air, collapsing a table on its way down. Move, bitch. 

Your knees hurt too bad to walk on them, so you just let yourself drop fully to the floor and worm crawl on your chest and shoulders to get away from the war zone. There’s a warm pool of blood slowly gathering in the spot you need to hide, but you’re too amped on adrenaline to care. You tuck your shoulder down and force your face into Wedding Ring’s back, breathing in an unfortunate layer of AXE and musty alcohol addiction while you clench your eyes shut and try to calm yourself. 

Victor will be okay. The guns have stopped, but the screams have not, and that means he’s fine. There are awful crunches of bone and pleading sobs, but they all end so fast that you’re convinced this whole thing has somehow occurred in about the span of a minute. 

And then there’s suddenly nothing but one lone whimper cutting the silence, and footsteps crossing the room opposite to where you are.

Victor says something in a low voice, quiet enough that you can’t discern it. You curse yourself for the loud breaths you’re still taking, unable to convince your lungs to stop gulping in that stuffy air even though you haven’t really done any physical activity.

An unfamiliar voice pleads with him, tries to make a bargain for his life. 

Crunch. 

The sound prickles all the hair on your body, so abhorrent that the following scream is a relief in comparison. Please, you mentally beg. Please just tell him what he wants so you can die.

“The shareholders are getting together next week!” the voice shrieks, like saying it loud will earn him more grace. “Outside of Salt Lake— please, please, I don’t even know if he’ll be there, you’ve got him—“

A wet gurgle is the final noise that man ever makes. 

It’s just your ragged breathing now, the sour-smelling corpse, and your pulse pounding in your ears. It’s dark behind this body, even when you crack your eyes open. But he’s warm, and that’s nice. You imagine that a cold body would make your skin crawl if you had to burrow yourself into it like this. 

Slow footsteps approach your morbid hiding spot. The stride is long, so you know exactly who it is. You’re suddenly aware of the wetness seeping into your clothes, how it’s quickly turning cold as it eagerly climbs the fabric of your jeans. 

The corpse is pulled away, and you blink up at Victor as he squats down in front of you, quickly surveying the length of your body. He rests his forearms on his knees, hands covered in so much blood that it looks like he’s wearing gloves. His claws are still fully extended, and your eyes fasten on them because you so rarely see that, you’ve almost forgotten what it looks like.

“Are you okay?” he asks evenly. 

Your gaze flies up to his face, which only has a few errant drops of blood on it. He’s wearing that flat, unreadable mask, with no hint of violence remaining in his eyes. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. 

He relaxes his shoulders a little, releasing a long-suffering breath. “I told you to wait in the car.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, unable to really connect with your feelings, but certain that you are sorry. 

His hand reaches out, and for an insane second you think he’s going to comfort you with a bloody caress. But he just feels around behind your back to where your hands are, and somehow cuts your zip tie without even having to see what he’s doing. 

“He has my hair,” you blurt, your eyes flashing to the lifeless pile he’s carelessly shoved to the side. 

Victor makes a noncommittal noise, turning to examine Wedding Ring’s hands. He painstakingly uncurls that fist to extract the strands of hair, and you sit up and try to rub feeling back into your fingers. 

He sniffs a little, straightening up and stepping over that body to another battered corpse. Your gun and phone get shoved into the pockets of Victor’s overcoat, along with that scraggly clump of hair. 

“Anything else?” he asks, hauling you up by your elbow. 

You shake your head.

“Let’s go.”

The drive back is horrible.

Neither of you say a thing to each other as you climb into your seats, feeling like days have passed instead of a mere couple of hours. 

The worst part is you can’t get yourself to stop shaking. Your throat feels tight, and your body aches in various places. For some reason the blood on your clothes doesn’t bother you much, or maybe the idea of being naked with Victor right now is simply more nerve wracking than the stickiness. 

You have no idea where you stand with him. On one hand, you’re pretty sure any trust you’ve built with him is absolutely fucked now. But on the other hand, he did say some kind of nice things to you earlier, and though you can’t remember the specific verbiage he used, your impression is that he may like you more than you previously realized. He bit you, but he also saved you. The playing field seems pretty even, at least from your point of view. 

There’s not a doubt in your mind that he enjoyed that bite. You’re convinced he’s wanted to bite you before now, and maybe he’d have even asked for it at some point if things had progressed physically between you. If things tonight had gone according to plan, and you’d fucked him in his bed, maybe he’d have wanted to fuck tomorrow, too. And the next day, and the next, until you’d have been bitten and loved on and maybe even on track to being his girlfriend again. 

But instead, you got out of the car and made him save you. 

Traffic is nonexistent this late at night, and it seems to take no time at all before you’re pulling into the garage. You should have spent more time planning what to do now, and less time agonizing over your colossal mistake. Because now you’re going have to walk into the house and talk to him, and what is there to even say? ‘Sorry I can’t do anything right?’ ‘Sorry I’m a disappointment as an assistant?’ ‘Sorry I made you go against your better judgment and drag me along with you like a ball and chain?’

Desperate to delay the inevitable, you escape out the door as soon as the car shuts off. 

Victor calls your name before you can make it inside. It reminds you so much of that night in Wyoming that a sick feeling sinks in your gut as you silently turn to face him.

“I’ll take care of the dog,” is all he says. 

You nod your thanks, retreating into the house to find a large glass of water and some ibuprofen. You’re numbed out enough that it doesn’t necessarily feel claustrophobic to have Victor near, it’s just the guilt that’s holding you back. Always the guilt. 

The shower is lovely. You leave the bloody clothes on the floor and just wash everything, scrubbing excessively over the parts you can’t see, just to make sure you’re not somehow leaving streaks of gore behind your ears. You stand there in the water and finally feel like you can take a full breath, like everything may be semi-alright and you don’t need to worry too much about the next few hours.

It’s like he knows somehow that you’re done with your shower, because just as you’re rummaging around your underwear drawer, there’s a quiet knock on the door. 

How strange.

Victor’s not a connection-seeking kind of guy anymore, and he’s historically more comfortable isolating than talking. You half expected that the next time you’d see him would be in a couple of weeks when he’s wrapped up the final trail of bodies. 

