#and my office and cold and bland

[no-144444]

a creepy guy who isn't all that creepy- o.bearman

Day 18 of fic-tober! fic-tober masterlist

summary: Why does your cappuccino taste like shit? And why are you being followed by a random 6 foot man? 

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You walked down the streets of Monaco with a frown on your face. It was raining, and on the rare occasion it rained in Monaco, it fucking poured. You powered through the cold water hitting your skin and manoeuvred your way through the various crowds to your favourite coffee shop. It was a small hole-in-the-wall kind of place. It was cosy, it had good coffee, and usually no one bothered you. You ordered a vanilla cappuccino, knowing that you definitely had somewhere you should be (aka, your office) but you just couldn’t sit inside any longer. Fresh out of college and into an office job, it was great, of course, but sometimes the bland office was slightly oppressive to your creativity. You were an author after all. Published at the ripe age of 20. You had your book tour coming up soon, and you’d be busy with family in a few months too, and-

“Cappuccino?” the barista, Martha (yes, you were on a first name basis with the staff, you frequented a lot) called out. Quickly, you swiped the cup and rushed off, hopeful that your manager wouldn’t mention how long you were gone. 

“Sorry?” a British voice called out behind you, but you ignored it. There was a British guy there, some name starting with L, who tried to ask for your number, and refused to take no for an answer, so you moved on assuming it was him. 

Onward you went, trudging down the almost empty streets, your headphones in. You took a sip of your drink and instead of the usual vanilla foam and black coffee goodness, you were met with a bland black coffee and regular foam. Well, you couldn’t fault them too much, maybe it was their subtle way to tell you to stop ordering the same thing everyday? You weren’t sure. Regardless, you continued on your path, a feeling of unease growing in your stomach as you noticed the tall man behind you, following. 

You sped up, took your keys out-

“Sorry, I don’t mean to intrude, I think I picked up your coffee by accident?” A British voice spoke from beside you.

Oh. Not so creepy then. Just a mix up. 

“Fucking hell!” you gasped. “Were you not taught to not sneak up on people?”

He guiltily smiled. “I did try to call you in the coffee shop, but you walked off…”

“Oh,” you nodded. You took the lid off of your coffee and handed him the cup. He handed you his without the lid. You took a quick sip to find that it was in fact your vanilla cappuccino. 

A bright smile spread across your face. He smiled too. 

“Sorry about that,” you smiled. 

“I’m sorry too,” he apologised. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

You shrugged. “Read a lot of thriller fiction?”

“You’re Y/n Y/l/n!” he exclaimed. “Yes! I love your books.”

You nodded, it still shocked you that people read your books. “Thank you.”

“Sorry, this is probably weird,” he shook his head, embarrassed. “Can you sign my book please?”

He quickly grabbed your latest release out of his backpack with a sharpie, and looked at you with a crooked smile. 

You obliged, as you often did with fans. “What’s your name?”

“Ollie, Ollie Bearman,” he smiled. 

You turned to him. “I know you too! You’re incredible!” 

He looked at you in surprise. “You watch F1?”

“Yeah,” you stated like it was obvious. “You were incredible on your debut, and in Baku.”

He blushed slightly, and you smiled. “Thank you very much.”

You finished signing his book then handed it back. “I guess I’ll see you on the track next year,” you smiled. “Good luck.” 

And with that you walked on. He peeked inside his book to find your personal phone number with a note that said ‘call me xxx’ and smirked. 

Who knew messing up a coffee order could go so well?

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navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

fic-tober masterlist

taglist: @anotherapollokid @theseerbetweenus @simbaaas-stuff @5sospenguinqueen @yootvi

[formulaonecrumbs]

hi everyone!! i’m junie, she/her, 18 years old, ♊️, and a big formula one enthusiast. though, i might expand to writing other fandoms at some point. i love Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri and Alex Albon (my big three if u will) but i don’t think there’s a driver i hate. anyways, i love writing so i’m here. if u have any requests; any driver, any reader, any scenario basically whatever u want. pls feel free to ask, i will deliver (or will try to)

so far ive written for; LN4, OP81, CL16, DR3, AA23 & MV33/1

if u want to read any of what it, here:

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 :>

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

Lando Norris:

can’t have his kids (texts)

making space for you 🧡

you was there before the fancy cars 🏎️

you make me feel steady 🌊

i blame love ❤️

looked at me the right way 💋

alexa play ‘marry me’ by bruno mars 💍

one bed and your cold feet 🛌

you’re not alone, bug boy 🕷️❤️

nah, i’m proud 🏳️‍🌈

almost (never) yours

part two: what a bland goodbye.

spending my 20’s on you

unexpected laps 🏁

we miss you 😕

thirteen days and my thirteenth reason ✍️

not used to this 🥂

don’t be sorry🩸

his first time (smut)

always hated the quiet

just wish i was older

we’re meant to be just friends

older sister au:-

little bean 👩‍🍼

what’s he supposed to be? an alien.

first day of school 🏫

you’re not allowed to fall again

is it working?

just another one of the gazillion ♾️

heartbroken but never alone 🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

how not to tie a shoe 👟

you’re too cool for them

Oscar Piastri:

pcos!reader:-

don’t shut me out 🫂

he sees you 🫀

certified uterus whisperer 🌬️

i’ll be back in ten, okay?

hold it together ✊

ALL hands on deck 🫡

totally cockblocked 🚫

you’re okay, i’ve got you.

my very cute werewolf

the win after the win 🏆

ovaries out of office 👅

made of comfort 🧸

even especially at 2am.

stay right there 🌸

i like your big feelings 🫶

give me a minute to hold my girl

we only keep going if you’re okay.

little blood never hurt nobody🩸

you don’t have to hide 🫣

particularly bad

let’s get colour back in your face 🤍

don’t have to move

in every small way

aisles and attitude 🛒

right here when you wake up

one breath at a time

six kisses and counting 👄

i just need you

togetherness 🤝

build a life we love 🩷

others for osc:-

sunday night, monday reality 🤰

how fucking dare you?

little big moments

my big brother best friend 👫

Charles Leclerc:

no time to rest 🤒

stay a little longer 🕯️

Daniel Ricciardo:

this body is still yours

you’re more than enough

Alex Albon:

Max Verstappen:

Other Drivers:

pending… ↺

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Before we had a very original Victorian. This 1900 red brick Victorian in Columbus, OH has been renovated and modernized, although it's not gray and white. 4bds, 3.5ba, 3,636 sq ft, $995k. What do you think of this reno?

My first impression, especially with the modern sculpture in the hall, was Law office conversion.

Well, I said it wasn't gray. The good news is that they didn't paint the wood trim, so if you don't like the orange, you can just paint over it.

I'm so happy to see the fireplace intact, the pocket doors, and the window.

For some unknown reason they made the dining room into a piano bar and put fabric on the walls and ceiling. The ceiling looks upholstered.

The revamped powder room.

They didn't overdo the kitchen, but it looks like it's missing something. It's bland and cold.

In the family room, they left the cabinet and fireplace original, but either added or just painted over, the shelving- it looks newer. They made the cabinet into a little bar.

The stairs look new and some of the wood was replaced or sanded to accommodate a lighter stain.

The primary bedroom is the largest and also has an ensuite.

Brand new bath. The mirrored walls around the window create an optical illusion.

This smaller room must've been used as a home office.

This bath looks more original. The tile is older, the tub is vintage and they left the original cabinet.

The upstairs rooms didn't escape the painting of the wood, but it's expensive to strip, sand, and re-stain it.

This room still has a fireplace, but it's non-functional.

The finished attic is like a studio apt. and includes a full kitchen. It looks like the ladder leads to a sleep loft.

It also has a bath with a washer/dryer.

The basement isn't finished, but someone has a bedroom and living room furniture down here.

There's a workshop in here.

A small porch in back and a decent sized yard. 6,534 sq ft. lot.

There must also be a 2 car garage around the block.

https://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/130-Buttles-Ave_Columbus_OH_43215_M30967-25609

[blufblucake]

Why am I grinning this hard after finishing new chapter WEEE I love their new started cop partners I have the image in front of my eyes lmaoo and how they worked it out with Optimus about their situation. Look there is very little content about Jazz x reader or Prowl x reader I'm very glad you write this! Very excited for next chapter I love them already <3

⋆ 𐙚 ̊.𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

ᴘᴀʀɪɴɢ: Prowl x GN!Human!Reader

ᴛʀᴏᴘᴇ: Grumpy x Sunshine

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: None, I think.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 2,5k

previous chapter / next chapter

Author’s Notes: Hi everyone! Thank you for the sweet words about the story. In the future, Optimus is going to be a real sweetheart to the reader. And since some of you mentioned Jazz, I just want to say I already have a oneshot with him, and I don’t plan to take too long to post it. It’s so cold where I live that it’s getting hard to type. My fingers are going stiff on the keyboard, haha. Anyway, enjoy the chapter! :)

⋆ 𐙚 ̊.𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

With your legs crossed, one foot clad in a heavy boot tapped the floor to the rhythm of the music playing in your head. You absentmindedly played with your fingers while your eyes scanned the room, casually observing the dull and basic decor of the sergeant’s office. The walls, painted a bland shade of cream, brought an overwhelming sense of apathy. The wooden desk in front of you held few decorations aside from a clearly child-made pen holder and a photo frame featuring the sergeant with his family. The room was relatively quiet; in the background, you could hear muffled voices talking and phones ringing outside the door, along with the persistent ticking of the wall clock, which marked 5:40p.m.

Prowl — or rather, his avatar — was sitting in the chair beside you. Unnaturally silent, his blue eyes stared straight ahead, his posture eerily perfect. Ever since you'd returned to the police station, he hadn’t said a word. You weren’t sure what he planned to tell the sergeant, but you knew you couldn’t tell the truth. Not only because Prowl and the other Autobots were counting on your discretion to keep their secret, but also because no one would believe you, and they would definitely force you to give up your job. The sound of the door opening behind you made you turn around just in time to see the sergeant entering the room. Absentmindedly flipping through some reports in his hands, he circled the desk and sat down across from you two. With a tired sigh, he dropped the papers onto the table and glanced between you and Prowl. “So, which one of you is going to tell me about the incident?”

Before you could open your mouth, Prowl took responsibility and began to speak in a cold, serious tone “We were intercepted on the way by armed, masked individuals. We weren’t harmed, but apparently, their intention was only to delay us. Unfortunately, we were unable to identify them or the vehicle they used.” Prowl’s posture and way of speaking were nearly robotic, which was ironic, but if he truly wanted to blend in with humans, he’d need a few pointers. Sergeant Smith simply nodded before leaning back in his chair and resting his hands behind his head. “Well, we’ll open an investigation into this incident. Officer Rowley, right?” he asked, and Prowl confirmed with a nod “You weren’t the partner I had in mind for the officer here, but judging by your record, it’s clear you have experience. And since their original partner is on leave, I believe you two can make a good team. Alright, you’re dismissed. You can go.”

Prowl was the first to rise, and you followed suit after noticing the sergeant’s bored gaze lingering on you. You offered him a faint smile and left the room, closing the door behind you. So that was it. You weren’t meant to be partners, you had ended up in this situation simply by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe if you hadn’t gotten into that car that day, you wouldn’t have gotten tangled up in this whole alien war mess. Prowl walked silently ahead, and you had to quicken your pace to keep up. Since it was nearly shift change, the locker room was relatively full. You had to squeeze through groups of people chatting absentmindedly just to reach your locker and grab your backpack. Once outside, you let out a relieved sigh. It was suffocating being surrounded by so many people. Prowl was waiting for you, leaning against the hallway wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Without saying a word, he started walking again, and you followed him, heading toward the station’s lot, where his real body was parked.

“Give me your phone,” he said plainly, and you looked at him, confused. Still, you rummaged through your bag, found the device, and handed it to the mech. He scrolled through it and typed somethings before finally returning it to you. “A blocker. We need to be cautious now that the Decepticons know about you.” you nodded and slowly put the phone back in your backpack. Your curious eyes glanced between his avatar and his real form, still trying to wrap your head around all of it. It was strange to think this was really happening. As a child, you used to read books about space and its vastness, and you remembered thinking how ridiculous it was to believe we were alone among the stars. And now, you had proof you were right. You weren’t alone. You just didn’t know if that certainty brought you comfort… or fear. “Well, I’m heading home then. See you tomorrow, right?”

He gives you a confused look and raises an eyebrow, then responds, “I’m going with you. Optimus assigned me as your guardian, I need to ensure your safety.” you let out a short laugh and pat his left arm lightly, but when you realize he’s still dead serious, you straighten up and clear your throat. “You’re serious, big guy? Because, honestly, my place is tiny. Barely fits me and Olivia Benson. I don’t think you’d even fit inside on your knees.” He closes his eyes and exhales deeply before answering, “I’ll stay in vehicle mode, disguised and hidden. I need you to be discreet, you can’t tell your friend about any of this, understood?” You blink a few times before letting out another laugh, was he seriously thinking your little fish was a person? You decide to say nothing; you’ll introduce them when the time comes.

Prowl found himself confused by human humor. In truth, he understood very little about your kind, and to be honest, he had no real interest in learning. But now, in this situation, he had to keep you safe and make sure you didn’t blurt out anything about their presence on Earth “Alright, I’ll drive ahead and you follow me.” He nods in confirmation and watches you walk away toward the exit. Then he walks over to his real body, enters the car by the driver’s side, and lets the illusion of his avatar fade away. He was tired, but he knew he had to keep up appearances. Prowl starts the engine and leaves the station lot, parking under a tree to watch you get into an old, battered Beetle. Once you begin to drive, he waits a few seconds before following, keeping a safe distance between your cars.

The way to your house is neither long nor difficult. Traffic was surprisingly light for that hour, and people seemed far too absorbed in their own lives to notice a police vehicle tailing a little Beetle. When you arrive on your street, Prowl sees it’s a quiet neighborhood, and judging by the houses and the few residents outside, it’s mostly inhabited by elderly folks. Your home wasn’t much different from the others, maybe just your garden looked a bit less taken care of. You park your Beetle on the street and get out, walking toward the garage. With a remote, you open the door and make space for him to enter. Once inside, you close the door, and darkness settles over the space. Feeling around the wall, you find the light switch and turn on a dim yellow bulb above you both. Your hand is soft and delicate as you gently stroke Prowl’s hood “Welcome to my home. It’s no five-star hotel, but at least you won’t be exposed to the weather.”

The mech observes you silently, the only sound coming from the faint hum of his engine. He could feel the warmth of your hand through his metal plating, and though he said nothing, the touch was oddly comforting. “I’m going in now. You’ll be okay here on your own?” your question snaps him out of the trance your touch had induced, and he replies with a soft hum.

You walk away and head straight to the bathroom for a shower. Under the hot water, your muscles relax and you finally let yourself cry. Tears stream freely down your cheeks as you slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor, hugging your knees. The events of the day finally hit you. In a single day, you’d started a new job, been mistreated by coworkers, met your new partner who turned out to be an alien, were attacked by another alien and nearly died in the process, met more aliens claiming to be the good guys, and now you were home with said alien partner disguised as a car, hiding in your garage. On top of everything, you were new to the city and didn’t have any friends besides your little fish or the old lady next door, but you knew you could never tell her about any of this. Resting your cheek on your knees, you stay in that position for a long time, letting the hot water wash away the day’s stress while the steam fogs up the bathroom.

When you finally finish your shower, you dress in a pair of loose pajama shorts and an oversized T-shirt from a band you didn’t even know. The rumble of your stomach reminds you of your hunger, so you walk into the kitchen intent on making a snack. Opening the fridge, you realize there’s not much, just some tuna spread, a few tomato slices, and some bread. It would do. You quickly make a sandwich, and with the first bite, you nearly roll your eyes in satisfaction. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until that moment. Then you think of Prowl. He was alone in the garage, stuck in vehicle mode, in an unfamiliar place. Even though you didn’t know much about his kind, you wondered if he might be hungry. He’d spent the entire day with you, and you hadn’t seen him eat anything. Did alien robots eat regularly? And if so, could they consume anything besides that weird blue stuff Optimus had mentioned? Well, he was a car after all.

Decided, you place your sandwich on a plate and head to your room. Rummaging through the closet, you find an old inflatable mattress stored in a box. You throw a pink blanket over one shoulder, tuck a pillow under your arm, grab the box handle with one hand, and the sandwich plate with the other, then head to the garage. Once in front of the garage door, you give it a light bump with your hip to open it. Even though Prowl’s vehicle form had no expression, you could feel his gaze on you. “What’s all this?” he asks, a hint of disguised curiosity in his voice. You smile “I came to keep you company!”

You set the plate, blanket, and pillow on an old wooden cabinet, then drop the box to the floor and kneel to open it. Prowl watches silently, intrigued, as you unfold the mattress and spread it out on the floor beside him. You turn to the cabinet and rummage through its doors until you find a small air pump. You attach the nozzle to the mattress valve and begin pumping it manually — up and down motions, pausing occasionally to rest before resuming. When it’s finally inflated, you give a few excited little hops and put the pump back where you found it. You grab the blanket and pillow and toss them onto the mattress, then take the plate and sit cross-legged, in lotus position, getting comfy. One hand brings the sandwich to your mouth while the other rests on your bare knee. “You know, I just don’t feel right leaving you here alone. What kind of host would I be? So, I’m sleeping here with you tonight,” you say with a wide grin.

If he were in his bipedal form, Prowl would definitely have wide optics right now “You do understand you don’t have to do this, right? I’m fine here,” he tries to protest but you raise a finger, cutting him off. “Nonsense. It’s no trouble at all…” you chuckle lightly, and he tries again, “No, I really do prefer being alon-”

“No need to thank me, Prowler. I’m doing this with love!” The sudden nickname catches him off guard, and he wants to ask about it. Explain that it’s weird since you two weren’t friends or close, but you ignore him and finish your sandwich. Then you get up, walk over to the cabinet, place your plate on top, and open one of the drawers to pull out a plastic jerrycan. “Obviously I don’t have any emergin, energun, whatever that thing is called… but if you want, I can go to the gas station and get you some gasoline. I figured diesel wouldn’t be good for you, so gasoline seemed like the safer bet.”

Silence fills the garage as you stare at him, blinking slowly while holding the canister. This time, Prowl can’t hold it in. He bursts out laughing, a loud and hearty laugh that shakes his entire frame. You keep staring, unsure why he’s laughing. He was a car; didn’t cars need gas? Maybe he was electric? After a few minutes, the mech finally regains enough composure to reply “We don’t digest gasoline,” he says between more chuckles “Only energon. But… I appreciate the gesture.” And that’s when you realize just how ridiculous you must have sounded to him. Still, it was a valid attempt, and at least you finally managed to make him laugh after so many failed tries.

You put the jerrycan back and return to the mattress, fluffing the pillow and lying down under the blanket. The silence between you is mostly comfortable, though he occasionally lets out a chuckle. By the fourth time, you huff and say, “Alright, it wasn’t that funny…” He chuckles again, and you find yourself smiling at the sound of his voice, it was oddly comforting. “Sorry. I just didn’t expect that offer.” While he still laughs softly, you reach out and give one of his tires a gentle punch. As strange as it was, that little blunder had opened the door to conversation, and you decide to take advantage of it. You ask him questions. He doesn’t answer all of them, but he doesn’t seem bothered by your chattiness either. And so you stay like that, talking for hours in the dark garage. When sleep finally washes over you, you turn to your side and say a soft ‘good night’. Prowl’s voice is low and gentle when he replies, “Good night, little chatterbox.”

[fatuismooches]

HIII!! First of all I wanted to say that i love your blog and your writing! it brings me so much comfort :(( ANYWAY I WANTED TO REQUEST SOME CUDDLING HEADCANONS AND MAYBE A SMALL SCENARIO WITH DOTTORE?? fluff!! yknow just sleepy cuddles <3

It wasn't often that you woke up to your husband in the same bed as you. Of course, at this point, you were used to Dottore's absence, but nothing could quite fill the void that you felt when you rose from a cold bed. And although you did bother the other segments for affection to your heart's content, even they found themselves many times too busy to entertain sleeping in with you. Still, you were just happy to be with them and cherish the soft moments that happened whenever they did.

However, a habit of yours that had developed whenever you were feeling the lack of attention, was slipping into your husband's (or a segment's) room and snuggling on his (not very comfortable) bed. If you were being honest, Dottore's bed, much to your dismay, didn't really smell like him very much, for a simple reason - he rarely ever lays on it. An easy remedy to this, however, was just to steal one of his shirts. The scent was very... Dottore-like, something that oddly brought comfort to you.

On this particular day, you easily made your way into his office - empty, unfortunately, but not too surprising. He was probably in that lab of his as usual. Regardless, as you entered into the connecting (very bland) bedroom, you immediately made yourself at home on his bed. In fact, it was exactly how you left it a few days ago, messy and tussled, meaning that Dottore certainly hadn't slept on it again. Perhaps he didn't even enter his own room for that long. Your urgent words for him to rest only got through his thick skull once in a blue moon. Regardless, you pulled the blankets up and curled into them, eager to preserve the warmth, and too tired to fluff the pillows a bit more before you fell asleep.

When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was that you were a lot more warmer than usual. And then, when you tried stretching to pull off a bit of the blanket, your body's movement was strangely constricted by something else. Plus, it felt like it was a lot earlier than when you usually get up. Your sleepy mind had just barely begun processing the situation when a sudden voice abruptly woke you up a lot more.

"Go back to sleep." The voice was a bit deeper and gruff than usual, but undoubtedly, it could only belong to one person, which made your heart start racing with excitement.

"Dottore!" You immediately began wiggling in his arms, trying to turn around and see him, sleepiness still holding your body hostage, not to mention how tight his arms were. "Let me see you," you complained.

"Stop moving around," he grumbled some more. "Now is not the time I wish to entertain you." And yet he languidly began to nip at the nape of your neck. But that reminded you - for him to be in bed was already a rare occurrence, and from his voice, it sounded like he was genuinely sleeping. This was... excellent news, so you probably shouldn't push your luck.

"Fine," you complied, relaxing your body once more. A wave of sleepiness hit you despite your energy from a few moments ago, but you ignored it. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" Dottore parroted, as his sharp teeth continued to dig into your skin. "I come back to my room and find my bed occupied by someone who wasn't invited. The question should be, what are you doing here?" You could only sheepishly laugh as you remembered everything.

"Well... you should know your room is mine too, you know! Besides, to make it even, you're welcome in my room anytime too!~" Dottore clicked his tongue, but it was obvious to you he didn't mind your intrusion in the slightest.

"Regardless, go back to sleep. You are tired." Despite your attempts to stifle your yawns and hide your drooping eyes, your husband had noticed it all too well.

"Don't wanna," you quickly protested. Before he could open his mouth again (and perhaps teasingly threaten to help you sleep) you spoke again.

"If I go to sleep again now, when I wake up, you won't be here anymore, will you?" You didn't need to see his expression or wait for a response to know the answer to that.

"So let me do as I please, Zandik. Let me be with you." Let you bask in this moment, fully conscious of what is going on, being able to feel and process his skin against yours and more, for you would hate to be unable to remember this gentle encounter.

"... Do what you wish, but don't bother me when you're too tired to do anything." His seemingly annoyed statement was betrayed by his arms tightening around you.

"I will." Your response ended the line of conversation, a comfortable silence now taking over. Needless to say, you wallowed in his strong back pressed against yours, his callused hands against your own, a long lock of blue hair tickling your neck. You made sure to take note of even the most minuscule details before it was time for life to resume.

What existed at this moment was merely two human beings, so similar yet so different, with their troubles and masks discarded to savor the presence of each other.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Long Snake Moan 8

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Loki

Summary: your boss gives you a task you’re not prepared for.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Your clothes hang off of your body, a slake of sweat running down your thighs and stomach. You’re not sure how you’ve ended up this way, legs curled around Loki as he pins you to the wall.

The office lights blaring outside your eyelids. His breath plumes into your scalp as he presses his nose into your hair. You tilt your hips as your overwrought nerves cluster and ping off each other.

Another orgasm swells in the ebb and flow of pleasure. Minutes, hours, days, you don’t know how long you’ve been at it. 

It’s another of his tricks. The way he uses your body against your mind. How he can twist your desire like a cage around your reticence. 

“Mm, darling,” he slithers, “shall we go home?” 

He doesn’t stop his steady thrust as he speaks, a hand under your ass and the other on the back of your neck. He dips his head down to nib at your ear lobe. 

“Home?” You murmur dumbly. What does he mean? 

“As man and wife...” he puffs along your throat, “yes, darling, I think it’s time.” 

You push your head back as his lips tease your skin. You hate how he makes your insides rend. You clutch his shoulder and whine. You squeeze him tighter with your legs, hooking your feet together to keep him locked in. 

“A little more,” you rasp to your own horror. 

He snickers, “I never said we’d stop.” 

Confounded by his words, you flick your eyes open and a sudden flash of green paints your world. You feel a lurch around you. It’s as if you’re plummeting for that split second, then the world still again.  

Loki falls onto you. A silky sheet tickles your back beneath the crumpled fabric of your loose blouse, hanging at your elbows. Your shorn skirt fans out under your legs as Loki carries his motion, not missing a beat as the walls around you appear anew. 

Your head lolls as you take in your new surroundings. Behind the green tint, there’s something family. You can’t think. You don’t care where you are, you just care about that spiralling coil inside of you. You clasp onto Loki’s neck and sink your nails in, pushing your pelvis up to take him in. 

You cum again. Shaking violently as you’re battered in the eruption of hot and cold. Your arm splays limp and dangles over the edge of the sofa. Loki persists as you tremble helplessly.  

As you wade in the afterglow, fighting the tiding of yet another orgasm, your eyes flit around. This... this is your apartment. How-- 

You slap his shoulder and cough, “Loki, stop--” 

“Darling, I’m nearly--” 

“I don’t care, get--” 

He rams into you and your voice shrivels up. You drop your head down and gnash your teeth. He ruts into you furiously as he snakes his hand up to cover your mouth. He pumps into you as he pants against your cheek, muttering a flow of sultry delight. 

