mintfullyyours

[mintfullyyours]

mechanic!simon riley headcanons

mechanic!simon riley who swore he fell in love with you the minute you walked in the shop, your eyes wide but your expression serious. his usual customers are on the older side and always men who are too insufficient to fix a car on their own, so you were the perfect change of pace.

mechanic!simon riley who knew as a woman you were highly likely to get ripped off by other mechanics, so he was glad you came to his shop. he makes sure to offer you water and some light snacks. he doesn't do that with his other customers, but you're an exception.

mechanic!simon riley who thought it was hot when you got straight to the point before he could even introduce himself. you already diagnosed your car before you came because like simon, you knew how you could get scammed in repair shops. you nodded when he asked if you knew a lot about cars and he replied with, "a woman after my own heart."

mechanic!simon riley who is already wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt, but rolls up the sleeves to his shoulders so you could get a view of just how huge his biceps were. it doesn't help your temptation when you see that his tattoo sleeve in fact does continue up until his shoulder.

mechanic!simon riley who on purpose makes sure his t-shirt lifts a little bit higher than usual while he's working on your undercarriage. he's lying down under the car, and makes sure to extend his arms higher so he can tease the gorgeous combination that is his happy trail, abs, and v-line to you.

mechanic!simon riley who drains the oil in your car on purpose while he's working on it just enough so that you have to come back a second time and so that he has an excuse to see your gorgeous self again.

mechanic!simon riley who doesn't let you pay for any of the repairs you needed. he reasoned with you saying you had enough trouble driving the car to the shop as it was, and doesn't want to add on to it.

(idk)

[mintfullyyours]

Grease & Grime Won’t Break Your Bones

You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.

Mechanic! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem! Reader

Tags: dirty, greasy, grimy, sweaty, blue collar worker, yeah I’ll take one of those! you own a pick up, & I actually don’t know anything about cars, eventual smut

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Ao3

You twirled.

Of course you did.

You took Simon’s hand, held it above your head, and slowly spun around; a low whistle leaving his lips in appreciation.

His grip tightened on your fingers when your back faced him, stopped your movements dead in their tracks. Kept you in place, ass arched for his viewing consumption. It was only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Your heartbeat drowning in your ears, hands clammy against his, inhaling shallow breaths like you had just gotten back from a run.

Except you hadn’t.

You were just showing your ass off to your mechanic. Your dirty mechanic. Filthy mechanic.

And it left your underwear a sticky mess, cotton fabric molded to your aching pussy in anticipation. He could bend you over the hood of your pick up right then and there, hitch the fabric of your pencil skirt over your hip, show off your glistening pussy, and slide right in with no resistance.

You would take it— god, would you take it.

Let Johnny see the whole thing, wouldn’t really care if he did because you would be too distracted with Simon’s dirty hands, filthy cock and balls, pungent sweat staining your body. Ruining your pretty flesh, clean and pristine, freshly washed just for him, shaved just for him.

Give him such a pretty and warm cunt to ruin, taint with his grime.

Except he didn’t, and you weren’t one to beg.

Just let him twirl you around until you faced him again, eyes dilated, pools of his irises settling dark. A better image than you; you were sure.

Left it at that, drove home with an unnecessary oil change and panties clinging uncomfortably to your skin. Laid in bed with an insistent craving, an unbound fever that ruptured, seeped out of your control, and lead to the front steps of Simon’s dinky shop. Suffocated you to your wits end; a hunger that demanded more. More than two slender fingers attached to your wrist.

So, you sought out more.

The time in between felt endless. You spent the days hoping your shitty pick-up would break down, the engine light would come on, your tire would go flat. Any excuse to see him again, but your lemon of a truck suddenly decided it didn’t have any problems, wasn’t a nuisance in your daily life.

You were so close to sabotaging your own vehicle, slashing a tire yourself, fucking up the engine on purpose. But you weren’t that desperate— yet.

You would have to bite the bullet. Bury it deep in your mouth, crack your molars against the lead, claim it as your own, and show up at the foot of his shop with minuscule problems. But by some miracle, Simon didn’t seem to mind, if anything, he melted the bullet into rubber, made the bite chewable.

Your air con’s not workin’? No worries, sweet’art, just needs some coolant and a new filter. Wouldn’t want ya melting in this heat, would we?

Yeah, you nodded weakly, yeah, we wouldn’t want your core to burn, pulse in agony, trail molten lava against the curve of your back, would we now?

Need me to rotate your tires? Easy ‘nough, and when’s the last time you replaced ‘em? Don’t worry, I’ll get some ordered to the shop, have ya sorted in no time. Can’t be drivin’ round with no traction, ‘t’s dangerous, pretty bird.

Headlight’s gone, is it? Simple fix, won’t take more than a few minutes. Go on, take a seat in my office, yeah? Glad you brought it to me— wanna make sure you’re safe, after all.

Pay him? What are you on about? Don’t even think about it. These are easy fixes— no need to worry, sweet’art. He’s just takin’ care of ya, that’s all.

Maybe it was a bit pathetic, a little out of sorts for your character, but if he wouldn’t accept your money, you would pay him back in other ways. A shirt that was a little too deep, a skirt that was a little too tight, heels that were a little too obnoxious. Never all at once, you had a little more dignity than that.

It was the same routine each time; a weak excuse to park in his service drive, then he would order you to sit in his office. To which you always did, obediently, more than content to watch him from the solitary confines of his office when Johnny wasn’t there. And when he was done, you would try to negotiate a payment, but all he would accept was a twirl.

Maybe it should’ve made you feel like an object. Objectified, paying for a fucking air filter with a sway of your hips, but it doesn’t. You can’t even describe how much you like it, can’t even explain why you do.

You just do.

In an excruciating way, everything you can’t say by words, too much and absolutely not enough at the same time. Painfully embarrassing from the way it leaves you a shaking mess, how it dampens your panties— soaks them through.

The day he places his free hand on your waist when you twirl, using his large palm on your hip to stop your spin instead of tightening his fingers in your grasps your knees almost buckle under you. A quiet gasp leaving your lips in surprise, squeezing his fingers tightly.

You think you might be imagining it, that your hopes had become so grandiose that it conjured the feeling, until it moves.

A rugged hand, scarred and calloused sweeps up in one careful motion. It sends shivers over your spine, jolting straight. But it’s gone as soon as it’s there, facing him once again as if he wasn’t carving the shape of your hip seconds ago.