But you are a connection-seeking kind of girl. You’re dreading closing your eyes tonight and being bombarded by your insecurities, and you do kind of want to talk to Victor about what happened, so you wrap your towel tightly around yourself and crack the door open.

Victor’s standing there next to a wagging William, looking unreasonably tall in a fresh pair of comfy clothes. His hair is wet like he just rushed through a shower.

“Hi,” you say warily. 

“You hungry? I was thinking about starting a movie and eating through your shit-ton of snacks.”

Chapter Text

“Is this how you usually recover after a hit?” 

Victor’s eyes flick to your face, and then he shifts his attention back to the row of movies on the screen. “No.”

Interesting. Maybe there’s some ultra-personal ritual he goes through. The most you’ve ever witnessed is a shower and a smoke, but more often than not he recluses himself somewhere for the rest of the night, and you’ve always been curious about it. 

Victor seems unusually comfortable taking up space tonight, stretching himself out across the entire length of the couch once you told him you felt like sitting on the floor. William has his chunky butt planted in the nest of your legs, twisting to give you a disappointed look every time you stop petting. 

“Sensory deprivation can be nice,” Victor says absently, clicking to the movie synopsis of something you watched with him last year. “Somewhere quiet and dark, especially if you're coming back from adrenaline. Sometimes the quiet’s too loud, though, and it’s better to focus on what’s familiar. Predictable. Something you don’t gotta think about.”

You let your head loll back against the seat of the couch to look over at him. “Like music?”

“Music, sex… You remember Angry Birds?”

You can’t bite back your smile. “Angry Birds is relaxing?” 

He makes a noncommittal noise, hitting play on the movie like he’s simply done with the conversation. 

But you’re not done. You keep your cheek propped up on the edge of the couch and watch the muted light of the TV play across his features. You can’t see him very well in the darkness, so you pretend he also can’t see you. 

It shouldn’t be as fascinating as it is, watching the man who just massacred an entire room getting comfy on your couch, tucking his hand behind his head and adjusting his shoulders into the throw pillows. He’s using his stomach as a little table, balancing the remote and some cookies and a personal bag of chips on it. 

It’s difficult to imagine how the same jaw that’s currently chewing up a dorito was on your neck a few hours ago. That same hand that’s resting on his abs was on your body, squeezing and fondling in a way that would have made you feel like an object, if it had been anyone else. Almost unconsciously, your eyes sweep over his side profile again, attempting to view him as those criminals did. As lower than dirt, some monster who isn’t even worthy of assaulting someone like you, let alone receiving your love. 

Of course, you can’t see it. All you see is a mouth made for kissing, a chest made for resting your head on, arms made for carrying you up the stairs when you’re sick. A wound in his heart that speaks to one in yours, reminding you that you’re not alone in your fears and desires.

Victor pauses the movie, finally turning his face to meet your invasive stare. 

The silence stretches on for a bit, but what can you possibly say? Everything is so complicated and jumbled in your head, and he’s right about you needing something calm after all that adrenaline. You feel like you’ve been drowned and resuscitated, like your head is soggy and your lungs aren’t quite working right. 

“I’m sorry,” you hedge, because it does need to be said, “about the bigots earlier. You don’t deserve to be spoken to like that. Thought of like that.”

He frowns like you’re speaking in a foreign language. “I’ve… earned every word they said about me.”

Your mouth drops open in protest. “No, you haven’t.”

If anything, he seems to be amused by your defensiveness, a little smile tugging his lips while he fishes around the bag for a chip. “Did you miss the part where I killed them all with my claws?”

You lift your head to argue. “Did you miss the part where they wanted you to claw inside my—

“Don’t say it,” he snarls, his voice changing so suddenly that your heart launches itself into your throat. “Don’t even say it.”

“See?! You know it’s not right. I’m sick of acting like the way people talk to you is normal.”  

William twists around to anxiously lick at your face, so you calm him down with a few steady pets. 

“If you’ve been with me for a while,” Victor eventually replies while crunching on a chip, “you’ve probably met a lot of scum who know what kind of killer I am. I think that’s fucking up your perception.”

You twist to face him again, fingers holding tight William’s fur. “I think you’re around a lot of scum, and it’s made you numb to the fucking hatred that’s pointed at you every single day, no matter what you do.”

Victor jerks his head back in an angry sort of flinch, making you brace yourself for his raised voice. But he lowers it instead, purposefully enunciating each word. “You’re a privileged fuckin’ princess if you think I’ve gone numb to it. If you think anyone could.”

Oh, okay. So you have to pretend everyone only hates him for his crimes, and he gets to pretend… what? That he doesn’t deserve anything good, ever? Frustrated, you turn your face away, back towards your dog’s concerned side-eye as you soothe him with scratches. 

“Fighting me about the ways I cope isn’t gonna do shit for you, human. It isn’t gonna change a fuckin’ thing.”

“What do you suggest?” you mutter.

He blows out a deep breath, thoughtfully raking claws through his beard. “Killin’ em never hurts.”

You make an unsatisfied noise and scowl at the movie frame on the TV. 

“Who was that guy you killed?” he asks conversationally.

“I don’t know. Part of The Company, I’m guessing, but his death was never publicized.”

“Feel good?”

“No.”

Victor doesn’t seem all that surprised. “People like you don’t have enough hatred to enjoy it.”

Memories of the glass container he was in, the mental state he was in, instantly swarm you. “There are some people I would enjoy killing.”

“Oh, yeah?” He’s quiet for a moment, and then his voice softens into that patient, textured tone which your body knows so well. “You got a little hate in you, baby? A little murder?”

You swallow, staring unseeing at the TV and trying to come up with something intelligent and snarky to say, but your heart isn’t listening. Your heart wants to take risks for him. Wants to leap off the building and let yourself die, just on the off chance that he’s willing to catch you. 

“I don’t think you can love someone the world hates, without hating the world a little bit.”

There. You jumped.

