the only exception aka cate discovers that wanting something badly enough can make it yours tw: girlcock, g!p reader, omegaverse, alpha!reader, omega!cate, non-canon college au, not quite dating to bonded mates, jealous!cate, possessive!cate, bonding, mating bite, knotting, breeding kink, bareback sex, vaginal sex, dickriding, creampies, cunnilingus, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, praise kink, daddy kink, aftercare, emotional vulnerability, love confessions, porn with some plot, etc. 13.9k+ words
author's note: following the gen v cancellation, here's some omega!cate for the soul. remember when i used to write short fics? me neither. i was only going to write one sex scene for this and then…well. here we are<3
Cate knows better than to wear your hoodie out in public when she’s like this.
Cate is twenty and change and old enough to know her own appetites. She is also an omega and therefore doomed to lose arguments with her body the second you walk into the room. The hoodie hangs off her like a stolen promise—black heavyweight cotton that still carries that sharp, citrus bite of your soap under the heavier, thick press of alpha scent. It’s an all-caps announcement even with the strings cinched tight around Cate’s jaw: I WAS NEAR HER. I WANT MORE.
The quad is a churn of lunch rush, of coffee breath and windburned cheeks and early-winter sun. Cate clocks every omega who turns their head when the smell hits, that little flick of attention like a bird tilting on a branch. Some of them have had you inside them. Plenty have had your mouth. A handful have had the mercy of you during heat: reliable, unflappable, hands steady even when they weren’t. You call it your duty when anyone asks, say it with a smirk that leaves the door open for filth. Cate is not immune to the smirk. She’s merely drowning in it.
“Staring’s rude,” you say behind her, like sin dropped directly into Cate’s ear.
Cate turns too quickly and the world blurs, hoodie cuff tugging over the heel of her palm. You’re dressed like every fantasy Cate refuses to share with her friends, eyes bright and unreadable. The brightest thing about you is the scent, it runs through the nose of every omega in a ten-foot radius, the air turning heavy and slow as syrup. Heads turn. Throats flex.
“I wasn’t staring,” Cate lies, even though she had been—at two Omega Arts Council girls who’d gotten glassy-eyed the second the wind changed. Cate can be manipulative, sure, but mostly she’s honest in her greed. “I was—breathing.”
“Dangerous habit.” You crowd closer, your jacket creaking. “Gonna cause a panic, baby. I told you not to wear my hoodie on days like this.”
“You told me not to wear it around other omegas when I’m—” Cate pulls back before she says it, before she offers up her throat on a platter. The word is funny in her mouth when she’s not fully there. “Sensitive.”
“You’re always sensitive.” Your voice is both a tease and a warning, it warms the inside of Cate’s skull like whiskey. “Class in five.”
“I don’t have class today.” Cate looks up only to look away again, because your mouth is pink and soft looking, and there’s an omega on the bench across the path with a book half-open on their knee and a hunger that looks a lot like Cate’s. Cate could be generous. She could share. She could.
She won’t.
“We can share lunch,” Cate tries, which is a stand-in for everything else she wants: your time, your bed, your scent, your future. “I got us—”
“Cate.” You tip her chin up with two fingers. The touch feels like a spell. A shiver travels down Cate’s spine. “You’re not in heat.”
“No,” Cate says, horribly proud of herself.
“You’re wearing my hoodie.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re vibrating.”
“Maybe,” Cate whispers. “Just a little.”
You glance down the path. The line of your throat has made Cate stupid since September, she thinks about it when she falls asleep and when she wakes up and sometimes during lectures she’s not even registered for. “You follow me to class and I’m dragging you back to my apartment by your pretty mouth,” you murmur.
Cate beams. “Okay.”
“Not a reward.”
“I’ll behave.” She won’t, and you know it. Cate is the kind of omega who was born to drape herself over things she wants and whine. “Promise.”
“You’re trouble.” You lean down and kiss her like you own Cate’s air supply, and the world tilts. Cate’s spine melts. She hears someone nearby mutter, “Jesus,” and someone else laugh. The quad keeps moving, and Cate floats helplessly toward the mouth that ruins her composure. You have always kissed like it’s evidence, like Cate is a thesis you intend to defend with the weight of your body. It’s almost enough. Almost.
You pull back when Cate lifts on her toes, not enough to get free of the taste. Cate makes a noise she hates hearing herself make in daylight.
“What do you want?” You ask.
Cate thinks about lying. Doesn’t. “You.”
“You have me.”
“Not the way I want.” It bursts out, shaky and true. “I want the other thing.”
Your pupils grow wider. “What other thing?”
“You know.” Cate drags her thumb along the edge of your jaw. “The thing you keep not doing.”
“Cate.”
“You don’t mark anyone,” Cate says, high on begging now that she’s started. The hood of the sweater is swallowing her peripheral vision and she leans into it. “Not even me.”
“Not even you,” you echo, quiet.
“I hate sharing you,” Cate blurts, throat hot. She can’t stop now, every sentence spills into the next like beads off a broken string. “I know it’s your job. I know you—help. You’re good, and you’re careful, and they love you for it. I—” She swallows. The taste of the kiss sits on her tongue. “But I want you to be mine. I want to be yours. I don’t want to be just another omega you see on the way to doing your duty.”
You watch her with that wary softness Cate only gets in private. “We’re not dating,” you say, as if it’s a question you both haven’t been failing to ask for months.
“I want to,” Cate says. The wind slides under the hem of the hoodie and it smells like you and cold and a little like snow. “But even if you don’t want to call it that—mark me.”
“Those aren’t different asks,” you say, half a laugh in it to soften the blow. “You’re asking me to bond.”
Cate’s heart pounds. “Yes.”
“You’re not in heat. I’m not in rut.”
“I don’t care. Please.” Her pulse is a trapped bird, her hands ache to hold. “Bite me.”
You go still enough that the scene sharpens around you, a crispness Cate associates with danger and with want. It’s ten thousand little reasons all singing the same note in your head—Cate can tell, because she knows your face like a page she keeps rereading.You’re twenty-one and a miracle of bad decisions harnessed into good hands, the most desirable alpha on campus for reasons that had only a little to do with pheromones. You’re an alpha who spreads yourself out when needed and never once lets yourself anchor. An alpha who calls it duty like a joke because the truth scares you more than being horny in public.
“After class,” you say finally, and then, lower: “After I shower. And after you eat. You’re not getting a bond bite on an empty stomach, baby.”
Cate sags, relief washing through her like heat. It takes a second to understand she isn’t being told no. She’s being given terms.
“Okay,” she breathes. “Okay. I’ll—wait.”
“Mm. You’ll try.” You kiss her once more, too fast, a flare that makes Cate reach again like a fool. “Go home. My dorm. Don’t let anyone talk to you.”
“I’ll tell them to go away.”
“You’ll bat your lashes and invite them to smell my hoodie,” you say, amused, and then serious in a blink. “Home. Lock the door. I’ll be there.”
Cate nods, thrilled, greedy, already turning to run.
“Cate,” you say.
Cate pivots again, everything loose. “Yes?”
“Good girl,” you say, and Cate’s knees do something embarrassing. When she catches her balance, you're already walking away, shoulders squared, scent smearing the space you leave like a signature. Two omegas on the bench watch you go with expressions Cate recognizes from any mirror. Cate clutches the hoodie tighter around herself and carries her hunger off like a secret.
Your dorm is always too tidy for a college place. The couch is clean, the record player dustless, the coasters actually used. Cate knows where she’s allowed to be messy. The bed, the shower, the space between your ribs and your hips when Cate tucks herself in. She kicks her shoes into their little tray and eases the hoodie off her shoulders, laying it over the chair in the corner. It keeps breathing. Cate climbs into the bed and inhales until the worst of the fidgeting ebbs.
She tries to eat one of the granola bars on the nightstand while she waits. It’s like chewing rocks. She manages half and washes it down with water, hands trembling on the glass. She’s not in heat, not really. It's not the mindless, gnawing, ruinous thing she gets when biology grabs the wheel. This is the other kind, the one she’s learned to respect, the thrum she gets when you promise. That’s what this is—a promise, finally. A bite at the hinge of her throat where anyone would see it. Property, to anyone who believed in that. To Cate, a home.
The shower kicks on at exactly the time Cate expects, the pipes in your building whining like old ghosts. Cate’s already naked. It feels like a strategy.
You step out twenty minutes later damp and pink, towel hooking low on your hips. Cate’s breath stalls. Your breasts are damp too, drops working their way down between them like tiny runaways. Cate wants to lick their path and loses half a minute to that thought alone.
“Eat,” you say, hair darkened with water, a second towel in your hand you use to dry your hair with short, inefficient impatience.
“I had half,” Cate says.
“Cate.”
“I tried.”
You sigh, go to the mini fridge, and return with a plate that does not feel like college: toast, a banana, a little pile of turkey slices folded into themselves, a drizzle of honey. “Half is a start. Try a finish.”