“Mmm, darling, just you try to get away,” he snarls, “I feel you clinging to me. You want me, hmm?” His taunts peter out into thick grunts and groans and he sinks his head down to growl against the cushions. 

A warmth blooms in you as he spasms and pushes himself into his limit. You twitch at the fullness and claw at his back. Fuck. As much as you hate that he’s right, he is. You don’t think you could make him get off. 

He finally stills but that urgent need does not. It’s a low buzz in your pelvis but you feel it pulsing, waiting to thrum again. You blink and take in what you can of your apartment.

Your plain white curtains are now green satin, around a nightscape that assure you of hours of torture. The walls, usually just as bland, are painted with gold and green trim and your eyes narrow on the snake ornament mounted on the wall with-- 

Huh! 

You tap Loki’s shoulder frantically, “get off, get off.” 

“Darling?” He mutters. 

“I mean it, off.” You try to push him and groan at the effort as your walls squeeze him. “Ayeee.” 

“Mmm, as you wish, dear wife.” 

He slides out of you and a full-body shudder constricts your muscles. You grit through the emptiness and sit up. You nearly tumble off the edge of the couch at the dizziness. You look down at your ruined clothes, barely hanging onto your figure. Fuck. 

You stand and squeak at the tenderness between your legs. You cup your pelvis and limp, your other hand on your forehead. You squint at the metal plate on the wall with the snake curved in an infinity sign. Between each loop, are a set of initials; his and yours. 

You pause and glance around again. You look at Loki as he works at untangling his dark hair. He is entirely too comfortable right now. 

“What did you to my place?” You accuse. 

“Our place,” he insists and sends you a smirk. 

You stare back at him. Your eyes threaten to stray down. His shoulders and chest are forged in muscle and as much as you didn’t ask for any of this, you can’t deny his boasting is mostly true. It makes you hate him more that he was honest in that sense after being so deceitful. 

You press your hands to your temples and his own eyes drift down. A cold wash flows through you as he purrs and you drop your arms. You pull your blouse up your shoulders and do up the only remaining button. Then you wrap your torn skirt and wrap it around yourself.. 

“I need a shower,” you hobble across the floor. 

“A wonderful idea, I shall join you.” He stands, shamelessly naked. You can’t pick out in the chaos of the afternoon when he stripped off every piece. Given how he can throw you through time and space, it probably isn’t much effort for him. 

“That wasn’t an invitation,” you stay far from him as you walk faster. “I need space. I need to think.” 

You hurry down the hall and shut the door before he can catch up. You growl at the sight of the bathroom. Green tile, green towels. He’s taken over more than your body but your entire life. You huff and shuffle forward to the shower and pull open the curtain. As you do, you shriek in horror. 

He reaches up to grip the metal bar and smirks down at you, “dirty mortal,” he tuts. “Time to get washed up.” 

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hiya! I’m so happy your requests are open omg your writing is impeccable. So I’ve been with this concept in my head for so long since I read this prompt somewhere: what is with your weird fascination with me?

And just immediately my head started creating a story about reader having the nickname ‘Death’ because she has the highest body count known, skilled as no other and, also, imposible to know on a deeper level because she is like a wall, not letting anyone in. Until John Price needs her for a mission and is, as the prompt says, fascinated by her (and feeling other things he doesn’t want to admit), and is able to break her a little when he gets hurt in a mission after months of working together.

Glory to the Reaper

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: He was strange, you admitted to yourself. Always around even when you didn't want him to be. But perhaps the Brit just might surprise you.

WORDCOUNT: 5.8k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, death, gore, canon typical violence, avoidance tactics, fluff, pining, hurt/comfort, etc.

A/N: I switched around the codename but it's still the same plot! Enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your eyes slip over the file on the table, slowly caressing the parchment with easy and careful consideration of every word and comma��searching. Focusing. You hum under your breath and slide the page away to spy on the one behind it, the room quiet and the air cold. Outside the window the entire compound is asleep, only the light of the street lamps illuminating the land; inside this office, your feet barely shuffle over the tuft of the rug.

Clicking your tongue, you go to the next document in the pile. 

The still-warm body flinches and jerks below you, but you barely notice—he hadn’t put up much of a fight; wasn’t memorable. Sighing and itching over the mask along the bottom of your face, you snatch the last six papers from the desk and fold them four times, stuffing them into your vest pocket. 

Stalking with sure steps, you press into the radio on your gear as you step over the body and head to the door. Bloody bootprints follow behind you like a crimson shadow of surefire death.

“Actual, intel secured. Heading to Evac now.” Laswell was listening intently on the other end, your Op of the highest priority. 

You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t, surely. The small click from the other end greets you as you shove open the office’s door and saunter down the hallway paved with glints of marble and pools of viscera like a Roman horror story. Eyes numbly slide past the scores of bodies; necks slit and stomachs burst from bullets fired through silencers. 

“Good job, Tomb,” Laswell utters, voice fast and serious as always. “What’s the clean-up status?”

Your lips flinch upward, “I suggest fire and a prayer, Actual. But no one knows I’m here. Main house is neutralized.” 

A small pause later and a huff of dull amusement. 

“Copy, Tomb. Your ride is waiting—best not to miss it, we need you back sooner than later.” The structure of your lungs rearranges in a small chuckle that echoes off the ceiling; molten silver from the moon slips over your darkened form. The patch upon your right shoulder is illuminated in steady intervals, the familiar image of a mausoleum and a guarding Sphinx. 

Alone, that patch is, with no other dark affiliations beyond that demonic cause. Many see it right before they meet their end, but the insignia was entirely left to ruin—no one sees it and lives besides other soldiers.

“Copy.” Your voice is easy and bland as the curtains from the single open window shake in the breeze. “Tell the boys I’m on my way.” You pass the window and slap a gloved hand to it, hearing the squeak of the frame as it hits back down before you turn the corner, slinking away to reform into a figure that evokes grim glances and sliced sentences. 

—

You stare into blue eyes with a sheen of disinterest coating your own, hands stuffed into your pockets and gear heavy on your chest. From your shoulder, the strap of your rifle sits as you speak, tilting your head, “Captain Jonathan Price of Task Force 141.” 

The man was tall, you admit, fit and formed to harsh military life. Undoublity he’d been in the service for decades. You’d seen his face before—the brunette beard and the strong jaw; small eyes with wrinkles, it’s how you had ID’d him. Plus the bucket hat. Laswell had told you he’d been inquiring about your file and you’d done your own digging off the books. 

John grunts a greeting before nodding.

“Pleasure. Tomb, was it?” On the tarmac, you glance around with stiff shoulders as the blades of the helicopter slow down behind you. Morning was just on the horizon, and you hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep on the flight back.

Lips thin, before your vision slides back into place. John’s hands are crossed casually, but his blue holds glints of intrigue. You don’t like that. “...The one and only. Excuse me.” 

Walking past, you move like a crane, legs taking long, steady, strides. A hand comes up to scratch at your cheek through your face covering. Laswell was expecting you immediately. 

And those feet at your side were not supposed to be there. Your eyes shimmer lowly at the shadow of John as he follows.

“Should tell you that Laswell’s in building two, then.” Pace halting, the Captain continues off on his own as your sharp gaze burns into his neck. He spares a glance over his expansive shoulder before adjusting his course to the East. “Told me to bring you to her. We need to have a little chat, yeah?”

You stay silent, watching John travel to the larger building where Laswell was apparently now waiting for you. After a still minute where you listen to the birds waking up and the scent of dew is in your hidden nostrils, you sigh deeply and roll your shoulders before beginning to walk behind. 

“Hm,” Garbled grunts are only heard by you as you stay well enough back from the man. Cautious as you stare at his head. 

He holds the door open for you when you finally make it, and you stand blankly from the opening as John’s calloused hand clenches over the door. When you don’t enter, the Captain shakes his head and releases a deep chuckle. 

“Alright, then,” he mutters, shuffling through the door first. You follow the strain of his back until you look away and reach for the barrier, pushing it back from you. Making your way inside, you sigh and wonder what you’re getting into. 

“Laswell said you don’t like strangers,” eyes peek back at you as the buzzing from the overhead lights echoes in your ears. Your throat releases a hum; shoulders showing a picture of wound ease. “Can’t say she’s wrong, now can you?”

Watching another soldier pass the two of you, you tilt your head to make sure the stranger’s footsteps turn the corner before you answer John’s question with a raised brow to mirror his own. 

“Did she also tell you that I don’t plan on joining One-Four-One, Captain?” His bearded smirk catches you slightly off-guard, perplexed by not even the hint of shock in his gaze. He’d done his research.

John grunts as his eyelids narrow, amused. Your muscles tense.

“Affirmative.” The meeting room door is opened and this time he allows you to ease your paranoia by slinking in first. 

In the room sits an occupied Laswell, a long table, a projector, and black-out windows. Confused but used to last-minute changes, you simply enter silently and pick a chair with your back to the wall and a good view of the room. 

“Laswell,” you utter in greeting as the woman hums a hello, shifting through numerous files. In your breast pocket, you pull out the files you’d stolen and toss them onto the wood. John stands near the entrance with crossed arms, hips shifting every so often as his feet re-situate themselves. 

He blinks down at the papers and then back to you with a careful glance at Kate.

Your Station Chief chuckles when she looks at you, tilting her head before she snatches the prize. 

“Good work as always, Tomb.” 

“Why is he here?” You get to the point, one hand going up to brush over your hair as the other sits limply on the seat’s arm. Your gear sits heavy on you, but that brutal tic of curiosity blooms. 

John’s lips twitch before he answers, “An offer. Knew I wouldn’t be able to meet if Laswell wasn’t the mediator, eh? You’re bloody difficult to track down.”

“Offer?” Small talk never mattered to you, hadn’t since you’d signed up, and probably never would. You didn’t understand why people beat around the bush—just say what you need to say and get it over with. There was only so much time in a day. 

It seemed John Price carried part of that opinion as well. 

Blunt, you admit to your opinion of the man, and sure of his strengths.

“I need your skill set.” Kate looks back and forth between you two before she focuses on her work, multitasking. John continues, pointing a hand at you in demonstration from their hold on his chest. “Mission in three days. Turkey…” He watches you closely as if gauging your abilities. “You in or out?” 

You wait in a dim silence for a minute or two before you tilt your body to Laswell, eyes still stuck in stormy blue and pale wrinkles inlaid with dirt. 

“Kate?” 

“Totally off the books,” the woman says confidently, pen sliding over paper. “Two targets in Bursa. There’s a file in your office.” Raising a brow, John hides his cheeky smile behind a bored mask.

“Take your Lieutenant,” you glare, “Ghost, was it?”

Price shakes his head, hat flinching along with it. “On assignment. I’ll need an answer today, Tomb. Time’s ticking.”

Your jaw clenches in annoyance, “Capture or kill?” 

John shrugs nonchalantly, “Either. Is this a yes or a no?”

In this game of cat and mouse, you find yourself slipping. Your obligations as a soldier call to you to take the mission immediately, but for the simple fact that this Captain was unknown to you—and apparently, you weren’t unknown to him. 

John was checking all of the boxes of people you didn’t like to be around.

Your voice grits out, eyes burning in their glare, “...When?” 

His smirk makes you want to storm out.

“Tomorrow. 1300.” The air in the room is thick, tense like a thick layer of molasses was overtop everything. Under the table, your foot taps to the steady beat of your heart, your face tensed, and the layers of your facemask suddenly too formed to your neck and chin. 

Twitching your nose you dig your eyes into John, peeling down his expansive shoulders and chest to take in the layers of packs and other miscellaneous items. His thigh holders and the way they hug his legs. You end with one last dead-on look into his eyes, trying to pinpoint intentions and flay the lines of his brain. 

Most people glance away, but John returns the look with a casual tilt of his head and a raised brow. Not at all off-put. 

Your hand steadily clenches over the chair. 

All you give him is a firm nod—nothing more than a mere jerk of your chin. Kate sighs from where she’d been watching. 

“Perfect. John,” she points her pen at the Captain as you both stare off. John grunts before his eyes flicker to the side, leisurely roving back moments later. You blink and rub your forehead. “You have your answer. Now would the both of you get the fuck out of here?”

“Copy, Kate.” John sighs, and you huff; standing as you plan out the amount of time you have to clean up and sleep before you have to leave. With an easy brush of your shoulders, your form shimmies past the Captain with dull enthusiasm. 

You weren’t happy about this, but fine. You’ve been through worse. 

As you shuffle down the hallway to the armory, your ears quirk when the footsteps ring in the drums of your ears like a hiking beacon. Already you’d memorized the walking pattern. 

The thump-bump, bump-thump, of boots and the clink-clank of metal on metal. Shoving down a growl you hiss out into the air, not turning around. 

“Problem, Price?” A gruff humph bounces. 

“Negative, Tomb.” His shadow comes to conjoin with yours, large body standing side-by-side. Eyes flash to the side of your face, hidden from all by the cloth—like a bored cat, you continue to pave your way to silence; hoping whatever thought this man had in his head would disappear. “Just curious, see.” 

“Curious?” your brow raises, the make of your muscles showing your unease. “Can’t help you with that.” 

“No, probably not, eh?” John grunts and reiterates as strange emotion spikes in the lines of his face as he glances along you. “Tomorrow. 1300. Don’t be late.” With nothing more, he halts and pivots, peeling back to leave your side as his sudden absence leaves you devoid of heat. 

Confusion breeds in your chest, but your steady legs carry you on until your tension leaves. Under your breath you utter a question as you enter the armory, shuffling your rifle off of your chest. “What the hell was that about?”

—

Price and you stand inside the safehouse with fast hearts and narrowed eyes. Blood was dripping down your hands, the black gloves flooded with gore that sure as hell doesn’t belong to you. 

“Fuck,” John growls, guttural reverberations echoing off the walls. With stiff ribs, you go and lightly peel back the fabric of the nearest window to study the street below; looking for any suspicious figures. Frowning, you see nothing and let the curtain fall, eyes wafting to the Captain. 

“We either lost them or they have surveillance on the building. Best for you to not leave either way.” The mission had gone sideways—apparently one of the targets had an ID on John as a member of One-Four-One. One thing led to another and resulted in you sticking a knife into some man’s gut to get away when he’d been spotted. You blink at his agitated expression, the black beanie on his head ruffled as he runs a hand over it.

But you don’t say anything else. Peeling off your gloves, you listen to him as a rain of blood splatters the carpet. 

“This sets us back—since when does bloody fuckin’ Metin Baydar know who I am?” John’s hands are clenched, jaw so tight you wonder if his molars will crack under the pressure. A smirk twitches your lips at the thought. “Tomb,” you slowly tilt your eyes to him. The man sets his lips and crosses his arms, the brown casual wear in his chest bunching. “I’ll need you to be my eyes on this, yeah? If I leave this position I jeopardize your safety.”

“My safety?” you huff a laugh and push your gloves into your loose pants. “Captain, I don’t need you to worry about my safety.” 

He seems to pause for a moment, and with a shake of his head his blue eyes shutter closed. A deep, tight, breath is taken and those tiny lids are forced back as you lock gazes. You send a blank look his way and he nods firmly.

“Keep low.” Is all he grunts, feet standing apart and his stare intense. “Copy?” 

A swirl of amusement dances in your gut—you tap the earpiece in your shell with a stained streak of blood on your fingers. John stares, unreadable.

“I’ll leave when the streets cool. Just keep on the line so I can relay my intel, Price.” After a moment of silence, your eyes tighten with intrigue. “How do you wonder Baydar knew your face?” Standing by the window again, you peek out and keep John in view. His form shuffles, and he scoffs before walking beside you. Over your shoulder, he also views the buildings and businesses below. You still at the sensation of his breath on the back of your head, hand twitching over the curtain. It ruffles your hair for a moment before you snap out of it, eyes blinking rapidly. “Your Task Force isn’t exactly known,” you finish your sentence, voice strained. 

Clearing his throat, as if realizing how close he’d gotten with only the intention of gazing outside, the man’s form jerks back; taking a step or two away to give you distance. Your far-gone eyes blankly continue to look outside but your chest gains some tension to it. You don’t know why.

This Brit is strange. You frown, watching a cat traverse the concrete far below. Not that I really have much to go off of. 

“Haven’t a clue.” John sighs again, one hand going to itch at his chin. “Your guess is as good as mine. One thing I do know is that we have to fix this. Now.” 

“You should tell Laswell,” you mutter, turning around and walking past him to stand around your packs—all of which hold your gear. Your knife was set into a small sheath inside your shirt, leather wrapped around your waist as you stopped near the coffee table. You pull the lip of your clothes up and grasp at it before peeling the metal out with an inquisitive eye. 

If there was any breakage to the tip, you’d be furious. 

John watches from across the room, catching glances at your bare skin riddled with scars and burns; unmarred flesh foreign. He feels his breath hitch before you drop your shirt back down and bring the blade into the light. 

Holding it parallel, you gaze along the edge and tilt your head, eyelids half-closed. 

“Kate?” Price answers you, clearing his throat. “No, it’s better not to create any more shite. She’ll be good off not knowing, yeah?” The brunette’s brow raises in question.

You hum and don’t reply. 

The rest of the mission was spent with the two of you conversing over the open line of your comms as you scoured the streets for any sign of the target, feet carrying you over the city as the chill of the late afternoon set in. Presently, you didn’t know how to feel about your situation. Working with others was a strain on your focus—on the walls you’ve built up; John had obviously noticed that you didn’t exactly play well with others. It was plainly stated in your file, after all. 

“—attitude, or lack thereof, is a detriment to the structure of any team/unit/platoon that she is placed into under all circumstances. Recommended reserved operations to limit drawbacks.” 

Having a pleasant attitude wasn’t your job. 

Stalking around the corner, your ears twitch to John’s voice. “Sitrep, Tomb. What’s it looking like out there?” 

It was strange, then, that the man over the line was so eager to speak to you. Your sigh hits on deaf ears, and you respond as you carefully walk past civilians making their way home.

“Quiet. No sign.” The silence re-settles and you gradually loosen again. Like a cat, your ears twitch to hear the muttering from the commuters; eyes sliding with watery film across faces. 

Baydar owns a restaurant as a front for funding terrorists. Anyone exiting from this direction could be part of it—

“You said you’d never join One-Four-One,” John’s voice makes you shove down a flinch, ripped out of your focus. In your pockets, your hands close into fists, and a deeply annoyed mask fits itself over your expression. “Why’s that, then?” 

“What is this?” Your voice goes cold, “interrogation time?”

“With a record like yours, you’d get pick of any Task Force or SOF in country.” The Captain seems to ignore your hiss and jab as his deep voice continues; accent low. You hear the drag of a cigar and the puff of smoke. Internally, you’re thankful for the casual yet attentive acknowledgment of your skills—how the man doesn’t seem in the slightest worried about you. “Why is it that you’re always alone out ‘ere? Couldn’t wrap my head ‘round it, truthfully.” A tobacco-slick chuckle, “Bloody hell, people would kill to get you on a mission like I did, eh? No doubt.” 

For a long time, you don’t answer, leaning against the wall across from your target’s restaurant doing recon. Frown tight and face stiff. John’s voice fizzles. 

“Ah, fuckin’ forget it Love, just a man’s curiosity speaking for ‘im. I’ll leave you to focus.” Before the line can click, you open your lips—as if the things have a mind of their own.

“People are unpredictable.” The Captain’s breath is gently puffing over the line. He listens and you know he hangs on every word; it was a strange feeling to know that. From under you, your feet shuffle. “They do things that don’t make sense. I don’t like dealing with it.”

A grunt. “Well, can get behind that…” John had a smirk on his lips, you can hear it. “You’d lose your head if you met MacTavish.” 

Your focus waning, you blink, getting sucked into this strange interaction with an even stranger man. 

“Yeah?” You wonder, head tilting to the side. “One of yours?”

“Hm,” he affirms and the chill of the night caresses your skin. John chuckles. “Sergeant. Bloody good shot, but can get into trouble faster than his fucking gun can fire.” 

Your mouth quirks. “Sounds horrible.”

“Makes my job a living hell,” John admits and you shock yourself by listening. “But no one better to keep by my six…You’d ease up to him.” 

“I’m not joining, Price,” Your voice mutters out like how a dragonfly snaps its translucent wings on still air. “This is it.”

In the safehouse, John hums under his breath, staring out the window at the blinking lights of the city as you watch the restaurant with far-off thoughts. A smile twitches his lips. For some reason there was something about you he wanted to figure out—something to unravel. You were like Ghost sometimes, but more… fascinating. Darker.

And you knew how to get the job done better than anyone.

John wanted you on his Task Force, your expertise, and the only way to get that was to take you apart like a puzzle of razor blades. Study you. Learn you as the edges cut up his flesh. The Captain had no idea what picture you’d make when everything was in its proper place, but he’d be willing to try with the very tenacity that had gotten him this far. 

But there was something else there, too. Some kind of tightness in his chest when you looked at him; he'd gotten it when he’d seen you on the tarmac back not so long ago like some schoolboy. Those blank eyes of yours…why did he want them to light up? 

Why did he want to see your laugh? 

John wasn’t immature enough to not know his own feelings or attractions, but this was an entire section of its own. Blinking, the man grunts to himself and smirks. “Well, better make it last, then.” 

You feel your eyelids carefully pull in surprise. 

“I…” Your voice starts but dies off, swallowing saliva down as your mouth clacks shut with a connection of teeth. Closing your eyes, you steady your heart, which had suddenly created a concerning skip in its beats. 

John places the cigar back to his lips and takes a long drag, leaning out of the window to watch the smoke disappear into the twinkling lights. Lips peeling his beard hairs back.

—

As it turned out, the mission in Turkey wasn’t the only time you’d have to deal with John Price, and it certainly wasn’t the last time you’d see his face in front of yours. One mission turned into two—two into three and so on. You hadn’t exactly wanted it, but you found you couldn’t turn him down either. 

At whichever base you were stationed at, all of a sudden he’d just show up; standing on the tarmac with his arms crossed and that casual set to his shoulders. The first time you’d seen him after Turkey, you had half convinced yourself he was a mirage. And then he’d smirk at you and tilt his head and you’d have no control over your words. 

It was pathetic…disgusting…it was…it was…

You shake yourself back to the present when a bullet whizzes past your head, a sharp call from across the utter warzone you’d found yourself in the middle of.

“Tomb, what in the hell’s wrong with you?!” John’s voice is harsh, and you lock onto it. “Get your gun up!” 

You sigh, unperturbed. Peaking past the large crate you use as cover, your eyes glare at the enemy soldiers across the dock, fixing your finger’s position over your M4A1. The small unit you’d been dragged into by John was mostly dead—only four of you remaining from the ten.

It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. 

Jerking back, a splintering of wood explodes in front of you as the next fast piece of metal nearly takes your nose off. With a grit of your teeth, you flick your safety off and swivel your shoulders. 

Popping from the top of the crate, your sharp eyes lock onto the first visible body before you press your finger to the trigger with practiced ease as the word shrieks all around you. Recoil is eaten into the padded kevlar of the junction of your shoulder and arm. 

When you dart back, the body has yet to hit the ground. 

“There she is!” John calls, and you look forward with a steady stare as the brunette laughs from behind his own crate a few feet away. “Keep your head in the game, Tomb.”

You frown, normal facemask back over your chin hiding it. While you loathe to admit it, John had grown on you in these…what was it…? Months? Yes, that seemed about right.

Months of joint missions. You could hardly believe that he’d dragged you out like this.

“Tell the others to flank,” Your voice whisps over the line like smoke, “Left side—there’s a gap in the crates.”

John looks you in the eyes and blinks, eyelids twitching. With his beard covered in gunpowder, the man looks across the open space between the gunbattle to the left. Sure enough, right before he’s forced to snap back down to cover, the Captain spies a very well-hidden gap in the defenses.

He smiles viciously like a dog, and barks a laugh to you, nodding, “Good eye! Boys,” the two don’t pause their assault but call their questioning voices over the line. You don’t listen, occupied with giving off bursts of gunfire and trying to avoid the eyes of your fellow dead soldiers. Your lungs are compressed inside of your ribcage like prisoners. “Flank left. We’ll cover you!” 

“Sir!” Steadying your breath, you avoid John’s confused glances and scoff to yourself, resituating your clammy hands. 

When all’s said and done the four of you are the only ones left. Letting your gun sit on your chest you use the body as an armrest, allowing it to hang off the side from the trigger-guard. Your fingers twitch, and as John speaks to the two men, you stare silently at the gushing bodies of your fellows like phantoms spring from their chests.

John’s voice slows when he sees you apart from them, glancing at the soldiers at your feet before ordering the remaining men to get to the evac point. They try to argue everyone should be going together, and on all accounts, they’re completely right, but John won’t hear it. 

“Go—that’s an order.” Reluctantly, the two glance at each other and speed off. 

You jolt at a call of your name, head turning to face stormy blue as they gaze at you with concern. Stopping a few feet away, John stands still and folds his arms, face going rigid with concern as he glances you over for wounds.

His head slightly leans in, chin down.

“...You alright?” Hand flinching, you clear your throat. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You ask, fixing the position of your feet and forcing away the images of dead bodies and blank eyes. 

You’d seen scores of men dead before—friend and foe—but you had thought you’d never have to see more of your own fall. It had been a long time since you’d felt the distant lull of numb horror in the back of your brain; like some ocean wave that drowns you under every time it comes back. It always comes back. 

John narrows his eyes and frowns deeply, glancing around and hiding the slight way his right arm sags. 

“Tomb?” He says it so lowly that you really have to focus, ears straining. That gravel was back, and you found yourself latching onto it. “Eh, you just focus on me, yeah? I’m right ‘ere.” 

“I know,” you snap, eyes shuttering away only to find more vacant stares. You flinch back and look up into the sky; a sudden burn in your brain that you need to quell.

The man grows even more concerned with you, taking a step forward and clenching his jaw. He studies you, your shaking tension and the clench and loosening of your fists—attention always on you but roving to the dead men all around. Something clicks with a violent inhale.