And now you’re falling, down through the heavy silence, petting William’s fur because you need something to do while you wait to splat into a greasy spot on the sidewalk. Stupid, you’re so stupid, why are you like this? He doesn’t love you, he barely even likes you, and now you made it extra weird and uncomfortable on top of the whole mutant racism thing.

Maybe you can blame it on everything that happened tonight, like you got concussed or something when you hit the ground. Just pretend you don’t remember saying it, if he ever brings it up again. ‘Love you? Haha don’t be silly, that wasn’t what I—‘

Victor’s hand settles on the top of your head, his fingers slowly sliding into your hair. “Would you kill someone, if I asked you to?” 

Your pounding heart begins to calm slightly. “No. Would you?”

A soft caress, his thumb massaging the top curve of your nape. “Wouldn’t even need to tell me why.”

That’s… morbidly flattering.

He’s no longer pretending to have any interest in the movie. It’s changed to the TV screensaver and he’s still playing with your hair, stroking the pads of his fingers down your neck and making hesitant flutters of arousal drift through your belly. 

“I was under the impression you’re going to be mean to me,” he muses, sliding a lock of your hair between his fingers. “When’s that starting?”

“Is that what we’re doing now? I’m mean to you, and you’re nice to me?”

Victor makes a thoughtful sound, withdrawing his hand. “Hold on.”

You twist your face to watch as he stretches backwards, putting his little trove of snacks on the table behind his head and then making a show of smoothing out the front of his tshirt. “Okay. I’m ready.”

Your lips reluctantly twitch into a smile. “Being mean is a… contact sport?”

“When you’re shit at insults, it is.” 

And when he wants you to touch him. 

If you’re being honest, you want to touch him, too. You’re too exhausted for banter, too lonely to just go to bed. You’re quickly falling into that careless mood where you follow whatever impulse pops into your head, so you lift your finger, dragging it lightly along his forearm. “You need me to clean your clock for you, baby?”

From merely observing his body language, you’d never know you’re having a conversation about pain. He tucks that hand behind his head again, turning his wrist to hook your finger with his when it wanders down far enough. His eyes are lazy, but there’s a definite air of anticipation as he rumbles, “Mhmm.”

Touch me. Touch me. 

William seems to guess that Mom and Dad are back to having private times again, because he doesn’t complain when you urge him off your lap. Victor makes it the easiest thing in the world to clamber onto him. He does most of the work, hands wrapping around your waist to lift you and get you gracefully settled astride his hips.

Oh, god, what are you even supposed to do? Clock him a good one in the nose? You sit back on his stomach and evaluate for a second, trying to ignore the way he’s looking at you, with those soft, interested eyes. Goddammit, he was just traumatized like two months ago, what are you even doing entertaining this? Surely he can’t want you to actually hurt him, surely this is a ruse to get sex.

He reaches up and drags his fingers over the bite on your neck, making you jerk away from the sting of pain. 

“Ow, that hurt!”

“Mhmm.” 

He carelessly goes for it again, and that just makes you fucking pissed , so you grab his hand out of the air and slam it down beside his head. “Stop.”

You smash his relaxed wrist into the arm of the couch and glare down at those familiar eyes from just a few inches away. Eyes which belong to you. You own this creature, and he’s not allowed to touch you in any way you don’t permit. 

Fine. You know what? Fine.  

You wrap your hands around the front of Victor’s neck, forcing your thumb up into the vulnerable underside of his jaw and making him flex his head back to reduce that point of pain. His adam’s apple rolls as he swallows, settling both of his hands on your waist as if to communicate that he won’t interfere with what you’re doing. He wants it, for some reason.  

A little more cruel pressure, and he readily turns his head to the side at the indication of your thumb shoved into the floor of his mouth. There’s just that beautiful, exposed line of throat below your face now, warm and velvety under your fingers. You can hear his breathing in the quiet of the room, deep and steady. Waiting. 

“Can you keep your claws to yourself?” you ask quietly, keeping him stuck there under your thumb. 

He swallows again. “Yeah, baby.”

The decision has been made, and you don’t allow yourself to overthink it. You just dip your head and bite down on the side of his neck, hard. 

Victor grunts beneath you, but true to his word, you don’t feel a single poke. 

Well, that’s not actually true. 

There is one thing that starts to make itself known, right under your ass while you keep your teeth sunk into his skin and your thumb in his jaw. Baby likes when you bite him. How interesting.

Finally you release him from your teeth, pulling back to eye the small indentations in his perfect skin, watching them smooth over in just a few seconds as his body repairs itself. You kiss it, though, just to make sure it’s all better.

Your thumb is starting to get tired so you splay your hand over his wiry cheek instead, keeping his face turned away. You bring your mouth down again, to a lower spot near the join of his neck, letting him feel where you are by your breath against his skin. 

“Yes?” you ask, so in tune to his body and his breathing that you already know the answer. 

“Uh huh.”

His muscles automatically contract when you bite him again, even harder this time. His skin tastes good and you aren’t breaking it, so you can kind of pretend he is like this giant gummy bear for you to chew on. It feels good on your jaw, feels good in your chest. Feels a little good in your pussy, if you’re being honest. Not the pain part. That’s just for him. But the power of it, the ownership and the trust… you like that a lot. 

Those teeth marks disappear again almost as soon as you see them. It’s a little frustrating that you can’t mark him for any longer than that, but you don’t dwell on it. You just kiss it again, and then trail your lips up his neck, and bite that delicious, scruffy edge of his jaw, just like you’ve always wanted. 

He chuckles, shifting his hands lower to wrap around your hips. You’re not biting as hard this time because you’re not really sure what to do with that bone right under the skin, but he seems to enjoy it regardless. His fingers begin to move, gently squeezing your ass, testing how it fits in his hands.

You should have done this to him ages ago. Probably could have done it that first night when you had to share a bed and he barely even knew your name. ‘Hey, I’m like you. Hold still, let me show you.’

The need to fully claim him is singing in your chest while you take hold of his hair and rotate his head to the other side, revealing that fresh length of tendons and tan skin. Bite marks won’t take, so you try something else — deep, rough sucks to those delicate blood vessels. 

