Chapter Text
The first time Frank recognizes something off about the flamboyant Devil of Hell’s Kitchen isn’t during their first fight, but rather halfway through their second. Water from a busted tank soaked into their clothes, glass turning back to sand beneath the pressure of their feet, hissing against the ground.
A mouthful of his own blood dribbled down his chin as Frank sucked down a greedy inhale, smiling knowingly at the fused fissure rippling like scar tissue up the protective casing of the other man’s mask. Then it hits him, amongst the taste of copper in the air, and lingering tang of sulfur and gunsmoke, is a scent so abrasively sterile it’s nearly tear-inducing. It stings his throat like bleach, stripping the skin raw where it begins to weep through the cracks in the Devil’s armor.
Frank had never paid much mind to the status of his opponents, criminals were criminals. Something about the scent, so flagrantly scrubbed clean of any sweet or sour notes, still manages to tickle that primal part of his hindbrain.
The realization rumbles in his skull as he staggers forward as the other man scents the air, head twitching and soft, red mouth parted in ragged breaths.
Omega.
Amidst the heatwave rocking the city and his own rigorous vigilante activity, Matt was burning through his usual dose of scent blockers in about half the time they were supposed to last him. It was annoying but manageable…mostly…usually. Usually he didn’t wake up in his current position.
He arched his back against firm stone, everything was aching, his head, his back, he was sure even his hair follicles were stinging with pain. Beneath the astringent aroma of his own waning adrenaline, and the salt of itchy drying sweat on his skin, nausea roiled in his stomach at the first tickle of sweetness polluting the air…
No, no, no.
Consciousness seemed to flood him in full force then, his working senses snapping into brilliant clarity as he moved to spring to his feet; the grating screech of metal, chainlinks grinding on chainlinks greets him too loud - too much. His feet and uncomfortably bent ankle scrape against the concrete beneath him.
He pushes harder, the sound, the scent of the metal, drowning everything out.
Then came a quiet exhale, rubbed raw and curling with amusement in Matt’s ears. The pouring of liquid, something hot, even in the sweltering summer heat. Cheap, strong coffee assaults his senses, the almost acidic tang of it scratches at the back of his palate. His throat tightens and his stomach lurches. He’s thirsty.
His binds seemed stronger, his own scent in the air more glaring with the addition of company. Matt knew the hard, steady rhythm of his assailant’s heartbeat, he’d picked up on it the first time they fought; it rang in his head like a war drum.
The man’s scent hung in the air like a fog, heavy and unavoidable, like a scent that was so unbearably toxic yet pervasively enjoyable; Matt was reminded of the scent of cigarettes that used to migrate through the floorboards in his apartment growing up, or the scent of gasoline that would linger on his father’s clothes after gassing up their beat up Datsun. This man’s scent was different than that, nothing close to nostalgic, but just as addictive - it was copper, but not like exposed wiring or oxidized pennies, it was blood, and the grit of gunpowder. It made his mouth water more readily than the coffee had, but just as easily overpowered his senses. It made every ache more vibrant and every passing breeze more pleasant.
“Mornin’ sunshine.”
Something primal slides through Matt’s clouded senses like a hot knife. He had felt it earlier, with the prickle of broken glass beneath their feet, blood and water dripping from them. The brief distraction had probably been the reason the lunatic was able to catch Matt by surprise, even as he tried to ignore the stupid, biological cry in his brain: Alpha, Alpha, Alpha…
This time was no different, Matt’s body could identify where he was, bound , and who he was with. Worst of all, with each passing moment he struggled against his binds, his scent churned thicker and unbidden in the air, joining the scent of copper and gunpowder.
The kid was annoying, frustrating, like an itch ya just can’t scratch, and maybe having him bound and within reach only made it worse for Frank. The Devil’s scent was sweet as heaven where it bleeds into the air. Pristine in its newness, almost virgin in its purity without the chalky obscurity of blockers masking the scent.
Unlike before the scent didn’t make his eyes water, but his mouth, aggravating animalistic parts of his brain and his biology. It poured over his senses like nectar, sort of sticky sweet.
He tries to wash down the wave of drool gathering in his mouth with a swig of stinging hot coffee. The heat of it scalding his tongue doesn't bother him as much as the scent of the squirming Omega hijacking his olfactory senses does; it bleeds across his tongue, battling with the acidic coffee. It’s a waste of coffee, but he still splashes it across the rooftop like it offended him, like it occupied the space on his tongue that was better served hanging out of his mouth to sample that heavenly scent in the air.