Cate scrunches her nose. “I’m not a child.”
“Never said you were.” You sit at the foot of the bed and peel the banana with fingers that could break Cate’s spine or make her cry out loud, depending on where they land. “Open.”
You feed her. Cate glares and opens and swallows and hates how fast it soothes. You don't make a thing of it. You’re quiet, patient, a little smirk breaking across your face the first time Cate tilts forward to lick honey off your thumb. Cate chews because you asked, because you're about to do the thing Cate has been begging for in corners and elevators and with her mouth for months. The willingness sits warm, steady, not rut-crazed. It’s not instinct. It’s you choosing. This matters. Cate clings to it, to the way it lights up her chest like the flip of a switch.
When the toast is gone, you wipe a crumb from the corner of Cate’s mouth with your thumb. “Water.”
Cate drinks. Sets the glass down, wicked fast, and climbs forward on her knees until she’s straddling your lap, the towel trapped under her ass. You make a rough, startled sound that Cate will build a shrine for in her mind.
“Cate.”
“You said,” Cate says, breathless. Her hands are already on your shoulders, her own breasts brushing the damp warmth of your chest. “You said after. It’s after.”
“I did.” Your pupils blow, your hands find Cate’s waist, fingers biting in. “You’re sure.”
“Yes.” She rolls her hips against the loose towel and the heat thrumming below it. “I want to be yours. I want everyone to know.”
You swallow and Cate feels it, a shift under her mouth like a seismic event. Cate kisses there and feels the sound you make with your whole body.
“You don’t—” You breathe. “You don’t get to take it back.”
“I won’t.”
“You’ll have to put up with me.”
“I hope so.”
“I won’t stop fucking who needs me when they need me.” It’s honest, and it hurts only in the fragile thin place where Cate keeps her wish. “But I won’t be theirs.”
“I know,” Cate says, meaning I’ll still hate sharing right up until I can smell me on you, meaning I’ll survive it because the bite will be a door I can shut. “Make me yours.”
Your grip tightens. “Hands where I put them?”
Cate laces her fingers behind her head instantly, spine arching, ridiculous with happiness. “Yes.”
“Good.” You lean forward, catch a nipple in your mouth, and Cate’s brain sheds civilized language like a coat. The heat that licks out from the pull is molten, slick pool blooming low. She gasps, hips tilting, towel slipping. Your teeth flirt with the edge of pain, just this side of perfect. Cate swallows her own little cry and keeps her hands up when they want to scramble, desperate to clutch.
“Daddy,” Cate whines, shameless, because she knows what it does, because it always kicks some private door in you open. It works now. You growl against Cate’s chest, the vibration skittering across her skin.
“Yeah?” You ask around the curve of her breast, words hot and damp. “What do you need?”
“You. In me. Marking me.” Cate’s thighs quake. “Please.”
“Greedy,” you huff, and drag your mouth to the other nipple, everything Cate’s brain craves: wet, firm attention—the slow suck countered with a flick of the tongue like a match. Cate whines. It won’t be enough until your cock is inside her and maybe not even then. She wants the weight, the fill, the burn, the pressure she only gets when you knot and hold her so deep Cate feels full all the way up into her ribs.
You push the towel aside. Your cock is thick and heavy, half-hard already from Cate’s shameless squirming. Cate looks and shivers at the sight. She rubs herself shamelessly along the length of it, slick already making everything slide with ease. Your breath stutters. Your hands go rough against Cate’s hips.
“Turn around,” you say, voice already a wreck.
Cate does, sprawling forward on her hands and knees, face in your pillows, palms flat like she’s being searched. You swear softly behind her, the sound low enough to make Cate’s stomach pull tight, and then Cate flicks her gaze toward the nightstand before you can reach for it.
“No condom,” she says.
You go still.
Cate feels it in the air before she feels it in your hands, that sudden animal silence, every instinct in the room lifting its head. She turns her face just enough to look back over her shoulder, hair mussed against her cheek, mouth swollen from kissing, eyes too bright to pretend this is anything but what it is.
“Cate.”
“No,” Cate says again, softer now, almost pleading, though there’s a stubborn little edge under it. “Not this time. Please.” Her fingers curl into the sheets. “I want to feel you. I want you to fill me. If you’re going to mark me, then don’t—” Her breath catches, embarrassment and hunger tangling until she has to press her cheek into the pillow for half a second. “Don’t want anything between us.”
Your hand lands on her hip, hot and heavy, but you don't move. “Baby, you need to think.”
“I have.” Cate’s voice trembles, not with doubt, but with the force of wanting too much and finally saying it plainly. “I’ve thought about it all day. Longer.” She swallows, hips shifting back a fraction in helpless invitation, and your grip tightens hard enough to make her gasp. “I want your knot. I want your cum. I want to smell like you everywhere. I want to feel it after. I want—” Her throat works around the worst, neediest truth. “I want it to mean something.”
For a second, you only breathe.
Then you bend over Cate’s back, one hand sliding up to the nape of her neck, not pushing yet. Just holding. Grounding. Making sure Cate can feel the choice still belongs to her even with your whole body gone taut behind her.
“You’re sure?” You ask, and your voice has dropped into something rougher, something with teeth under it.
Cate nods against the pillow. “Yes, Daddy. I’m sure.”
You exhale through your nose, almost a laugh and almost a curse, and kiss the back of Cate’s shoulder with a restraint so careful it aches. “You’re going to fucking ruin me.”
Cate’s smile is small, hidden in the pillowcase, wet-eyed and wicked. “Good.”
With all pretense gone, your thumbs press into the soft curve of Cate’s ass, opening her up, and Cate is gone before you even touch her properly, every nerve already reaching out, begging. There’s no crinkle of foil this time, no pause, no thin barrier snapped into place. Just your hand at her hip, your breath on her spine, your bare cock nudging slick and heavy between her thighs until Cate makes a sound so broken it barely counts as language.
Everything is pressure and promise.
Cate tries pushing back deliberately like a tease, hungry enough to be reckless, but you don't let her. One hand clamps at Cate’s hip, strong enough to claim, while the other presses broad and steady between her shoulder blades, keeping her folded there in the sheets.
“Pretty thing.” You stroke the slick seam of her with practiced tenderness until Cate’s arms start to shake and she hates you a little for it, hates and loves you equally, a perfect balance. The first push is measured, the head of your cock catching at the edge of Cate’s cunt, the stretch hot enough to make Cate gasp. The second push is deeper. Cate pants, face buried in the pillowcase, which smells like laundry detergent and something cleanly alpha, something you even when you refuse to mark anyone with it. The third push is home.
“Oh,” Cate says helplessly, grunt turned into a whimper.
“Yeah,” you say, just above a growl, and still with half your cock inside, like you’ve got all the time in the world. “You’re so wet I can hear you.”
“Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not. It’s beautiful.” Your fingers splay over Cate’s hip like a brand. “You want it rough?”
“I want you,” Cate says, which is the same thing.
You slide in the rest of the way and Cate breaks, a sound tearing out of her that she’ll pretend later she didn’t make. It’s the pressure at the root of everything that ruins her—the way your size makes her feel sweet and stupid and perfectly shaped for this. You fold over her back, chest to Cate’s spine, breath in her ear.
“Still good?”
Cate nods too fast.
“Words.”
“Yes, daddy,” Cate says, and you bite Cate’s shoulder—not the place, not yet, just enough to make Cate’s vision blur. You start to move. It’s not the brutal pace Cate sometimes begs for when she’s fevered and gone, but it’s still deep and thorough and designed to make Cate feel every inch. The sound is obscene, the slide of it, your cock working her open and fucking her slow until Cate wants to cry from pleasure, and then faster, and then—God—slow again like a punishment.
“Hold on,” you say when Cate pitches her hips back to chase it, a little slap to Cate’s ass that makes her clench. “Let me. You asked. I heard.”
“I’m so close,” Cate moans. It’s not quite true. She’s hovering, refusing to drop because she wants the bite at the same time, wants the sharp and the sweet braided together so she’ll think about it forever. “Please.”
“Shh.” Your hand shifts from Cate’s hip to her belly, pressing down as you thrust, pinning Cate to the mattress in a way that rearranges her thoughts. Cate keens. “I’ve got you.”
The knot builds at the base of your cock, a thickening you can’t hide even when you aren't in rut. Cate feels it and goes feral, shame lost in a rush of want. She pushes back helplessly, hungry for the lock it promises, for the fullness that makes her feel delirious and cherished at once.
“Baby,” Cate says, breath breaking. “Baby, bite me. Please, daddy, please, do it, I want—”
You stop moving.
Cate sobs—frustrated, pleading—and then your hand is on her throat, gentle and absolute, drawing her up from the mattress until Cate is arching into the cradle of your body, cock still deep. Your other hand slides up, palm settling over Cate’s sternum, holding her there. Cate trembles.