It lasts a little longer, but still not more than a few seconds. You swear the hickeys repair themselves before you’re even done making them, fading quickly to nothing. 

His pulse is pounding under your lips, his cock hard, even as you bite him again. You’re getting a little more desperate with it, a little less satisfied with every chomp. Noises start leaving you, little whines because it’s not enough, you need more.

You’re not nearly wet enough, but you strip your top and bra off anyway, hoping he’ll shred your shorts and push himself inside, and finally put you out of your fucking misery. 

This time, Victor grabs your face before you can bite him again. He holds you in place for a moment, running his eyes over your breasts and your pleading expression. It’s been days of kissing him and touching him and not getting to cum, and it’s all rapidly overpowering you. 

“I don’t want you kissing Charlie anymore,” he says, for some reason. 

You blink in confusion while his hand slides down your throat to cup your breast. “You… are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”

“No, I’m telling you.”

He shoves you forward a few inches to get your nipple in his mouth, and that stab of pleasure instantly short circuits your brain. 

“Victor,” you gasp, unable to do anything but prop yourself up while he drags his teeth lightly over that sensitive point. “I— I’m not going to b-be exclusive for you, unless you do it, too.”

He peels his lips back to talk, but keeps your nipple between his teeth as he mutters, “Obviously.”

Do you want that? What if he’s a jerk to you again? It’s been a few weeks, so you’re going to be tight, and what if he’s not gentle when he shoves himself inside you? You need to be able to trust him this time, you need communication, you need—

Victor groans and pulls you down to him. “I’m sorry, baby. Give me a second, I’m too… in it. Just give me a second.”

In what? 

You can feel your body trembling a little, and you don’t even beat yourself up for it this time. A lot has happened tonight, and you can’t handle any more. You’re just barely holding on, and you need something soft, and you need to be able to cum, even if it’s just you in your own bed, taking care of it before the exhaustion pulls you under.

“You gonna be mad if I carry you?”

You instantly shake your head, tucking your face into his and wrapping your arms around his neck. That’s how you get transported upstairs, to your own bed. You get laid down on your familiar mattress, and watch him turn on the lamp and then remove his clothes. 

Shakily you shove your own things off, spreading your knees when he climbs onto the bed, so he’ll know he can just have you. It’s okay, really. It doesn’t matter that much, you’re just being picky.  

Victor settles himself over you, but he doesn’t push inside. He wraps you up in his arms instead, brushing kisses across your face and hair. It’s probably the worst thing he could do because it makes you cry a little, and then he switches to tear-wiping duty, making soft shushing sounds while you try to hide your face and blink them away. 

“Been a long day for you, I know.”

Wipe.

“Thinkin’ you were gonna get some time with me tonight, and then gettin’ dragged to Shitville.”

Little kiss to the corner of your lips, which are tingly from crying.

“Been driving me crazy for days, I was about ready to beg to lick it.”

You huff a wet laugh, finally raising your eyes to see his soft smile. 

“There she is.”

You sniffle — not in a cute way — and admit, “I need to cum.”

He wipes your last tear away, down your temple. “I know, baby.”

“I need you to be gentle.”

“I can do that.”

You swallow down the emotion in your throat, recognizing how hard he is against your thigh, and admit the most painful thing of all. “I need you to do all the work.”

Burden. A sexual burden, with needs and baggage and specificities far above what is considered normal. 

“I like work.”

Person. Deserving and valid, and… girlfriend, right? You’re his girlfriend, and he wants to take care of you. Might enjoy it, even.

Your trembling has calmed to almost nothing by the time his mouth finds its way between your thighs. Maybe it’s the comedown from adrenaline after all, but time passes in a suspended blur of pleasure. 

Victor doesn’t do a thing to you that you don’t like. It’s all wet and warm, and he lets you just rest your head on the pillow and cum on his mouth when you’re ready. Would probably try to give you another one, if you didn’t whimper and flinch away from the sensitivity.  

When he fucks you, it’s from behind, with you lying in your side and curled into him the same way you do when you sleep together. It makes you wonder if he’s been wanting to do that, if he’s thought about it any of those nights that you’ve fallen asleep in his arms. 

He strokes your hair off your face and gives it to you slow at first, avoiding his bite mark to mostly just play with your ear. He runs it through his teeth and lips, sometimes telling you nice things about how you smell, sometimes asking if something feels good.

It all feels good. Especially when he hooks his arm around your knee to open your legs and rub your clit for you. Normally you’d try to do it yourself, but just this once, you let him. You just rest your head on his comfy arm and let him fuck you, touching the little part that you need him to touch. 

It’s one of the best orgasms you’ve ever had. Maybe it’s because you’re so relaxed, drifting in and out of reality in this strange mental space where you trust him implicitly. Or maybe it’s because you’ve just needed this for so long, and your body has been storing up your pleasure for the occasion. 

It really doesn’t matter the reason. It doesn’t even matter that you think you might have squirted a little. All that matters is hearing him curse, thoughtlessly wrenching your knee up as high as it will go and spilling himself into your willing body. That’s the part that nudges you back to reality a little with a different kind of pleasure, as you feel the person you love enjoying himself. 

He deserves it, too.

Chapter Text

There’s something wrong with Dad. 

We were all sleeping great, and then all of a sudden he woke up and started growling at the shadows. I perk my head up and stare at him, because he should know by now the shadows aren’t actually bad guys. I thought so too when I was a puppy, but it turns out the shadows are actually just dark parts of the room, and he’s definitely old enough to know better.

Mom must be really tired because she doesn’t wake up at all, even when Dad drags himself off the bed and basically collapses to the floor. I’m pretty sure he’s not mad at me, but I stay where I am on the bed anyway, waiting for him to be happy again so I can get some pets. 

Dad’s shoulders hunch and his arms shake when he covers his face in his hands. He kneels there on the floor, breathing raggedly and hiding himself behind long claws. I wish Mom would wake up. 

One of Dad’s hands falls to the carpet, and he puts his weight on it, huffing panicked breaths as he drags shaking claws up that arm. My ears perk up again and I smell blood in the air, yummy fresh blood. Dad lets his head fall forward with a relieved exhale, resting his bloody claws on his knee. 