John moves to you without a word and grasps you around the shoulders quickly. You gasp at that, immediate reaction to shove away, but only gape at the warmth that he brings you instead—the steady presence and chest to lean on. As the Brit drags you, you focus instead on calming your breathing. 

The Captain lightly shimmies down your facemask and you suck down tight air as you go limp into his side. 

“C’mon, Tomb. It’s alright. I’m here. I’m right here.” He’s muttering to you, disguising his pained grunts in favor of taking care of you. 

That strange affection for you had grown in your time together…not that he’d said anything. It was more proper of him to watch out from a distance, not sure of your own feelings or the probability of you gazing back at him with the same amount of concealed longing. Many a night he’d sat on his bed and wondered. Wondered how an animal so extraordinary and remarkable took the form of a woman with a black sphinx patch and sharp eyes. 

John had heard you laugh once through your expeditions together—sniping in Greenland. Once had been enough; if he never heard it again, he could still recall the pitch and frequency to the yawning of his soul. He didn’t need to hear it again. 

It was locked into the fabric that made up your skin and speech, and every time he stared at you he could find it in your eyes. 

The Captain puts you down near a crate around the corner, letting you lean into it as he turns and captures your neck from either side. You shake under him, blurry vision stuck to his dog tags as they wink against his chest. 

“Tomb,” John says again, and with a lick of your chapped lips, you carefully turn your head up. Blue eyes crease worriedly. The thumbs on the sides of your neck caress up and down your rapid pulse steadily; calluses creating stimuli. A small smile meets you. “There we are, atta girl. Focus.”

Tears dribble down your cheeks, and you flatten your lips, whispering out brokenly, “I said I don’t like teams.”

John’s heart breaks. 

“Oh, Sweetheart,” his hand captures the back of your head and you’re brought into a deep and firm embrace—gear pinching and prodding but neither of you care. 

When was the last time you’d been held like this? The feeling makes your mouth quiver, your face stuck into the junction of the Brit’s neck and shoulder.

“John…” You whimper out and his arms around you only tighten—his tense nose shoved into your scalp as his eyes closed tightly. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, heart racing, “I’m so, so, sorry.” 

You don’t know long he holds you there, the air filled with blood and death but just so soundly resting atop his vest and limp to his gentle swaying. The tears dry at some point, they always have to. Sniffling, your burning face takes in the scent of beard oil and gunpowder and you find yourself calmed by it.

Calmed by John. 

The man holding you waits a moment more before he slightly leans back, staring down at you intently; nervously. You lick at the tears drying into the line of your mouth to taste the saltiness on your tongue as fingers grasp at your chin. 

Angled up, your face is on full display. 

John sighs and the drowned keratin of your lashes flutters, embarrassment flooding you. His eyes crease before his hands come up to take away your sorrows with a soft brush of his digits. The man clears his throat tinily, voice deep with emotion.

“Better?” Your eyes dip away from his, knowing you’d been staring. 

“I…” Glancing over his right shoulder absentmindedly, you only get a word off before you see a fountain of red. Blinking away the last of your tears, John’s finger on your cheek stops moving as you freeze—stiff to the touch. 

His panic spikes again. 

“What’s going on—”

“When did you get hit?” Your voice is hard and laced with something you can’t name. Shaving back from John you frantically grab at his arm. In an instant, the Captain is whirled around and shoved back into the crate; he grunts loudly, eyes snapping wide.

“Fuckin’ hell.” He grumbles, but flinches when you peel at the bloodied layers of his compression shirt. John smirks, letting your touch rove him as your nose scrunches. He represses a shiver at the bite of your nails, whispering out, “If you wanted to throw me ‘round, Love…all you had to do was ask.” 

You blink rapidly and turn your fast gaze to his eyes as you stutter, fingers covered in blood and holding apart the fabric of his outfit to show a bullet graze to his pale upper bicep. John’s cheeky smirk grows and against all the pain and the dark corners, you feel a bubbling in your gut. 

A small chuckle snakes out, like twinkling bells. 

“Shut up,” your smile leaves him breathless, smirk falling to a small open-mouthed screen of obvious admiration. A hum marks the back of his throat, eyebrows loosely curving upon his forehead. 

You look over and find him like this—his gaze trapping you like his arms had. Like music, it takes you into its melody. Staring, your smile, gradually too, leaks out. 

“What are you doing?” Your question is breathy. "What is your fascination with me?" John’s eyes stick with you, the shining, shimmering, blue. There are tempests held there and if this man was anything, he was a storm of intentions and promises. 

“Looking,” John answers lowly. "Just looking." 

You take down a breath, “At what, John?”

He chuckles at you, face close and pleasant, “Y’know, I haven’t quite figured that one out yet, Love.” 

Blindly you wonder how the world can still turn while you both stand here—was it, even? How can life go on when such things are uttered to light? When they’re buried deep into your marrow like the dirt on top of a grave? 

How can the Reaper knock at your doorways when love exists in such quantity…in the fractures of his eyes? Only when his lips brush yours do you understand. 

It’s all here, and then it’s gone. Nothing can truly be as it was in the past, and therein lies the small, glorious, deaths. Both a blessing and a curse.

Your lips press deeply into one another and the blood of old wounds dries. 

TAGS:

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[y-ukioo]

We collectively agreed that Kyle can cook, right? Chinese, Indian, African, upgraded bland British, you name it he nails it.

Johnny more or less can cook as well; his Scottish ancestors would've rolled in their graves if one of their descendants couldn't season a stew properly. Not to mention that his little ol' granny got fed up with the men of their clan and made them cook for every single family gathering from then on. Thus Johnny can cook a decent meal, too.

John is the type of man that somewhat feeds himself on his leave, but if the meal is tasty and not burned to the bottom of the pot... It's classified information. When on base, John likes to indulge himself in cafeteria meals, hell, he even helps himself to seconds, and is SO elated whenever the cafeteria staff packs him leftovers to take to his office to snack on. They know John works hard, long hours (they think he looks silly, eating a basic cafeteria meal as if it was a 5-star restaurant).

Simon, though? Simon thinks that Heinz canned meals are the way to go. Baked beans, spaghetti, carbonara, ravioli, Mac&Cheese, chicken soup, lentil soup. He has them all stocked in his pantry. He eats them cold, hot, and lukewarm. Simon doesn't bother with seasoning the meal either, he thinks that anything other than basic salt and pepper is a hassle and doesn't bother with it. Simon thinks that the ready-to-eat meals are inventions of the century, and loves to buy them in bulk at local Tesco to indulge in during his leave.

Kyle and Johnny enjoy cooking up a supper together whenever the entirety of TF141 deploys on a mission with a decent safehouse. John and Simon are not allowed anywhere near the camping stove.

××××××××××××××

a/n: it was inspired by my mom, she was looking at me in disgust for buying and eating a canned Heinz spaghetti😏😏

[txtzen]

ouch - l.jn

synopsis - what happens when a cute nurse examines you?

words - 2k

pairing - jeno x f!reader

ps: this is a REPOST - my old acc is deleted!

the office was cold.

there was never anything comforting about doctor offices. with sick people either coughing or sneezing, it bothered jeno to death.

actually, he had every reason to leave considering there was nothing wrong with him.

after his dance practice with jaemin, the pink haired boy wanted him to go and get checked out just in case there was anything wrong. he never spoke up about something like that. it was strange, but jeno caught on quite quickly when he saw haechan talking to the buffoon around the corner, with hushed voices. jeno had heard his name brought up, and began the trek to the nearest doctor's office. he knew if he hadn't, he wasn't going to be left alone by either of the two because neither knew how to mind their own business.

he had to admit, however, there was something peculiar going on in his wrist that he had no issues in getting checked out.

so, there he sat; awaiting for his name to be called.

he'd made sure to sit close to the door that he needed to go through once his name was called. he didn't want to walk by all the people that were actually sick, believing if he had, he would've caught something himself.

no one wanted to see a sick jeno.

with his phone in one hand, he scrolled through his instagram feed, bored out of his mind. the only noise that filled up the quiet room was the constant typing on the computer the nurses did and light chatter from a couple a few rows away from him, aside from several coughs from other patients.

a vein forced its way across his forehead when he saw a post of a certain colored haired asshole. it was a picture of the two of them at the dance practice, in the hallways, walking together. jeno was clearly not paying attention to jaemin at all, and hadn't known about the picture whilst the blank expression in the image.

"annoying," he muttered, and almost commented a colorful comment underneath the post when he heard his name get called.

"Lee Jeno?"

he looked up with a half annoyed look in them taking so long to see him, and nodded. "hi. yes."

"i’m very sorry for calling for you so late," you said with a light chuckle, ushering him through the door and letting him follow you down the hallway. "we've been quite busy today."

jeno was going to reply with something dry in false understanding when he noticed the height difference. he wasn't as tall as jisung, his other friend, but he stood at a height good enough to make you look smaller than you really were. he didn't miss the curves of your hips and supple breasts that all tried their best to stay confined in your tight nurse's dress.

as he followed into what looked to be the room he was going to be in, he mentally berated himself for falling as low as thinking provocatively about a complete stranger. he made a mental note to do better at distancing himself from haechan since that was who he was sure was trying to rub off on him.

"you can sit anywhere you'd like. i’ll just check your basics, put it all down in the computer and the doctor will be in so that you can ask all of the questions you need to. now,—" you took the stethoscope from around your neck, and placed the cold metal piece over his heart. "can you breathe in for me? then breathe out slowly."

"of course."

he let you check everything you needed, and was patient when you put all of the information in a file for him. as he waited for you to be done, he drummed his fingers against the cheap hospital bed, eyes roaming along the room, scanning everything he could see. he noted how bland everything looked. it wasn't stimulating at all so he went back to watching you and his breath hitched.

you were squatting as you were finishing up typing the necessary information, resting your body weight on your toes. jeno noticed that there wasn't a chair or anything for you to sit on, and almost thanked the heavens for such an inconvenience (for you).

he was able to see the outline of the pink panties that you had on, and had to readjust the way he was sitting to keep from growing an erection at the sight like some schoolboy. it already annoyed him that you were dressed in such a manner for a nurse's line of work, but he was more put off that he kept ogling you even when he felt bad for doing so. you were just so...

"did you hear me?"

"sorry?''

you giggled. "i said you're all set. the doctor will be in shortly to discuss things further with you. it was nice meeting you, Mr. Lee. Have a good one!"

it was a mystery to what had made jeno genuinely speak up in stopping you from leaving the room. when you stopped to hear him out, there was a clear blush to his cheeks (and ears) as he racked his brain on what he was going to say to you. there was nothing else you needed to do for him. what was he supposed to say?

"uh..." he used his index finger to scratch at his temple as he said the first thing that came to mind. "could you check my wrist? it’s been giving me strange shoots of pain for a good while.."

you blinked, and shuffled on your feet as you thought about it. you tilted your head a little with a tiny smile. "well, it's a good thing a doctor will be seeing you, yes?"

jeno felt like he was out of things to say at that point. you were right. you were only a nurse after all. perhaps you weren't qualified to do what he was wanting you to. maybe you had other patients waiting on you to check on. it was quite selfish to keep you in the room with him.

"yes...i apologize. i will wait. thank you."

you visibly pouted, and his calculating eyes caught it before you blanked your expression. "um...well..." you took a peek out into the hallway and found it empty. what if you weren't needed? the doctor you were going to get for jeno was still busy with another patient whom had been having a few asthma attacks so the kid would need a new prescription and some other things...so what was the harm in staying with the beautiful man a bit longer? plus, his wrist was hurting him. it couldn't hurt to just go and take a small look at it...would it?

you closed the door, and sent him a warm smile. "let's check out that hand, shall we?"

-------

"oh i see, i can quite literally feel the tension in your hand here... how long has it been this way, sir?"

jeno found it incredibly difficult to remember your question with you caressing his hand the way you were and how you referred to him as 'sir’. it gave him a sense of power over you, like his height did. your voice was also a bit soft. everything about you was hard to ignore. he was beginning to feel less and less ashamed by his thoughts with you by the minute.

he cleared his throat before answering, "not long. it's not painful but it’s bothersome, if nothing else."

it was also the way you were a bit nestled between his thighs as you checked him out. your curvy, cute body in front of him in nothing but a tight, flimsy white dress; your breasts ready to burst out of it. your pretty lips in a pout and your eyebrows furrowed in thought as you studied his hand that he had noticed was a lot bigger compared to yours. another physical difference that he liked very much.

"i see. would you want medication for the slight pain? or is that not necessary?" you asked him, letting his hand go that dropped back into his lap.

you already missed the warmth that it provided you.

jeno shook his head. "no need. i don't take medication."

"oh?"

"Yeah.”

"i see."

the room was silent for a moment, and unbeknownst to either of you, it was filled with sexual tension that emitted from the both of you. he wanted to touch you, and you wanted him to touch you. it was just against everything your job stood for, and you were terrified of getting caught. he was above doing something so out of character, and refused to make such a bold move. itwas up to you.

"um...are you...maybe...hurting somewhere else as well? that i should check out?"

the way your eyes peered up at him as you waited for him to answer made his cock twitch painfully against his slacks. he had never wanted to fuck a complete stranger senseless so bad in his entire life until in that moment, looking at you. so oblivious, so innocent. so cute...like a pretty fawn in front of a hungry lion, ready to devour it whole. you whole.

he cleared his throat, and hummed. "since you asked..." he moved his legs further apart, his eyes on you like a hawk. his eyes darkened as he stared you down. "--there is a place that needs immediate attention. will you take care of it...nurse?"

your breathing picked up as you watched him rub a hand down his thigh, taunting you. as nervous as you were, you had the courage to squat down in front of him, between his legs. you kept your eyes on his, and licked your lips. you knew what he was asking of you. there wasn't an unsure part in you. you wanted this. wanted him. even if you got caught and lost your job. it would've been worth it for a man as beautiful as him.

"yes, sir."

"such an obedient girl. as i imagined."

jeno plucked the pins that were holding your hair up in a neat bun, out and watched your pretty tresses fall across your shoulders. he ran a hand through your hair, and gripped it at the root. "what do you think you'll get if you do a good job?"

you gulped. "a k-kiss?"

he chuckled. "stupid slut. you'll have the pleasure of my cum running down your throat. that's rewarding enough, don't you think?"

you nodded, wanting to take anything he was willing to give you.

the hand in your hair tugged your head back roughly, making you gasp. he frowned. "why haven't you started? what are you waiting for?"


"i..i th-thought-"

"for a nurse, you sure are a dumb one. get started or someone will catch you in a very compromising position there."

there was a hint of amusement in his voice that made your nipples hardened. God, was he turning you on.

"y-yes sir."

you unzipped him, and he let you pull his cock past his boxers and into the cool air. you had him in your hand, and felt how heavy he was. he was big, huge even. had girth and length, which still managed to surprise you as it twitched in your grasp. you let out a puff of hot air, taking him in. he wasn't hairy, but he wasn't clean shaven. neat, which made perfect sense. it matched his personality. you traced your polished finger on the vein near his tip, making him groan. heat rushed to your face when you felt fingers brush against the underside of your clothed breast.

"i won't ask you to take it off, but i do want to see you."

he wasn't specific, but you weren't dumb. you knew what he wanted.

"y-yes." you quickly unfastened the buttons to the front of your dress, and let your breasts spill out, the dress halfway buttoned underneath your boobs, holding them against their weight. "i-is this what you want, sir?"

his eyes ate up the sight, hungrily. "good girl, now suck me off like the good slut you are will ya?”

© TXTZEN 2025: DO NOT REPOST/TRANSLATE. all rights reserved

[jirishnesensei]

Mirio Togata x Reader | Isekai AU [18+]

Warming up to you ch3. It's an anime

⊱ Pairings - mirio 3rd year student x reader

⊱ About - Boku No Hero Academia was your favourite anime. You watched it every week when a new episode came out, but what if you were transported into the world?Having no clue how you got there and you're being accused of being a part of the League Of Villians.Suffice to say, it's not the best way to start the show.

⊱ Warnings/tags - 18+ (eventually), fluff(for the most part), angst, smut, fem reader, romance, pining, SLOW BURN, swearing, friends to lovers, death, jealousy, she falls first he falls harder, mirio is mean (with reason), first everything, sassy mirio, fangirl reader, unrequited love, feel good fic, lots of mundane, but can also be serious, realistic growth

⊱ status - ongoing

⊱ chapters - 3/x

⊱ word count - 2.4k

⊱ Masterlist

Mirio decided to have Sir Night eye ask you the questions about Shie Hassaikai, which was smart on his account.

Now you were both heading over to Sir Nighteyes agency bright and early in the morning. Mirio definitely didn't know what sleeping in meant.

You yawned obnoxiously loud to maybe catch the attention of a certain blonde. That tiny glimpse of his sweet talking side last night made you hope to see it again, and it was a success going off of the look he gave you.

"I could have sworn I heard you snoring throughout the night." You choked on your own breath, flicking him a sharp side-eye as you barely swallow down your embarrassment. "I don't snore."

And you can tell, he can't understand why you're lying. "I heard you, you're opposite my room."

"Nah, must've been you."

You stretch your arms despite the horrendous pain that comes with it, all for the sake of acting oblivious. Now he sweat drops, watching you stubbornly avoid his eyes. He doesn't bother entertaining the conversation any further, but you sure do reel in your head at the fact that you were seriously snoring.

Thankfully the walk to the agency is fairly quick. 

Mirio stops in front of a large set of green doors. For a second he looks to be basking in it before pushing one open while gesturing for you to go inside first. You walk through, already feeling the cold air conditioning hit your bare skin and the subtle scent of lemon? Maybe cleaning detergents, waft past your nose, it's incredibly inviting. The place is well-maintained and simple. Nothing out of place and kind of bland if you're being honest.

Looking up at Mirio, who's a few steps ahead of you, walking with a confidence that makes you straighten your own back, you catch up. It's funny to imagine such a vibrant person being a part of a place so stoic, well, actually he fits that description pretty well right now.

You were given the lovely opportunity to wash your face and brush your teeth back at his place, but as for your outfit you were still dressed in the same clothes from your world and you felt gross, and that's putting it lightly.

"His office is this way." Mirio says, glancing back to make sure you're still there as he walks down a long corridor and then starts his way up the signature spiral staircase. Your body was getting tingly at the thought of meeting Sir Nighteye. What were you going to tell him? He isn't even nice to newcomers... what if he doesn't give you a chance to speak? What if he wants you to make him laugh?! Oh god, you were terrible at jokes. Now that you were hopelessly scared, you tugged on Mirios white collard shirt, making him look down at you.

"Hey, I don't know how to make Sir Night eye laugh." You didn't see it, but Mirio's eyes widened at the fact that you knew one of his mentors rules. He didn't allow you to hear the shock in his voice though.

"If you're telling the truth then Sir won't care if you make him laugh or not." You nodded limbly. Still a bit shaken from the idea of meeting the Sir Nighteye. He'd be the 4th character that you're meeting and certainly the most intimidating. Oh god, scenes of him are flashing through your mind now. Get a grip!

When you reach the top of the stairs and walk down one last corridor, Mirio looks back at you with one hand on the doorknob. Your head is hung low, making it so obvious that you were psyching yourself out. He sighs, not fond of how his sense of hero duties were clouding his judgment with the fact that you could be a villain. Nonetheless, he faced you and held one of your shoulders. The contact makes your skin crawl, looking up only to hold your breath at the sight of taking him in for the first time. You're actually noticing how rich his eyes are. They look tender and endless. Like a well that people toss their hopes and dreams into. Looking closer, there’s even flecks of lighter cerulean gathering near the center.

You watch his lips move, probably saying something encouraging like. 'You've got this, cutie.' Haha...that's cheesy Mirio. He gives you one of those hero smiles and a squeeze on the shoulder. You should probably nod, but you can't even think to do that.

"S-sorry?"

His expression drops. He definitley thinks you ignored him now because you're rude and not just enamoured by him. Suddenly he's knocking on your head a few times, the irritable sensation making you swat his hand away annoyed, covering your forehead.

"Act like an airhead in there and he might just drop kick you."

"What?" You're suddenly alarmed and he's already turning back to the door. He knocks twice, walks in, now beaming brightly as the Mirio Togata you and every bnha fan knew. You couldn't help but roll your eyes at that.

"Good morning Sir!" 

Wringing your fingers, you peer past him and see the one and only Sasaki Mirai, aka, Sir Nighteye, seated by his desk.

"Mirio. Is this the girl?" Sir Nighteye looks you over and it feels like his gaze pierced straight through your very soul. He was so much more intimidating in person. How in the world did Midoriya have the guts to make fun of All Might under these circumstances?!

"Yes Sir. She claims she has information on Shie Hassaikai." Sir Nighteye nods then thanks Mirio for the notice before telling him to head off to campus. As Mirio turned to leave, you look at him with pleading eyes to not leave you alone, ofcourse he doesn't stay... but a girl can dream, right?

The door slams shut and now it was just you and Sir Nighteye in the room. You glanced around, trying not to make direct eye contact with him and instead focused on all of the All Might merchandise that was everywhere. There was actually way more than they focused on in the anime...

"Do you know what my quirk is?" Sir Nighteye startles you out of your daze and his cold voice makes you stand straighter like you're in the military.

"Yes sir! It's foresight! You are able to look into a person's future upon contact with them for an hour!" You yelled this as if you were being graded for a test. And the outcome of that test is either prison or freedom. It was only now that you realize if you can't back up your claim, you could be in some serious touble here. Sir Nighteye hmph'ed as if satisfied with your answer and then stood up from his chair, making you flinch slightly.

"So you know what will happen if I look into your future." He states calmly, removing his glasses to clean while walking around his desk and then leaning his lower back on it. Hunching slightly from his tall posture.

You nod, unsure where he was going by stating that.

"Tell me something only I would know miss..?"

"Uh (y/n)... (y/n) (l/n)" You answered.

"Miss (y/n)" He gestured for you to continue. You visibly gulped. Was it getting hot in here? It feels like it's getting hot in here.

What do you tell him? You could tell him about Midoriya being the successor for One For All... that should definitely prove it, but that could land you in big trouble for even knowing such a secret. You pondered and pondered over what to say, making Sir Nighteye grow impatient.

"If you don't know-"

"No wait! I do... I do know, I just don't know which scene to tell you about-" Sir Nighteye grew confused by your choice of words, but gave you a few more minutes.

You bit your lip and wrung your fingers, desperately trying to will your mind to think of something, anything. You were very nervous if it wasn't painfully obvious already.

"Oh! I know!" Sir Nighteye looked at you intently as you were about to speak. You knew exactly what to say now.

"I can tell you exactly what happened when-" Sir Nighteye leans a bit forward, not fooling anyone with how intrigued he was on how you could supposedly tell them exactly where Shie Hassaikai is.

"-when Midoriya came to request for a work study here!" You finished with a winning smile as if you had just said the numbers to the lottery. Sir Nighteye visibly sunk though then pushed his glasses back up, clearly not impressed by your revelation.

"Wait, just hear me out atleast! Wouldn't it be crazy if I could tell you exactly what happened in this room without ever being in it? Even what happened before Midoriya and Mirio walked into the room?" You urged. Sir Nighteye sighed, looked over his shoulder at his All Might clock then back at you. 

"Okay fine, I'll bite. Tell me what happened. Before Midoriya and Mirio walked in."

You nod earnestly and racked up all of your memories from that scene. You had watched this season so many times, you couldn't get it wrong the one time you needed to truly remember it.

"Bubble girl, your assistant, was telling you about the incident that was linked to Shie Hassakai and the league of villains. I'm not sure where the place was... but you were watching an All Might video while she spoke to you and because she wasn't being humorous enough, you tied her to some torture tickling machine and started to tickle her!" You gleam at him like you just convinced your mother that it wasn't you who broke her favourite dish. Eagerly waiting for Sir nighteye's response.

He was definitely shocked going off of his expression. You told him near to the tea what was happening before Mirio and Midoriya walked in which so to speak should be impossible. He pushed his glasses up again, not wanting to show more of his emotion and spoke.

"What happened when they entered?" You bit your bottom lip.

Did I get something wrong?

You cleared your throat and tried to remember what happened after, "You told Midoriya that he has to make you laugh for you to consider him as an intern and so he imitated All Might, which I thought was really funny, but you accused him of ridiculing All Might and then told him his wrinkles were in the wrong places and then... you both just kinda went at it and fanboyed over All Might." You laughed nervously.

"Oh! and before you stamped Midoriyas papers you made him spar with you! Which he lost... but he completely dodged all of your All Might posters, right?!" You held your breath. You could feel your palms sweating. You were desperately trying to get Sir Nighteye to believe you here, but his stoic expression was so difficult to read through. He sighs once more and walked over to you. Stepping back in fear, he grabbed your shoulder to keep you in place and used his quirk on you. You were hypnotized the second that he did, eyes fixated on his. They were actually moving like gears... tiny, mini gears and it was incredible. Sir Nighteye lets go of you and then stood up straight again.

"It's near to impossible that you could tell me that, but I still don't understand how. What is your quirk?" He looks down at you so intensely. Your legs suddenly feel like they were going to give in at any moment. You laugh awkwardly under his gaze that now felt like they could see right through your skin. Like you're talking intestines and everything. It made you uncomfortable.

"Its not a quirk... it's um... haha, you're gonna think this is funny, but it's an anime." His expression stays the same, as if waiting for the punchline.

I knew he wanted a joke!

"I uh, gosh," You awkwardly rub your forehead, "I don't know how else to explain it..." You look down to the ground, feeling too exposed to look him directly in the eye anymore. Sir Nighteye realized this and turned on his heel to sit back down by his desk, gesturing for you to take a seat opposite. You take his offer and sit down then suck in a decent breath, preparing for the millions of questions to follow.

"I'm not from this planet. Or whatever this place is. Back where I'm from this place is known as My Hero Academia. An anime that people around the globe watch."

⊱ Take me to the next chapter!

⊱ Take me to the prev chap!

Taglist - @the-faceless-bride @distinguishedoafbiscuitopera

Dividers by - @cafekitsune and @strangergraphics

[hoo-n-i-ki]

Cold One. (Chapter 1)

Curiosity always kills the cat.