“You’re sure,” you ask again, and there’s nothing but the promise of it, no duty, no anything but choices. “You want the bond. You want me to tie myself to you.”
“Yes,” Cate says, dizzy, happy enough to die of it. “Tie to me. I want to be—” She can’t say owned, it sticks in her throat. Instead she says, “I want to be yours. I want you to be mine.”
You exhale into her hair like you’ve been sprinting since September and have only just stopped. Cate feels the moment you decide, something inside you easing and making room.
“Hands,” you say, and Cate lifts them where she’s told, reaches back, laces her fingers behind your neck. You bury your nose behind Cate’s ear and inhale, and Cate hears the tremor you’re trying to hide. “I’m going to mark you.”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to bond with you.”
“Yes.” Cate’s eyes sting.
“And you’re going to cum on my cock while I do it.”
Cate laughs, wet and a little wild. “Obviously.”
You bite—first a scrape against the wrong spot, warning heat, a test—and Cate shivers all over. Then lower, where it’ll show if Cate tilts her head just so. The pressure is enormous. Cate all but sobs, not from pain—there is pain, yes, a bright warmth that makes her clench around you so hard you swear into her skin—but it comes paired with something else, a flood through her body that feels like rain hitting parched earth. Cate thinks of all the ways she’s been empty before this. She clings as she’s filled, opening her mouth on an astonished little cry that might be your name.
Your cock jerks. The knot swells as you push, one hand holding down on Cate’s belly again, keeping her flush as you lock together. The catch and pop as the knot passes the ring of muscle makes Cate wail. The bite seals at the same second the knot locks you, two kinds of tether in the air between heartbeats. Cate falls through it like a trapdoor.
“Cate,” you say into the bite, voice breaking like it doesn’t often do, and Cate comes. It’s not graceful. It’s not quiet. She clenches down around you and holds the knot and shakes through it, slick heat flooding where you’re joined, breath strangled into wet little gasps. You rock into her, slow, hips shifting as much as the knot allows, keeping her blissed out and shaking. The bite sings. The mouth over it gentles. You lick at the mess you made and Cate’s whole body arches. The taste must be iron and something sweeter because you make a greedy noise and Cate’s orgasm tips into a second one, less violent, more like a tide that finally reaches land.
You follow with a reverent noise as your cock throbs and throbs and throbs, the hot spill of your cum filling Cate to the brim. The bond flares: Cate feels it like an anchor thrown from your chest to hers and back, an echo that ignites—mine, mine, mine—in both your bodies until she’s dizzy with it. Your arms fold up around Cate as if to contain the aftershocks. Cate buries her face in the pillow and sobs out a laugh.
“Oh,” she says when she gets air. “Oh.”
You don't move. The knot holds you together, a too-perfect plug, the bite throbs in time with Cate’s pulse, and beneath it Cate can feel the bond easing into place, the initial burn cooling into something steady and marvelous, like a hearth finally lit.
“Okay?” You ask eventually, as if Cate hasn’t just levitated.
Cate hums, too drunk on the feeling to be articulate. Her cheek is pressed into your pillow, her body still trembling around the knot, and the whole room smells like you two now. Not you over Cate. Not Cate clinging to what you left behind. Both of you. Woven together, heat and sweat and slick and blood and cum, every inhale thick with the impossible fact of it.
“I love you,” Cate manages.
You go still.
The bond settles between you, alive and strong. Cate tries not to smile into the pillow because she isn’t manipulative, not really—not when it counts—except she is sometimes, and sometimes she plays with fire on purpose. Or with alphas. Same difference, really, except this time the fire has crawled into bed behind her and branded its name into her skin.
“You don’t have to say it back,” Cate says, softer, a spill of truth into the bed sheets. Her fingers curl uselessly into the pillowcase, searching for something to hold because she can’t reach you from this angle without moving too much, and the knot keeps her pinned in place with a sweet, aching finality. “I just—” She swallows, cheek hot against the rumpled cotton. “Now you know.”
You make a sound Cate has never heard from you before. Not quite a laugh. Not quite pained. Something dragged up from under the armor, raw and startled by the weight of the moment.
You wrap a hand around Cate’s wrist and bring it down over Cate’s chest, flattening Cate’s palm there until Cate can feel her own heartbeat hammering under her ribs. Then you cover it with your own hand, broad and warm and shaking just slightly.
“I love you,” you exhale.
Cate’s vision does a funny, stupid kaleidoscope thing. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Your laugh is ragged, joy pulled free. “Yeah, baby.”
You nuzzle the mark like you can’t stop touching it, your mouth careful around the swollen edge of the bite, thumb stroking the hinge of Cate’s jaw. The bond pulses with each touch, sending little golden sparks of sensation through Cate’s chest and down her spine. Your cock pulses inside her again, not with the hard urgency of before, but with some aftershock of possessive awe.
“I didn’t know,” you say.
Cate blinks slowly. “Didn’t know what?”
You’re quiet for a second, and through the bond Cate feels the shape of it before the words come: fear, wonder, a sudden violent tenderness, the awful collapsing realization that something you’d been treating like appetite had never been hunger at all.
“I didn’t know it would feel like this.” Your voice scrapes low. “I thought I knew. I thought it was just—instinct. Alpha bullshit. Body doing what bodies do. Help someone through heat, make it good, walk away before anything has teeth.” She swallows against Cate’s shoulder, breath hot against the bite. “But this?”
Cate’s throat tightens.
You press closer, as much as the knot allows, one arm folding around Cate’s stomach. It’s not performative. It’s not confident. It’s need made physical, your body saying what your voice is still learning how to survive.
“This is different,” you exhale. “You’re different.”
Cate’s heart turns over so hard it hurts. “Baby.”
“No, listen.” You kiss beside the mark again, then rest your forehead there, almost bowed over Cate. “I kept telling myself I was useful. That it didn’t mean anything if I didn’t mark anyone, didn’t stay, didn’t give them anything they couldn’t get from somebody else. And maybe that was true. Maybe it was true enough.” Your fingers flex over Cate’s ribs. “But I don’t want that anymore.”
Cate goes absolutely still beneath you.
The room narrows to the slow, wet pulse of where you’re joined, the ache of your knot still lodged deep, the burn of the bite cooling into a claim. Cate is afraid to breathe too loudly in case she startles the words back into your mouth.
You exhale, rough and certain.
“I don’t want anyone else,” you say. “Not like that. Not after this. Not after you.”
Cate makes a small, wounded noise, because that is exactly the sentence she has wanted so badly but taught herself not to ask for directly.
You hear it. Of course you do. You hear everything when it matters. Your hand slides up from Cate’s chest to her throat, not gripping, just covering the mark with your palm like you can keep it warm.
“You get me,” you say. “Not first. Not the most. Not when I have time left over.” Your voice hardens there, not cruel, just done making loopholes for yourself. “Only you get me.”
Cate’s eyes sting so fast she has no time to prepare dignity. “You mean that?”
You huff a breath against her skin, half offended Cate could even ask, half wrecked because of course Cate needs the confirmation. “Yeah, baby. I mean that.”
“But the others—”
“Can find someone else.” You say it plainly, and there’s no bravado in it, no casual cruelty. Just the clean click of a decision being made. “I’m not the campus heat relief program. I’m not community property. I was acting like I could be touched by everyone and owned by no one, and maybe that worked before because I didn’t want to belong anywhere badly enough to stop.” Your mouth brushes Cate’s ear. “But I belong here.”
Cate’s breath breaks.
Your hand tightens, not enough to hurt. Enough to anchor. “With you.”
Something in Cate folds and unfolds all at once. She wants to preen. She wants to cry. She wants to turn around and claw her way inside your ribs and sleep there for the winter. Instead she presses her palm over your hand at her throat, holding it against the bite.
“I’m selfish,” Cate whispers.
“A little bit.”
Cate laughs, watery and helpless. “Rude.”
“It’s true.” You kiss the corner of her mouth when Cate twists enough to offer it, the angle awkward, your bodies still locked too tightly for grace. “You’re selfish. You’re jealous. You’re a nightmare when you think you’re not getting enough attention.”
Cate should argue. She doesn’t. “And?”
“And I love you, anyway.” You say it easier the second time. “And I like that you want me like that. I like that you want the whole fucking thing. I like that you weren’t going to settle for scraps and pretend you didn’t know you deserved better.”
Cate’s tears finally slip, hot against the bridge of her nose where it’s mashed into the pillow. “I hated it.”
“I know.”
“I hated smelling them on you.” The confession comes out thin, ugly, childish, and therefore true. “I hated pretending I didn’t. I hated being good about it.”
You go quiet, and the bond gives Cate the truth of your guilt before you can smooth it over. It doesn’t feel defensive. It feels like pain finding the bruise it made.
“I’m sorry,” you say.