I quickly hop off the bed and wander over to his curled form, licking at his face to ask permission for a tasty snack. 

He just grumbles softly, catching some of the drips in his hand so it won’t fall on the carpet. He offers his hand to me in the darkness, keeping his claws out of my way while I clean his palm. Delicious. He stays like that and lets me lick his arm clean too, now that the wounds are gone. Maybe it’s a good thing that Mom’s still asleep, she wouldn’t understand this. 

Dad finally gets to his feet, once I’ve got his arm mostly clean. His head tilts down to watch Mom sleep for a minute, the way he usually does. I’m thinking about hopping back onto the bed because this could take a while, but Dad seems less inclined to hover tonight. He motions for me to follow him out, closing the door silently and heading downstairs for guy time. 

Heck yeah, guy time!

He goes with me when I go out to pee, checking the perimeter as a team. Best day ever. I go ahead and poop, since he’s got my back. He stares up at the approaching dawn and then looks back down at his arm, rotating it to examine the excellent cleaning job I did. His claws still haven’t gone back to normal, so he stares at his hand until they do. 

— end of self harm mentions —

Dad feeds me cheese when we go back inside. Usually he tells me not to tell mom about it, but this time I think he’s feeling sad, because he doesn’t say anything for a while. I sit there like a good boy, swishing my tail on the floor and waiting for him to throw me the next one.

“I’m gonna make your mom real mad when she gets up later.”

I snap the next bit of cheese out of the air, and quickly resume my position. 

“Feel like shit about it, but… I’d rather see her be mad than dead.”

He flicks another cheese cube my way. Dad’s the best. 

“Fuck, I have to tell her. I can’t just… Can’t just take her with me. She better not give me those eyes, though. Dunno what I’m gonna do if she gives me those eyes.”

I whine to let him know he’s taking too long on cheese duty. 

“Yeah, yeah. You’re the lucky bastard who gets to sleep with her every night, and never get yelled at.”

I swallow down the next cheese without chewing at all.

“C’mon, I’m gonna smoke.”

Dad washes his arms off in the sink, then lets me out back again. I go lay down at my usual spot, the pillow he takes off a chair and tosses to the corner of the deck. Mom thinks I pull it off the furniture myself, but it’s Dad. He knows my elbows hurt if I lay on the wood for too long. 

He sits in the rocking chair, smoking and doing things on his phone while I watch. His phone is making him unhappy, I think. He keeps frowning at it, and then staring off into the distance and doing a long exhale. I can’t wait for Mom to wake up. Guy Time is fun, but Dad is happier when she’s here. 

He gets a phone call in the middle of his second cigarette. I perk up my ears to listen for any important words, like ‘walk’ or ‘treat.’

“Hey.”

Dad looks tired. Really tired. 

“Double. I want to be done with this.”

He takes another drag of smoke, blowing it away from me. “Do what you gotta do.”

He hangs up and tosses his cigarette butt into the flower pot. That phone call didn’t make him any happier. He fiddles absently with the arms of the chair, digging gouges with his claws. It’s a nice morning, and the birds are chirping, but Dad is frustrated. 

He hears mom before I do, tucking his phone under his leg and checking his claws for any blood. I perk up my ears when I hear footsteps coming down our creaky stairs from inside, then get up to greet mom when she opens the back door.

“Hey, baby,” she tells me, her voice thick like she just woke up. “What are you guys doing out here?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Dad says, grabbing her when she comes close enough. 

She lets him pull her into his lap, and I go back to my pillow, watching Mom settle into his arms. She snuggles her head down onto his shoulder and shivers a little at the chilly air, so Dad covers her upper arm with his hand.

“You should go back to bed, baby.”

“So should you,” Mom mumbles.

Dad’s eyes are unfocused, staring down at a random spot on the deck. “I got enough.”

“No you didn’t, you’re grumpy. You’re always mean to me when you’re sleep deprived, so come back to bed.”

Her face is under his cheek so she can’t see his smile, the roll of his eyes. He gathers her up in his arms and squeezes her tight, smushing her against him until she makes an annoyed sound and tries to wiggle away. 

“Alright,” he relents, pushing her off his lap. “I’ll try.”

I follow them back upstairs to bed. Mom insists on being “the big spoon for once,” and massages Dad’s neck until he falls asleep. I’m glad Mom and Dad are happy again. I don’t get so worried when they go on walks without me, when they’re happy like this. 

Dad wakes up first, several hours later. I know this, because what wakes me up is Mom groaning. 

He’s got his hand wrapped tight in the hair at her nape, keeping her neck stretched back so he can pretend to eat her throat. I sigh, knowing exactly where this is heading. They’re going to start kissing, and then wrestling, and mom always gets hurt when they wrestle. When will they ever learn?

“Morning, baby,” Dad mutters against her skin.

“Morning, sunshine,” she replies with a happy sigh. “Did you sleep?”

“Mhmm.” His lower body moves against her a little.

“Told you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He readjusts his hand in her hair, and she makes a soft, pained sound. Here we go again.

He runs his fangs over her ear. “How about you let me fuck my baby?”

Mom makes another hurt kind of noise in her throat, her arm moving under the blanket to shove her shorts off. “Okay.”

One of Dad’s feet shifts against me under the covers, so I groan my annoyance and get up to lay down on the other corner of the bed.

“Shit, the dog.”

Of course Dad makes me leave the room, because heaven forbid they let me stay and make sure no one gets hurt. I take my usual spot on the carpet next to the door. I’m hoping this time he’ll remember to be more gentle when he wrestles with Mom, but that’s apparently not going to be the case, because she starts moaning and whimpering in no time at all. 

Maybe Dad thinks if he talks nicely to her it won’t hurt so much, because his voice is soft and steady on the other side of the door. He’s wrong, as usual, and she starts gasping and crying out. I keep my ears perked up in case she needs me to break the door down. Dad’s great, but he really wrestles way too hard. 