When you stumble back to your truck, your stomach twists when there isn’t a grease stained imprint of his palm on your shirt, no remnant of his touch.

That becomes the new step in the routine. You should hate it, but you fucking love it. Like it’s a reward for sitting so calmly when your body is waging a war on the inside. A gentle pet against soft flesh to accommodate the few minutes you sat hot and bothered, untouched.

You think about his heavy hand grazing your figure any chance you get, stings and weeps in the absence of his touch, the lack of his dominant eyes.

You try to convince yourself that’s enough, that he would’ve asked you by now if he wanted more than fleeting glances and featherlight touches. That was before your truck broke down one day. You had been hoping, manifesting for your engine light to flick on, but not like this. On the side of a small country road, sun setting behind you, dirt flying around you on a Saturday night.

You should probably call a tow truck instead of Simon, but you don’t. You don’t entirely want an expensive bill to pay. Maybe you’re a little spoiled by his free services at this point, but he answers the phone in seconds, tells you he’s on the way within the same breath.

When his work truck pulls up beside you, and he steps out, you think your lungs collapse in your chest. You’re used to mechanic Simon, uniform soiled in sweat, reeking of a days of work.

Now, a clean Simon? It practically sends you over the edge, stumbling forward, stuttering over your words.

A black leather jacket and a white shirt covers his broad chest, blue jeans framing his long legs. His hair lays flat, damp, like he just got out of the shower; it makes you feel guilty, like you interrupted his private time. Not guilty enough that it stops your panties from soaking through when he gets real close and you can smell his body wash on him, mossy forest, redwoods.

“You okay, bird?” He asks, palm finding your waist in concern.

It’s practically out of a movie scene; it’s almost comical, but you feel like doing anything but laughing. Pressing your thighs together instead, trying to regulate your breaths so you’re not panting in his face like a dog.

You nod aimlessly, staring up at him with wide eyes, hoping that it was the correct response because you hadn’t really comprehended what he asked you. All you can focus on is the shape of his hand on your waist, fucking massive, thick and warm. His clean skin, free of all sticky and dark stains you’ve begun to associate with him, shaving cream wafting off of his smooth jaw.

“Le’s get ya in my truck, yeah?” He continues, voice firm and rich.

He guides you to his truck, opens the passenger door for you, just like you’re sure he would on a date. All cleaned up and a gentleman, a picture from your fantasies. And just like you do at his shop, you watch him hitch your truck to his through the rear view mirror. Admiring the way his wide back stretches the leather material taut.

When he gets in the driver seat you’re all strained voice and nervous laughter. The fabric of his seats smells like the Simon your used to, car oil and musk, but he smells like a shower and his cologne, woody and pine. You barely have the strength to listen to what he’s telling you, explaining that he can’t work on your truck tonight, that he’s busy, so all he can do is drop it off at the shop and drive you home when the combined scent is intoxicating.

You think about inviting him in, drenching your sheets in his clean scent when he walks you to your front door, but you don’t, can’t when he’s busy. He’s apologizing, you know that much, mumbling his sorry’s because he can’t fix the problem that night, but you don’t mind; it’s just another excuse to see him tomorrow, even if you’re shit out of a vehicle.

Can’t find it in yourself to care about anything else when your back is pressed against your door, trapped between the wood and his hulking frame.

“Goin’ to the pub with the lads, would ditch ‘em to help, but Johnny’d never let me hear the end of it.” He explains, tucking his hands into his leather jacket.

You smile with a shake of your head, “No, no it’s okay.”

“Gonna need a ride to work in the mornin’?” He asks.

“Are you offering to take me?” You lilt, tilting your head teasingly.

“Course I am.” He says so matter-of-factly, like it doesn’t make sense for him not to.

“Then, yes,” You agree, leaning forward on your tippy toes to press a chaste kiss to his cheek, “Thank you, Simon.”

It’s supposed to be a sweet moment, a tease of your feelings, warm and soft. Everything and more you could pay him with for his services, but he has your jaw cupped in seconds, lunging forward to capture your lips in his, your head knocking against the door from the sheer force. You gasp, fingers hooking into the collar of his shirt, fisting it tightly in your grasps.

It’s harsh, fierce. All clashing teeth and bumping noses, exactly how you pictured a man like him would kiss. Bruising the shape of his lips on your mouth, branding them red and swollen between his teeth.

You’re not sure how long the two of you stand there, destroying your modesty on your porch for all your neighbors to see, but it doesn’t seem long enough. He tastes like toothpaste, minty and sweet, a little like aftershave. You lick the taste fucking clean from his lips, clawing at his chest, panting into his mouth for more, more, more.

Johnny can fucking wait.

But he pulls away anyways, a pathetic protest spilling from your lips as you cling to him; you’re not ready to lose the sensation of his lips yet.

“Easy there, baby.”

God.

It’s a bit embarrassing the way your eyes flutter at the word, the way he has to ease you off your tippy toes, coax you back down. Opening your door for you as you stand there a little dumbfounded after a searing kiss.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow, okay?”

He leaves you at that like he didn’t just tilt your world on its axis, lips throbbing in his wake, skin still pulsing where he gripped your face, thick arousal pooling in your panties— your fingers definitely aren’t going to be enough tonight.

masterlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

[mintfullyyours]

Want him so bad

John Price who isn’t just older—he’s worn in. A little gross. A little rotten. Manipulative. The kind of man who sees a pretty bird like you—young and sweet, all soft lips and shy eyes—in some dingy pub sipping something pink, and he doesn’t think I want her. No. He thinks mine.

John Price who decides quick. From the first glance, it’s already settled. He’s already imagining you on your knees in his kitchen, wearing nothing but one of his shirts. Already thinking about how tight your cunt will feel wrapped around him. How pretty you’ll look pregnant, tits swollen, begging for him to fuck you slower.

You don’t know it yet, but he’s mapped it all out—where you’ll sleep in his house, how long he’ll let you play independent before he starts cutting off your options. You won’t need your job. Won’t need friends. Won’t need anything but him.

He’s already picked the ring. Already picked the crib. Already thinking about whether he’ll fill you up before or after dinner.

Twisted in the head, that’s true—but it doesn’t matter. He knows what you need before you even open your mouth. Knows how to touch you, how to own you, without ever asking for permission. You’re not equals. Never were.

He’s choosing you. He’s keeping you.

And oh, sweetheart—whether you feel it yet or not, he’ll make damn sure you learn to be grateful.

Grateful to wear his ring. Grateful to carry his name.