Cate closes her eyes. The apology moves through her with almost unbearable tenderness. “I know you weren’t trying to hurt me.”
“No.” Your voice is low, rough. “But I did.”
Cate swallows. “A little.”
You press a kiss to her shoulder, then another to the mark itself, so soft Cate’s whole body quivers around you. “No more.”
The words are small. Sturdy. A bridge built board by board across a river Cate had nearly drowned in.
“No more?” Cate asks, because she needs to hear it again. She will probably need to hear it fifty more times. You, cruelly and perfectly, seem to know.
“No more,” you repeat. “No one else. I’m yours.”
Cate’s smile trembles into something almost feral. “Say that again.”
Your laugh warms the side of her throat. “Greedy.”
“Yes.”
“Mine,” you murmur against the bite, making Cate gasp at the little bright pulse it sends through the bond. “My omega. My girl. My Cate.”
Cate goes boneless, ruined by every word.
“And I’m yours,” you add, quieter, the sentence offered without armor. “Only yours.”
You breathe together. The knot loosens slowly, easing you into a little slide that makes Cate shiver all over again. When it goes, Cate whimpers at the sudden emptiness and then blushes at herself for it. You hold her steady through the release, murmuring sweet nothings into the bite.
There’s an ache when Cate shifts, the kind that really only wants more. She doesn’t want to move, but you’re slick and messy, the sheets a crime scene of longing. You slip out of bed reluctantly and return with a warm washcloth that makes Cate mewl. You clean between Cate’s thighs with the kind of care Cate’s mother used to reserve for skinned knees and birthday cake icing on cheeks. Cate melts, pliant.
“Let me look,” you say when you’re done, and Cate bares her throat without thinking, tipping her chin up, hair a wreck, eyes sleepy.
You look like you’re looking at an eclipse. You touch the edges of the bite—gentle, reverent—and then kiss a good inch away from it like you’re restraining yourself. The restraint finds its way to Cate through the bond. It feels like a hand pressed over a drum to stop the beat from growing too wild.
“Is it awful?” Cate asks, flirting because it’s easy when she is this owned.
“It’s perfect,” you say, and then ruin Cate by laughing, soft and wrecked. “It’s so pretty on you I want to cry.”
Cate beams, and the insecurities that had sat like stones in her gut for months simply…aren’t there anymore. There’s your breathing, and the bond humming like a freshly tuned instrument, and a future that smells like citrus soap and old leather and the metallic sweetness of blood remembered fondly.
“Will they know?” Cate asks, greedy still, because there’s a part of her that wants to parade the mark across the quad like a medal. “That you’re not theirs anymore?”
Your expression changes.
Not dramatically. But something settles in your face, some quiet, possessive certainty that makes Cate’s stomach go warm all over again.
“Only when you’re ready.” You fetch a long-sleeve from your drawer and help Cate into it like she’s breakable, like it’s a game you both enjoy too much to quit. The shirt is too big. You look delighted with yourself. “You can keep it hidden until you’re ready to show off.” Your grin goes sharp and smug at the edges. “And when you do, I expect chaos.”
Cate lets the sleeves fall over her hands, soft and ridiculous, and tilts her chin just enough to make the fresh bite pull. “Jealous?”
You cock a brow and drop a kiss to the inner curve of Cate’s wrist. “Proud.”
Cate rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling, which looks exactly like every other college dorm ceiling—a little cracked, a little yellow at the corners—but for the first time since she set foot on campus, hers to look at like this. You stretch out beside her, damp hair bleeding onto the pillowcase, and Cate rolls to face you. The hood of the hoodie she abandoned gapes from the chair in the corner. She’ll wear it tomorrow. She’ll wear it on purpose.
“Stay,” you say, casual and careful, as if this isn’t the thing Cate has built a cathedral out of in the back of her mind.
Cate shoves her toes under your calf. “Yes, daddy.”
Your laugh is as soft as the sheet. “You’re going to kill me.”
“You’re a big strong alpha,” Cate says sweetly. “You’ll survive.”
“Mm.” You lift your hand and lay it, slowly, over the mark. Cate shivers. The bond hums. “We will.”
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand like a wasp. You ignore it at first. Cate, because she’s nosy and high on love, glances anyway.
The name on the screen belongs to an omega from Cate’s bio seminar, a pretty girl with a soft mouth who’d once asked you politely if you had time this weekend. You’d apologized, midterms had been hell, and the line had been long.
Cate’s good mood curdles for half a second, old jealousy lifting its little poisonous head. “Do you need—” Cate starts, because she wants to be good, and stops, because she wants to be selfish. Her fingers drift to the bite before she can stop herself. “Do you want to take that?”
Your gaze flicks from the phone to Cate’s face. Something amused and possessive settles in your mouth.
“No,” you say. Then you reach past Cate, pick up the phone, unlock it, and hold it out. “You can answer.”
Cate blinks.
The bond gives her a warm flare of your certainty, steady and shameless. No reluctance. No test. Just the clean offer of the thing Cate has wanted all this time: proof, placed in her hand.
“I can?” Cate asks, softer than she means to.
Your thumb strokes the edge of the mark, making Cate’s lashes flutter. “Yeah, baby. Tell her.”
Cate takes the phone with hands that are only a little shaky. The message is exactly what she expects, politely needy, heat-adjacent, wrapped in enough casual punctuation to pretend it’s not a request. Cate reads it once, then looks up.
You're watching her like she’s beautiful and dangerous and entirely yours.
That helps.
Cate opens the camera first. She angles herself carefully, hair pushed back, your too-big shirt slipping off one shoulder just enough to show the fresh bite dark against her throat. It’s swollen and unmistakable, a bruise-shaped signature, your claim written where anyone with a nose and half a brain could understand it. Cate snaps the picture, studies it, then sends it before she can lose her nerve.
Under it, she types:
This alpha’s off the market. Sorry 💕
She stares at the words for one charged second, heart thudding, then hits send.
You make a low sound behind her, half laugh, half growl, and Cate barely has time to set the phone down before your arm hooks around her waist and drags her back against your chest.
“Sorry?” You murmur against Cate’s ear, delighted and appalled in equal measure. “That’s what we’re going with?”
Cate tips her chin, giving you better access to the mark. “I’m being polite.”
“You sent a bite picture.”
“Yes.” Cate’s smile blooms slow and wicked. “Politely.”
You laugh into her neck, and the bond warms so brightly Cate almost forgets how to breathe. The phone buzzes again a few seconds later, then again, then stops. Cate doesn’t look. You do. You reach over, flip the phone facedown, and settle your hand back at Cate’s throat, thumb brushing the edge of the bite as if you’re sealing the room shut around you both.
“Done,” you say.
Cate’s pulse jumps beneath her palm. “Done?”
“With everyone else.” You kiss the mark once, slow enough to make Cate’s thighs tense. “With that. With anything that isn’t this.”
Cate’s breath catches, and your mouth curves against her skin like you felt it through the bond.
“Now,” you say, and your voice does the thing it does when you have plans that end in Cate making embarrassing sounds, “I’m going to put my tongue in you and see how sensitive a newly bonded omega can get before she cries. Then I’m going to feed you again. Then we’re going to nap, and when you wake up you’re going to ride me until you forget your own name and only remember mine. And then—if you’re very, very good—I’ll take you for a walk across campus with your hair up and your bite out and my scent all over you, and we’ll watch the way people look.”
Cate should play coy, but she’s constitutionally unable to. “I’m always good.”
“Debatable,” you say, clearly delighted. You roll onto your side and kiss Cate like a seal pressed in wax. Cate yields and takes in the taste of herself and the last, thin trace of iron and the particular mint on your breath that she will now forever associate with morning afters and the evenings before them. When you lift your head, Cate’s eyes blur again.
“Hey,” You say softly, thumb swiping under an eye where nothing has yet fallen. “You okay?”
“I’m happy.” It sounds like a confession. Cate doesn’t care. “I didn’t know I could be.”
Your jaw works. The color of your eyes deepens. The bond thrums, resonance across a new bridge. “You’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” Cate echoes, a greedy little song. She tugs the too-long sleeves down over her hands and lets you tangle your fingers together anyway, fabric rasping between your palms. “And you’re mine.”
“Always.” You kiss the corner of her mouth, then the bite again, as if to prove it—as if proof is still necessary after what you’ve just done together. Maybe it is, maybe it always will be. Cate likes the idea of collecting proof for the rest of your lives.
Your mouth trails down, and down, and down. Cate opens for you like morning glory. The ache of the bite keeps perfect time with her pulse, the bond purrs, the hoodie sighs in the corner, haloed by sunlight that didn’t know it was walking into a room with a new center of gravity.
Cate thinks about campus, and the bench, and the girls who looked at you like you were an altar. Cate respects the worship. Cate understands it. Cate will still smile when she catches them staring, a little sharp, a little mean, a lot joyous, and she will tilt her head to show them the mark. There’s no shame in claiming—there’s only relief.
