Chapter 2: Unexpected Comfort
The sharp, chemical smell of bleach still clung to Blitzo’s clothes, a failed attempt to scour away the evidence of the St. James job. A suitcase full of holy water had ruptured mid-extraction, dousing their client in a way that was, tragically, more baptism than elimination. The fallout had been expensive, loud, and entirely his fault.
Now, he was a bruised lump sinking into the worn cushions of his own couch. The apartment’s living room was a monument to chaotic living: Loona’s plush black armchair piled with hellhound fur, his own gaming chair surrounded by a moat of empty energy drink cans, and the coffee table a geological layer cake of snack wrappers and unpaid invoices. The single lamp by the window cast a tired yellow glow, painting long, distorted shadows up the walls.
He heard the click of the latch, the soft pad of paws on laminate. Loona drifted into the room, a tall, silent silhouette. She didn’t ask. She just looked at him, slumped there with his head in his hands, still in his stained work suit.
“Rough one?” Her voice was its usual low gravel, but without the customary edge of annoyance.
“The roughest,” he mumbled into his palms. “Fucking… holy water geyser. Client’s probably singing hymns in Heaven right now. Millie won’t stop with the ‘I-told-you-so’ eyes, and Moxxie…” He trailed off, the memory of the other imp’s tight heat, the desperate scratches on his desk, flashing unbidden. That secret was a live wire in his chest, buzzing alongside the professional failure. “Moxxie’s being weirdly quiet. Which is worse.”
Loona moved. She didn’t sit beside him. She knelt on the floor in front of him, between his spread knees. The unexpected submissiveness of the pose made him finally look up.
Her crimson eyes held his. There was no mockery there. Just a flat, assessing look. Without breaking eye contact, she reached for his belt.
“Whoa, Lo, hey—” He jerked, his hands coming down to cover hers.
“Shut up,” she said, not unkindly. She pushed his hands away with a firmness that brooked no argument. Her claws found his belt buckle, undoing it with a series of precise, metallic ticks. The button of his pants followed, then the zipper’s rasp was loud in the quiet room.
“Loona, we… we don’t have to…” His protest was weak, hollow. He was already half-hard just from the shock of it, from the intense focus on her face.
“I know we don’t have to,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper as she tugged his pants and boxers down just enough to free him. His cock, thick and already filling, sprang into the cool air. “But you’re a walking disaster. And you put up with me. Every fucking day. My shit, my attitude, the fact I’m…” She gestured vaguely at herself. “This. The least I can do is take the edge off.”
Her hand closed around him. It was warm, dry. She began to stroke, a slow, firm up-and-down that made his breath catch. Her thumb swiped over the head, smearing the bead of moisture that had already gathered there.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his head falling back against the couch. This was wrong. She was his daughter. Adopted, hell-spawn, but his. The thought was a fleeting ghost, vaporized by the expert rhythm of her fist. This wasn’t like the frantic, clawing encounters they’d sometimes stumbled into. This was deliberate. Methodical.
“Just relax, Dad,” she murmured, the title somehow making it more illicit, more intense. She watched his face, gauging his reactions, speeding up her strokes, twisting her wrist on the upstroke. Pre-cum slicked her path, the wet, filthy sound of her hand on his cock filling the room.
He was fully hard now, aching, his hips giving tiny, involuntary pushes into her grip. The day’s humiliation, the secret guilt about Moxxie, it all began to blur, melting under the heat of her palm. His hands gripped the couch cushions, claws digging into the fabric.
Then she stopped.
Before he could whine a protest, she bent forward. Her long, dark hair curtained his thighs. He felt her hot breath first, a ghost over his sensitive skin. Then the wet, impossibly soft touch of her tongue, licking a long, slow stripe from his base to his tip.
“Oh, shit, Loona…”
She took him into her mouth.
It wasn’t tentative. She sank down, taking him deep, her lips stretching around his girth until he felt the head nudge the back of her throat. A low, guttural groan vibrated through her and into him. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her brow furrowed in concentration. She pulled back, saliva stringing from her lips to his shining cock, then plunged down again, establishing a slow, deep rhythm.
Blitzo was unraveling. One hand left the couch cushion and, of its own volition, settled on the crown of her head. He didn’t push. He just held, feeling the motion of her bobbing head, the silken slide of her hair through his fingers. The visual was devastating: his powerful, disobedient hellhound daughter on her knees, servicing him with a weary, determined grace.