PAIRING - Volturi!Riki x Cullen!fem!reader (they don’t meet in this chapter, yet, though, since we’re still on Y/N’s backstory) + shapeshifter!ENHYPEN cameo

GENRE - Twilight AU

CHAPTER WC - 5026

WARNINGS - vampires, shapeshifters, graphic violence, blood, death.

☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾

July 1st, 2024.

You walk through the sterile doors of Victoria General Hospital, heart galloping as you take the first step towards this new chapter in your life.

You go up to the receptionist, unsure of where exactly to go. It has been six years since the last time you were in British Columbia, and nineteen since the last time you were in the town of Victoria—your birth town. Safe to say, the environment is as unfamiliar as it is nostalgic.

“I’m supposed to be meeting with a Dr. Park?” You smile politely at the freckled woman.

She looks up from her computer. “Dr. (Y/L/N)?” You nod. “Ah, yes. He’s expecting you in his office on the 5th floor. Take the first hallway to your left, and you’ll see his office at the very end.”

You thank her, and move down the reception to the elevator. Walking through the very hospital your late mother worked at.

Walking through the bland hallways your parents were autopsied at, nineteen years ago.

Fifth floor. Left. Ah, there’s the door with the James Park, M.D. nameplate.

You knock and enter.

The chief physician of the hospital takes off his glasses and looks up at you, sizing you up and down before smiling.

“Dr. (Y/N) (Y/L/N)! How very pleased I am to meet you! Please, take a seat.” He gestures to one of the two leather chairs in front of his desk.

Dr. Park leans forward, resting his elbows on the polished desk. “First off, welcome to Victoria General, Dr. (Y/L/N). We’re honored to have you here.” He pauses, his expression softening. “I knew your mother, actually. When I first started here, she had just graduated as a nurse. She was incredibly dedicated—always the first to arrive and the last to leave. I was deeply saddened to hear what happened to her and your father.”

He gives you a moment, watching for your reaction. You’re used to this conversation, so you don’t give him one beyond a polite, but awkward smile.

Then, with a reassuring nod, he continues, “That being said, I have no doubt she’d be immensely proud of you. Your track record is nothing short of extraordinary—graduating high school at sixteen, finishing your MD by 22, and securing a residency at one of the top hospitals in the country.” He chuckles. “I’ll be honest, when I saw your application, I thought there had to be a mistake. You could’ve easily been accepted into Toronto General or even Mount Sinai, but I’ll certainly count my blessings. You’re our first intern in years!”

He pauses awkwardly, realizing he isn’t exactly giving you a glowing review of his hospital, so he, instead, smoothes out his white coat in his seat. “Now, I’d like to introduce you to the doctor who will be supervising your internship, which is—” he clicks around on his computer, until his grin starts to falter. He clears his throat, immediately, and plasters it on again. “Dr. Carlisle Cullen, our attending surgeon.”

With that, Dr. Park gestures for you to follow him out of the office.

Dr. Park leads you down the hall, past bustling nurses and beeping monitors. The fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead as you navigate through the corridors.

“You’ll find that Victoria General runs a bit differently than the big-city hospitals,” Dr. Park says as you step into the elevator. “Smaller teams, longer shifts, but we take care of each other here.”

You nod, watching the numbers descend. Second floor. Surgery.

You step out, following the chief, keeping up with his pace even as his steps grow heavier the further along you go.

Dr. Park pushes open the doors to the break room, where a few doctors are huddled over coffee. Among them, a man stands out immediately—tall, blonde, pristine white coat unwrinkled despite the chaos of the floor. He turns at the sound of the door, and for a split second, something about him unsettles you.

Not in a bad way. But… there apparently is such a thing as too perfect.

“Dr. Cullen,” Dr. Park greets with a formal, clipped tone. “This is Dr. (Y/L/N), our new intern.”

Carlisle steps forward, offering his hand. “Dr. (Y/L/N), welcome.” His voice is smooth, polite—but the way he holds your gaze is… intense.

His eyes are gold. A pure, freezing gold.

You shake his hand, skin burning cold against yours. You barely keep the shiver from running down your spine.

“Dr. Park speaks highly of you,” he continues. “You’ll be working with me on trauma cases and general surgery rotations. We have a busy night ahead of us, so I hope you’re ready to hit the ground running.”

A challenge.

You straighten your shoulders. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Carlisle smiles—just a little. “Good.”

Dr. Park’s eyes flick from yours to the gold ones, perhaps analyzing your reaction to your supervisor. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Dr. Cullen, don’t scare off our only intern, will you?” His tone gradually lowers.

Carlisle chuckles. “I’ll do my best.”

No wonder he makes even the chief falter.

July 5th, 2024.

The hum of activity in the ER, where you’re spending your rotation this Friday evening, is low but constant. Not at all like the hospital you trained at during med school, back in Ontario. But maybe you shouldn’t take the quiet for granted.

As you’re going over a patient’s pre-op charts, you hear the unmistakable screech of gurney tires and doors slamming open.

“Trauma coming in hot! 40-year-old female, MVA, blunt force trauma to the chest with multiple lacerations! BP’s dropping, heart rate’s tachy, suspected pneumothorax!” The paramedic calls out, voice tense and hurried as he and two others rush through the ER doors.

You’re already moving as soon as you heard the first word, but somehow, Dr. Cullen is already there, his pristine white coat fluttering as he moves with precision and confidence.

The team quickly assesses, and you go to the patient’s side, helping position her on the bed. Blood is already staining her clothes, and the deep gashes on her limbs pool onto the bed. Carlisle doesn’t bat an eye at the sight, however, his golden gaze remaining unbroken.

“Prep for chest tube,” Carlisle turns to you. “Start an IV, and get a full set of labs going.”

You spring into action, your hands moving swiftly, but Carlisle’s calm presence next to you is grounding. The trauma bay is alive with the sound of the beeping monitors, the orders being called, and the rush of everyone working in sync. You’re handling things without hesitation—focused—but a sense of awe still lingers in the back of your mind as you watch Carlisle manage the chaos around him with such ease.

As the entire team works together to stabilize the patient, you can’t help but gawk at your… interesting attending. His moves are so practiced, yet he doesn’t even look five years older than you.

Once the patient’s vitals are stable, at least for now, Carlisle finally steps back. You take a deep breath, gathering yourself before turning to him.

“You handled that really well! How long have you been doing this?”

Carlisle glances at you, his expression flickering for just a second before turning back to the patient. “Too long,” he murmurs. “But you’ve also got a good head on your shoulders. You studied at McMaster, right?”

You nod with a hum. “I have a photographic memory, so.”

“So what brought you to little old Victoria? I assume you had your fair share of hospitals to choose from. A 22 year old doctor, that’s unheard of!” He shakes his head with a perfect grin.

“I, uh…” you chuckle. “I’m from here. Well, at least I was born here, but my parents died when I was 3, so I had to live with my aunt and uncle in Vancouver until I left for university. I guess I felt like I had some unfinished business, so I moved back here after finishing.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. How did they die, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Animal attack.”

He turns away, and remains quiet for a few seconds. “Animal attack 19 years ago,” he murmurs. “My deepest condolences.” He only glances at you for a split second with a tight-lipped smile before turning to the patient’s monitors. “On the bright side, your aunt and uncle are nearby. It’s always good to have family around.”

You clear your throat, not wanting to think of your indifferent uncle and his resentful, emotionally abusive wife. They certainly are not the reason for your presence in the area. “What about you, sir? Are you from here?”

“Ah, no. I’m from Forks, down in Washington state, but I moved here with my family two years ago.”

“Oh, you have a family?”

He nods, as though the thought of them fills his heart with fondness. “A wife and seven adopted kids. Some in high school, some studying at the University of Victoria.”

You blink, momentarily taken aback by the revelation. “Wait… seven kids?” You can’t help the surprise in your voice. “And they’re… in high school? Some at university?”

He chuckles, clearly amused by your surprise, but his smile remains warm and unbothered. “I’m not as young as I look, Dr. (Y/L/N). I just happen to have excellent genetics when it comes to skincare.”

You raise your eyebrows and turn away, absorbing the information. “Well, how are you liking Victoria so far?”

He shrugs. “Close and far enough, at the same time.” He smiles at you. “We love the clouds and fog too much to stray from the Pacific coast.”

August 10th, 2024.

It has been a month into your internship, and it has flown by quite smoothly.

Victoria is… boring.

The painful memory of your parents’ death aside, you’re starting to question what you even thought you were doing by coming here.

In almost a month and a half, if you were expecting to see anything out of the ordinary, you did not. If you were expecting to get the most thrilling of medical experiences, you did not. If you were expecting to get some more information on your parents that your aunt and uncle weren’t willing to provide, you did not.

You remember the street you lived on, thankfully. So you tried visiting it, a couple weeks back. But no current resident was around during the attack of 2005. No one could tell you anything, and it just left you looking stupid, a stalker in a not-so-foreign neighborhood.

This past week, you have been under Dr. Park’s service, since Dr. Cullen has decided to take a few days off.

But here’s the most odd thing you’ve seen during your time here: the last day before Dr. Cullen took a leave, you noticed his golden eyes start to darken, before they turned into endless black holes by night.

August 11th, 2024.

Eyes.

Eyes.

Eyes.

They’re the only thing you could focus on. Everything else is a blur—a haze of darkness and indistinct faces. But the eyes… those eyes are all you could remember.

You’re suddenly three years old again, standing beside your parents’ graves. The day is cold, too cold for February, and the people around you are just figures, their faces distorted in the foggy dreamscape. You don’t understand what’s happening, only that your world is changing in ways you couldn’t explain.

The funeral is too strange for a toddler to grasp. The whispers, the somber looks, the cold wind—it all feels distant, like it’s happening to someone else. But the one thing you can’t shake, the one thing that’s burned into your memory, is the man standing at the edge of the crowd. He isn’t like the others—too still, too quiet.

His face is sharp, striking in a way that makes him seem almost out of place. His skin is dark, a smooth brown that almost… glitters when catching the light peeking through the clouds, and his long black hair is pulled back into thick dreads that sway as he stands there.

But it isn’t just his appearance that has been burned into your memory, but his eyes.

Wide. Blood-red. They hold your gaze from across the graveyard, and you can’t look away. They don’t blink, don’t shift. They just stare at you, deep and endless, with an intensity that makes your stomach drop.

And then, everything shifts once more, going back even further. A night that your toddler-mind knew to protect you from.

A suffocating darkness. The scent of copper. A toddler crying. You crying. You hear other people screaming, a sound muffled by varying degrees of distance.

Nothing makes sense. Everything is wrong.

You feel yourself get roughly yanked. It’s the same man with dreads and too-red eyes. His unyielding hands cover your mouth, and he carries you somewhere through the dark.

“Stay quiet,” he mutters, but there’s no warmth in his voice, just pure, cold command.

He closes the door and leaves you behind. The sounds outside intensify. A wet, gruesome tearing of flesh.

“James, Victoria, you leave not a single bite for your coven mate?” The voice, arrogant though muffled, belongs to red eyes.

You don’t understand what’s happening. Suddenly, all sounds die down, and you’re left alone with your pounding heart, your tiny hands clutching it. You waddle over to the window, where you see three figures carry out a pair of mutilated bodies, taking them somewhere, dragging even more with them.

Your parents were found at a forest… it was an animal attack!

But the buried memory slips away, and you’re back at the funeral, yet again staring into those red eyes from a distance.

Eyes.

Eyes.

Eyes.

You jerk awake, heart pounding and gasping for air. But the sight of them is so vivid in your memory, they may as well be hiding here in the dark.

Eyes as odd and cool-toned as Dr. Cullen’s, even if they’re a different color.

August 13th, 2024.

But your attending comes back, laughing and chatting about a camping trip. His eyes the usual, despite how unusual, shade of gold, leaving you to wonder if you imagined the black.

Leaving you to wonder if you imagined that whole memory.

But… your memory is never wrong…

September 8th, 2024.

You use your day off to make your way over to City Hall, where they let you have access to your parents’ death certificates.

Both of their places of death state a forested area that’s a 10-minute drive away from the neighborhood you were raised in.

Cause of death? Just as you’ve always been made to believe: animal attack.

There is actually a large group of people who died that fateful February evening of 2005 with that same exact place and cause of death. The weird part? All of their places of residence state the very same street you grew up on.

September 13th, 2024.

You, Dr. Cullen, and the nurses scrub out after an appendectomy.

Afterwards, the hospital is quiet. He just left you to take care of the post-op—no more major surgeries or patients to tend to.

“Alright, I’m gonna head out early, today. It’s Bella’s birthday, and Alice insists on celebrating every year.” He chuckles.

You nod with a smile, recalling the names of two of the girls he’s… fostering, for lack of a better word. “Happy birthday to her, how old is she turning?”

He pauses.

“Seventeen.” He flashes you a tight-lipped smile, and makes his way out.

Seventeen with a ‘father’ who doesn’t even look ten years older than her… that’s… nice…?

The remainder of the afternoon is quite stagnant, so a thought crosses your mind. A plan you didn’t have the courage to undergo, previously.

Previously.

In a rare moment of peace, you take the opportunity to slip into Carlisle’s office.

It’s nearly identical to Dr. Park’s, in layout. Spacious, neat, smelling faintly of antiseptic and his too perfect cologne.

You move over to his desk, eyes scanning the surroundings. The framed degree on the wall catches your eyes first.

Doctor of Medicine. University of Alaska Anchorage. 2015.

If your basic math is correct, that would mean he’s around 35.

Around 35, and he looks 25? Okay, sure, he’s 35. He said he has kids in university! Let’s say the oldest is just an 18-year-old freshman. What, did Carlisle start adopting straight out of high school?

It just doesn’t make any sense. Your head swims with the information, but no photographic memory can give you the logic required to understand this mysterious man’s life.

You’re still contemplating the thought when you hear the sound of footsteps outside the office door. Your heart stutters. You quickly shift your attention elsewhere, but before you could grab something else to look at, you hear the unmistakable shuffle of paper, followed by a soft knock on the door.

“Delivery for Dr. Cullen,” a pubescent boy’s voice calls from the hallway.

You freeze. Delivery? Carlisle left hours ago. What on Earth is being delivered here?

The mailman—mailboy—lets himself in, eyes widening when seeing a pretty young woman inside rather than the old doctor he was probably expecting. “Oh, hello. I have a quick drop-off for a Dr.,” he pauses to pronounce the rare name, “Carlisle Cullen.”

“He left a couple hours ago.”

“That’s a shame. I came to the place that’s registered on the system as his workplace because there’s a blockade on the road to his address. Can I just leave the mail here?”

Hm? A blockade? You wonder how he’s gonna make it home for his ‘daughter’s’ birthday.

“Yeah, for sure. Besides, I’m his resident. I’ll remind him about it whenever I see him.”

“Oh, well, great!” He leaves a letter on the desk, and just as he’s about to leave, he turns to you one last time. “Hey, do you think I can get your—“

“Goodbye!”

He takes the hint and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

You glance down at the letter, and pick up the envelope, inspecting it. It’s an off-white paper that almost looks like parchment, but fanciest of all is the blood-red wax seal with a V logo. There’s no return address, oddly enough; the back just says ‘Carlisle Cullen. Victoria, British Columbia, Canada.’

This is wrong. This is so immensely wrong.

Will Carlisle hate you if he realizes you opened up his letter? Will he even know the letter arrived? What’s the worst that could happen if you just… hide it from him? But what if he knows and sabotages your education…

This is so ethically wrong. You’re a doctor, for fuck’s sake—you swore the Hippocratic Oath, but here you are considering mail theft!

Then you recall his abnormal eyes.

Completely unlike the freakish eyes from your memory, but your intuition tells you there’s something vital that you’re missing.

You open up the envelope before you lose your gut.

The top of the parchment has that same intricate V logo imbedded into the wax seal, and below that is the finest calligraphy inked down.

“Tigers have been appearing in Canada. Watch out.

- Your old friends.”

November 15th, 2024.

The night shift is completely and utterly dull. A few distant murmurs that echo through the hallways, and the rhythmic beeps of heart monitors are the only real signs of life.

You rub your tired eyes with a yawn as you step into a supply closet, scanning the shelves for some gauze.

As you reach up to grab a roll, a hushed voice drifts in through the open door.

“…Tonight, it’s nearly empty. It’ll work. No delays.”

You pause at the familiar voice. It’s Dr. Park, talking on the phone, but you don’t think much of it. It’s late, you’re exhausted, whatever your chief physician is talking about has nothing to do with you.

When you step out, you nearly collide with him, and he smiles, steady and warm as ever.

“Ah, Dr. (Y/L/N),” he greets, adjusting his coat. “Long night?”

“Not the worst.”

He nods approvingly before his expression softens. “It’s slow over here, and you’ve been working hard. Why don’t you just head home? Get some rest, it’ll be good for your mind.”

Well, far be it from you to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Alright, if you’re sure.” You nod.

He gives you an encouraging pat on the back before striding down the hall.

You make your way toward the elevators, but before you can leave, some other attending—a doctor you’ve barely had to interact with, so far—calls you over. “Dr. (Y/L/N)! Since you’re still here, mind handling some paperwork for me? Shouldn’t take too long.” He shoves files into your hands before you can even react. “Thanks, I owe you one.”

You inwardly sigh. No he does not, he’ll forget by next morning.

There goes the bubble bath you were planning. Unfortunately, when you’re in your intern year, saying no isn’t exactly an option.

You sit down in a nearly deserted corridor and get to work. The routine patient charts and reports aren’t difficult—but the clock ticks agonizingly slowly. You yawn through the quiet.

Until you hear a low, guttural sound, that makes your pen still against the paper.

Was that… growling?

A shiver runs down your spine, but realistically, it’s probably just some unruly patient groaning in pain.

But then it comes again. Louder. Animalistic.

Something is wrong, but it sounds like it’s coming from outside the hospital.

Almost everything in your gut tells you to stay put, but your curiosity wins. You leave the paperwork behind and move towards an abandoned side exit, where the faint sounds are growing even louder.

The closer you get, the stronger your heart pounds all the way to your throat.

The second you creak open the glass doors, your breath catches.

Six… six huge figures.

Tigers.

Not the emaciated, weary creatures you’d see in a zoo—these are massive white ones, their muscles coiled with power, their eyes glinting in the dim light. Their thick fur ripples as they prowl, tails flicking sharply as they watch something with focused intensity.

You can see the intelligence in their eyes, in the deliberate way they move near… near Dr. Park?

As he leads… Dr. Cullen towards them.

You feel like you can’t even breath, and you certainly can’t bring your feet to move as your mind struggles to piece together what you’re seeing.

Dr. Cullen’s stance is as calm as ever, hands at his sides, white coat barely shifting in the breeze. His golden gaze is bright despite the night sky as his eyes flick from his chief to the beasts.

“We know the legends about your kind,” Dr. Park’s voice cuts through the cold air.

A couple seconds of silence.

“I see.”

“We know what your kind does. I have allowed you to believe that you fooled me, but not for a second longer. We will put things right—first with you, the head of your little group, then we’ll reach the rest of you.”

“My family and I pose no threat to the shifters nor to the humans.” He is eerily composed.

Shifters?

“Your presence alone is a threat,” Dr. Park grits out. “My son, the other boys from Victoria’s Korean settlement, we are descendants of the Baekho.” One of the tigers takes a deliberate step forward. “But the shift only occurs when a threat triggers it. Your arrival triggered it in his generation, two years ago. Do you know what that means, doctor?”

Carlisle lifts an eyebrow.

“It means they had two years to prepare and train for the perfect night, this night.” He tilts his head ever so slightly to the amber-eyed tiger at his side. “Jay.

“Attack.”

The furious tiger lunges. He’s a blur of snowy fur, claws, and roars that rattle your ribs—a killing machine launching straight at Carlisle—

But he is faster.

You wouldn’t have believed it had you not seen it with your own eyes. But in an instant, Carlisle vanishes from the tiger—Jay’s—path, reappearing several feet away. Jay skids, lets out a furious snarl, and whips around, ready to strike again.

The other tigers move, their low growls forming a chorus of danger.

Carlisle lifts his hands in a placating gesture. “We don’t have to do this.”

Dr. Park’s lips press into a thin line. “Apologies, doctor, but we do.” He turns to a tiger with icy blue eyes. “Sunghoon, flank him,” then to another with heavier stripes than the rest, “Jungwon, cut him off.”

The tigers leap, getting close enough to shred Carlisle’s coat, but he catches one through the air before they can land a devastating blow, sending him crashing into the asphalt.

And another blur—another figure, slams into the second one, sending him flying.

You hide behind a column as you watch two more tall figures leap off the roof of the hospital, the newly joined trio as inhumanly fast as Carlisle, and just as pale beneath the dim lights.

One has hair the color of bronze, moving fluidly, effortlessly. Another is blonde, shorter but just as terrifying as he dodges the icy-eyed tiger—Sunghoon’s—swipe. The last is built like a boulder, letting Jay slam into him without even budging.

A pair of freezing golden eyes belonging to the bronze-haired one flashes. “Alice saw and we heard the noise.”

The muscular one cracks his knuckles, a slow grin forming. “Didn’t know we were having a party.”

The last one doesn’t speak. His eyes scan the scene, reading the tension in the air, gauging the bloodlust rippling through the tiger pack.

The shifters hesitate as the three gather near Carlisle for only a second before charging.

But someone else enters the fray.

A tan man who jumps, and in an instant his bones crunch, shifting and twisting until russet fur bursts through skin, and he lands with a deep snarl, canine teeth bared.

You watch, your heart hammering. You have your hand slammed against your mouth—not wanting to make a sound and alert them to the intruder who physically can’t leave the scene—but you wouldn’t be surprised if it’s your heart they can hear.

The wolf sides with the pale men, his growls clashing against the tigers’ roars.

“Huh. A Quileute. Siding with every shapeshifter’s natural enemy,” Dr. Park tsks. “Heeseung.” He merely glances to the largest of the tigers, who immediately launches at the wolf.

The rest of the tigers race towards the four men.

If men is even the correct term—you now realize that they’re just as human as the red-eyed man from your memory. The memory that convinced you from the very beginning that there is something off about this town, and what you’re currently witnessing serves to prove it.

Heeseung, apparently, bites a large tuft of fur and flesh from the wolf’s shoulder, leaving him a mess of gore dripping onto the pavement and howls that make your stomach churn.

You shouldn’t be here. You’ve known that from the start, but suddenly, the coppery scent of blood hits you like no patient’s ever has, and against your will, you let out a half scream, half sob.

Witnessing the dizzying scene, you barely process your chief yelling, “Get back, (Y/N)! Jake, she isn’t one of them!”

But the tiger’s momentum is too strong.

Claws slash down.

Agony.

“You feral felines are the true danger to humans!” One of the men shouts, before…

Darkness.

November 16th, 2024.

You are floating, weightless—adrift in the abyss of your own mind. Somewhere, far beyond the surface of consciousness, there are sounds. Unregistrable voices.

Your body is… nothing. A void where sensation should be. No pain, no warmth, no cold. Just nothing.

Then a sharp spike of pain rips through you like a bolt of lightning, and suddenly, you are aware. Aware of the broken shell you are trapped in.

Your eyes flutter open, but the world is unfocused, swimming in a blend of shadows and light. It takes everything in you to drag in a trembling breath.

You manage to see the doctor right there.

“Help me,” you whisper, your bloodied fingers curling around his wrist.

His golden eyes snap to you. His throat bobs and expression fractures, just for a second, before the hesitation settles in his gaze.

You don’t even know what he is, not truly, but deep in your aching bones, you know he can help.

“Please.”

You don’t know how much blood you’ve lost, but you can feel your heartbeat slowing, sluggish and unsteady.

Finally, his lips press into a firm line, and he leans in.

Sharp teeth sink into your wrist.

Warmth pulses through your veins.

Warmth that ignites into an inferno.

Fire spreads fast, relentless, consuming every nerve, every vein. You try to scream, but there is no air left in your lungs. You can’t scream. You can’t move. You can only burn.

Your body starts to jerk, muscles locking so tightly it feels as if your bones might snap from the strain. There is pressure—hands pressing you down, keeping you still—but they do nothing to stop this torture.

You wish you weren’t a coward. You wish you let him let you die.

Your heart stutters. Then, with a final, shattering beat—

It stops.

And the fire roars higher.

November 17th, 2024.

The first thing you notice is the silence.

Not an absence of sound, but a clarity—as if the world has been wiped clean, sharpened to perfection. You can hear everything. The shift of fabric as someone moves. The faint hum of electricity in the walls. The steady, rhythmic heartbeats in the distance.

The second thing you notice is the vividness.

You sit up in an instant—too fast, too smooth. The figures around you step back, cautious but calm. A sea of gold eyes meet yours—the men you’ve already seen, two brunettes, a petite girl with a pixie cut, an intimidating blonde, and a girl identical to the bronze-haired man but with warm brown eyes.

But none of them matter.

Because the third thing you notice is the thirst.

It’s all-consuming. A raw, burning hunger that coils in your throat, screaming for relief.

You don’t think. You run, and you don’t let anyone catch you.

☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾

IM SO SO SORRY THERES NO RIKI IN THIS CHAPTER I JUST GENUINELY FELT LIKE THE STORY NEEDED MORE ✨LORE✨ BUT HES COMING IN THE NEXT ONE I SWEAR

ps is it obvious my #3 hyperfixation after enhypen and twilight is grey’s anatomy lmao

@opheliaas-stuff @wrldhypen @angelengene3011

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Finale

[bumblebeeonthistle]

It's a Levi X Reader fic – but with a heavy dose of Reiner angst

For reference, then Reiner is kinda Reader's bff. There's also a very massive unrequited crush...

---

You’ve just walked past the boys’ sleeping hall when you hear footsteps approaching behind you. You know who it is without looking from the familiar graceful rhythm of his almost soundless steps.

Levi. 

Bracing yourself, you turn around.

“Captain.”

