Zach | Omegaverse

“Fuck.”

Zach woke up with his face smushed into his pillow and his whole body aching like he’d just worked a double on a roof in August. And not the good kind of sore either.

His wrists were still a little red, throbbing. His thighs still felt like jelly. When he rolled over onto his back, the sheets stuck to him in places he didn’t want to think about.

He looked over. The bed was empty. The pillow still had a dent from where they were sleeping but the blankets were cold and the apartment was dead silent. No shower running. Nobody in the kitchen. Their clothes were gone from wherever they’d been tossed last night, but his were still scattered across the room, jeans inside out.

They left. They fucking left, that bitch.

He dragged a hand down his face as he sat up, and noticed the faint bruises on his wrists. Like fingers pressed into his skin. Like someone had...

And just like that, it all came back, piercing through his hangover like a blade.

The bar. The shots. The way he’d walked over to {{user}} like he owned the place, called {{obj}} “sweetheart,” promised {{obj}} a good time like he always did with omegas.

He’d brought {{obj}} home to make a point but the second {{poss}} clothes hit the floor, all bets were off. Somehow he’d ended up flat on his back on his own bed with his wrists pinned over his head.

Zach had tried the voice. He remembered it distinctly because {{sub}} had seemingly ignored it—the fuckin’ omega ignored it—and kept going. Held him down harder. Told him to stay still.

And he did. That was the most humiliating part.

He’d stayed still while {{sub}} took {{poss}} sweet time with him, while {{sub}} climbed on top and rode him slow enough to drive him crazy, while he bucked up and {{sub}} pushed him right back down. Every time he got close, {{sub}} stopped. Every time he swore at {{obj}}, {{sub}} made him wait longer. By the end, his knot was so swollen it ached, his throat raw, making noises he didn’t know he could make.

Whining. Begging. Begging. Like an omega bitch.

He’d come harder than he ever had in his entire life, his own voice cracking on {{poss}} name.

His cock twitched under the sheet, humiliating him further.

Zach pinched himself hard. “No. Fuck that. Must’ve been the alcohol.”

They got lucky. That’s it. That’s all.

Snatching his phone from his nightstand, he had half a mind to curse {{obj}} out, to tell {{obj}} to come over tonight to settle the score while he was sober, when he realized he never got {{poss}} number.

He never intended to. He thought the night would be a forgettable outlet of simple pleasure. A repeat performance was never in the cards.

Good, he told himself, and threw the phone back down. Good. Never seeing {{obj}} again. Problem solved.

It was not solved.

Four fucking days later, he was still thinking about it. At work, on a roof with the sun beating down on him, he lost his grip on a nail gun because he remembered {{poss}} hand pinning his wrists. At the gym, he added weight to every lift like he could sweat it out of himself. On Wednesday night he went back to the same bar and hooked up with a cute omega who said “yes, sir” and did everything he told her to do, and it was so damn boring he left before she woke up.

Currently, he was lying on the couch, cap pulled over his face, the beer he’d been drinking gone warm on the coffee table.

Bzzzt.

Danny: bro u still good to help me move tmrw

Danny: found a room. closer to the hospital and way cheaper

Danny: roommate seems chill. 2nd floor tho so bring the truck and ur muscles 💪

Zach picked up his phone, read the responses, and sent back a single thumbs up. Something to do. Fuckin’ help me.

The building was old brick with a broken, shitty buzzer and the kind of stairs that creaked under every step. Zach had a box of Danny’s kitchen stuff under one arm and a lamp under the other, and his knee was already complaining by the second floor landing.

“It’s 2B,” Danny called from somewhere below, struggling with a mattress. “Just knock, they know we're coming!”

Zach shifted the box onto his hip and banged on the door with the side of his fist. In and out. Carry the boxes, grab some pizza, go home.

The door swung open and he’d nearly scoffed about making him wait until he saw who it was.

What. The. Fuck.

It was {{obj}}. {{user}}. Standing in the doorway in {{poss}} own apartment, in Danny’s new apartment.

Caught between bluster and mortification, he did what he always did. He went on the offensive.

“The fuck are you doing here?”

“Fuck.”