She pulled off with a wet pop, catching her breath. A strand of spit connected her lower lip to his shaft. She looked up at him, her eyes glazed.
“You put up with so much of my shit,” she repeated, her voice ragged. “Let me do this. Let me be good for this.”
The raw admission shattered the last of his resistance. This wasn’t just a fuck. This was an apology, a transaction of gratitude in the only currency their fucked-up dynamic understood.
“Lo…” he started, his own voice thick. “You… you are good. You’re a pain in my ass, and you’re messy, and you give me more fucking lip than any sinner on our roster…” He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking the line of her jaw. “But you’re here. You’re here. And you’re… fuck… you’re taking care of me.”
A flicker of something vulnerable crossed her face, gone in an instant. She didn’t reply with words. She opened her mouth and took him back in, hollowing her cheeks, sucking with a desperate intensity that told him she’d heard him, that it mattered.
He let the pleasure build, a tight, coiling pressure in his gut. The soft suck-schlick of her mouth, the wet heat, the sight of her—it was too much. His grip on her hair tightened.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, a rasp.
She hummed in affirmation, the vibration shooting straight up his spine. She redoubled her efforts, her head bobbing faster, one hand working the base of his shaft in tandem with her mouth.
With a choked-off cry that was more sob than shout, Blitzo came. His release pumped hot and bitter down her throat. She took it, swallowing convulsively, milking him with gentle pulls until he was spent, soft, and twitching in her mouth.
She finally released him, sitting back on her haunches. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, breathing heavily. They stayed like that for a long moment—him, collapsed on the couch, exposed; her, kneeling amidst the debris of the floor.
“Feel better?” she asked, the old defensive edge creeping back into her tone, as if embarrassed by the tenderness.
Blitzo, feeling hollowed out and strangely lighter, managed a weak smile. “Yeah, puppy. I do.”
Loona’s eyes, usually guarded slits, held an unfamiliar openness in the lamplight. She wiped her mouth again, a nervous gesture. “You want anything else?” The question hung, cheap and heavy, like the air before a storm.
Blitzo looked at her, really looked. The defiant set of her jaw, the slight tremor in her shoulders she’d deny to her last breath. The memory of Moxxie’s choked scream against the desk was still a sharp thrill in his blood, but this was different. This was a canyon of need he hadn’t let himself peer into.
“Yeah,” he said, the word scraped raw from his throat. “I do.”
He reached for her, his movements slow, deliberate. His hands gripped the hem of her tank top. She lifted her arms, a silent permission, and he pulled it over her head. Her bare skin was pale in the gloom, marked with the faint silvery lines of old scuffles. He unclasped her bra with clumsy fingers, letting it fall away.
Her breasts were heavy in his palms. He thumbed her nipples, watching them harden under his touch. A sharp inhale escaped her.
“Come here,” he murmured, pulling her up from the floor and onto the couch. He lay back, guiding her to straddle him. The worn fabric of the cushions scratched their skin. She fumbled with his shirt buttons until he shrugged it off, a pile of bleach-stained linen joining the chaos on the floor.
Belly to belly, skin to skin. The heat of her was shocking. He could feel her heartbeat against his, a frantic twin rhythm. Her fur was soft against his stomach, a contrasting texture to the hard lines of her muscle. He kissed her, deep and searching, tasting himself on her tongue.
His cock, stirred again by the full, wet press of her against him, found its place between them. She reached down, guiding him. The head of his dick nudged against her entrance, already slick. Not just from her mouth. She was wet for him.
“Fuck me, Dad,” she breathed into his mouth, the title a brand. “Just like this.”
He pushed up, and she sank down. Her cunt swallowed him in a slow, tight glide that made them both groan. It was an intimate, claiming angle. He was buried inside her to the root, their bodies fused from pelvis to chest. She felt deeper this way, hotter. He could feel every internal flutter around his shaft.
“Christ, Loona,” he grunted, his hands gripping her hips. Her claws dug into his shoulders, drawing pinpricks of pain.
She began to move, a rolling grind of her hips that rubbed her clit against his pubic bone with every downward slide. It wasn’t the frantic pounding of the office. This was a steady, thorough claiming. Each drag of his cock inside her was a raw, wet declaration.
“You feel that?” he rasped, his voice fractured. “You feel how deep I am? This is yours. All this fucked-up, messy shit… it’s yours.” He was talking about more than the sex. The failed jobs, the dirty apartment, the hollow space in his chest only she and Moxxie ever touched.