Then there’s a few minutes of quieter noises, where I’m hoping they might be done. But then I hear Dad’s voice again, and Mom’s little, “Uh huh,” and before too long she starts making so much noise that I scratch the door and whine at them to stop. 

Dad lets me back in a little while after that, giving me a smile and a wink. I hop back onto the bed and quickly investigate mom, who’s lying face down on the mattress and twitching a little. 

Stupid humans.

“Hey, baby,” she slurs, hooking her arm around my neck to make me stop licking her face. There seems to be no lasting damage. 

Dad sits on the edge of the bed and runs his hand over Mom’s naked back. “You okay?”

She just makes a grumbly sound into the sheets, and he laughs under his breath, massaging her shoulder muscles with his thumb. 

They’re both forgetting my breakfast, which is basically unforgivable at this point. Mom finally gets the message when I won’t stop licking her neck, so she puts on one of Dad’s shirts and goes downstairs to feed me. 

Everything seems to be pointing to a great rest of the day now, right?

Wrong. The next time I see Mom, she’s sad.

She spent some time with Dad upstairs, showering and getting dressed, so maybe he said something sad to her. She clicks her tongue at me and grabs my leash, hurrying like she can’t wait to leave the house. 

Fine by me. I have mixed feelings about Mom being sad, because on one hand I want her to be happy, but on the other hand, I get a lot more walks when she’s like this. 

She even starts running with me today, which is bizarre but fun. She seems to be oscillating between extremes, running then walking. Kicking twigs off the sidewalk, when standing still and staring at nothing. I’m starting to get a little worried, hoping it’s not as bad as that time she came back from a walk without dad, and she was crying so much. That was the worst week ever, I got a lot of treats but no walks, and then I had to go to Grandma’s house for a long time. 

I shove my nose in her hand to ask if it’s going to be like that again.

“It’s okay, baby. I’ll be alright.”

Good. Talking is good, for Mom. She feels better when she’s talking.

“Will I be alright?”

Oh, dear.

“I mean, technically, everything’s pretty much normal, right? He does the things, and I… I stay home. I’m just… a girlfriend. But he fucks me now, apparently… and… pays me.”

Here we go. 

“This is my fault, I know that. I screwed up and made a bad decision.”

Oooh, a squirrel. 

“I think he’s trying to protect me, but… I don’t like it. In fact, I hate it. I hate it so much, I—”

Mom cuts herself off, staring down the side street where Dad used to live. We’re almost back home, so I pull on the leash a little to remind her that talking about this with Dad is definitely an option, and a sane one at that. 

Of course not. No one listens to the pitbull. Mom’s steps change course, and we do the walk that we used to do seven years ago, down the side street where Dad used to stare at us. She stops at a particular square of sidewalk and stares up at the house, at the pink curtains in the upstairs window because kids live here now. Everything is different.

“I think he loves me,” Mom whispers. 

I don’t respond, because I don’t understand Human. 

“But is that enough?”

Okay, this has been fun, but it’s time to get going back to beg Dad for more cheese. I put some strain on the leash to let her know that moping time is over.

Mom silently follows me back, and doesn’t even correct me when the leash gets a little tight. I sit with her in the kitchen while she drinks water and chews on the inside of her mouth. Dad is upstairs, I can hear him moving around his room and zipper sounds which usually mean he’s packing. 

Finally Mom sees sense, and walks up the stairs to talk to Dad. His door is open, so I think he was hoping she would.

“Hey…” she says, stepping inside and closing the door so I can’t hear. 

They talk for a little while, but they both seem calm, so I allow it and just wait by the door. 

“...Can I drive you to the airport, at least?” Mom asks when they finally step out. 

Dad looks a little wary, like he’s not sure if it’s a trap, but finally says, “Okay.”

Mom and Dad get in the car and go for a walk without me. I’m a big dog now, so I don’t even have to be in my crate anymore. I take a solid nap on the couch, and only wake up when the Amazon Prime delivery person tries to break in. 

Good thing I’m here to stop it.

Mom is extra sad when she comes back without Dad. I sit with her on the couch and give her a few licks, reminding her that he goes on walks by himself sometimes, and that’s okay. She can go on walks with me while he’s gone. It’ll be alright. 

At least she’s not crying. She’s doing that thing where she stares at the wall and breathes steadily, narrowing her eyes and setting her jaw every so often. I start to suspect she’s changed from sad to mad, and that’s a real issue around here. 

“I’ll be back,” she tells me, getting to her feet and taking the car out for another walk.

So much for Best Day Ever.

She’s got a bunch of bags when she returns. It all smells weird, like there’s a hundred houses shoved inside them, with pets and cigarettes and body odors. She does computer things after that, and keeps randomly looking at me and sighing.

Mom takes longer to pack than Dad. She keeps those weird-smelling bags contained and shoved into her luggage, getting sweaty while she begins to dart around the house looking for things she needs. This is Grandma’s house all over again, and I don’t like it. 

An hour later I’m getting dropped off at Day Care, and Mom crouches down next to me before she leaves.

“I love you, baby.”

Uh, oh.

“I’ll be back for you, in just a few days. And… and if– if I’m not back, Big Guy will come get you, or Grandma. They’ll know where you are. I love you so much, okay? There’s just something I need to do.”

She kisses my muzzle and lets me lick her face a little so I won’t be so anxious. The Day Care lady leads me away, and I turn back to watch Mom walk away, hoping she’ll enjoy the walk she’s going on. Maybe she’ll find Dad, and walk with him.

Chapter Text

If you’re sure about one thing, it’s that you made a serious miscalculation the other day. 

With Victor no longer believing in you, it was easy to look back on your track record and only see failures. You fucked things up getting him out, you fucked things up at the bar, and you fucked things up at the meeting. 

But that’s the thing. Ever since his return, Victor hasn’t believed in you, not even a little bit.

He’s simply allowed you to come along, reluctantly squeezed you into his plans, or, at times, straight-up sabotaged yours. So of course you’ve had problems, of course you’ve run into snags. You’ve been thrown into situations that weren’t made for you, they were made for someone with insta-heal and knife hands.