They argue - it's a stalemate, Frank didn’t make any headway, but he refused to give an inch to the Devil too.
It had felt like a piece of him, pieces, the good pieces, had died with his family…and all that was left was this , this vestige of a person. This rage, this indignation, this mission. No mission was as important to him as this one was, but lately he couldn’t take a step without noticing the pretty, red thorn in his side. The thorn dug deeper and deeper, and Frank wasn’t sure there was enough goodness left in the man that had clawed out of a coma, to combat the darkness in him. He hadn’t been ready to meet the Devil in the park that day when that round ripped through his skull…but maybe he was now.
The kid’s ideology was flawed, there was no mistaking that, but he had meant the words that had left his lips, I think you and me are the same, the sentiment had gotten buried under their zeal, but he had meant it nonetheless. The kid was tough, Frank’s busted nose and the residual tang of blood in his mouth was evidence of that. The only thing holding him back, really and truly, was that one line he wouldn’t cross. The irony of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen being some soft-hearted Omega certainly wasn’t lost on him. Sad part was, the kid could make a difference, a real difference if he wasn’t so hung up on the hope he clutched to his chest like a bird with a broken wing. Frank sucked in a breath tainted with their mingled scents and his head swam; his rage dulled to a smokey smolder in his chest and the void left in its wake triggers an ugly heat inside of him, invisible as it burns like a chemical fire. His Smith & Wesson has competition filling out the front of his jeans.
A question the Omega asked had taken root in his mind, What am I doing here, Frank?
Staring down at the welded front of his mask, the inviting shape of the other man’s parted mouth, the heat in his groin surged uncomfortably with desire. It was in his scent, and there was no point in pretending it wasn’t. Want, hunger, arousal , they bled into his scent thickly with brisk notes of pine and sap, amidst copper and gunpowder. He had never been particularly pious growing up, but the reality still felt like an epiphany when it dawned on him. The ugly truth of why he dragged a formerly unconscious Omega to a secluded rooftop and tied ‘em down. The thorn was so deep in his side it had become a part of him, the only sign it was still there was the persistent throb it inspired in him.
The reality urged breathless words from the Omega’s pretty, pink mouth.
“You’re unhinged.”
Frank licked the swell of his lower lip, he’d always had a thing for the underdog.
The gunshot is still ringing in his ear, so loud Matt was worried it might be the last thing he’d hear as he felt his chains fall away. He staggered to his feet before charging headlong at the man who had put him in this godforsaken position.
He’d been given an ultimatum, both choices were ones he wasn’t sure he could’ve lived with. Shoot me, or shoot him.
There was no lesser of two evils in the situation, no justice in it. So he aimed and pulled the trigger. Frank had lasciviously added some things just feel right in your hand , the gun felt wrong in Matt’s hand, clunky and cold, and he dazedly wondered with adrenaline pumping through him anew, what would feel right?
They collided, but not before Frank could pull the trigger on Grotto himself. This shot was deafening and nearly brought Matt to his knees in his pursuit of toppling the Alpha to the ground.
The impact kicked up dust and shared groans, the mingled scent of them made Matt’s movements sluggish as he brought his unoccupied fist down on his assailant’s face. The clash of skin and bone, lavender and crisp linen meets blood and gunpowder, pine and sap, honey and salt bleeds traitorously into the air. At some point it felt like he wasn't only fighting Frank, but his own body too.
He felt the warm vibration of a growl reverberate from the solid body beneath him, he nearly leapt at the contact, at the startling nearness. Frank’s hard hands no longer hurt him, but rather held him. It inspired a flicker of chemical, pacifying want through him and a rolling wave of subsequent nausea followed from his rational mind.
He staggered to Grotto’s body, gathering the dying man in his arms despite the way his legs began to cry out in protest, too buttery soft with biological desire, he continued on. Not even Grotto’s bloody protests to put him down are enough to slow his trudge across the rooftop, not in the same gun-punching, breathless way a single word does.
“Stop,” Frank snarled the command, it locked up his legs before Matt could think to fight against it.
“Atta boy,” Frank rasps with pride that sends a surge of heat through Matt’s body, the echo of his footsteps paints the broad shape of his body in alarming clarity in Matt’s mind. His lack of autonomy is beyond degrading, but Matt let indignation instead of shame flood his scent, oozing from his pores.