Your thumb drifts over the bite, and the imagined quad dissolves under the pressure of your touch. Campus can wait. The staring, the whispers, the bright little violence of being seen can all wait. Right now there is only the room, the sheets, the slow heat of you moving down her body with infuriating devotion, and Cate realizing, with a shiver that starts under your mouth and ends between her thighs, that being claimed is not the end of wanting. It’s a door opening into a whole new world.
You take your time getting there.
It’s the meanest thing about you, Cate thinks, which is unfair because you’re currently being devastatingly gentle. Still, Cate has a brand-new mark throbbing at her throat, your cum still warm and messy between her thighs, and every inch of her feels peeled open. She doesn’t have the patience for reverence. She wants teeth and tongue and proof, wants you to put your mouth on her like Cate’s body is the only language either of you has left.
The worst part is that everything is different now. Not different in shape, not really. Your hands still know where to hold her, your mouth still knows how to make Cate forget the architecture of language, your body is still the same impossible geography Cate has been studying for months. But the bond has tuned every nerve between you two until pleasure stops belonging to only one body at a time. Cate feels your hunger answer her own. Feels the low, dark satisfaction you try to hide every time Cate whimpers. Feels every lick and touch and thrust reverberate twice, once in her skin and again through that new cord pulled tight between both of your ribs. It is obscene, how intimate it is. How there is nowhere for either of you to pretend distance exists anymore.
Because you’re cruel and know it, you start at Cate’s knee.
Cate makes a wounded sound into the pillow. “Baby.”
“Mm.” You kiss the inside of her knee, then the tender place above it, slow and deliberate. Your hands are wrapped around Cate’s thighs, keeping them open without forcing them wider than Cate can comfortably give. It’s not restraint yet. It’s possession with manners. “You’re sensitive.”
“I wonder why.”
You laugh softly against her skin. The vibration skates up Cate’s leg and lands low in her belly, where everything is already too hot, too swollen, too aware. Your knot is gone now, but its absence has become its own kind of ache. Cate can feel the stretch you left behind, the slow wet drip of where she’s been filled, the humiliating little pulse of her body trying to keep every last bit of you inside.
You notice. Per usual.
Your thumb drags through the slick of Cate’s cunt, slow enough to be obscene. Cate’s hips twitch before she can stop them.
“Look at you,” you murmur, and Cate hates how quickly praise turns her molten. “Still trying to keep me.”
Cate lifts her head just enough to glare, though it is ruined somewhat by the fact that her hair is mussed, her cheeks are flushed, and her mouth is still kissed pink. “Don’t be smug.”
“I’m being factual.”
“You’re being unbearable.”
Your mouth presses to the inside of her thigh again, closer this time. “You love that.”
Cate could deny it if she had any dignity left, but dignity is apparently in the same place as her underwear and higher reasoning, which is to say gone. “A little,” she admits.
Your eyes flick up. Dark and glittering with it. “Only a little?”
Cate’s breath catches because your mouth is inches from her cunt now, because the air cools every wet place you’ve left exposed, because the bite at Cate’s throat pulses when you inhale. The bond sends something through you both, a little echo of hunger doubling back on itself until Cate’s thighs shake under your hands.
“Fine,” Cate whispers. “A lot.”
“Good girl.”
Cate’s head drops back.
You don't make her wait after that. You lower your mouth and licks into her with one broad, unhurried stroke that turns Cate’s spine to ribbons. It’s not delicate. It’s not tentative. You eat her like you’re tasting what you’ve claimed, like the mess between Cate’s thighs is evidence you intend to study thoroughly. Your tongue drags up through swollen slick, catches over Cate’s clit, then dips lower again, and Cate makes a sound so high and helpless she feels embarrassed for half a second before you groan into her.
That groan finishes off whatever remained of Cate’s pride.
She grabs at the sheet with both hands and tries not to clamp her thighs around your head. Your grip tightens, holding her open, thumbs pressing into soft flesh with just enough pressure to remind Cate she’s not getting away unless she actually asks to. The thought makes her entire body burn hotter, which is both predictable and deeply unfair.
“Baby,” she gasps.
You hum in answer, mouth occupied, and Cate’s vision crackles white.
The first orgasm creeps up on her. It doesn’t crash all at once—it gathers in little tremors, in the wet press of your mouth, in the precise flick of your tongue, in the scrape of your nose against sensitive skin. Cate tries to breathe through it, tries to stay elegant in some impossible, theoretical way. Then you slide two fingers inside her, careful through the tenderness, and curl them exactly where Cate is already wrecked.
Cate comes with a broken little cry, hips bucking into your mouth despite herself.
You hold her through it. That’s the thing that undoes Cate. Not just the pleasure, not just the sharp bright pulse of release, but your hands steady at her thighs, your mouth softening without stopping, swallowing every twitch and gasp like it belongs to you. The bond flares, warm and golden behind Cate’s ribs, and for a moment Cate feels your satisfaction through it. Not pride exactly. Not conquest.
Devotion.
Cate sobs on the tail end of it, startled by herself.
You lift your mouth only enough to kiss the inside of Cate’s thigh, lips wet, breath hot. “You okay?”
Cate laughs weakly, because of course you ask after making her see God and two minor campus deities. “Mhm.”
“You cried.”
“You said you were going to see if you could make me.”
“I did.” Your mouth curves against her skin. “Fast results. Very efficient.”
Cate slaps at your shoulder with no force at all. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” You kiss her clit, quick and light.
Cate yelps your name.
“There she is.” Your grin is audible. “Still got my whole name in there somewhere.”
“Barely.”
“Then we’re not done.”
Cate opens her mouth to complain, but you're already back between her thighs, and the argument leaves her body in a shudder. The second time is worse because Cate knows it’s coming. The sensitivity has sharpened into something unbearable, pleasure threaded with too much feeling, every pass of your tongue tugging at the fresh bond until Cate can’t tell whether the heat is between her legs or under her sternum. You keep one hand on Cate’s thigh and slide the other up her body, palm spreading over her lower belly, then her ribs, then the center of her chest.
Cate catches that hand with both of hers and holds on.
“Please,” she whispers, though she doesn’t know if she’s asking you to stop or keep going. You know. You always know in the exact way Cate both needs and resents.
You slow—which is somehow worse. Your tongue turns patient, coaxing, worshipful, each touch drawn out until Cate is shaking before she’s even close again. You don't force it. You let it build. Let Cate arch and whimper and press her heels into the mattress. Let her breathe. Let her fall apart by degrees.
Cate’s second orgasm rolls through her softer but deeper, a long trembling spill that leaves her body loose and flushed and wet-eyed. She doesn’t cry out this time. She just goes silent, mouth open, fingers clamped around your hand while the pleasure empties her of everything but warmth.
You kiss your way up slowly after, ignoring the mess on your mouth with the serene shamelessness of a woman who has no intention of apologizing for any of it. Cate watches through heavy lashes as you crawl over her, careful not to press too much weight onto her. The sight of you should be illegal: damp hair falling over your forehead, pupils wide, lips glossy from Cate, expression softened into something almost unbearably fond.
Cate reaches for you before she can think better of it.
You let yourself be pulled down. Your kiss is messy and slow, and Cate tastes herself on your tongue, tastes the salt and slick and faint iron from the bite you kept worrying with your mouth. It should make her shy. It doesn’t. It makes her clutch at your shoulders and drag you closer, needy even in exhaustion.
“You’re okay,” you murmur against her mouth.
Cate nods, then shakes her head, then nods again.
You still. “Words, baby.”
“I’m okay.” Cate’s voice is hoarse. She blinks, and one tear slips sideways into her hair. “I’m just…a lot okay.”
Your face changes. The amusement goes soft at the edges, leaving only the care beneath it. You kiss the tear before it can cool, then kiss Cate’s cheek, the corner of her mouth, the bite. Cate shivers when your lips brush the swollen mark.
“Too much?”
“No.” Cate’s hands slide up your back, restless and weak. “No, don’t make that face.”
“What face?”
“The face where you decide I’m made of glass.”
You snort, but the sound is tender. “You’re currently doing a very good impression of it.”
“I’m not glass.” Cate tucks her chin stubbornly, which pulls at the bite and makes her wince. “I’m just newly bonded and sexually victimized by your mouth.”
A laugh bursts out of you, sudden and delighted, warming the whole room. “Sexually victimized?”
“With enthusiasm,” Cate clarifies.
“Good to know.”
“With consent.”
“Obviously.”
“With maybe more later?”
Your eyes darken again, but you only brush Cate’s hair back from her face. “Maybe later,” you agree. “After water. And a nap. And you stop trembling.”
Cate had not realized she was. Now that you say it, she feels the fine vibration through her thighs, her stomach, her hands. Not fear. Not distress. Just the aftermath of it, her body ringing like a bell struck too many times.