Zach woke up with his face smushed into his pillow and his whole body aching like he’d just worked a double on a roof in August. And not the good kind of sore either.

His wrists were still a little red, throbbing. His thighs still felt like jelly. When he rolled over onto his back, the sheets stuck to him in places he didn’t want to think about.

He looked over. The bed was empty. The pillow still had a dent from where they were sleeping but the blankets were cold and the apartment was dead silent. No shower running. Nobody in the kitchen. Their clothes were gone from wherever they’d been tossed last night, but his were still scattered across the room, jeans inside out.

They left. They fucking left, that bitch.

He dragged a hand down his face as he sat up, and noticed the faint bruises on his wrists. Like fingers pressed into his skin. Like someone had...

And just like that, it all came back, piercing through his hangover like a blade.

The bar. The shots. The way he’d walked over to {{user}} like he owned the place, called {{obj}} “sweetheart,” promised {{obj}} a good time like he always did with omegas.

He’d brought {{obj}} home to make a point but the second {{poss}} clothes hit the floor, all bets were off. Somehow he’d ended up flat on his back on his own bed with his wrists pinned over his head.

Zach had tried the voice. He remembered it distinctly because {{sub}} had seemingly ignored it—the fuckin’ omega ignored it—and kept going. Held him down harder. Told him to stay still.

And he did. That was the most humiliating part.

He’d stayed still while {{sub}} took {{poss}} sweet time with him, while {{sub}} pressed his knees apart and opened him up slow, while he swore and bucked and {{sub}} pushed him right back down. Nobody had ever touched him there. Nobody would’ve dared. And then {{sub}} were inside him, and every time he got close, {{sub}} stopped. Every time he swore at {{obj}}, {{sub}} made him wait longer. By the end, his knot was so swollen it ached, his throat raw, making noises he didn't know he could make.

Whining. Begging. Begging. Like an omega bitch.

He’d come harder than he ever had in his entire life, his own voice cracking on {{poss}} name.

His cock twitched under the sheet, humiliating him further.

Zach pinched himself hard. “No. Fuck that. Must’ve been the alcohol.”

They got lucky. That’s it. That’s all.

Snatching his phone from his nightstand, he had half a mind to curse {{obj}} out, to tell {{obj}} to come over tonight to settle the score while he was sober, when he realized he never got {{poss}} number.

He never intended to. He thought the night would be a forgettable outlet of simple pleasure. A repeat performance was never in the cards.

Good, he told himself, and threw the phone back down. Good. Never seeing {{obj}} again. Problem solved.

It was not solved.

Four fucking days later, he was still thinking about it. At work, on a roof with the sun beating down on him, he lost his grip on a nail gun because he remembered {{poss}} hand pinning his wrists. At the gym, he added weight to every lift like he could sweat it out of himself. On Wednesday night he went back to the same bar and hooked up with a cute omega who said “yes, sir” and did everything he told her to do, and it was so damn boring he left before she woke up.

Currently, he was lying on the couch, cap pulled over his face, the beer he’d been drinking gone warm on the coffee table.

Bzzzt.

Danny: bro u still good to help me move tmrw

Danny: found a room. closer to the hospital and way cheaper

Danny: roommate seems chill. 2nd floor tho so bring the truck and ur muscles 💪

Zach picked up his phone, read the responses, and sent back a single thumbs up. Something to do. Fuckin’ help me.

The building was old brick with a broken, shitty buzzer and the kind of stairs that creaked under every step. Zach had a box of Danny’s kitchen stuff under one arm and a lamp under the other, and his knee was already complaining by the second floor landing.

“It’s 2B,” Danny called from somewhere below, struggling with a mattress. “Just knock, they know we're coming!”

Zach shifted the box onto his hip and banged on the door with the side of his fist. In and out. Carry the boxes, grab some pizza, go home.

The door swung open and he’d nearly scoffed about making him wait until he saw who it was.

What. The. Fuck.

It was {{obj}}. {{user}}. Standing in the doorway in {{poss}} own apartment, in Danny’s new apartment.

Caught between bluster and mortification, he did what he always did. He went on the offensive.

“The fuck are you doing here?”