He focused on Grotto’s stuttering heart, on the last few beats as he managed a staggering, stubborn step forward, a spit in the face of the command he had been given, before an arm curled around Matt’s abdomen. There’s less give in Frank’s hold than the chains he had bound Matt with. And Matt hated that he didn’t hate it. He wanted to hate it, god, he wanted to.
“So fuckin’ stubborn,” Frank gritted out, though he sounded quietly amused beneath the chastising, the words were too close, breath too warm. Grotto’s corpse had grown heavy, leaden, and so Matt attempted to lower his former client to the ground with as much tenderness as he could muster.
Frank didn’t allow for much. Matt’s choices were limited to falling to the ground with Grotto’s weight and letting Frank’s heavy body crush the pair of them, or to drop the corpse and let Frank maintain his iron-clad grip around Matt’s body.
Matt feels a part of his soul wither when Grotto’s body slaps against the concrete, blood and bone making an ugly splat that is branded into his mind.
His arms are free, so he elects to bring his elbow up sharply to collide with Frank’s face, it earns a sort of wet thump and a snarl. He tries to ignore the notes of honey and salt in the air, the way the scent of his own damning desire bleeding from his skin hangs tauntingly in the air.
He kickstarts a fight, because it’s easier to consider than the alternative. It becomes glaringly obvious Frank won’t turn down a fight, but he’s not actively interested in this one either.
Matt slams his head against Frank’s, and winces, feeling his hearing peter in and out for a fleeting moment, shaking off the way his equilibrium is shifting.
“Godammit, Red, you really wanna do this, huh?” Frank asks through red-slicked teeth.
“Told you I was gonna take you down,” Matt slurs, his words sounds stupidly broken to his own ears.
“You also said you weren’t gonna stop comin’ for me, figured we could get a jump on that part.” Frank says with no small amount of smugness, his gaze flickered down to Matt’s legs, but he shifts his stance to make the way his knees want to give out less noticeable.
Frank’s bleeding nose scrunches up in a snarl that gives way into a sharp smile.
“C’mon then,” Frank goads and Matt charges headlong into the bait, knowing nothing good could come of, but somehow the delineation between ‘nothing good’ and ‘something bad’ never seemed so clear.
The blood on Frank’s clothes is still wet, when the Devil lurches into consciousness with a gasp and a groan. The lights in the den are sparse, but he doesn’t mind it, folks like them belong in the dark.
“We gotta stop meetin’ like this, kid.” Frank greets, as the younger man swallows a breath, before what parts of his face that are visible twist in a grimace.
“Where are we?” The Omega asks, pink tongue dipping out of pinker lips to tease the clotted cut on his plush lower lip. Frank looks around at the spent shells and coagulating blood pooling around the mess he’d made of the Dogs of Hell.
“Frank,” The other vigilante huffs, it hedges on a whine. He’d gotten what he wanted, that piece of shit Grotto was dead, and the Dogs of Hell had gotten put down too…he’d gotten almost everything he wanted.
“Used to be a biker clubhouse.” Frank supplies calmly, shrugging. There’s a pause, a shaky breath. His breathing stuttered and the Devil’s scent seemed all the sweeter when locked in a closed space.
“Used to be?” The Omega asks, his voice seems close to breaking.
“Not many Dogs left to call it home.”
The Devil mutters a weak curse, body swaying like he was flirting with passing out.
“What are we doing here, Frank?”
This time, the answer is hanging promptly on Frank’s tongue.
“You were right earlier, whatchu said, ‘bout getting in my way twice already.” A sour note drips into the Omega’s otherwise intoxicating scent, and it sits uncomfortably on Frank’s palate.
“We can’t keep doin’ this song and dance, Red.” Frank watched as the other man sat up a little straighter, sternly so.
“So, I gotta make sure you won’t be an issue anymore-”
“-Frank,” The Omega’s voice splinters on his name, “You don’t have to do this.”
Frank ignores the plea as he moves to the chair he had dropped the other man into, his scent is going haywire, slingshotting from emotion to emotion.
He makes it to the chair, standing staunchly before it when he feels the dig of the revolver’s barrel through the kevlar of his vest. Even in the murky dark, the tears escaping the front of his mask are still visible where they gather on the pretty tip of his nose.
“Don’t wanna kill ya, Red.” Frank says, feeling the barrel of the gun tremble against the front of his vest.
“Frank-” His voice is shattered, lower lip sucked between his white teeth as another sob rolled out of him. He begins seizing the Omega by the front of his suit, the durable material has a bit of give as he hauls the man to his feet. The man feels surprisingly boneless against Frank’s chest.