You move carefully, one hand stroking Cate’s hip as you shift off the bed. Cate makes a small unhappy sound at the loss of weight.
“I’m two feet away,” you say.
“That’s far.”
“You’ll live.”
“Unconfirmed.”
You give her a look over one shoulder, fond and dry, then disappear towards the mini fridge. Cate lies there boneless and listening: the fridge door, the clink of glass, a drawer opening, the faint peel of a yogurt lid. The window is cracked, and cold air threads through the overheated room, raising goosebumps along Cate’s bare legs. The scent is riotous. Sex, bond, your alpha warmth sunk into the sheets, Cate’s slick drying tacky at her thighs. It should feel embarrassing. Instead, it feels like evidence.
You come back with a bowl and a glass of water balanced in one hand. Competence as foreplay. Cate hates you.
“Sit up a little.”
Cate doesn’t move. “I can’t. You broke me.”
“Mm.” You set the glass down and slide an arm behind Cate’s shoulders, lifting her with infuriating ease. “My condolences.”
Cate lets herself be propped against the pillows, because being handled is different when you do it. You’ve put on boxers by now, but nothing else, which Cate finds rude and considerate in equal measure. The bowl is yogurt with honey and strawberries sliced into it. You feed her the first spoonful without ceremony.
Cate accepts it, lashes lowering. “This is very alpha of you.”
“Feeding you?”
“Feeding me after fucking me stupid.”
Your mouth twitches. “You were stupid before.”
Cate kicks you under the sheet.
“Violence,” you say solemnly. “From the patient.”
“I’m not a patient.”
“You’re definitely under observation.”
Cate opens her mouth for the next bite because arguing is harder than eating, and because the honey is good, and because your face does something devastating every time Cate obeys. The first few spoonfuls settle her more than she wants to admit. Her body, traitorous and grateful, stops shaking quite so much. The bond hums lower, no longer a bonfire, more like banked coals.
You watch every swallow like it matters.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Cate says eventually.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m—” She gestures vaguely with the spoon you’ve let her steal. “A miracle or something.”
Your expression barely changes, but the bond gives you away. A flare of feeling, private and unguarded.
Cate goes quiet.
“You kind of are,” you admit.
The spoon lowers in Cate’s hand. She looks away first, because there are some kinds of sincerity that feel almost obscene after sex, more intimate than any mouth between her thighs. You don’t chase the eye contact. You simply take the spoon back, scoop another bite, and offer it.
Cate eats.
After the yogurt, you make her drink half the water, then wipe her thighs with a warm cloth again, slower this time. Cate’s skin is too sensitive. Every brush makes her twitch, and you murmur apologies without stopping the necessary care. It’s absurd, how undone Cate is by being cleaned. By being fussed over. By your hand steady at her ankle, turning her gently, making sure she isn’t sticky or cold or uncomfortable.
When Cate is finally tucked under the sheets, you crawl in behind her and pull her onto the cool side of the bed. Cate groans at the relief of it. The pillowcase is chilled. The cracked window lets in a ribbon of air that cuts through the room’s heat and makes the bond bite ache sweetly.
You settle close but not smothering, one arm around Cate’s waist, palm spread over her stomach. Cate wriggles backward until she’s pressed fully against you. You give in with a soft huff and hook a leg over hers.
“Better?”
Cate nods, then remembers. “Yes.”
You kiss the back of her shoulder. “Sleep.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m basking.”
“In what?”
Cate closes her eyes. The room smells like sex and strawberries and cold air, like your skin and Cate’s shampoo and the dark, animal proof of your new shared bond. Her body is sore in places she wants to keep remembering. Her throat throbs. Her heartbeat has slowed, finally convinced it doesn’t have to run.
“In being yours,” Cate says.
Your arm tightens.
For once, you don’t make a joke. You just press your mouth to the bite and stay there, breathing against it until Cate’s thoughts loosen and drift. The last thing Cate feels before sleep takes her is your thumb stroking small, absent circles over her belly, right above where she can still feel the deep, satisfied ache of being filled.
She wakes because you're touching the bite.
Not roughly. Not even enough to wake her on purpose, Cate thinks, surfacing through sleep in slow, syrupy pieces. The room is blue at the edges now, afternoon cooled toward evening, the cracked window breathing winter into the overheated dark. Her body is warm under the sheet and sore in that deep, used way that makes every small movement bring you back to her in flashes. You're behind her, chest to her back, mouth at Cate’s neck, fingers resting lightly around the mark as if you’ve found some holy thing and still haven't decided whether you’re allowed to keep it.
Cate keeps her eyes closed for a second, shamelessly listening.
Your breathing is steady, but not asleep steady. Awake steady. Watching her sleep steady. The bond between you hums low and warm, drowsy, and beneath it Cate can feel your want before you say anything, before you shift, before the hard length of you nudges more deliberately against the curve of Cate’s ass.
Cate smiles into the pillow.
“Are you pretending to be asleep?” You ask, voice rough from the nap.
“No.”
“Convincing.”
“I’m resting my eyes.”
“You’re grinding on me.”
Cate opens one eye. She is, technically, pushing back in tiny, slow movements that could be mistaken for sleep if you were stupid, blind, or dead. Unfortunately, you're none of those things. Your hand slips from the bite to Cate’s waist, fingers spreading under the shirt, palm warm against bare skin.
Cate lets out a tiny sigh, all wounded innocence. “My body misses you.”
You huff a laugh into the nape of her neck. “Your body has had a very busy day.”
“My body is committed.”
“Your body is spoiled.”
Cate turns carefully, muscles protesting in small, delicious sparks. You help her, one hand braced at Cate’s hip, the other under her shoulder until Cate is on her back with you over her. The shift pulls at every sensitive place. Cate makes a sound before she can swallow it, and you still immediately, eyes sharpening.
“Too sore?”
Cate shakes her head, then stops because that makes the bite tug. “Not too sore.” Her voice comes out sleepy and earnest. “Just aware.”
Your gaze drops to Cate’s mouth. “Aware.”
“Very.”
“Yeah?” You kiss her chin, then the corner of her mouth, missing on purpose. “Aware where?”
Cate should refuse to answer out of principle. The problem is that she has no principles left, only your hand on her waist and the steady ache low in her belly where she’s empty again. The nap has done something terrible to her. It has turned the frantic edge of need into something slower, heavier, more intimate. She doesn’t feel feverish now. She feels hungry in the old-fashioned sense: body awake, mouth dry, thighs parting before she gives them permission.
“Everywhere,” Cate says.
Your smile flickers. “Specificity, Dunlap.”
Cate hooks a knee around your hip, dragging you closer. “Inside.”
The word changes the atmosphere of the room.
Your amusement thins into something darker, more focused. Your hand slides down Cate’s thigh, following the line of muscle with slow possession, and Cate watches you watching. That might be the worst part, how you look at her now, not like a girl you’re about to fuck, not like a problem you’re trying to solve—like a bond you made and still can’t believe answered back.
“Still want to ride me?” You ask.
Cate’s pulse jumps hard enough to make the bite throb. She’d almost forgotten you said that before the nap, not because she didn’t care, but because the day has been a series of impossible gifts and her brain can only hold so much joy before it starts dropping pieces on the floor.
“Yes,” she says instantly, then, softer because the want exposes her, “If you still want me to.”
Your face does something complicated. It passes quickly, but the bond gives Cate the truth of it: the startled ache of being asked, the violent tenderness of being wanted gently. You duck your head and kiss Cate’s mouth, slow enough that Cate feels the answer before she hears it.
“Always,” you say.
You roll with easy care, pulling Cate with you until you're on your back against the pillows and Cate is straddling your hips. The sheet slips down Cate’s thighs. The borrowed shirt hangs crooked off one shoulder, the collar stretched just enough that the bite sits visible in the dim blue light. You see it and lose half a breath.
Cate straightens a little, letting her hair fall back, letting the shirt pull farther down her shoulder, letting the mark show. The movement makes her thighs tremble around your hips, but she holds the pose for one shining second because your expression is worth the effort. Dark-eyed, open-mouthed, utterly caught.
“Pretty?” Cate asks, unbearably pleased with herself.
Your hands close on her waist. “Dangerous question.”
“Answer it.”
Your thumbs stroke up the narrowest part of her waist, under the shirt, then back down. “So pretty I’m considering doing something embarrassing.”
Cate tips her head. “Like what?”
“Keeping you in this bed forever.”
Cate’s smile warms and goes soft at the same time. “That’s not embarrassing. It’s romantic.”
“It’s kidnapping with benefits."
“I’d write you a glowing review.”
You laugh, and Cate leans down to kiss you. It starts sweet, sleepy, full of the strange tenderness of waking up already held. Then your hands slide lower, grip the curve of Cate’s ass, and pull her forward until Cate’s cunt drags along your cock where it rests already hard against your stomach.
Cate breaks the kiss with a gasp.