It doesn’t matter if he believes in you or not. You believe in yourself, and you don’t want to work for someone who doesn’t share that vision. You refuse to go down that path — begging him for jobs, constantly worrying about making mistakes, or wondering if he’s simply pandering to you. 

That’s not the job you signed up for. If he wants a girlfriend and only a girlfriend, he can go ahead and fire you. But until then, you’re going to work. 

You’re nearly the last person to get off the plane, since it was a last minute ticket purchase. You got stuck near the bathroom and had people standing there waiting with their crotches in your face, but that’s alright. You haven’t really been flying first class long enough to get used to it, and besides, you’re nobody today. 

That’s the essential part, for this to work. You’re nobody. 

Silently you shoulder your backpack and make your way through that unnaturally warm, temporary hallway, into the Salt Lake City airport. You’ve already scouted online to find out which of those wildly overpriced airport shops has what you need, so you quickly duck in before the urge to pee gets stronger. You buy several different perfumes, using the testers to make sure they’re the strongest scents available. 

In the bathroom stall, you get to work. You change into some thrifted clothes from your backpack, satisfied that they still smell strongly of someone else’s detergent, and then douse yourself head to toe in a heavy mix of fragrances. It won’t be the most comfortable few days you’ve ever spent nose-wise, but nothing could be more uncomfortable than Victor figuring out you’re here.

It’s nearly three in the morning by the time you collapse into bed that night, burrowing into the fluffy hotel sheets. Turns out it’s incredibly useful to have all the internet logins of the person you’re trying not to run into, because you were able to make sure to choose a hotel pretty far from the one Victor’s staying in tonight.

You’re here. Now you just have to do it right. 

“Elizabeth’s Custom Catering,” comes a rushed, breathless voice over the phone.

“Hello!” you recite in your most cheery secretary voice. “This is the office of Robert Welsch calling, I was wondering if you could confirm something for me about our dinner later this week.”

“Welsch…” the voice muses, in a muffled kind of way, like someone shouldering their phone. “Give me a sec, let me see… Hmm. I don’t have that name for catering this week. Could it be under a different name?”

You spout off Welsch’s address instead, crossing your fingers. It’s been a long hour of phone calls.

“No, I’m sorry,” the voice says, sounding distracted again. “Could you have the wrong company? There’s one across town that has a similar name.”

“Oh, you know what, you’re right,” you lie, scratching their name off your list. “I completely called the wrong person, so sorry! Thank you, though!”

Dammit.

After the call ends, you sit there in the rental car for a few minutes, just watching foot traffic go by. Surely Welsch is going to be hosting this shareholders meeting. He’s pretty high up in The Company, and one of the few who actually lives here. He has a nice mansion on a few private acres, and it wouldn’t really make sense for them to meet anywhere else. You just need to confirm it. 

The phone rings in your hand, startling you. You fully expect to see an unknown number when you look down, from one of the catering places calling you back. Instead, you’re greeted with the worst thing imaginable:

A blazing “VC” scrolls across the phone screen while it rings threateningly.

Shit.

Heart in your throat, you automatically scan your surroundings for a glimpse of those wide shoulders. Surely he’s just spotted you, and now you have to answer for your wildly unprofessional conduct.

But there’s no sign of your disgruntled boss. Only the phone in your hand, endlessly demanding your attention. 

You’ve got to get yourself together before you pick up, because it’s essential that you sound like someone who’s done nothing wrong. You’re Baby. You’re home alone, left behind. William is with you, and you’re feeling sad and useless. It’s not perfect, but it’s as good as it’s going to get right now.

“Hey,” you answer as casually as you can, attempting to slow your anxious breathing. 

In the second of pause, your paranoia hallucinates an enraged, ‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?! I told you to stay home, and you fucking AGREED. You’re not even supposed to BE here, you stupid—‘

“Hey, baby.” 

Thank god, it sounds like a perfectly normal, unbothered Victor Creed voice. Still, you hunker down in your seat and try to avoid being seen, even incidentally. 

“How’s it going?” you sniff, sounding as disinterested as you can manage, because you’re still supposed to be mad at him.

He takes long enough to reply that your eyes track the flow of people passing by your car, some pushing strollers, some walking dogs. Packs of college students out and about who seem to be intentionally walking as close to each other as they can without touching. 

“Hello?” you prompt again.

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m just… thinkin’ about the things you said before. About this being a mistake.”

“I still think it is.” 

He should never have left you behind to finish this, knowing how interconnected you are with everything that’s happened. You were there when he got shot. You were there when he escaped. You’ve been there for all the lonely nights and the bloodbaths, and you’ve got bite marks and scars to prove it. Being worried about your safety doesn’t erase the fact that this belongs to you, too. 

“I gotta do this,” he tries to convince you, yet again. “I’ll come home, but I gotta do this first. When I get back, we’ll go somewhere. I’ll take you somewhere fun for once.”

“Okay,” you concede in a whisper. In some alternate reality where you’re actually an obedient girlfriend, you’ll go on a little vacation with him and he won’t hate your guts for putting yourself in danger. 

“I miss you, baby,”

“Don’t tell me that today.”

“Miss you a whole fuckin’ lot.”

You roll your eyes, still slouched down as far in your seat as you can go, and can’t help smiling towards the steering wheel. “Having any luck?” 

“Some, we’ll have to see how things shake out. What’s the kid up to?” 

“Oh, William?” You glance over at the backpack in your passenger seat, imagining you’re sitting on your couch at home. “Snoring away, of course. He got a long walk earlier. Says you’re a jerk for leaving.”

“We can't all be annoying, pain in the ass do-gooders.”

“It’s the strangest thing, I swear you were supposed to be apologizing to me right now.”

“I will when I get back. Gotta go now.”

You sigh, partly in disappointment and partly in relief. “Alright bye, love you.”

“Yeah, tell me that when you mean it.”

Rolling your eyes again, you squash down that urge to tend to his ego. He’s trying to escape the consequences of his own actions, and you’re not his mom. “How about I tell you when you get back?” 

“Okay, baby.”

The call ends right then, with a muted click in your ear. Bye, Victor. Glad you’re not out for my blood yet.