“I’ll make it quick,” Frank promises, despite the way his mouth feels overencumbered with drool and with teeth that want to dig into the Omega’s sweet smelling skin. The stink of an unmated Omega wasn’t so obvious, but after years of working in Black Ops, in assassination and interrogation, detecting one became easier . Rationally, he knew what he was about to do was just a means to an end, but that didn’t stop his hindbrain, flush with pheromones, from lighting up at the prospect.
“I’ll make it quick,” He said again, he loathes the promise.
I’ll make it quick, Matt knows what it means the first time it’s uttered, the second time only solidifies it, impacting like a bullet to the skull.
The scent of pine and sap grows thick and heavy in the air and Matt tries to fight against the silly drowsy response his body begins slipping into, his legs struggling to stay in any position that wasn’t open, inviting .
He weakly swings the gun still taped to his hand, feeling the dampness of his gloved palm against the grip of the weapon. He doesn’t strike anything, just manages to burn what energy he has left as Frank hauls him around like Christmas ham he’s prepared to devour.
Matt fights for a little while longer until he collides with something solid. The position knocks the air from his chest and he wheezes a wet breath against the felt, and realizes he’s been thrown over a pool table. It’s demeaning, and he tries to roll over, but Frank holds him still. The air smelled like death, and like Frank.
“Please…” The word is a whine that clings to the back of his throat. He isn’t sure what he’s pleading for, but he pleads nonetheless.
His whole body throbs when a brutish hand digs into his nape through the coarse material of his suit, and a groan echoes from above him. He can feel the heat of Frank’s body behind him.
“Holy hell, I love hearin’ you beg, Red.” Frank utters thickly, a deeply satisfied growl building in his chest. He wishes the admission made hate burn in him, disgust even, but it inspires neither.
Matt doesn’t want to want what’s happening, but he can feel slick begin to trickle down the back of his thighs. It’s aromatic, the core components of his scent made tangible; lavender and linen, honey and salt.
He pressed his head more firmly against the felt of the table, eager to distract himself, listening to the quiet rattle of billiard balls in the pockets underneath. He breathed deeply and found notes of a comforting scent, the tart sweetness of strawberry jam, and the warmth of a worn leather-bound book, it smelled like his best friend…
The pool table smelled like Foggy, and so Matt breathed the scent in more deeply, faint as it was.
His legs tensed at the press of a broad palm to his lower back. His senses coil and snap, becoming fuzzy and frayed as the scent of the Alpha’s desire washes over him.
Another breath and he thinks of Foggy again, thinks of his best friend, what would he think of Matt bent over a pool table, surrounded by stinking corpses with an unhinged Alpha lording over him? Nausea burned in him, self-loathing and shame just as well.
He surged back weakly against the palm pressed to his back, renewed urgency giving a last-ditch sprinkle of adrenaline, panic, the barrel of the gun taped to his hand peels at the felt on the table as he struggled for a shred of control back in his favor.
His body feels too heavy to move, too heavy to fight, a biological complacency urges him limp but Matt refuses to be cowed by it.
“‘Nuff of that,” Frank growls in annoyance, his words aren’t a command, just plain exasperation.
There’s the click of something metallic, sharp, his senses skirt over the cool caress as it draws too close to his skin. Each push of his body, sluggish and dazed and too stubborn to quit, Matt whines at the sudden press of the hard outline of the Alpha’s imposing erection against his rear; the material of his boxer-briefs had since grown tacky with slick.
Frank urges his hips forward amidst Matt’s thrashing, a snarled sound lodged in his chest as the scrape of friction sends Matt scrabbling against the table. The glitter of heat between their bodies is nearly agony where it bites through the thick denim of Frank’s jeans and Matt’s suit. A second lazy thrust, through their collective clothes and Matt’s drooling against the felt. A sob struggling to escape with a whine ever present in his throat.
He shivers against the motion, his body rolling effortlessly, a malleable, boneless heap with each thrust.
The painfully large swell of the Alpha’s cock digging against him has Matt panting against the damp felt, every sense screaming and shredded as his hindbrain seized his body like a puppet on strings. His hips urged back, breathless, ugly sounds dripping from his mouth, as he chased the blissful grind of the Alpha’s want against him.
“Good boy,” Frank slobbers the praise between a long groan, and Matt tries to ignore the way it makes his whole body glow in depraved delight. He repeats the motion, urging his hungry hips back to earn a harder, meaner thrust, firm hands holding Matt still to drag the heavy weight of the Alpha’s cock against his warm body. The material of his suit is clinging uncomfortably to his skin, the textured weave of the durable material stinging worse than cotton on his skin.