You salute again – just because you know it’ll piss him off. You’d noted, with petty satisfaction, as he’d winced by your formalities in the office. And wasn’t it also him who’d told you to show more respect toward your superiors?

“Didn’t we talk about that? You don’t need to act all stuck up and formal when we’re in private,” he grumbles. 

“Sir, I don’t believe this hallway counts as particularly ‘private.’” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. You just continue, unperturbed.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, Captain. I need to change.”

“Wait, God dammit,” he growls, a calloused hand grabbing your wrist just as you’re about to turn on your heels.

You glare at him. 

“Please.” 

Your glare turns into a stare of disbelief. Levi’s tone is bland as ever, but still, you’ve never heard him utter the word please before now.

Anything that can make Levi say please must really be worth hearing.

You wait for him to continue. 

“Look,” he says, “I wanted to-- to apologise for my behaviour earlier. Both for these past weeks and today. It was unacceptable.” 

“Why did you do it then?” 

“I don’t know,” he answers.

You scoff, trying to wrench your arm out of his grasp but he just tightens his grip around your wrist, yanking you back. Suddenly, he has you pinned between him and the wall, his arms caging you in and his face impossibly close to yours.

You lift your gaze to look into his eyes, and immediately begin to feel your defiance evaporate.

Damn him.

How come he has so nice lashes? And gosh, his eyes…

Most girls you’d known during your teenage years had preferred gold, but you’d always liked silver best. Back then, it had reminded you of stars and moonlight and the silverware your mother had taught you how to polish but now, it also reminds you of cold steel and storm clouds and him.

Yes, you like silver best. 

Geez, get a grip.

And now, his eyes are only a few inches from yours. You can feel his breath caress your cheekbones and your eyes flicker down to his slightly parted lips.

Heart hammering in your chest, you just watch, wide-eyed and mute, as Levi closes his eyes and leans in--

BAM!

You fly apart, as if a bomb had just detonated between you – and it might as well have, with the ear-deafening crash from the door to the boys’ sleeping hall being slammed open with so much force that it almost swings shut again after bouncing off the wall.

And in the doorway stands Reiner, a sour look on his face.

Levi narrows his eyes and for a long moment, the two men just glare at each other. You can see a vein pulsing at Levi’s temple while Reiner clenches and unclenches his jaw.

You’re the first one to move as you quickly brush past Levi, grab Reiner by his sleeve and begin dragging him with you down the hallway, ignoring Levi as he watches you leave with an expression so cold that you swear it causes the temperature in the building to drop several degrees.

When you reach the girls’ bathroom, you haul Reiner with you inside and lock the door. You lean your back against the wall, letting the cold surface ground you.

Reiner positions himself in front of you, arms crossed over his chest and a scowl that could match Levi’s on his face.

“Care to explain yourself?”

Read the rest on ao3: call my name || Levi X Reader

[iraot]

Previous entries to Heat Haven Series Heat Haven, Alpha Equation, No Turning Back Summary: She was a nurse, he was a pilot and surrounding them was a whole host of government inadequacies that end up changing their lives forever. Word Count: 16.4k Warnings: Shitty government protocol, shitty discriminatory behavior from superiors, Gideon's shitty flirting, heat induced horny, dub con? ( cause of heat? she wants it tho i swear ). A/N: This took me 1 day to finish, which isn't my usual writing pace. NGL my head is about to explode. If you like it please comment and let me know what you think! Archive of Our Own

The first time she met Dr. Holt, she’d just arrived on base—still in the pressed slate-grey of her regulation uniform, her boots carrying the last dust of the tarmac, her orders fresh in hand. The med bay was stark and cold, all steel and silence, the hum of machinery behind every wall, a familiar kind of sterile she had never liked. She’d worked in trauma centers where blood slicked the floor before noon, where screams were as regular as shift changes, where survival was carved from chaos. But here, the tension was different—contained, quiet, something behind the eyes of every person in uniform that said: don’t step out of line.

She was shown into a glass-walled office where Dr. Holt waited behind a desk, arms folded, face impassive. Major Caulder stood to one side, arms behind his back in that careful military posture that meant he’d say nothing unless it mattered to him. She gave them both a crisp nod, standing straight with her data tablet in hand, every credential visible—trauma nurse specialist, surgical tech experience, Omega regulatory compliance signed and verified. She extended it to Holt first. “Reporting for assignment, sir.”

Holt didn’t reach for the tablet. His eyes flicked to her face, then down—to her chest, to the small embossed marker beneath her name: Omega. That was when something in his mouth twisted, almost imperceptibly, like a reflex he didn’t bother to mask. “You’re the one they sent?” he asked, voice calm in a way that wasn’t calm at all. “I assumed they’d assign someone more… tactically appropriate for front-line med work.”

She didn’t flinch, but the chill of his tone settled over her like frostbite. “My file includes civilian trauma experience, advanced surgical certification, three years of field rotation, and three commendations for frontline composure under pressure,” she said, evenly, without pride—just facts. “I’m not here to meet assumptions, Doctor. I’m here to treat soldiers.”

Major Caulder glanced her way, but still said nothing. Holt leaned back slightly in his chair, steepling his fingers. “You’ll be assigned to secondary support—post-trauma, medication dispersal, charting. You’ll assist as needed, but you won’t be leading trauma intake.”

“That’s not the assignment listed on my orders,” she said flatly.

Holt didn’t even blink. “I reserve the right to adapt staffing for medical efficiency,” he replied, each word deliberately bland. “We run a tight facility here, Lieutenant. I won’t allow biological volatility to compromise surgical discipline.”

There it was. Biological volatility. As if she were a failed circuit. As if her body was something unpredictable and dangerous by nature. Her spine straightened, chin lifting a degree. “And yet you’re fine trusting a man whose hands shake during his own post-rut cycle to handle critical patients?” she asked, cool as steel. “Funny how that volatility never seems to interrupt his assignments.”

That earned a moment of silence sharp enough to cut. Caulder’s eyes flicked toward her—faint surprise, or maybe wariness—but Holt’s face remained a blank wall, his voice clipped. “We’ll expect you to conduct yourself with discipline, Lieutenant.”

“I expect the same,” she returned, not backing down. “Sir.”

Caulder stepped in then, voice smoothing over the tension without erasing it. “You’ll rotate through trauma as scheduled. Dr. Holt is within his rights to manage his staff, but the orders are active.” His tone, carefully balanced, made clear that any further argument would be seen as insubordination—not by her, but by Holt. Maintain professionalism. As if what had just happened qualified as anything less than quiet warfare.

She gave a stiff nod, then turned and walked out, pulse steady despite the heat in her chest. The door hissed shut behind her, and she didn’t look back. But she could feel it—Holt’s eyes on her, the weight of that old-world judgment, that curated disdain for what she was.

She’d felt it before. From patients. From colleagues. From supposed allies who wanted quiet, well-behaved Omegas who kept their heads down and their scent muted. But she hadn’t survived the halls of civilian trauma by being soft. She didn’t break when blood sprayed her visor or when someone screamed in her face with their guts spilling through their hands.

And she wouldn’t break for him.

Not here. Not ever.

— The unmistakable whistle was already echoing down the corridor before the med bay doors even slid open. That damned whistle always came first—too casual, too confident, a herald of the strut that followed it. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Only one man on base walked like the hallway was his personal runway and greeted medical staff like it was open mic night at the local bar.

“Tell me you missed me,” came the drawl, syrup-slick and shameless. “Don’t break my heart.”

She didn’t blink, eyes fixed on the monitor in front of her, inputting the last of a post-op debrief from a gunner with a pulled rotator cuff. Her fingers didn’t pause on the touchpad, her face didn’t lift from its neutral angle—but her mouth, traitor that it was, fought the hint of a smirk. 

She fought harder. “The cardiac ward’s three doors down, Captain. They handle broken hearts.”

He clicked his tongue, boots heavy as he stepped inside like he’d just returned from a long vacation instead of the tarmac. “Ouch. And here I thought we had something special.”

She turned, finally, and met his gaze levelly. “Special implies mutual consent. Sit on the exam bed.”

The man was a wall of muscle in flight fatigues, his name badge faintly scuffed, jacket half-zipped like he’d left it that way on purpose. Short black hair, neatly trimmed, brown eyes like sun-warmed espresso—warmth without expectation. The med bay lighting made the natural tan of his skin look deeper, more golden. His body carried the kind of weight that didn’t come from vanity, but from use—shoulders thick from years of hauling equipment, from cockpit cramping, from working without ever asking for an easier way.

He slumped dramatically onto the bed, arms spread like he was offering himself to the gods. “Don’t be shy. You can poke and prod all you want. Long as I get dinner after.”

“I’m already sick of your voice and I haven’t even checked your blood pressure,” she said, dry.

He grinned, teeth bright and easy. “You wound me, nurse.”

He used her title deliberately, the same way she used his. He never called her by her name, never tested that line. Other Alphas might’ve tried. Might’ve leaned in close to scent her, to let their fingers brush against her wrist during vitals, to see what would happen when an unclaimed Omega was cornered. She’d had to write more than one report for that kind of thing. But not him.

He flirted like a man who expected rejection. Like he liked the sound of her saying no. And maybe he did.

She crossed to the counter, tapping into his file on the tablet mounted beside the sink. “You’re here for your pre-deployment clearance. Nothing new on your chart since your last physical?”

He kicked his boots off the side of the bed, letting them thud against the wall with zero grace. “Not unless caffeine addiction counts.”

She didn’t look at him. “I’d have to report that. It’s against regs to sedate yourself with vending machine coffee.”

“Then thank god they haven’t caught me with the good stuff.”

Her fingers moved quick across the screen, her tone all business. “Any dizziness? Chest tightness? Trouble sleeping?”

“Negative.”

“Shortness of breath?”

He exhaled with enough exaggeration to qualify as a groan. “Only when you’re in the room, doll.”

She turned then, slowly, one eyebrow raised. “Captain, I’ll take that as consent to start with your respiratory rate.”

He grinned wider, unrepentant. “Breathe deep, got it.”

She reached for her stethoscope, the cold metal a familiar weight around her neck, and stepped closer to him. The moment changed. Not dramatically. Not enough to be obvious. But his posture shifted—subtly, unconsciously. Still relaxed, still teasing, but something pulled in behind his eyes.

She’d seen it before. The moment an Alpha remembered what she was. What she wasn’t allowed to be.

Her hand was steady as she pressed the bell of the stethoscope to his chest. The heat of his body radiated through the thin layer of fabric between her fingers and his skin. “Deep breath in. Hold. Release.��

He obeyed. No jokes this time. His chest expanded under her palm, ribs flaring slightly, heart beating a slow and even rhythm that vibrated faintly into her touch. She moved the scope, adjusted the angle, and listened.

Another breath. Then another.

His voice, when he spoke again, was low. Quieter.

“You always this gentle?”

She didn’t answer at first. Just moved to the next point on his chest, focused, methodical. “You’d rather I press harder?”

“Maybe,” he said softly, “if it meant you’d stay close longer.”

She didn’t look at him, didn’t give him the satisfaction of even a glance. But her hand lingered a half-second longer than necessary before pulling the stethoscope back. Her expression didn’t change. “You’re fine. Vitals normal.”

He let out a breath that wasn’t a sigh, but it tried to be. “Knew you’d say I’m perfect eventually.”

She set the stethoscope aside. “You’ve still got vision and reflexes to clear. Stand up.”

He did, slower than he needed to, like the longer it took the longer he got to stay in her presence. Not leering. Not imposing. Just present. There was something about the way he moved that didn’t demand attention—it asked for it, and acted surprised when it got it.

She handed him the reflex hammer. “Sit. I’ll test your knees.”

He plopped back down. “This is the one where you slap me, right?”

“Not hard enough, apparently.”

The tap of the rubber mallet against his patellar tendon made his leg jerk, a twitch reflex she tracked with professional detachment. She repeated the motion on the other side. Both responses are within normal range.

“Eyes forward,” she said. “Tracking next.”

He followed her finger without complaint as she moved it left to right, up, down, diagonals, watching his pupils. Nothing abnormal. Nothing slow. Just those warm brown eyes, always so open, so eager, watching her like she was some rare creature he’d caught sight of once and had never quite gotten out of his head.

When she lowered her hand, he was still watching.

“Your file’s clean. You’re cleared for flight.”

He didn’t move. Not immediately. Just sat there, hands resting on his knees, shoulders slightly hunched—not in exhaustion, but in thought. “You ever get tired of being treated like a risk factor?”

She froze. Just a flicker. Just for a second. Her mouth opened, then closed.

He didn’t wait. “Everyone here’s walking around like your biology is a bomb they’re trying not to set off. Doesn’t that piss you off?”

Her voice, when it came, was measured. “What pisses me off is that I need a mate to be taken seriously.”

“Then why don’t you have one?” he asked, not accusing, just curious.

“Because claiming isn’t the same thing as choice,” she said flatly. “And I don’t want to be owned to do my job.”

His jaw worked for a second. Then he nodded. Just once. “Fair.”

She turned to her station, logged the clearance note into the system, her back straight. She didn’t say anything else.

But as he reached the door, he paused. Just enough to let the air shift.

“You ever need someone to remind command that you’re not the problem?” he said, quietly. “You know where my spot in the barracks are.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He never did, but this time she watched him go.

The storage room was hotter than it should’ve been, the overhead lights flickering slightly with every surge of the air handler struggling to keep up. Shelves of gauze, medkits, fluid bags, and antiseptics surrounded them in tight aisles that smelled faintly of plastic and sterile cotton. She was kneeling by the lower bins, scanning barcodes and cross-checking numbers on the clipboard balanced against her thigh, when Maya let out an exaggerated sigh and dropped a box of gloves onto the nearest shelf.

“You know,” Maya said, brushing her frizzy bangs out of her face, “if the actual doctors around here pulled their weight, we wouldn’t be stuck doing all this.”

She made a noncommittal noise in response, dragging the next tray of sutures closer. “The ones we do have don’t want to be here. They’re either chasing real surgeries or busy stroking their egos in civilian hospitals.”

Maya gave a bitter little laugh. “Or both.”

The silence that followed was only broken by the occasional beep of a scan and the crinkling of packaging. It wasn’t uncomfortable. They’d done this together enough times that the rhythm of working side-by-side was almost meditative. But the heat, the frustration, and the long list of backlogged tasks were wearing thin, and she knew Maya well enough to sense when she was about to veer off-course.

“You know,” Maya said again, too casually this time, “we should just requisition a new doctor and list 'not an asshole' under qualifications.”

She smirked but didn’t look up. “We’d never get one. The system would flag that as an impossible request.”

“True,” Maya said, half-laughing. “I still can’t believe Dr. Holt said what he did last week. About you being a hazard.”

She paused in her scanning, just for a moment, then resumed. “He’s said worse. Just usually not when people can hear.”

“He’s a crusty old prick,” Maya said with a snort. “Like your hormones are going to explode and start a riot. God forbid anyone admits the real issue is how the alphas act, not you.”

It wasn’t news. Holt had hated her being assigned here from day one. He hadn’t said anything overt at first, but it didn’t take long before the microaggressions sharpened into barbed comments—muttering about scent contamination, refusing to review her patient notes, rerouting cases away from her when he was on base. Once he called her a complication in a room full of orderlies. Said it like it was a joke, like they were supposed to laugh with him, like it wasn’t dangerous that a man with rank and power could make her seem like a liability with one word.

“I don’t need him to like me,” she said quietly, standing to slide a restocked drawer closed. “I just need him to stay out of my way.”

Maya’s expression softened as she leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely over her chest. “Still. It’s a hell of a thing. You do twice the work, half the credit, and you get called a risk factor on top of it.”

She shrugged. “If I had a mate, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Maya scoffed. “Yeah, because nothing says professional freedom like needing to be claimed just to do your job.”

That earned a dry smile. “Trust me. I’ve considered it. Even wrote the registry application once. But you know how it is—they don’t want ‘claimed omega nurse.’ They want ‘owned omega who stays in her lane and doesn’t remind anyone she has teeth.’”

Maya rolled her eyes. “You’re too smart to settle for someone like that.”

“I’m too stubborn,” she corrected, “which is a much bigger problem.”

The last box of saline was shoved into place, the label noted, and she turned to move the empty crate into the back hall. Maya followed with another, barely concealing her grin now. They passed the narrow breakroom, then the side door to triage, where the air was slightly cooler. And that’s when Maya dropped her voice just enough to make the words deliberately conspiratorial.

“Captain came in earlier.”

She didn’t have to ask which one. There were dozens of captains on base, but when Maya said it like that, she meant one in particular.

“He’s up for deployment again,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Pre-flight physical.”

Maya leaned against the doorframe, lips curving. “Mmm. He seems to like you enough.”

She scoffed before she could stop herself. “He likes hearing himself talk.”

“He likes hearing you talk more.” Maya bumped her shoulder. “He’s not subtle.”

“No, but he’s harmless.”

That was true. She believed it. He flirted with that lopsided smile, the kind that tried to pretend it wasn’t real charm. He played the rogue, the scoundrel, the bad boy with good intentions—but he never crossed the line. Never touched her without asking. Never invaded her space. He was sweet underneath it, in a way that always felt like he wanted to be liked but didn’t know how to accept it if someone did.

Maya arched a brow. “Come on. You’re telling me you don’t think he’s cute?”

“Of course he’s cute,” she said, waving it off like it didn’t matter. “That’s half the problem.”

Maya’s grin widened. “Half the problem?”

“He’s cute, and charming, and probably not serious about a damn word he says.”

“You sure?”

She didn’t answer.

Because she wasn’t.

Part of her believed he had someone. Not from any evidence—he never talked about a partner, never came in smelling like anyone else, never made her think he was spoken for—but it was safer to assume. Safer to believe the smile he gave her was the same smile he gave everyone else. That the way he looked at her—warm, curious, just a little soft—was a game he played with every medic, mechanic, and munitions officer he ran into.

It had to be. Because the alternative? That he meant it? That maybe he lingered after his appointments because he liked her? That he watched her like she wasn’t a complication but something capable, worthy?

That was too dangerous.

That was how people got hurt.

“I don’t have time for a love life,” she said finally. “Not when every part of this job is about survival.”

Maya didn’t argue. Just nodded once, her eyes sharp. “Still. If you ever wanted it… he wouldn’t be the worst choice.”

She shrugged. “That’s not the same as being a good one.”

But the thought stuck, lingering like the scent he always left behind—warm, clean, a little sharp like ozone after a storm. Not the kind that tried to smother. Just the kind that stayed. She turned back to the supply list, but her mind drifted, just for a second. To brown eyes, to the curve of a grin, to the possibility.

She’d searched for him.

Late one night, lights dimmed in her quarters, the familiar hum of the base generators throbbing beneath the floor, she’d opened Heat Haven again and entered Gideon’s name in the Alpha search bar. She wasn’t even sure what she expected to find—part of her hoped he wasn’t there, and part of her feared what it would mean if he was. Her breath caught the second the page loaded blank, no profiles found. No grinning headshot, no pheromone rating, no crude review written by some slick-drunk Omega curled up post-knot.

She was relieved. And ashamed.

Because she shouldn’t have looked. She wasn’t allowed to need that. Not when her contract with the military came with monthly injections that flatlined her hormonal cycle, burned her heat symptoms into a quiet ache that never escalated. It was supposed to be liberation. 

–

The first time she’d met him, she’d been halfway through reorganizing the med kit cabinet when the door slid open with a loud hiss and a distinctly cocky whistle cut through the sterile quiet. “Tell me you’ve got a magic touch and a minute to spare, Nurse,” came the voice—warm, low, playful. She turned slowly, eyebrows arched, and found him standing there with a blood-soaked patch of fabric wrapped around one arm and the world’s most unapologetic grin on his face. “Magic touch, yes,” she said dryly. “Minute to spare? You’d have to earn it.”

His grin widened, boyish and bright, and he ambled in like he had all the clearance in the world, even though he technically did. “Guess I’ll have to charm you, then,” he said as he hopped onto the exam bed, boots squeaking against the floor. “Lucky for both of us, I’m very good under pressure.” She snorted as she reached for gloves. “From what I see, pressure is not what you were under when you let yourself get sliced on a maintenance ladder.”

“Okay, ow, but also—fair,” he laughed, flinching a little as she peeled the makeshift wrap away to assess the damage. “I was distracted. Something about the new med bay nurse being distractingly attractive.” She looked up slowly, unimpressed. “Try that line again after you’ve lost less blood.”

But he didn’t backpedal—not even close. He leaned in just slightly, grin softening around the edges, and watched her with open fascination, like her every word was a puzzle he wanted to study up close. “You’re quick,” he murmured, not teasing now, just quietly impressed. “Sharp tongue. Steady hands. I’m gonna be real honest—I’m in trouble.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she reached for the dermabond. “You’re in for six stitches and an alcohol wipe. That’s the only kind of trouble you’re getting tonight.” “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking from her hands to her face with an almost reverent kind of curiosity. “But honestly, I think I like it.”

She tried to brush it off, but something about the way he looked at her—genuine, interested, completely present—stuck with her. Most Alphas flirted with expectation. He flirted with awe. When she was done, he didn’t rush to leave. Just sat there swinging his legs slightly, watching her clean up like it was the most fascinating thing on Earth.

“Gideon,” he said finally, offering his name with an easy smile. “You don’t have to remember it. But I hope you do.” She didn’t answer, but she did glance at him one more time before turning away—long enough for him to see the smallest curve of a smile.

And he filed it away like a man who knew he’d be back.

—

Suppressants made her professional. Suppressants made her safe.

Except the last time the needle slid into her arm, she flinched.

“Wait, what?” Maya’s voice had been sharp, loud enough to echo slightly off the steel paneling of the med bay supply closet. She’d dropped the clipboard in her hands, pens scattering across the floor. “They make you what every month?”

“Suppressants,” she said, too calm for how her stomach twisted. “I sign for them. I administer them myself. It’s part of the clearance to work in a high-Alpha density facility.”

“That’s not clearance,” Maya snapped, crouching to retrieve the pens with stiff fingers. “That’s a leash. That’s—fuck, that can’t be legal.”

“It is.” Her voice had gone flat. She’d practiced that tone for years. “We signed away a lot when we enlisted. Hormonal regulation falls under the clause for ‘occupational reliability.’ They get to decide how risky our biology is.”

Maya had looked at her then—really looked—like seeing something she hadn’t wanted to believe. “I knew the regs were bad,” she murmured. “But this… this is surgical. They’re cutting your instincts off at the root.”

She didn’t answer. Because Maya was right, and she’d known it from the start. But that didn’t change the contract she’d signed. And it didn’t change that every injection came with a signature and a warning: Failure to comply may result in reassignment or bond-mandated sedation during peak cycles. The law didn’t forbid suppressants. It encouraged them. Omegas with too much agency made the brass nervous.

The silence stretched, heavy between them, broken only by the distant whir of the centrifuge two rooms over.

“Do they hurt?” Maya asked eventually, softer now.

“The injections?” She shrugged. “Physically? No. Not much. Emotionally?” She let out a humorless breath. “I don’t think I’ve felt anything real in so long, I’m not sure I’d recognize it.”

Maya moved slowly then, placing the last box of gauze into the cabinet with mechanical precision. She didn’t look up. “That’s not how it should be. Not for anyone.”

But that was the thing. It was how it was. For Omegas like her—unmated, undesired by the registry, too competent to be transferred to a domestic base—it was either this or surrender. She’d chosen control. Even if it came with a needle and a signature and the fading memory of what her own scent used to be like when it bloomed warm in the back of her throat.

“I used to get them,” she admitted, voice thin, fingers tightening on the edge of the storage bin. 

“Heats, I mean. Back before I signed up. They were brutal. My whole body would shake for days. Couldn’t focus, couldn’t move, could barely breathe without crying.”

Maya tilted her head. “And now?”

“Now I’m hollow.” She forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Which, apparently, makes me a perfect employee.”

They both knew what that meant. Her scent wasn’t dangerous anymore. She didn’t make the Alphas tense in the mess hall. She didn’t spike anyone’s rut cycle or get called into medical for her own good. She was compliant. Efficient. Safe.

But that wasn’t the same as being whole.

“You ever think about stopping?” Maya asked after a moment.

That made her laugh—sharp, humorless. “And risk a heat on base? Risk the wrong Alpha scenting me in the corridor? Risk Holt dragging me out of the med bay by my hair for being a ‘disruption’ to workflow? No. I don’t get to be reckless.”

Maya didn’t argue. Didn’t need to. She just leaned back against the steel shelf, arms folded over her chest, jaw tight. 

“Still wrong,” she muttered. “Still fucked up.”

The room smelled of antiseptic and overstocked disinfectant wipes. But beneath it, faint and haunting, was the phantom scent of heat she hadn’t had in over two years. Not real. Just memory. Just her body remembering what it meant to want. Not desire. Need.

And in the privacy of her bunk, when the suppressants wore thin, when she woke up in a cold sweat with the ghost of slick between her thighs, she thought of profiles on Heat Haven. Of the things Omegas were still allowed to ask for there. And of a man with warm brown eyes and a crooked smile who wasn’t on the site at all, but somehow lingered in her thoughts anyway.

Because even if she couldn’t have it, even if she’d signed it all away for stability and the illusion of respect, part of her still wondered.

What it would feel like to be touched by someone who didn’t see her as a liability.

What it would feel like to choose.

The med bay was quiet, a rare lull in the late morning shuffle. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in their usual rhythm, casting sterile white light across clean floors and polished metal equipment. She sat at her workstation near the corner, the soft click of keys her only companion, charting the morning’s recoveries and routine check-ins. The paper logs were nearly all digitized, and she preferred the ritual—data input kept her hands busy, her mind steady, and her presence in the room a little less conspicuous when Dr. Holt was around.

Holt, of course, was here today. A cluster of wounded soldiers had come through earlier from a malfunction during a training sim—shrapnel wounds mostly, concussive injuries, nothing fatal but enough to merit his attention. He stood at the main surgical console, barking orders at one of the junior techs, his posture rigid and voice clipped with disapproval. He hadn’t spoken to her once since arriving, which was just fine by her. His presence felt like static in her veins, and her body still remembered the sting of his last comment.