Grateful every time he fills you up, breeds you with his cum until you’re full—so full it leaks out of your swollen, poor cunt—reminding you exactly who you belong to.

Because in his house, in his bed, wrapped around his cock—you’re not just his girl. You’re his wife.

And he’ll fuck the doubt right out of you if he has to.

═════════════════════════

[mintfullyyours]

Excellent. Gimme 14.

141, and their dirty mementos

soap is an avid panty stealer. wholeheartedly believe that man digs through your undergarment drawer before deployment and pockets them- or he steals them off you in the morning. eats you out to wake you up and then slips your panties back over your raw cunt, pressing it down so your spend takes to the cloth. it doesn't get washed until he returns, and by then he's licked and sniffed it enough times that its more him than you.

price carries photos of you. the tasteful ones are on display- in his wallet you're smiling while at dinner. the one behind it, however, is him splitting you over his cock that same night, your smile wavering with spit and stupor. he's got more, some you don't even know about, and folds them in various pockets of his flak jacket for the lonely nights where he misses his wife. god forbid you send him one while he's deployed, you're getting the most violent lay when he gets home.

the week approaching his departure, gaz records sex over an audio tape. doesn't matter when or where, that man is kissing your sweaty forehead and reminding you, "into the mic, baby," as he ruins your spent cunt. plays them back on particularly long stakeouts, or the evenings he can't sleep to remind himself of who's waiting home for him. especially loves fantasizing about how you're likely making the same noises now, alone in your shared flat, chasing what only he can give you.

simon has a tattoo of you on his thigh. now, it's not actually of you, but it's a collection of reminders- finger print, your favorite flower, kiss mark, amongst other small details that appear to be random tracings at first glance. but not to him- not when he's fucking his hand staring at it, enjoying the images his mind conjures. half an ego trip- to know you so deeply, more than anyone, that looking at self-curated paraphernalia of his wife bring a vivid picture of you to mind. you can tease him for his poetic approach all you want, but he knows you stare at it.

simon tattoo follow up

[mintfullyyours]

what about a johnny who becomes a proper ghost. can walk through walls, can't touch anything without a whole lot of concentration, basic ghostly vibes.

then you move into his house and he's pissed. this is still his space, why are you here, and you're moving everything around? absolutely not. he's not gonna stand for this.

so he puts in the work he's been procrastinating and learns how to properly affect his surroundings and gets to work on scaring you away. little does he know with the housing market as it is, you have no intention of leaving no matter how many ghosts are here with you. and it sure sounds like a lot with the ruckus johnny puts up.

so johnny gets more and more fed up. he eventually throws a full blows temper tantrum right as you're about to have guests over--throwing things, lifting them up into the air and letting them drop, ghastly wailing, running taps, the whole 9 yards.

you’re normally able to ignore him and set things to right after he loses steam but this time the clock is ticking. you’re at your wits end, up against a wall. you come to a decision and figure you've got a 50/50 shot of this working.

you raise your top and flash your tiddies at him.

silence.

everything falls from where it was hovering and quiets. the house almost lets out a sigh.

you take a breath and lower your shirt, happy that it worked only for it to be yanked off your head. you look down and watch your nipples extend, ghostly hands you can't see plucking at them. no matter how you try and fight, you can't get your shirt back down over your chest.

maybe this was a bad idea

Pt 2

[mintfullyyours]

been loving the jack abbott fics soooo much!!!

A request for a potential fic about Jack. I was thinking something along the lines of his wife is maybe in the Peds/Psych department and comes to consult in the ER sometimes. The newbies don't know her as Jack's wife, but just the kind peds/Psych doc and then something something they discover she's Jack's wife and they're all like "how did that happen?"

thank uuu!!! this is a good one!!

The Other Dr Abbott

Pairing: Dr Jack Abbott x Wife!Reader

“Vitals are stable but he’s swinging between psychosis and charm like a damn metronome,” Santos muttered, watching the patient over the rim of her coffee cup.

Jack Abbott stood by the trauma bed, expression unreadable, arms crossed, as their patient—a shirtless man in his 30s with wild eyes and blood still drying under his nails—grinned up at the fluorescent lights like they were divine.

Dr. Whitaker explained the patient's history to Dr. Abbott, “He assaulted a pedestrian, bit a paramedic, and started quoting Shakespeare to the defibrillator. I think we’re out of our depth here.”

“Page psych,” Jack said without looking up.

“Already did,” Santos replied. “They said Dr. Abbot’s on call.”

Javadi looked up sharply. “But he’s standing right here.”

Jack sighed. “No. The other Dr. Abbot.”

Santos blinked. “There’s... two?”

Whitaker’s brows furrowed. “Is she your sister or something?”

But before they could interrogate further, the doors swung open.

In walked her—the hospital’s most requested psychiatrist. Elegant. Kind. Intimidating in the quietest way possible. She had a pen behind her ear, a folder under one arm, and a calm confidence that silenced the room the moment she entered.

“Hi,” she said gently. “I heard you needed psych?”

The patient lit up. “Ohhhh. There she is. Finally. Someone beautiful around here.”

Jack’s jaw ticked. “Watch it.”

The patient smirked. “What? Just saying. You all bring me the mean doctor with the wavey hair, but then this goddess walks in? Tell me you see it. She's the moon and you’re... I dunno. A pencil.”

Javadi bit her lip. Santos turned away, grinning.

The psychiatrist pulled on gloves with practiced grace. “I’m here to help, Mr. Reed. Can you tell me how you’re feeling right now?”

“Like I’ve seen heaven,” he said smoothly. “And heaven is you. Are you single?”

Jack stepped forward. “She’s married.”

The patient cocked his head, eyes narrowing like he suddenly understood something far more interesting. “Wait a second... no way.”

“What?” Santos asked.

The patient pointed at Jack, then her. “You’re married. You two. I see it now. That stare. The way you hovered when I called her beautiful? You’re totally married.”

Silence.

Then:

“She’s your wife?” Whitaker all but gasped, looking at Jack like he’d just revealed he was an alien.

Jack didn’t blink. “Yeah.”

Santos’s mouth dropped open. “Hold on—how long has that been a thing?”

“Seven years,” she answered calmly, scribbling notes onto her chart.

Javadi stared. “You mean to tell me we’ve been working beside both of you this whole time and never knew?”

“We keep it professional,” she said, glancing at Jack, who was clearly trying to sink through the floor.

The patient beamed, delighted. “This is way better than when I saw a guy get tasered in the cafeteria.”

“Please sedate him,” Jack muttered.