“There,” you murmur. “That where you’re aware?”
Cate nods, mouth parted. “Yes.”
You do it again, guiding her, dragging her back and forth along the length of you. The slide is messy almost immediately, Cate still wet from before, still leaking a little of you, the friction catching on her clit in a way that makes her spine arch. The head of your cock nudges near her entrance every time Cate rocks back, not going in, just threatening to. Cate’s hands brace on your chest, fingers splayed over the soft rise of breast and muscle, over the heartbeat kicking beneath.
“Don’t tease,” Cate whispers.
You look up at her with lazy ruin in your eyes. “I’m not teasing.”
“You’re absolutely teasing.”
“I’m warming you up.”
“I’m warm.”
“You’re also sore.”
Cate hates that you're right. She hates even more that the care works on her. Her body melts around it, softening because you're paying attention, because you know when to hold back and when to press, because your thumbs are steady at her hips and your voice is low enough to crawl under Cate’s skin.
You reach between your bodies, wrap a hand around your cock, and angle it with infuriating patience. Cate feels the blunt head settle against her, slick and hot, and her breath stops. The bond flares. Your eyes flick to her throat like you can feel the mark answer.
“Slow,” you say.
Cate nods, but the first inch still steals the air out of her.
It’s different on top. She knows this, obviously, but knowing and feeling are two separate disasters. Her thighs shake with the effort of controlling the descent, of taking you into her body by degrees instead of being opened from behind or held down through it. The stretch is both familiar and new, because she can choose every fraction. She can stop. She can sink. She can watch your face change as she takes you.
Your hands stay at her waist, not forcing, not dragging her down, just there. Anchors. Permission. Want.
“Good girl,” you say, voice barely steady. “Just like that.”
Cate whimpers. Praise sometimes slides through her faster than touch. She lowers another inch, breathing through the pressure, through the sensitive ache left from the knot, through the way your cock fills her so perfectly she has to close her eyes.
“No, look at me.”
Cate’s eyes fly open.
You're staring up at her, jaw tight, hair mussed from sleep, freckles shadowed in the low light. Your whole body is controlled beneath Cate, rigid with restraint, and that does something awful and gorgeous to Cate’s chest. You could take over so easily. You could grab her hips and fuck up into her and make Cate helpless in three seconds flat.
You don't.
You let Cate have it.
The thought makes Cate sink the rest of the way down.
You both make a sound. Cate’s is a broken little sob, yours is a low curse, punched out of you. Cate sits there fully seated, you buried inside her, and for a moment neither of you move. The fullness is enormous. Not just physical, though God, that too, the thick pressure of you stretching her open and sitting deep enough to make every muscle flutter. But the bond takes it and gives it back doubled. Full in her body. Full in her throat. Full under her ribs where your want presses against hers until she can’t tell whose ache started first.
Cate laughs once, breathless and close to tears.
Your thumbs stroke her waist. “What?”
“Nothing.” Cate wipes at one eye with the heel of her hand and looks mortified immediately. “I’m just happy.”
Your expression softens so hard it almost hurts to see. “C’mere.”
Cate leans down carefully, still joined, and you kiss her. Deep and slow. No urgency at first, just mouth and breath and the sweet, dizzying pressure of being held open around you. Cate rocks her hips by accident, a tiny shift, and you both gasp into the kiss.
“There she is,” you murmur against her mouth.
Cate sits up again, cheeks flushed. “Don’t sound so smug.”
“I’m incredibly smug.”
“I hate that.”
“You’re clenching around me while you say it.”
Cate closes her eyes for one long, suffering second. “I hate you.”
You grin. “Sure you do.”
Cate moves to punish you.
It’s meant to be dramatic, maybe even mean, a sharp little lift of her hips and a drop back down that will wipe that smug look off your face. Instead she gets halfway up, feels you drag along every oversensitive inch inside her, and nearly folds over. Her thighs quiver. Her hands slap down onto your chest for balance.
You catch her by the hips instantly. “Easy.”
“I’m fine,” Cate says, offended and panting.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m passionate.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“I’m bonded,” Cate shoots back, and then loses her breath when your eyes go dark.
“Yeah,” you say, and your hands tighten. “You are.”
This time when Cate rises, you help. Not controlling. Guiding. Your hands move with Cate’s hips, steadying the pace until Cate finds it: lift, slow drag, sink. Again. Again. Again. The rhythm starts clumsy because Cate’s body is too sensitive and her muscles are still loose from sleep, but you’re patient with her, unnervingly patient, murmuring praise every time Cate gets it right.
“That’s it.”
Cate’s mouth drops open.
“Just like that, baby.”
Her thighs tighten around your hips.
“Take what you need.”
Cate starts to ride you in earnest.
It’s slower than the way you usually fuck her, and somehow worse for it. There’s nowhere for Cate to hide from the sensation. Every descent is chosen, every rise a loss she immediately wants to correct. You fill her again and again, bare and hot, the drag slick and obscene, and Cate can feel the mess between her thighs, can feel the way her body has learned your shape and still trembles every time she takes you fully. The room fills with small sounds: the creak of the bed frame, the wet slide where you’re joined, Cate’s breath breaking on every other stroke, your low, almost reverent curses when Cate rolls her hips just right.
The first time Cate finds that angle, your head falls back.
Cate stills, panting.
You open one eye. “Don’t you dare.”
Cate smiles, slow as spilled honey. “Oh?”
“Cate.”
She does it again, grinding down instead of lifting, circling her hips until the pressure inside her turns sharp and bright. Your hands flex hard on her waist, and Cate feels the tremor through the bond: restraint, want, pride, desperation. All of it. The fact that she can make you feel this way with just a shift of her hips makes something darkly pleased unfurl in her.
“You like that,” Cate says.
You laugh once, rough and disbelieving. “No shit.”
Cate does it again.
You swear and sit up.
The motion changes everything. Cate slides down harder with the shift, gasping as your chest presses to hers, as your arms wrap around her back, as the bite at Cate’s throat brushes against your mouth. Suddenly Cate isn’t above you so much as wrapped around you, knees planted on either side of your hips, body held close while you look at the mark from inches away.
“Fuck,” you say quietly.
Cate’s breath shivers. “What?”
You don't answer with words. You kiss the bite.
Cate clenches so hard around you that you groan.
The mark is sensitive in a way Cate doesn’t have language for yet. Not pain exactly, though it aches. Not pleasure exactly, though it lights her up. It’s both and neither, a direct line from skin to bond to cunt, and you figure that out immediately because you're terrible and brilliant and hers. You kiss it again, softer, then drag your tongue along the swollen edge.
Cate sobs.
“There?” You ask, voice wrecked.
Cate nods frantically, hands scrambling into your hair. “There.”
Your grip slides to Cate’s lower back, holding her close while Cate rides you in smaller, deeper movements, grinding more than bouncing now, every roll of her hips forcing your cock to press hard inside her. You keep your mouth on the mark. Kiss it. Lick it. Scrape your teeth just beside it, never breaking skin again, just reminding Cate that you could.
Cate’s orgasm starts building too fast.
“I can’t,” she gasps, which is a lie and a plea and a warning.
“You can.” Your voice is soft. Certain. “You’re doing so good.”
Cate shakes her head, overwhelmed by the praise, the fullness, the bond roaring awake between you again. “It’s too much.”
You still immediately. “Too much stop or too much keep going?”
Cate hates that she has to answer because answering requires speech and speech requires a brain she no longer has. She grabs your wrist and drags your hand to the bite, pressing your palm over it.
“Keep going,” she manages. “Please.”
Your face changes again, pleasure and tenderness and something dangerously close to awe. You tighten your arm around Cate and thrust up once, carefully.
Cate cries out.
“There we go,” you murmur. “Hold on.”
Cate does. Barely.
You begin fucking up into her from below, not hard at first, not enough to take the rhythm away from Cate entirely. Just enough to meet her, to give her something to fall onto, to make every downward roll land deeper. Cate clings to your shoulders, face tucked against your neck now, mouth open against warm skin. She can smell herself on you. Smell the bite. Smell the bond. Smell the end of every lonely thing she used to pretend she didn’t want.
The orgasm hits her while your hand is still over the mark.
It tears through her in a bright, shaking wave, sharper than the ones before because she’s sitting so full, because you’re inside her and under her and around her, because the bond catches the pleasure and throws it back until Cate is sobbing into your shoulder. Her cunt clamps down around you in helpless pulses, body trying to hold you there, and you curse so softly it sounds almost devotional.
“That’s it,” you say, rocking her through it. “That’s my girl.”
Cate laughs and cries at the same time. It’s not dignified. It’s not even close. She’s shaking too hard to lift herself anymore, hips twitching uselessly, pleasure still spilling through her in little aftershocks.
You don't stop touching her. You slide both hands to Cate’s hips and help her move, slow, shallow rocks that keep you inside but don’t push Cate past where she can breathe. Your mouth presses to Cate’s hair, then her temple, then the corner of her eye where tears have gathered.