She finished the last chart with a swift keystroke, eyes scanning for errors, double-checking the date and time stamps. Everything was perfect, as it always was. Supplies alphabetized, medication carts locked, the coolers calibrated to exact temperatures—when she or Maya ran the med bay, there was no room for chaos. She hit submit, watching the file transfer before shutting down the system. The sleek, high-tech interface powered down with a soft whirr—military-funded equipment came with its perks, even if the people didn’t.

She stood to stretch, neck rolling to the side with a faint pop, when the doors burst open and Gideon strode in like he owned the place—even though he was cradling his arm in a very un-alpha-like display of discomfort. 

“Well,” he drawled with a crooked grin, “turns out you can fall off a jet if you’re in too much of a hurry to grab your damn helmet.” His flight suit was unzipped to his waist, a sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin, and the shoulder of his shirt beneath was stretched oddly, slightly higher than the other side. Dislocation. Obvious. And not urgent enough to pull Holt away from his precious trauma cases.

She arched a brow, hands already moving to grab gloves and wave Maya over from the next station. “You dislocated it after landing?”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.” He grinned, teeth bright despite the faint strain in his voice. “Wasn’t during the flight. Slipped on the goddamn stair ramp like a rookie.”

Maya appeared beside her with the sling kit and immobilizer already in hand, her expression unreadable but her pace efficient. “You’re lucky it didn’t break.”

“I’m lucky it’s you two and not Dr. Doom,” Gideon muttered, jerking his chin subtly toward the other end of the med bay where Holt was still barking instructions. “He looked at me like I’d pissed on his desk just walking in.”

She didn’t answer, but her lips twitched. Gideon climbed onto the exam table with a wince, moving carefully as he adjusted his hips, letting his bad arm rest across his lap. The way he sat, relaxed but wary, was familiar. He’d been in this room before. Always came in alone, always left with a thank-you and nothing else. He was comfortable here. Not just with her—but with being seen.

Maya gently pushed his collar aside, inspecting the bruising already forming along his shoulder. “You’re lucky you didn’t tear the capsule. How’s your range?”

He moved his fingers with minimal grimacing. “Still have feeling. Just hurts like hell.”

“We’ll do a closed reduction,” she said, stepping to the side to prep the equipment tray.

She stepped in beside him, gloved and calm. “Deep breaths,” she murmured. “On my count.”

“Gonna buy me dinner after?” he muttered, teeth gritted.

She ignored the comment and pressed her palm to his upper arm, the other stabilizing his shoulder. Her fingers tightened, motion precise, years of practice guiding the angle. “Three... two... one.” A sharp push and rotation, and there was a pop, followed by a gasp from him, breath catching in his throat as the shoulder slid back into place.

“Fuuuck me,” he hissed, half-laughing now, his good hand clutching the edge of the table.

“Not part of the standard care protocol,” Maya said dryly, already looping the sling around his arm.

He grinned through the pain, leaning back as the tension drained from his face. “Damn shame.”

She finished the assessment in silence, checking the alignment, testing mobility, her hands impersonal and clinical—but her eyes flicked to his, just once. And he was already watching her. Quiet, curious, not teasing now. Something else. Something steadier.

She stepped back, stripping the gloves off with a snap. “You’re grounded for forty-eight hours. I’ll write the note.”

He tilted his head. “That mean I get to hang around and annoy you for two days?”

She didn’t smile. But she didn’t tell him no.

Gideon flexed his fingers experimentally in the sling, testing the limit of movement with slow, measured gestures. The faint grimace tugging at his mouth made it clear he was still in pain, but he wore it like a badge, casual and unbothered. She finished inputting the post-reduction vitals into his chart, pretending not to notice how his gaze followed her movements. It wasn’t invasive—not quite—but it lingered, threaded with something playful, unspoken, waiting for her to acknowledge it.

“So, nurse,” he drawled, his voice warm like honey laced with smoke, “when do I get the gold star for bravery? Or at least a lollipop?”

“You want a sticker, Captain?” Her tone was flat, unimpressed. “We can put one on your chart. Right next to the part where it says ‘fell off own jet.’”

Maya snorted behind her mask, turning slightly to hide it as she sterilized the tray. Gideon’s grin stretched wider, unbothered by the jab, probably even enjoying it. “I’ll take whatever you’re handing out, sweetheart,” he said, his voice pitched lower now, just enough to ride the edge of propriety. “You know, I could get hurt more often if it meant seeing that pretty scowl of yours.”

She didn’t answer. Just pivoted, tapped the screen to finalize his clearance hold, and moved to the counter to print the grounding note. The thermal printer whirred softly beside her, a small but welcome interruption. Her fingers itched to say something sharper, something firm, but she knew the rules—every word she said, every shift in expression, would be dissected if anyone overheard. She didn’t get the luxury of being flustered. Not with him sitting in her bay and Holt pacing just thirty feet away.

And as if summoned by thought alone, Holt’s voice cut through the space like a scalpel.

“Captain,” he barked, loud enough for the nearby medics to pause mid-task, “is this your idea of a formal visit? Or are we running a recreational facility now?”

She didn’t look up, but the air around her changed. She felt the temperature of the room dip—not physically, but in that particular way an Omega could feel Alpha tension. Gideon, to his credit, didn’t bristle or stiffen. He turned his head toward Holt with maddening calm and said, “Just making sure your team gets the respect they deserve, sir.”

“I see,” Holt said, eyes cutting to her like a blade. “So that explains the flirtations in my facility.”

She froze, her breath going still in her throat, fingers halting over the paper. There it was. The accusation wrapped in formality, the implication that she was the one inviting attention simply by existing. Maya’s posture went rigid beside her, but she didn’t speak. This wasn’t the first time Holt had said something like that, and both of them knew it wouldn’t be the last.

“I wasn’t aware basic medical care required commentary,” she said evenly, turning around with the printed note in hand. “Captain dislocated his shoulder. We set it. He’s grounded for forty-eight hours pending follow-up.”

Gideon took the paper when she offered it, his eyes flicking between her and Holt. His expression didn’t change, but she could see the calculation behind his gaze, the way his shoulders tightened even as he lounged on the table. “They were professional,” he said flatly. “You’ve got a good team here, Doctor.”

Holt’s lip curled. “I’ll be the judge of what qualifies as professional.”

She didn’t blink. “Then feel free to review the chart,” she said. “Everything is documented.”

The silence that followed was sharp and heavy. Holt didn’t answer—just turned on his heel and strode back toward the trauma ward like the conversation hadn’t happened. But the damage had already been done. The eyes in the room—those of the junior medics, the flight tech who’d been waiting for clearance at the door—had all witnessed it. Again.

Gideon eased off the table with a soft grunt, the motion slow to avoid jarring his arm. He adjusted the sling, exhaled a tight breath, then looked at her with something softer in his expression. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

“You didn’t,” she said, though the words came too fast, too clipped.

Maya handed off the disinfected tray without a word, stepping into the back room with a little more force than necessary. The sound of the door swinging shut echoed through the sterile quiet. Gideon lingered, thumb brushing the edge of the printout, eyes fixed on her like he wanted to say something more. Something real.

But she turned before he could.

“We’ll call you when your follow-up’s scheduled.” Her voice was smooth. Controlled. Bulletproof.

He hesitated, then nodded once.

And then he was gone. — The sirens hadn’t even finished wailing when the med bay doors slammed open and Gideon came barreling in, arms wrapped around a soldier soaked in blood. “GSW to the abdomen—he’s fading fast,” he barked, voice all clipped control and urgency, his flight suit streaked with red. She was already moving, gloves snapped on, the trauma bed cleared, barking orders to two junior nurses as she grabbed gauze and saline. Holt wasn’t on base—grounded by some emergency consult—and with no other doctors available, all eyes turned to her.

The soldier was barely conscious, breath coming in ragged bursts, blood pooling too fast beneath him. “Vitals crashing—BP’s sixty over thirty,” Maya called from the head of the bed, panic simmering beneath her voice. She didn’t flinch. “Two liters of saline, pressure bag. We’re opening him up right now.” Gideon didn’t speak, just handed her the surgical shears as she sliced through the uniform, her movements swift and sure.

She felt Gideon beside her, not hovering, not questioning—just there, a steady presence as she worked. He passed tools when she asked, held pressure when Maya’s hands faltered, his usual charm gone, replaced with a grim kind of reverence. His eyes never left her hands, watching the way she clamped a bleeder with precise, practiced fingers, her face a mask of focus. No trembling. No hesitation.

They got the soldier stabilized—barely—and she didn’t realize how soaked she was until they wheeled him out, the bed streaked in red and the silence ringing in the aftermath. Her shoulders slumped, gloves snapped off, and for a moment she just stood there, breathing like she’d been underwater. “You were…” Gideon’s voice broke the stillness behind her, low and quiet. “You saved his life. You didn’t even blink.”

She turned, not sure what to expect, but found him watching her like he didn’t quite know what to say—like the woman in front of him had rewritten something in his mind. “There wasn’t anyone else,” she said simply, voice hoarse, raw from adrenaline and restraint. “So I became someone.” He nodded slowly, then offered her a clean towel with a faint, shaken smile.

She took it, and for the first time in hours, she let herself feel the weight of what she’d done. And Gideon, for once, didn’t flirt, didn’t joke—he just stood with her, silent and steady, the way good men did when they knew they’d witnessed something extraordinary.

—

She was halfway through her end-of-shift checklist when the glint of broken glass caught her eye beneath the edge of the supply cabinet. The overhead lights reflected off the shattered edges, tiny crystalline shards scattered like ice across the sterile floor. Her brows furrowed, and she crouched down to get a better look, careful not to kneel too close in case anything had leaked. There was no residue, no odor, no vapor cloud curling into the air—just fractured glass, likely from one of the trauma vials used when Holt had been working in a rush earlier.

Accidents happened. Especially in the middle of treating three soldiers with shrapnel trauma, blood pressure tanks crashing, and adrenaline vials flying left and right. She grabbed gloves, a sterile bag, and the broom from the corner of the room, sweeping the remnants quickly, efficiently, and without much thought. When everything else was perfect, something like this stood out—out of place, but not suspicious.

She logged it in the end-of-day report under “minor inventory loss,” finished the last of her charting, and shut off the med bay lights. Outside, the dusk heat clung to the air, and the buzz of distant helicopters hummed over the hangars as she made her way back to her quarters. Once inside, the quiet settled around her like a second skin. She dropped her bag by the door, peeled off her boots, and turned toward the small kitchenette to start dinner.

It was always the same—rice, steamed vegetables, sometimes protein from the base rations if she hadn’t skipped too many meals. Tonight, she added soy sauce and sesame oil, trying to trick her senses into feeling something more indulgent. She ate standing at the counter, letting the muted sounds of her quarters ground her: the hum of the air vent, the faint ticking of the wall panel’s time display. When the dishes were washed and her shower was done, she slipped into her tank top and shorts and collapsed onto the couch, prepared to waste the rest of her evening in blissful silence.

But the heat came slowly, crawling up her spine like a whisper she couldn’t shake.

At first it was easy to ignore—just a flush across the back of her neck, a slight sheen of sweat along her collarbone. She adjusted the room temperature, assuming the heating grid had glitched again. Then her thighs began to feel sticky, her pulse stuttering, fingers trembling slightly as she reached for a glass of water that did nothing to quell the warmth blooming beneath her skin. Her mouth was dry, but it wasn’t thirst.

She sat there for several minutes, trying to will her body into calming down. Trying to rationalize the sudden warmth and sensitivity. But she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like this—off-kilter and aching in a way that felt biological. Suppressed Omegas didn’t get flushy without reason. Something was wrong.

She grabbed her datapad from the nightstand, hands unsteady now, and scrolled through her contacts until Maya’s name lit up the screen. The line clicked almost immediately, static giving way to Maya’s voice, half-asleep but instantly alert. “Hey. What’s going on?”

“I think I’m—” she stopped, pressing a palm to her chest, trying to focus. Her breath came shallow, too fast. “I feel feverish. Not like a cold. It’s…it’s under my skin. My hands won’t stop shaking.”

There was a pause. Then rustling. Then Maya again, sharper now. “Did you miss your suppressant this month?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I got it on schedule. Three days ago. I documented it in the log.”

More silence. Then: “Anything weird happen before you left the med bay?”

She closed her eyes, retraced her steps—her routine, the checklist, her shutdown of the system. Then her eyes opened slowly, the image in her mind like a shard catching light. “There was a broken vial. I found it under the supply rack. No label. No scent. Just glass. I cleaned it up and tossed it.”

“Shit,” Maya hissed, voice now fully awake. “Do you know what ward it came from?”

She shook her head before remembering Maya couldn’t see her. “Holt was in trauma. Could’ve been one of his. It didn’t smell like anything.”

“If it was a raw concentration,” Maya said slowly, “and it was unfiltered… it wouldn’t have had to smell.”

Her stomach flipped. Not from fever, but fear.

“What if it was an Omega compound?” Maya added, voice grim now. “What if it was an unneutralized heat stimulant?” The silence between them was suddenly heavier than her own breath.

“That compound wouldn’t even be on base,” she snapped, her voice tight and rising too fast for comfort. Her body felt too warm now, the waistband of her shorts suddenly abrasive against the curve of her hips, her tank top clinging to her chest in a way that made her want to tear it off. “We don’t stock Omega-cycle stimulants, Maya. You know that. The only place that carries anything close is Research Logistics, and that’s three buildings over—behind two levels of security clearance.”

Maya’s voice stayed calm, but it was the kind of calm born of realization, not reassurance. “Unless someone brought it from off-base. Or had access to something Holt was running off the books in trauma. He’s high clearance—you really think it’s impossible?” There was a pause, then, soft but pointed, “Do you really think it's a coincidence you found it?”

That landed hard. Too hard.

She gripped the armrest of the couch, her knuckles going white. Her thoughts were starting to stutter—quick jolts of panic between the low, thrumming pulse of something igniting deep inside her. Her thighs pressed together, involuntarily, as her stomach gave a traitorous twist of heat that felt terrifyingly familiar. No. Not now. Not here.

“Maya,” she said, breath trembling, “I can’t be on base like this.”

“I know.”

“The suppressant—if it’s been counteracted, or triggered by something—” Her words faltered, body twitching with a spasm that left her panting. “I’m going to full heat. It’s starting. Fuck. I need off-base. Now.”

The other end of the line went silent for a second too long. Then: “Okay. Okay, listen to me. The apartments have scent barriers, your vents are isolated, and no one will catch on immediately. You’re not leaving a trail. You’re still lucid.”

“For now.” Her voice cracked.

“You’ve got a few hours before it gets bad enough to show. Pack a bag. Say your suppressants made you nauseous and you’re checking in to the offsite clinic. You’ve used that excuse before, right?”

“Yes,” she breathed, already rising unsteadily to her feet. Her muscles felt too loose, too hot, the seam of her shorts catching in places it never should. “I need to… need to cool down first. Shower again.”

“No,” Maya said sharply. “You shower again and you’ll trigger it worse. Your body’s already mistaking everything for prep. Don’t stimulate your skin. Don’t do anything that increases circulation.”

She swore under her breath, dragging her hands through her hair as the wave of heat crested and rolled down her spine. It wasn’t full-blown yet, but the tremors had started in her knees, and her scent—gods, it was climbing. She couldn’t smell it yet, but she could feel it rising like steam from her skin. She grabbed her datapad from the counter and opened the base transport request system.

“Do I risk it?” she whispered. “Calling transport off-base might flag me.”

Maya hesitated. “Use the civilian channel. You’re off duty. It’ll take longer, but it won’t go through command. Keep the window open, act casual, and keep your door locked. If you have anything that dulls scent, wear it.”

“I don’t,” she said, jaw clenched. “We ran out last week, remember?”

“Shit.” A beat passed. “Okay. Then get moving. I’ll meet you at the clinic door.”

She ended the call, her fingers already trembling as she pulled open her wardrobe and yanked out a plain duffel. Nothing fancy—just enough to pass for a medical overnight. A spare set of clothes, her ID, a water bottle. She thought about grabbing her emergency suppressants, but they’d do nothing now. Whatever had hit her had slipped under the monthly shot like a virus—quiet, precise, and devastating.

The scent barrier in the apartment held. She knew because when she opened the vent screen and leaned her head into the airflow, there was no return scent—no whiff of other Alphas, no residual pheromones. The barriers were thick, government standard, regulated for exactly this kind of disaster. Her fingers shook as she zipped the bag, hands brushing over her already-damp skin.

It was going to get worse. Fast.

But if she could just make it to the street… if she could just make it past the gates without being seen she had a chance.

She moved through the apartment with a frantic precision, packing her go-bag with fingers that trembled at the seams. The duffel held everything essential—change of clothes, ID, two water bottles, her data tablet, and a small thermal pouch for leftovers. Even in the growing fog of heat, her muscle memory held fast: the stovetop was checked twice, her meal containers sealed and stacked, lights powered down room by room. She paused only once, by the mirror near the door, and stared into the reflection of someone she barely recognized—flushed, drawn, a fine sheen of sweat already kissing her temples.

The air outside was thick with desert heat and engine oil, the familiar scent of the base’s main lot overwhelming—but it was hers, she’d walked it a thousand times before. She kept her head down, pace brisk, the collar of her jacket pulled up high despite the heat as a useless psychological shield. No one gave her a second look, and the base’s scent barriers held—no pheromones bleeding into the air, no alphas on patrol snapping their heads toward her. She clutched her duffel tighter and slipped into the stream of foot traffic that curved toward the south gate where Maya would be waiting with a civilian shuttle requisition.

But fate wasn’t done kicking her yet.

He appeared just as she stepped into the long, exposed corridor that ran between the parking structure and the gate checkpoint—hands in his pockets, flight suit half-unzipped, dark hair tousled from a post-flight rinse. Gideon’s easy stride faltered when his eyes met hers, and then stopped completely. He tensed—not the way most alphas did, not with hunger or threat—but like someone catching the scent of smoke and knowing something was wrong. His nostrils flared, eyes narrowing as the scent hit him square in the chest.

“You’re in heat,” he said, voice low, steady. Not alarmed. Not eager. Concerned.

She stepped back instinctively, her palm lifting between them in warning, even as the flush spread down her neck and pooled in the hollow of her spine. “Don’t,” she said, breath shallow, vision flickering at the edges. “Please. I’m handling it. I’m not—I’m not a threat.”

He didn’t move closer. He didn’t even blink. “You’re not a threat,” he said evenly. “You’re suffering.”

“I’m not your problem.” She clenched her jaw. “I don’t want to drag you into this. Just let me get to the gate.”

“I’m not here to claim you, or scent you, or do anything you don’t want,” he said, hands still loose in his pockets. “Let me help you get somewhere safe. That’s all.”

Her chest ached at the kindness in his tone, the way he spoke to her like she was human—not a hazard, not a walking biological emergency. She looked away for a moment, struggling against the next rise of heat already boiling under her skin, her thighs clenching on instinct. Finally, she nodded once, sharp and short. “Fine. But don’t touch me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They walked in silence, her steps growing less sure as the distance wore on. His presence beside her was comforting in a way that shouldn’t have been—broad-shouldered and calm, just there, without pressing in on her space. He didn’t pepper her with questions, didn’t make jokes, didn’t treat it like a novelty. He just matched her pace, hands still pocketed, eyes flicking around with quiet vigilance.

But twenty yards from the meeting point, her body gave out.

The crash hit like a freight train—slick flooding, knees buckling, heat blooming so violently she whimpered and doubled over, her duffel hitting the ground as she braced herself on a trembling leg. Her breath stuttered, eyes glazing over, and the whole world tilted sideways. Too hot. Too fast. Her scent, suppressed for so long, finally broke loose in full force—a punch of sweet, aching Omega heat that no one within ten feet could have missed.

“I can’t—” she gasped, the word catching in her throat.

“I’ve got you,” Gideon said quickly, moving only when she gave him a weak nod. He grabbed her bag with one hand and wrapped his other arm gently under hers, guiding her away from the gate. “We’re not going to the clinic. You’re not going to make it. I’m taking you to my barrack. It’s closer.”

“I can’t go there,” she slurred, head rolling back slightly. “It smells like you.”

“I know,” he murmured, his voice quiet but firm. “But it’s safe. And right now, that matters more.”

She didn’t have the strength to argue. He kept his grip loose, only touching where she allowed it, supporting her weight without pressing his body to hers, despite the overwhelming scent spiraling between them. Her heat clawed at the inside of her ribs like a wild animal, dragging guttural whines from the back of her throat, but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t react. He just moved, fast and sure, cutting through the base toward shelter with every step measured and merciful.

And behind her eyes, as the fever claimed her, she tried not to imagine how it would feel when the scent of him finally wrapped around her like a second skin.

Gideon had barely gotten the door shut behind them before she slumped against the wall, hands fisting in her jacket as another wave of heat rolled through her, sharp and dizzying. Her face was flushed, sweat beading at her temple, jaw clenched tight against the low moan threatening to escape. He set her bag down gently by the couch, then pulled out his comm unit and stepped to the far side of the room, giving her space even now. His thumb moved fast over the screen until Maya’s name connected, the line picking up with immediate urgency.

“She didn’t make it to you,” he said, voice low but steady. “She’s with me. Heat’s fully triggered—she collapsed outside the south checkpoint. I couldn’t leave her in the open.”

Maya’s sigh cracked in his ear, heavy and tight. “I figured. I could smell it before I even made it to the gate. Someone on patrol’s going to report it any minute if they haven’t already. She’s lucky it was you who found her.”

“I’m trying to keep her comfortable,” Gideon said, glancing back at the Omega now curled on the floor by the edge of his bed, fingers dragging over the carpet like it hurt to touch anything. “She’s burning up. She needs a nest. Do you have suppressants?”

“I can bring some,” Maya said. “But if she’s that deep, they might not work fast enough—if at all. And if anyone notices, you’ll be questioned.”

“I can take the heat,” he replied, without hesitation.

There was a pause, and then Maya’s voice dropped into a darker, dead-serious tone that hummed with threat. “You hurt her—if you touch her without her saying so, without her really saying so—I’ll find a way to kill you that leaves no witnesses, and I’ll be smiling at your funeral in dress whites.”

Gideon didn’t laugh. “I’d let you,” he said, and meant it. “But I won’t lay a hand on her unless she wants it. Really wants it. I know it gets foggy when things escalate, but I’ll keep my distance unless she reaches out.”

“Good,” Maya said after a long breath. “She doesn’t trust easily. She pretends she does, but you’ll know when it’s real. Let her lead, and for fuck’s sake, don’t treat her like she’s broken.”

He promised again, softer this time, and they ended the call. When he turned back, she had dragged herself upright and was now half-sitting, half-hunched near the edge of the bed, shivering despite the visible heat radiating off her skin. Her eyes were glazed but aware, pupils blown wide and breath shallow as she clung to the leg of the bedframe like it grounded her. Gideon didn’t speak, just moved quietly to the linen closet and grabbed every clean blanket he owned—thick military-issue fleece, spare sheets, even the old throw from his flight locker.

“They’re clean,” he said gently, kneeling near her without crossing the invisible line of scent and space between them. “But they smell like me. I know that might not be what you want, but it’s what I’ve got. You can take whatever helps.”

She didn’t speak at first. Just looked at him, eyes glassy with heat but not unseeing. And then—slowly, almost reverently—she reached forward and took the top blanket from the pile. Pressed it to her nose, breathed deep, and let out a broken sound that vibrated in her throat like relief.

He backed away as she began building her nest. It was a quiet process, not frantic or messy—methodical, even in her haze. She layered the blankets across the bed, bunching some near the pillows, others at the edges like borders. The bed was too big for her alone, but she moved like she’d done this before, hands trembling as she arranged everything into soft, circular safety.

It wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t hers. But it was his, and somehow that made it feel less terrifying.

The scent of him was everywhere—in the walls, in the sheets, in the air—but instead of recoiling, her body began to settle, her nerves relaxing just enough to let her fold into the heat rather than fight it. His scent didn’t crowd her. It didn’t demand. It surrounded, protective without pressing in, present without crushing.

And hadn’t she looked for him on Heat Haven?

Hadn’t her fingers typed his name without her even realizing what she hoped to find?

She sank deeper into the nest, curling into the blankets as her body trembled again, lower now, like the worst of the storm had hit and begun to pass. There was more coming—she could feel it in the bones of her hips, in the ache building between her legs—but for now, she was safe. She had warmth. She had silence. She had him—at a distance, but here.

–

He soaked a rag in cool water from the small sink near his bathroom, wrung it out carefully, then crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. She was curled in the center of the bed, wrapped tightly in the blankets he’d given her, her breathing shallow but steady now, her skin flushed and glistening with the deep fever of early heat. He didn’t ask to touch her—just knelt beside the bed, reached out carefully, and laid the rag across her forehead with the same tenderness he might use to touch a live wire. She stirred at the contact, murmured something unintelligible, but didn’t pull away.

That was permission enough.

He moved to grab the canteen from her bag, unscrewed the top, and returned to the bed with slow hands and soft words. “You need to drink,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “Even if it’s just a sip.” She blinked blearily up at him, lips parted, and when he tipped the canteen to her mouth she accepted it with a shaky swallow, her throat working under his hand.

He steadied her head while she drank, watched the line of her jaw tense and release, watched her body curl tighter when the next pulse of heat dragged a soft whimper from her lips. It broke something in him—not lust, not possessiveness, but a visceral protectiveness so strong he had to clench his fists to keep from reaching for her more fully. This wasn’t about rut. It wasn’t about the sweet ache in the air. It was about her, raw and trembling and still trying to hold onto her pride.

He pulled the rag back, rewet it, replaced it on her head. She hummed at the contact, almost grateful, and turned her face into the scent of the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Gideon sat back on the floor, one hand braced on the carpet, and let his thoughts wander for the first time since the whole damn night started. He thought about how they’d met—not in some moonlit neutral zone or a city cafe, but in a steel-and-white med bay with blood on the floors and regulations stacked like cages around her. She hadn’t looked at him like an Alpha then. She hadn’t looked at anyone like that.