At some point, his tongue had lolled out of his mouth, the stink of the dead should be nauseating, tear-inducing, but it’s easily diluted by the haze of sweat and overpowered by the muddy way their scents mix together. Louder, brighter.
This time when he begs, he knows what he’s begging for.
“Please…”
He omits the word, Alpha, lets it shrivel and die on his tongue, he refuses to say the word of his own volition. Matt had never been particularly fixated on finding an Alpha, on settling down, on being beholden to anyone but himself or his work. Perks of being raised by a dirt poor Alpha who had wanted a better life for his son than he had, had. Still, the urge had come and gone in his life, something he had written off as a distraction. He had been in college when it hit hardest, when he’d been swept into a whirlwind romance, when he’d found someone he finally thought understood him . An Alpha who could love him enough to bond with him, but he hadn’t been so lucky then, and he wasn’t so lucky now. Frank was a cold-blooded killer - this wasn’t love, it was convenience. The realization made him feel dirty, and clinical, and dispensable but heat still burned in his belly anyway.
“Please… Frank.”
The kid looks somewhere between half-dead and half-asleep beneath him, even still when Frank pushes, the Devil pushes back.
Frank wasn’t stupid enough to think the fight had been kicked out him, watching the Omega squirm around the table, bent over like a cheap whore. A growl rumbles in his throat like an engine turning over.
Frank fumbles around the suit looking for a zipper or something, but he had neither the time nor the patience to look particularly long or hard. So, he contends to continue as they were, rutting like a pair of animals. The kid doesn’t complain.
Sex wasn’t strictly necessary when bonding with someone, but Frank was old fashioned, and believed the wives tale that fuckin’ made the bond stronger.
He pinned his hands atop the other man’s wrists, the coarse bite of the fabric making his calluses itch as he lays his weight more fully onto the body beneath him. His cock is swollen thickly between his thighs, knot unbearably plump as he rubs the length of his erection, drooling sticky, fragrant pre-come, against the slick-soaked rear of the limp vigilante.
Frank is drunk on the scent of the Omega, lavender and linen clouded thickly with honey and salt.
His hips hammer forward, grinding their bodies together in an unrelenting rhythm. His mouth froths with drool as he noses at the obscured scruff of the other vigilante’s neck. A cold kiss of a blade near the Devil’s neck makes the man buck and writhe, a yelp straining in his throat. They both knew where this was headed, Frank grinding against his rear.
He poises the blade against the softer looking fabric beneath the cracked mask.
“Don’t-” He begins, but Frank urges the blade to cut through the thinner material, watching it split. He tugs at the durable black and red ensemble, uninterested in removing the mask. It’s damn near impossible to cut through so he pulls the material as far down as it’ll allow. Drool clings to his chin as he admires the unmarked pale flesh between the man’s neck and shoulder, the muscle is dense and wiry, skin pale and fragrant and damp with sweat.
He leverages a white-knuckled grip against the bunched up fabric to keep it from springing back to its previous position, hips slamming forward in that same, hard rhythm.
They share a strangled sound, as Frank lowers himself back over the other man’s body, saliva dripping against the window of available flesh. They resume their motion, the jagged, coarse push and pull, heat tightening in Frank’s belly just as he feels the body beneath him go tense. He presses his nose against the naked skin, feeling the subtle terrain of a bonding gland, he runs his lips over it - hips pumping - when he clamps his mouth around the pristine little gland. He digs his teeth into the sculpted sinew and through the pale skin with a low, long growl. He feels the Devil in his arms, the Omega is swaying like matter changing states, he’s solid then he’s liquid, a quivering mess beneath Frank’s mouth.
The sound of his lover coming undone is a spiraling primal sound in the Alpha’s ears, before going devoid of tension. Frank feels blood, metallic and warm cling to his chin as he flexes his jaw, grip still steadfast. He waits until he feels like he’s on the verge of exploding, sensations becoming louder, sweeter, brighter. Being bonded was otherworldly, so alien, yet so unbearably intrinsic, so right .
Loosening his grip on vigilante’s shoulder, his tongue lingers over the pinpricks of blood that rush to the surface in the absence of Frank’s teeth.
He grunts out a deep sound, undoing the clasp of his belt without ceremony. His tugs at his cock, the thick tip is an aggressive shade of violet where it juts out of his open jeans.