His wife smirked. “Not yet. He’s lucid enough to spill tea.”

Santos laughed so hard she had to turn around. Whitaker looked like he was trying to solve an algebra problem with no numbers.

“But—but she’s so nice,” he mumbled.

“She is,” Jack said flatly. “And she married me anyway. Try not to think too hard about it.”

As she moved to the side of the bed, the patient winked at her. “I’m just saying... you could’ve done better.”

Jack leaned down, eyeing him coldly. “Say that again and I will intubate you awake.”

Everyone blinked.

The patient raised both hands. “Okay damn. The wave’s kinda hot now that I get the context.”

Javadi crossed her arms. “Well, now I get why he punched that radiologist last year for calling her sweetheart.”

Jack didn’t deny it.

[mintfullyyours]

would it be bad to piggyback off the idea of the jack abbot fic where no one knows about his wife, but kinda flip it a bit and make it seem that the new docs thought reader and robby were married (but their just besties), but it turns out, no its actually jack 👀

Loving your fanfics btw!!

ooooo good one!!!!

Wrong Husband

Summary: You’re used to the new interns making assumptions. You and Dr. Robby have always been close—best friends since residency, the kind of dynamic that makes people look twice. So when this new batch starts whispering about the “work-marriage” between the two of you, neither of you bother to correct it. Until Jack walks in.

“I’m just saying,” Santos muttered as you walked down the hall with Dr. Robby, “they have to be married.”

Javadi snorted. “Right? She calls him ‘grandpa’ when he’s grumpy and he lets her steal his fries during lunch. That’s, like, peak married behavior.”

They didn’t know you could hear them. And Robby definitely did.

He leaned down toward you as you reached the nurses’ station, voice low and dry. “You’re stealing my fries again?”

“Don’t worry,” you muttered, not missing a beat, “I’ll leave you two. Maybe you can finally propose to me after all these years.”

The interns turned white.

You both burst out laughing.

You weren’t married. Never had been. But you loved letting the new staff stew in their awkwardness for a while. It was practically a sport now.

“Wait, are you guys—?” Whitaker started.

You smirked. “Guess you’ll never know.”

A couple hours later, you were sitting at the nurses' station finishing a chart, Robby leaned next to you, sipping bad coffee, when the ER doors opened—and in walked Dr. Jack Abbott.

Buttoned-down. Sharp-jawed. Intimidating as hell.

He didn’t even look up at the crowd—just scanned the room until his eyes landed on you.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

You smiled instantly. Stood up, grabbing your coat. “Yep. Give me two seconds.”

Whitaker blinked. “Wait, you… know Dr. Abbott?”

Robby raised his coffee, still leaning casually. “She knows him alright.”

Jack walked over, slipped his hand around your waist like it was second nature—because it was.

The room went silent.

You looked up at him. “Long day?”

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “Better now.”

Javadai dropped her pen.

You turned back to the stunned interns with a sweet smile. “You three met Jack, right?”

They just stared.

“Jack,” you added helpfully, “my husband.”

Robby actually choked on his coffee.

“Have fun, kids,” he grinned. “Told you she wasn’t mine. I’m not nearly uptight enough.”

Jack looked him up and down. “You’re not anything enough.”

You tugged his hand gently. “Be nice. They thought I was married to Robby.”

Jack didn’t even blink. “I’ll try not to be insulted.”

As you walked out with Jack’s hand resting possessively on your lower back, the interns stood frozen in place, eyes wide, jaws open.

“…So that’s her husband?”

Robby chuckled behind them. “Yeah. You should see them when they’re arguing about takeout. It’s terrifying.”

[mintfullyyours]

Busy Bee

parings. jack abbot x wife!reader

summary. you and your son take a trip to the pitt after an encounter with a bee. unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, your husband's working.

warnings. age gap (jack mid/late 40s, reader late 20s early 30s), reader is allergic to bees, overprotective!jack, boy-dad!jack, typical hospital setting, no death, hurt/comfort but mainly comfort, other pitt characters, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. local boy dad truther hopped into the pitt fandom, but this popped into my mind and I haven't been able to let it go. these will probably be a set of drabbles and one-shots if it gets enough traction, but please enjoy and any feedback is appreciated! also I am not a medical professional, but I tried my best to sound realistic.

wc. 2700+

“We got a woman in her late twenties to early thirties, went into anaphylactic shock at the park due to a suspected bee sting. Vitals stabalized after we gave her Epi, but the swelling in her throat and the hives covering her chest, neck and arms is pretty extensive.” 

Just another normal day in the Pitt. 

“It is starting to be that season,” Dr. McKay said lightly as she did her own assessment while a few interns watched, “Did she have anyone with her? Who called?” 

The EMT gave a small gesture to her partner who was walking in behind them with a small boy, maybe five or six, who looked worried. “Couple of joggers passed them and found him with her failed EpiPen, they called after that.” 

Cassie could only nod as she thought about her own son experiencing that, “Alright Mohan come with me we’re gonna take her to south-15. Mel, can you talk to the boy and see if there’s anyone we can call for him?” 

Going to their respective tasks, McKay and Mohan took the young mother and Melissa went to introduce herself to the boy. He was still standing with the EMT, clutching his hand tightly while watching the hustle and bustle that was the emergency department. 

“Hey… Can I talk to him?” Mel approached slowly and the EMT squatted down to look the kid in his eyes. “I have to go now but uh- Dr. King here is gonna take really good care of you while your mommy gets help, okay?” The boy just nodded, going to hold his own hand. 

“What’s your name?” Mel asked, offering her own hand for him to take as they walked away. His grip was soft, if not a little clammy, and he toddled behind her as she led him to the family room. “Lucas…” he took his own deep breath, unsure of himself and the situation. 

“I heard something pretty scary happened at the park. Are you doing okay?” Lucas gave a little shrug, giving her hand a squeeze at the mention of the incident at the park. 

“I think so, is my mommy gonna be okay? Daddy says bees are bad for her, and the pen is supposed to make her better but it didn’t...” 

Mel opened the door to the family room, having Lucas sit in one of the chairs near the small coffee table. She had learned in the past couple of months that children liked to be distracted in situations like these. Clearly the little boy was feeling down, his once peaceful day at the park now ruined by an unfortunate accident. 

She sat down beside him, helping him take off the backpack he was wearing hoping maybe there were some more identifying clues lying within the blue cloth.  “Well your dad must be very smart, but your mom is being taken care of by some really cool doctors and I think she’s gonna be okay and excited to see you again.”