She answered by fucking him harder, her pace losing its rhythm, becoming needy. Her moans were guttural, animal sounds against his neck. “Daddy… fuck, right there…”
Her rhythm was breaking apart, each snap of her hips growing more frantic, less controlled. Blitzo could feel the tension coiling in her thighs where they gripped his sides. Her claws were leaving burning trails down his chest. The sound of their skin slapping together was a wet, obscene percussion in the cluttered room.
He let her use him, let her chase her own finish on his cock, but a familiar, restless itch took hold. This vulnerability, this raw need she was showing—it was too much like looking in a mirror. He needed to break it, to twist it back into something he could recognize.
“Hey,” he grunted, his hands clamping down on her waist to still her. She whined, a frustrated, pitiful sound. “No, hold on. My turn.”
“What? Daddy, don’t stop—” she pleaded, her hips trying to grind against his immobilizing grip.
“Nuh-uh.” With a sharp twist of his own body, he rolled them. The couch groaned in protest, a cushion tumbling to the floor. Suddenly, she was beneath him, pinned by his weight, his cock still buried to the hilt inside her. They were belly-to-belly again, but now he was in control, caged over her. “You had your go. You did your little… therapy suck-job. Good for you. Now I’m gonna fuck my daughter because I had a shit day and I fucking feel like it.”
He said it to be cruel, to shatter the tender moment and rebuild it in their familiar, jagged image. She glared up at him, but her eyes were dark with hunger, not anger.
“Then fucking do it, old man,” she spat, baring her teeth. “Or is your back giving out?”
He laughed, a sharp bark. “My back is fine, you ungrateful bitch.”
He drew his hips back, almost slipping out, then slammed forward. It was a different angle, deeper, more punishing. The air left her lungs in a hard gasp. He set a relentless, driving pace, each thrust jolting her body up the couch. The frame squeaked a relentless complaint against the wall.
“This what you needed?” he growled, the words punching out of him with each drive. “Forget the holy water, forget the money, just… this. My cock splitting you open. You gonna come all over it? Gonna make a mess?”
Her answer was a broken string of curses. Her legs locked around his back, heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. She was so tight, a searing, wet vise. He could smell the bleach on his own skin, the musky scent of her arousal, the cheap fabric of the couch.
His mind flickered, treacherous, to the office. To Moxxie’s calculating eyes gone hazy with pleasure, to the precise gouges in the desk. This was nothing like that. Loona was all fury and fire, meeting him thrust for thrust, her teeth seeking his shoulder. She wasn’t a secret to be kept; she was a damn landmark.
“Close,” she choked out. “I’m so close, fuck…”
“Yeah?” He pistoned into her, the wet slap of their union becoming ragged. “Then come. Come on my dick. Show me.”
Her climax tore through her with a soundless scream, her body arching off the couch, her cunt clamping down on him in rhythmic, milking pulses. It was savage and total. The sight of her—fangs bared, eyes screwed shut, completely undone—triggered his own release.
He shoved in as deep as he could go and held there, his own groan muffled against her neck. He emptied himself inside her, a hot, claiming flood that seemed to go on and on. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the faint buzz of the lamp.
Slowly, he softened, slipped out of her. He collapsed to the side, avoiding crushing her, but one arm stayed slung over her waist. They both stared at the water-stained ceiling.
“My back is gonna hurt tomorrow,” he muttered.
A snort escaped her. “Told you.” She didn’t move to get up, to clean up. A warm, wet patch was cooling between them on the cushion.
Silence stretched, thicker now. The specter of the failed contract crept back in. The silence from Moxxie felt louder.
“He knows something’s up with you,” Loona said quietly, her voice hoarse.
Blitzo tensed. “Who?”
“Moxxie. Don’t be dense.” She turned her head to look at him. “He was watching you clean your guns after. Had that constipated look he gets when he’s thinking too hard. About you.”
Shit. Blitzo closed his eyes. The messy sprawl of his life—the business failing, his daughter in his bed, his employee’s husband screaming under him days before—tightened around his throat like a noose. He had no idea what to say.
Loona’s hand found his, resting on her stomach. Her claws interlaced with his, a gesture so unexpectedly gentle it hurt.
“You’re a fuck-up,” she said, matter-of-fact. “But you’re our fuck-up. So figure your shit out.”
She pushed herself up then, wincing slightly, and walked naked toward the hallway, leaving him alone with the smell of sex and the crushing weight of her simple, brutal truth.