You give yourself a few minutes after that, just staring out the bright windshield and fantasizing about your future success. It felt a lot more attainable back home, but the thing is, you have a really good imagination. You can picture it perfectly, the shocked look on his face when he learns what you’ve done. A proud look, if you’re lucky. And if you’re not… Well, he’ll forgive you eventually. 

The next catering place has a man answering the phone. He doesn’t even have to check his schedule, just casually says, “Yeah, I got you down for Wednesday lunch and Thursday dinner.”

Your heart rate picks up with the good news. “Okay, perfect. I’m just calling to confirm you have the correct address for Thursday—“ you quickly spout off the address of Welsch’s mansion.

“Yep. And the back door on Wednesday. Been told there’s no street parking?”

The back door? 

“Yes, that’s correct,” you fib. “Thank you very much!”

The back door. 

You frown at your phone after hanging up, trying to figure out why they’d be told to deliver food to the front door for dinner, but the back door for lunch. 

Oh, you’re an idiot. You quickly type it into google maps, and find a lounge by that name downtown. 

So now you finally have a lead. 

“Okay, so you bring home this absolute dimepiece, fucking great in bed, and then after you’re done, you find out she’s a mutie. What do you do?”

The chorus of chuckles and offended huffs soon dies down, and the guy with the blocky veneers replies, “One question, does anyone know she left with me?”

Externally you have a dutifully entertained smile on your face, but inside you’re hitting these guys over and over with hammers. Alongside you at the bar, shiny silver watches gleam in the light as a pack of men sip their beers and wait gleefully for the punchline. 

“Not a soul. You could run her through a meat grinder, and no one would be any the wiser.”

You start to tune out the conversation again for your own benefit, running your eyes around the room and trying to keep track of the one shifty-eyed errand boy. Like Dr. Evil’s bar, there are too many bouncers in here for a weekday night. They keep moving around, talking amongst themselves and checking their phones. 

It was hard enough getting in here without being spotted by Victor. Your saving grace is that there were an odd number of young women also arriving here alone. Armed with sunglasses, a pretend phone conversation, and ducking in as fast as you dared, you were able to get inside without getting busted with an angry VC call. 

Still, you half expect to see him bursting in here at any moment. Surely he knows about this place already. He got here half a day ahead of you, and he has contacts, intel he never bothered to share with you. It gives a whole new meaning to pre-job nerves, as you sit there forcing your body language to appear relaxed, in a room full of drunk bigots.

Yet the question remains, even after being here for an hour: Where are the girls?

You’re one of three women in here now, and the other two were not the ones you saw walk through the door before you. If you remember correctly, there were four young women who’d stepped in here, never to be seen again. And it’s probably nothing, they probably just work here or something, but the question won’t stop nagging at you. 

“Can I buy you another drink?”

Almost as much as this guy’s nagging.

“I shouldn’t, I’m driving home,” you tell him once again, carefully nursing his first offering.

“I’ll drive you, no big deal.”

Yeah. In the joking-about-hate-crimes bar, you’ll definitely let him drive you somewhere while intoxicated.

“I don’t know, I’m so tired today,” you moan, and then do an excellent job of not recoiling when his comforting hand lands atop your knee. “My boss has been breathing down my neck all day.”

“Mmm.” McFlirty’s eyes drop to your throat, which is currently covered up in a turtleneck to hide Victor’s unusual courting behaviors. “Want me to kill him?”

You grin widely at that. “I’d love to watch you do that.”

He props his elbow on the bar and rests his head in his hand, smiling back at you. “You into that shit? Violence and… machoism?” 

“If you can back up those fighting words, sure. I’ve fucked guys for less.”

McFlirty brings his face a little closer, right at the line where polite distance turns into kissing territory. “What about a kiss? If I promise to ruthlessly, animalistically end your mean old boss’s life, do I get a kiss?”

Stalling, you take a bigger gulp of your cocktail and turn your head away like you’re shy–

Only to glimpse another girl walking in, and heading right for one of the bouncers. One that’s mercifully within earshot of you, though she whispers something to him right that you don’t catch.

“ID?” the bouncer requests, looking her up and down. 

You giggle a little and bump your shoulder playfully against McFlirty’s shoulder, so it won’t seem like you’re listening intently. 

“You sure you’re eighteen? What’s your birthday?”

McFlirty smoothly catches your lips with his – a little sloppy, but not too forceful. Genius. Mindless kissing is the perfect facade for espionage. You hold the back of his neck in your hand, to control the pace and keep it where you want it. 

“Yeah we got a few open spots, and we really need people for Thursday night. Go back with Rob and he’ll get you checked out.”

Cracking your eyes open, you watch the girl head to a back room with another bouncer, disappearing like the others. 

Eventually you’re able to disengage yourself from McFlirty, and pretend to get refreshed by another sip of your drink. 

“Tell me about this place,” you prompt. “I’ve never been here before, and you seem like someone who knows what he's talking about.”

Two more women get escorted to the back in the next two hours of making out and small talk, before you’re able to slip away while your date is in the bathroom. It’s an uneventful Uber back to the hotel, and another late night shower to wash off the cloud of fragrance, this time mixed with the smell of a man. 

He was a decent kisser, if you’re being honest. He didn’t have the same weaselly aura of some of the other guys there. Probably had good parents. Or maybe you’re just so used to hanging around criminals these days, it’s desensitized you to bad intentions. 

You stare at yourself in the mirror for a little while, with your wet hair unkempt and your skincare still working at soaking all the way in. You always thought it would be difficult, seeing yourself like this. Embracing the side of you that’s cutthroat and ambitious, more than you’ve ever been in your life. 

A glance down at your phone reveals that Victor still hasn’t texted you. Radio silence again, because he doesn’t think it’s important for you to know anything that’s going on. Stay safe, stay home. 

It’s just you, staring back in the mirror, running your fingertips over your face to help rub everything in. The same eyes, the same mouth. Unaltered by kissing and crime and reaching for the stars. A math equation that’s being solved by a different hand for the first time. 

And there isn’t a bit of yourself that you don’t recognize.