Unzipping the bag, Mel gave Lucas a gentle smile as they pulled out the contents together. Inside were the usual kid essentials — a juice pouch, a small sketchpad with dinosaurs drawn in crayon, and a pair of cleats and matching socks balled up and forgotten at the bottom. She sifted carefully, searching for anything that might tell them who else to contact. A pair of car keys sat in the front pocket, but no wallet or any other identifying placards. The EpiPen sat visibly in the mesh side holster, unadministered and effectively useless now. The air was light between the pair while the Intern thought of her next moves, and Lucas had started coloring next to her to keep his mind off of things. 

  She thought about askin Robby or Dana for next steps, and definitely wanted Kieara to stop by. “Are we able to contact your dad? I’m sure he’d want to know what happened,” Mel said, stumped at what to do next. 

“He’s pretty busy and um- his number sheet is in my other bag in the car… Mommy was supposed to make two, but this is the fun bag so it wasn’t supposed to matter.” Lucas explained, though that’s fair considering he’s only five or so. 

“Oh! Well where does he work? We could try calling them and he should be able to come here,” 

Lucas closed his eyes and wiggled around in his chair as he tried to remember the name, “Uhhh- oh Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center!” 

Mel’s eyes lit up at the mention of the very hospital they were in. “Well that’s where we are! Let me go grab someone real quick and we can start asking around, how does that sound?” Lucas silently agreed and went back to coloring as the blonde woman left the room. 

The Intern succuried around, hoping to find Dr. Robby in a moment of peace where she could talk to him about the situation. Thankfully, the older man was sitting near the nurses station typing away at one of the computers. 

“Dr. Robby! I uh- I have the son of a patient who was admitted not too long ago, he said his dad works here and I was hoping you could help us locate him? He’s only about five so he doesn’t remember too much besides that.” Mel stood expectantly, as the older man got up and pushed his chair in. 

“Lead the way Dr. King, let's find this boy's dad.” Robby ran a hand down his face as he followed after Melissa who was leading him to the family room. Putting on a brave face, he hoped to god this wasn’t going to lead into a hospital wide manhunt. They kept a steady pace, pausing outside the door. “What was the other patient admitted for?” He asked, needing to know if this would be bad or not. 

“Mom was taken to South-15 after experiencing anaphylactic shock from a bee sting. The uh- EpiPen failed and some joggers helped them out, Dr. McKay was trearting her and everything was stable when we left besides the swelling and hives she had.” she explained keeping her recounting of it short, really wanting to find Lucas’s father as soon as possible. 

The two stepped inside the small room, the young boy sitting in the same cramped chair, picking at the sleeve of his sweater. 

“Hey, Lucas. This is Dr. Robby he’s gonna help-” Mel could barely get the rest of her sentence out before the boy looked up and rushed into the arms of the man beside her. 

“Uncle Mikey!” he cried out, latching onto the older doctor who scooped him up. 

“Hey Luke, what are ya doing here buddy?” Still a bit shocked, Robby gave the boy a quick scan looking for any sign that something could be wrong, “I heard your mom got stung by a bee.” 

Lucas let out a small sniffle, resting his head on the shoulder of his uncle. “It was scary… an-and mommy left her phone in the car so-so I couldn’t call anyone!” He kept his little body close, fists locked onto the blue hoodie Robby was known for wearing. He was still scared, just now beginning to process everything that had happened in the past hour or so. 

Mel stood off to the side, letting the two talk amongst themselves for a few moments. “You know Dr. Robby, Lucas?” 

The pair turned to her and Robby adjusted the boy so he could see the woman a bit better. “Dr. King meet Lucas Abbot, I’m surprised he didn’t say so sooner-probably the nerves.”  The older man looked down to the boy who was still clinging to him, the only familiar person he had seen since arriving to the PTMC. “You wanna go find your dad?” 

Lucas nodded a resounding yes, keeping his face buried in the neck of the older man hoping he would keep carrying him. 

“Dr. King, I got it from here if you want to go back and work,” Mel took her leave after that, giving Lucas a small wave goodbye before going back into the fold. 

Robby set the small boy down, repacking the scattered items back into the bag. He tried not to think about the faulty EpiPen, or how Jack was going to react upon finding out what had occurred. If anything that man was protective, and if hearing that his wife had been admitted didn’t set him off—hearing his son was here and hadn’t been able to contact him definitely would. 

“Yo Dana, we have a visitor with us today.” The brunette gave the curls on Lucas’s head, a trait he got from his father, a small rub, as they got to the charge nurse’s attention. The blonde let out a small gasp as she bent down to give the boy a hug. 

“And what are you doing here, little man? Where’s your mama? Your Dad’s running all over the place today, have you seen him yet?” She looked back up at Robby, holding the boy close. 

The older man gave a small shake of his head, a knowing look in his brown eyes. “She’s uh- She’s in south-15 and we were actually looking for Jack, have you seen him?” 

Dana glanced at the board, “He was about to discharge a patient from north-8, you could probably catch him before the next Ambo pulls up.” 

“Alright, buddy,” Robby said, offering his hand to Lucas again. “Let’s go find your dad before he disappears on us.”

Dana gave the boy one more quick squeeze and a wink before standing up again. “Tell him to take five once you find him. He’s been running around since before you got here.”

They made their way toward the north wing, weaving between carts and stretchers, the bustle of the hospital constant. Lucas stayed close, wide-eyed but silent, clutching Robby’s fingers like a lifeline.

As they rounded the corner near North-8, Robby spotted him—Dr. Jack Abbot clipboard in hand, shoulder leaning into the doorway of a patient room as he gave discharge instructions with that familiar composed intensity. Even from here, Robby could see the stress around his eyes. Whatever calm Jack projected, it wasn’t rooted deep today. The patient stepped away into the crowd of people and Robby stepped into view, catching his eye.

Jack nodded a little when he saw him, expecting a routine update—until he saw the small figure beside him.

“Lucas?”

The clipboard hit the counter with a clack.

Lucas let go of Robby’s hand and ran straight into his father’s arms, the impact knocking the breath out of Jack for half a second.

“Hey—hey, what—” Jack crouched down, holding Lucas tightly, searching his face. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Lucas clung to him like a koala, cheeks red and eyes glassy. “Mommy’s sick,” he whispered. “The pen didn’t work. I tried, but it didn’t work.”

Jack’s face paled. His arms tightened instinctively. “Where is she?”