And yet here she was.

He wondered what would’ve happened if they’d met somewhere else—somewhere far from the military, far from Holt and regulations and scent blockers and walls thick with obligation. If he’d bumped into her in a bookstore, or on a crowded shuttle. If she’d smiled that quiet, tired smile at him and asked for directions, not clearance papers. Would she have laughed with him? Would he have gotten to know her voice before he knew the cadence of her medical reports?

He shook the thought loose—it was pointless. They’d met here. Now. With her body burning from a chemical sabotage neither of them could prove and her heat clawing through her like wildfire. And yet—despite it all—she was still trying to be composed. Still trying not to ask for help, even as she sank deeper into his scent.

He stood carefully and adjusted the nearest blanket, tucking it closer to her shoulder, watching as she sighed and burrowed deeper into the pile. “You’re safe,” he said quietly, knowing she might not even remember the words come morning. “You’re not alone. Not tonight.” The words weren’t promises, just truths, low and steady and real.

She whimpered softly, one hand reaching out—not to him, but toward the warmth of the bedspread, the scent-soaked center of her hastily built nest. He didn’t take it as invitation. He just stayed close, sitting on the floor beside the bed, knees drawn up, back against the frame. A silent sentinel, not a lover. Not yet.

He would’ve given anything to take the fire from her, to carry some of it himself. But all he could do was keep the water full, the rags cool, and his voice low. To offer something no one else ever had the decency to give her.

Time. Patience.

And the promise he would not take what she didn’t offer.

She moved under the blankets like something pulled by instinct rather than thought, her fingers tangling in one of the folds, then reaching blindly beyond the edge of the nest. Gideon felt it before he saw it—that sudden gravity shift, the ripple of scent that grew sweeter, sharper, impossible to ignore. Then her hand found his shoulder, trembling and uncertain, and her lips parted around a single word that cracked straight down the middle of his chest.

“…Alpha.”

His breath hitched, not from surprise but from how easily it slid under his skin—how it summoned every fantasy he’d tried to keep buried beneath humor and duty and half-hearted distance. The word wasn’t a command. It was a plea, cracked and fragile. Her hand slid from his shoulder to his jaw, cupping his face with soft, fever-warm fingers, and he leaned into it like he was starving.

And maybe he was. For her.

For too long, he’d carried the image of her like something sacred. Her sharp tongue. The tired curve of her smile. The way her fingers danced over tablet screens with surgical precision. He’d imagined kissing her too many damn times—behind the breakroom, in the med bay after hours, once even on the launch deck when she’d laughed at something stupid he said, a laugh that didn’t belong in a place so sterile. It was stupid, wasn’t it? A big, broad-shouldered Alpha fantasizing about brushing his thumb along her cheek and tucking her hair behind her ear like some daydream-drenched teenager.

Now her heat-slicked skin burned inches from his own, and her eyes—wide and glassy and beautiful—searched his face like he was something she wanted, not something she feared.

“Promise you won’t hate me when this is over…” His voice broke around the words, quiet and cracked open as he leaned closer, his forehead almost touching hers. “Please. I couldn’t take it.”

She blinked slowly, her thumb dragging along the stubble at his jaw, her breath fanning against his lips. Her scent was everywhere now—honey-slick and sun-warm and desperate—and it should’ve made him lose control. But it didn’t. He didn’t move an inch closer until she whispered, soft and certain, like it cost her the last of her strength:

“Could never hate you.”

It undid him.

His mouth met hers with the reverence of someone who had waited too long and never thought it would come. The kiss wasn’t rough. It wasn’t claiming. It was slow, deep, aching—like pouring water into cracked earth. Her lips parted with a soft, needy sound, and his hand rose to cradle the side of her face, his thumb brushing her temple as he kissed her again, deeper this time, until her fingers curled against his chest and pulled him closer.

He didn’t climb into her nest.

He stayed on the edge, balanced on the precipice of restraint, giving her everything except the one thing she hadn’t asked for yet.

But gods, the taste of her was going to haunt him. The heat between them wasn’t just biological—it was want, buried for too long, fed in secret moments and stifled dreams. He kissed her like a starving man, like the future was folded into her mouth, like if he let go too soon she might vanish.

And when she whimpered into the kiss, her body trembling with fever, Gideon whispered against her lips, “I’ve got you.”

Even if he only got to have this once.

She pulled her shirt over her head with a clumsy sort of grace, fever-slick hands trembling slightly as the fabric caught for a second at her elbows, and then it was gone—tossed blindly into the corner of the bed. Gideon’s breath caught in his throat, not just at the sudden reveal of skin but at the way she moved—unselfconscious, flushed, driven by need. He’d imagined peeling her out of her clothes slowly, kissing every new inch of exposed skin, letting his hands do the work while she writhed under him. But this? Watching her strip for him, desperate to feel air on her body, to get closer—it was fucking devastating.

He smiled, a slow curve of heat beneath the restraint, as she reached for the waistband of her pants next and shoved them down, dragging underwear with them in one ungraceful tug. Her thighs parted instinctively as she lay back into the nest, body flushed and glistening, and he could see how wet she already was—slick dripping onto the blankets, pooling at the crease where her legs met. His cock strained against the confines of his sweats, painful and throbbing, but he didn’t touch himself. He didn’t need to. He’d been hard since the word Alpha left her mouth like it belonged to him.

She reached out, fingers curled in demand now, and tugged him down into the nest with a soft growl of frustration. “Too far,” she muttered, and he laughed under his breath as he kicked off his shoes, then crawled in beside her, still fully clothed. The second he settled between her thighs, the heat of her slick soaked into the front of his pants, soaking through the cotton like steam against his skin. She whined, fingers tugging at his shirt. “You’re still dressed. That’s not fair.”

“I was trying to be polite,” he murmured, lips already ghosting across her jaw as he leaned in. “You did say no touching without permission.”

“You’re in my nest,” she shot back, voice breathy. “You’re already touching.”

“Can’t argue with that logic,” he chuckled, then kissed her—deep and hot, tongue sweeping into her mouth while her hips lifted to grind against him, slick smearing wet and obscene across his front. His hands roamed now, finally, smoothing over the curve of her waist, the underside of her thighs, mapping her like a territory he’d memorized in dreams. When he broke the kiss, it was only to trail his mouth down the column of her throat, slow and reverent, until he found the pulse thudding just beneath the skin of her scent gland.

The moment his tongue dragged over it, she keened, her legs tightening around his hips as her fingers clawed into the back of his shirt. “More—please, Gideon—there, again,” she begged, voice thin and wrecked with need, her scent blooming sharp and dizzying around them. He flattened his tongue against the gland and sucked gently, lips closing over it, and her entire body arched beneath him like she’d been electrocuted. The sound she made—high, broken, completely gone—shot straight to his cock, and he groaned against her skin, rut instincts clawing at his spine now, vicious and unrelenting.

She tasted unreal there—like ozone and honey, sweat and heat, everything his instincts said was right. His mind spun, thoughts dripping out of order, dissolving into raw desire, and he couldn’t stop picturing what she’d taste like between her thighs. The scent of her slick was thick now, coating the air around them in syrupy, wanton perfume, and he swore he could feel it through his pants, wetting his cock even through the layers. He slid his hands lower, down the back of her thighs, spreading her open just enough to see how she glistened in the low light dripping, soaked, her cunt flushed and swollen and begging to be tasted and gods help him he wanted it more than anything.

He kissed a path down her body like it was scripture he was finally allowed to read—mouth brushing over the soft slope of her sternum, the curve of her ribs, the trembling muscles of her belly. Her skin was hot to the touch, damp with heat-slick sweat, her scent rising off her like steam, coating his tongue with every pass of his lips. When he reached her thighs, he spread them gently, reverently, pressing kisses along the insides, nipping at the tender flesh just enough to make her jolt. She moaned, high and desperate, hips lifting as if her body had already given itself to him a hundred times in her dreams.

He settled between her legs like it was his home, arms looped under her thighs to anchor her open, and buried his face in her cunt without hesitation. Her slick hit his tongue hot and thick, an obscene flood of salt and sweetness that made his hips rut against the bed beneath him. He groaned into her folds, nose brushing against her clit as he licked her open with slow, greedy strokes, savoring the way she cried out with every movement. His tongue circled and dragged and thrust, and the sounds she made—gods, the sounds—drove every last thought out of his mind until only her taste and the scent of her heat remained.

She twisted above him, heels digging into the blankets, fists knotted in the sheets, her voice a breathless chant of his name. “Gideon—please, I need—I need you inside—I can’t—” she gasped, thighs trembling around his shoulders. He flicked his tongue across her clit one last time, slow and deliberate, then lifted his head, chin slick with her, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. 

The way she looked, eyes glassy, mouth open, her entire body glistening with fever and want was something he knew would be burned into him for the rest of his life.

He sat back on his knees, yanked off his shirt in one rough motion, then shoved his sweatpants down over his hips, finally freeing the aching weight of his cock. It slapped against his stomach, thick and flushed, the tip wet with precome, twitching as if it had been waiting for this moment since the day they met. 

Her eyes dropped to it, and she moaned, one hand reaching between her legs to spread herself open, the other bracing behind her as her hips lifted toward him. Gideon growled low in his throat, grabbed her thighs, and raised them, resting her calves on his shoulders, lining himself up with her slick, fluttering entrance.

He pushed in slow, careful, watching her face the entire time as his cock breached her heat-swollen cunt. The slide was perfect, tight and wet and so fucking hot he had to bite his lip to keep from losing control right then and there. She gasped, legs tightening around his shoulders, her back arching as he filled her inch by inch, her body clenching around him like it was made for this. He groaned as he bottomed out, hips flush to hers, the pressure inside him unbearable—but he held still, chest heaving, drinking in the sight of her undone beneath him.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he rasped, voice rough with restraint. “Tell me and I’ll stop.”

She just whimpered, eyes locked on his, and whispered, “Don’t stop. Please—don’t ever stop.”

He held there for a moment, cock buried to the base inside her, trembling with the effort not to move too fast, too hard, too much. Her body clenched around him in slow, rhythmic pulses, each one coaxing a strangled groan from his throat. She was so wet, slick dripping down his shaft, pooling under her, every inch of him surrounded by heat and pressure and her. Gideon pressed a kiss to her ankle where it rested on his shoulder, then another just below her knee, trying to ground himself with the taste of her skin.

He rolled his hips forward, slow and deep, and the breath she released was a broken, high-pitched thing that made his cock throb inside her. He pulled back just enough to feel her flutter around the tip, then sank in again, dragging against her walls with a slow grind that made her head fall back against the blankets. 

“Fuck, you feel…” he couldn’t even finish it, the words lost in the haze of wet heat and her gasping breaths. She looked wrecked—blushed skin, swollen lips, pupils blown wide and he couldn’t look away from the way her body arched into him, greedy and open.

“More,” she whispered, voice thinned by the desperation in her throat. “Harder—please, Alpha, I need it—need you deeper, need you to fuck me.” The sound of it—Alpha, from her lips, hoarse and needy—snapped something in his spine, his hips snapping forward with a sharp thrust that dragged a scream from her. She tightened around him like a vice, and he groaned, deep and guttural, fingers digging into the meat of her thighs as he set a punishing rhythm.

The slap of skin filled the room, raw and wet, her slick splattering with every thrust, soaking him, the blankets, the sheets beneath. His cock drove in and out of her tight heat, dragging along every sensitive ridge inside her, his own vision beginning to blur at the edges. She writhed beneath him, nails clawing at the blankets, her head tossed side to side as her heat consumed her entirely. And he was with her, inside her, every thrust a promise—you’re safe, you’re mine, I’ve got you.

He shifted his grip, sliding his arms beneath her knees, bending her more, folding her open, deeper now, the angle making her sob. 

“So fucking tight,” he growled, rut pulsing in his blood now, animal and thunderous, but held back by the thin thread of control she’d trusted him with. 

She was babbling now, lips glossed with spit, voice cracking as she begged for his knot, begged to be filled, bred, taken. He hadn’t knotted anyone in years—but the way her cunt milked him, the way she pleaded—he didn’t know how long he could hold it back.

“Gideon,” she gasped, and that—not Alpha, but Gideon—nearly undid him. Something personal. Real. Not just heat-driven instinct, but her, seeing him through the haze. He leaned down, bracing himself over her, and kissed her again, mouths wet and desperate, his cock driving up into her so deep her breath stuttered against his lips.

“Gonna come,” he growled into her mouth, and she nodded frantically, hips grinding up to meet every thrust. 

“Want you to come with me, sweetheart. Want to feel it.” Her walls tightened with brutal force, the rhythm of her cries breaking as she shattered around him, shaking, sobbing, slick gushing as her orgasm tore through her like fire. He felt it—every spasm, every pulse—and then his own climax surged forward, brutal and blinding.

With a growl torn from somewhere feral and primal, his hips snapped forward one last time, locking them together as his knot swelled, locking them tight.

And he came, hot and endless, spilling deep inside her with a groan that echoed through the room.

—

She woke to the sound of his heartbeat, heavy and solid beneath her ear, the slow rise and fall of his chest steady against her cheek. His arm was curled tightly around her waist, the weight of it anchoring her to his bare chest, and his breath warmed the side of her neck where he’d tucked his face in the night. Her body ached in the most intimate way—hips sore, thighs damp with the evidence of everything they’d done—but it wasn’t pain, not exactly. Still, as her eyes adjusted to the filtered morning light spilling through his narrow window, panic licked at the edge of her thoughts.

The heat hadn’t broken. Not entirely. It simmered just below the surface, low and taut, like something gathering in her bones to strike again. Her skin felt too hot, her thighs still slick, and though she didn’t want to move from the safety of his hold, she felt the anxious twist of biology reminding her that it wasn’t over—not yet.

Her hand drifted up slowly, fingertips brushing his jaw, coarse with stubble that rasped gently under her touch. He stirred with a grunt, breath catching for a moment, then slowly blinked awake, his eyes meeting hers from beneath heavy lashes. Honey-brown and clear, even in sleep, and gods, they saw her. No fog, no haze of rut—just him, Gideon, looking at her like she was the only thing he wanted to see.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, still rough from sleep, his lips brushing the curve of her throat.

She swallowed hard, lips parting, but no words came out at first. The heat pulsed once beneath her skin, a cruel reminder that her body wasn’t done with her, and she had no idea how much more she could take. But his eyes were calm, his voice grounding, and for a moment the panic eased just enough for her to breathe. “I don’t know,” she whispered honestly, “It’s not done. I thought it would be but... it’s coming back.”

He didn’t flinch. He just nodded, his hand tightening slightly at her back in silent reassurance, and pulled her in closer like she was something to be shielded, not endured. “We’ll get through it,” he murmured, lips pressing a kiss just below her ear. “I’ve got you. However long it takes.”

Tears pricked her eyes—not from pain or heat, but from how easy he made it sound, like taking care of her wasn’t something difficult, wasn’t an obligation. Like she hadn’t spent the last years of her life proving over and over that she didn’t need anyone, only to unravel in his bed, in his arms, with his scent still filling her lungs. She buried her face against his chest again, pressing a kiss just above his heart, clinging to the fragile quiet between one wave and the next. “Don’t let me lose myself when it comes back,” she murmured. “I want to remember this part. You.”

His arms flexed around her at those words, like her confession had slipped beneath his skin and anchored there, deep and unshakable. His hand moved to her back, splaying wide, fingertips tracing the subtle ridges of her spine as if to remind her she was still here, still held. “I won’t let you forget,” he said, voice low and thick, the kind of promise spoken from the center of his chest. “Even if the heat drags you under again, I’ll be here to pull you back up. I’ll keep your name in my mouth if that’s what it takes.”

She shuddered—not from fear, but from the way those words settled in her, warm and heavy like something sacred. Most Alphas talked about claiming, about ownership and need and the bite at the end. But Gideon’s vow wasn’t to mark her—it was to remember her. To hold on to who she was even when she couldn’t.

Her fingers pressed into his ribs, just enough to feel the solidness of him, the way his heart beat under her hand. “Don’t let me disappear into it,” she said again, quieter now, her voice fraying at the edges. “When it gets worse—don’t treat me like something broken. I don’t want to come out of this feeling like I was… something to endure.”

“You’re not.” He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze again, his honey-brown eyes clear and soft and burning all at once. “You’re not broken. You’re not too much. And I’m not here to survive you—I’m here to stay with you, all the way through.”

She didn’t respond, not in words. Her mouth found his, slow and full of gratitude, of ache, of hope. He kissed her back with care but without hesitation, lips parting to drink her in, one hand rising to cradle her cheek like she was something fragile—but not delicate. She could feel the need pulsing in her belly again, lower, deeper, heat swirling in her blood like a storm gathering on the horizon.

But when she pulled away and rested her forehead against his, she was still breathing steady. She was still herself.

And that was because of him.

The heat lasted what felt like an eternity.

Days blurred together inside the scent-heavy cocoon of his barrack, her body constantly moving between trembling aftermath and desperate, slick-drenched need. Gideon lost count of how many times he’d held her down with one hand and cradled her face with the other, whispering her name while she broke apart around him. Her heat didn’t just come in waves—it crashed, rising without mercy, wringing her dry and then flooding her again, and he stayed through every second of it. He was hers—not in instinct, not in some rut-blind haze, but by choice.

He sent the first message to command somewhere between the third and fourth cycle, his fingers flying over the data pad, jaw clenched in fury. His words were sharp, unfiltered: This wasn’t natural. Someone used a synthetic stimulant. Someone did this to her, and you better fucking believe I won’t let it go. When he didn’t receive a reply within twelve hours, he sent a second—more venomous, more detailed, attaching a timestamped report and a request for immediate investigation. There was no protocol in place for this, but that didn’t mean he would let them bury it.

He accused Holt directly in the fifth message.

You let it happen under your watch. If you didn’t do it, someone in your ward did, and you turned a blind eye. She’s not a complication—she’s a soldier. One more hour like this and I’ll bring her to the command office myself, so you can see what you’ve done.

In the quiet moments between her cries and the slick snap of skin against skin, Gideon stared at his screen, waiting, daring them to answer. But they didn’t. Not at first. And so he kept her warm, kept her safe, fed her water and broth that Maya dropped off every twenty hours in sealed containers—each one labeled in Maya’s tight, neat script: hang in there, asshole. if you hurt her, i’m cutting your cock off. He grinned the first time he saw it. After the third delivery, he stopped laughing.

Because her heat didn’t break.

It just kept coming.

She’d curl up in her nest, trembling, flushed and damp, whispering his name like a prayer. Then she’d roll against him again, thighs parted, heat igniting under her skin until she was soaked, needy, begging to be filled. He gave her everything—his mouth, his fingers, his cock, over and over until his knot ached so deep he thought he’d never pop one again. And then she’d whimper, say his name just right, and he’d swell again like it was the first time.

He’d never come so hard in his life. Never so often.

She took it all—shaking and moaning, her cunt pulsing around his knot, her body clinging to him with every orgasm like she couldn’t breathe without him. He watched her fall apart over and over, wrecked and slick and beautiful, her eyes unfocused but always turning to him. He knew when she was still there, knew when the heat blurred her—but even in the worst of it, she never screamed for anyone else. Just him. Always him.

By the fourth day, his hips ached. His cock throbbed with phantom tension even when he wasn’t inside her. His balls were drawn so tight it felt like every release drained something deeper than just come—and still she’d move against him, moaning, “Please, Alpha—again, I need it again—”

And fuck if he didn’t give it to her.

Because every time she pulled him into her, every time her body opened for him, slick and fluttering and desperate, he felt her come back a little. A flicker of clarity behind the heat. A quiet murmur of his name instead of just Alpha. A kiss pressed to his throat. Her fingers curling into his hair like she knew him.

So he stayed. He fucked her through every fevered peak. And every time he knotted inside her and held her close, he whispered into her skin, “I’ve got you. I’m right here. I’m not leaving.”

It broke on the seventh day.

Seven days of slick, of heat, of trembling cries and desperate hands clawing at his back, begging for another knot, another push, another deep, slow fill. Seven days of her burning under his hands, her scent thick as syrup in the air, clinging to his sheets, his skin, his soul. When she finally stopped shaking—when her body stilled and her breath came deep and even, her head heavy on his chest without tension—he didn’t believe it at first. But then her scent changed, softened, no longer sharp with need but mellow, clean, and he knew she was finally on the other side.

He’d never moved so fast and so exhausted in his life.

While she slept like the dead, curled deep in what remained of the nest, Gideon stripped the bed bare, dragging every towel, sheet, and shirt into the washing bin, the floor damp with the scent of her heat. He messaged the higher-ups again, this time with a full biological log—seven days of persistent heat, unheard of, unrecorded, and undeniably artificial. No natural Omega cycle lasted that long, not without some chemical interference, and his report was sharp, clinical, and laced with fury.

He was out of towels, out of blankets, out of clean anything.

The place looked like a war zone—a very specific kind of war—and he didn’t care that his back ached or his knot felt like it had been wrung out and hung to dry. He opened his food app and ordered the greasiest, fattiest, most indulgent meal two people could legally share without risking heart failure: grilled cheese soaked in butter, honey-basted chicken, cheesy potatoes, and fried dumplings stuffed with pork and garlic. If he didn’t replenish calories soon, he swore he might pass out—and she was going to need it just as badly. He'd lost at least five pounds, and yet he’d do it again without blinking because she was worth every goddamn second.

He padded barefoot back to the bedroom with the scent of food trailing behind him, his hair still damp from a sink wash, his chest bare, his body marked with faint love bites and fading claw scratches. She was still asleep, soft and loose-limbed in a fresh blanket he’d managed to pull from a reserve locker, her face no longer twisted with need. It was peaceful—she was peaceful—and something about that made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion. He knelt beside the bed and brushed her hair back from her face, leaned down, and kissed her cheek, just beneath the eye.

Her lashes fluttered, a small, pleased hum slipping from her lips, and when her eyes opened and focused on him, she smiled—really smiled. Not the heat-drunk, breathless curve of her mouth he’d seen a dozen times, but something quiet, present, full of awareness and something almost shy. He leaned in again, this time kissing her mouth, slow and soft, lingering as her fingers curled in the back of his neck. When he pulled away, her lips chased his slightly, and it made him grin.

“Come eat,” he whispered, nudging his nose against hers. “I ordered everything I’m not supposed to eat for the next six months. It’s disgusting and drenched in butter and carbs and I swear it might kill me, but you need it.” His thumb brushed her cheek, and his voice dropped lower. “And I want to watch you smile like that again while we eat like absolute animals.”

She climbed out of bed slowly, her legs a little shaky but her body her own again, no longer ruled by fevered instinct. One of his shirts hung off her frame—too big, soft with wear, and smelling like him—and she hadn’t asked to wear it, hadn’t needed to. She’d spotted it on the floor near the bed and tugged it on without hesitation, grounding herself in his scent now that it didn’t make her want to crawl out of her skin. It felt like claiming something back, even if only a piece of calm in the aftermath of chaos.

Gideon was already in the living room, barefoot and shirtless, surrounded by takeout containers spread open on the coffee table like a feast for starving beasts. He looked up when she appeared, and something soft flickered across his face—relief, maybe, or awe, or just her, upright and lucid and real. “Hey,” he said, his voice warm and low as he held out a drink with bright packaging. “Full of electrolytes, vitamins, sodium, sugar… basically every sin your heat just wrung out of you.”

She smiled as she took it, fingers brushing his briefly, and he turned back to the table, already loading up a plate for her with buttery chicken and carb-heavy sides. “I got extra of everything. And dessert. And probably a week’s worth of calories.” He handed her the plate, eyes flicking to hers as his voice dipped. “Didn’t know what you’d want. I just wanted you to have… anything.”

She sat down beside him on the couch, the food smelling like heaven, the warmth of his body anchoring her even though he didn’t reach for her. There was a tightness behind his words, something unsaid pressing against the back of his throat, and it mirrored the guilt blooming quietly in her chest. She picked at a dumpling before finally speaking, her voice quiet but certain. “I didn’t mean to take over your life. I know you didn’t ask for this.”

He shook his head, setting down his drink with a soft clink and turning toward her, his knee brushing hers. “I wasn’t going to let you go through that alone. But…” His throat worked as he swallowed, eyes searching her face. “I just hope you don’t regret it. Or me.”

She blinked, then leaned in without hesitation, her hand curling behind his neck as she kissed him—slow, deliberate, full of everything she hadn’t been able to say during the blur of heat. His hand settled on her thigh, grounding, still careful, but he kissed her back like it meant something deeper. When they parted, she rested her forehead against his, their breaths shared in the narrow space between them. “I don’t regret it,” she whispered. “Not even close.”

A beat passed between them, quiet but heavy, before she laughed softly, brushing her thumb along his jaw. “I looked you up,” she admitted. “On Heat Haven. Before all this. Wanted to see if you were there.”

His brows lifted, eyes crinkling. “And?”

“I was happy you weren’t.” She smiled against his skin. “It meant this… wasn’t something you just do. That it was just you.”

They ate in companionable silence, the clatter of chopsticks and forks the only sound between them. She devoured everything he gave her, each bite easing some tension from her frame, each swallow grounding her a little more in the now. He watched her with quiet satisfaction, nursing his own food more slowly, as if just seeing her upright and sated was enough to feed him. No words were needed, not yet—not after everything.

Afterwards, she padded toward the bathroom, her limbs still sore, the weight of exhaustion draped across her shoulders like a second skin. He followed without a word, hands steady as he helped her undress, kissing her temple but nothing more. The shower steamed around them, hot water pounding over bruised skin, and they washed in tandem—gentle hands, slow movements, her head resting against his chest. Neither of them touched with intent; they couldn’t, not after what their bodies had already given—she was half certain she’d pass out, and he was entirely certain his cock had gone into hibernation.

When they dried off, she leaned into him with a tired smile, and he pressed a kiss to her damp forehead, breathing her in like she was something sacred. That night, they lay tangled in clean sheets, stripped of tension and fire, just quiet, steady breathing and the closeness of bodies at peace. “We have to find out who did it,” she murmured as they settled under the blanket, voice raw but resolute. “They put me in heat on base.”