“Turn over,” The Devil makes a vague attempt, so Frank turns the man over himself. It's not gentle or particularly kind when he lands on his back, the eerie red lenses of his mask stare up at Frank. The blank stare is devoid of identity, lacking in humanity, a martyr with no name.
Frank grips his cock with bruising strength, giving himself a few, hard tugs to his monstrous erection. His closed fist brushes the painfully sensitive swell of his knot twice before he’s coming with a roar. It’s surreal, yet grounding, his spend splashed across his bondmate’s face. It streaks thick and musky across his chest, soaking into the torn underlayer of cloth near his neck, gathering on his full lips, a healthy ribbon of come painted between his horns, on the welded reminder of their first meeting.
It goes quiet, quiet as the city allows the passing moments to be. There’s nothing but their ragged breathing filling the air, the Devil tries to wipe at the mess Frank had left on him but all he succeeded in doing was conking himself with the gun still taped to his hand.
“Leave it,” Frank suggests and the other man’s mouth twitches in indignation before he listens.
Matt’s bonded, he’s bonded, he’s bonded. It rings through his head because he doesn’t believe it, can’t fathom it, but he can feel it, god , he could feel it.
He’s filthy, physically, spiritually, he feels tarnished, feels like Lucifer cast out of heaven. He feels .
He’s not sure he has the energy to cry, to mourn, to loathe. He feels the drying slick and spend on his skin. He feels the weight of the gun still taped in his hand. Matt considers the weapon, then considers himself.
He tries to lift it once and feels like the weight will snap his wrist with how tired he is, he attempts a second time and the barrel kisses his temple. He flexes his fingers around the rubber grip, it’s unnatural in his palm still.
He surprises even himself when he wrings out a few tears, the weight of the weapon shaking in his hand when a firm grip nearly breaks his hand pulling the weapon away. The bones in his hand and wrist grind together under the pressure before they’re released. The sting of metal doesn’t scare him, maybe he’s beyond being afraid, as his bondmate cuts the tape away, and hurls the weapon across the room. He hears it clatter distantly.
Frank’s arms come around him and he’s too tired to fight, “I gotcha, I gotcha,” He huffs, even as the horns of Matt’s mask dig into his chest where the vigilante slumps forward. He listens to his voice, drinks in his smell, and feels a relief like no other spill over him. It was a quiet to silence the chaos in his mind, calm to soothe the turbulence in him. When he cried this time, it was a dry sob that made his chest ache with relief.
“There ya go, that’s it,” Frank mumbled, each quiet intonation scrubbing Matt’s mind blissfully clean.
“Just breathe, Red ,” And so Matt did, he breathed, he breathed the scent of death and decay and Frank .
“That’s my boy,” Frank hums, he’s oozing Alpha pride and Matt feels like the words alone have him on the verge of another orgasm. Frank seems to know because he just laughs a deep, hungry laugh.
His brain deliberates, the jury’s hung, undecided on whether being Frank’s anything fills him with more hate or joy.
He can feel Frank’s eyes on him, can smell the fresh notes of pine and sap in the air, already so dense with their scents.
“You gonna stay outta my way now, baby?”
Matt wants to dissect the words, run his fingers over every inch of them, but instead his mind stutters on the fondness that seems ill-fitting leaving Frank’s mouth, but feels so right. A fondness so sweet it nearly feels sincere, Matt isn’t naive enough to believe it’s true. His hindbrain turns to mush at the pet name. Matt doesn’t want to nod, but fighting against the urge was actively painful, so he stopped fighting it.
“Good,” Frank hums in approval, and a part of Matt glows at having pleased his Alpha. It’s a dizzying thought, one that swishes around in what’s left of his rational mind, the part of him that believes in right and wrong, unable to lump what had transpired into either category.
Frank was an unhinged killer with little to no regard for human life, but now Frank was his unhinged killer…
The thought was nauseating and exciting. A warm hand taps his cheek, thick fingers heavy with calluses scrape across Matt’s stubble. Those fingers migrate beneath his chin urging Matt to lean his head up, the angle makes the bleeding bondmark weep anew.
His brain pulsed as his overworked senses painted a picture of the man in front of him, the strong, rugged silhouette, the crook of his mouth fragrant at the corners with Matt’s blood. A shiver runs through him, hard and unavoidable.
“Be seein’ ya, Red.” Frank said finally as he moved to exit the Biker’s den.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s what Matt is worried about.