“South-15,” Robby answered quietly, giving the man a moment before continuing. “It was a bee sting. The EpiPen failed. She was treated right away, vitals are stable, McKay’s with her.”

Jack didn’t move at first, just held his son close, forehead resting against Lucas’s curls as he processed it all—the sudden fear, the guilt, the helplessness. Finally, he let out a long breath.

“I didn’t even know—no wonder she wasn’t answering her phone.” His voice cracked.

“She’s okay,” Robby reminded him gently. “And your son? Absolute champ. Kept his head until the crews showed up.”

Lucas pulled back just enough to look at him. “I didn’t cry. I was gonna, but I didn’t.”

Jack smiled through the tightness in his chest. “Good job, bud.”

He stood up slowly, Lucas still in his arms, and turned to Robby. “I need to see her.”

Robby nodded. “Go on, Brother. I’ll let Dana know what’s going on, let her know you’re clocking off early.” He handed over the backpack and let the father/son duo head off. 

Making their way to you, where you were taken was a bit more private than other rooms and the soft beeping could be heard from outside. The two stopped outside, Jack prepping the boy for what he was about to see. 

“Hey…So mommy’s probably gonna be sleepy and she might have a hard time talking okay? We should be able to see her though.” Lucas nodded into his dad’s shoulder, his small fingers tightening around the fabric of Jack’s black scrub top.

“Okay,” he whispered. “I won’t be loud.”

Jack gave a little smile at that, brushing his son’s curls down gently before reaching for the door. The soft click of the handle felt louder than it should have, and as they stepped inside, the familiar scent of antiseptic mixed with something heavier—like adrenaline and the memories embedded within the room.

The room was dimly lit, with only the overhead light above your bed on. You were propped up slightly, eyes closed, an oxygen cannula under your nose. Your arm had an IV line, and Princess was quietly making notes on the monitor screen.

Jack’s breath hitched in his throat.

Lucas didn’t say anything right away. His gaze was locked on you, his brown eyes wide and unreadable as he stared at his mom, so happy and full of life only hours ago, now tucked into white sheets with wires and machines surrounding her.

“Mommy…” he whispered.

Your eyes fluttered open at the sound, sluggish but aware. You turned your head slightly, the movement slow and pained, but unmistakably focused on him.

Jack stepped closer, kneeling beside the bed so Lucas could see you better.

“She’s awake,” Jack said softly. “You can say hi, baby.”

Lucas’s lip trembled, but he leaned toward you. “I’m sorry,” he blurted suddenly. “I tried with the pen but it didn’t work and I was scared and I couldn’t call—”

Your fingers twitched and slowly reached for him, and Jack gently helped guide Lucas’s hand to yours. Holding the both of yours within his strong grip.

“You did so good, baby,” you said, your voice hoarse but warm. “I’m okay, and you were so brave.”

Lucas crawled gently onto the edge of the bed, careful not to bump into any of the cords or wires. He curled up beside your arm, still holding your hand tightly.

Jack sat in the chair beside the bed, rubbing his face and finally letting out a shaky breath.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he said quietly, half to himself, half to you. You gave him a tired smile, and Jack reached up to brush your hair from your face.

“But you’re here,” he said. “And we’re okay. That’s what matters.”

“Yeah, you’re lucky we weren’t closer to Pres, would’ve really lost your shit…” you gave him the best smile you could muster, while he gave you a knowing look. 

He let out yet another sigh, still keeping your hand in his. “We need to get you another EpiPen, and put my goddamn number in that park bag.” 

“You have fun with that, babe,” you murmured, voice still rough but tinged with just enough sass to draw a soft snort from Jack.

“Oh, I will,” he said, dragging the chair a little closer to the bed. “You’re gonna have a laminated emergency list in every bag we own. Backpack, soccer bag, glove box—hell, I’ll sew one into your damn jacket lining if I have to.”

Lucas perked up a little at that, lifting his head. “I can start soccer?”

Jack looked over at him, mock-serious. “Only if you promise not to spill a bunch of stuff in the bag again.”

Lucas giggled for the first time since they got there, that tiny sound easing something deep in Jack’s chest. You chuckled too, though it ended in a soft wince as your ribs reminded you what happened.

Jack leaned forward instinctively, hand pressing lightly over yours again. “Easy,” he murmured.

“I’m fine,” you reassured, but your grip on his fingers said another thing.

I love you, I’m sorry. 

The room fell into a quiet rhythm after that—the soft hum of monitors, Lucas gently dozing off against your arm after hours of turmoil, Jack watching both of you with an expression halfway between exhaustion and fierce devotion.

“Thank you,” you whispered after a moment, just for him.

He looked up.

“For having such good doctor friends, for loving me… For being a good dad,”

Jack leaned in, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Always.”

mercvry-glow 2025

[mintfullyyours]

Whatever You Say, Fruitcake

pairing : Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader (established marriage)

summary: Myrna’s being Myrna. Somewhere between the chaos, you and Robby manage to come up for air.

warnings/content: Fluff, Hospital setting, strong language, married intimacy, mild sexual tension(?), bodily fluids (mentioned), chaotic workplace dynamics, Myrna.

word count: 1,767, not beta read.

a/n: I’ve written so much smut and angst lately… felt like I needed a fluff filler. Honestly, with everything Robby’s been through too—he deserves one just as much as I do.

Someone left the remains of a hoagie in the trauma fridge again, and now the back hallway reeks of vinegar, cold cuts, and poor life choices.

The smell hits you as soon as you clear the curtain bay—sharp, sour, unmistakably fermented. You pause mid-step. Behind you, Dana makes a strangled noise in her throat and immediately starts waving a clipboard in the air like it’s going to do something other than stir it up.

“If this is Whitaker’s doing,” Dana says, already pinching the bridge of her nose, “I’m pulling him from patients and assigning him to mop duty and moral reflection.”

You snort. “Pretty sure that’s not in the union handbook.”

She’s already striding ahead. “Then I’ll write my own damn handbook.”

Just ahead, Robby moves through the corridor like a man who’s been paged three times too many. Hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, coffee in one hand, a clipboard tucked under his arm, and a look that says he’s thirty seconds from announcing his retirement.

Whitaker’s hustling to keep up, slightly flushed and fumbling with a stack of blank admission forms and a clipboard clearly marked for peds. He’s also holding an empty emesis basin and a bag of saltine crackers.

“I dropped the kid off in Pediatrics like you told me to,” he says, catching his breath. “Then someone threw up on my shoes, I handed over some crackers as a peace offering, and I think I accidentally took this chart on my way out while trying to avoid a loud debate about Paw Patrol and screen time.”