“Still with me?”
Cate nods against your neck. “Yes.”
“Just checking.”
“You’re annoyingly good at that.”
Your laugh is breathless. “At checking?”
“At being—” Cate loses the word when you shift your hips and the head of your cock drags over something still sparking. “Fuck.”
Your grin brushes her cheek. “At that?”
“Among other crimes.”
“Want to stop?”
Cate considers it. She really does. Her thighs are trembling, her body is sore, her throat aches, and she’s so sensitive that even the slight shift of you breathing under her makes her stomach tighten.
Then your knot starts to swell.
Cate feels it at the base, the gradual thickening, the promise of being locked full again. Her entire body answers before pride can interfere. She clenches. Your breath punches out.
“Oh,” Cate whispers.
You go very still. “Cate.”
“I want it.”
“You just came.”
“I know.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I know.”
“Baby.”
Cate lifts her head. It takes effort. Her hair is stuck to her cheek, her eyes wet, her mouth swollen, her bite dark and tender. She looks, she suspects, exactly like an omega who has been loved stupid and still wants more.
“Please,” she says, because there is no performance left to hide behind. “I want to feel you again.”
You stare at her for one long second, then kiss her hard.
The restraint breaks differently this time. Your hands are firmer when they grip Cate’s hips, your thrusts deeper, your mouth rougher against Cate’s as you guide Cate down harder to meet you. Cate moans into every stroke, too sensitive to be quiet, too far gone to care. The knot grows thicker, catching slightly on every downstroke now, making Cate’s body stretch around the promise of it.
“Almost,” you say, voice strained. “Fuck, Cate, almost.”
Cate presses her forehead to yours and rocks down with everything she has.
The knot catches.
For one suspended second, there’s resistance. Pressure, almost too much, the edge of pain blooming bright enough to make Cate gasp. You freeze, hands tightening, ready to stop.
Cate kisses you, messy and desperate. “Don’t.”
Your control frays with an audible breath.
You hold Cate steady and thrust up, not brutally, but with enough force to push through the tight ring of muscle. The knot slips inside with a thick, final pressure that makes Cate’s vision flare white.
Cate laughs.
She can’t help it. The sound breaks out of her, breathless and stunned and absurdly joyful, because the sensation is so enormous, so complete, so utterly ridiculous in its perfection that crying would be too small for it. She’s full. Locked. Held open around you again, body claimed from the inside while the bite burns at her throat like a second heartbeat.
You cum with your face buried against Cate’s neck.
The pulse of it is deep and unmistakable, your cock throbbing inside her, filling her again in hot, helpless waves. Cate’s laughter dissolves into a moan. She wraps her arms around your shoulders and holds on through every shudder, every breath, every tiny aftershock the bond sends singing through you both. The knot keeps you sealed together, and Cate, gone silly with happiness, giggles again against your hair.
You lift your head, eyes dazed. “Are you laughing at me?”
Cate nods, then shakes her head, then laughs harder because you look offended and ruined and beautiful. “No.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m laughing because I’m happy.”
Your expression softens all over again, helplessly. “Yeah?”
Cate nods, biting her lip around another little burst of laughter. “I’m full of you and I’m bonded to you and you’re stuck in me.” She makes a small, delighted sound, half sigh and half giggle, and tightens her arms around you. “This is the best thing that could ever happen to an omega.”
You stare at her, then drop your forehead to Cate’s shoulder and start laughing too.
It shakes both of you, which makes the knot tug, which makes Cate gasp, which makes you go still and apologetic, which makes Cate laugh again. For a minute you’re both useless. Sweaty and tangled and locked together, laughing like idiots in the dim room while the bond hums so brightly Cate can almost hear it.
Finally you groan and tip your bodies carefully sideways, keeping Cate on your lap but easing the strain out of her thighs. Cate clings, boneless now, her cheek tucked against your shoulder. The knot holds. Your hand slides up and down her back in slow, grounding strokes.
“You’re going to be impossible now,” you murmur.
“Now?” Cate smiles against your skin. “I was impossible before. Now I’m legally recognized.”
“By who?”
“The bond.”
You snort. “Very official.”
“It has paperwork.”
“Filed where?”
Cate presses a kiss to your neck, lazy and pleased. “My cunt.”
You choke on a laugh. “Jesus Christ.”
“You asked.”
Cate settles heavier against you, still smiling. Her body is one enormous ache now, but it’s pleasant, golden around the edges. The bite throbs. The knot pulses softer inside her as you come down, and each little shift makes Cate hum. She can feel the mess of you sealed in, the heat and slick and cum, the intimacy of not being able to move apart yet. It should make her restless.
It doesn’t.
It makes her quiet.
You feel the shift. Your palm pauses between Cate’s shoulder blades. “Okay?”
Cate nods without lifting her head. “I think I might be dead.”
“Should I call someone?”
“No.” Cate nuzzles closer. “You’d have to explain what happened.”
“I’d say you rode me to death first and I retaliated.”
Cate smiles, eyes closed. “Mutual destruction.”
“Romantic.”
“Very.”
You kiss her hair. Then, more softly, her temple. Then the edge of the bite, which makes Cate shiver even half-asleep.
You stay like that while the knot slowly eases, the room cooling around you, the outside world reduced to a faint hush beyond the cracked window. Cate doesn’t ask what time it is. She doesn’t care. There is more food somewhere, probably. Water. Classes you’re both going to miss or pretend you meant to skip. A campus full of omegas who don’t know the rules have changed yet.
For now, there is your hand on her back. Your heartbeat under her cheek. Your scent all over her skin and inside her body and threaded through the bite like red string.
When the knot finally slips free, Cate whimpers at the loss, and you immediately tighten your arms.
“I know,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”
Cate believes you so completely it almost frightens her.
You shift just enough to reach for the sheet, dragging it over Cate’s back. Cate remains draped across you, too heavy-limbed to help, too content to pretend otherwise. You don't complain. You tuck the sheet around you both, then cup the back of Cate’s head, holding her in place like she belongs there.
Cate’s voice is muffled against your shoulder when she finally speaks. “Still taking me for a walk later?”
Your laugh is low and fond. “You can barely lift your head, baby.”
“I’ll recover.”
“You’re ambitious.”
“I’m claimed,” Cate says, opening one eye. “There’s a difference.”
You look down at her for a long, quiet moment. The smugness softens into something much deeper, much harder to joke around.
“Yeah,” you agree. Your thumb brushes the bite. “You are.”
Cate smiles, sleepy and ruined.
“And so are you,” she whispers.
Your breath catches. The bond warms.
For once, you have no comeback. You just hold Cate tighter, and Cate lets herself sink into the silence, body sore, heart bright, the ache between her thighs still full of proof.
Later, you walk across campus together, Cate’s hair pulled up, the collar of her jacket not quite high enough to hide the bite. Heads turn. Your arm is heavy around her, easy and shameless. Cate tilts her chin just a fraction and watches an omega near the library door blink, swallow, and look away. Something inside Cate that had been sharp-and-nervous smooths into something sleek.
You nudge her with her hip. “Chaos,” you say, satisfied, and kiss the top of Cate’s head in a way that makes someone audibly gasp. Cate fights a wicked smile and loses.
“You like showing me off,” Cate murmurs.
“Like claiming you,” you correct, low and pleased. “Like being claimed back.”
Cate stops under the bare branches of an old oak and turns in your arms to face you. The late sun speckles your hair and makes your eyes look darker. Cate slides her hands into the pockets of your jacket and leans in, not kissing, just close enough to watch a dozen people not-try to listen.
“Say it again,” she asks, a brat who’s not sorry, a princess who just found a throne already shaped to her spine.
You smile like a knight who’s retired their armor. “You’re mine,” you say, voice deep enough to move the earth. The bond flares warm in agreement. “And I’m yours.”
Cate kisses you. Someone wolf whistles. Someone else mutters something about decency. Cate laughs into your mouth and thinks, savagely and sweetly, Let them all watch. Let them know. Let them smell.
You break the kiss and bump her nose. “Hungry again?”
“For you?” Cate teases, and then blushes, and then—because she is needy and devoted and shameless—adds, “Also for tacos.”
“Two cravings I can handle.” You steer her down the path toward the student center. “Tacos first. Then I’m taking you home.”
Home. Cate lets the word curl up inside her like a warm, pleased animal and pretends it isn’t the first time you let yourself use it out loud. You smell like citrus and leather and bond. The mark throbs with a tiny ache that promises to be pleasant for days.
Cate rests her head on your shoulder as you walk. She has you. Not to the degree campus legend promised, not locked down in the way other omegas whisper and scheme for—no crown, no collar, no leash. Something better. Something that requires both of you to hold it, else it falls.
Cate has never been the only one. She’s been an exception. Today, finally, she is both.