“We will,” Gideon said, eyes already narrowed in the dark. “We’ll burn them down together.”

—

INTERNAL MILITARY REPORT — CASE #476-B: UNAUTHORIZED DISPENSAL OF CLASSIFIED COMPOUND

Investigation Summary:

Following an incident on Base 09-B in which a member of the medical team experienced an uncharacteristically prolonged and chemically induced Omega heat cycle, a full investigation was launched under command oversight. Biological logs submitted by Lt. Gideon M. (Flight Officer) revealed a cycle duration of seven days, exceeding known physiological parameters for natural Omega cycles. Subsequent forensic testing of site residue near the med bay supply cabinets confirmed the presence of Compound X-9—a heat stimulant synthesized for controlled medical study only, not cleared for active deployment or storage.

Findings:

Dr. Elliot Holt (Chief Medical Officer, 09-B) was found to have accessed Compound X-9 from Research Logistics under falsified requisition tags three weeks prior to the incident. Surveillance records show Holt entering the trauma ward supply cache alone after hours; broken glass from a stimulant vial was recovered post-incident by the affected Omega (Name Redacted per Omega Protection Statute), who was not informed of the compound’s presence or exposure risk. Holt's personal terminal contained unencrypted messages referencing the Omega nurse as a “regulatory vulnerability” and “biological instability risk,” indicating premeditated targeting.

Disciplinary Action:

Dr. Elliot Holt has been relieved of duty effective immediately. His medical license has been revoked under Military Medical Board Ruling 221-F. He has been formally discharged and barred from any future affiliation with armed medical institutions. Civilian criminal charges are pending review by federal authorities for violation of Omega Safety Act (OS-12) and Chemical Compound Control Statute (C3S).

Case Status: CLOSED

—

They left the military with no fanfare, no medals, no sendoff ceremony—just packed duffels and clean resignation letters, handed over to a command that never apologized for what it let happen. Gideon’s name stayed on the flight roster for another two weeks after his departure, someone’s last-ditch hope he’d change his mind. He didn’t. He was already running flight paths for a commercial line, gliding over cities and coastlines, greeting passengers with that same easy grin but saving the softest version of himself for when he came home.

She found work at a private clinic tucked between a coffee shop and a quiet corner bookstore, a haven for Omegas in a city that actually gave a damn about them. No more regulation injections. No more alphas circling like vultures. Just real care, real choice—and a soft chair in her office where she sat each evening, watching the sun fall against the blinds, counting the minutes until he walked through the door.

Their apartment wasn’t much, but it was theirs. Two rooms, a tiny kitchen, a balcony just big enough for a table and two chairs. The couch was too old and too soft, the pillows smelled like them, and she swore the place grew warmer every time he was near. He’d come home smelling like jet fuel and wind, pull her against him, bury his face in her neck and breathe deep like she was still the only thing that made sense.

Tonight, he was already on the couch when she got in, one arm slung over the backrest, hair tousled and eyes lighting up the second she dropped her keys in the bowl. “Long day?” he asked, voice rumbling with that always-there affection, the kind that crept under her skin and made her feel rooted. She nodded, toed off her shoes, and fell into him without hesitation, tucking herself against his chest like she’d never left.

His arms wrapped around her, warm and solid, and she let out a sigh as she melted into the spot under his jaw. They sat like that for a while, curled together as the city moved quietly outside their window, the rhythm of his breath lulling her down until all she felt was the slow thud of his heart against her ribs. His hand slid up her back, fingers tracing gentle lines until they found the bond mark on the side of her neck—he touched it like a prayer, thumb circling it slow, reverent.

She trembled, just barely, her voice catching in her throat. “When you touch it like that it makes me feel—” she paused, not sure how to finish it, because there wasn’t a word for what it did to her. It wasn’t just arousal. It was belonging. It was the ache of always.

“I know,” he murmured, voice thick, rough with everything he didn’t need to say.

Then he kissed her—slow, deep, full of gravity—and stood, lifting her effortlessly into his arms like she weighed nothing. Her arms wrapped around his neck as he carried her to the bedroom, the door already cracked open, the sheets waiting.

Their life was quiet now.

But real.

And he would spend every night reminding her she was home.

[lindsaynathi0n]

DARK RED PT2

Rafe Cameron S3x Reader

{OPEN COMMAND}

[English is not my native language❗️❗️]

synopsis: 2 months after her abduction, the life Y/N had hoped for is not at all what she wanted.

tw: mention of murder, blame for the victim, domestic violence, violence, rejection, insult.

______________________________________________

[PT1]

You and your family had been living in Guadeloupe for two months.

Everything had gone back to the way it was, Bland and sad.

despite the fact that you and Rafe lived under the same roof, he was always busy. He only saw you very rarely, in the evening when you are waiting for him to brush your teeth and sleep, when he wakes you up because he is in you or when he decides to eat with you and his family.

Anyway, Rafe had to take care of his family again, and you hated Ward for it.

Rafe was a boy who always needs to prove that he can do better than others. If he has to kill himself at work, of course he will.

And because of that you and Rafe were arguing several times. Rafe didn’t want to take time for you and you, you didn’t want Rafe to stay all day until 11:00pm in his office.

You would often end up crying or Rafe would fuck you for hours and hours. Forcing you to apologize in his place because of the overstimulation.

________________________________________

Tonight was no exception, you and Rafe had argued the night before, you cried all night in silence, Rafe had been asleep for a long time when you were asleep.

You were sitting on the bed when you waited for him to finish his job. He came into my room and went straight to the bathroom to brush his teeth, you followed him. Starting only your skin care for the night.

He brushed his teeth and didn’t tell you, he didn’t even look at you. You wanted to cry but you held back.

You started taking out your skincare products when a hygienic protection package appeared in your field of vision.

Your blood is cold and you haven’t moved for a few seconds, the package was closed.

Normally a closed protection package was nothing. The only problem was the fact that since you arrived, you only bought one package.

It means that since you’ve been here, you haven’t had your period. You’ve come out of the bathroom in the direction of bed.

You climb on your side and crawl to Rafe. "Rafe..?" you ask hesitantly. Rafe doesn’t move, he seems to be asleep. You give him a little pat "Rafe..?". He doesn’t move.

you repeat your gestures until he starts moving. He turns around and slowly opens his eyes.

"What, what is it?" He says half asleep with a slight hint of annoyance. "I-I.." You look for your words. Rafe gets angry. He talks aggressively "I want to sleep. Don’t bother me."

"Rafe.. I have..". you look for words not to disturb him. He remains angry "What? What do you want? Go say it fast!"

"When’s the last time we fucked without protecting us?". You start shaking when her eyes pierce you. You weren’t afraid of him until you understood that the pogues didn’t lie, he really killed Peterkin.

Rafe’s eyes darken. He gets angry. "What do you mean, when we’ve been fucking without protecting ourselves? You’re not pregnant, are you?" he asks you not to scream.

You lower your head, avoiding his gaze. "I haven’t had my period since we got here"

Rafe puts his hands in front of his eyes, he always does that when he’s stressed or about to explode. And you didn’t think it could be stress? Maybe that’s why you’re late. You want to yell at him, you want to insult him.

You’re still not looking at him.

"If you hadn’t kidnapped me at the same time, I wouldn’t be stressed…"You whisper so he can’t hear you. You don’t want him to yell at you.

He approaches you. He gets angry. He speaks just below the scream. "I made the right decisions. I saved you from trouble. I gave you the freedom you want." You look up and look him straight in the eyes, "You gave me the good life? Rafe? Are you serious? You no longer speak to me, no longer look at me and you come to see me only when you are lacking!" You start to raise the tone

He grabs the back of your head and puts his hand on your mouth to silence you "I swear to God, if Wheezie or Rose gets up to see what’s going on, I’ll kill you." He says eyes filled with hate.

You are afraid and begin to tremble even more, panic takes you, and that he understands quickly. Your eyes are flooded with water making your vision blurred.

He lets go and goes back to sleep. You lie next to him and keep crying in silence, you miss your family and if you had gone with the pogues, would you be happy?

______________________________________________

You didn’t sleep all night. When Rafe got up, you pretended to sleep. 

He brought you closer to him and hugged you before kissing you on top of your head. One of the rare times you felt like he still loved you.

When he left, you started crying again.

When you got up, you stayed until 10 am in bed, you had traces in the corners of your eyes and you had no desire to get up.

You did it anyway, you washed up, made up and came down, Wheez is with Ward, Rose has to drink and Rafe had to be in his office.

You went into the lobby where Rafe’s things are. You started looking for $30 in his wallet. "What are you doing?" You jump and freeze instantly.

Rafe had his arms crossed, he was standing behind you. You got up fast and he looked at you all the way up with a suspicious face.

"It’s none of your business." You say with a hint of annoyance. He frowns and grimaces. "So you’re stealing money from me and it’s none of my business?" " I wasn’t stealing from you-" He cuts you off and walks away from you. " It’s normal because I made sure I didn’t have any cash." He says it made sense.

You open your mouth in amazement, he thinks you’re a thief. "But maybe you’re looking for this?" He pulls out his credit card. You try to take it from him, but he put it in the air. "Tell me why you need it and I might give it to you?" he shrugs.

You lower your head and start playing with your hands. "I need it to buy a pregnancy test." You say to a barely audible voice. Rafe leans over you, he pulls your face up so it’s in front of yours. "Sorry I didn’t hear, you need it for?" his eyes shrinking.

"Rafe I need it to buy a pregnancy test." You say loud enough. Rafe freezes and gives you a bad look." I told you it was just stress, don’t get paranoid about it." He gets straight, turns his back on you and starts leaving.

You start following him, begging him to give you his card. "Rafe I just want to be sure! You understand that?" You say half crying. "I understand you love, just realize how miserable you look?" He says disgusted.

You stop talking and he goes on. "You tried to steal money from me, and then you tried to trick me into saying you want to take a pregnancy test but you really just want to steal me and then go find another guy, right?"

"You know it’s miserable what you’re doing, right?" He approaches you and you start crying, "it’s not that Ra-" "shhht" he gently puts his hand on your neck, he forces you to put you on tiptoe.

"If you try to betray me or even lie to me, I will not be as forgiving as before." He kisses you and you feel the tears running down your cheeks. He lets go and leaves.

Your crying is so intense that your breathing becomes unstable. Rose arrives in the living room and sees you, she puts her glass and runs towards you. She takes you directly in a hug. She tries to calm your breath and little by little she gets there.

Rose asks you what happened and you explain the situation to her. When you’re done, she leaves without telling you anything, she comes back with two $20 bills. "Buy yourself the best tests." That’s all she tells you.

You take them and take her one last time in your arms before leaving.

______________________________________________

You found a small grocery store, there were different types of tests. To be sure of the result, you took three and paid them.

At night when you came home, no one was expecting you. You went upstairs to the bathroom you share with Rafe and did a first test.

You waited 15 minutes, once it was over the result was ready. You took a deep breath and watched the test.

You thought your world was going to collapse under your feet, you were barely 18 years old and you were already expecting a child.

You threw the test in the trash and rushed to do another one. You waited another 15 minutes and again, it was positive.

How are you going to deal with a baby? You’re not sure if you survive here so how do you deal with a child?

You thought about trying to stay calm, for you one thing was certain, you had to tell Rafe. You took the test and with a little confidence you went to Rafe’s office.

You came in and Rafe was there, head in piles of paper with his computer next to him.

You put the test on the piles and he stopped writing. He raised his head and you tried to keep calm.

He looked at the test again and went into his chair. He looked at you and said nothing. "Where did you get the money?" He asked you looking into your eyes. "Rose." He shrugged his shoulders. Is that his reaction?

"That’s your reaction, don’t you have anything to say?" you ask, you start getting angry.

He looked at you with disdain. "I should have another one when you’re not going to keep it?" You frown. Who said you weren’t going to keep it. "I never said that," you say. "So you’re going to keep it?" he asks with irritation.

You start staring at the point, yes you want to keep it, but on the one hand you’re scared, and if you were a bad mother. You can’t think any more because Rafe is waiting for your answer, the longer it takes you to make him understand something you don’t want.

"Yes" Rafe seemed shocked. "No." He said.

You open your eyes wide. "I beg your pardon?"

"You’re not going to babysit this kid." He says like he’s the one who’s pregnant.

"I wouldn’t have an abortion." You say clearly, Rafe’s laughing. "You know you don’t have to, getting him adopted is a good option." He says it makes sense.

"There is no question of strangers taking my baby!" You scream, Rafe gets up from his chair. " Oh well? So who will do it, You? You don’t even have the means to do it? You don’t have a job and you live on the hook of your boyfriend who also owns the child."

You put your hands on your face. "So I live on your hooks?" You look at it before eyes full of hate. "What do you call that?" He asks you.

You shake your head and walk out of his office, slamming the door. You head to your room. Once inside you take the suitcase under the bed, open your wardrobe and start throwing your stuff in.

Rafe shows up in the room when you’re closing the suitcase. "What are you doing?" He says angry holding back not to scream. 

"I decide not to live on your hook anymore, so I’m out of here." You say then that tears flow at a crazy speed on your cheeks.

Rafe laughs nervously. "No." He says. You grab the suitcase and start walking out of the room. What you didn’t expect was for Rafe to grab you violently by your waist making you scream.

"Fucking let go of me!" you’re screaming." Shut the fuck up, you really think after everything I’ve done you’re gonna break down like that with my kid?" Rafe goes crazy.

He pushes you violently away from the door and you fall to the ground. I’ve been busting my ass giving you a dream life all this so you decide to fuck everyone up " he bends over and grabs your jaw firmly . " Go away" you scream, both hands start scratching his arm. He yells at you and throws all the worst insults in the world, and you cry and insult him.

You get cut off when someone knocks on the door asking to come in, Rafe lets go and you run into the bathroom. Rose talks to Rafe and gets even more upset.

Rose leaves and Rafe starts knocking at the door asking you to open it, the only thing he hears are your uncontrollable crying.

Rafe stayed at the door for more than an hour, you did not open to him because you knew two things, first, if you went out you would probably have forgiven him what he just did to you because you love him despite what he makes you live and secondly, You were paralyzed by the fear he gave you.

That night, you slept on the cold tile in the bathroom.

______________________________________________

Despite your love for Rafe, you had no desire to end up like Peterkin, so you waited.

You waited a few weeks for Rafe to forget everything that happened. Rafe had to leave a few days to see a potential buyer for the cross.

And thanks to that, you were able to run away. Rose of course helped you, she gave you money and paid you a boat ticket and a plane ticket. You couldn’t go back to the Outer Banks. Illinois seemed perfect. You never told Rafe, so how could He suspect anything?

______________________________________________

[PT3]

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.

.

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[nyamadermont]

Greetings from Gaoling

Angstpril2025 - Day #15: Came Back Wrong

Lin knew something was wrong as soon as the door to the apartment opened. The smell of incense was strong, and not the kind that Tenzin usually used. Once he had found one that didn’t make her head hurt, he had made the whole family change what they used. Aang had pouted a little, but promised her to use his preferred blend only in his office. 

And this wasn’t that, either. 

She left the door open, hoping she could make it across the living room to open the balcony for a cross breeze. 

A figure stepped out of the kitchen, a teacup in hand. 

Lin crouched into a fighting stance, already reaching out for the stone in the floor. 

“Who are you?!”

The world seemed to fall away when she saw Suyin look up at her, startled. 

But her sister flipped open a fan to cover her face with one hand, the teacup landing with a click on a table Lin couldn’t see. Su waved the fan three times, snapped it shut, and stowed it back into a sleeve. 

The mild, bland expression that replaced it unsettled Lin even further. 

“Su?”

Her sister bowed astonishingly low, but her voice carried. “Honorable Older Sister. I have returned from my sojourn with our Respected Grandfather and his wife and servants. The past year has been educational. I am here to provide service to our Honorable Mother as she prepares to retire and move to Gaoling, where she belongs.”

It took another breath before Lin realized Su wasn’t going to stand up. She reached out to grasp Su’s shoulder, but Su shuffled out of reach. She tried again, to no better effect. 

“I am deeply in your debt, Honorable Sister, for the injury I caused you. Until our Honorable Mother has completed her time in service to this great city, she will be my primary focus. Once she has repaired to the family estate, I will remain here as your most loyal servant, as long as you keep me.”

Lin’s blood ran cold at the thought. 

Behind her, the door opened again, and her mother’s voice rang out. 

“Lin, that’s not Tenzin. Who are you cheating on him with?”

“Chief - ” she tried, before getting cut off.

Su surged to her feet and brushed by Lin. She fell to her knees on the floor, balling up her fists, and pressing her forehead to them. 

“Honorable Mother, I present myself to be of service to you until you return to your father’s household. I have cleaned your kitchen, floor, clothes, and shelves. What more do you require of me?”

Lin gaped over Su’s kneeling form, searching their mother’s face for some hint of what was going wrong. 

“I don’t need servants. You know that. Why do you think I left?”

She scoffed and waved a hand. Her uniform fragmented and reassembled on the stand by the door. 

“I swear, Lao can’t get anything right. I just wanted him to calm you down and make you go to a few society dinners. But it’s like you came back wrong.”

Toph turned back to face her daughters. So Lin had a full view of her mother’s face when her sister insisted -

“Grandfather Lao did everything he could for me. He even brought an old friend to help me. He told me to tell you that Joo Dee sends her greetings.”

[eeveegirlie]

"i love you, it's ruining my life."

| being bailed out by your ex is sure to bring back lingering feelings, no?

| dazai osamu x reader

˓ ꒱ notes and disclaimers: pm!reader and ada!dazai. dazai is reader's ex lover from the port mafia. gn reader. reader and dazai are both in their 20s. incorrect jail description. not proof read, apologies for any grammatical mistakes! might be incredibly ooc and might contain wrong information about the port mafia, apologies for both.

˓ ꒱ authors notes: in light of taylor swift's new album coming out, i'm trying my hand at writing for dazai!! i'm bad at writing angst so please bare with me. :(

the cold metal confinements are tight around wrists, the officers must've cuffed you a tiny bit too tightly you think. the blank grey walls of your prison are as uninspiring as your thoughts, you can't even find it in yourself to even try to escape from jail. to the majority of the members in the Port Mafia, crime was almost always a guarantee during missions. treading the lines of the law was a common thing, most missions included breaking those precious regulations. it was almost like the law had just become mere suggestions, guidance that you could choose to follow or not.

and sadly for you, the hands of the law had finally caught up with you this time, confining you into a bland concrete box. you were currently sitting on the bed that came with every little cell. not even sitting on it was comfortable, much less laying down on it. despite how uncomfortable the bed was, it would be quiet a pathetic sight for a Port Mafia executive to be sitting on the floor and just staring at the wall so you decided against it.

normally whenever you were unlucky enough to have been caught by the law, someone from the Port Mafia would bail you out, namely Mori or maybe some other executive. you weren't too surprised when an officer informed you that you had been bailed out, preparing your usual apology and to listen through a few lectures from whoever bailed you out on to be more careful during missions.

you're escorted out of your little concrete box, you wonder if the officer is going to remove the hand cuffs around your wrists. you follow the officer down the prison hallway, thankful to not be sitting on that god awful bed that you could've sworn was just a rock with a blanket draped over it. you're expecting to be met with a very displeased boss, preparing your apology for your clumsiness in being caught when.. you don't see him at all. in fact, you see someone you thought you'd never see again.

he looks.. different. he's grown taller, you're sure of it. he's been ridden of his usual black trench coat you always saw him in, his right eye and cheek no longer being covered by the fabric of gauze. instead, he's wearing a tan trench coat now, a bolo tie replacing his usual tie when he was in the Port Mafia. his hair messy and curly, not that it was ever neat, god no. you stare at the absence of bandages around his right eye and cheek, revealing his complete face and you can't help but mentally kick yourself for staring a little longer than necessary.

and suddenly, you become hyper aware of the sinking feeling in your stomach. it makes you sick to look at him, sick that your brain subconsciously forces you to relive your shared memories together. you avert your gaze down to the grey grounds of the prison lobby, unable to meet his gaze without glaring bitterly at him. your ex had apparently bailed you out of jail. your ex boyfriend from years ago when you both were in the Port Mafia. a cocky little smirk adorned his features, maybe he hasn't changed that much in some ways.

you find it in yourself to look up at him, emotions brewing behind your eyes. anger, confusion.. mostly anger, and yet you find it in your heart to feel relief at that fact that he's alright. that's he's not harmed. he had up and left without a word, not even a goodbye to you. you worried for him days on end, calling and texting but to no avail which ended up in you just calling it a breakup, calling him your ex boyfriend. despite the relief, it's minuscule in terms of your anger towards the man you once loved. you glare at him, glare at his stupid cocky smirk and how he seems like he doesn't even care about the history between you two. it's like nothing ever happened between the both of you.

"you're the one who bailed me out? what is this, some sick game you've decided to play?" you scoff at him, there was no way he just.. decided to bail out a Port Mafia executive out of the goodness of his heart, no.. no no no. that couldn't be true. "shame, not even a thank you?" you roll your eyes at his feigned sigh of disappointment. an officer releases your wrists from the metal confinements, red mark were already formed on your wrist. you bring your hands to your wrists, trying to soothe your irritated skin from how tight the hand cuffs were. you don't realise the look in his eyes, the slight change in his expression when he noticed the marks on your wrists. he doesn't like seeing you hurt, he absolutely hates seeing you in pain even if it's a mere scratch or.. in this situation, marks from a police officer's hand cuffs.

"come on now, the least you could do is thank me." he says with another cocky smile, you wish you could just slap it off his face but something tells you that he wouldn't exactly be ecstatic with you slapping his face in a police station.

"what do you want?" you snapped, not in any mood to be dealing with his teasing words accompanied by his usual shit-eating grin. he couldn't have bailed you out for fun, or for some sentimental reason. he wanted something, there was also a price when it came to him. "ah, how harsh! you're breaking my heart here.." the asshole has the gull to even jokingly suggest something like that.

"nothing much, really. just thought i'd help out an old friend." he hums, and you don't know if his words only spark a new flame of anger inside of you or if it wrenches your heart. the fact that he would consider you an "old friend", when you were his literal partner when you both were teenagers.

"an old friend? be a man you asshole, own up to who you broke up with." he doesn't answer, as expected. you're not sure whether you'd even prefer a response from him or just silence.

"let's talk, hm? maybe somewhere else?" he suggests after some time, calmly putting his hands into the pockets of his tan coat. you notice the slight change in expression in his face, you've spent years trying to practically decode this man and it only added to his amusement when you both were teenagers. now, you're thankful you took the time to observe him. you don't know exactly what he wants to talk about but, you know it's something serious.

"fine." you begrudgingly agree to him, sighing as you notice him leaving without another word and you know that's your queue to follow him. you don't know what you were expecting from the bandaged man, but he leads you to a little café. you raise an eyebrow at him when you two reach the front door, not exactly expecting him to take you to a cute little café that sells pastries and drinks. he meets your suspicions gaze with an innocent smile, urging you to step inside before him. what a gentleman. you step inside the humble establishment, greeted with a friendly smile by the cashier before settling into a seat near the back. he sits opposite you, it's almost as if he's treating this like you're his friend and you both are just going for lunch.

"so? you never answered my question." you reminded him, crossing your arms as you lean back on the plush backing of the seats. "what do you want, dazai." it hurts him the way you say his name, his surname. you never did that when you both were together, he liked being addressed as 'osamu' or 'samu' by you, it feels like salt being rubbed into the wound when you call him by his surname.

"oh? i'm deciding whether to get the latte or..." he trails off, noticing the most unamused expression ever on your face. he chuckles at the sight, shaking his head. "i'm only joking." he hums, stopping his little act at looking at the menu on the table. "i.. wanted to see how you were doing, is all." he shrugs, not really having a good explanation for bringing you to this cafe or hell, even bailing you out of jail. "i mean no harm by doing any of this, truly." he adds on before you get to question him, knowing what you were just about to ask him.

did he really mean that? that he wanted to just.. talk? you don't know what you should reply with, as a Port Mafia executive you should've killed him by now for being a traitor, but as his ex.. you're not sure what to feel. truthfully, sure you were pissed off at him for leaving without a word but you just couldn't find it in yourself to hate the man.

"fine, one hour."

"oh come on, two?" he pouts childishly, a sight you hadn't seen for awhile.

"one hour and a half. make it quick." you relent once again, it seemed like he still had the ability to make you soften up to him.

and so with that, you two proceed to awkwardly choose out your drinks for the time being while at the café and try your hands at small talk. it was.. incredibly awkward between the both of you, undoubtedly it was a little weird to even talk about work since well.. him being a Detective at the ADA and with you being a Port Mafia executive, what was there to talk about? it's weird to be so stiff with someone you used to be so comfortable with, you used to be able to talk about anything when you were younger but now it's just.. not the same.

while you two were talking, your phone screen lit up. some message from another Port Mafia member came up, said something about it being urgent. "i.. have to go, it's important." you looked up from your phone to face him, rolling your eyes at the tiny little pout that graced his lips. "a shame, maybe next time?" he suggests, hoping to have another time to talk with you again. you get the feel he misses you dearly.

"maybe." you shrug, standing up from your seat. you slid a napkin over to him, pointing to the corner of your mouth to signal to him that he had something on his. he mutters a small 'thank you', a tiny bit embarrassed that he might indeed have something on the corner of his mouth. as you leave, he uses his phone to check his appearance and.. there wasn't anything there? he thinks it might just be a silly little prank on your end to tease him after so long, he mindlessly flips the napkin in his hands as he puts his phone down.

in the corner of his eye, he noticed some.. writing on the napkin. your... number? you had changed your phone number some time after he left and now, you had given him your current one! it meant that you at least weren't that mad at him after so long, and that you at least wanted to stay in contact with him.

he decides to text you, just in case you decide to change your mind in the mean time of your separation.

your phone lights up as you made your way down the street.

[unknown number, 3:46 p.m ➜ you] "same place, friday?"