Robby doesn’t even look at him. “Why are you holding a puke tray?”

“Someone in Peds handed it to me. I panicked and said thank you.”

“You don’t work there, Whitaker. You work in emergency.”

“Yeah, well, try telling that to the four-year-old who called me Doctor Crackers and wouldn’t let go of my hand.”

Dana watches Whitaker veer off toward supply, jaw tightening just slightly. “If he volunteers himself into another department’s meltdown, I’m having his badge color-coded for liability.”

You raise a brow. “Is that a charge nurse threat?”

“It’s preventative management.”

Before you can reply, the air shifts—like it always does when Myrna materializes. The low squeak of her wheelchair wheels, the jingle of cheap bracelets, and then—

“Hey, fruitcake.”

Robby slows when he sees her. Not surprised. Not annoyed. Just—ready, in that way he gets when Myrna’s name is involved in a trauma note or a psych hold request.

He hesitates, jaw clenched, clipboard tucked tighter under his arm as he steps in behind the wheelchair—slow and deliberate, one hand on the back like he's guiding a live grenade disguised in costume jewelry.

Myrna is cuffed, of course—standard protocol—but she’s sitting tall like she’s holding court. Her walker is bungee-corded to the back of the chair, and there’s a half-empty Styrofoam cup in the side pocket that no one remembers giving her. She smells like menthols and peach Schnapps. Her lipstick is smeared. Her eyes are sharp.

She cranes her head slightly to look up at Robby and grins with all the self-satisfaction of someone who knows exactly how to ruin your day and plans to do it slowly.

Robby exhales. “Myrna. What brings you in today?”

“I murdered my husband.”

“How’d you do it this time?”

“Meat grinder.”

She shifts in her seat, adjusting the tilt of her chair. When he stops, she immediately starts wheeling herself toward the empty staff breakroom like she owns the place—completely ignoring the Employees Only sign.

“Where do you think you’re going, Myrna?”

“Oh, none of your business, fruitcake.”

His jaw ticks. The clipboard drops half an inch.

“Actually, everything that happens in this department is my business. And you know what? I put up with a lot around here. I take very good care of you. So you can call me Dr. Robinavitch, or Dr. Robby, or you can use my first name, Michael. But I do not appreciate being called fruitcake.”

Dana leans toward you. “He’s two years and one more nickname away from tossing his pager in the East River and moving into a cabin with no electricity.”

You snort. “He can move to the woods if he wants, but I’m not following him into a life of compost toilets and mosquito nets. He’ll be back the second he realizes I’m not coming with.”

Back in the hall, Myrna shrugs.

“Oh, did I hurt your feelings, cocksucker?”

Dana snorts. You press your fingers to your mouth.

Robby takes a breath. “That said, it has a certain whimsical quality I can probably learn to live with.”

“Whatever you say, fruitcake.”

Without missing a beat, she pivots her wheelchair and rolls with precision toward the ambulance bay doors. The automatic sensor doesn’t catch her on the first pass, so she backs up, then rams the base of the door with enough force to jolt the frame—and nearly set off the motion alarm. A “Wet Floor” sign topples in her wake.

Then, slowly, she lifts her cuffed wrists and waves them at the security camera like she’s on parade.

Robby doesn’t move. Just watches her, unreadable.

She pauses at the edge of the exit, half-turned in her chair, chin tilted up like she’s daring someone to try and stop her.

A nurse nearby mutters, “Do we stop her… or let natural selection take it from here?”

You find him later in the breakroom, elbows braced on the table, fingers pressed into his brow like he’s trying to force the day out through his skull. His coffee sits untouched beside a chart he’s clearly given up pretending to read. The overhead light is flickering, unresolved, adding to the static hum that no one has the energy to report anymore.

You slide your coffee beside his and drop into the seat next to him. No words, not yet. Just your knee brushing his under the table—light, intentional, familiar. He doesn’t look at you, but he exhales like you just gave him permission to breathe.

After a beat: “I’m fine.”

You sip your coffee. “Mmm. Then why have you been brooding like a cursed Victorian husband.”

He drags his hands down his face and groans. “She called me a cocksucker in front of the whole emergency department.”

“And you didn’t throw anything,” you say. “Which, frankly, is a win.”

You nudge your foot against his. “Do you want me to fight her?”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“Outside. Ambulance bay. High noon.”

That earns the smallest crack of a smile.

“I’m serious,” you add. “I’m fully within my spousal rights to go feral.”

“Pretty sure that’s not in the HR manual.”

“Pretty sure it’s in the vows.”

He huffs out a reluctant laugh, and you feel the air between you shift. Lighter. Less taut. The corner of his mouth tilts in that way you’ve learned to love—subtle, fleeting, like warmth in a place that rarely allows it.

“Dana probably already has a memo drafted,” he mutters. “Something official—‘Effective immediately, all consults will refer to Dr. Robinavitch as Fruitcake.’”

You grin. “She has. It’s laminated. I signed off on it.”

He shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I’m married to you. I take my entertainment where I can get it.”

He finally leans back, posture loosening. “One of these days, I’m torching this whole department.”

“You won’t,” you say. “You love this place too much.”

“I love you. Everything else is negotiable.”

You fall quiet at that, the kind of quiet that makes room for a hand to reach across the table. Yours. His. You’re not even sure. But they find each other easily, like always.

“You were good today,” you say. “The way you handled her. All of it. You didn’t give her the chaos she wanted.”

“She got under my skin.”

“But she didn’t get a reaction. That’s power. That’s control. I'm proud of you.”

He looks at you. Really looks at you. And for a moment, it’s quiet in a way this place rarely is.

“You’re always proud of me,” he says, voice softer now.

You smile, just a little. “Not always. Just when you deserve it.”

A pause. He huffs, but it’s fond. “You should put that on a sticker.”

“Already did.” You nudge his elbow. “Slapped it on your locker right under the one that says ‘Fruitcake of the Month.’”

He groans. “I married a menace.”

“You married smart.”

“You tricked me.”

You squeeze his hand. “And I’d do it again.”

The silence that settles next isn’t heavy. It’s married silence. Full of the things you don’t need to say because you’ve already said them a hundred different ways over coffee cups and night shifts and shared exhaustion.

You glance toward the hallway, then back to him, voice lower now. “Sometimes I wonder how we’re still standing in all this. You, me. This place.”

He watches you for a long moment, then says, “Because you make it worth it.”

A pause.

Then—

“I’m not kissing you in the breakroom,” he says eventually, eyes still on yours.

“I know.”

“But I want to.”

“I know that too.”

Another small smile. “You’re trouble.”

“And you’re mine.”

The moment hangs there—warm and quiet and stupidly rare. It's the kind of silence that only happens when two people know each other too well to need more words.

His pager buzzes on the table. You both glance at it but don’t move right away. Then, like muscle memory, he stands and grabs his clipboard. You collect the two half-finished coffees and toss them without comment.

When you step toward the door, your hand brushes his—not by accident. He doesn’t take it, not here, not with the door just about to swing open. But he squeezes your fingers once, fast and familiar. It’s not affection, exactly. It’s reassurance. A habit. A promise.

You exit the breakroom together.

The hallway feels colder by comparison. Brighter. Louder. Someone’s calling out discharge instructions. A gurney wheel shrieks as it sticks on the threshold. The ER is alive again, like it never paused.

He walks ahead of you, falling back into his role like pulling on a second skin—focused, efficient, slightly intimidating. But you know that look. You know the weight he’s carrying.

When his hand grazes yours again at the hallway bend, he doesn’t pull away right away.

You don’t hold hands. You don’t need to.

But the warmth lingers.

That’s the thing about marriage in a place like this : there’s never time. So you take the seconds. And when you find each other in them, you hold on.

[mintfullyyours]

*Incoming text sound*

What do you want for dinner?

Soap: starts texting something naughty

*Incoming text sound*

…and don’t say me.

Soap: frantically starts hitting backspace

[mintfullyyours]

Hahaha this is so cute

Simon who gets tired of his comrades constantly yapping about women and asking questions about his personal life, so he lies he has a girlfriend and refuses any details - no matter how much they bother him.

Little does everyone know you are genuine. The difference is that you are not Simon's girlfriend and don't even know he exists. He met you at the supermarket, found out where you lived, and stalked you ever since - simple as that.

Simon saw no harm in his actions since he followed you around simply because you were pretty. Plus, he was keeping you safe, so when you think about it, he was your unpaid, secret, would get hunted for sport by Price if found out, bodyguard.

And maybe, maybe, on occasions, he would drive potential unreliable suitors away from you. Don't ask how.

But even the great Simon Riley could resist you for so long. As his guilt was keeping him away from introducing himself to you, he decided to create the fantasy of his perfect little girlfriend - for the team.

Simon made up stories of how you two met, gave details - the works. And it truly satisfied him.

Until, one member, Gaz - found the whole thing sketchy. There was no way, his lieutenant found such a cute bird - all by himself. Something was wrong and the sergeant would get to the bottom of that.

Three weeks later he finally found you, messaged you - asking you if you were real and inviting you to base to surprise your "boyfriend". You kept the convo short, accepting the invitation and triple-checking if the military base was a real place, not some trap.

Imagine the horror and shock on Simon's face when he finds you, waiting for him with the rest of his team, laughing sweetly at their jokes and getting up to put a small kiss on the lieutenant's lips while he stays there - frozen in embarrassment and fear.

[mintfullyyours]

The characterization is chef’s kiss 🤌🏼

COLLAR YOUR DESIRE (TAKE ME AS I AM) | MASTERLIST

141 x READER

He sees fate as some delicious providence. Nothing will be the same after this.

Or: the forced mating omegaverse series

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Omegaverse, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB Reader, Stalking, Kidnapping, Heavy Noncon/Dubcon Elements

fig. 1. hand in dog mouth | Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish fig. 2. teeth in crooked neck | Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick fig. 3. heart in flames | John Price fig. 4. blood in eyes (wipe it off for me) | Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Extras

Series moodboard

[mintfullyyours]

pov you just told soap that you broke up with your boyfriend

[mintfullyyours]

Price omegaverse fic is next….

[mintfullyyours]

It’s a need

elementary school teacher reader/janitor simon………he sees her interacting with the kids and decides he needs to make her a mom they’ve never talked before

[mintfullyyours]

getting cold feet before marrying Gaz and when you confide that in him (because you’re adults and you communicate), he realizes that you’re just bothered by the idea that everything just seems to be happening rather than you being pursued. so he makes sure you’re fully aware of how little choice you have in getting married to him.

[mintfullyyours]

I am on my knees

For some reason, the thought of reader being a werewolf too in the Soap neighbor thing seems like an ironic/funny idea. Like, maybe reader was bit and changed, but has no idea how to navigate the wolf world. I mean, you can't exactly google correct info on something that "isn't real". Plus, it's such a big world reader had never actually run into another wolf. It seemed safer for the reader to keep their secret werewolf existence hidden. Maybe reader's never seen another wolf before and likes their safe solitary little world. Only to then be confronted by Soap when they finally open their door.

ohhh. i like this twist. imagine you’re minding your business, living your recently upturned life, dealing with your new circumstances on your own. you’ve never seen another wolf before, other than the bastard who bit you, so you’re just figuring things out as you go. maybe keeping a journal or something like, “note to self: raw steak cravings = normal, do not eat neighbor’s cat.”

but then you smell them. someone like you. you catch whiffs of them at the building’s entrance. by the post boxes. on warm days when everyone’s windows are open. that’s the kind of day it is when you spot him on his balcony for the first time, and the thick scent of his sweat carries across the gap. there’s a certain doggish undertone to it.

the staring problem begins.

and it is humiliating.

it makes your instincts go haywire. you jot down feverish notes about what it does to you. how you keep finding yourself creeping through the blinds. it isn’t normal. none of it is normal. but you have no idea what to do. you can’t just outright ask, can you? hey, i smelled you from across the building and i really dig your musk.

of course, then you’re caught peeping, and he winds up at your door. you have to open it. what other choice do you have? you get the feeling it will open with or without your permission. you throw the deadbolt but keep the chain hooked out of some remaining shred of self-preservation. then you crack the door open.

it is pungent, to say the least. he didn’t even bother to throw a shirt on. looks like he ran here, too, judging by his heaving, hairy chest. he stares down at you, unblinking, his mouth set in a line. you go tongue-tied. he must be furious.

after a beat, he plants a hand on the door and gives it a push. just a nudge. but it’s enough—the flimsy chain strains, pops out of its track, and snaps into pieces. you don’t look down when it lands on your feet. you’re too busy watching the slow curl of his smile. his nostrils flaring.

“...yer jokin’. a pretty she-wolf? right under my nose?”